by David Peace
Ceaseless and bankrupt, endless and destitute –
Malcolm Morris wanted to cut off his ears. To put the pieces in an envelope –
Send her the envelope. First class. The scissors and a note –
Your turn, dear. For old times’ sake.
Malcolm took off his headphones. Threw them across the room –
Cole was staring at him. The telephone ringing –
The voice telling them, ‘Unity House, Euston Road –’
A date in the trees, their eyes and their ears among the branches and the leaves –
The Headquarters of the National Union of Railwaymen –
Just a hop, skip and a jump from here –
Malcolm put away the scissors. He stubbed out his cigarette –
Pressed record.
There were rumours of more court actions. Actions from within the Yorkshire coalfield. Lot being written and said about the Home Front now –
Terry watched Theresa Winters dump the frying pan and the grill in the sink. Terry watched Theresa squeeze Fairy Liquid onto the pan and the grill. He watched her run the tap until it was hot. He watched her pick up a Brillo pad. He watched her scrub and scrub the pan and the grill –
Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick. Slow –
Terry watched her put the Brillo pad back between the Fairy Liquid and the tap. He watched her rinse the pan and the grill under the tap. He watched her put the pan and the grill on the draining board. He watched her turn off the tap. He watched her pick up a tea-towel. He watched her dry and dry the pan and the grill –
Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick –
He watched her put the pan and the grill down on the worktop. He watched her dry her hands. He watched her put the tea-towel inside the washing-machine. He watched her put the frying pan in the cupboard above the fridge. He watched her put the grill back in the cooker. He watched her walk out of the kitchen –
Slow. Slow. Quick –
Out of the hall. Out of the house –
Out of their home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire.
Peter
you. Not after all I’d seen and heard – Them down here though, I don’t know. Don’t know what to think really. Lot of them gave a lot, but I don’t know. Had a lot to give in first place. Like bloody Kent miners. They fucking pissed me off sometimes. First to tell you how hardcore they were – Militant through and through. Shoulder to shoulder. All that – But they didn’t want their brothers-in-arms collecting down here, did they? Like London was their private bloody patch. Just theirs and rest of us could fuck off back to North. Right little gold mine it was for them and all. They only had two thousand men in three fucking pits and whole of London and bloody South to collect from. Be able to buy their pits soon, that much brass between them – Not like Yorkshire. Us that suffered most – Us that went out on picket. Picket, picket, picket – That were us. Not fannying about with fucking buckets. Having a chat with Red Ken on steps of GLC – Us out on picket lines getting our heads caved in. Beaten and arrested while our wives and kids went without. Curfews and roadblocks round our fucking houses and our villages – But I wouldn’t have it other way round. I wouldn’t want to be down here begging – That wasn’t me. That wasn’t any of us – Just would like a bit of their brass up our way for a change. But they could keep their bloody buckets – It said on front of our banner, From Obscurity to Respect. But part of me would come down here and feel like it ought to bloody say, From Obscurity to Pity – Because that was all it was for most of them. Pity – Not all of them. But a lot of them – Support the Miners. Stick your Southern quid in a Kent bucket to ease your bleeding conscience – But who fucking voted for her in first place? Who put me down here in bloody rain on streets of London with a plastic fucking bucket begging for their loose change? Crumbs off master’s table? No one round where I bloody came from – No. It was all too easy for most of them down here – Different planet. Different world – Different country. Different class – They could keep it and all. Fucking keep it – My head had only just touched pillow when there was a right loud banging on front door. That loud I thought it was riot squad. Mary stuck her head out of bedroom window – It was Keith. He must be drunk, I said – Mary shouted, He’s asleep. He’s got to be up again in three hour – Tell him he’s got to be up now, said Keith. There’s a mob of them gone up Frank Ramsay’s – Fucking hell, I shouted. Hold on then. I’ll be down. This had been brewing for a bit now. Frank Ramsay, Paul Banks and a couple of other lads had had short contracts over border in Nottingham at Bevercotes. Their contracts had run on for just first month of strike and lads here in village had turned a bit of a blind eye to them still working, because what they were doing were scabbing. But if they’d come out with rest of us they’d have got no benefits or nothing. They were all right and all. Known round village as good lads. Then their contracts had expired and that were that. Matter were finished with. But then last week, Board went and offered them permanent work – That was different. If they took them jobs they’d be taking jobs of blokes on Bevercotes picket line – That was same pit where that fucking Silver Birch twat worked and all. They’d be scabs same as him – It was wrong and they knew it. But they’d taken jobs and now they were going to have to pay price – Heavy one by sounds of it, too. Heavy one – Keith said, Frank were walking past Welfare and someone said something. There were words ex-changed. Lads got on about it inside and worked themselves up into a right lather – I bet they did, I said. I bet they did – Minute we turned into Frank’s street we heard his window go through. Then shotgun – Fucking shotgun blast. Daft bastard had only gone and fired his twelve bore out the bloody bedroom window – Keith stopped car where we were. I got out. Frank was shouting, There’s more where that come from. There’s kids in here – Folk already moving off now though. Lad told me they were heading over to Paul Banks’s house on next street. I wanted to go with them to make sure nothing else daft happened, but I was worried about Frank. I was worried coppers would come and shoot
