GB84

by David Peace

  The Forty-third Week

  Monday 24 – Sunday 30 December 1984

  Terry put down the phone. Terry sighed. Terry smiled. Terry clapped his hands –

  The Union had regained partial control of the Dublin money. The sequestrators had admitted in court that they were having great problems getting to the miners’ money.

  Terry stopped clapping. Terry stopped smiling –

  Terry tried to remember what he had been doing before the phone rang –

  Terry saw all the boxes stacked up in his office. The papers piled up on his desk. The empty cups on the windowsill. The aspirin bottles in the bin. The Denims outside. The Tweeds upstairs. The Red Guard downstairs –

  Terry walked over to his jacket. Terry went to the right-hand pocket of his jacket. Terry needed an index card –

  The phone rang again on his desk.

  Terry walked back over. Terry picked it up. Click-click –

  ‘It’s Christmas time,’ sang the voice on the end. ‘There’s no need to be afraid –’

  Terry sat down. Terry said, ‘What do you want, Clive?’

  ‘Let me guess,’ laughed Clive. ‘You’re Scrooge in the Union pantomime?’

  Terry said, ‘I haven’t the time for this –’

  ‘Really?’ asked Clive. ‘But I’m the ghost of all our Christmases-yet-to-come –’

  ‘Fuck off,’ shouted Terry. ‘I’m going to hang up right –’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Clive. ‘I just wanted to say thank you. That’s all.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Terry.

  ‘For not saying anything,’ whispered Clive. ‘For being a pal. I owe you one.’

  ‘You owe me nothing,’ spat Terry. ‘Nothing. Now fuck off –’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ said Clive. ‘We’re on the same side. Both want the same –’

  Terry hung up. Terry stood up. Terry went back over to the pocket of his jacket –

  The index cards were gone.

  Terry closed his eyes. He saw the cards on the kitchen table. He opened his eyes. He saw the boxes and the papers. The cups and the bottles. Terry looked at his watch –

  It was home time. Christmas time –

  Terry locked up the office. Terry went down the stairs. Terry drove to his house –

  On the radio. Again and again. Over and over, Do They Know It’s Christmas?

  He opened the front door of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield. The lights were not on, his family not home –

  Terry Winters couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Theresa and the children. They must have all gone down to Bath to stay with Theresa’s parents for the holidays. Terry had put all their presents under the Christmas tree ready for them, but they’d left them there under a coat of fallen pine needles and cold, dark lights.

  Terry closed the front door. He stood his briefcase and the suitcases in the hall. He went into the front room. He walked over to the socket in the wall. He switched on the lights on the tree. He sat down on his sofa in the shadows of South Yorkshire, in the suburbs of Sheffield –

  In the house with the lights flashing on and off, off and on, and nobody home –

  It was Christmas Eve, 1984.

  *

  Neil Fontaine has made mistakes. Neil Fontaine has paid the price –

  Now is the time to make things right. Now is the time to pay it all back.

  Neil Fontaine makes calls. Neil Fontaine pays visits –

  Pockets full of change and his little black book. Telephones and doorbells.

  No one answers their phone. No one answers their door –

  He kicks in doors. He tips up tables. He cracks heads. He breaks bones.

  Nazi bones. Nazi heads. Nazi tables. Nazi doors –

  East End pubs and West End bars. South London skins and North London toffs.

  Neil Fontaine drives through the old years and the new. The sleet and the rain –

  Now is the time. To make things right. Now is the time. To pay it all back –

  Sick of the lies. Sick of the life. Sick of the death –

  The severed head of his ex-wife in the boot of his car.

  *

  The President had been voted Man of the Year. The Prime Minister, Woman of the Year. But the Man of the Year was locked away in his office at the top of the monastery –

  There were wolves at the gate, there were carrion circling overhead –

  Now there were rats within the precinct walls –

  The Militants were mutinying. The Militants were muttering about the President. The Militants moaning about his navigation. The very direction and course of the dispute. The lack of vision and initiative –

  The Militants and the Moderates. The shots from both sides now.

  So the Man of the Year stayed locked in his office during the hours of daylight. The television tuned to Ceefax and Oracle. The Shostakovich on loud, twenty-four hours. He wrote letters to the families of jailed miners. He told them how proud they should be of their fathers and sons. Their husbands and brothers. How he had nothing but admiration for these magnificent men who had fought to save their jobs, their pits and their communities –

  Nothing but admiration.

  Len carried in the cardboard boxes. Len put them on Terry’s desk. Len went back down for more. Terry opened the boxes. Terry stacked up the bundles on the desk. Terry counted out the cash. Len brought in another box. Len left it on the floor. Terry put the bundles back in the boxes. Terry noted down the names of the donors and the amounts donated. Len came back with another box. Len said, ‘That’s the last one for now.’

  Terry nodded. He asked, ‘There will be people outside all night?’

  ‘It’ll be safe enough in the safe,’ said Len. ‘Just bring it up when you’re done.’

