David Peace - GB84

*

The traffic out of London is a nightmare. Roadblocks at junctions. Helicopters overhead. Sirens. The Jew sits in the back of the Mercedes. He gets his updates on the car phone. He orders flowers for the dead policewoman’s family. Flowers to mark the place where she was slain. Felled by a single shot from the Libyan People’s Bureau in St James’s Square, South West One.

Neil Fontaine fiddles with the frequencies on the radio:

‘— pursuing its domestic policy, the government relies on the aid of the security service which cynically manipulates the definition of subversion and thus abuses its charter so as to investigate and interfere in the activities of legitimate political parties, the trades union movement, and other progressiveorganizations. Bettaney’s solicitor went on —’

Neil Fontaine changes channels again. He puts his foot down on the motorway.

The Jew looks out of the windows of the Mercedes. He gets excited as they approach Sheffield again. He talks of the body politic. He talks of the soul politic –

She has given him new orders –

New orders from the New Order –

New orders to follow. New orders to give.

Neil Fontaine has his own orders –

Old orders.

*

Terry knew the President blamed him. The situation was extremely dangerous and nobody dared predict what would happen next. The families would not be starved back. Troops could be used to move coal stocks –

The greatest good for the greatest number.

The situation was extremely dangerous and the President blamed Terry. Blamed him for everything. Terry had told the President he’d take care of it –

Take care of everything. Terry had told the President they would win –

They had lost.

Terry put his forehead against the window of his office. Terry closed his eyes. Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him. Blamed him –

Back to the Big House for Terry.

The phone on the desk rang again. It never fucking stopped –

South Wales called him at least twice a day with questions about the injunction. Click-click. They were not alone. Legal questions. Financial questions. Endless fucking questions –

It pissed him off –

Terry had done what he had to do. Terry had done his job –

Why couldn’t they?

Terry thought this would be Clive calling again. Clive Cook called constantly. Clive confused the codes. Clive forgot the codes. Clive ignored the codes. Clive cried –

‘I don’t knowhow much more of this I can take.’

Terry Winters thought Clive Cook might well have been a very poor choice.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘The Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Terry? Thank Christ for that. It’s Jimmy. I’m trying to get hold of the President. No one will tell me where he is. What’s going on?’

‘Not allowed to give out information over the phone. New directive.’

‘Fucking hell, Tel. This is urgent. You seeing him?’

‘I’d like to tell you, but then —’

‘Look, just listen. I’m down in London. We’ve just come out of a JPA meeting. The Board have just told us they’re willing to sit down with you all. Talk. Face to face. No messing about. I’m trying to set something up for next Tuesday —’

‘What’s to bloody talk about? He was on Weekend World saying they should use troops to move stocks. Told Jimmy Young he’d got more constructive things to do with his time than talk to us. There’s Tebbit all over the papers talking about denationalization. You’d be wasting the President’s time, Jimmy —’

‘Terry, listen. No compulsory redundancies and they’ll drop their initial timetable. That’s a fucking climbdown in anybody’s book. It’s a victory for us.’

‘Us?’

‘For the whole movement. For the NUM and NACODS. For the President.’

‘What do they want?’

‘I’ve got a letter from them saying what I just told you. But they want a response. And they want it as soon as possible. Then we’ll talk about setting the time and the place. But I do need to speak to the President.’

Terry drummed his fingers on the desk. He said, ‘Get their letter to me by courier. I’ll make sure the President sees it —’

‘He’ll thank you, Terry.’

‘I’ll ensure you have our response by the end of the day,’ said Terry. ‘Personally.’

‘You’re a hero, Comrade,’ said the man from NACODS. ‘A real hero, Terry.’

Terry put down the phone. Terry stood up. Terry smiled to himself –

Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him for everything –

But not for long.

Good Friday will be the Führer’s birthday. Ninety-five years old –

Happy birthday, Uncle Alf.

Ten days of feasting and festivities until the finale in the Walpurgisnacht fires –

The rehearsals will have already begun.

The Mechanic drives through Evesham onto Cirencester, across to Stroud and up to Cheltenham. This is the heart. The secret heart. The dark heart.

The Cotswolds. The Norfolk Broads. The West Coast of Scotland –

These are the places. The secret places. The dark places.

The Mechanic looks for the signs. The secret signs. The dark signs –

He finds them. Remembers.

This is the place. The secret place. The darkest place –

The Estate. The Big House –

Wewelsburg.

He parks well away. Lets the dogs out. He goes to the boot of the car. Takes out the rucksack. He puts it on. Whistles. The dogs come back. He feeds them. Locks them in the car. The windows open just a crack. He walks through the fields.Thestreams –

He comes to the trees. The leaves. He sits in the tall grass. He waits –

Is she sleeping. In the dark? Is she waking. In the light?

He watches the back of the house. The grounds through the binoculars –

The marquee is up. The fairy lights on.

It’ll be night. Darker still soon –

The generals in the house with their Wagner and their Bruckner under the portraits of Robert K. Jeffrey and A. K. Chesterton, the troops drunk in the grounds singing their songs about nig-nogs and wogs under the Fylfot and StGeorgebunting –

Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not here –

And he’d be here somewhere.

The Mechanic watches. The Mechanic waits –

The music stops. The rehearsal starts –

The doors from the house to the grounds are opened. The trolley is wheeled out.Thefakeswastika cakerevealed. Ninety-fiveunlit candles –

The birthday boy with the party knife in his hand –

Uncle Adolf played by Julius Schaub, a.k.a. Martin Peter Cooper.

The Mechanic gets the car. The dogs.

Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Christopher and Timothy were too fast for him. They were incorrigible. Louise fell over on the flagstones. She started to cry. She looked around for her daddy. Terry stopped chasing after the boys and the football. He walked back across the lawn. Louise pointed at the graze on her knee. Terry bent down. He kissed it better. He picked her up. He held her. Theresa came out of the house. She was carrying a tray of barley water. Ice clinked in the glasses. She looked at Terry –

She didn’t speak. She never did. Theresa Winters just smiled –

He didn’t speak either. He never dared. Terry Winters just smiled back –

He winked at his wife. He was going to amaze them all.

*

Last week was a dress rehearsal for the main event. The aperitif for today’s main course. Neil Fontaine has dressed for this dinner in a donkey jacket. He helps the Jew into his –