by David Peace
Edinburgh to Selby –
The Chairman and the President had appeared side by side, shoulder to shoulder, on the steps of the Monk Fryston Hotel to plead with the media to leave them alone –
Then it had been back down the back roads in the dead of night –
Selby down to London; London back up to Doncaster –
The offices of British Ropes in Doncaster –
For more warm bottles of water. More cups of tea. More stale ham sandwiches. More margarine stains. Shirtsleeves and stubble. Sweat and bad breath –
So near –
Terry Winters looked at his watch. Half-past one in the morning –
The hour was late. The paper was on the table. The deal there to be done –
So near and yet so –
Under the bright strip lights, the President and the Chairman rubbed their eyes. The heating hummed, Dick and Tommy from the Board’s eyes closed –
Paul and Ted from the Board went out to get more coffees.
‘Perhaps we should all sleep on it?’ said Terry. ‘Meet again on Friday?’
The President and the Chairman looked across the table at each other –
So near and yet so far –
It was agreed to meet again. On Friday. In London.
Terry tapped Dick on the shoulder. Dick wiped the spit from his collar.
Paul and Ted came back with the coffees. Paul said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s too late,’ the President told him. ‘Meeting again on Friday.’
Paul slammed down the coffees. Paul looked at Terry –
So near and yet so far; too near and not far enough for some.
*
‘All that is needed for evil to triumph’, announces the Jew for the hundredth time today, ‘is that good men do nothing.’
The Jew has raised five hundred thousand pounds to make sure evil does not triumph –
That good men do something. Those good men like the Jew –
From out of the shadows, the Good Jew steps again.
His themes for this week are the deterioration in a number of coal faces and the acceleration in the number of new faces; 177 this week –
The resistance of the cell versus the rule of the mob; the subtext –
There is work for those who want to work. But for how much longer?
From out of the shadows, Neil drives the Jew again –
The Jew has chosen the Social Democratic Party Conference for this moment –
The Jew has had Neil Fontaine bus them in to the Buxton Pavilion, Derbyshire.
‘Gentlemen of the Fourth Estate,’ says the Jew, ‘may I proudly present to you the one and only National Working Miners’ Committee –’
The Jew applauds alone as the four public faces of the NWMC emerge –
From out of the shadows –
Nervous in their old boots and new suits, shaved and groomed for the cameras, the NWMC might well be four hired taxi-drivers on wedding or funeral duty.
The Jew puts a hand on Fred’s back. The Jew grips Jimmy’s shoulder. He says, ‘These brave men are but a few of the many brave men who are on the front line, fighting for what they believe in. These men need to know they are not alone –
‘These men need to know they have friends. New friends –
‘For their president stands before the trade union movement and claims he is striking for the right to work. Ladies and gentlemen, fifty thousand of his own members are working for the right to work. Working and fighting against that dictator and his stormtroopers, those thugs and those bullies who would attempt to deny ordinary men and their families the right to work through violence and through intimidation –
‘For those who want to work, we salute and support you!’
Neil Fontaine watches from the wings as the hacks in their packs lap it all up –
The Jew in full flight. The Jew says, ‘Fred?’
Fred Wallace stands up. Fred unfolds his piece of damp paper. He reads from it: ‘The National Working Miners’ Committee is a genuinely national committee from Wales, Derbyshire, Lancashire, Staffordshire, Warwickshire, Yorkshire and Nottingham. The committee is financed by collections at working pits and by contributions from ordinary members of the public sent in response to advertisements placed in the national press. The committee has shunned offers of help from big business and even from Conservative miners.
‘Our legal constitution states that our aims are: a) to ensure that the NUM and its constituent areas are controlled by and for the membership and to protect the democratic processes of the Union; and b) to ensure the legal rights of all members of the Union and their relatives and dependants, and to protect them from or compensate them for any loss arising from the abuse of such rights.’
Fred Wallace folds his piece of damp paper back in two. Fred sits down again.
The Jew back on his feet. The Jew says, ‘Jimmy?’
