David Peace - GB84

‘Fuck off, Winters,’ said Bill. ‘What’s it doing in the boot of your car, then?’

‘The Union is buying the President’s house,’ said Terry. ‘That’s the money.’

Bill Reed shook his head. Bill said again, ‘So what’s it doing in there?’

‘Both the Union and our President are under legal attack, or hadn’t you noticed?’

Bill Reed grabbed Terry again. Bill said, ‘Fuck off, Winters. You’re a liar.’

‘It’s Union money for the President,’ said Terry. ‘I’m putting it in a trust. OK?’

Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters. Bill Reed let him go. Bill Reed shook his head.

‘What?’ said Terry. ‘You still don’t believe me? Ask him yourself —’

Bill shook his head again. Bill turned round to look behind him –

The President, Paul and Len were walking across the car park.

The President nodded at Terry and Bill. The President said, ‘Evening, Comrades.’

Terry and Bill nodded back. Terry and Bill said, ‘Evening, President.’

‘You two coming to the rally, are you, then?’ asked Paul.

‘Of course,’ said Terry. ‘We were just waiting to follow you.’

Bill Reed nodded. Bill Reed said, ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Take the motorway to Leeds,’ said Len. ‘Then the A1. If you can keep up.’

Terry Winters and Bill Reed smiled and watched the Jaguar pull out.

Bill turned to Terry. Bill chucked him his keys. Bill said, ‘Do give my apologies.’

Terry closed the boot of the car. Terry locked it. Terry opened the car door.

‘And remember,’ Bill shouted back, ‘all property is theft, Comrade.’

Terry got into the car. Terry slammed the door. Terry drove up to Durham –

He stopped once at Scotch Corner to call Diane, but she had already checked out.

Terry stood at the side of the stage with Len. The President took deep breaths. Then the President said, ‘I believe we are in crunch times. I believe we have now entered into a phase that will be the final and decisive stage, if our members remain solid –

‘For if we retain our solidarity, we can bring the Coal Board and the government to the realization that there has to be a negotiated settlement.’

There was no talk of victory. There was no standing ovation –

There was no applause.

go picketing any more. Be fucked if government did start moving coal from pit heads to power stations. Not be able to do a thing about it — Not properly. These parcels are supposed to have sausage, some chops, some liver and bacon in them, said Mrs Kershaw. Past three parcels all I’ve had is bloody mince. But Mrs Wilcox, she’s had sausage. She’s had chops. She’s had liver. She’s had bacon — I’m sorry, I said. I’ll talk to ladies who are parcelling it all up — Don’t bother, she said. They just look out for their mates. I know that sort — I nodded. I wrote it all down — I said, I promise I’ll see what I can do — Bloody nothing, she said. That’s all you can do. This Union is a disgrace. Bloody disgrace. Eggs. Beans. Bread. Spaghetti. That’s all we ever bloody eat. For nigh on a year now. But I’ve seen them and I’ve seen you too, Peter Cox. Not losing any weight, are you? Not losing any sleep either, I bet — I wait for horses. Hooves. Batons — Bad day this one. In a bad week. Hundred and fifty walked back in at Kiveton on Monday. Hundred and fifty in one day. Lot of faces down Welfaresaid it all. Said, That’s it then. That’s us — Grim sight it was, on news. In snow and slush, frozen and starved back — That was truth of it. Frozen and starved back — Hurt it did, to see them walk up that lane in snow and sludge. Their plastic bags for bits of coal and thin old coats against the cold — Pickets didn’t say much to them. This was different now — These weren’t your pit idiots. Your shirkers and your arse-lickers. Your head-cases and big mouths — These were honest, decent, hard-working miners who you lived and worked beside. These were your mates with their plastic bags and thin coats in snow and sludge. Frozen and starved — It was a terrible sight. Heartbreaking — Board and government on same news telling us there’d be no more talks. No more concessions — Been three bloody months now since last negotiations. Lot of rumours again — Board said there were now hundred and fifty in at our pit. That they’d had sixty in last two weeks — It was horrible. You didn’t know who was scabbing and who wasn’t — Blokes would stand there and lie to your face. People were accusing each other at drop of a hat — Thing was, once someone was branded a scab they’d just think, Fuck it then, and in they went. Board and scabs were behind this — Picking on a whole street at a time. Getting majority back in. Isolating families who were still out. Pressuring them. Putting it about that they’d gone in when they hadn’t — Whole teams and all. Face teams. Headings teams — Phoning each other up. All-for-one-and-one-for-all type thing. Didn’t care what rest of folk thought as long as all team were agreed. I could see that — Had to work together. To trust each other — Few of scabs were even going about trying to organize returns. There was talk of Silver Birch and National Working Miners’ Committee coming up to speak to them. I went to Paneland it was same story at all other pits — Talk now of expulsion for Nottingham. An amnesty for miners sacked during dispute — I didn’t say anything. I just drove home— Mary was out at a meeting with Action Group. Our Jackie round at her mate’s house — Just me. I stuck kettle and news on. I sat down — Ministers were telling media that they ould let the strike run on until it collapsed — Telling us. Telling Peter Heathfield. Mick McGahey. Arthur Scargill — No more talks. No more negotiations. No more concessions. No more chances — I got up. I switched it off. I picked up paper. I put it down. I stood up again. I sat back down. I got up. I paced room — I felt like I had a bloody knife in me. I felt cold. Horrid inside. Bloody horrible — I paced and I paced. There were Mary’s scrapbooks on side. True History of Great Strike for Jobs . I picked them up. Early ones — Herewe go. Herewe go. Herewe go — I turned pages. Those first few days in Sheffield — Wewill win.Wewill win.We will win — Mansfield rally. The Wakefield Gala. Orgreave — I put them down. I paced and I paced. I didn’t know what to do. I felt sick inside — Like I couldn’t get clean. Like I couldn’t get warm — I’d never felt anything like this in my life. I thought, You’re cracking up here. Be loony-bin for you now, old son — Mary and Jackie will come

Monday 21 — Sunday 27 January 1985

‘More to the point,’ says the Jew, ‘how are you sleeping, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine sets down the breakfast tray. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Like a baby, sir.’

‘So we’re waking four times a night and screaming blue murder for a suck on a tit and clean pair of jim-jams, are we, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine pours the Darjeeling. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Exactly, sir.’

‘Exactly? ’ laughs the Jew. ‘Very droll, Neil. Very droll indeed.’

Neil Fontaine hands the Jew his morning tea and the day’s Times.

The Jew is still in his dressing-gown. His slippers up on the sofa of his suite –

He sips his tea and skims the paper and the telephone rings. Three times.

Neil Fontaine picks it up. Click-click . Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Sweet’s suite?’

He listens. He hands the phone to the Jew. He says, ‘The Minister, sir.’

The Jew takes the phone with a smile and a wink. He says, ‘Good morning, sir.’