by David Peace
The Thirty-seventh Week
Monday 12 – Sunday 18 November 1984
The Jew and Neil Fontaine are spending a dirty weekend away. The Jew flies first class. Neil Fontaine back in economy. Heathrow to Dublin for the Union’s not-so-secret stash. The money has been traced. Sheffield to the Isle of Man. The money has been tracked. From the Isle of Man to Dublin. The money has been found. The money has been frozen. Three million pounds of the Union’s money. But the Union has appealed to have it freed. The Jew worries about the Irish High Court. The Jew worries the Union might even win. The money escape. The money evaporate. So the Jew flies in to wine the Irish solicitors. To dine the English sequestrates. The Jew has large amounts of donated cash to flash. Neil Fontaine leaves the Jew up to his tricks. Neil Fontaine goes out to make movies. Dirty home movies. He visits the judge at his nice family home in a nice part of town. The judge grants the injunctions against the NUM. The judge swears not to lift them. Neil Fontaine drives back to the Jew’s Dublin hotel. The Jew has retired early upstairs. Downstairs Neil Fontaine doesn’t sleep. He locks the door. Puts a chair against the door, TV and radio on loud. Neil Fontaine dislikes Dublin. Dislikes Ireland. Dislikes the Irish. Both the South and the North. Catholic and Protestant. Two states only. Drunk or hungry. The Taigs in the North the worst. Drunk and hungry. The worst three years of a bad life. These are some of the things he tells himself to stay awake in Ireland. To stop sleep fall. The dirty dreams descend. Neil Fontaine doesn’t sleep in Ireland. Doesn’t close his eyes. He sits up in his chair and watches the coalfields burn on TV.
*
Everyone sat in silence while Terry Winters swept the Conference Room for bugs again. Terry had bought the bug detector out of his own money from a mail-order surveillance catalogue. It had arrived today. Terry planned to sweep the entire building. Every office. He also wanted to do Huddersfield Road. The President was impressed. Not Paul –
‘Had a duster and brush with you,’ he said. ‘Kill two birds with one stone.’
Terry turned round. He tapped his headphones. He put a finger to his lips.
‘Ridiculous,’ said Paul. ‘If there are any bugs, he’s the one who’s planted them.’
Terry switched off the machine. He took off his headphones. He put his thumb up.
‘Thank you, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the President. ‘The place is clean?’
‘As a whistle,’ said Terry.
‘Then it’s safe for you to make your report now, is it, Comrade?’ asked Paul.
Terry nodded. He put his thumb up again. He handed out photocopies.
‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘the first phase of the operation has been a success.’
Everybody stared down at the photocopied columns of figures.
‘As you can see,’ started Terry again, ‘only eight thousand one hundred and seventy-four pounds has been seized to date.’
‘I can’t read any of this,’ said Paul. ‘Where was it seized from?’
‘From the Midland Bank here,’ said Terry. ‘And the Power Group.’
‘What about Dublin?’ asked Samantha Green. ‘That money?’
Terry nodded. Terry said, ‘It remains subject to the injunction. Frozen.’
Paul squinted at Terry’s sums again. Paul asked, ‘How much exactly?’
‘Two million seven hundred and eighty-five thousand four hundred and ninety-nine pounds,’ said Terry.
‘And the rest?’ asked Paul. ‘The ones that got away?’
‘I cannot reveal the exact location,’ said Terry. ‘Or locations.’
‘Has he told you?’ Paul asked the President. ‘Please tell me he’s told you.’
‘The Chief Executive is the only person who needs to know,’ said the President.
Paul shook his head. Paul said to Terry, ‘Have you any idea what you’re doing?’
Terry Winters smiled at Paul. Terry Winters stuck his thumb up again.
Samantha Green stared at Terry Winters and his thumb. She shook her head now. She said, ‘I do hope the majority of assets are back in Britain, as we discussed.’
Terry lowered his thumb. Terry tapped the side of his nose with his finger.
‘President,’ said Samantha Green, ‘if the sequestrators prove that the Union transferred assets abroad, then they can make a strong case for a breach-of-trust action. The sequestrators could then ask that a receiver be appointed to run the Union.’
The President looked at Terry Winters. He said, ‘Comrade Chief Executive?’
‘They have to find the money first.’ said Terry. ‘And they won’t.’
Paul groaned. Paul shouted, ‘You said same fucking thing about South Wales!’
‘South Wales didn’t follow my instructions,’ said Terry. ‘I warned them.’
