David Peace - GB84

The Mechanic and his men drag the pickets out. The pickets wrapped in the tent—

They fall onto the ground at the side of the road.

The Mechanic and his men pull the orange tent off the pickets. They drag them round to the front of the van—

The two pickets are in their twenties, dressed only in their underpants and socks –

They are dirty, bloody and bruised –

One of them has pissed himself.

They blink into the headlights of the van.

The Mechanic and his men step forward. They punch the pickets. Bridge of their noses. Kick them. Their balls. The Mechanic and his men put bags on their heads. Tight.Handcuff their hands behind their backs —

Tighter –

They march the pickets to the side of the road. Lie them face down in a ditch —

They cover them with yellow Coal not Dole stickers.

The Mechanic nods. His men get back into their Transit.

The Mechanic stands by the side of the road. He looks at the two pickets face down in the ditch in their underpants and socks —

Bags on their heads. Badges on their bodies. Handcuffed.

The Mechanic takes two Polaroid photographs.

It starts to rain.

The Mechanic jumps down into the ditch. He takes off their handcuffs –

Whispers in their ears, ‘Stay out of Nottingham.’

Neil Fontaine takes the back roads. The lanes. He comes to the bridges. The roadblocks. He slows. He pulls over. He shows the necessary papers to the private security guards. Neil Fontaine comes into Flixborough. The Trent Wharves –

It is a beautiful sight, glorious –

The checkpoints. The helicopters. Stopping and searching –

Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.

The ships in the port. The wagons on the dock. Unloading and loading –

Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week –

Coal.

Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes. He walks across the car park.

She is waiting for him. She exhales. She smiles. She says, ‘Congratulations.’

‘The drivers need helmets,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘The windscreens need grilles.’

‘Never change, do you?’ laughs Diane Morris. ‘Never satisfied, are you?’

Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push — Police ten deep. Holding — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Everyone shouting — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Few stones coming over. Hands up. Coats up. Shields up — Brick coming. Lorries go in — Folk go down. Folk go under. Folk get lost. I get pulled back. Fall back. I get pulled up. Picked up — It’s Keith. He shakes his head. We go back in. Five minutes later another lot of lorries come up road — Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. More stones — Brick coming. Lorries inside. Gates shut. Lines break. Snatch squads of six coppers charge out. Piling in — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust — Blue helmets. Visors down. Short shields. Round shields. Truncheons out — Hidings on both sides — Snatch squads taking as many prisoners as they can — Taking them hard — By their hair. By their throats. By their balls — Chaos. Bloody fucking chaos — Someone chucks a smoke-bomb. Fire-crackers. Thunder-flashes. Explosions. Red smoke everywhere — Then out come fucking horses. First time I’ve seen them up close. Six at a time. Visors down. Batons swinging — Kill you if they could — And they could. They fucking could — We run. We scatter — Half through wood. Half up hill — Into fields. Into open — Lads stopping to pick up sticks. Stones. Spars. Anything they can — I don’t stop. Horses don’t stop either — Straight into field after us. Open ground — Snatch squads behind horses. Transits behind snatch squads — Under blue skies. Across green fields — Fuck. I keep on running. Don’t stop till I get up near Asda — Till I hear them banging. Banging their truncheons on their shields as horses trot back and lorries leave — Leaving us to blood. To bodies. Burials. Under the ground. Day 85.My car today. I ask Pete for somewhere else. He looks at me. He shrugs. He opens envelope. He shakes his head. He holds it up. He shows it me — Orgreave. I tell him, It’s a waste of time. Fucking side-show. That’s what it is. He nods. He says, Fuck them. Try Bentinck. I say, Thanks, Pete. I go and get Keith and John. Lad called Stevie says he wants to come in with us. Set off. Get on M1. Radio on: Footloose. Everyone dead chuffed to be going somewhere else. Even if it’s back to bloody Bentinck. Wake me up before you go-go. Halfway down motorway it comes on radio Arthur’s been nicked up at Orgreave and pickets have invaded NCB HQ in London. Barricaded themselves in. Hung Free Arthur Scargill banners from windows. Mood in car changes. Radio goes off. Come to Junction 28 and it’s like police Transit van of year contest. Very helpful, they are — Try Junction 31, lads, they tell us. That’s where action is. Orgreave — They’ll let you go to Orgreave. No problem. They’ll even give you directions. Fucking escort — Make bloody sure you get there. There and only there — Nowhere else. I look at Keith. He shrugs. Stevie sticks his head between front seats. I want to go, says Stevie. Let’s go. I look at Keith again. He nods. I look at clock — Gone ten. Probably missed all drama. I go round junction. Set off back way we came. Come off at Junction 31. Take Retford Road. Head back to Orgreave. There for about eleven. Park by another pub called Plough. Place packed. Rammed. Have a pint. Talk all about Arthur. What they’ve done to our Arthur. Talk all about revenge. Payback. What we’re going to do to them. Word is lorries will be back between half-twelve and one o’clock. I look at my watch again. Time for another pint. And another. Dutch fucking courage. Gets to half-twelve and we head back out. Bright sunshine. Start up towards main entrance. Stormtroopers having none of that. Sieg Heil. Herd us all up to top field. Lot of lads are already up there. Not as many as yesterday. Most are sat about in sun. Shirts off. Packs of cards. Cans of cheap ale. Look like a load of tomatoes, that red. Be able to spot a scab by paleness of his skin. There’s a game of football going — Skins and shirts. Then game stops — Police boots march up road. Four abreast by us. Twenty deep down by gate — Lorries must be coming. Everyone pushes forward. Towards truncheons and shields. Full-length

Monday 21 — Sunday 27 May 1984

The Transits come at midnight. His team sit in the back. They drink. Listen to music: Under Cover of the Night. Loud.Deafening —

Their Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team have their bags packed. Ready. Their tools. The paint. The Mechanic and his team go from street to street —

House to house. Scab to scab —

In the last street. The last house. The last scab. They tip paint over the scab’s dog. Put the empty cansthrough his windows. Thelights go on –

The Mechanic and his men shout. They run –

The Transit picks them up.

In the back. They drink. Laugh. Listen to music: Breaking the Law –

The Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team have their bags. Their tools –

They do the padlocks. Do the chains. Bentley Brothers — Hauliers.

Through the yard. Tools out. The Mechanic and his men set about the trucks —

The windscreens. The brake pipes. The tyres –