David Peace - GB84

NCB on the back.

The Jew stands in the middle of his hotel suite in the donkey jacket. He says, ‘When in Rome, eh, Neil?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Chop-chop then,’ says the Jew. ‘Let’s not miss their Nero and his games.’

Neil Fontaine escorts the Jew downstairs. They walk through the hotel lobby They step out into the bright Sheffield sunshine.

The Jew puts on his sunglasses. He looks up at the helicopters.

Neil Fontaine leads the Jew through the deserted backstreets. Towards the noise. Neil Fontaine leads him to the Memorial Hall. Towards the chants –

This is what the Jew has come back to see:

The Special Delegate Conference of the National Union of Mineworkers.

Seven thousand men on the streets. One single message on their lips –

Their badges and their banners:

No ballot.

The Jew waits in the shadows. Neil Fontaine stands behind him.

The Jew watches the crowd. The Jew listens to the crowd –

Listens to their cheers. Their thunderous cheers.

The Jew watches the speakers. The Jew listens to the speakers –

Speech after speech from speaker after speaker –

Against the government. Against the police. Against the state. Against the law.

The Jew listens to their reception. Their thunderous reception –

Not for the Labour Party. Not for parliamentary opposition. Not for democracy –

But for extra-parliamentary opposition. And for their President.

They have their victory again and their President has his –

His victory. His victory speech:

‘I am the custodian of the rulebook and I want to say to my colleagues in the Union that there is one rule, above all the rules in the book, and that is when workers are involved in action –

‘YOU DO NOT CROSS PICKET LINES IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.’

The Jew listens. The Jew watches –

He watches their leader lauded. He watches their delegates disperse –

He watches the men move on –

To bottles. To stones. To attack the press –

The banks of photographers. The mass of TV crews.

To attack the police and the police attack back –

The pub fights and the snatch squads.

The Jew in the shadows. Neil Fontaine behind him.

It is Thursday 19 April 1984 –

Maundy Thursday –

‘But this is not Britain,’ whispers the Jew. ‘This is another Nuremberg.’

*

‘The fuck is this, Winters?’

Terry looked up from his figures. Paul Hargreaves was standing before his desk. Len Glover in the doorway. Paul holding out a piece of paper –

A letter. The letter.

Terry put down his pen. He took off his glasses.

Len stepped inside. He closed the door.

‘Is there a problem, Comrades?’ asked Terry.

Paul banged the letter down onto Terry’s desk –

‘Yes there’s a problem, Comrade,’ he said. ‘The fucking problem is you.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ asked Terry.

Paul stared at him. He tapped the letter. He said, ‘You changed this.’

‘Did I?’ asked Terry. ‘Did I really?’

Paul reached across the desk to take hold of Terry. Len pulled him back –

‘What do you mean, did I ?’ shouted Paul. ‘You know fucking well you did. You’re such an arrogant bloody prick, Winters. Arrogant and —’

‘Then I apologize,’ said Terry. ‘I apologize to both of you, Comrades.’

Paul made another lurch towards the desk. Len held him back –

‘It was a fucking opportunity and you fucking killed it,’ screamed Paul. ‘Dead. There’s nothing now. No meeting. Nothing. I hope you’re fucking pleased with yourself, Comrade. Dead in the water. Nothing. Fucking satisfied now, Comrade ?’

‘I made a mistake then,’ said Terry. ‘I thought the President said pit closures and job losses were not negotiable. I thought I was simply restating our position. I’m sorry.’

Len let go of Paul. Paul stared at Terry Winters –

Terry smiled at Paul Hargreaves. Terry smiled at Len Glover –

Len shook his head. Len opened the door. Paul pointed at Terry –

Paul said, ‘I’m on to you, Winters.’

