by David Peace
There was a knock on the door. The President stopped speaking. Terry stood up. He opened the door –
It was just Stan with more sandwiches.
*
Roll up. Roll up. The carnival is back on the road. Roll up. Roll up. The Border Country. Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire. Roll up. Roll up. For this week only –
The fear. The misery.
The Mercedes tours the coalfields with a convoy of pressmen and television vans. The Jew takes them to Bolsover. To Creswell. To Warsop. The Jew shows them the places where gangs of men with wooden sticks wrapped in barbed wire rampage and maraud at night –
Intimidating. Threatening.
Roll up. Roll up. The Jew introduces them to Bolsover Bill. Bill has had his waste pipes blocked. Bill’s house was flooded as a result. This happened to Bill because Bill chooses to work. The Jew tells them that there have been fifty-six attacks upon homes. Ninety-five vehicles damaged –
The intimidation and the fear.
Roll up. Roll up. The Jew introduces them to Creswell Chris. Chris was attacked outside the Top Club. Chris had his leg broken. This happened to Chris because Chris chooses to work. The Jew tells them that there have been sixty-two cases of physical assaults upon men and their families –
The threats and the misery.
Roll up. Roll up. The Jew introduces them to Warsop Wendy. Wendy’s cat was covered with paint. Wendy’s cat is blind now. This happened to Wendy’s cat because Wendy’s husband chooses to work. The Jew tells them there have been countless cases of attacks upon the pets of working miners and their families –
Of fear and misery. Intimidation and threats.
Roll up. Roll up. The Jew leads the carnival on through the Scab Alleys –
Suddenly Neil Fontaine brakes hard. He swerves to the side –
Cavaliers struggle with the broken wheel of a wagon. Purple-frocked men bark orders in the rain and the mud. Crosses around their necks. Rings on their fingers –
Neil Fontaine blinks. He starts the car. He glances in the rearview –
The Jew is staring at the back of Neil’s head. The Jew is watching Neil.
Roll up. Roll up. Finally the Jew brings the carnival to the village of Shirebrook. The ringmaster leads them with their cameras and their pens up the garden path to the home of Stuart Tarns –
The late Stuart Tams.
Mrs Tams shows the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News their boarded-up windows, each covered with one single painted word –
Scab.
‘They were getting at the kids,’ says Mrs Tarns. ‘That’s what hurt him the most. He tried to tell them of the hardship he was facing. They would not listen to him. They spat at him. They turned their backs on him. They had been his mates. His colleagues. He bottled everything up. He kept putting off discussing financial matters. He would just go upstairs. He sat in his bedroom alone for long periods. Then the telephone calls started. Nine times they called. They were against our daughters. That was it then. Stuart was put in a position where he had to decide whether to continue to put the children through this ordeal. Stuart chose not to. Stuart chose –’
The Jew puts his arms around Mrs Tarns. The Jew glances at the garage –
The press take their photographs. The press shoot their story.
‘The men who made the telephone calls threatening violence against a twelve-year-old and ten-year-old girl are cowards. Murderers,’ says the Jew. ‘They are not fit to stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with miners such as Stuart Tarns. They are a disgrace to the great tradition of mining and mining folk.’
Mrs Tams nods.
The ringmaster leads everybody back down the garden path to stand out on the street. To stand before the skinny hedge and the boarded-up windows covered with that single painted word –
Scab.
The Jew introduces Fred Wallace from Pye Hill –
‘Fred is the spokesman for the Nottinghamshire Working Miners’ Committee. He is here to help any miner, regardless of his area. Here to help any miner who wants to work but is denied that right by his own Union. Any miner who is intimidated and threatened. Any miner’s wife who is intimidated and threatened. Any miner’s children who are intimidated and threatened. Fred is here to tell you that you are not alone. That what happened here to the Tarns family will never again happen –
‘Never!’ shouts the Jew. ‘You are not alone.’
Fred Wallace nods.