  Terry shrugged his shoulders. Terry got on with it –

  Len left him to it. Left him alone among the boxes –

  It was Boxing Day, 1984.

  Terry went back to work. He wrote down the names of the unions and local authorities. He pencilled in the amounts. He banged away on the calculator. He put the money back in the boxes. He taped up the boxes. He wrote words and numbers on the cardboard in black felt-tip pen. He sat back down in his chair under the portrait of the President. He took off his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He swallowed another two aspirins. He drank another cup of cold coffee. He blinked and put his glasses back on –

  The red light on his phone was flashing on and off, on and off, on and –

  There was always a chance.

  Terry picked it up. Click-click. Terry said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Comrade Chief Executive,’ she said.

  Terry’s stomach tightened. Turned and flipped. He said, ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘I’ve got a present for you,’ she giggled. ‘Your Christmas present.’

  ‘A Christmas present for me?’ asked Terry. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sorry it’s a day late,’ she said. ‘When would you like it, Comrade?’

  Terry looked at his watch. It had stopped. He said, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ she laughed.

  Terry wound up his watch. He said, ‘Just give me an hour to sort things out here.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said and hung up.

  Terry put the phone down. He picked it back up. Click-click. He dialled home –

  He listened to it ring and ring, echo in the empty hall of their empty home.

  Terry hung up. He picked up a box to take up the stairs to the President’s office. He put it back down. He opened it back up. He took out four big bundles of cash. He put them in his briefcase. He taped up the box again. He changed a three into a two on the top of the box. He altered the figures in the book. He carried the first two boxes down the corridor to the stairs. He took them up to the President’s office. He put the boxes down in the corridor. He knocked on the door –

  The music symphoni
c, deafening.

  ‘Who is it?’ shouted Len from the inside.

  ‘It’s me,’ replied Terry, ‘the Chief Executive.’

  The music stopped and Len unlocked the door. He said, ‘All done?’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Terry. ‘Just the last four.’

  Len picked up the ones at Terry’s feet. Terry glanced inside at the President –

  He had his glasses on, writing at his desk. He didn’t look up at Terry Winters.

  Terry went back down for the rest of the money. Len followed him.

  They picked up the last four boxes. They carried them out to the stairwell.

  Len asked, ‘What you doing tonight, Comrade?’

  ‘Why?’ said Terry. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  Len said, ‘Just asking, that’s all.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Terry. ‘Been a long day.’

  Len followed Terry up the stairs. Len said, ‘Been a long bloody year, Comrade.’

  ‘You’re right there, Comrade,’ said Terry. ‘You’re right there.’

  Terry kept open the door for Len with his back. The boxes in both arms –

  Len stopped in the door. He stared at Terry. He said, ‘So what are you doing?’

  ‘Think I’ll just go home to the family,’ said Terry. ‘Yourself?’

  Len nodded. Len said, ‘Planning to picket a power station.’

  ‘With the President?’ asked Terry.

  Len nodded again. Len walked down the corridor. Len said, ‘Join us, Comrade.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Terry, ‘but I have neglected the wife and kids this Christmas.’

  Len stopped outside the President’s office. Len turned to Terry Winters. Len said, ‘Just put the boxes down there then, Comrade. I’ll take them from here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Terry. ‘I can bring them in for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Len. ‘But you’ve done enough, Comrade.’

  ‘Merry Christmas and happy New Year then,’ said Terry. ‘And to the President.’

  ‘And to you and your family, Comrade,’ said Len. ‘Theresa and the kids.’

  Terry Winters walked back down the corridor. Terry took the stairs two at a time. He went back into his office. He picked up his briefcase. He locked the door behind him. He switched off the lights as he went. He took the lift down to the ground floor –

  There were no Tweeds. No Denims –

  Just the Red Guards on the door.

  Terry gave them a tenner for a drink and wished them season’s greetings.

  Terry clutched the briefcase. Terry walked quickly to the car.

  Terry drove to Hallam Towers. Terry went straight up to Room 308 –

  Terry had an erection and a briefcase full of cash.

  Terry Winters knocked on the door. Terry said, ‘Room service.’

  Malcolm caught red buses. Malcolm took black taxis –

  The streets quiet, the city dead. The trains empty, the ghosts overground –

  From station to station. Place to place –

  The lights blew in the wind. The lights fell in the rain –

  His shoes full of holes on pavements full of holes. His dirty raincoat in a dirty doorway –

  Hobart House and Congress House. Claridge’s and the County Hotel –

  The buildings quiet. The buildings empty.

  Malcolm had his key. Malcolm took the lift –

  An old black man pushed an industrial vacuum cleaner down the seventh-floor corridor. There were rope marks around his neck. There were scars across both his wrists. The light flickered on and off, on and off. The lift door opened and then closed –

  Deserted silences. Deserted spaces –

  From place to place. Room to room –

  The bodies hiding in the fixtures. The bodies hanging from the fittings.

