by David Peace
‘Another drink then?’ the Mechanic asks him.
Tony Davies smiles. Tony Davies nods. ‘That would be very kind of you.’
The Mechanic orders another brandy and another vodka and tonic. He takes them back over to the table in the corner.
‘A true gentleman,’ says Tony Davies. ‘Thank you.’
‘John Parish? James Riley? Pete Lucas? Neil Fontaine?’ the Mechanic asks him.
Tony Davies puts his drink down. Tony Davies nods.
The Mechanic smiles. He says, ‘When did you last see him?’
Tony Davies sighs. ‘Last month in London.’
‘To do with Schaub?’
‘Yes,’ says Tony Davies. ‘To do with Julius.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t say anything. Just assaulted me. Followed me home. Threatened me.’
‘You were lucky,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘He killed your mate Schaub.’
Tony Davies shakes his head. Tony Davies says, ‘How do you know that?’
‘Friend of a friend,’ the Mechanic says. ‘You know?’
Tony Davies looks at the Mechanic. ‘Roland told me you had contacts.’
‘But not the one I need,’ the Mechanic says. ‘How did you find Fontaine?’
Tony Davies finishes his vodka. ‘You must want him pretty bad, cowboy.’
The Mechanic stares at the man in the dirty suit. The Paisley waistcoat –
The flowers and the stains –
He says, ‘Do you want me to show you just how bad?’
Tony Davies shakes his head one last time. He sighs and says, ‘The General.’
Neil Fontaine drives the Jew up to Victoria. The Jew watches the crowds flow –
Back to work with Mr Sweet.
The Jew has promised people the Earth. The Jew has promised people results –
The Jew has delivered neither earth nor results. The Jew has delivered only sky –
Big, grey, empty, English sky.
For all his many working committees. His many legal moves. His many adverts –
His very many promises to very many people –
The Earth has refused to move, the results refused to come.
There has been no mass return to work. No cracks in the coalfields.
People are still waiting; still waiting for the Earth; still waiting for the results –
People who don’t like to be kept waiting –
Important people. Impatient people.
The Jew walks into Hobart House and the doors in the corridors close before him. The Jew does not care. The Jew has enough to worry about –
‘No, no, no,’ the Jew scolds Neil. ‘The whole thing to the right. To the right.’
Neil Fontaine has a mouthful of pins and a handful of map –
Neil Fontaine holds the map up on the wall opposite the Jew’s Hobart House desk. He twists his neck to look back round at the Jew –
The Jew shakes his head again. The Jew says again, ‘To the right, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine moves the map further to the right. He turns back.
The Jew nods. The Jew says, ‘Pin it there, Neil. Pin it there.’
Neil Fontaine takes the pins from his mouth. He puts them in the four corners.
Neil Fontaine steps back –
The huge map of the British coalfields looks crooked. Not straight.
The Jew doesn’t care. He is back in his biscuit tins, sorting out his pins –
The red pins. The yellow pins. The blue pins –
The bullets for his battles. The forces for his fields. The battlefields of the North –
The numbers he needs. To win the war –
The Numbers War.
The Jew has been inspired by the work of the North Derbyshire Area Director. The Jew has met Mr Moses. Mr Moses targeted Shire-brook Colliery in July –
There are now almost a thousand men back at Shirebrook –
The Jew sees no reason why this cannot be replicated across his entire wall map.
He has his biscuit tins. He has his new pins. His demands and his secretary –
Chloe crosses her legs. Chloe takes a note –
The Jew wants a copy of the entire payroll for the National Coal Board. The Jew wants every miner’s name checked against police and county court records –
The Jew wants weaknesses –
Men who have transferred to their pit. Men who live a distance from their pit –
Men who are married. Men divorced. Men who have children. Men who can’t –
Men who have mortgages. Men who have debts –
Men who used to work a lot of overtime. Men who used to have a lot of money –
Men who have weaknesses –
Age. Sex. Drink. Theft. Gambling. Money.
