David Peace - GB84

There was a passenger and her legs were open, waiting —

The German car in the black. The drive out to the forest —

The songs on the radio. The silence in the back —

The unmarked road. The quiet brakes. The exhaust fumes. The open boot —

The spade in the dirt. The hole in the ground —

The soil and the stones over Malcolm’s bones.

through grilles on window of a Coal Board bus. That you, is it, Billy? He looked at us. He said, You know it’s not, Pete. You know I’ll live in shame for rest of my days. Hate myself. But who’s going to look after our lass when I’m gone. I know I’m sick and I know I’ll not pass their medical. I’m going back to work to pick up them redundancy forms so I can give something back to our lass after all she’s given me this past year. Every bloody year of our lives. I’m not going to die of their fucking dust and leave her with nothing. See her out on streets. I’m all she has and this fucking job is all I have. Lose it and we’ve nothing — There was nothing more to say. I left him be — I went back home.I went straight upstairs— Put blanketsover my head. Fingers in my ears — I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to hear anyone — Not Martin. Not my father, either — This was worst week. Fucking strangest I’d ever lived — There were meetings and there were rallies. I went to the meetingsand I went to the rallies— But it felt like it was all happening to someone else. Not me — The SDC rejecting that final, worthless, fucking document. Last big rally in Trafalgar Square. Nottingham ending OT ban — Then Monday almost four thousand went in. Yorkshire voted to strike on. News that there were over 50 per cent now at work — The endless talk about returns with a settlement. Organized returns without. Returns with an amnesty. Returns without — The Branchmeeting. Packed — Us all listening to Arthur. Looking to Arthur — I want to make it clear, he said, that there is no way this Executive Committee will ever be a party to signing a document that would result in the closure of pits. The axing of jobs. The destruction of communities — Felt that it was all happening to someone else. That Arthur was talking about something that was happening to other people. In another place — Not to me. Not to my family. Not to my friends. Not to my pit. Not to my village. Not to my county. My bloody country — That I was just a shell. That this wasn’t me — Not after all these months. After all these weeks. These days — Just a shell. An empty shell — Not this time.Not now — There were so many meetings.There was so much talk — Them that mattered went down to London. Left us here to wait — To wait and watch TV. To watch and wait — It was Sunday again. Day of rest — I was sat there on setteewith Mary and our Jackie. Martin had gone off to help Chris try to sell some furniture somewhere — TV was on. Not fire — We’d spent afternoon at Pinderfields Hospital in Wakefield because Mary’s mother had had a fall and burnt herself with a pan of milk. Had all that and then we’d driven back here in rain — Throwing it down, it was. Bloody miserable day — I was sat there. Cup of tea with no milk again — Middle of Dad’s Army . Newsflash — Miners’ Strike is over — That was it. Just like that — I thought I was going to pass out. Right there and then — I could tell Mary and our Jackie didn’t want to look at me. Didn’t know what to say, did they? But what was there to say? — It was over. Finished. We’d lost. The end — I stood up. Jaw clamped shut. I walked across room. Knocked half a dozen things over as I went — Blinking. Fighting back bloody tears — I walked up stairsand ran into bedroom.I laid down on bed.Face down in pillowand I sobbed. Then onto floor.I bloody sobbed and sobbed. I could hear phone ringing downstairs. I could hear Mary pick it up. Hear her calling my name. Hear her tell them I must have just popped out. Yes, she said. He saw news. He does know. Thank you. Heard her hang up and come up stairs. Heard her open door and come over to bed — She put her arms round me. Her head on my back — I love you, she said. I’m proud of you. Things you’ve done. Things you’ve said these past months. This past year. Just remember that — I wiped my face. I dried my eyes. I turned and I kissed my wife — Kissed her ears. Kissed her eyes. Kissed her mouth. Kissed her hair — I held her and felt her heart beating — Hard. Steady. Strong. True — I felt her heart beating and I closed my eyes — Thistimeit’s me. Here — Inthe darkness. Under the ground — There’s nolight. There’s noexit — Justme. Here — Hereon the floor.

Monday 25 February — Sunday 3 March 1985

Terry Winters sat at the kitchen table of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. His three children were squabbling again. His wife worrying. Terry ignored them. Breakfast television was showing pictures from the rally in Trafalgar Square yesterday. The final rallies in the final hours. The police put the numbers at less than fifteen thousand. One hundred arrested. Hundreds more batoned. The Union said there were between eighty and one hundred thousand. Numbers. Numbers. Numbers . Terry ignored it all. He took an index card from the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He read it. He closed his eyes –

It was blank —

Terry Winters opened his eyes. His children had gone to school. His wife to work. Terry looked down at the index card again. He put his hand into his right pocket again. He took out another card, and another, and another –

They were all blank.

Terry went back to work. Terry sat at his desk. Terry watched Ceefax all day:

Four thousand had returned to work today. Highest ever figure for a Monday. Two thousand more returnees and the Board would then have their magical 50 percent. Meanwhile, the NottinghamshireArea Council had called off the overtime ban—

Ten thousand more tonnes a week to the government stockpiles.

Terry changed channels. Terry waited for the next news:

The President and Dick on the steps of Congress House, long coats and faces. ‘When history examines this dispute,’ railed the President, ‘there will be a glaring omission — the fact that the trade union movement has been standing on the sidelines while this Union has been battered.’

Terry switched off the television. Terry waited for the telephone to ring.

*

Neil Fontaine leaves the Jew among the popped corks and the empty bottles. The party hats and the streamers. The trophies and the spoils. The winners and the victors –

Just six hundred bodies short now.

Neil Fontaine takes a cab to the Special Services Club.

Jerry finishes his cigar. Jerry pushes away the ashtray. Jerry leans forward –

‘There is a price,’ says Jerry.

Neil Fontaine nods just once. Neil Fontaine says, ‘I know.’

Jerry lifts up his napkin. Jerry pushes an envelope across the tablecloth –

Just the one thin, brown envelope.

Neil Fontaine picks it up. Neil Fontaine stands up –

‘Love will always let you down,’ says Jerry. ‘Always has and it always will.’

Neil Fontaine takes a taxi back to Bloomsbury. He walks down towards Euston. He goes into St Pancras. He sits in the pew. He bows his head. He says a prayer –