David Peace - GB84

The Mechanic pushes the yellow sticker up the man’s nostril.

The rest of the strikers come piling back down the road —

The Mechanic and his men have their truncheons out –

Ready.

Terry looked out of the hotel window. Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘I feel terrible.’

‘Why?’ asked Diane. ‘From what you’ve told me, you did the right thing.’

Terry said, ‘But Bill Reed trusted me. I went behind his back to the President.’

‘Congratulations,’ laughed Diane. ‘He needed to know. You had to tell him.’

Terry tightened his towel. Terry said, ‘Bill Reed’s going to be after my blood now.’

‘You worry too much,’ said Diane. ‘He’s an old drunk. Now come back to bed.’

Terry said, ‘But he’s one of the President’s oldest and closest friends.’

‘Never change, do you?’ laughed Diane. ‘Now, please. Come. Back. To. Bed.’

*

Don Colby sits in the back of the Mercedes outside Manton Colliery. Don is nervous. Don is scared. Gutless. Don wants to quit. Don looks at the Jew. Don shakes his head. Don says, ‘I haven’t the numbers.’

‘I know you haven’t,’ smiles the Jew. ‘But the men of Manton are scared. Intimidated. The important thing is not the victory. The important thing is the fight. To be seen to fight. For the men to see someone stand up and fight. Someone who is not scared. Not intimidated. Someone with guts. Someone who is made of steel. Someone special. Today that someone is you, Don –

‘You!’

Don Colby raises his shoulders. Don Colby puffs out his chest. Don Colby nods.

‘The day is coming,’ says the Jew. ‘Our day is coming, Don.’

Don Colby beams. Don Colby opens the door.

‘Remember, Don,’ shouts the Jew. ‘The Prime Minister knows your name.’

*

Trench warfare. The NEC had agreed to postpone branch elections for the duration of the strike. Hand-to-hand combat. The NEC had also discussed new disciplinary measures. Internecine –

Manton Colliery in South Yorkshire had held a branch meeting to discuss a possible return to work. The men had voted to stay out. But the result wasn’t the point. The point was they’d had to have a vote in South Yorkshire –

The Heartland.

The President was out on the picket lines. The President was down in Parliament. The President was here. The President was there –

Taking no prisoners. Showing no mercy –

The President was everywhere –

Terry picked up the thank-you card on his desk –

The same painting of the Battle of Saltley Gate which hung in reception.

Terry thought the President might have forgiven him. Truly trusted Terry again. But there were rumours sweeping the building –

Talk of talks. Talk of meetings. Talks about talks. Meetings about meetings.

The President had said nothing to Terry Winters. Terry still not truly forgiven. Not truly trusted again –

Still out of the loop.

Terry sighed. He walked over to the big windows. Immediately the phone rang.

Terry picked it up. Click-click. He said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Terry? It’s Joan here. Can you come upstairs?’

‘Now? This minute?’

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked. ‘Bad time?’

Terry shook his head. He said into the phone, ‘No, no. But is something wrong?’

‘Why do you always think that?’ laughed Joan.

Terry hung up. He went back over to the window. Bit his thumbnail until it bled. Terry wrapped it in his handkerchief. He squeezed it –

Tight.

Terry put on his jacket. He locked his office door. He walked down the corridor. He went upstairs. He knocked on the President’s door –

Terry waited.

Len Glover opened the door. Loyal Len nodded.

Terry went inside.

The President was on the phone. His back to the room –

Joan pointed at the seat next to Paul. Paul looked away. Terry sat down.

‘— know where they stand. They know where we stand,’ the President was saying. ‘There is no change in our position. If there is a shift on their part, then fine. Let’s meet. We’ll listen to what they have to say. But they know very well what we have to say. Know what we want. What our membership want —’

The other phone rang. Joan picked it up. She handed it to Paul.

Terry took his right hand out of his jacket pocket. He opened up his handkerchief. He looked at his bloody thumb. He stuck it in his mouth. He sucked it. He looked up.

The President had finished on the phone. So had Paul –

Everyone was staring at Terry again.

Paul said, ‘Paper cut, Comrade?’

Terry took his thumb out of his mouth. He put his hand back in his pocket.

Paul sighed. He held out four files. He said, ‘You’re going to need these.’

Terry took the files in his left hand. He said, ‘Why? What —’

‘Comrade,’ said the President, ‘I need you in Paris with me next week.’

Terry stared at the President. The portrait behind him. Terry nodded.