The Jew wants lists –
Area by area. Pit by pit. Shift by shift. Miner by miner –
Picket by picket –
Village by village. Street by street. House by house. Man by man –
Scab by scab.
The Jew wants to see the pins change –
Red to yellow. Yellow to blue –
Back to work with Mr Sweet –
‘The canteen cat comes in from the cold,’ shouts the Jew. ‘It counts.’
*
Paul stood in the doorway. Paul watched Terry Winters walk down the corridor from his office to the lift. Every time Terry left his desk. There was Paul. In the doorway to his office, watching him walk down the corridor to the lift. Terry had stopped the first time. Terry had said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘You’ve done enough already, Comrade,’ Paul had said. ‘You’ve done enough.’
The second time, Terry had asked, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Just you, Comrade,’ Paul had said. ‘Just you.’
Terry hadn’t stopped the third time. Terry had walked on by –
Paul blamed him. Blamed Terry for everything –
The collapse of the talks. The state of their finances. The fate of the legal actions –
The Derbyshire Three had won their right to work. The Derbyshire NUM was now bound by injunctions guaranteeing no disciplinary hearings against the three men from Bolsover, Markham and Shirebrook –
Paul blamed Terry. Blamed him for everything.
Paul was the least of his worries, though. Terry knew time was running out –
There was a shortage of shotguns and a queue for the President’s skull –
Every day another death threat. Today’s had been to the Independent News Room –
The President would be shot if he came to Stoke tonight.
The Special Branch had demanded the President accept a detail of their best men. The President had laughed in their faces. The President had said, ‘They’re already here.’
The President put down the phone. Click-click. The President’s hands shook –
Terry knew time was running out. Fleeing –
Terry wrote warnings in soap on the mirrors in the bathrooms of St James’s House. Terry wiped them off with paper towels that smelt of schools. The Tweeds and the Denims came in. They washed their hands in the basin next to his. They looked at him as if he were from another planet. Terry walked back down the corridor to his desk –
Paul was there. In the doorway to his office. He grabbed Terry’s arm as he passed. He held his hand. He sniffed his fingers –
‘Someone’s been drawing obscene pictures on the toilet doors,’ he said.
‘I’ve seen them,’ said Terry. ‘There are swastikas shaped in a heart around them.’
‘Very artistic,’ said Paul. ‘Now why do you do it, Winters?’
Terry shook his head. He said, ‘You’ve got the wrong man this time, Comrade.’
‘I’m watching you, Winters,’ said Paul Hargreaves. ‘And I’ll catch you–’
Paul blamed him. Blamed Terry for everything.
Terry didn’t have time to care. Time was running out. Escaping –
Terry needed the President’s ear. Terry walked back down the corridor to the lift. Paul watched him. Terry Winters took the lift up to the tenth floor –
There was a queue for the President’s ear –
Terry waited in line. Behind the bishops and the Members of Parliament; the men from NACODS and ACAS; ASLEF and the TGWU.
Terry looked at his watch. Time was running out. Telephones were ringing –
But Terry had to be a patient man. Diane had said his turn would come.
Diane was not wrong. Terry whispered three words in the President’s ear –
He said, ‘Mohammed Abdul Divan.’
*
Neil Fontaine opens the door. Jennifer pushes straight past him into the hotel room. Jennifer empties her handbag onto the floor. Her pills. Her prescriptions. Her purse. Jennifer kneels among her possessions. She spreads her property out across the carpet. She searches for the newspaper cutting. She holds it up –
‘You fucking liar,’ screams Jennifer Johnson. ‘He’s not dead. He’s back.’
