David Peace - GB84

Fights to the finish or organized returns with heads held high.

But it will never be enough for them just to lose; they must be seen to have lost —

Her ministers and her Board on television, boasting about not boasting —

Bragging about not bragging. Gloating about not gloating —

Terry switched off the radio. Terry got out of the car. Terry locked the door –

Terry opened the gate. Terry walked up the drive. Terry rang the doorbell –

No answer.

Terry knocked on the door –

No answer.

Terry went down the side of the house. Terry went round the back –

No one.

Terry looked in through the windows. Terry saw –

Nothing.

Terry went back to the front door. Terry banged on it. Terry hammered on it –

‘You fucking cunt,’ shouted Terry through the letterbox. ‘You fucking cunt!’

People came to their curtains. People watched from their windows. People stood on their steps –

Terry punched the door. Terry screamed. Terry kicked the door. Terry howled –

‘Bastard!’ he shouted again. ‘You thieving fucking bastard!’

Terry stormed back down the drive. Terry saw the sign in the garden –

For sale –

The people at their windows. The people on their doorsteps –

Terry raised two fingers to the former friends and neighbours of Clive Cook –

‘Fuck off back to your televisions,’ shouted Terry Winters. ‘Back to your teas.’

Terry got in his car. Terry turned the key. Terry switched on the car radio –

‘Figures don’t lie,’ the President was admitting. ‘But liars can certainly figure.’

There were 43 per cent of all miners at work now –

Just 7 percent to go —

There would be humiliations. There would be recriminations –

Heads on plates, goats outside the gates.

hand on his shoulder. I said, It’s not worth it. He nodded again. He opened his eyes. He sighed. He said, Will you have a word with wife for us? I nodded. He said, She’s going to go fucking mental. I nodded again. Be in good company then, I said — Deeper and deep er. Faster and faster — I look back up corridor. Water roaring down — I couldn’t get up. I lay there in bedas depressed and fucking down as I’d ever been in my whole life — There were over three hundred back at pit now. They had them washing coal. Yesterday morning these big lorries had come and picked up supplies for power stations in Trent Valley. Had a mass picket waiting for them. But they got in and out no bother. Just showed how low stocks must be for them, though. To have to be moving stuff from here — Fifteen big giant lorries. They were going to move whole fucking lot. All seven thousand tonnes of it — Oh aye, we’d stand there for rest of week. However long it was going to take them — We’d shout and we’d shove. We’d shove and we’d swear — But, fucking hell, I’d have liked to have seen them try to wash and move that stuff if we’d stayed solid — I knew then we could have won. Knew we could have beaten that bitch and all her fucking boot-boys. Her bullies in DHSS and media. Knew we could have beaten them and won because they would have run out of fucking coal — It was that bloody simple. It was that bloody depressing — I had nightmares every time I closed my eyes. Had nightmares every time I switched on TV. Every time I opened fridge. Every time I set foot in village. Every time I went into Welfare or up to Panel — Least bed was warm. Long as I didn’t let my eyes close. There was a tap on door. It was our Jackie with a cup of tea. It’s gone half-nine, she said. I nodded. I said, I know — What’s wrong with you? she asked. You on strike or something? — Get out of here, you cheeky cow, I said. I’ll get up when I’m good and bloody ready and not a moment before. She came over to bed and she give us a kiss on top of my head. Happy Valentine’s Day, she said. I’m a lucky man, I told her. I don’t deserve you and your mother — You don’t, she said. So you best get up before we kick you out. I went up Panel— High Court injunction against Yorkshire Area NUM now. Forbade picketing at eleven pits and limited all pickets to six men from pit itself — Last bloody straw, said Tom. Last bloody nail in coffin, said Johnny. That’s what it is and branches won’t abide by it — They have to, said David Rainer. They have to. I said, You know what this one lad said to me last week? He said, Pete — I used to hate them fucking scabs in Nottingham with all my heart. But you know what? If it hadn’t been for picketing them, I’d have had no brass. I’d have starved — No picket. No pay. No scabs. No scoff — Fucking starved without them. Listen to us all, said Dave. Like last bloody days of Third fucking Reich. It’s not over yet — But no one said anything. We just got up and went back to our branches to tell them they couldn’t even picket their own pit if there were more than six of them — I see a bloke behind us. Water almost on top of him — He was sat on our doorstep.Soaked through — Like a drowned rat. Shiv-ering, he was — I wanted to punch his fucking lights out. The fucking hell you been? I shouted. Been bloody worried sick about you — I’m sorry, he said. Cath went. House went. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face anyone — Bastard, I said. I had you dead at bottom of reservoir. Topped yourself — I’m sorry, he said again. I’ve got nowhere else to go — I opened front door. I stuck hall light on. He looked in a right state. I said, Where you bloody been? Doing bricklaying down in London. Bit in Southampton — Why didn’t you say something? I said again. Folk been worried sick about you — I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want pity — Not pity when it’s mates, is it? I put fire on in front roomand sat him down. I put kettle on and fetched him some clean clothes. Thank you, he said. Best stay here, I told him. Until you get yourself sorted out — Mary mind, will she? Probably, I said. But she won’t see you on street, will she? I left him to get changed. I made him a cup of tea and

Monday 11 — Sunday 17 February 1985

Neil Fontaine dreams of her skull. The nightmare interminable. Her skull and his candle . He screams in his room at the County. The light always on. He kneels down by the bed. The notebooks all gone. He picks apart the hours. The days. The months and the years. Their lives and their deaths. He throws the pieces against the wall. He pulls down the curtains. He throws them on the bed. The bed empty. The sheets old and stained –

They want some things to fail. They want some things to succeed.

Neil Fontaine stands at the window. The dead light and the electric –

They let some things succeed. They let some things fail

There are always moments like this. Only ever moments like this –

But for how much longer?

*

Click-click –

He had called from out of the shadows (where there was only night) –

‘Malcolm,’ he had said, ‘you busy, are you?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to temporarily borrow your auricles, if they’re available.’

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Shrewsbury,’ he had said. ‘If you fancy it.’

‘If the price is right.’

‘Two and a half, plus expenses.’

‘You know where I am.’

‘Yes,’ Neil Fontaine had said. ‘I know where you are.’