Martin! Please — Go away, will you? I hate you! I lean my head against door. I say, I’m sorry, I — Just leave me alone for God’s sake, she screams. Leave me alone! I walk down stairs. I get my jacket. I drive into Thurcroft. I go into Welfare. They’re looking for people to go and stay in Nottingham for a couple of days at a time. I have a few drinks and I put my name down. Day 50.Harworth. By half-ten we’re starving. There’s a gap in crowd. Head off down a side-street with Little John and Keith. We go into this newsagent’s that’s got some sandwiches and pies. Got a couple of sausage rolls and a can of pop in my hands when police come in — Three of them. White shirts. No numbers. Met — Krk-krk. What you fucking doing in here? Buying a sausage roll and a can of pop. No, you’re fucking not. Get out. I haven’t paid. You got no money, scum. Get out. But — You fucking deaf as well as thick. Fucking out. Bloke behind counter just stands there. Gob open. We put stuff back. Keith turns to bloke behind counter. Sorry, he says. Shut up and get out, says tit-head. We walk outside — They push us in back. Across road. Now, they say. Pick up them feet. We start over road to field where everyone’s being penned in. Police three deep around them. Miles from scabs and gate. Nearly there when this big shout goes up. Lads are charging towards police with a bloody cricket screen. Police counter-charge. Screen goes straight into about half a dozen of police. Lads scatter. Run over tip at back. Hundred or so police haring after them. Rest of lads push forward — Fences go down. Folk grab posts — We’re just stood there on road behind police line. Police vans coming up behind us. Lorries for pit. Scabs. Scuffles. Stones coming over top — Fuck this, says Little John. We head back down side-street. Turn around. No one behind us. We go in shop again. Bloke behind counter shakes his head. Pick up a sausage roll and a can of pop each. Pay for them double-quick. Go outside and walk off back towards pit — Pitch fucking battle now. Ten thousand men kicking the living fuck out of each other — Like something from bloody Middle Ages. Dark Ages. Three of us just stand there — Mouthfuls of sausage roll. Shitting fucking bricks. Day 51.I phone Pete first thing. Tell him I’m a non-runner. Truth is I don’t fancy it. Not after yesterday. I put breakfast TV on — talking about troops moving coal stocks again. Cath comes down. Stands behind sofa. Not a word. I switch it off. She goes into kitchen. I follow her. I walk over to her. I put my hands round her waist. I say, I’m sorry. She nods. I kiss her hair. I say, Let’s go up to Whitby this weekend. She shakes her head. She’s crying. We can’t afford it, she says. I turn her around. I say, Can’t afford not to. Kip in car if it comes to it. She smiles. First time in a long time. Day 52.Pete called late last night, asked if I was up for it today. Told him I still felt bad. Tell from his voice he didn’t believe us — I don’t care though. Done practically every bloody day since it fucking started. Nerves are in shreds. Don’t even switch on television now. Rather spend day in garden. Least Cath is happy. Have tea ready for when she gets in. Sausages and Smash. Lovely. Go up to bed early, ready for tomorrow. Top of stairs, telephone goes again. I think, Bugger it. Let thing bloody ring. But Cath goes down. Martin, she says. It’s for you. I come back down stairs. I say, Who is it? She’s got her hand over receiver. Mr Moore from colliery, she says. I take phone from her. I say, This is Martin Daly. Cath doesn’t move. She stands there, watching my face. I listen to him. I say, I don’t know who told you that. Stands there, watching my face. I say, They were wrong. Stands there — Yes, I tell him. I know where you are. Goodnight to you. Watching. You threw us in a pit . I hang up. Day 53.We set off early. Drive up to York. Avoid Ferrybridge. Drax. Them places. Go through Malton. Pickering. Over North York Moors. Beautiful. Lovely pub lunch. Fresh air, windows down in car. Can smell sea fore we see it. Hear gulls. Turn to Cath. Her handkerchief out. Tears down her face — Mine too. You showered us with soil . Day 54.We hold hands. We walk up to Abbey. Find path. We walk to edge. Look over — The sea. The cliffs. The sky. The sun — I want to jump. Take her with me. Fall –