‘Fred would also like to add that the Nottinghamshire Working Miners’ Committee will compensate any miner for any act of criminal damage or vandalism to his person, property or vehicle which occurs as a result of his determination to exercise his right to work, if that miner does not himself have insurance,’ says the Jew.
Fred Wallace nods again.
‘My name is Stephen Sweet,’ says the Jew. ‘I am here to help.’
Peter
ten thousand that day. Put me in mind of my father and all – Marched with my father that day. He’d be retired now if he were still alive. He’d still march for Joe, though – Banners were out and bands. Arthur, Jack and all lads. Half of us with black eyes and bandages. Piper playing Flowers of the Forest in a right strong wind. Service were at Pontefract Crematorium. It lasted an hour. Then Arthur spoke. He said, We owe it to memory of Joe Green and David Jones to win fight to keep pits open, jobs secure and our mining communities intact, and make no mistake – We are going to win. Magnificent, Arthur was. Needed to be – They weren’t going to charge that TV Copper. Krk-krk. Talk Union might take out a private summons against bastard. He were only one of many, like, but he were one they caught. One they caught on camera, lathering this young lad with his truncheon. That was Great Britain in 1984 for you – Policeman could belt living fucking shit out of an unarmed, shirtless kid on national television and get away with it. Not only that, whole of state jumped to his defence – But if a bloody miner, who had served this country, man and boy for thirty year, if he wanted to stand on a picket line and persuade another man to help him defend his job, his family, his community, his whole way of life, then they’d nick you and charge you – 3444 of us since start of March. Probably a few fucking more today and all – Back on active service. Coal House again. NCB’s Regional Office, Doncaster. Not all lads were impressed. Older blokes especially – Just lasses that work there, said Joey Wood. Tall Paul nodding, too. He said, Going to look bad on telly – Fuck telly, said Brian. It always looks bad on fucking telly. I said, If you don’t want to go, go direct to Harworth for half-eleven – Few of blokes nodded and stayed put. Rest of us went out to cars and vans. Drove straight up to Doncaster, no problem. There for quarter to eight. Parked down a back street. Made us way to Coal House. Not many stormtroopers today. Krk-krk. Them that were there looked a bit shocked when we all rocked up. Made themselves into a police wall for scabs to hide behind. Only enough of them to reach from Police Station to Court House, which was where lads had chased first lot of office scabs they’d come upon. Half-eight scuffles started. Then reinforcements arrived from RAF Newton or Lind-holme or wherever it was they were hiding them this week. Now wall stretched from Court House to doors of Coal House. Nine o’clock and scabs set off – Big push from all lads. Load of bricks thrown at Coal House windows – Lot of lasses who were scabbing had got bags over their faces. Lot of them crying and shaking. Running as fast as they could, like – Not very nice for them. All abuse they got – Then this fucking policeman went through a plate-glass window. That was that then. Load of arrests after that – Sixteen windows broken. Eleven cars damaged. Thirty-seven people assaulted. One thousand pickets – Bloody pointless. Drove back to Welfare. Queue of folk waiting for us as usual – Bills. Debts. Bills. Debts – Bloody DHSS. YEB. Same as fucking usual – They were talking about discipline, Panel were – NEC were proposing a new national disciplinary rule. Rule 51 – It was a way to clamp down on acts detrimental to Union, meaning Notts mob mainly, though it could be anything: breaking
strike by crossing picket line; leaking documents; anything – There was a lot of anger about our own discipline, too. Discipline on our own side – Disobedience. Things that had happened at Coal House – SCC had been dead against it. Lads had still gone – Pissed a lot of folk off, that had. Then there was still anger about Orgreave; Scholey, vice-chairman of BSC himself, he’d been on box saying Orgreave was only a diversion so they could bring in what they needed through Immingham and Trent Wharves. But here we were still arguing toss about whether to picket place or not. I’d heard enough – Enough to last me a lifetime – I stood up. I took out piece Mary had cut from paper. Notes we’d made from news. MacGregor’s told his area directors that a long strike was preferable to an early settlement, I said. Now how’s that
The Eighteenth Week
Monday 2 – Sunday 8 July 1984
Malcolm Morris and Alan Cole drove down from Euston to Buckingham Palace Road –
The Rubens Hotel. A few steps up from the Clifton Park Hotel, Rotherham –
The job was the same, though.
