by David Peace
The hall silent.
The President opened his eyes. The President raised his head. The President said –
‘You are not saying: “Here we go.” You are saying: “Here we are” –
‘We are here and have found ourselves!
‘And with that spirit, this government and their courts can put their receivers in; they can put their sequestrators in; they can smear us and they can attack us –
‘But there’s one thing for certain: provided we stand firmly together, your Union –
‘Not my union, not any receiver’s union –
‘Your Union is on its way to the greatest victory in history!’
There was rapture. There was thunder –
The President bowed his head. The banner hanging behind him –
Rapture and thunder –
Terry looked at his watch. The clock ticking. The storm soon upon them all.
*
The Chairman goes home to the States for Christmas. The Jew moves down the hall into the Chairman’s office. He cannot go home. He must stay to guard against weakness. Guard against defeat –
Inside and out. Outside and in –
There are still Suits about. There are still Suits out to settle –
Informal talks. Preliminary discussions –
The papers full of Christmas cheer. Hints of hope. Peace in the coalfields.
The Jew shows some Suits the front door and the street. The Jew sends others on compulsory leave. The Chairman has given him permission. Permission to use his name. The Jew uses it. Uses it to guard against weakness –
Defeat.
There are still new battles to win. New campaigns to run –
Here’s something for every miner to think about in the New Year.
The Jew already knows his New Year’s resolution. It’s the one he always makes –
For the worldwide defeat of Marxism, Communism and all forms of Socialism.
The Jew has good reason to believe his wish might finally arrive in ’85.
The Prime Minister has invited the Jew to dinner with Mikhail Gorbachev. Mr Gorbachev is from the Politburo. Mr Gorbachev is tipped for the top. The Prime Minister says Mr Gorbachev is a man they can do business with.
The Jew hopes the PM is right. The Jew will put Mr Gorbachev to the test. The Jew will ask Mr Gorbachev to stop all Soviet support for the NUM –
For the worldwide defeat of Marxism, Communism and all forms of Socialism.
The Jew can’t wait to meet Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev –
For the New Year to begin. For this Christmas to end –
Foul feast of the pagan and the Roman.
The Jew hates Christmas. Neil, too.
Peter
than any other I got involved with doing Union – Hammering stops. Mice gone – I didn’t want to be down there any more. I hated it. But I wasn’t going to show it today. Not in front of management. Not in front of scabs – They’d actually had sense to lock scabs up when we went through yard. Must have stuck them in offices or somewhere. Thing was, I was that worried about going back down that I didn’t think about scabs. I got into cage with Tommy and Barry and manager and we went down – Different noise now – No one spoke until we got down there and Tommy started to have a look about. Took him for ever, it did – Fucking for ever. I thought I was going to collapse. That bloody nervous – Slightest sound set us off and there’s always strange fucking noises down there. Especially with water. I don’t think I spoke once whole time I was down there – Three and a half fucking hours. It was worst when we were going back up – Thing was out of practice and it was stopping and starting like an old fucking woman. Longest fucking ride up I’d ever had – It were worth it, though, I suppose. Tommy said it wasn’t that bad. There was no need for lads to go in. There was enough of management there to deal with it. Thing now was to get message out to all lads. Fucking rumours flying about – Pit was falling to bits. Pit was going to be lost. Be no pit to go back to – Must have been coming from scabs, most of it. Had to be. Even after we’d been down, there were still them that said we hadn’t – That it was a lie and we’d never gone down. That pit was too flooded even to check on it. That it’d be shut before Christmas if lads didn’t go back in and start on safety work – Pack of lies. Bloody lies – But fucking hell, did folk go on about it. They’d come up to you in street and call you a liar to your face – I couldn’t be doing with it. Not now – I just gave them Tommy’s number at Huddersfteld Road. Told them to phone him themselves. Did my head in, to be honest. These fucking rumours – No end to them. To any of it – Sound of hooves. Horses’ hooves again – Latest police trick was to take photos of folk up at picket line. Smile. Lot of rumours again about why they were doing that. Folk reckoned it was because they were going through all film they had of mass pickets. Using photos to identify anyone who they’d caught on tape throwing. That way police could nick them and Board could sack them. Then there’d be no need for mass redundancies. Half of workforce would have already been sacked. That was rumour anyway. That and talk about privatization of pits, too. That was another