GB84

by David Peace

  ‘Seven billion lost in just one day yesterday,’ shouts the Great One. ‘One day!’

  ‘I know,’ says the Jew. ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m losing money hand over fist here, Stephen,’ he says. ‘Hand over fist.’

  ‘We all are,’ says the Jew. ‘We all are.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ asks the Great Financier. ‘Is it?’

  The Jew closes his eyes. The Jew shakes his head.

  ‘I know bankruptcy would be nothing new to you and yours,’ says the Great One. ‘But it would be to the rest of us. Remember that –’

  ‘So you’re pulling up the drawbridge, then?’ asks the Jew. ‘Circling the wagons?’

  ‘Stephen, Stephen, Stephen,’ says the Good and Great One. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Don’t seem awfully keen, though,’ says the Jew. ‘Not your usual helpful self.’

  ‘I will help,’ says the Great Financier. ‘But there will have to be stipulations.’

  ‘There is always a catch,’ says the Jew. ‘The strings that must be attached.’

  ‘I do have reservations about these legal proceedings,’ says the Great One.

  ‘What kind of reservations?’

  ‘I worry you’ll make a martyr of the man,’ he whispers. ‘A Marxist martyr.’

  ‘He’s Aryan,’ says the Jew. ‘He has his own myths. His models. His messiahs.’

  ‘So let’s not add to them, shall we, Stephen?’ smiles the Great Financier.

  ‘The wheels have been set in motion,’ says the Jew. ‘It is out of our hands –’

  ‘Pay the man’s fine for him,’ says the Wise One. ‘Anonymously.’

  ‘What?’ squeals the Jew. ‘I will do no such thing.’

  ‘Bloody will, Stephen,’ he says. ‘Or he’ll go to jail and you’ll lose. We all will.’

  The Jew slumps back in his chair. The Jew waves his brandy glass at Neil.

  ‘Do this, Stephen,’ says the Great Financier, ‘and I will do the rest.’

  ‘Everything?’ asks the Jew. ‘Everything?’

  The Great and Benevolent One takes out his chequebook. He says, ‘Everything.’

  The Mechanic comes down the A1 towards Doncaster. He turns off onto the Barnsley Road. He drives into the centre of the city. He joins the Bawtry Road by the racecourse –

  He follows it down to Rossington.

  There are police all over the place. Everywhere. Not even four in the morning yet. There’s one police car already lying on its roof by the police station. Its wheels in the air.

  This is a mistake. The Mechanic knows that. But there are things the Mechanic doesn’t know –

  Things he needs to know. Has to know –

  Personal things.

  He parks away from the pit behind a school He leaves the dogs in the back of the car. He makes his way to where the action is. He has got his hat down and his collar up. His yellow stickers on and his hands in his pockets.

  It’s all happening here today. The pickets have trapped the police in the pit yard. The police have called for reinforcements. The convoy of reinforcements is coming –

  Two abreast down the road at ninety miles an hour.

  The pickets along the road let fly with the stones from the first vehicle to the last –

  Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud –

  Rock after rock. Brick after brick. Stone after stone –

  For each one of the sixty police vehicles.

  This one horsebox mounts the pavement. Hits this one lad full on. Bang –

  Leaves him for dead in his donkey jacket –

  The police laugh. The police cheer. The police beat their shields.

  The Mechanic stands outside a pub. He stares into the faces –

  Men running in every direction. Police charging about after them.

  There are ambulances now. Barricades burning –

  Police vans fitted with mesh and grilles driving into the barricades –

  The air filled with smoke and screams. The dawn keeping its distance –

  Violence. Injuries. Arrests –

  This is not what the Mechanic is looking for. Not why he is here.

  The Mechanic turns and walks away –

  Jen is not here. Jen. His Jen –

  The rumours all wrong. The whispers well wide –

  Thank. Fucking. Christ.

  The Mechanic walks back to the car. The dogs are barking. The Mechanic puts the key in the door –

  ‘Hello. Hello. Hello’, says the voice behind him. ‘And what have we here?’

  The Mechanic doesn’t turn round. There’s no point. He knows who it is.