They parked and used the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the hotel. Introduced themselves to the in-house security and the men from the Met. The talks were to be in one of the larger rooms on the second floor. The Board would have the room to the right. The Union the room to the left. Everyone had a chuckle at that.
The man in charge of in-house security handed over two sets of keys. He said, ‘The keys to the room on the left. The keys to the talks.’
Malcolm handed back the keys to the room on the left. He shook his head.
‘We know what King Arthur’s going to say,’ Cole told everyone. ‘Big Mac, though, now that man’s a law unto himself. Law unto himself.’
In-house security put the keys to the room on the right into Malcolm’s hand.
Malcolm picked up the cases. He stood up. Left.
Cole followed him back out into the corridor. They took the service lift up to the third floor. Room 304. The room above the talks.
Cole said, ‘I’m sorry, Chief.’
Malcolm opened the door. Locked it after them. ‘Just can’t keep it shut, can you?’
Cole sighed. He closed his eyes. Nodded and said again, ‘I’m sorry.’
Malcolm looked at his watch. He drew the curtains. Switched on the lights. He stripped down the double bed. Handed the linen to Cole. Cole dumped it in the bath. Malcolm took the mattress off the bed. Leant it against the curtains. He opened up their cases on the base of the bed –
They laid out their equipment. They set it up. They looked at their watches –
Malcolm put on his overalls. He picked up the smaller case. Took the stairs –
Room service –
On a silver plate.
The Troika had gone to the Rubens Hotel for the talks. Everybody else was left to wait. Divide their time between Congress House and the pub. Pace the corridors. Cross their fingers. Pray at a table in the bar at the County, if you were Terry Winters –
Pray that both sides wanted a deal. That a deal could be reached –
That Terry could be saved.
Terry nodded to himself. Terry thought the President knew the time was right –
There was no Triple Alliance any more. No support. No stomach for it.
Terry nodded again. Terry thought the Chairman knew the time was right, too –
There’d been only seven hundred responses to the Chairman’s letter. The huge NCB adverts running in the papers this week looked like a waste of taxpayers’ money –
Money –
Terry closed his eyes. Terry bowed his head. Terry said his prayers.
‘Your lips are moving, Comrade.’
Terry opened his eyes. Terry raised his head. Terry said another prayer –
‘First sign of madness that, Comrade,’ said Bill Reed. ‘Talking to yourself.’
‘What do you want now?’ asked Terry.
Bill Reed put an envelope down on the table. Bill Reed said, ‘Gotcha, Comrade.’
Malcolm drank instant coffee. Malcolm smoked duty-free cigarettes –
Malcolm watched and Malcolm listened –
Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week. Every month. Every year –
The shadows and the whispers. In his thoughts and in his dreams –
Hotel doors. Hotel doors slammed –
I want you I want you I want you now –
Hotel beds. Hotels beds creaked –
I love you I love you I love you for ever –
Hotel headboards. Hotel headboards banged –
I have you I have you I have you here –
Hotel walls. Hotel walls shook –
I hate you –
Blood on hotel walls and hotel floors, hotel beds and hotel doors –
Malcolm opened his eyes. He unwrapped the bandages. Took the cotton wool out of his ears. Bloody and wet –
Malcolm put on his headphones –
‘I HATE YOU!’
Every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single week of every single month of every single year of his whole fucking life –
The ghosts without. The ghosts within –
Operation Vengeance –
Public and private. Personal.
The Jew hasn’t been to sleep. He’s too anxious. He doesn’t wait for the doorman or Neil. He opens the back door of the Mercedes himself. He fidgets on the backseat –
He wants to tighten the screw further –
He rambles on about Enterprise Oil. The GLC. The House of Lords –
About loose screws.