big one doing rounds. This was reason why so many had got so agitated about flooding and general state of pit – No one was going to buy a broken pit, were they? Top of all that, you had business with Nottingham changing their rulebook. Moving closer to UDI – It was going to happen. That was obvious – Good riddance to bad rubbish, said most blokes. They’d come crawling back like last time – But then brave talk stopped and rumours started up about future of NUM. About what would happen if there were two unions and so on – Rumours. Tension – It was all scabs’ doing. They had no shame these days – There was one older bloke who had been on bloody committee at one time. Had always claimed he was right Militant. Even been to Soviet Union with King Arthur once. Liked to tell you how it was paradise on Earth. Two of others had been two of hardest we’d had on picket lines. Dead keen, they’d been. Liked nothing better than a scrap with coppers. Had called first scab all names under sun. Now they were sat on scab bus, laughing and waving at all their old mates on picket line. It were these three who were behind all rumours – Rumours that filled emptiness. That was thing that made it worse – Never any bloody news to give lads. Rumours were all they had – Dark days now. Days when I’d walk round village and it was like walking round village of dead – Like one of them old photos or something. Little figures all thin and drawn – Their clothes hanging off them. Pushing their babies down to Welfare – Ladies going through bundles of other folk’s clothes. Cast-offs and hand-me-downs – Putting tins and packets into boxes. Making three meals
The Forty-second Week
Monday 17 – Sunday 23 December 1984
The Right Honourable Member of Parliament met Malcolm Morris in the underground car park –
In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach –
His mouth moved. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm questions –
Malcolm could not answer. Malcolm could not hear –
But Malcolm had the tapes.
In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –
They would find the answers here. They would hear the tapes –
These field recordings of the Dead.
Terry stuck two bitten fingers in his ears. They were playing carols in the corridors again. For morale, said the Denims. Even the Tweeds agreed. Terry took another three aspirins –
Christmas. Christmas. Christmas –
It was all anybody ever talked about. Phoned about. Click-click –
Lorryloads of toys from France. From Poland. From Australia –
Santa suits and plastic trees. Party hats and pantomimes –
Turkeys and all the fucking trimmings –
It was all anyone thought about. Cared about. Almost –
Terry picked up his files. Just his files. He didn’t need his calculator these days.
Terry locked the office. Terry took the stairs up to
the Conference Room –
The lift was out of order.
Terry tapped on the door. Terry went inside. Terry took his seat by the exit –
The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had just made their report –
The report which said that efforts to block the supply of oil had had little discernible effect; that there was no likelihood of crucial fuel shortages at the generating stations; that prospects for an early settlement of the dispute were remote –
Remote.
So the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had been to see the Minister –
Again.
The President looked up with tired eyes at the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends. The President wasn’t sleeping. Dick wasn’t. Paul. Len. Joan. Alice. Mike –
None of them were –
Always light, never dark.
‘We don’t want the TUC or anybody else to go along and argue a case that effectively undermines the NUM,’ said the President again.
The Fat Man did not blink. Did not bat an eyelid. He said, ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you remember all the promises you gave in September?’ asked the President. ‘The decisions the TUC conference made? The financial support? The physical support? The practical support? The total support?’
The Fat Man did not flinch. Did not move a muscle. He said, ‘I remember.’
‘Good,’ said the President. ‘Because that’s what we bloody want.’
The Fat Man flinched. That Fat Man said, ‘It’s too late now.’
‘It’s late, I’ll give you that,’ said the President. ‘But not too late. Never too late.’
The Fat Man blinked. The Fat Man said, ‘The entire TUC could be bankrupted. The entire movement in the hands of receivers and sequestrators –’
‘Aye,’ shouted the President. ‘And there’d be battles and there’d be bloodshed. And the working class would as one rise like lions after slumber –
‘In unvanquishable number. For we are many and they are few –’
Terry Winters started to cough. Terry Winters couldn’t stop –
Terry made his excuses. His exit. His way back down the stairs.
Terry took more aspirins. His head against the glass. Terry watched the city –
The Christmas lights. The street lights. The shop lights. The office lights –
Always light, never dark.
