David Peace - GB84

Inside.

*

Monk Fryston, North Yorkshire. Terry and Paul sat in the hotel lobby and waited. Tommy from the Board tried to make small talk. Did they want a quick game of pool to kill the time? A game of pool in a posh hotel while their members were being beaten. Their members were being nicked. Their members were being charged –

Their President lifted. Their President arrested –

Their President jailed.

Terry and Paul shook their heads. They looked at their watches –

Everyone had had enough.

The police had had enough; the police wanted the Board to go back to court –

For injunctions.

The Board had had enough; the Board wanted to talk conciliation –

Concessions.

Everyone had had enough. Everyone except the President –

They were on the verge of the greatest industrial success in post-war Britain!

The President and the Prime Minister –

Insatiable, thought Terry. The pair of them. Terry looked at his watch again –

The President had been bailed. Len and Dick gone to pick him up –

Len and Dick to drive him straight here. Then the talks could restart.

Paul got up. He went to use the telephone.

Terry looked at Tommy. Tommy winked. Terry looked away, out of the window –

The President’s car was coming up the drive.

Terry stood up. Terry went out to the hotel steps. Tommy followed him.

The President got out of the car. He looked up at Terry. He looked up at Tommy –

The President put his wrists together. He held them up in invisible cuffs –

He said, ‘Great Britain — 1984.’

The Panel, Silverwood— I was a delegate from Thurcroft Strike Committee; delegate took his orders from South Yorkshire Panel at Silverwood; South Yorkshire Panel took its orders from Yorkshire Area Strike Co-ordinating Committee at Barnsley, along with other three Yorkshire panels; Strike Co-ordinating Committee took its orders from National Co-ordinating Committee in Sheffield. In theory — Fat fucking chance. It was a bloody mess — Fuck him, shouted Johnny. It’s a waste of time and manpower — Johnny, Johnny, said Derek. He’s President of bloody Union — I don’t give a shit if he’s Queen of fucking Sheba. He’s wrong — Unity is strength, Comrade. Unity is strength — Aye, Johnny nodded. And blind bloody loyalty is sheer fucking stupidity. Lads in Notts are under more pressure than us. That’s where we should fucking be. Even if we did close Orgreave, wouldn’t mean anything. We won’t win without Nottingham. We can’t — Johnny, Johnny — Nottinghamshire and power stations. That’s where we should be. Not hitting same place every bloody day. Just plain daft, that. Banging your head against a brick bloody wall. Surprise them. One day here. One day not. Keep them guessing. Not us, though. Like an open fucking book, us lot. Derek turned to me. Derek said, You tell him. Make him see sense, Pete — But I had my fingers in my ears. My eyes closed — I’d had world on my back for thirty years. Thirty years I’d carried it. We all had — That was what we did. We were miners — Not pickets. Not thugs. Not hooligans. Not criminals — We were miners. The National Union of Mineworkers — Trade unionists and miners. Thirty years I’d carried it, but I’d carry it no more — Not for likes of MacGregor. Not for likes of Thatcher — It was time to put it down. Put it down and stand — In lines. Under sky — Black and blue. Shoulder to shoulder — But I’d come down to Panel each day for one. I’d sit in this hall and listen to them argue toss about this pit or that — Power stations or depots. Wharves or offices — I’d get our envelope. Our orders — Be back at Welfarefor five at best. Never less than fifteen folk waiting for a word — I’d try to sort them out. Do what I could — Then I’d open envelope. Orders — Work out cars. Mini-buses. Vans. Ring round. Click-click. Have drivers in for eight. Tell them who was in with who and have them meet us all back at Welfare for two in morning. Give out instructions. Maps. Petrol money. Quid for going. Send them on their way — Young lads, most of them. Send them on their way to places they’d never been until three month ago. Places where they’d stand about without direction — Without guidance. Leadership — Send them on their way to get beaten or nicked. Krk-krk. Or bored to death — Same with afters. Same with nights — Then back I’d go again next day and Barnsley SCC would sit there and ask Panel why more weren’t out picketing and Silverwood Panelwould come back and ask us delegates why more weren’t out picketing and Thurcroft delegate would tell them why more weren’t out picketing — Because they got nicked. Krk-krk. Because they got beaten. Krk-krk .Because they’d got no leadership. Because they’d got no money. No strike pay. No nothing — So they were working other jobs to feed their wives and kids. Why fuck did they think more weren’t out picketing? Pete, Pete — Don’t Pete, Pete me, I told them. I had one of mine knocked unconscious last Friday at Orgreave. Mate of mine called Martin Daly. He was purple in face. Fucking couldn’t find a pulse. Eyes in top of his head. Thought he was dead. This fucking copper hadn’t given him kiss of life, he might be. Three times he give him it. This same copper tells me not to take him to hospital in Sheffield or Rotherham because he’ll be nicked. Had to drive him all way up to Donny. Kept him in overnight. I went round his house to see him couple of days ago. His wife stands at door with pan of boiling fucking water — That’s what she thinks of us. This bloody Union. This fucking strike — I got my jacket. I stormed out — Back again next day like. Every day — Panel.Lads had been going back into Nottinghamshire all week. Some of them staying over a couple of nights. Been going well — Yorkshire Gala on Saturday and Sunday — but it was all

Monday 4 — Sunday 10 June 1984

Neil Fontaine pulls out into the traffic. Claridge’s to Downing Street. The sky is grey. Sirens wail. Armed police stand on every corner –

Ronnie’s riding into town.

The Jew is in the back. In the saddle. The Jew is ranting –

‘They think they’re winning,’ he shouts. ‘They actually think they’re winning.’

The Jew waves newspapers around the backseat –

‘And these clowns believe them,’ he laughs. ‘They actually believe them.’

The Jew throws his head back. Puts his hands through his hair –

‘So will the bloody Board,’ he moans. ‘And so will half the fucking Cabinet.’

Neil Fontaine stops at the end of Downing Street.

The Jew sighs. He reaches for his aviator sunglasses and a large white umbrella. He takes a deep breath. He is here to set the record straight –

‘Wish me luck, Neil,’ he says.

‘Good luck, sir.’

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Downing Street –

The War Cabinet.

He looks at the clock in the dashboard. He starts the Mercedes –

He takes a deep breath of his own. He has his own records to set straight.

Jerry and Roger are side by side in the dining room of the Special Services Club. They are looking at christening photographs.

Neil Fontaine sits down. He glances at the photographs. He recognizes faces –

Famous faces in private places.