Jimmy Hearn stands up. Jimmy straightens his brand-new tie. He smiles. He says, ‘My name is James Hearn. I’m from Lea Hall Colliery. Believe it or not, I voted to strike. However, the majority of men at our pit voted to work and I must respect that decision, because that is their wish. I am here today to defend that democratic decision against the bully-boys and the hit squads, the baseball bats and the jackboots of the Yorkshire Mafia that have terrified our children and our wives on the streets of our villages and our towns. I am here today to say to you, and to say to them, enough is enough.’
Jimmy Hearn loosens his tie. Jimmy sits back down.
The Jew applauds. The Jew says, ‘There are thousands of men like Jimmy across this country. There are thousands more desperate to join him. Now they can –
‘The National Working Miners’ Committee will finance any miner who wishes to enforce his right to work and who is in need of help. Call us today –
‘Not tomorrow. Not the day after. Today!’
The Jew puts a hand on Fred again. He grips Jimmy’s shoulder again. He says, ‘The next President of the NUM could very well emerge from the membership of the National Working Miners’ Committee, and it is most unlikely that he will have to wait for the present holder of that office to retire.’
In the shadows, Neil Fontaine watches –
Neil Fontaine waits –
In the shadows, the bloody shadows.
The Mechanic drives the JCB off the road. Up the side of the garage. Through the yard at the back. There is a lot of spare land behind the wrecks and the parts. It is ideal. The Mechanic starts to dig. To set the metal teeth into the ground. To turn the earth. To scoop it out into the digger’s mouth. To pile it up on the side. In mounds. The Mechanic cuts the engine. He jumps down from the seat. He stands at the edge. He looks down into the fresh pit. He smells the dirt. Tastes it. The Mechanic goes back through the yard to the garage. He opens the door of the Cortina. He drives it out of the back of the garage. Through the yard. The Mechanic stops by the pit. He keeps the handbrake off. He gets out. He rolls the car forward with one hand on the steering wheel. The front tyres go over the edge. The car rests on its chassis on the edge. The Mechanic gets back into the digger. He uses the machine to nudge the car into the pit. The car tips over the edge. It lands on the bottom. The Mechanic starts to move the mounds of earth –
To bury the Cortina.
Doncaster back to Sheffield; Sheffield back to London –
From British Ropes to the Rubens Hotel, via the NEC meeting in Sheffield.
This time there was room for Terry Winters. The drive down like a dim dream. Service station to service station, Loyal Len stopping at every single services on the M1. The President and Terry straight to the phones –
The men from NACODS had met in their tiny terrace office in Doncaster. Their Deputies’ delegates had voted for a vote. Voted for a vote to strike –
The Day of the Pawns –
The Colliery Overmen, Deputies and Shotfirers were set to deliver.
NACODS would strike. NACODS would settle. T
he miners would be saved –
Not their President. Not the Yorkshire Galtieri. The Yorkshire Stalin –
Just the miners; that was the plan. One of the many –
‘Piggies in fucking middle,’ Jimmy had said to Terry. ‘That’s all we bloody are.’
‘Maybe, then,’ Terry had said, ‘it’s time these little piggies went to market.’
‘Going to make chops of us,’ laughed Jimmy. ‘That what you’re saying?’
‘Or maybe you can bring home the bacon for everyone,’ said Terry –
Jimmy had laughed and laughed and then Jimmy had hung up.
The Board stood up in the Rubens. The Board read out the Doncaster agreement:
‘– in the case of a colliery where a report of an examination by the respective NCB and NUM qualified mining engineers establishes that there are no further reserves that can be developed to provide the Board, in line with their responsibilities, with a base for continuing operations there will be an agreement between the Board and the unions that such a colliery shall be deemed exhausted –’
The Union said, ‘– in line with the Plan for Coal –’
The Board said, ‘– in line with our responsibilities –’
The Union pointed their fingers. They said, ‘– in line with the Plan for Coal –’
The Board folded their arms. They said, ‘– in line with our responsibilities –’
The Union shouted, ‘– in line with the Plan for Coal –’
The Board shouted back, ‘– in line with our responsibilities –’
The Union said, ‘– in line with the bloody Plan for Coal –’
The Board said, ‘– in line with our bloody responsibilities –’
The Union said, ‘– in line with the fucking Plan for Coal –’
The Board said, ‘– in line with our fucking responsibilities –’
The Union threw the paper across the table. The Board tore it up –
The Union stood up. The Board waved goodbye –
The Union slammed the door. The Board picked up the red phone –
The time for talking was through.