Terry looked at the calendar. He looked at his watch. Terry was going to be late –
He locked the office. He ran down the stairs. He went for his car –
The remains of Roche Abbey had been chosen for the rendezvous –
Terry drove out through Rotherham, across the M18 and South at Maltby.
The dark Sirocco was already parked, waiting for Terry.
Terry pulled off the A634. Terry parked and Terry waited –
There was a tap on his window. There was a torch in his face –
Terry put one hand up to shield his eyes and released the car boot with his other.
Then the torch was gone. The boot full.
*
Malcolm Morris pressed play. Malcolm played it all back. All of it –
The voices from the shadows at the back, where the silences did not quite reach –
‘– first heard in a room with bright lights and no windows and a locked door, screaming I came into this place. It was Easter Sunday and I was on my back on the bed in her blood, kicking and screaming. The woman in the blue apron took me in her arms and scrubbed me clean of the blood and wrapped me in soft white sheets and a yellow woollen blanket, smiling and kicking, I shat everywhere and she scolded me –
‘I hate you –’
These promises from the shadows, where their threats did not reach –
‘– three houses in three years, these memories from these years. The man in his shop with his loose teeth that fell on the stone floor and broke at my feet. The woman in the lane with the dog that jumped up and barked into my pram. The trees in the park with the words in their bark that must have hurt –
‘I love you. I love. I love you –’
These voices from the shadows at the back, where the silences did not reach –
‘– heard my name called in a classroom with long lights and high windows and locked doors, screaming I’d come into this place. It was Monday morning and I was on my back in the gym in my own blood, kicking and screaming. The man in the black gown took me by my ear and scrubbed me clean of the blood and dressed me in harsh white shorts and a soft cricket sweater, smiling and kicking, I shat everywhere the first time –’
These curses from the shadows, where his prayers did not reach –
‘– more houses in more years, more memories from more years. The man in the uniform who said he was my father and shook me by my hand. My mother in tears who called him a liar and slapped his face raw. The doctor in the white coat who said he would help us and gave us all pills –’
These voices from the shadows, where the silences did not reach –
‘– new town, new school; the same frown, the same fool in classrooms less bright and windows less high but with doors still locked, sniffing I came into these places. It was Friday teatime and I was on my back on the playing field in my own blood, aching and sweating. The captain of the house took me by my hand and showered me clean of the blood and watched me dress in my clean cotton pants and blue school shirt, giggling and kicking, he shat everywhere the first time –
‘I love you –’
This was a truth from the shadows at the back, where their lies did not reach –
‘– that last house from that last, final year, these last memories from that last, final year. The man in the uniform who said he was my father and carried me out to his car, kicking and screaming. My mother in tears who cried and chased the car to the end of the lane. The doctor in the white coat who ran behind her with his help and his pills –
‘I hate you. I hate you. I hate you –’
These lies that drove the truth from the light. Into the shadows –
The voices that followed. Into the silence.
*
Neil Fontaine drives out to the hotel by Heathrow. Neil Fontaine checks into the hotel. Neil Fontaine uses the name Anthony Farrant. Mr Farrant goes up to his double room. Mr Farrant has their letters in his hand. Mr Farrant waits for the applicants to arrive –
The light fades. The light fails –
There is a call from the front desk. There is a knock on the door.
Mr Farrant opens the door, Neil Fontaine opens his mouth –
Jerry Witherspoon and Roger Vaughan are stood in the corridor –
There are carols playing –
Jerry has a handkerchief over his mouth. Roger has a black bin-liner in his hands.
Neil Fontaine steps back into the room. Jerry and Roger follow him inside –
Jerry shuts the door. Roger puts the bin-liner on the bed –
‘This came to the Jupiter offices for you,’ says Roger. ‘Merry Christmas, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine stares at the bin-liner. He says, ‘What is it?’
‘I would hate to spoil the surprise,’ says Roger.
Neil Fontaine shrugs. He goes over to the bed. He opens the bin-liner –
There is the box for a portable TV inside. It has been opened and resealed.
Neil Fontaine takes the cardboard box out of the bin-liner. He opens the box –
There is something tied up inside a supermarket carrier bag.
Neil Fontaine takes the carrier bag out of the box. He undoes the carrier bag –
There is a parcel wrapped in old newspapers.
Neil Fontaine takes out the parcel. He unwraps the newspapers –
The severed head of Jennifer Johnson stares up at him –
The former Mrs Fontaine.