The Twenty-third Week
Monday 6 – Sunday 12 August 1984
There is a full board meeting of the NCB today. The Jew has his invitation. He has been asked to address the Board by the Chairman. He knows the Board do not care for him. The Jew doesn’t care. He is on the front line. Not them. He’s fighting this fight. Not them. He’s winning the war, not them –
‘Help the Miners, yes,’ says the Jew. ‘But not him. Never. Not him. Never him. That one man’s war has brought over five thousand arrests. Injured six hundred police and two hundred pickets. That one man’s war has killed two of his own on the picket line. Driven to suicide many, many more. It has cost countless millions in damage to property. It has seen miner attack miner. Colleague attack colleague. Brother attack brother. It has led to threats of assault, rape and murder on the families of those that will not join this one man’s war –
‘Well, gentlemen, the time has come to fight back and I am here today to tell you that fightback has already started. Independent legal actions by ordinary working miners across the coalfields of Britain have begun. Collections by ordinary working miners to compensate the victims of intimidation and violence have begun. Committees of ordinary miners who want to organize a return to work have begun –
‘These men are on the front line. They stand alone against one man’s attempts to destroy the democratic rights of working-class people. If he succeeds and these men fail, this country fails too –
‘The battle has been joined. The fightback has begun. If it is to be won, and won speedily, all who love and believe in freedom and democracy should do and give what they can financially or in any other way they see fit.’
Neil Fontaine claps long and loud. He says, ‘Bravo, sir. Bravo.’
‘To Hobart House, then,’ says the Jew. ‘To Hobart House, Neil.’
Malcolm didn’t sleep because Malcolm didn’t want to dream. He didn’t want to dream because he didn’t want to hear them –
H
ear them in his dreams. Laughing. See them in his sheets. Fucking.
These were the nights from which he ran and hid. The days when he disappeared –
Checked into a hotel. Locked the doors. Drew the curtains –
Disappeared off the face of the Earth –
To lie deceived and defeated on hotel sheets. For nights and days like these –
These dark dog-days of August 1984.
Malcolm Morris lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and watched the night retreat across the ceiling. The curtains. The shadows become sunlight. Malcolm lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and wished that it were so –
That shadows became light.
Malcolm got up. Dressed. He checked out. Drove –
Dalton, Nottinghamshire.
He parked and sat low in the car and watched them arrive with their radios on –
‘– I plan to come out into the open to prevent my friends from being hurt and intimidated by militant miners who are trying to identify Grey Fox through violence –’
He watched Carl Baker at the door of the pub between four large policemen –
‘– I do not agree with the Board’s pit closure programme but eighty per cent of striking miners want to go back to work –’
He watched him shake hands with each man who came to his meeting –
‘– don’t let this animal element, these left-wing bully-boys and their hit squads, don’t let them destroy your lives. Call your mates, then call your pit manager –’
He watched him talk to the journalists and the TV crews with his sunglasses on –
‘– let’s all go back to work next Monday. Tell your wives to pack your lunch, then go to your pit and strike a blow for democracy –’
He watched him break down into hundreds of tears (a lifetime of fears to come). He watched Stephen Sweet put an arm around him –
A silent movie.
He watched their secret meeting break up before the cameras and the microphones. Their cars leave and the car park empty. He watched the police escort Carl Baker and Stephen Sweet and some journalists out to a police Range Rover.
Malcolm looked at his watch –
Fuck.
He started the Volvo. Drove back up to South Yorkshire. The A57 onto the A638 –
The Great North Road.
He passed through Retford and Ranskill. Noticed the Montego in the rearview –
Fuck.
The driver holding something to his mouth. Larger men in the front and rear –
Fuck.
Malcolm put his foot down. The car in front braked –
Fuck.
Malcolm swerved to the left. Into the hedgerow. Into the ditch –
Fuck.
Doors opened. Boots came –
Fuck.
Malcolm opened his door. He got out. Hands over his ears. But it was too late –
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
It never goes away. Tony Davies has left two messages for Neil Fontaine. They arrange to meet in the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel on Bloomsbury Way. Tony is wearing a floral waistcoat under his stained linen jacket. Tony smells of sweat. Tony is a paedophile. Tony is a member of Nazi groups. Tony drinks double vodkas. Neil drinks a Britvic orange. They talk about the Olympics. They talk about Nigel Short. They talk about the weather –
‘Too bloody hot,’ says Tony. ‘Unbearable. I need to get away. You too.’
Neil Fontaine stares at Tony Davies. Neil asks, ‘What makes you say that, Tony?’
‘I know about Shrewsbury,’ he whispers. ‘Very bad business. Very bad.’
Neil Fontaine keeps staring at Tony Davies –
The flowers and the stains –
Tony smiles. Tony points at Neil. Tony says, ‘They’re asking for names.’
Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. Neil Fontaine takes another sip from it.