Martin
Pure fucking provocation – This is same DHSS that refused a family a grant to bury their twelve-year-old handicapped son because dead lad’s dad was on strike. Same DHSS that let families and their kids freeze and starve in dark. That drive young lads out on to slag heaps to sift through spoil for crumbs of black fucking coal that their dads have fucking brung up out of earth in first place. DHSS that would watch them young lads die picking that coal, crushed under weight of a tip that wouldn’t sodding be mere in first place if it weren’t for fact that some young lad’s dad had risked his bloody life every day of that fucking life to keep other folk warm, fed and lit – He was only fourteen, says Keith. Lad from Upton. Fucking fourteen. Everybody shakes their heads. Everybody says, Fourteen. Pete says, Nineteen eighty-bloody-four and a kid dies coal-picking. There’ll be a lot more before she’s through with us and all, says Chris. Everybody nods. Everybody says, Bastards. That’s mood as we set off in dark up to Maltby. Day 202. Press say later that we had bottles. Bricks. Catapults. Air-guns. Fired pellets – Liars. Bloody fucking liars – We’ve got clumps of fucking mud is what we’ve got. Aye, we take down branches to build barricades to stop scabs. Do that, that’s true. Take down some trees from Maltby Wood – But mesh on front of their vans brushes them branches aside like they’re not there – Like nothing is. Don’t stop, either. Keep right at us – Nowhere for us to go. Nowhere for us to run. Nowhere to hide – Two lots of their riot squad coming out of woods. Each side of road. Trap us in a pincer movement or what-have-you – Banging on their shields. Their dogs bloody barking – Frightening. Fucking frightening – Nowhere to go. Nowhere but down – Just like last week at Silverwood. Same game – No more arrests. Just assaults – Duffel coats. Anoraks. Parkas. Hats and scarves. Wellington boots. Docs. Ordinary boots and shoes. That’s all we have – Nothing that can save us. That can save us from them – Lad behind me goes down. Down hard – Perspex shield in back of neck. Truncheon on crown of head. Hear his skull crack – Hear him scream. Hear him moan – Down hard onto ground. Down hard and he stays down – Hear him echo. Hear him whisper, Help me somebody. Help me – Keith and me have got him in our arms. Pick him up between us. Dirt and muck stuck to half his face with his own blood – Blood on our duffel coats. On our anoraks. Our parkas. Over our hats and our scarves. On our Wellington boots. Our Docs. Our ordinary shoes – Keith and me and some other lads knot handkerchiefs together to bandage up his head. I look up. Policemen just standing there, watching us with their shields – He needs an ambulance, I say. They look down at lad on ground in pool of his own blood. They spit on him. They laugh their cocks off at him – Hope cunt fucking dies, they say. Hope he fucking dies – They’ll not say that again, I think. Not to Martin Daly. But then they walk away. Just leave us – To reverse. Regroup. Ready for village – They’re done with us. They’re ready for village now – Done with us. For now. Pete puts lad on backseat of a car with two other blokes – Bloke with a broken arm. Bloke with three broken fingers – Pete says they beat up Kevin Barron and all – He’s MP for Rother Valley. Our MP – Pete sends them all to Badsley Moor Hospital. No one speaks on way home in car. Keith puts on radio. Tory fucking cunt comes on. Represents Police Federation. Tells whole world that police should be free to fire plastic bullets at pickets – His name is Eldon Griffiths. He is a Member of Parliament too, as well as a cunt who’ll burn in hell – Keith puts his foot down on brake. He stops car. He rips radio out. He gets out – He throws radio on ground. He jumps up and down on it in road – His name is Keith Lewis. He is a miner and a father of two – The soil is cold. The wounds old – Telephone wakes me up about two. Day 205. Incoming calls only now. Noise it makes in an empty house – Wake bloody dead, it would. Think it might be Cath. Never know – It’s Keith. Click-click. He says, There’s thousands of police at pit. Fucking thousands. Krk-krk. Thousands? I say. Joking with us? I wish I were, he says.
