David Peace - GB84

Terry sat up. He looked at his watch. He had an hour before the train to London. Theresa and the kids thought he was already there. Gone down last night. For the march –

The first major Commons debate. The lobby of Parliament –

The Home Match with the Met.

Terry had booked the coaches. Made the arrangements. Paid the prices –

London. Wakefield. Orgreave.

‘That’s all he thinks I’m good for,’ Terry said. ‘Booking bloody buses.’

Diane came back over to the bed. She sat down on the edge. She kissed his cheek.

Terry said, ‘When will I see you again?’

Diane put her hand beneath the sheet. She held his cock. She smiled.

Terry lay back. He closed his eyes. He said, ‘When?’

Diane went under the covers. She kissed his cock. She sucked it.

Terry said, ‘I’ve got a lot of money, you know? We could just —’

She reached up. She put her finger to his lips.

*

The Jew calls Neil Fontaine at the Victoria Hotel again. It is the very middle of the night. The Jew is lonely. The Jew is bored. The Jew is depressed. The Jew is drunk –

He has been mixing his drinks; equal parts bravado and dread.

The Jew boasts about the success of the Derbyshire High Court action. Brags that the Nottinghamshire elections will rout the Militants –

Bravado.

But the Jew worries that it will all have been in vain. Fears the Board and the Wets will seek to use the Employment Acts –

Dread.

The Jew tells Neil Fontaine the Board are due to meet the Union again. Today. This time in Edinburgh. As far away as they can get. The Jew knows he’s been cut out. After all he’s done. The Jew senses a cave-in. A climb-down –

Beer and sandwiches at Number 10.

The Jew talks about Cabinet leaks. Talks about Wets. He says they are scared. Scared by the sight of ten thousand miners marching through the streets of London –

By the headlines in the Daily fucking Mirror —

The leaks about government intervention in the railway pay dispute.

They will betray her. These neophytes. These proselytes.

But the Jew is ready –

Ready to defend her. To save her. To send her victorious –

Victorious.

The Jew wants Neil back down in London –

ASAP.

Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. He tells the Jew he’ll see him on Monday. Not before.

The Jew sulks.

Neil asks the Jew about the President of the United States. The Summit. D-Day.

The Jew gushes. Neil Fontaine yawns –

He hangs up on the Jew. He checks out. He gets the car. He goes for a drive –

A job to do.

Neil Fontaine turns into the car park of the café. David Johnson is already here. Two big dogs in the back of his car.

Neil Fontaine signals for him to follow.

David Johnson starts his car. The dogs in the back –

The two cars head South.

Neil Fontaine winds down the window. Puts on the radio –

Ronnie goes home; the GLC Jobs Festival; England beating Brazil in Rio.

Neil Fontaine switches off the radio. Winds up the window –

Two cars. South.

Junction 14. Newport Pagnell. Milton Keynes –

Two cars.

Slip-roads. Side-roads. Back roads –

A cul-de-sac.

Nice houses. Detached houses. Barratt houses –

Safe houses for the unsafe.

Neil Fontaine parks in the drive. David Johnson parks on the road. Neil Fontaine gets out. He locks his door. David Johnson gets out. Locks his –

The dogs in the back –

David Johnson follows Neil Fontaine up the drive. He follows him inside –

They stand in the hall. The holdalls in their hands. The handguns in their belts.

The air smells old. The codes for Belfast and Derry are written above the phone.

David Johnson says, ‘Where is she? Where’s Jen?’

Neil Fontaine swallows. Neil Fontaine closes his eyes –

There are skulls. Mountains of skulls. There are candles. Boxes of candles —

‘Your silence? Or hers?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘It’s your choice, David.’

about collapse of talks now. Looked like it’d go all way to winter — Thatcher on TV talking no surrender; Heathfield saying it was stalemate; Board wanting to hold its own bleeding ballot — That’s why they’d scuppered talks, said Tom. Fucking planned it that way — They’ll go back to High Court now, said Derek. Mark my words — Everyone nodded. Everyone knew — He’s going to want one last push before they do, I said. Derek nodded. Derek said, Lads won’t like it. But if he says go, they’ll go — Last fucking time then, said Johnny. Last fucking time I go there — Everyone nodded again. But everyone knew — National Executive were in session in Sheffield. They were set to end all dispensations — No secret meetings. No secret deals. No sell-out — Not that we gave a shit; we ran South bloody Yorkshire. No one else, Johnny was shouting over chat. And that goes for more than just steel — Everyone nodded. But everyone knew where we were going — Orgreave. I looked round Welfare. Lads knew what it was going to say before I even opened frigging envelope. There were sixty-odd of us. Every one of them nodding. Big Tom came in. He said, Few thousand already up Handsworth end. It’s on radio. So off we set — Half-five. Didn’t take us long to find out what was happening. Lads were waiting for us at fence. Thought they were CID because this one bloke had a walkie-talkie. Krk-krk. Keith and Sammy were ready to give him a thump. Turned out he was from Doncaster area. He got out his map. Got on his walkie-talkie. Idea was we were to occupy frigging plant — He didn’t know how, like — But that was plan. Being local, we told him best way was to march ourselves round back of old tip and over top. Drop down right into plant. So that’s what we did — Bloody look on faces of security guards and coppers that were there — Shit themselves. Krk-krk. Just this one bloke who fancied his chances. Said he was going to set his dog on us. We told him to piss off. But he only went and let dog loose, didn’t he? Big one and all. Dog come running at us. This one lad Steve, one of ours — he just stuck up his foot. Kicked dog in head. Dog went down. Dog was dead. Fucking killed it — Just like that. But we were in — Inside fucking plant — and for that one sweet bloody moment we were here and they were there — and we were winning. Winning. We had fucking plant. We were holding them on tip, too. Dust going up. Folk black as pitch. Bobbies head to toe in stuff. Krk-krk. Dawn coming up with it — Beautiful one it was, too. Right hot one — But that was end of it. No fucking clue what to do next. Doncaster lads went for pump house. All wagons that were there. Rest of them ready to go toe-to-toe with boys in fucking blue — but they’d fucked off to get their riot gear. Krk-krk. Back in a bit with big sticks and their kits — Bits of wood, all we had. Like waiting to get kicked and nicked — Big push or a few hundred more and we’d have had them. Had them bastards. No messing. Shut plant — Won day. Then and only then, like — But there was no support. No big push — No sense waiting to be clobbered or collared either. So we walked. Headed back up Treeton Lane onto Orgreave Road — First lorries coming off Parkway and past us as we went. I looked at my watch again: eight-fifteen — Massive roar. Big noise went up — First lorries were in. It had started again — Lads had heard they were using dogs to mop folk up. Stragglers left back in villages — Lads wanted to join main body up Handsworth end. It was where Our Arthur was — Our Leader. Our King — Safety in numbers. That’s what they wanted — What police wanted, too. They marched us south down onto Highfield Lane — Police cordon across road. They broke to let us through. Told us to join thousands they’d penned in up at Handsworth end of lane — What a sight that was. Thousands of us — They’d laid on buses from all over: Kent, Notts, Wales, Durham, Newcastle, Scotland — Parked them up in centre of Sheffield. Then they’d all walked out to Orgreave — Thousands and thousands of us. Like Saltley Revisited — Everyone marching out here. Traffic at a standstill — Police were a sight themselves, mind. Thousands of them and all. Got their own buses, too — Fifteen different forces, they reckoned — Big black sea of