Martin
Know what it fucking means and all, don’t you? Means fucking war, that’s what it means. I tell him, I’m coming down now – Pick up anyone on way you can, he says. Fucking anyone and everyone – I will, I say. I’m coming now. I hang up. I lock up. I get in car – I drive to Geoff’s. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s ages. Don’t matter now – But lights are off when I pull up. Remember he’s got kids. Think better of it – Don’t know anyone else out our way. But I see Chris. I stop for him. He gets in. He says, You heard, then? Aye, I say. Keith called us. He nods. He says, Rang us and all. I thought it were bit strange before like? What were that, then? I ask. Before, he says. This police van were doing circles all round village. Right up by Terrace and Hall. Then back down. Must have passed us five time while I were walking dog. Keith said some of lads had seen it when they come back from Brook-house picket. It were still there at chucking-out time. Up by Barrel – More than one van by sounds of it now, I say. He nods again. He asks, Know who it is, do you? I shake my head. I say, Do you? He shakes his head. He says, Fucking cunt, whoever he is – Dead cunt and all, I say. Then I see roadblock up ahead, just past Rising Deer. I think, Here we go – I stop car. I wind down window – Krk-krk. Met twat in his white shirt sticks in his head. He says, Morning, scum. I can see Chris is nervous. I think, I’m saying nothing here. But Pig says, Come on then, wankers, where you think you going? I work at Thurcroft Colliery, I say. He laughs. He says, No you don’t. You’re on fucking strike, you lying lazy little cunt – It’s my pit, I tell him. I want to picket it. He yawns in my face. He says, Fuck off home. Six pickets, Doris. That’s the law – Bugger it then, I say. I’m going back to bed – That’s a good Doris, he says. Make sure you take Eddie fucking Large with you. I nod – I wind window back up. I reverse down road – Pig in his white shirt turns to his mates. They laugh at us. They wave bye-bye – Chris says, Which way now? Dump car. Go over fields, I say. Head for Welfare, I reckon. Chris nods. Do just that – Ditches. Hedges. Fields. Hedges. Ditches. Fields. Ditches. Hedges. Fields – Roadblocks on every road in. Take a few back gardens on our way – Drop over a couple of walls. Down an alley or two – Find ourselves by school. Cut through playground – Keith up ahead. By Welfare – I start across road to meet him. Chris behind us – Then I see them. Hundreds of them. Fucking hundreds of them. Hundreds of bastards – Fucking army of occupation, that’s what they are. Lined up across foot of Pit Lane – No way anyone is off up there to Hut. I get to where Keith and about ten others are. I say, What’s going on, then? Fuck all, by looks of it, he says. They’re fucking everywhere. Chris says, What about back way? Down Steadfolds Lane, that way? Few of lads are nodding. Keith says, Better than standing round here like lemons. Everyone starts off down Katherine Street towards junction with Sandy Lane – That’s when it starts. For real. Kicks off. Big time – First we know of it these lads are coming down road behind us. Legging it – Pigs! Pigs, they shout. Pigs are coming! I’m up at front. I turn round to see what fuss is – Two police vans are coming full tilt up Katherine Street at us – Fuck! Look, someone says. Fuck – I turn round again to see another vanload coming down Sandy Lane – Shit! Shit, Keith’s saying. Shit! – Two of vans have got their back doors open. Pigs are out with their truncheons – Split up! Split up, someone else says. Split up! – I jump over a hedge into this garden. First few coppers go straight past us – Past us into Keith. Whack – First one’s got his tit-helmet in his hand. Belts Keith with it – Keith goes down like a sack of spuds. Face all cut open by nipple of tit – Hands over his face. Blood through his fingers – He looks up. Looks up straight into this other copper’s boot – Crack! I see his teeth and shit fly out all over place – That’s it for me. Bastards – Fucking bastards. I jump back over hedge and charge them – Four of them laying into him. Keith out cold – I scream, Fucking going to kill him, you bastards. He’s had enough – Cunt with his tit in his hand says, It’s your turn then, is it? – I say, How about just you
The Thirtieth Week
Monday 24 – Sunday 30 September 1984
He has the introduction. The connection. He makes the call. The appointment –
The Mechanic drives North. Far North. Into Scotland –
The dogs in the back.
He takes the A66 from Scotch Corner to Penrith. The A74 from Carlisle to Glasgow. Then the A82 all the way past Glencoe –
Towards the General. In his castle on Loch Linnhe.