The Kalamares in Inverness Mews, the Capannina on Romilly Street, the Scandia Room in the Piccadilly Hotel, the Icelandic Steakhouse on Haymarket –
/> The quiet times and empty places where Malcolm conducted the orchestra –
In their silences. In their spaces.
The waiters did not bring them menus. The waiters did not take their orders –
They were shadows. They were ghosts –
The orchestra of ghosts –
Back from the Dead to the Land of the Living.
Peter
a day for soup kitchen – Lads just doing our own pit and coal-picking. Pushing their barrows up to spoil – Looked like ants, they did, up there on top of heap. Pushing their barrows back down lane – Minds just set on Christmas now. Raffles and parties. Presents and dinner. That’s all folk talked about – Christmas. Christmas. Christmas – Talked about it more than bloody strike itself. Especially after last picket on twenty-first – Been a bigger push than usual. Bit of a drink – Not even got that now for a while. So I didn’t blame them – Thinking about Christmas. It was just when it was all over and done with – That was what worried me. Them first few days of January – longest month of bloody year. Bad enough when you weren’t on strike – I went into back of Welfare. Put on my Santa suit ready for party – Hardly move in there for all presents. Food that had been collected – Presents from SOGAT. From CGT in France. Loads of food and drink from NALGO people in Sheffield. Housing Department of local council had held a raffle – Four hundred kids going mental. Never seen such a mountain of presents and stuff – Crackers. Chocolates. Trifles. Sweets. Sandwiches – Our Mary said it took them five hours just to butter all bread for potted meat sandwiches – Ham. Pork. Salmon. Cucumber – You name it, it was there. Kids were in heaven and, I tell you, all grown-ups had tears in their eyes. This one little lad comes up to me. He tugs on hem of my Santa suit and he says, I hope my dad’s on strike next year, Santa. And that was just young ones – There was a disco for older lot and a gift voucher each. Trip to pantomime in Sheffield and all – Busy time. Not all glad tidings, mind – Rumours were still there. Tension – People out and about. Few drinks in them – Drink got to folk more and all. Now they didn’t have it as often as and as much as they’d like – Few pints and things would get said. Things would get heard. Things would get done – If there was going to be trouble, it was going to be this week. This one scab – One of them younger ones who’d been an active picket before. This one had had his fair share of bother before strike. Big mouth on him. Quick with his fists. Not sort to keep his head down. Even if he was scabbing – He’d been out and about in village. Told a few of younger lads that him and other scabs had got a hit list of all pickets that had called him – Told folk he would have his revenge. It was all talk. Never came near Welfare with it, either – But it got to younger lads. Lads who he’d been out picketing with not a month ago. Lads who’d looked up to him – This one bloke, Steve, he hated this scab. Had had bother with him since they were in same class at school – Friday night before New Year, they crossed each other’s path again in village. Steve had a go – Told him he should be ashamed of himself. Scab said Steve was on hit list and he’d have him – Steve went back to pub. Kept drinking. Then he goes up to scab’s house and chucks a milk bottle at it. Bottle goes through window – Minutes later scab has put Steve’s windows through with an airrifle. Steve goes back up to scab’s house – Scab comes out with a hatchet in his hands. Police come – Krk-krk. Police don’t touch scab. Just cart Steve off to Maltby – Don’t let him see a solicitor. Don’t let him see his wife. Don’t let him have his phone call – Police want Steve to grass up folk for vandalism to pit and NCB gear. Police want this so Board can sack them – Steve tells them nothing. Keeps it shut – Police took him to Rotherham police station. Police charged him with threatening behaviour and criminal damage. Bring him straight up. Judge fines him four hundred and ten quid – For one window. No charges for scab. Nothing – I didn’t say anything to Steve but I knew Board would sack him. That was policy now. Fuck – New Year’s Eve we put on a token picket up at pit. I spent night on picket line up by hut. Our Alamo – Decked out in a bit of tinsel. Trees tied up – There was a good atmosphere. Folk came out from houses near by and gave us food and drink. Lots of other people stopped by for a song and a chat. Just a couple of police on. Local bobbies keen to be mates tonight. Had a drink with them at midnight. Bite to eat – Like they did with Hun. No man’s