by David Peace
The noise like thunder –
‘– this government has destroyed the dreams and ambitions of a generation. Britain is now a country ruled by fear. The fear of being ill. The fear of losing your job. The fear of not being able to keep up at work. The fear of growing old –
‘But we must not let fear extinguish the ideas of trade unionism –’
Like a bomb had gone off.
The Old Man was next. The Old Man said, ‘This Congress sends a message to this government that it will not let the miners and their families starve –
‘It will not let the miners lose –’
The whole hall shook with it –
‘We will not let them lose!’
Like an explosion.
The President rose. The President walked to the front of the platform. He said, ‘Give that support today and I am confident that in the weeks ahead we shall grow increasingly strong –’
Like thunder. Like a bomb. The whole hall shaking. Exploding –
‘And that we will not lose!’
Delegates clapping their hands and stamping their feet –
Standing shoulder to shoulder.
Terry Winters looked round for the New Realists –
For Bill Sirs. For Frank Chapple. For Eric Hammond. For John Lyons –
They were nowhere to be seen. But Terry could still hear them –
Backstage. Offstage. Whispering.
Terry had had enough. Terry stepped out of the Conference Hall –
Into the sunshine and the sea; the shining badges and sea of banners –
Victory to the Miners! Organize the General Strike! Miners Must Win!
The Revolutionary Communist Party and the Socialist Workers’ Party; the Young Socialists and the Old Communists; the Denims and the Tweeds; NALGO, NUPE and the All Trades Union Alliance –
Four thousand men and women from every branch of the NUM –
Pride of place for the Cortonwood banner and the miners that bore it.
They were all here, down by the sea –
Their arms outstretched to shake Terry’s hand. To pat him on the back –
To have him sign their Morning Star, their News Line –
To make sure it was shoulder to shoulder –
Shoulder to shoulder to Victory –
‘Keep on keeping on,’ they shouted as Terry shook the hands, signed the papers –
Shoulder to shoulder in the sun by the sea. But it was a charade –
Like the small plane in the sky said, Come off it, Arthur!
It was a sham and they knew it –
The President and the Proprietor. The Old Man and the Fat Man –
The Chairman and his Boss –
A dirty fucking lie –
And everyone saw it. Everyone heard it. Everyone smelt it –
Tasted it. Knew it –
Everyone except the men and women out in the minefields.
Late till eight. It is the busiest shopping night of the week at the Morley branch of Morrison’s supermarket. The Mechanic and Adam are in the back of the Ford Cortina. Phil is in the driver’s seat. The Mechanic has the shotgun and the stopwatch. Adam has the handgun and the holdall. Phil turns into the car park. It is two minutes past eight o’clock. The place is almost deserted now. The last shoppers leaving. Phil drives slowly through the car park towards the store. He reverses into a parking space. The Cortina faces the exit, their backs to the supermarket. Phil watches through the rearview mirror, the Mechanic through the wing. Adam looks straight ahead. The Mechanic and Phil see the two security guards and the manager wheel the trolley along the row of cash registers. They fill bags with notes and coins from each till. The two security guards and the manager then push the trolley back up the aisles towards the office and the safe. The wages for the week are also in the safe in the office. Phil looks at his watch. The Mechanic looks at his. Phil nods. The Mechanic nods. Adam puts his crash helmet on. The Mechanic puts his on. It is five minutes past eight o’clock. The Mechanic opens the back door on the left side of the car. Adam opens the back door on the driver’s side of the car. The Mechanic and Adam get out. The Mechanic and Adam stand in the car park. The Mechanic and Adam put their visors down. Phil starts the car up. The Mechanic starts the stopwatch –
Here. We. Go –
Through the automatic doors. Hit the fire alarm. Chaos –
Up the aisle to the office. Through the door –
‘What the –’
Punch to the first security guard. He goes down –
Punch to the second. He goes down –
Kick to the first guard. He stays down –
Kick to the second. Down and out –
The Mechanic drags the manager across his desk by his tie –
Puts the manager’s face to the safe and shouts, ‘Open it.’
