by David Peace
The Twenty-second Week
Monday 30 July – Sunday 5 August 1984
The National Executive Committee had rejected the Board’s offer. The Special Delegate Conference had been recalled for August 10. It was set to run and run –
It was cap-in-hand time to Congress House. Almost –
The Denims and the Tweeds were staring at Terry Winters.
The President had just asked, ‘Will it be jail or fines, Comrade?’
‘Fines first,’ said Terry.
The President said, ‘And how much do you think the fines will be?’
‘For contempt? Fifty thousand plus costs,’ said Terry.
The President said, ‘And what steps will they take to recover it?’
‘The court will set a deadline of twenty-four to forty-eight hours for payment.’
The President said, ‘And when that passes?’
‘They’ll appoint sequestrators to take over the Welsh assets.’
‘Who?’
‘Price Waterhouse,’ said Terry. ‘Who else?’
The President nodded. The President said, ‘But everything is in place?’
‘Everything is in place. Everything is set. Everything ready.’
The President stood up. The President put his hand on Terry’s shoulder –
Terry looked up into his eyes. Terry smiled.
The President said, ‘Unity is just around the corner, Comrade.’
‘Unity and strength, Comrade President,’ said Terry.
The President left the room for the meeting.
*
Neil Fontaine drives the Jew North again. The Jew closes his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches on the radio in the front and the back of the Mercedes –
‘– there is no going back. There is no surrender. We will fight and we will win – or we will die in the attempt –’
Neil Fontaine glances in the mirror. The Jew opens his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches off the radio in the front and back of the Mercedes –
This time for real.
The Jew holds court with the people from the court. The legal eagles of Newark. The Jew talks about the individual. The individual’s resistance. The resistance of the cell. The cell’s resilience –
‘But I digress,’ says the Jew. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen.’
Grey Fox, Don Colby and Derek Williams stare blankly at the Jew.
Dominic Reid sweats.
Piers Harris touches the huge pile of Union documents on his desk again. He says, ‘This is quite a trove you men have amassed.’
Don Colby and Derek Williams smile, proud of what they have become.
‘But does the trove contain the treasure we seek?’ asks the Jew.
Piers Harris nods. He says, ‘I would think so. Don’t you, Dominic?’
Dominic Reid wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. He nods too. He says, ‘Looking at the inventory of the documents the men have obtained, there does appear to be some real meat here.’
‘Meat for the traps,’ says the Jew. ‘Bait.’
‘Anything else you need,’ says Don Colby. ‘You just let us know.’
The Jew applauds. The Jew says, ‘This mole of yours is certainly a busy bee.’
‘He knows it’s the right thing to do,’ says Don Colby. ‘The right thing.’
‘It’s certainly a brave thing to do, too,’ says the Jew. ‘One really dreads to imagine what the Red Guard would do to the poor creature should he ever be unmasked.’
Everybody imagines. Everybody nods –
Grey Fox puts his sunglasses back on. Picks his underpants out of his arse.
The Jew claps his hands. He says, ‘To the battle-plan. Piers, if you would –’
Piers Harris stands up. He walks to the blackboard. He picks up a piece of chalk. ‘Through the very great endeavours of the Chairman and Stephen on our behalf,’ he says, ‘Justice Megson is set to hear the orders a week on Friday. It is unlikely anyone from either the Yorkshire or National Union will be in court. Therefore, there will be an adjournment to allow the Union time to prepare their case. But –’
Derek Williams is fidgeting. Derek Williams puts up his hand.
Piers stops. Piers smiles. Piers says, ‘Yes, Derek?’
‘Will we have to be in court a week on Friday? Me and Don?’
Piers looks over at the Jew. Piers sits down –
The Jew says, ‘Neil has made reservations for yourselves and your wives to travel down to London on Thursday and for you all to spend two nights at the –’
‘Westbury Hotel in Mayfair,’ says Neil.
Derek and Don whistle. Derek says, ‘What about the kids?’
‘We’d like them to spend the week at Bridlington or some place,’ says the Jew. ‘With their grandparents or some other relatives or friends.’
‘It’s going to cost a pretty penny is all this,’ says Don.