‘Well, Comrade, I’m warning you here and now,’ said Paul. ‘Don’t fuck this up.’
Terry Winters smiled. Terry said, ‘Thank you for your advice, Comrade.’
Paul smiled back. Paul stuck his thumb up. Paul ran it across his throat.
Terry turned to the President, then to the room. He said, ‘Thank you, Comrades.’
Everybody nodded. Everybody waited for Terry to leave –
Terry picked up his bug detector and headphones. Terry left the room backwards –
Everybody sat and watched him go in silence –
Terry shut the door. Terry went back downstairs. Terry unlocked his office door. Terry collapsed in his chair under the portrait of the President. Terry took four aspirins –
The men at Abervan had dangled a noose over the Fat Man –
The red light on his phone was flashing.
There was a noose and gallows at Cortonwood –
Terry picked it up. Click-click. Terry said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’
It was the hour of the lynch mob. The year of the noose –
‘Guess who?’ she said.
Terry swallowed the aspirins. Terry said, ‘Where have you been?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Guess what?’
Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘What?’
‘I’ve got a present waiting for you,’ she said. ‘When do you want it?’
Terry blinked. Terry stuck out his chest. Terry said, ‘All night.’
‘Not that kind, silly,’ she said. ‘This is a different kind of present.’
Terry sat back down under the portrait of the President. Terry said, ‘What kind?’
‘The kind you get from corner shops in Bentley,’ she whispered.
*
Home sweet home for Stephen sweet Stephen in his fourth-floor suite at Claridge’s.
Neil Fontaine helps the Jew dress for the banquet. The Lord Mayor’s Banquet.
Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to the Guildhall. The Jew is excited –
‘These are days we were not meant to see,’ he says. ‘Rare days indeed, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew enter the Guildhall. Neil Fontaine starts the car –
He drives to the river. In the dark. He parks by Traitor’s Gate –
He searches the stations. The signals. He seeks the signs. The symbols. But there is nothing here. Here no one. No one who cares –
Neil Fontaine tries to pull himself together. Put the pieces back his way. He switches on the radio. He listens to the Lady –
‘– we are drawing to the end of a year in which our people have seen violence and intimidation in our midst: the cruelty of the terrorists, the violence of the picket line, the deliberate flouting of the laws of this land. These challenges shall not succeed –
‘We shall weather the tempests of our times.’
He sits by the river. In the dark. Down by Traitor’s Gate –
He whispers her name. He calls her name. He screams her name –
The cruelty. The violence. The laws of this land –
By the river. In the dark. By the gate –
The tempests of our times.
The Earth hungry. The Ear
th hunts again –
Eyes wide. Mouth open. Nose bloody –
‘The keys,’ the Mechanic says again through the balaclava.
The manager blinks at the Browning. He opens a drawer. Holds up the keys.
‘You do it,’ the Mechanic tells him.
The manager nods. He walks backwards to the safe. Turns and bends down.
‘Faster,’ the Mechanic shouts.
The manager fumbles with the keys. He drops them. Looks up at the Browning.
The Mechanic cocks the gun. He says, ‘Last chance.’
The manager picks up the keys. He opens the safe. Waits.
The Mechanic throws the bag down on the floor. He says, ‘Fill that.’
The manager reaches into the safe. He takes out cash and cheques. Fills the bag.
‘Just the cash,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Just the cash.’
The manager throws cheques to one side. He takes only cash. Puts it in the bag.
‘That’s enough,’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘Pass it here.’
The manager hands him the bag. He looks up the barrel of the gun. Waits again.
‘On your knees,’ the Mechanic tells him.
The manager kneels down. Head bowed. Hands together. He prays –
He prays and the Mechanic runs –
Her eyes wide. Her mouth open. Her nose bloody –
The Mechanic runs from the hungry Earth. The Earth that hunts him.
Neil Fontaine picks the Jew up at Claridge’s. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to the Carlton Club. The Jew meets the Great Financier at the Club. The Great Financier gives one hundred thousand pounds in cash to the Jew. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to Hobart House. The Jew meets the National Working Miners’ Committee in their new office. The Jew gives eighty thousand pounds in cash to the National Working Miners’ Committee. Neil Fontaine drives the National Working Miners’ Committee to the Inns of Court. The National Working Miners’ Committee meet their legal representatives. The National Working Miners’ Committee give seventy thousand pounds in cash to their legal representatives. The legal representatives give writs against the twenty-two members of the National Executive Committee of the National Union of Mineworkers and the five trustees of the Yorkshire Area to the National Working Miners’ Committee. The writs make the twenty-two members of the National Executive personally liable for the two-hundred-thousand-pound fine for contempt of court and forbid the use of Union money to fund picketing or strike-related activities in the Yorkshire Area. Neil Fontaine drives the National Working Miners’ Committee back to Hobart House. The National Working Miners’ Committee meet the Jew. The National Working Miners’ Committee give the writs to the Jew. The Jew posts the writs to the twenty-two members of the National Executive Committee of the National Union of Mineworkers and the five trustees of the Yorkshire Area –
This is the way the world works. This small, small world –
The way it tilts and the way it turns –
The way it tilts and turns again.
Martin
Darren fourteen. They were digging to get some pocket money for Christmas presents. Digging it out with their bare hands for two quid a bag. Two pound notes. That was all. Spoil heap fell on them. Crushed them. Buried them. Suffocated them. Killed them. There were no television cameras there to see it happen. No reporters. Just two little lads lying dead under a mountain of muck. Two little lads who wanted to buy their mam and dad a Christmas present – Their father doesn’t have a job. Father doesn’t have any brass – He doesn’t have his lads now. Nothing now – They are fifth and sixth to die coal-picking in Yorkshire. This year. Nineteen eighty-four. Three of dead weren’t even old enough to smoke. Let alone vote – There’s silence in Welfare today. All day. Even in kitchen. No one speaks. No one – The fragments tumble down. The fragments clatter below – They whisper and they echo – I wake up. I get bus into Sheffield. Day 261. They’re putting up Christmas lights. Christmas tree. I can’t remember last time I was here. It must have been with our Cath, I suppose. Used to go in twice a month without fail when we first moved here. Window shopping. Looking at all things money could buy – Three-piece suites. Fitted bedrooms. Fridge-freezers. Video-recorders – Cath didn’t like to just look, though. Had to have something. I encouraged her and all. Made her feel better. That would last a day or so. Then catalogues would come back out. Tape measure. Like a drug with her, it was. Buying stuff. Filling up all empty spaces. Needed her fix or there was no talking to her. It was like an addiction. Even had a stone façade stuck on front of house. How much had that cost us? Fuck me, it looked daft. But that’s why I’m here, though. To see if I can see her. But deep down in my heart I know I won’t – I just wander about looking at all them things I can’t have. Then things I’ll never ever have again – Three-piece suites. Fitted bedrooms. Fridge-freezers. Video-recorders – Things I don’t even want again. Things I never wanted – They don’t have one thing I want. You can’t buy thing I want. Not round here. Not any more. Not in Britain today – Thing I want is to go back. Back to my place of work – Not on a bus with mesh over windows. Not in a hood with slits for eyes – I want to drive back up there. Park my car up with all other cars. Go into locker room and have a laugh with lads. Take cage down. Do my shift and have my snap. Do some graft and come back up. Wash up and clock off. Drive straight back home – Back home. Home to wife. My wife. My Cath – That’s what I want. That’s all I want – My wife back. My job back – My life. Life I had – That’s all I want. But I don’t see it. Not here. Not today – Day 264. Sunday again. Fucking Sunday. I can’t stay in house. I go down Hotel. I’ve got just enough for half a pint. Walk there and back will take up most of day. Fresh air helps me sleep. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I really don’t. I know there were them that thought it was best thing that ever happened to them. First few months. Especially some of them with kids – Time in house with them. Helping them with their homework. Doing different stuff. Stuff they’d never had time for before – Swimming. Football. Fishing. Hunting – I wonder how they feel about it all now. After nine months. Nine bloody months – Nine months of toast for their breakfast. Nine months of soup for their dinner. Nine months of spaghetti for their tea. Nine months of their kids without any new gear. Nine months of their kids on hand-outs and other folk’s cast-offs. Nine months of their wives trying to make ends meet. Nine months of their wives trying to hold them together. Nine months of them slowly falling apart. Nine months of them watching every single news programme there was. Nine months of them talking about nothing else. Nine months of them arguing and arguing and arguing and arguing and arguing. Nine months of them going up to the bedroom. Nine months of them lying on their backs. Nine months of them staring up at ceiling. Nine months of them wishing they were fucking dead – Day 267. I stop to rest on the heap. I watch fires light up ahead. This place is old. This stede is niht. This place is cold.