  ‘Didn’t realize armed robbers had a union,’ says the voice. ‘TUC affiliated, are you?’

  The Mechanic doesn’t move. No point. He keeps his eyes on the dogs in the back.

  ‘Put your hands on your head,’ says the voice. ‘Do it slowly.’

  The Mechanic puts his hands on the top of his hat. He does it slowly.

  Handcuffs go on his wrists and the voice says, ‘Now turn around. Slowly.’

  The Mechanic puts his hands down. He turns around. Slowly.

  ‘Hello, Dave,’ says Paul Dixon of the Special Branch. ‘Miss me, did you?’

  *

  Neil Fontaine helps the Jew dress for the dinner. Neil Fontaine drives him to the dinner –

  The AIMS of Industry’s 1984 National Free Enterprise Awards.

  The winners are Mr Eddie Shah, Mr Walter Goldsmith and the Prime Minister –

  Her speech is also a winner. The theme of her speech –

  No Surrender.

  It is perfectly timed. Perfectly. For the times have truly changed –

  NACODS have called a national strike from Thursday 25 October.

  The Cabinet is nervous. The City is nervous. The country is nervous –

  The Jew is not. The Jew knows the times have changed –

  It is a dangerous game. Expensive, too. But the Jew will win –

  The Jew will not drop the ball. The Jew will not sell the pass.

  The Jew whispers in the Prime Minister’s ear. The Jew squeezes her arm. The Jew kisses the Prime Minister on both cheeks. The Jew congratulates her –

  He congratulates her many, many times on her many, many victories –

  Past, present and future.

  Martin

  Bywater. Yorkshire Main. Woolley. Brodsworth. Denby Grange. Rossington – But it works against them. Works in our favour – Folk can see them for what they are now. Folk can see through media lies – Smile – Makes many more folk support us now. Older blokes. Pensioners – Lot of them that hadn’t had a good word to say about King Arthur and Red Guard two week back. They’ve all changed their bloody minds sharp enough now – Now they’ve seen what police and government are like with their own eyes. Now it’s in front of their faces. Here on their own bloody doorstep – People want to picket now. Pete sets up a roster. Twenty-four-hour cover in six shifts. Both gates. Front and back – Least half of village turn out for afternoon pickets. People like that picket – Scabs can see us all stood there. See our faces proud and plain as day. Theirs hidden in their hoods – Let them see us see them. Let them know we know them – Like it says on wall, We will not always be poor, but they will always be scabs – Day 232. This is worst day yet. By a fucking mile. Everyone just stood there in front of TV. Fucking shell-shocked. Whole of bloody Welfare. It started out bad enough this week. First so-called power-men had voted against supporting us. Them that could even be arsed to bloody vote. Exact fucking opposite of what was said at TUC Rest of week we’ve stood out as usual in all bloody weathers, at all bloody hours. Here and at Brodsworth. Kiveton Park. Rossington. Yorkshire Main. News is full of them two fucking scabs from Manton again. Back at bloody court after our brass. Our fucking brass from our fucking pockets which we’ve given to our bloody Union. Not to two fucking narks like them and some High Court fucking puppet of a judge. Lot of lads don’t think much of it – It�
��s only brass, let them have it. Render unto Caesar. No bloody strike pay anyway. That’s attitude – But I saw look in Pete’s eye when it first come on news. Told me it was more serious than most folk thought. Pete’s got a good head on him. Knows what’s what. He warned us not to get our hopes up about NACODS. He was fucking right and all. Thing is, no one honestly believed they’d come out for us – Not in their heart of hearts. Not that lot – But you can’t stop yourself bloody dreaming, can you? Hoping against hope – Knowing it would have helped us all. Both them and us – But in end they just want brass without any hassle. Like a fucking holiday for them, this is – Just show your face every morning. Tell manager you’ve been intimidated. Then fuck off back to bed or whatever – They had a golden opportunity to do something fucking decent. But they took their thirty pieces of bloody silver. Left us worse off than before – Mick McGahey spoke for everyone on news. Mick said, I regret very much the atttude taken by NACODS. First in compromising themselves before the NCB. Second in making things much more difficult for the NUM, who are seeking a principled solution to this dispute – Arthur was next. He just said, There’ll be no compromise. It will be a long, hard, bitter battle – Then this morning, just when you think it can get no fucking worse, Board make their big bribe – Four weeks’ holiday money if you’re back in before 19 November – Fuck me. Bribing us back with our own brass now – Know there’ll be some daft enough to take it and all. Been eight month of this now – Eight month. Thirty-four week. Two hundred and thirty-odd fucking days – Pete opens another envelope. Pete reads it. Pete says, Kiveton again. Here we bloody go, someone says – Here we go, I shout back. Here we go – Then whole bloody room joins in, Here we go, here we go, here we go – Here we go, here we go, here we go – Here! We! Go! Day 236. I got no bloody choice. Way I see it – I have to survive. To survive I need brass. To get brass I pick coal. Pick coal to sell – Either that or go back down to Southampton or somewhere. Find another labouring job. Then I’d not be able to picket. Not be able to do anything for strike. Not pull me weight. Don’t fancy that again. Fucking lonely enough as it is – Hate bloody Saturday and Sundays. Hate them. Worst days of week – Least when they came for furniture they left shed alone. Left my barrow and my shovel. Thing I need