Tony puts a hand on Neil’s arm. Tony says, ‘I can help you, Neil. I can help you.’
Neil Fontaine removes Tony’s hand from his arm. He says, ‘You’re drunk, Tony.’
‘Am I?’ says Tony. ‘Am I really? Well, so bloody what if I am?’
Neil Fontaine pulls him close. He whispers, ‘You got something to say? Say it.’
‘I want to know what you’ve done with my Julius?’ says Tony. ‘Where is he?’
Neil Fontaine puts his hand between Tony’s legs. He grabs Tony’s testicles –
Tony Davies sits in the corner of the pub and tries not to scream.
Neil Fontaine lets go of Tony’s testicles. He says, ‘Go back to your hole, Tony.’
Tony stands up. Tony runs out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.
Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. He finishes it. He stands up –
He follows Tony out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.
*
The Old Man was sick. He’d collapsed at the rally to commemorate the Tolpuddle Martyrs. He hadn’t got up again yet. The Annual Congress was only three weeks away. The Fat Man had seized his chance. He took the train to Sheffield. The lift up to the tenth floor. The Fat Man wanted to see for himself. Hear for himself –
‘The South Wales NUM accounts with the local Co-operative and Midland banks have all been frozen,’ Terry Winters was telling him. ‘The majority of their assets had already been transferred for safety, so the amounts involved are not great. However, they do include all recent donations and so we’re hopeful we can argue in court that this money is then technically not the property of the South Wales NUM and should therefore be unfrozen. But, in the meantime, it leaves them on a day-to-day basis with no cash.’
The Fat Man turned to the President. He asked, ‘The National Union cannot offer them any assistance? Short-term loans? Divert other donations?’
‘Impossible,’ said the President. ‘Comrade Chief Executive, continue.’
‘The National Union is itself desperately short of money,’ said Terry. ‘Our own assets were also transferred abroad at the start of the dispute. The substantial amounts of money we have received through donations and loans from other unions have, almost in their entirety, been used to alleviate hardship within the communities. There is no longer any finance available to assist areas with strike-related activities. This office itself requires well over one hundred thousand pounds a week to keep going, and by the end of October we will be unable to cover those costs –’
‘Unless’, said the President, ‘the trade union movement comes to our aid.’
The Fat Man nodded. He picked up his TUC pen. He said, ‘How about loans?’
‘We’ve had loans,’ said the President. ‘We need total physical support –’
The Fat Man nodded again. He said, ‘I know that. But what about interest-free loans from across the entire trade union movement? Not just the usual suspects.’
‘It would show tangible physical support,’ agreed the President.
‘The loans would have to be shown to be secure,’ said the Fat Man. ‘And they would obviously have to be repaid.’
‘Obviously,’ said the President.
‘And, obviously,’ continued the Fat Man, ‘they would have to be made in such a way as not to compromise the legal position of our members.’
The President looked over to Terry. He said, ‘Comrade Chief Executive?’
‘There’s over eight million pounds of our assets overseas at present,’ said Terry. ‘These assets are untraceable and can therefore act as security for any loans received. If the loans themselves are made in the form of donations, then the legal position of the donor cannot be compromised should the National Union be subject to any future court actions in regard to our finances. At the conclusion of the dispute, our assets will be returned to Britain and repayments on the loans could then commence.’
The Fat Man stopped writing. The Fat Man put down his TUC pen again. He said, ‘The assets are untraceable? You’re absolutely certain of that?’
‘There is another way,’ said the President.
The Fat Man picked up his TUC pen again and asked, ‘And what way is that?’
‘Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the President again, ‘if you would –’
‘The President has already submitted a motion calling for all-out support from the Trades Union Congress,’ said Terry. ‘Following last Wednesday’s meeting with ASLEF, the NUS and the NUR, it was decided that we would add to our resolution a number of amendments – one of which is to demand a ten-pence-a-week levy from each individual member of each of the ninety-eight affiliated unions of Congress.’
The Fat Man put down his pen. He said, ‘You’re talking a million quid a week.’
‘No,’ said the President. ‘I’m talking ten pence a week.’
The Fat Man shook his head –
There was silence on the tenth floor. Then footsteps –
Paul Hargreaves opened the door. Paul Hargreaves looked at Terry Winters –
The General Secretary stood and stared at the Chief Executive.
‘What is it, Comrade?’ asked the President. ‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve found and frozen the South Wales assets,’ said Paul. ‘All of them.’
The President turned to Terry Winters. The Fat Man turned to Terry Winters –
The whole room turned to Terry fucking Winters –
Terry shook his head. His head red. His head in his hands. His hands dirty –
His hands over his eyes –
His eyes full.
*
They’ve had a bit of a lie-in this morning have these would-be Working Miners. They have yet to come down to the lobby of the Mayfair Westbury and it is already well past ten o’clock. But they have had a busy week have these would-be Working Miners. They have been in court each day to hear their action against the Yorkshire Area of the NUM over the Union’s failure to hold a ballot. They have been on television. They have been on the radio. In the papers. They are the men of the moment are these would-be Working Miners.