The manager dithers. The Mechanic turns the manager’s face to the first guard –
Adam puts the handgun to the guard’s temple. He cocks the hammer –
The manager opens the safe.
The Mechanic pushes him away. ‘On your knees. Hands behind your back.’
Handcuffs on. The Mechanic kicks him over.
Adam fills the holdall with wage packets and banknotes.
The Mechanic looks at the stopwatch. ‘One minute thirty –’
Adam nods. Adam keeps filling the holdall. Adam shouts, ‘Done.’
They leave the office. Leave them on the floor –
Down the aisle. Through the automatic doors –
The back doors of the car open –
Jump inside. Phil puts his foot down and they are –
Gone. Just like that –
Eight minutes past eight o’clock –
Just. Like. That.
Martin
either. Just music – Agadoo. Keith pulls into car park. Pete says, Probably be back to Kiveton tomorrow. Keith nods. Chris nods. I nod. Pete gives us three quid each. I say goodbye. I walk over road to Bottom Club. I get in our car. I drive home. I park in drive. I unlock door. I step inside – There’s nothing. No one – My hands are black. My face blue. The sea is cold. The wind old – Day 189. I wake up at midnight on a pile of clothes on bedroom floor. That’s all that’s left. Clothes and bits of my gear. Nothing else now. Makes place seem massive. Ironic really, Cath had always wanted a bigger place. Makes it smell, though. I walk from room to room. I open up windows. Room to room. Downstairs. Letter from TSB still on floor in hall. Back up stairs. Then down stairs again. End up stood in kitchen. No cooker now. No fridge. No washing-machine. Nothing. Just spaces where they used be. I just stand there looking out on back garden again – It’s black. Pitch black. Pissing it down – Never going to be a patio now. No conservatory here. I light a cigarette – Expensive habit that, she says. I turn round – Nothing. No one – I close my eyes. My heart – You have stolen my language. You have stolen my land – Bloody hell, says Pete. Thought you’d have buggered off and left us again by now. I say, You bloody want me to, do you? He shakes his head. He says, You know I don’t – Then shut up and open that envelope, will you? He laughs. He opens envelope. He takes out paper. He says, Silverwood. Entire room groans. Keith shouts, Lovely. Pete says, Where were you expecting? Las bloody Vegas? How about Doncaster racecourse? says Tim. John Smiths brewery? Tell you what I’ll do, says Pete. I’ll have a word with King Arthur next time he pops round, shall I? You do that, says everyone. You do that. Pete smiles. He says, Now that’s all sorted, let’s have you all up Silverwood then. Day 192. About hundred yards from pit, headlights go on full in our faces. Krk-krk. Bastards. Hands straight up to shield our eyes. Few stones aimed at lights. Hear horses coming then. Dogs. Vans. Everyone off like a shot. Into woods. Off road. Through trees. Best plan. Out of lights. Into fog and mist. Hooves still coming. Dogs barking. Headlights shining through trunks and branches. Throwing shadows left and right. Police boots over deadwood. Truncheons banging on their shields. Lads going down. Falling over stumps and fuckin
g roots of trees. Picked up by snatch squads and beaten badly. No arrests today. Just lot of fist. Mainly older blokes getting it and all – Hear them go down but you can’t see them. Fog and lights in your eyes – I hear voices above me then. Look up and there are blokes hanging from trees – Just swinging there in fog with lights behind them. Dangling like strange fruit off branches – Police and dogs waiting for them underneath. Truncheons out and teeth bared ready for fruit to fall – For dead to drop. It is Yorkshire, 1984 – You have buried my family. You have buried my faith – Day 195. I wake on floor again. I get up off floor. I walk over to window. I look out – There’s a car on road. Passenger door open. There are men in car. Man at gate – There are shadows over man. He stares up at house. He points up at window. His bones white in night – I step back out of sight. Into my own shadows. I stand against wall. I hold my breath – I listen to gate open. I hear footsteps on path – I hear them whisper. I hear them echo – Hear them moan. Hear them scream – It is dark. I swallow. I spit. I swallow again. I hear knock on door. I listen to letterbox rattle – I listen to it whisper. Listen to it echo – Listen to it moan. Listen to it scream – It is dark. I close my eyes. I open my eyes. I close them again. I listen to him try door. I hear him shake it – I hear him whisper. Hear him echo – Hear him moan. Hear him scream, Martin! Get up, you lazy fucking sod. Day 201. Pete comes back from Panel. Pete says, It’s provocation. Pete’s right. Provocation is only word for it – DHSS now said contractors at Maltby are engaged in secondary strike action. Not laid off like they’d said before. DHSS has stopped their dole – Contractors have gone back. Board have fucking stuck them in their back-to-work figures – It’s bloody bollocks.