  The Thirty-fourth Week

  Monday 22 – Sunday 28 October 1984

  Salem said, ‘Your visas are ready.’

  Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan went to the Libyan People’s Bureau in Frankfurt. Terry and Mohammed presented their passports. The Libyan diplomats of the People’s Bureau gave them their visas. There was no Libyan People’s Bureau in London. Not since the death of WPC Yvonne Fletcher in April. Not since she was shot outside the Libyan People’s Bureau in St James’s Square by Libyan diplomats. Next door to ACAS. Salem had worked at the People’s Bureau in London. Until he’d been deported.

  Salem said, ‘Your flights are booked.’

  Salem gave Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan their tickets to Tripoli. Terry and Mohammed flew Lufthansa from Frankfurt to Tripoli. The plane left in the evening. The flight took four hours. There was no alcohol on the flight. There was no Coca-Cola. There were no direct flights from London. Not since the death of WPC Fletcher in April. Not since she was shot by Libyan diplomats.

  Salem had said, ‘You will be met at the airport.’

  Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan landed at Tripoli International Airport at midnight. The head of the Libyan General Producers’ Union and three other officials were there to meet them. Arabic kisses and European handshakes were exchanged. Introductions made. Two taxis were waiting to take Terry and Mohammed the twenty miles from the airport into Tripoli. Terry was escorted to his taxi. One member of the welcoming committee sat in the front seat. Terry sat alone in the back as the taxi sped off through the night. Black prayer beads swung from the rearview mirror. Loud Arabic music blared from the radio. The taxi-driver smoked heavily and flashed his headlights. The member of the welcoming committee turned around occasionally to grin at Terry. Terry Winters stared out of the window at Libya. It was pitch black beyond the lights of the motorway.

  Salem had said, ‘Rooms have been reserved for you at the Al-Kabir Hotel.’

  The taxi came out of the dark into the city. It sped through the deserted streets; the narrow alleys and the wide boulevards; the Arabic and the European. The driver sounded his horn as he crossed junctions and passed through red lights. Terry bounced up and down on the back seat. The driver held down his horn and kept his foot on the pedal. The member of the welcoming committee turned around to grin at Terry again. Terry thought of Theresa. Terry Winters thought of another taxi in another city on another street on another day in another life –

  This taxi pulled up in front of an illuminated hotel.

  Salem had said, ‘You will have guides.’

  Mohammed Divan was waiting outside the Al-Kabir with three Libyan men. Mohammed introduced Terry to their guides in the empty lobby of the Al-Kabir. Their guides ordered tea for Terry and Mohammed from a boy behind a bar that sold only tea. The boy brought Terry and Mohammed warm Arabic tea in small Pyrex glasses. The three Libyans held their prayer beads in one hand and filterless cigarettes in the other. Terry wanted to go to bed. First Terry was shown his schedule. Terry and Mohammed were to relax for a few days –

  To see the sights and the sounds of Tarabulus al-Gharb.

  ‘For a few days?’ said Terry. ‘I can’t stay here for a few days. I’m needed –’

  Mohammed spoke in Arabic with the three Libyans. Mohammed turned to Terry –

  Mohammed shrugged his shoulders. The three Libyans nodded –

  ‘Everything is arranged,’ they said. ‘Salem has arranged everything.’

  Dixon stops the car opposite Rotherham police station. He hands the Mechanic his hood. Dixon leaves.

  The Mechanic stands outside the police station. He stamps his feet in the last of the night.

  There are men parked across the road. Men with notebooks. Men with cameras.

  The bus arrives. The doors open.

  The Mechanic puts on the hood. He climbs up inside. He doesn’t pay the driver –

  He walks down the aisle. He takes a seat halfway up.

  The bus is off again. The bus is cold and dark. The bus is damp and stinks –

  It stinks of cigarettes and sweat. It stinks of fear. Dread –

  Guilt.

  The Mechanic stares through the slits in the hood –

  There are eight policemen. Two other men in hoods.

  The Mechanic stares through the windows and the mesh –

  There are now police cars in front and back of them.

  The men in hoods bow their heads. The police lower the visors on their helmets –

  ‘Here we go,’ one of police shouts.

  Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety miles an hour –

  The bus picks up speed. The bricks hit the bus –

  Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety –

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang –

  Blue lights and burning barricades:

  Welcome to Kiveton Park.

  The bus stops inside. The mob bays. The gates close. The mob barks –

  The smell of blood. The stink of shit –

  The men in hoods run from the bus to the office. The men in hoods hide inside.

  There are boards across the office windows. Heaters on. Kettles boiling. Cigarettes lit –

  The three men keep their hoods on. Heads bowed.

  Police come in and out off the fire escape. Tell them how the battle’s going –

  ‘They’re letting horses out for a gallop,’ police laugh. ‘Bit of exercise for them.’

  ‘Who’s that then?’ other police ask. ‘Fucking horses or pickets?’

  The three men keep their mouths shut under their hoods. Police don’t like that –

  ‘Take them hoods off,’ police say. ‘No one can see you in here, can they?’

  ‘It’s better this way,’ the Mechanic says
from under his. ‘Leave us be.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were fucking ashamed of yourselves,’ police laugh.

  ‘Afraid of us, are you?‘police ask. ‘Afraid we’ll grass you up to that mob?’

  ‘Imagine if we did,‘police say. ‘They’d have you swinging from pit head.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ the Mechanic tells them. ‘Pack it in.’

  ‘Or what?’ police ask. ‘You’ll go home, will you?’

  ‘Like to fucking see you try that,’ police laugh.

  ‘Not last ten seconds out there without us,’ police say. ‘So be fucking nice.’

  The other two men in their hoods are shaking. Their legs are trembling.

  The Mechanic hates the police. Pigs. Fucking hates them. Cunts –

  ‘You know why they won’t take their hoods off?’ pigs ask each other.

  ‘They’re afraid one of them will go back on strike and grass other two up.’

  ‘I’d have stayed out with scum‚’ pigs say. ‘Least scum can hold their heads up.’

  ‘Just long enough for us to give them a crack,’ pigs laugh.

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ the Mechanic tells them. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Or what, scab?’ pigs say. ‘What you going to fucking do?’

  The Mechanic stands up. He takes off his hood. He stares at the pigs in their white shirts. He says, ‘I’ll walk out that door and out them pit gates, that’s what I’ll fucking do.’

  Eldest pig walks over to the door. He opens it. He says, ‘Be my fucking guest.’

  The Mechanic stares at the four pigs. The two hooded scabs. The open door –

  The noise of the battle outside filling the office. The shouts. The sirens.

  ‘Fucking got cold feet, have you, hard man?’ another pig says –

  The Mechanic stares back at him. He shakes his head. He smiles.

  ‘Fucking funny, is it?’ pig asks. ‘Thought you were going to walk out that door?’

  ‘Think I will,’ the Mechanic says. ‘And think I’ll show lads on picket line this –’

  He takes out a wad of cash from the pocket of his jeans. He holds it up. Counts –