The Twenty-ninth Week
Monday 17 – Sunday 23 September 1984
The Jew stands at the foot of his bed in his suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. The Jew is still in his silk dressing-gown and slippers. The Jew is practising his golf swing again. The Jew and the Chairman have spent the weekend at Sir Hubert’s house in Wiltshire. The Prime Minister and her husband came for dinner on Saturday night –
Sir Hubert gave the Jew a cheque for £250,000 –
The Jew thanked him on behalf of the National Working Miners’ Committee –
The Chairman thanked him on behalf of the National Coal Board –
The Prime Minister thanked him on behalf of the nation.
The Jew is still excited. He’d draw Neil a picture if he had the time –
‘Denis is as dry as tinder,’ says the Jew. ‘You’d adore him, Neil. Adore him.’
Neil Fontaine smiles. Neil Fontaine nods.
‘There we were discussing our friends in South Yorkshire and the Sheffield Stalin when Denis, who had been quietly practising his golf swing by the fireplace, shouts out that we should intern the lot of them,’ laughs the Jew. ‘Intern the bloody miners!’
Neil Fontaine smiles again. Neil Fontaine nods again.
‘And the Chairman,’ says the Jew, with tears in his eyes, ‘he strokes his chin and looks across the table at the PM and says, “Might not be such a bad idea –”
‘“Might not be such a bad idea!”’ screams the Jew again. ‘Can you imagine it?’
Neil Fontaine doesn’t smile. Neil Fontaine just nods –
Rows and rows of Nissen huts. Rolls and rolls of barbed wire –
Factories and chimneys. Badges and banners –
The yellow Coal Not Dole stickers. The black stench of death.
The Jew takes another swing with his invisible club. He shouts, ‘Fore!’
Brass in pocket. Dogs in the back. The Mechanic has a
plan. His master plan –
He makes the calls. The connections. The introductions.
Money. Dogs. Plans packed. The Mechanic drives down to the Cotswolds –
He makes more calls. More connections. Introductions –
Appointments.
The Mechanic parks behind the Avenging Angel in Cirencester. He turns off Jimmy Young and Mrs Thatcher. He goes into the pub –
The Mechanic spots him immediately. In the corner. In a dirty suit and a Paisley waistcoat –
Hand out, the Mechanic asks, ‘Tony?’
Tony Davies nods. He shakes the Mechanic’s hand. Holds it a moment too long –
The Mechanic pulls away. He points at Tony’s drink. ‘Another?’
Tony Davies nods. ‘Thank you. VAT, please.’
The Mechanic orders a brandy and a double vodka and tonic at the bar. He takes them back over to the table in the corner.
‘You’re a gentleman,’ says Tony Davies. ‘Thank you. Cheers.’
The Mechanic smiles. He raises his brandy. ‘Cheers.’
Tony Davies drinks quickly. Down in one. Then asks, ‘How do you know Julius?’
‘The usual places. Faces,’ the Mechanic says. ‘You know?’
Tony Davies nods. ‘Roland said you might know what’s happened to him.’
‘I might,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I might.’
Tony Davies leans across the table. ‘He was my friend. How much do you want?’
‘Not money,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Information. I’ll tell you what I know and you tell me what you know.’
Tony Davies smiles. Tony Davies winks. ‘All that I have is yours.’
‘Julius Schaub is dead,’ the Mechanic tells him.
Tony Davies stops smiling. Tony Davies blinks. ‘How can you know that?’
‘I did some work with him,’ the Mechanic says. ‘It got very badly messed up. Julius got blamed.’
Tony Davies sniffs. Nods to himself. Then shrugs. ‘I heard. Shrewsbury.’
‘Then I won’t waste your time any longer,’ the Mechanic says and stands up –
Tony Davies grabs the Mechanic’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’