He is wearing his dark blue pinstripe suit, his pale blue shirt with a white silk tie –
He has a boot full of pale blue notes to donate to his true-blue secret cells –
‘Our men have control of the Nottinghamshire Area Council,’ the Jew boasts. ‘We have our bridgehead now, Neil. The intimidation stops here.’
The car phone rings. The Jew pounces. Listens –
‘What?’ shouts the Jew into the phone. ‘What?’
Neil Fontaine looks into the rearview mirror.
The Jew hangs up. He bangs on the partition. He wails, ‘Stop the car, Neil!’
Neil Fontaine pulls over onto the hard shoulder. He switches on the hazard lights.
The Jew gets out. The Jew paces the verge –
Neil Fontaine joins him.
The Jew looks up. He says, ‘Be a pal and pass me a coffin nail, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine hands the Jew a cigarette. He lights it for him.
The Jew inhales. He coughs and he coughs. The Jew exhales.
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew choke again.
The Jew throws away the cigarette. The Jew says, ‘There’s a dock strike, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine knows.
‘She wants answers, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Heads.’
Neil Fontaine nods again. Neil Fontaine knows –
The Jew coughs. The Jew spits. The Jew clambers back into the back of the car.
Neil Fontaine starts the car. Puts his foot down –
One spark –
The Immingham bulk terminal out over the use of unsupervised non-scheme labour to unload iron-ore pellets at a registered port –
The Jew opens his window. The Jew screams into the road and the wind –
‘This is a disaster. An absolute, utter disaster. Exactly what we didn’t want, Neil. This is a second front. A second bloody front. Exactly what he wanted –’
Neil Fontaine has a slight smile on his face. The road rising –
The one spark –
The lorries would work round the clock for forty-eight hours to move at least half the Immingham stockpile to the Scunthorpe steel works –
Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine knew a set-up when he saw one –
This was a set-up.
Neil Fontaine stops before the gates and the guns and winds down his window –
Neil Fonta
ine says, ‘Mr Stephen Sweet to see the Prime Minister.’
The officer speaks into his radio.
Neil Fontaine glances into the rearview mirror. The Jew is sweating again –
His pinstripe soaked.
The officer steps back from the car. The officer gestures at the gates –
The guns rise. The gates open.
Neil Fontaine starts the car.
‘Doubt she’ll be in a very good mood,’ says the Jew for the third time.
Neil Fontaine drives slowly over the gravel. He parks before the front door.
There is no one here to meet the car today –
Neil Fontaine has to open the back door of the Mercedes for the Jew.
The Jew gets out. The Jew goes up to the front door –
The door opens.
The Jew turns back to look at Neil. The Jew nods. The Jew gives a little wave –
The Jew has tickets for Wimbledon. The final –
The Jew planned to take Fred, Don and James. Their special treat.
Fred, Don and James will have to go on their own now –
The Jew is due out on the real centre court today –
And he has left his aviator sunglasses and his panama hat on the backseat.
Neil Fontaine starts the car again. He parks in the empty garage. He sits in the car. He can smell the exhaust fumes. He can hear the peacocks scream –
Neil Fontaine is thinking of Vincent Taylor and Julius Schaub –
One spark, he thinks. That’s all it ever takes –
David Johnson and Malcolm Morris –
One spark to burn the whole thing down –
Jennifer Johnson.
Malcolm took the weekend off. He drove North. He ate dinner at Da Marios on the Headrow in Leeds. Deep-fried garlic mushrooms. Lasagne. A bottle of the house red. He smoked two cigarettes. He finished with coffee. Drove home to Harrogate. He put the car in the garage. He went into the house. Picked up the post. The papers from the mat. He left his briefcase in the hall. Took off his tie. He made a cup of instant coffee. He went into the lounge. Drew the curtains. He switched on the lights. The stereo. He went over to the shelves. The many shelves which lined every wall of the room. He took down the double-cassette box of Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds –