by David Peace
And no one saw them. Not even the moon.
Diane had fucked Mr Verloc in his double room at the County. In his private bath. Then Mr Verloc had fucked Diane to thank her for all the things she had done –
And no one heard them. Not even the man pacing about in the room upstairs.
Mr Verloc finished his breakfast. Mr Verloc went back up to his room to pack. Mr Verloc checked out before Mr Smith.
Terry spent the morning back at Congress House on the phone to Luxembourg –
‘The bank won’t let us move the money until after the court has made its decision as to the validity of the receiver’s claim against us,’ said Mike in Luxembourg.
‘Find out all you can about the judges‚’ Terry told him. ‘And fax it to Bill Reed.’
Terry hung up. Terry went upstairs to the President and the TUC Seven –
The President wasn’t asking for sympathy Just sympathy strikes –
But the Seven said they would need legal advice. The Seven were still worried they would be held in contempt for assisting the National Union of Mineworkers –
The President shook his head again. The President rolled his eyes again –
The President went back to Sheffield.
Terry and Paul went back to court. Terry and Paul took separate taxis.
Hubert Harold Booker had asked to be allowed to resign.
Terry and Paul agreed. They argued he was not a fit and proper person.
The court did not agree. But the court accepted Mr Booker’s resignation.
Terry and Paul asked that the Union be taken out of receivership. Terry and Paul argued that the trustees of the Union were fit and proper persons –
Including the President.
Terry and Paul argued that the trustees were only following the orders of the Union’s National Executive when the money was transferred from British to foreign banks. Terry and Paul argued that the trustees, including the President, were therefore very fit and proper persons to be in charge of other people’s money –
Fit and proper persons. Including the President –
Especially the President.
The High Court did not agree. The High Court appointed a new receiver to take control of the Union’s funds and assets.
The receiver was a Matthew Ruskin. Mr Ruskin planned to leave for Dublin. Mr Ruskin intended to seek the release of the Union’s two and a half million pounds held in a secret bank account there –
Immediately.
Terry and Paul asked for an adjournment. Time to appeal.
The High Court did not agree. The High Court rejected their appeal –
The appointment of Mr Ruskin as receiver stood –
Mr Ruskin held the purse strings now. Mr Ruskin was the boss.
Mr Ruskin left for Dublin –
Immediately.
Terry and Paul travelled back to Sheffield separately. First and second class –
There was still silence on every floor of their building. Still silence in the street –
Just the buckets of rain. The buckets of pain –
The bomb scares and death threats still coming. The letter bombs in the hate mail.
Terry Winters drove back to his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield. There were no lights on, the police car still parked outside –
They were all still lepers. Second class, the lot of them –
Forever lepers now.
Peter
Tell them it weren’t like that. That if they stopped scabbing they’d be welcomed back – They didn’t believe me. They saw graffiti all over village – We won’t forget scabs – Drawings of gallows and nooses. Wall of shame up by gates. Signs in pubs and shop windows telling them their business wasn’t wanted – They weren’t daft. Not that daft, anyway – They heard words on picket line as bus sped them inside. They saw faces filled with hate – They’d gone too far. They knew it – They were lost to most folk. Dead – Hammering in distance. Maybe here. Near – I went over to Silverwood on Monday for Panel – Just Mondays at moment. Unless something sudden came up – No more new faces going in. Big back-to-work push had finished. Time to take advantage of their bribes had passed. Our own brass drying up, what with sequestrators and receiver. More bloody cars packing up and all. Packing up or smashed up. Johnny reckoned that had been bloody plan all along – Police had waited until High Court had begun to bite. Then they’d gone in with their truncheons into cars – Not just what had happened to our lads at Brodsworth. Happened everywhere and all on same day – Tyres had been slashed. Windscreens smashed – Knew it meant we wouldn’t be able to fly as much and that saved them brass, I suppose. Main thing now was taking care of business at your own pit – It was twenty-four hour a day now. Front and back – Broke it down into six shifts. Each shift were four hour. Long enough now winter was here. Lads had used this old horse-box to put a little hut up there on front gate. They’d stuck a stove and couple of car seats from scrap inside. Them on back gate just used old snap cabin that was already there. Folk had their preferences, both for time and for folk they’d be stood with. There were family commitments and what-have-you to take into consideration, too. I was in Welfare doing that up when Barry came in to tell me latest – Fucking hell, I said. You’re joking? Barry shook his head. I got my coat and we walked up to Pit. Undermanager was waiting for us by hut. Morning, Pete, he said. I said, There’s floor lift, is there? That what you saying, is it? Under-manager had a big drawing of flood. He said, Just take a look, Pete. Barry and under-manager held corners of paper so I could have a good look. We all got your letter, I said. But what do you expect us to do? Pete, there has to be some safety work done or – Not by my men, I told him. They cross a picket line for any reason, they’re scabs – They came in before in summer, he said. You all helped us then – Aye, I said. There was no picket line then, though, was there? No picket line because there were no bloody scabs. That’s why we helped you. And what thanks did we get? You took bloody scabs back. That’s what thanks we got. Get them to bloody help you – We didn’t want scabs back, he said. Board made us take them. We had to – That’s as-may-be, I said. But there’s a picket line now and no one will cross it – So what do we do? he said. Just let waters keep rising? Let all them bloody scabs you got in there deal with it, I told him. There’s not enough of them and them we have are useless and you know it. I said, You shouldn’t have took them back then, should you? He shook his head. He said, Pit will flood and then there’ll be no bloody work for anyone. That what you want? Look, I said. I’ll phone Barnsley and get Union engineer in. See what he says – Thank you, Pete, said under-manager. Thank you very much – Smell of wood. Mice – Tommy Robb came out minute I phoned. Click-click. Tommy was Union’s mining engineer for this area. He met Barry and me and manager and under-manager. Picket had been taken off for duration of our visit. Tommy wanted to go down straight away. This was a problem because only folk doing winding were members of management union who shouldn’t have been anywhere near bloody winding gear in first place: There was no way Tommy and me and Barry were off down if they were doing winding. That meant I had to get in touch with Winders’ delegate. Click-click. I called him up and he came out to wind us down. That was what I was dreading. Fucking dreading it, I was – Been best part of a year since I was down there. Reason more
The Forty-first Week
Monday 10 – Sunday 16 December 1984
The Jew has spent the weekend in retreat at Colditz. He has gathered his majors and generals. He has had them pack their black suits and ties. He puts on his leather flying-jacket. Neil Fontaine performs the safety checks on the helicopter. They eat hearty breakfasts in the Jew’s enormous kitchen. Then the Jew flies the leaders of the National Working Miners’ Committee down to Cardiff –
The cloud is heavy. The visibility poor. The journey rough. The passengers green.
Neil Fontaine has hired a limousine for them. He drives them from the airport to the crematorium. The National Working M
iners’ Committee smell of cigarettes and last night’s ale. They argue among themselves about money. Two of them vomit into carrier bags at the side of the road. The Jew sits in the back among his majors and generals and looks at his watch. They are late for the funeral of Derek Atkins.
Neil Fontaine takes two wreaths out of the boot of the limousine –
‘You have paid the supreme price for democracy.’
He hands the two wreaths to the National Working Miners’ Committee –
‘In glory may you rest in peace.’
The National Working Miners’ Committee go into the crematorium.
The Jew waits in the car with Neil Fontaine. The Jew does not speak.
Rain sweeps down from the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains –
Down and out into the mouth of the Severn.
Half an hour later, the family of the murdered taxi-driver leave the crematorium.
Neil Fontaine opens the back door of the limousine. He holds an umbrella over the Jew. The Jew walks up to the family. The Jew embraces the dead taxi-driver’s common-law wife under their different umbrellas. He puts an envelope full of cash into her wet hands –
‘Your common-law husband did not die in vain,’ the Jew tells the young widow. ‘We shall fight on and we shall win.’
Malcolm Morris asked for his key to Room 707. Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor past the bathrooms –
The rooms were all empty. The rooms were all quiet.
Malcolm unlocked the door. He stepped inside. He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle of the door. He closed the door. Locked it. He took off his shoes. Placed them on the double bed. He drew the curtains. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed. He stood before the mirror. He unwrapped the bandages. Took the cotton wool out of his ears. He looked into the mirror –
A new face in an old place.
The army had taught him how to live. How to survive. To stay alive for ’85. The army had taught him to expect the knock on the door in the middle of the night. The drive out into the woods. The nozzle of the gun at the back of the skull. The spade and the hole. But then they would never know –
Never know the truth from the lies. The lies from the truth –
Never know the secrets sold. The secrets saved –
The things he’d kept up his sleeve.
The army had taught him how to live. How to survive. Ulster honed those habits, whetted the ways –
To live among death.
Then the service had brought him back. Brought him home. To live alone in a house with a car and a pension plan. Brought him back to listen. To listen for the knock on the door in the middle of the night. The drive out into the woods. The gun at the back of the skull. The spades and the holes –
The truths and the lies. The secrets saved and the secrets sold –
The things up his sleeve.
The service had brought him back. Back home –
To die among life.
Malcolm Morris picked up the phone. He dialled the number. Made the call.
The Jew is livid again. Fucking furious this time. Yesterday was the first day coal had come up from the Yorkshire seams since the strike began. It was a victory, a famous victory in the long campaign –
Miners mining at Manton.
It should have been front-page news. Headlines for them. Death knells for Stalin –
But no.
The Minister has hijacked the Jew’s agenda. The Minister has been holding secret meetings with the TUC. The TUC have gone over the heads of the NUM. The Minister has gone over the head of the Chairman. The Chairman and the Jew –
‘No fucking wonder the numbers have dried up, Neil,’ shouts the Jew –
The Jew must guard against weakness. Inside and out. Outside and in –
The Jew cannot rest. The Jew must not rest.
Neil Fontaine rights the hotel furniture. He picks up the morning papers. He nods. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to Hobart House. He waits outside the Chairman’s office –
The Chairman is already livid. Already fucking furious –
‘That damned junkie hands out one hundred grand to them,’ shouts the Chairman. ‘Hundred fucking grand to the bloody Red Guard for Christmas. Just like that!’