The Twenty-eighth Week
Monday 10 – Sunday 16 September 1984
Terry Winters was in the bar of the three-star Ellersly Hotel, Murrayfield, Edinburgh. Terry was on the phone home. No one was on the other end. The phone just rang and rang in the empty hall of his empty house in Sheffield. Terry sat at the bar and listened to it ring and watched the ice in his vodka melt. The President was upstairs in a bedroom with the Chairman. Terry didn’t know why they bothered. The President didn’t want to be here. He was only here because the Chairman was here. The Chairman didn’t want to be here, either. He was only here because the power workers were tired of being booed and spat at. The Chairman had even arrived with a bag over his face. The President had said the Chairman needed to seek professional advice. The Chairman had said he was concerned about the effect of the stress on the President’s health. The President said the Chairman obviously needed a break. The Chairman stuck his tongue out. The President stuck his out. The Chairman threw his hands up. The President winked. The Chairman wanted the President to drop his trousers and spread his cheeks for Maggie. The President didn’t want to play Rita. The President wanted to be Peter. The President wanted the Chairman to get on his knees and suck Little Arthur. The President wanted it to be on the front page of every paper in the land. The top story on the Nine O’clock News, the News at Ten and Newsnight –
‘The Chairman sucks the President’s cock.’
Then everyone could go back to Sheffield, Florida, Moscow or wherever.
Instead back they both went before the TV cameras to call each other names. Before the microphones and tape-recorders to worry about each other’s physical and mental well-being.
Terry yawned. Terry played with the last of the ice in his glass –
The phone was still ringing in Sheffield. The barman staring at Terry –
Terry hung up. Terry finished his vodka. Terry went back upstairs.
He knocked on the President’s door. Joan opened it. Terry went inside –
The Chairman had retired for the night. The President was on the phone.
Len had a map out on the President’s bed. Terry said, ‘Where next?’
Len looked up. He looked over at Joan. Joan said, ‘Monk Fryston again.’
‘Closer to home, I suppose,’ said Terry.
Joan nodded. Len looked back down at the map on the bed.
The President had turned his back to the room. He was whispering into the phone.
Paul came into the room with the day’s faxes. He didn’t knock. He never knocked. He just dumped the faxes on the bed. Every single mention of the dispute for the day –
Every single word from every single media.
Terry picked one out of the pile. He said, ‘How about this one?’
Len looked up again. The President turned round –
Terry laughed. Terry said, ‘Official – Chairman sucks President’s cock.’
The President looked at Terry then returned to his call. Len to the map on the bed. Joan stared out of the window into the night. Paul smiled –
‘That’s a real gift you’ve got there, Comrade,’ he said. ‘You’re wasting it on us.’
‘It was just a joke,’ said Terry.
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘A joke is putting a bag over your head as you enter a hotel.’
‘It was a joke,’ said Terry again. ‘I’m sorry.’
Paul shook his head. Paul said, ‘Jokes elicit laughter, not pity.’
Terry Winters blinked. He wished he’d not had that vodka. He said again, ‘Sorry.’
The President finished his call. Click-click. The President glanced at Terry again.
Len got up off the bed. Len said, ‘We should go, Comrade President.’
‘Now?’ said Terry. ‘This very minute?’
Len nodded. Joan nodded –
Paul smiled. Paul said, ‘It’s later than you think, Comrade.’
