David Peace - GB84

Monday 26 March — Sunday 1 April 1984

Theresa Winters woke Terry up. She had made him porridge. Scrambled eggs on toast. She stuck the kids in the back of the car. Half asleep. She dropped him at the station.

Terry stood on the platform. He stamped his feet. He rubbed his hands together. He had a first-class seat on the first train down.

The train was ten minutes late.

Terry found his seat. He ordered coffee. Breakfast. He checked his files:

National Coal Board vs National Union of Mineworkers: NCB High Court action against the NUM’s pension-fund investment policy.

Terry checked his notes:

Union constitutionally opposes investment of funds overseas and in industries that compete with coal.

He checked his sums:

£84.8 million annual contributions from members; £151.5 million from the NCB; £22.4million in pensions and £45.2million lump-sumpayments to be paid annually; £200 million for investment.

The President would be representing the Union. Himself. The President would be conducting their defence. Personally. The President would be waiting for Terry. Himself. The President would be counting on Terry –

Personally.

Terry put away the file. He picked up the complimentary copy of The Times:

More miners join strike as pickets increase; BSC cutbacks 50 % at Scunthorpe; Miner found hanged —

Terry felt sick. Terry looked at his watch. Terry changed carriages –

Terry sat at a table in second class as the train pulled into King’s Cross.

Terry Winters knew they would be waiting for him. Watching him.

*

‘These people need our help‚’ says the Jew again –

‘They are putting concrete blocks and metal poles across their roads. They are smashing their windscreens and slashing their tyres. They are urinating in plastic bags and throwing them at these people as they try to go to work.’

Neil Fontaine nods. He keeps his eyes on the motorway.

‘Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Lancashire, Leicestershire — these are the places where we shall win this war.’

The Mercedes leaves the M1 at Junction 21.

‘These are our people, Neil. These are their places.’

Neil Fontaine follows the police cars to the Brant Inn at Groby. He parks among the TV vans and the Transit vans. He opens the back door for the Jew.

The Jew gets out of the car. The Jew takes off his aviator sunglasses. He says, ‘What a charming little place, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine nods. He holds open the saloon door of the Brant Inn –

The room is packed with Union Moderates and police, TV crews and reporters –

Lights. Cameras. Action:

‘My name is Stephen Sweet,’ shouts the Jew. ‘I am here to help.’

*

The court had adjourned for the day. The President to his fortieth-floor flat in the Barbican with Len and the ladies. The rest of them back to their rooms at the County. They were all watching the news on the telly in Terry’s room. They were all laughing at the sight of the Union Right –

‘Some bloody secret meeting,’ roared Paul. ‘Look on Sam’s fucking face, eh?’

‘Couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, that lot,’ said Mike.

‘Talking of breweries,’ winked Dick. ‘We’re wasting valuable drinking time.’

Terry switched off the telly. Terry stubbed out their cigarettes again.

They all went down to the Crown & Anchor for old times’ sake.

Dick drank pints of half-and-half and told the stories –

Drunken stories from different times.

Industrial and labour correspondents in and out all night –

Just like in the old days. Different days.

Terry sat in the corner with his vodka and tonic and paid for their drinks. Tomorrow the President would ask him what they had done last night –

The President would smell it on them and Terry would tell him.

The Mechanic sleeps with the curtains open. The dogs in the garden. He watches the news five times a day. Buys every different paper they have. He cuts out the stories. Sticks them in a scrapbook. He phones Jen at her sister’s. Every hour. On the hour —

The Mechanic is waiting for their call —

The call comes. The voice says, ‘You owe us.’

‘Like fuck I do.’

‘Really?’ says the voice. ‘Well you’ve got four grand of our money and we’ve got a front-page murder that’s costing us a further five grand a day to clean up. Now does that sound fair to you, Dave? Does it? Really?’

‘I warned you about Schaub,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Only got yourselves to blame.’

‘Not quite,’ says the voice. ‘We can think of three or four other people.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Dave,’ says the voice. ‘If we were threatening you, you’d be tied up watching usfeedyour dogs’ cocks to your wife—’

‘Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.’

‘Finished?’ asks the voice. ‘Now listen —’

The Mechanic hangs up.

The President had not come to ask for help. He did not want help. He did not need help. The President had not come to beg. He did not want charity. He did not need charity. The President had come only to hold them to their word. To have them keep their promises. Honour their pledges. The President had come only to collect. To collect what was his –

From the steel men. The lorry drivers. The railwaymen. The seamen –

The promise and the pledge to cease all movement of coal –

By road. By rail. By sea –

To cut off the power stations. To shut down the steel works –

The whole country.

This was what he had come to collect and the President meant to collect it.

The Union took over the TGWU. They ordered tea. They ordered sandwiches. They listened to the report. The daily update:

Thirty-five out of one hundred and seventy-six pits still working; tailbacks on the M1 and A1 as pickets took revenge on the roadblocks; fresh trouble at Coal House; arrests at three-hundred-plus.

The President was in his court suit again. The President was impatient –

‘This case is going to go on for ever,’ he said.

‘But we knew this,’ said Paul.

‘For ever!’ he shouted. ‘While the Right are up there plotting and scheming.’

‘You’re taking on too much,’ said Dick.

‘Ballot. Ballot. Ballot,’ said the President. ‘That’s all I ever hear.’

‘We shouldn’t be down here,’ said Paul. ‘We should be up where the fight is.’

‘We’ve been set up,’ whispered the President. ‘Set up.’

‘Let me take care of the pension problem,’ said Terry.

The President looked up at Terry Winters. The President smiled at Terry. He said, ‘Thank you, Comrade.’

There was a knock at the door. One of the President’s ladies came in. Alice said, ‘They’re waiting for us.’

‘No,’ laughed the President as he rose to his feet. ‘We’re waiting for them –

‘Waiting for their unconditional support; for the movement of all coal in the British Isles to be blacked –

‘Then we cannot lose,’ said the President.

Everybody nodded –

Kiss me.

‘Not one single piece of coal will move in the whole country without our say so. We will picket out every pit. We will close down every power station and steelworks.’

Everybody nodded –

Kiss me in the shadows.

‘We will bring the government to its knees. We will make her beg.’

Everybody nodded –

Kiss me, Diane.

‘We cannot lose,’ said the President again. ‘We will not lose! We shall not lose!’