‘But worth every pretty penny,’ says the Jew. ‘If it brings you both piece of mind during your stay in London.’
Grey Fox takes off his shades and says, ‘Folk are going to know who they are.’
Don, Derek, Piers and Dominic all turn to look at the Jew –
The Jew says, ‘Folk already know, Carl.’
Grey Fox puts his sunglasses back on. He says, ‘But there’ll be cameras at court.’
‘There are cameras everywhere,’ says the Jew. ‘In fact, the producers of TV-AM have asked if Don and Derek would be good enough to appear on their programme along with their lady wives.’
Derek looks at Don. Don nods. Derek nods. Don says, ‘Aye, go on then.’
‘TV-bloody-AM?’ says Grey Fox. ‘Whole bloody world will know who you are. Where you work. Where you live. Where you drink. Are you mental?’
Don shakes his head. Don says, ‘Time for hiding’s over, Carl.’
The Jew gets up. He walks over to Don Colby –
The Jew embraces him –
This time for real.
Dominic looks at Piers. Piers puts a finger to his lips. Piers winks at Dominic –
Dominic Reid went to school with Piers Harris. Piers is a member of the Newark Conservative Party. The Conservative Member of Parliament for Newark is married to the economics editor of The Times. The Times is often edited by the man who used to bully the
little Sweet Stephen at Eton. Mercilessly. Because he was a Jew –
This is the way the world works. This small, small world.
Neil Fontaine drives the Jew South. The Jew closes his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches on the radio in the front and the back of the Mercedes –
‘– I am fed up of hearing of these movements to return to work by face less men. They should stand up for what they believe and identify themselves –’
Neil Fontaine glances in the mirror. The Jew opens his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches off the radio in the front and back of the Mercedes –
The Jew smiles. The Jew grins. The Jew chuckles. The Jew laughs –
Laughs and laughs and laughs.
*
The deadline expired at midnight. Terry Winters caught the first train down to Cardiff. He read books. Newspapers. He wrote notes. Letters. He did sums. Crosswords. It was a long journey. He took a taxi to the office of the South Wales NUM in Pontypridd. The office was in the Engineering Union building. The office was ringed by one thousand big men with moustaches and beards, baseball bats and badges. Terry got out of the taxi –
The big men stepped forward.
Terry said, ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ they said.
‘I am the Chief Executive Officer of the National Union of Mineworkers.’
‘Prove it.’
Terry Winters took his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. He took out his card.
The big men gathered round the card. ‘All right,’ they said. ‘Let him through.’
‘Thank you,’ said Terry. ‘Y
ou are gentlemen and comrades.’
‘No hard feelings,’ they said. ‘Thought you might be a sequestrator.’
Terry Winters shook his head. Terry said, ‘They won’t come down here.’
The big men shook their heads. The big men brandished their bats. They said, ‘Just let them fucking try.’
Terry Winters nodded. Terry went inside the Engineering Union building. He took the lift up to the headquarters of the South Wales National Union of Mineworkers. He knocked on the door. He stepped inside –
Gareth Thomas was sitting on the floor next to a telephone. The office bare.
Terry Winters smiled. Terry said, ‘Good afternoon, Comrade.’
‘Have a seat, Comrade,’ said Gareth Thomas. ‘Oh sorry, there aren’t any.’
Terry Winters smiled again. Terry said, ‘It’s the only way, Comrade.’
‘So you say, Comrade,’ said Gareth. ‘So you say.’
‘Has there been any contact with the sequestrators?’ asked Terry.
Gareth stood up. He said, ‘Our accountants in Cardiff have had a few calls.’
‘What kind of information were they after?’
Gareth said, ‘Names of our banks. Our auditors. And so on.’
‘Did the accountants give them the names?’
Gareth shook his head. He said, ‘Total non-cooperation, as you instructed.’
‘Good,’ said Terry. ‘Very good.’
‘So what happens now?’ asked Gareth.
Terry said, ‘They’ll make the rounds of the banks and the auditors.’
‘The banks will talk, won’t they?’
Terry nodded. He said, ‘They are obliged to.’
‘Bastards,’ said Gareth.
Terry nodded again. He said, ‘They’ll have set up a hotline to the judge, too.’