Terry ignored him. Terry ran to his room. Terry packed in two minutes flat. Terry went downstairs. Terry checked everyone out. Terry settled the bills –
Terry walked out to the car –
The car was full. Everyone had their eyes on the floor of the car, almost –
‘There’s a direct train to York,’ said Paul. ‘Call us when you get in, won’t you?’
Terry nodded. Terry blinked. Terry waved goodbye. Terry watched them leave –
The press and the television on their tail –
In hot pursuit.
Terry went back inside the hotel. Terry went to their public toilets –
He sat in a cubicle and he cried. He cried and he cried.
He took a black marker pen from his jacket pocket. He took the top off. He drew a big, hairy cunt in a heart of swastikas on the back of the cubicle door.
Then Terry dried his eyes. He put the top on the pen. The pen in his pocket.
Terry went into the bar. Terry ordered another vodka. Terry picked up the phone –
Terry called Diane. Click-click. Diane answered. Terry had some things to say –
Diane listened. Then Diane spoke and Terry listened. Terry hung up –
Terry took a taxi to Waverley. Terry Winters boarded the direct train to York.
Phil and Adam stand around the kitchen table to watch the Mechanic count out the cash. The lolly. Fifty for Phil. Fifty for Adam. Fifty for the Mechanic. Fifty for Jen. The Mechanic glances up at Phil and Adam. Phil and Adam want to say something. The Mechanic stares at Phil and Adam. Phil and Adam smile. Phil and Adam look back down at the money. The loot. Fifty for Phil Fifty for Adam. Hundred for the Mechanic. Hundred for Jen. The Mechanic looks back up at Phil and Adam. Phil and Adam want to say something now. The Mechanic stares at Phil and Adam. Phil and Adam are still smiling. Phil and Adam look back down at the money again. The lucre. Phil and Adam won’t say anything –
The Mechanic knows they won’t.
*
The Prime Minister has been at Balmoral. The Jew was not invited. The Jew dreams of the day he will be. The Chairman went to Chequers on her return. The Jew was not invited. The Jew accepts the Prime Minister and the Chairman sometimes need to spend some time alone together. Some time, sometimes. The Chairman has met with the Labour Party too. The Jew was not invited there. The Jew didn’t care. It would have been nice to
have been asked, though. The Chairman met with the TUC too. The Jew was not invited there, either. The Jew really didn’t care. The Jew didn’t want that invitation –
The electricians and the engineers want the Board and the Union to talk –
To talk, talk, talk.
The Cabinet and the civil servants are worried too. They are worried about the docks again. They are worried about NACODS. They are worried about the press and the television. They are worried about Mr and Mrs Joe Public –
Cads. Caitiffs. Chickens. Cowards. Craven –
They worry the Prime Minister. Her Cabinet and her public –
‘It’s always the same in times of war,’ says the Jew. ‘Everybody wants to win. Everybody wants the victory. The spoils. But never the price –’
Neil Fontaine nods. Neil knows the Jew is right.
‘If it wasn’t for Norman on the inside and yours truly on the out,’ muses the Jew, ‘the miners would be singing the Red bloody Flag at their victory parties tonight.’
Neil Fontaine nods again. Neil knows the Jew is right again.
‘But over my dead body,’ says the Jew. ‘Over my dead body, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine nods once more. Neil tells the Jew he is right once more –
That is what Neil Fontaine is here for. What Neil Fontaine is good for.
The Chairman and the President appear together, side by side, in Yorkshire –
They appeal for peace. For quiet. For their secret talks to be kept secret.
The Jew calls the Chairman. The Jew tells the Chairman, ‘Forget it. Fuck him –
‘Fuck them all.’
The Jew hangs up. The Jew is disappointed. The Jew is jealous –
The Board and the Union are still on speaking terms –
Still, still, still talking, talking, talking –
The Jew will soon put a stop to that.
*
The gentlemen from the media had chased them the length and breadth of the country, North to South, East to West. Keystone Kops on the trail of the Chairman’s Daimler and the President’s Rover –