‘I think,’ says the Jew, ‘we should pay the altruistic Noble Lord a visit.’
Neil Fontaine drives the Chairman and the Jew to a private Harley Street clinic. Neil Fontaine accompanies the Chairman and the Jew to a private upstairs room –
The Jew knows Lord John of old. Lord John wakes up to greet him long and lost –
‘Stephen, sweet Stephen!’ he shrills. ‘Where have you been all my life?’
The Jew sits down on the edge of the bed. He has Lord John’s hand in his own.
‘How frail you look, dear Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘Are they treating you well?’
‘The nurses are harridans, Stephen,’ pouts the Lord. ‘Harridans!’
‘Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘I’d like you to meet the Chairman of the Coal Board.’
The Chairman steps forward. The Chairman nods, but does not offer his hand.
The Lord giggles. He whispers in the Jew’s ear. He hides his face in his pillows. He peeps out from behind his fingers. He asks, ‘Did he bring me grapes, Sweet Stevie?’
‘Johnny,’ says the Jew, ‘did you give money to the miners?’
The Lord sits upright in his bed. He tidies himself and says, ‘And what if I did?’
The Jew slaps Lord John across his face. The Jew shouts, ‘Idiot! Fool!’
The Lord collapses in tears into his sheets. He pulls his pillow to him. He hugs it.
‘Do you want your dear mummy to work in Woolworth’s, Johnny?’ asks the Jew. ‘In a uniform? With her name on a tag?’
The Noble Lord shakes his head.
‘That’s what their president has in store for our Queen,’ says the Jew.
The Noble Lord sobs.
‘Just imagine what he has in mind for you, Junkie Johnny,’ says the Jew.
The Noble Lord looks out from behind his pillow. He asks, ‘What, Stevie? What?’
The Jew turns to Neil Fontaine. Neil Fontaine hands the big envelope to the Jew. The Jew opens the envelope. He lays out the photographs on the Lord’s bed –
Ten photographs of beaten faces; of broken bones and burnt-out homes.
Lord John stares. He swallows. He says, ‘To me? They plan to do this to me?’
‘Much worse,’ says the Chairman. ‘Much, much worse.’
Lord John pales. He puts his hand to his mouth. He says, ‘What have I done?’
The Jew goes to the Lord’s bedside drawer. He takes out the Lord’s chequebook. ‘How much did you give them, Johnny?’ he asks. ‘How much?’
‘I feel such a fool,’ says the Lord. ‘Fool! Fool! Fool that I am!’
‘How much, Johnny?’
‘Ten thousand? One hundred thousand?’ he says. ‘I can’t remember now.’
The Jew opens the Lord’s chequebook. The Jew writes out a cheque –
‘This is one for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ he says. ‘Just sign it.’
‘Then everything will be all right?’ asks the Lord.
The Jew nods. The Chairman nods. The Jew hands the Lord his pen.
‘The Queen won’t have to work in Woolworth’s any more, will she?’
‘No, Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘The Queen will be fine, if you just sign that.’
The Lord smiles. The Lord signs the cheque. The Lord hands it to the Jew.
‘Thank you very much,’ says the Jew. ‘You’ve turned a bad day into a good one.’
*
The President had appeared before Rotherham Magistrates over charges of obstructing the Queen’s Highway at Orgreave on May 30 1984. The magistrates had found him guilty. The magistrates had fined him two hundred and fifty pounds, plus seven hundred and fifty pounds costs. Meanwhile,
the government had agreed to meet the entire costs incurred by the receiver and the sequestrators, and more High Court actions had been brought to make the national and area officials of the Union personally liable for monies spent on the strike. The Nottinghamshire Area had also voted heavily in favour of a new constitution to give them greater autonomy from the National Union of Lepers –
The President was back locked behind his door. Not touching his food.
Len Glover came into Terry Winter’s office. Len didn’t knock –
Terry was sat under the portrait of the President. Terry looked up at Len –
Loyal Len had a bandage across his nose and two black eyes. Someone had thrown a tin of cat food and a can of extra-hold hairspray at the President –
They had missed the President.
Len said, ‘The President wants you to come to Goldthorpe with him.’
Terry shrugged. Terry nodded. Terry put his coat back on.
Loyal Len drove. Terry Winters sat in the back of the Rover with the President. The President talked about moving the families of Union employees into the St James’s building. For protection –
Insurance –
Terry tried not to listen to the President. Terry didn’t want to think about Theresa. Think about Christopher, Timothy or Louise. Terry had enough to think about.
Len parked outside the Goldthorpe Miners’ Welfare Club. Len paid four local lads to watch the Rover. Len and Terry rushed the President out of the back of the car –
Up the steps. Into the hall. Through the crowd –
The rapturous welcome. The thunderous applause –
To the stage and onto the podium.
The President stood on the stage. The President poised at the podium –
The branch banner hanging behind him on the wall.
The President turned to see the branch banner. The President stared at the banner. The President turned back to the hall. The hall packed to capacity. Eager and expectant. The President closed his eyes. The President bowed his head –