‘It’s short notice,’ said Joan. ‘Is there going to be any problem with your family?’

Terry Winters shook his head. Terry said, ‘My family are no problem.’

Day 70. Put us in the ground — Wake up. Lie here — Lie here smiling. Feels like it was all a dream. Good one for a change — What a day. Cath opens bedroom door. Come downstairs, she says. Quickly, love. I sit up. I reach for my cigarettes. Quick, she says. It’s on telly. I follow her down stairs. I sit on sofa next to her. I put cigarette to my lips. Television has pictures of Mansfield. Pictures of King Arthur looking like Adolf bloody Hitler. Right hand raised in a Nazi salute. Pictures of broken windows. Smashed-up cars. Lads throwing bricks and bottles. Lads fighting with police. Police bleeding. Police on stretchers — I throw cigarette on carpet unlit. I get up from sofa. I switch it off. Liars. Cath is crying. Bloody liars. Day 75.Bad dreams are Cath’s tonight — To drown. To suffocate — Keep us both up. That and rain. Day 78.Orgreave — First day. Bad from get-go. Lot of knuckle on both sides. Thirty of us from Thurcroft. Sixty-odd from Maltby and Silverwood. Outnumbered pigs for once — One convoy of trucks. Motorcycle outriders. Range Rovers. Seventy mile an hour. No stopping them — Someone picks up a stone. Someone throws it through a windscreen — Then that’s it. It’s begun. Day 80.Orgreave — They stick on an extra convoy. Jack and Sammy come down. No talking to drivers. Non-union as usual. Eighty mile an hour. Motorcycle outriders. Range Rovers. Half of South Yorkshire force out to help them in. Command posts. Cameras on roofs. Smile. Bloody works. Bad as Met for dishing out knuckle. Worse because they’re local. Know you. Get too near front you get a hiding — Black eyes. Stars. Broken noses. Ribs. Blood from your ears. Your teeth — Big push starts up. I go forward. Feet off ground. Into front. Into a fist. Take a punch — Here we go. Here we go. Here we go — I go down. Hard. Someone picks us up. I go backwards. Feet off ground. I fall backwards. Blokes all over me. I crawl out — Black eyes. Stars. Broken nose. Ribs. Blood from my ears. Teeth — Fuck me. They’ve got us in field again — Penned in. Like fucking animals — Lorries come up road. Lorries go in. Ninety mile an hour — No stopping them. Cowboys. No talking to them — Lorries come out. Lorries go off — Loaded. There were a thousand pickets up at Anchor today. Thousand fucking lads stood at wrong end. Pigs had set us up. Lorries had gone in Dawes Lane gate. Hundred of them lads here with us and we’d have had them today, says Keith. I say nothing. He’s dreaming. I look back down hill at place. Horrible — Chimneys and storage tanks. Black and ugly. White smoke and motorway — Bloody nightmare, this place. I hate it. Fucking hate it. Day 84.Pete opens envelope. He looks up. He nods — Orgreave. We go out to cars. We get in. It’s that fucking close we could walk it. I’m in with Keith and Tom. There’s room for one more. Pete tells us to hang on for stragglers. We watch rest of them set off. Twenty minutes later a lad comes into car park. He gets in with us. Off we set. It’s just gone eight when we arrive. Union have got blokes with maps and loud-hailers waiting. Directing you. Telling you where to go. Where they want you. Most of lads from Thurcroft are down Catcliffe end. They send us up Handsworth end. Police are helpful, too — Park here. Park there — We go down a side-street. Get out. Go up top field. End of High Field Lane. Walk down towards front. Must be five thousand here. Easy. Arthur himself again. Every man matched, copper for miner. Miner for copper. Stormtroopers stood five abreast. Ten abreast. Fifty abreast — Five deep. Ten deep. Twenty deep. Land fucking black with them again. Marching up and down. Up and down. On bloody double. Like it’s drill time — Like they’re fucking soldiers. Not coppers — Their gaffers bark orders. Try to corral everyone. Push us about. Not so fucking helpful now — Go here. Go there. Shut it, scum. Stand here. Stand there. Fucking shut it — That game. Half on one side of road. Half on other. Stick us lot in front of Rother Wood. Hear they’ve already let dogs loose on them down Catcliffe end. Maybe it’s our lucky day for once. Loud-hailers crackle. Roar goes up. I look at my watch — It’s nine o’clock. Two mile off in distance, twenty lorries are coming up road. I can see them — them and police escort. Lot of shoving now — Push.