David Peace - GB84

The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had met the Prime Minister –

Little boys on their bellies bare —

Met her one year to the day since she had rejected the no-strike deal at GCHQ –

She had picked them up off the floor. She had kissed their bleeding bellies better —

No beer and sandwiches. Just lots of coffee and biscuits to pass the time –

Tea and sympathy, and wasn’t it such a shame it had come to this?

Then the Prime Minister had shown the Fat Man and his Fat Friends the door –

‘We have done a good day’s work,’ the Fat Man told the waiting street –

‘But for fucking who?’ the President spat at Terry and the TV. ‘For who?’

The Fat Man went from Downing Street first to the Goring Hotel –

The National Executive of the Union were kept waiting; waiting and tired —

From the Goring Hotel back to Congress House –

The National Executive were kept tired; tired and hungry —

For the Fat Man and the Chairman to rewrite the eight points as requested –

The Executive were kept hungry; hungry and desperate —

To the satisfaction of the government. To the satisfaction of the Board –

The Executive were kept desperate; desperate to settle —

To the satisfaction of the TU-fucking-C –

To settle and return to work.

The Executive had been sent home. Then the Executive had been recalled –

Tempers were frayed. Nerves were frayed. Carpets were frayed –

The fifth floor of Congress House. The General Council Meeting-Room –

Around the horseshoe table, the National Executive Committee sat and waited –

Tired, hungry, desperate men gathered in the cold below.

The Fat Man got to his feet. The Fat Man had another document in his hand –

‘When we last met,’ he told the table, ‘the position was fixed. Since then, changes have been made. But the members of the Executive should be aware that it is the clear judgement of the Liaison Committee that no further changes are achievable –

‘That is the judgement of us all and we have been told that in writing by the NCB. The changes that have been made have been wrung out of those concerned, after the TUC had made the case at the very highest level –

‘There is no higher to go.’

There was silence around the table. There was anger around the table –

‘So the TUC is telling this Union that it can make no changes whatsoever to a document that it has had no hand in negotiating?’ asked Yorkshire. ‘Is that correct?’

‘There can be clarification,’ said the Fat Man, ‘but no negotiation.’

‘And if we don’t like the clarification?’ asked Wales. ‘It’s take it or leave it?’

‘This is their final wording,’ said the Fat Man. ‘They are clear on that.’

‘So what about the amnesty for sacked miners?’ asked Kent. ‘What about them?’

‘There will be no amnesty,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That also was made clear.’

The table looked at the President. The President looked at the Fat Man –

‘I’ll give you gentlemen some time alone,’ said the Fat Man, as he rose to his feet.

The table waited for the door to close. The table turned back to the President –

The President pushed the paper away. He said, ‘It is one hundred per cent worse!’

The table nodded. The table agreed. The table was united –

‘A boy sent to do a man’s job,’ said Northumberland. ‘A bloody boy —’

The table nodded. The table shook. The table was furious –

‘The Delegate Conference will bloody tear this up,’ said Paul. ‘Page by page —’

The President nodded. The President shook. The President stood –

‘This dispute goes on,’ the President told them all. ‘This dispute goes on!’

There was no day. There was no light. There was only shadow. There was only night –

The dog no longer a pet, black and starved –

Its master gone, its teeth exposed.

Here came the men. Here came the hour. Here came revenge.

They tied Malcolm’s hands and feet to an upturned bed —

In an upstairs room, they put phones on his head –

The tapes he’d made on loud in his ears.

They stripped his clothes, they shaved his hair —

They scoured him with wires and rubbed him rare.

They injected him with amphetamines, industrial bleach.

In the park, they soaked his skin —

Among the trees, with a petrol tin —

Lighter to his face, they illuminated tears.

They blamed his flesh, they cursed his bones —

They watched him blister, burn and moan.

In an upstairs room, with the curtains drawn.

This was the month when the oracles went dumb –

The unhappy eve, the voice, and the hum.

Here came the men. Here came the hour. Here came revenge.

The skulls sat and stared, with their Soviet dreams —

In the shadows at the back, the woman schemes —

Her nipples hard, her milk all gone.

These things they brought, they made him buy —

They told him stories, they sold him a lie.

The room was bare, the curtains torn.

These were her men by the side of the road —

Among the living with their language and code —

Their winter dresses in the summer cried.

They followed his car, photographed his home —

They recorded him on reels and tapped his phone.

The cigarette. The kiss. The wrong number. The look and then silence –

Half deaf in these rooms he hates —

In half light, the rebel angel waits.

Here came the man. Here came the hour. Here came revenge.

In the small hours, the thieves’ hours, with their knives of Sheffield steel –

Among the bodies of the animals, the Circle of the Tyrants kneel –

To hear her beat her bloody wings, in her new and lonely Reich —

Herr Lucifer! Herr Thatcher!

Beware! Beware! She will eat you like air –

Beware! Beware! The pits of despair.

There is a man who bought his council house and drives an Austin Princess –

He has a dark room and a very good stereo —

His wife does knitting jobs. His son is a garage apprentice. Karen still at school —

The winds will leave seven dead. He is not who he seems –

Beware! Beware! She will eat you like air —

Beware! Beware! The pits of despair –

The temples of doom. The worst weather in weeks –

These are the terms of endearment. This is the knock on the door —

This is their man. This is their hour. This their revenge –

Beware! Beware! The children of a hasty marriage.

*

Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew from the Goring and drives him into Soho for the lunch. The Jew is in a great mood. The Jew is sanguine. The Jew believes again –

The NUM. delegates have rejected the TUC agreement. The final hours nigh —

‘Make an enemy of Doubt,’ the Jew reminds Neil. ‘And a friend of Fear.’

The gang’s all here. The deeds all done –

Their hatchets buried, the corks pop. The knives sheaved, their glasses raised –

The end nigh –

There is a message waiting for Neil at the County Hotel.

There was a car and its doors were open. There were men and their arms were open —