  A young Asian woman washed industrial-strength bleach down a seventh-floor wall. There were whip marks across her backside. There were wounds around her vagina –

  She was naked from the waist down. Bleeding from the waist up.

  The television in the corner switched itself off and on, off and on –

  The Prime Minister talked of resolution. The Prime Minister talked of exorcism.

  ‘Everybody’s saying it’ll soon be over,’ said Diane. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I know,’ said Terry.

  ‘Two months, maybe even less,’ she said. ‘That’s what they’re saying.’

  ‘I know,’ said Terry again.

  ‘The finances won’t recover,’ she said. ‘The Union will split in two.’

  Terry’s stomach tightened. Turned and emptied. Terry nodded.

  ‘They’ll look for scapegoats,’ she said. ‘They’ll look to you.’

  Terry nodded again. Empty and turning. Terry felt sick.

  ‘You need an escape plan,’ said Diane. ‘Funds.’

  Terry got out of bed. Terry opened his briefcase. Terry put the money on the bed –

  ‘Will you help me?’ said Terry. ‘Help me escape? Disappear? The two of us?’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you really want.’

  Peter

  land in World War One – In end there were quite a few at hut for countdown. Everyone was upbeat and positive. Difficult to tell how they really felt, though. Lot of us stopped on right through until sun came up. Took it in turns to get warm in hut or go across road to one of houses. They kept an open door for us, did some of pensioners who lived up there. Not just on New Year’s Eve. There were two who’d been in last big one. Back in ’26. They’d soon get going. Tell you who’d scabbed and who’d stayed out. Folk had long bloody memories and when sun did come up there was a bit of emotion. I know I felt it. I got off home pretty sharp after that. Mary and our Jackie were asleep. I sat on settee downstairs for a bit. Just me and tree and all cards. I’d be glad when tree came down and it got put away for another year. Just didn’t seem same this year. Ironic really, because I’d never been to so many bloody Christmas parties in my life. I didn’t usually bother about it much. I couldn’t remember what I’d done last New Year. I went up to bed. Tried not to wake Mary. But it was too light to sleep now and she’d be up to make dinner soon – I start running. Running and running – I pushed chicken round my plate. Every family had been given a free chicken – That’s all I’d done this bloody Christmas, give out free fucking chickens. Make sure no one got two and someone got none. I shouldn’t have taken off that Father Christmas hat – Mary had made a big effort today, though. Made us put on paper party hats – I wanted to enjoy it. But one look at this bloody room said it all – Lights were all on in kitchen and dining room. Bloody tree in corner flashing away. Heating on full. Cooker on all morning. Radio. TV – It were all bloody on. Everything that could be and there still wasn’t so much as a flicker – Not a single fucking flicker after ten bloody months. Not one power cut – Just more fucking bills we couldn’t pay. Fuck – How much was it fucking costing them to do this to us? How bloody much? They’d sit on their fucking hands and watch this country crash before they’d break and give us even an inch. Fuck me. I pushed that chicken round through gravy and knew I should have been more grateful. Tried to smile for Mary and our Jackie. Brave face and all that bollocks – There were them that would have no special dinner this New Year, I knew that. Not just them in fucking Ethiopia or Sudan, either – Here in South bloody Yorkshire. Then there were them lads starting five-year prison sentences down in Kent – It was then that it dawned on me. Hit me for first time – That it was over. All over now. Finished. Bar shouting – Just a matter of time. Be like waiting for end of bloody world – I looked up from chicken. From trimmings – Mary and Jackie were watching me. Our Jackie holding a cracker out for me – I didn’t want to let her see what I was thinking. I closed my eyes – Deeper and deeper – I lay on bed after lunch. Listened to match on Radio Sheffield. Wednesday bloody beat Man United two-one. Two-fucking-one! Put us up to fifth. Final scores w
ere coming in, Mary sticks her head round bedroom door. Big smile on her face, scrapbook in her hand. Never know, she said. Might be an omen. I laughed. I gave her a big kiss as I went down stairs. I loved her. I really loved her. Her and our Jackie. Didn’t know what I’d have done without them – Not this. I couldn’t do this without them, I knew that – I was a lucky man. I knew that – Faster and faster. I turn corner – There were six front gate pickets up by hut on Pit Lane. There were also a fair few out today down road and all. Police had got hundred lads surrounded at junction by post office. Krk-krk. Not as many police as usual, either. Bit of snowballing going on, which was pissing them off. They got on their radios for cavalry. Krk-krk – Transits appeared full of riot squad. Then scab bus came up road at usual eighty mile an hour and into yard – Got welcome it deserved and all. I had a good look to see how many they had this morning – It didn’t look any more than before. Just usual wankers – Big two-fingered salute from two of them. One lad drawing his finger across his neck – I had a meeting with Panel over in Silverwood, so I walked back down to Welfare with some of lads. Most of