The President had met the Leader of the Labour Party. The President and the Leader had had constructive discussions. The President was to speak at the Labour Party Conference in Blackpool next week –
The President would speak, and this time they would listen –
The whole country would listen now.
The Dock Strike might be over. There might be other court actions –
But NACODS had rendered all these things academic.
NACODS were set to strike. Power cuts were but weeks away –
General Winter on the march, and so was his namesake.
Terry picked up the phone on his desk. Click-click. Terry dialled Bath –
‘It’s almost over, love,’ said Terry. ‘Please come home.’
Then Terry hung up. Click-click. Then Terry picked it up again. Click-click.
*
The footsteps in the dark corridor. The knock at the door. The turn of the handle –
The news he dreaded. The news they all dreaded:
The NACODS men at Sutton have voted for strike action by 90 per cent –
‘Ninety per cent!’ screams the Jew. ‘It’s the most moderate pit in the country!’
The Jew blames the Chairman for this. The Jew hates the Chairman for this –
It was the Chairman who had threatened these men with the sack –
The Jew wonders sometimes who really pays the Chairman’s wages –
Moscow or Margaret?
The telephones start to ring. The faxes start to come –
More footsteps in the corridor. More knocks at the door. Turns of the handle –
There will be no safety cover when NACODS strike. There can be no mining without safety cover. There will be no mining, so there can be no working miners. There will be no working miners, so there can be no coal –
‘No fucking coal!’ shouts the Jew. ‘No fucking coal!’
The Jew throws his biscuit tins across his office –
The blue pins. The yellow pins.
‘He will have won!’ shrieks the Jew. ‘He will have fucking won!’
The Jew falls to the floor beneath the huge, crooked map of the British coalfield –
The map covered only in red pins.
‘He will have won and we will have lost!’ screams the Jew. ‘Lost!’
The Jew sobs. The Jew weeps –
‘Everything will be ruined,’ whispers the Jew. ‘Ruined.’
His men come for the Mechanic at the Ballachulish Hotel. H
is men march into the bar in uniform. His men march the Mechanic out. His men put the Mechanic in the back of a Land-Rover. His men blindfold the Mechanic. His men drive the Mechanic away from the Ballachulish Hotel. His men stop to open metal gates. His men leave the roads marked on maps. His men speak into radios. His men talk in codes. His men stop to open another metal gate. His men drive uphill. His men slow down. His men come to a dead stop. His men remove the Mechanic’s blindfold. His men open the back of the Land-Rover. His men order the Mechanic out. His men lead the Mechanic through a training camp. His men march the Mechanic into a castle. Through the courtyard. Up the stairs. To stand before his door. His men knock. His men leave –
The door opens.
Today is the day –
The day of the decisions. The decisions that will determine the dispute –
The day the Jew is nowhere to be seen.
Neil Fontaine knocks again on the double-doors of the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. Neil Fontaine unlocks the doors and enters the suite. He walks across the deep carpet. He pulls back the heavy curtains –
The Jew’s bed is bare. The sheets wrenched. The blankets perverted.
Neil Fontaine walks across the deep carpet to the bathroom door –
The deep, damp carpet.
Neil Fontaine stands in the stain outside the bathroom and bangs upon the door –
Neil Fontaine kicks in the door.
The Jew lies naked on the tiles of his bathroom on the fourth floor of Claridge’s.
Neil Fontaine wraps his waxen body in the monogrammed towels and holds him –
The Jew opens his eyes. He looks up at Neil. The Jew asks, ‘Did we win, Neil?’
‘There’s good news and there’s bad,’ says Neil Fontaine.
‘The bad news first, please, Neil.’
‘It did happen,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘NACODS have voted to strike.’
The Jew nods. The Jew wipes the tears from his eyes. The Jew sniffs –
‘And the good news?’ he asks. ‘You did say there was some good news?’
‘Don and Derek are outside with Piers and Dominic,’ says Neil Fontaine.