David Peace - GB84

Monday 7 — Sunday 13 January 1985

The Right Honourable Member of Parliament had come back for more in the underground car park. In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach —

His mouth moved again. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm more questions —

Malcolm still could not answer. Malcolm still could not hear –

But Malcolm had more tapes —

From the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –

They would find more answers here. They would hear more tapes —

More recordings of the Dead.

Today was the day. Yet another of the days. These endless fucking end days –

Another NEC meeting. Another showdown between the Militants and Moderates. There would be an attempt to expel Nottingham. There would be a move to restructure and reorganize the remaining areas. The Militants would then command the majority on the Executive. The Militants would then have the initiative. The Militants would then control the course of the dispute –

Then the witch hunts could begin. The witch hunts and the inquisition –

The torture and confessions. The trials and executions. Burnings and beheadings.

Today was the day and Terry wasn’t invited. Terry wouldn’t be missed.

Terry Winters had the house to himself. Terry got out of bed and went to work. Into the loft and the suitcases. Into the pantry and the biscuit tins.

Terry called the office. He told them he was going to Bath to pick up his family. He said he’d be back in the office tomorrow or the morning after. The weather willing –

This fucking weather.

He would have to change routes. He didn’t want to cross the Moors on an A road. He’d have to go up to the M62. He rechecked her plans and reset his watch –

He could still do it, but he’d have to get his skates on.

Terry locked up. Terry put the suitcases in the boot. Terry set off –

Sheffield up to Junction 42. The M62 to Manchester –

Snow. Sleet. Rain. Sleet. Snow. Sleet. Rain. Sleet. Snow –

Through Manchester into Liverpool. Terry Winters boarded the fast ferry –

The last fast ferry to Dublin until the weather improved.

Terry hated boats. Terry hated the sea. The currents and the depths –

Terry knew this would be a nightmare.

But Diane had said the airports were being watched. Terry’s face too well known.

Terry knew she was right. Terry knew he was a national hero to some people –

The enemy within to others. Terry knew she was right. It was the price of fame.

Terry left the suitcases locked in the boot. Terry sat in the bar and drank –

Puked and puked —

The crossing rough. The crossing slow. The crossing taking forever.

Terry had another drink and tried to read the papers –

The papers full of the Big Freeze. Record demands for power. But no power cuts.

Terry puked again. Terry drank again. Terry took out his own papers –

Their own Big Freeze. The eight million pounds still frozen overseas.

Terry looked at his watch. He was going to arrive too late for the banks –

For the regular banking hours. But Diane had phoned ahead. Made arrangements.

Terry disembarked in Dublin and went straight to the bank.

The bank was waiting for Terry –

Mr Winters and his suitcases were expected.

Terry Winters opened the account in the name of Pine Tree Investments –

It was a name that had come to him when he’d been putting out the kids’ presents –

Diane liked the name too.

The President, Paul and Dick were listed as joint trustees with Joan and Mike. However, only Terry could authorize deposits and withdrawals from the account, transactions that could be completed only by the appropriate password –

The password known only to Terry and Diane. The account known only to them –

The account containing £250,000 and counting.

Hats off to Diane. It truly was a master plan –

If the account was discovered, then Terry was only protecting the Union’s assets. If they tried to make a scapegoat out of Terry, then he had his exit. They both did –

Terry would divorce his wife. Diane would divorce her husband.

Terry and Diane would catch the first fast ferry to Dublin –

Terry and Diane would go to the bank. Terry and Diane would say the word –

The money would be theirs. The future would be theirs –

A £250,000 future and counting.

*

Malcolm Morris pressed play again. Malcolm played it all back again —

Again and again. All of it. Over and over —

More voices from the shadows, where the silences did not quite reach yet —

‘— my father took me from my mother. Not to raise me, but to train and cure me. He failed me and I failed him. He took his own life as I took mine. Lincoln College, Oxford, offered me a place out of respect for him and pity for me. I took up their offer of Medieval and Military History, out of pity for him, and paid my last respects with three last little words –

‘I hate you —’

More lies from the light, from which the truth ran and hid. In the shadows —

‘— in a dull room in Great Marlborough Street they asked me dull questions and I gave them dull answers. Then they offered me tea laced with whisky and a dull job, which I took with a handshake and a peppermint for the train back to Oxford —’

This one promise from those shadows, where their threats would not follow —

‘— Diane was morbid even then. Drawn to secrets, suicides and sex. She pretended to like my poetry. She pretended to like my personality. She pretended to like the inside of my pants, and I pretended too. It was all good practice. It was all good fun. Then it all went wrong when I said those three last little words –

‘I love you —’

This one truth from the shadows inside, the lies upstairs and down —

‘— I got off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane and onto Curzon Street and on a grim September day I stepped inside Leconfield House and they put me to work behind a grim desk in a grim, windowless room for the rest of my grim days, laced with whisky and peppermints they all said would help pass the grim time —’

These whispers from the shadows, where their spirits had all fled and hid —

‘— they gave me the Yorkshire branches of the Communist Party of Great Britain. The British Road to Socialism and The Theory and Practice of Communism to read on all those long lunch breaks from which they never returned —’

Those slim truths from those dark pages, where their fat lies had not yet reached –

‘— and I got off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane and onto Curzon Street and on a dead August day in 1969 I stepped inside Leconfield House and they gave me a dead letter with Diane’s name crossed out and mine pencilled in, marked Urgent and stamped Ulster —’

That voice from the shadows at the back. The silence at the gates —

The scissors in her hands. Hungry.

*

Neil Fontaine pours the drinks in the Jew’s Hobart House office. He pours large ones. Stiff ones all round. One thousand two hundred new faces went back in yesterday. Thirty-eight per cent of all miners now working –

But it’s not enough. Not yet. It’s never enough. Not now.

The bloody Bank of England has been forced to step in to save the Midland Bank. Two billion pounds pumped into the system overnight. Interest rates going up, up, up –