David Peace - GB84

The speech and the speeches; the speaking and the speakers.

‘— a fight to the finish and it is not going to be a white flag — it is going to be a victory for the White Rose —’

Dennis. Ray. Jack. Hamlet without the Red Prince —

But Arthur would be here tomorrow —

Malcolm too. He moved on. Back to the post —

To sweat in a mobile on some industrial estate. PSUs playing cricket outside. Helmets for wickets. Truncheons for bats. Heads down. Out of sight —

Pit villages burning. Police stations stoned. Sieges and mass arrests in Maltby –

Payback. Playback. Payback. Playback –

Everything felt wrong. Bad –

Thunder. Heat. Static. Death. Noise. Ghosts –

Saltley. Orgreave. Saltley. Orgreave. Saltley. Orgreave. Saltley —

Worse coming —

Vengeance.

Head on his desk. Eyes closed. Headphones off. Fingers in his ears –

But the tapes didn’t stop. Nor the dreams. The echoes –

Miners and their wives. Their kids. Their brass bands and their banners —

Their badges —

Victory to the Miners. Coal not Dole –

Surrounded by spies —

Spies like Malcolm.

Desk. Eyes. Phones. Ears. Tapes. Dreams. Echoes —

A miner and his wife. Their two sons. Their two placards —

I Support My Dad — Me Too.

Surrounded by spies –

Like Malcolm.

Fingers out. Eyes open. He was awake at his desk —

Malcolm stopped the tape. He pressed rewind. Pressed stop. Play —

The sound of sobbing –

Under the ground, the echo.

them. Riot shields up. Crash helmets on. Right across road and over two whole fields. Three double ranks. Six to seven yard apart. Four deep behind each shield. To left and right there were snatch squads. Further right still they’d got cavalry ready. To left were dogs. Helicopters above us. Reserves stretching back three hundred yard. More vans and buses parked up in lanes. They must have been bloody hot. Boiling. TV was here, too. Fucking couldn’t keep away, could they? — None of us could. Everywhere you looked — You looked and you knew. Knew there was going to be a lot of bloody hurt today — It was now or never. Everyone knew that. Now or never — Lines had been drawn. Lion’s mouth was open — Now or never. Bloke side of me said, Wish I’d wore me boots — Now: half-nine — Lorries coming back out. Loaded up. Police fucking drivers. Royal Corps of Transport. HGV licences still fucking wet — Saluting as they left. Two fingers — Us trapped right in middle of push. Meat in sandwich we were. Bloody truncheon meat — Fucking big push from lads now. T-shirts and skin hard against Perspex and leather — Jumpers round our waists. Faces against their shields — Truncheons coming over top of shields. Ribs and shins struck in the ruck. Ribs and shins — Fuck me. Bricks and sticks over top of us. Bricks and sticks — Fuck. It had started again all right. Fuck me it had — Black. Blue. Bloody. All the colours of war — Then police line gave. Ground moved — Like Doomsday. End of fucking world — Hooves tasted earth. The hooves bit. The hooves chewed. The hooves ate fucking earth — Here they came. Here they came. Here they came — Noise of it all. Boots and stones. Flesh and bones — There we went. There we went. There we went — Smell of it all. Earth and sweat. Grass and shit — Noise. Torn flesh and broken bones — Stink. Piss and puke. Shit — Taste as I hit ground. Salt. Dirt. Blood — I tried to stand. I tried to turn. I did stand. I did turn and CRACK — I saw stars not comets. CRACK — He’d felled me. This copper — Listen to the voice. Ground was hard — The voice saying, Follow me. Sun right warm — Follow me. Lovely on my face — My father used to take us as a lad to many of fields from Roses and Civil Wars: Wake-field. Ferry Bridge. Towton. Seacroft Moor. Adwalton Moor. Marston Moor — Picnics in them fields. Flask of tea in car if weather was against us — Photograph of me somewhere, squinting by Towton memorial on a Palm Sunday. Snow on ground — He was dead now, was my father. Ten year back. I was glad he was, too. Not to see me in this field. Here — Orgreave. South Yorkshire. England. Today — Monday 18 June 1984. Sun on my face. Blood in my hair. Puke down my shirt. Piss on my trousers — I was glad he was dead. I closed my eyes. Forgotten voices. A lost language. A code.Echoes — Like funeral music. Drumming was. They beat them shields like they beat us. Like we were air. Like we weren’t here — Here. Now — I opened my eyes. I tried to stand. To turn my head — Three coppers were carrying this other copper back. He was a young lad this one. Helmet off. His nose too. Looked like he’d stopped a brick. They passed me. They saw me — First one turned back. He swung his truncheon — I ducked down. Hands over my head — But he was gone. I picked myself up. Fast. Didn’t know where I was really. I just started walking away. Through field from where all police were. Fast as I could. Then I heard them again — Them hooves. Them boots — I legged it. Ran for my bloody life. Mouth full of salt. Heart pounding ten to dozen — Thousands running with me. Jumping walls and fences. Like Grand National — That one white horse charging down on us. Bastard with his baton out again. Half lads over embankment. Down banking onto train line — I was lucky. Horses went back down hill. Left us be — I’d managed to get top-side of Highfield Lane. Like half-time up here — Most folk seemed to have headed up this way and on to village. But some had stripped off for sun. Bit of a lie down for a few minutes. Others had other ideas. Taken all bricks off walls ready. All way up road on both sides of lane. Talk was how Arthur had gotten a hiding. They said he’d walked police lines first thing. Told them what he

Monday 18 — Sunday 24 June 1984

Terry had sat with his office door open all Sunday night. He had watched them stagger back from the Wakefield Gala. A few of them had had to be carried in. They had stuck them in rooms where the President wouldn’t look. He was still in Wakefield –

Rallying the troops.

Terry had kept the office door open all night. He had listened to them making their plans. Listened to them talk about the death of the picket at Ferrybridge. The siege of Maltby. The police reprisals. They were waiting for the President –

Their general.

‘Comrade —’

Terry looked up. The President was stood in the doorway. He was wearing his baseball cap. Len and Joan were standing behind him. They were carrying maps. Plans –

Battle-plans.

‘Comrade,’ said the President, ‘we’re going to need more envelopes.’

Terry nodded. He opened his bottom drawer. He took out the requisition forms. He completed the order. He initialled the forms. He stood up. He walked over to the door. He handed them back to the President.

‘Thank you, Comrade,’ said the President and passed the order to Joan.

Terry watched the President walk away down the corridor –

To his tent and to his dreams.

Terry closed his office door. Terry had his own plans. His own dreams –

Soon it would be dawn: Monday 18 June 1984.

*

‘Have you ever, ever, seen anything like this before, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He never, never, has seen anything like this before:

The Third English Civil War.

Neil Fontaine closes his eyes. He never, never, wants to see anything like this again.