David Peace - GB84

John Waterhouse dries his eyes. He blows his nose.

‘Never again,’ says the Jew. ‘Never again.’

The Assistant Chief Constable nods.

*

They’d taken apart Terry Winter’s office. Everything in it. Everything –

The carpet off the floor. The cabinets. The bookcase. The desk. The telephones. The chairs. The blinds. The lights –

Everything but the portrait off the wall –

It had been Terry’s idea.

These were paranoid times at the Headquarters of the National Union of Mine workers. Even more than usual. The press and television coverage was almost all hostile and negative. Even more than usual. Every question returned to the issue of a national ballot and democracy –

Democracy. Democracy. Democracy –

Even more than usual.

Terry took three aspirin. Terry picked up his files. His calculator.

He walked down the corridor. He didn’t take the lift. He took the stairs up.

Len Glover frisked him at the door. Len told him to leave his jacket outside.

Terry took off his jacket. Terry went inside –

Just the plastic chairs and the plastic tables remained. Melting –

The heating on full. The lights all on.

Terry drew the curtains.

The President looked up. He whispered, ‘Thank you, Comrade.’

Terry nodded. He took his seat at the right hand of the President. He listened –

No ballot. No ballot. No ballot —

Listened to the schemes and the plots. The counter-schemes and the counter-plots:

‘Without Durham,’ said Gareth, ‘the Moderates haven’t got the numbers.’

‘You rule it out of order,’ said Paul. ‘We’d get twelve-nine our way. Possibly thirteen-eight.’

‘The simple-majority proposal is going to derail them anyway,’ laughed Dick. ‘They’ll agree to hold a Special Delegate Conference just to buy themselves more time.’

‘Then come the SDC,’ said Paul. ‘Then we’ll have them.’

‘I’ll talk to Durham,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll make sure they deliver for us.’

Everybody looked up the table. Everybody looked at the President –

‘Then it’s decided,’ said the President.

Everybody smiled. Everybody clapped. Everybody patted each other on the back.

‘There’s just one more thing,’ said the President –

Everybody stopped clapping. Everybody stopped smiling.

The President stood up. The President stared around the room. The President said, ‘They are opening our post. They are tapping our phones. They are watching our homes.’

Everybody nodded.

‘This we knew. This we had come to expect from a democratic government.’

Everybody nodded again. Everybody waited.

‘What we didn’t know and we didn’t expect is that we also have a mole.’

Everybody waited. Everybody shook their heads.

The President looked around the table. The President said, ‘A mole, Comrades.’

Everybody shook their heads again. Everybody looked down at the table.

The President nodded to Bill Reed. Bill Reed stood up. Bill edited the Miner –

Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters as he said, ‘Contact of mine, very well placed. Told me they’re boasting they’ve got someone on the inside. Here and in Barnsley.’

Everybody else stared at the table. Their hands. Their fingernails. The dirt there –

Terry Winters stared back at Bill Reed –

Bill Reed said again, ‘They’ve got someone, Comrades.’

Bill Reed sat down.

The President said, ‘I need strategies. I need ideas.’

Terry coughed. He said, ‘It could be disinformation. Create mistrust. Paranoia.’

The Tweed next to Dick said, ‘And so could that remark, Comrade.’

Mike Sullivan raised his hand. He said, ‘Do we have any actual proof?’

The President stared at Mike. The President said, ‘We have proof, Comrade.’

Everybody looked up. Everybody waited.

‘The proof is on the face of every policeman on every picket line,’ he shouted. ‘The smile that says, We knew you were coming –

‘We knew you were coming before you even did! ’

*

The battle for a ballot is as relentless as the Union’s refusal to hold one. It is the one battle in this war that the Jew is prepared to lose. The Jew knows where the war will be won. Where the real battles lie. The real struggle –

For hearts and minds. Bodies and souls —

The Jew waves the Sun around his Sheffield suite. The banner headline –

UNION’S REAL AIM IS WAR!

The Jew opens another bottle of champagne. The Jew types another article –

Another Sweet Piece.

Neil Fontaine leaves the Jew to his hangover and his hallucinations –

Neil Fontaine has his own struggles. His own battles. His own war –

Neil Fontaine drives out of Sheffield. He turns off at the first motorway services. He watches the café. He waits. He stubs out his cigarette. He gets out of the Mercedes. He walks across the car park. He goes up the stairs into the restaurant.

The bastard sits down opposite the Mechanic. The bastard says, ‘Nice tan, David.’

‘Where is she? Where’s my wife?’

Bastard puts a packet of cigarettes on the table. Bastard says, ‘Safe enough.’

‘Where?’

Bastard lights a cigarette. Inhales. Exhales. Bastard shakes his head.

‘Fucking bastards. Fucking cunts.’

Bastard nods. Bastard says, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘What do they want?’

Bastard holds up three fingers. Bastard says, ‘The diary. Julius Schaub. Silence.’