‘That’s convenient for them,’ said Gareth. ‘Lucky we’ve got nothing to take.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Terry. ‘And they know that, too.’
‘Between fifty and a hundred grand a week,’ said Gareth. ‘Just on picketing. Almost a million and a half quid. If they don’t sequestrate us, we’ll be bankrupt anyway.’
‘Nothing to worry about then,’ said Terry.
Gareth walked over to the window. He looked down at the thousand men below.
‘Just that lot,’ he said. ‘And they’re not even going to see a sequestrator, are they?’
Terry shook his head. He said, ‘They’ll soon know exactly how much you had. Then they’ll go after it through the banks and the courts. Try to find it and freeze it.’
Gareth turned back from the window. He nodded. ‘Just like you said.’
Terry Winters looked at Gareth Thomas. Terry said, ‘You did do what I said?’
Gareth Thomas nodded again.
‘Good,’ said Terry Winters. ‘Then there really, really, is nothing to worry about.’
Gareth Thomas stared at Terry Winters. Terry smiled at Gareth –
The two men stood in silence in the empty office. Just a telephone on the floor between them –
Terry Winters said, ‘Do you mind calling me a taxi back to Cardiff?’
‘That’s it?’ said Gareth Thomas.
Terry Winters nodded. Terry said, ‘I think so, yes.’
‘You came all this way just to tell us not to worry?’
Terry nodded again. He said, ‘The President wanted to show his support –’
‘What about the money? Where’s the cash?’
Terry looked at Gareth. Terry said, ‘What money? What cash?’
‘The bloody money you promised us to get us through this fucking mess!’
Terry said, ‘I don’t know what money you could mean, Comrade.’
‘The money we fucking gave you!’
Terry held out his hands. He said, ‘What money are you talking about?’
Gareth Thomas looked at Terry Winters. Gareth punched Terry in the face –
Terry Winters fell on the floor. His glasses broken. His nose bleeding.
Gareth Thomas spat at Terry Winters. Gareth Thomas walked out.
Terry Winters took out his handkerchief. Terry Winters wiped his face –
Blood and spit again.
The briefing at Gower Street was at ten. The usual maps and photographs on the walls. The one word and two numbers on the board:
Week 23.
The private door at the side opened. Forty faces followed her down to the front. Forty faces watched her stand behind the podium. Take her notes out of her briefcase. Her pen from her pocket. Her cigarettes –
Forty faces that wanted to fuck her. Again –
Malcolm closed his eyes until she’d finished. Until Diane had almost gone –
Her smell still here –
The New Order.
Malcolm went back to a different desk in a different office. He stared at the phone on the desk. The clock on the wall. He drank coffee. He smoked cigarettes –
And stared at the phone –
The car packed and ready to go.
Malcolm and Cole on stand-by –
Lot of secret talk about a lot of secret talks.
Malcolm sat at the desk. He stared at the phone. The clock. Drank another coffee. Smoked another cigarette and stared and stared and stared at the bloody phone –
The car packed. Ready to go.
Cole lay on the floor of the office. He had his eyes closed. His headphones on. The sound of National Radio 1.
Malcolm just sat there. Drinking and smoking –
And staring from the phone to the clock and back to the phone –
The car packed and ready to go. Fuck it –
Malcolm put on his headphones. He sat and still stared. But he listened now –
To them chatter – chatter – chatter –
‘– I call on the British trade union movement to give total physical support to the NUM currently under attack from the government’s anti-trade union laws –’
Chattering –
‘– it has not penetrated the minds of this government and their judiciary that you cannot sequestrate an idea nor imprison a belief –’
Their ceaseless fucking chattering –
‘– we will continue to operate, even if it means operating out of a telephone box –’
To them bicker – bicker – bicker –
‘– she says she loves her country. For the sake of her country, she should go –’
Bickering –
‘– there is only one word to describe the policy of the Right Honourable gentleman when faced with threats, whether from home or abroad, and that word is appeasement –’
Their bankrupt fucking bickering –
‘– even in narrow financial terms, the three-hundred-and-fifty-million-pound cost of the strike represents a worthwhile investment for the good of the nation and that is before taking account of the wider issues in this debate –’