‘I don’t have the bloody diary and I don’t want to know where fucking Schaub is. But I never talk. You know that. Never.’

Bastard stubs out the cigarette. Bastard says, ‘I’ll tell them what you said.’

The Mechanic puts an envelope on the table. ‘Give them that when you do.’

‘What is it?’

The Mechanic taps the envelope. ‘The four grand they paid me.’

‘It’s not about the money, David. Ever. You know that.’

The Mechanic pushes the envelope towards the bastard. The cunt —

‘ I want my wifeback,’says the Mechanic. ‘I love her, Neil.I love her.’

The nightmares have returned. Neil Fontaine dreams of the skull. The skull and a candle. He wakes in his room at the County. The light is still on. He sits on the edge of the bed. The notebook in his hand. He picks apart the night. Puts the pieces back together his way. He stops writing. The notebook to one side. He stands up. He opens the dawn curtains.

Jennifer Johnson turns over in the bed. She says his name in her sleep –

There are moments like this.

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

There are always moments like this.

up. Smile. They take their photo — Next! They take my wallet, my watch, my wedding ring, my belt and my shoelaces. They put me in a cell. They leave me here for about three hour, maybe four. I sit on floor with my knees up. My arms on my knees. My head on my arms. They come and take us to an interview room. There are two of them. Both plainclothes — One old. One young — They don’t speak. Old one goes off somewhere. Leaves me with young one. He doesn’t speak. Then old one comes back. He sits down. How did you get to Silverhill? he asks me. We drove. Whose car? Geoff Brine’s. Where is it? We parked it in Tibshelf. Other side of M1. How did you get there? Down A61. He nods. What’s your Cath think of all this, then? he asks me. You what? Your wife? he says. Your Cath? She support you, does she? What’s that got to do with anything? Well here you are nicked, while she’s working two jobs to put food in your face and beer in your belly — just so you can go out breaking the law. I ask, How do you know this? Who you been talking to? He smiles. Suppose, not having kids, he says, you don’t have same commitments rest of us have, do you? I don’t answer him. Young one leans forward. Why is that? he asks. I look at him. I say, Why is what? Is it you or is it your wife? he asks. What? That can’t do the business? I look at him. I shake my head. He smiles. He winks. Suppose you must have a fair bit of spare cash? says old one again. Not having any kids. I say, You after a loan, are you? He laughs. He shakes his head. Not me, he says. But your mate Geoff might be. Debts he has. Hire purchase. Mortgage. Two kids. Won’t be long before he’s cap in hand at your door. Unless he does go back to work, says young one. Old one nods. He will, he says. That’s why he wants a ballot. How about you? asks young one. You want a ballot? Course he does, says old one. He loves democracy, does our Martin. He voted Tory last year. Well fancy that, smiles young one. Here we are, three good Tories having a nice little chat in a police station. I say, I didn’t vote at all. Old one laughs in my face. Liar, he says. No, I’m not. Yes, you are. No, I’m not. You are, he says. You must be. Because I’ve been told not to charge you. Been told to release you. I say, You’re lying now. He shakes his head. You’re lying, I say. I know you are. Stay here if you like, he says. I don’t care. I stand up slowly. He nods. Pete Cox is waiting outside for you, he says. Take you home. I go to door. They smile. They wave. Whatever it is you’re do-ing, says young one. Keep up the good work. Pete drives me home. Drops us off. I don’t invite him in. Thought there might be fireworks. I open door. House is quiet. I go into kitchen. Cath isn’t here. Day 36.There’s no talking to her. She either shouts and carries on or lies on bed and cries. Picket line’s a bloody relief and that’s saying something this week. Babbington was a mass picket. Two or three thousand. Massive shove. Krk-krk. Load of arrests. Smile. Cameras out again. Pete told us to keep at back after what had happened at weekend. Today it’s Agecroft over in Lancashire. Tomorrow it’ll be Sheffield for big meeting. No sign of Geoff. Pete says he got bail but has to keep out of Nottingham. His wife hit roof and all. Poor bastard. There are about six hundred by time we get over to Agecroft. Doesn’t look to be that many police but they’re pulling anyone who swears or shouts Scab — Use of threatening words and behaviour. About half-eleven they start turning up for afternoon shift. Inspector lets six lads stand at gate and talk to them that’ll stop. Not one fucking stops. Same as Nottingham. That pisses everyone off. Lot of pushing then. Plan is to make a human wall across road. Have a bit of luck at first but then coppers get their act together and that’s that then. Few punches. Few arrests. Scabs go in. Lads have a go at an ITN camera crew on way back to cars. Be different after tomorrow. Day 37.Sirens and chants all day — Arthur Scargill, Arthur Scargill, we’ll support you ever more. We’ll — support — you — ever — more. It’s supposed to be just four men from each colliery in Yorkshire coalfield. Fat chance. Not today — No ballot. No sell-out — Time to see who’s who. Four thousand lads ringing St James’s tower block — Arthur’s Red