David Peace - GB84

‘Thank you, Brixton,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Thank you, Toxteth.’

*

Tell the world that you’re winning –

The morning after the day before:

The miner was cowering. The miner was wearing just a pair of jeans and trainers. The miner had his shirt tied round his waist. His back to the car. Hispalms up —

The policeman had a shield and a helmet. The policeman had a baton.

The policeman hit the miner with his baton. Hit him —

Again. Again. Again. And again –

The TV showed the policeman hit the miner.

The President watched the TV. The President touched the back of his neck –

The President said, ‘These bastards rushed in and this guy hit me on the back of the head with his shield and I was out.’

The President had spent the night in Rotherham District Hospital.

The police had cheered as he’d been taken to the ambulance.

The nation was outraged –

Not by the assault on the miner. Not by the assault on the President. No –

The TV had lied again. They had cut the film. They had stitched it back together –

Stitched up the Union with it –

Miners threw stones. Miners hurt horses. Miners rioted –

‘— the worst industrial violence since the war —’

Police defended themselves. Police upheld the law. Police contained the riot –

That was it.

The lorries had emptied the place of coke. The miners had lost –

That was it.

Meanwhile, Nottingham had continued to produce coal. The power stations power.

‘The President of the National Union of Mineworkers slipped off the top of the bank and hit his head on a sleeper,’ said the Assistant Chief Constable of South Yorkshire. ‘He was not near a riot shield. The officers with the riot shields were on the road and he was off the road. They did not come within seven or eight yards of him.’

The President was a liar. The President had lost –

That was it —

End of story. Finished.

The President switched off the TV. The President went upstairs.

The National Co-ordinating Committee was meeting in the Conference Room –

For the first time –

Today was the hundredth day of the Great Strike to Save Pits and Jobs.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He had tears in his eyes. In his dreams –

Tell the world that you’re winning —

The hundredth day.

Malcolm listened to the tapes. He played it all back. Listened to the tapes. To them payit all back—

‘If a highwayman holds you up, it is always possible to avoid violence by handing over to him what he wants.’

EVERY WOMAN’S GOT ONE –

‘— shields up —’

[— sound of body against Perspex shield — ]

‘— breach of line at middle holding area. Request —’

BUT MARGARET THATCHER IS ONE –

‘— heads —’

[— sound of rock hitting Perspex shield — ]

‘— field operatives be advised horses imminent —’

DE DEE DEE DEE –

‘— take prisoners —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— DSGs D and E to Main Gate —’

DE DEE DEE DEE.

‘— bodies, not heads —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— Zulus in retreat. MP 4 and 5 stand down —’

HERE WE GO –

‘— can’t throw stones if they’ve got broken arms —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— target is wearing white T-shirt, blue jeans and distinctive hat —’

HERE WE GO –

‘— on then, fucking hit him —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— officers down at topside holding area. MP 6, please respond —’

HERE WE GO –

‘— fuck off back where you come from —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— prisoners to be restrained in vans until further notice —’

HERE WE –

‘— Commie bastards are going to lose and so is that bald bastard Scargill —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— exceptional DSG B. Exceptional. Drinks are on us —’

HERE –

‘We are going down the royal road in this country that Northern Ireland went down in 1969.’

Malcolm listened to the tapes. He played it all back. The tapes never stopped. Listened to her –

The Union burying another one under the ground today —

Pay it all back (but she would never, never, never stop).

They were playing Shostakovich upstairs again. Loud again. The Seventh Symphony. Leningrad. Terry Winters had his head in his hands. There were now five separate legal actions:

Lancashire. North Wales. North Derbyshire. Nottinghamshire. Staffordshire.

The Tweeds knocked on his door –

Day and night they knocked –

‘This is serious, Comrade,’ they told him, day and night.

Terry agreed. Terry said, ‘But everything is in its place.’

They left the door open –

The Denims in the corridor. Arms folded. Backs to the wall –

Day and night they watched Terry Winters –

It was not Leningrad. It was Stalingrad.

Terry slammed the door. He walked to the window, forehead against the glass –

How long has it been?

They had buried another yesterday. Terry had put on his best black funeral suit. Had told Theresa he was off to Pontefract. Told the President and the Tweeds he had to work out the implications of the legal actions against South Wales. Then he’d gone to Hallam Towers. He had taken off his best black funeral suit and fucked Diane in the Honeymoon Suite –

‘They’ve left me with no choice,’ he had told her. ‘No choice at all.’

They had cut him out –

‘Because I’ve never worked in a pit. Because my father wasn’t a bloody miner. Because I’ve never been a Communist. Because my father was never a Communist. Because I’m not working class. Because I’m from the fucking South. It makes me laugh. It really does. Their talk about equality. Fraternity. Socialism. You can hardly breathe in the place. It’s that snotty. Egotistical. Solitary —’

Diane had kissed his left ear. She had licked his ear. She had sucked it. She had bitten it. She had held it in her mouth. Then she had moved down his cheek to his mouth. She had kissed his bottom lip. She had licked his lip. She had sucked it. She had bitten it. She had held it in her mouth. Moved down his neck to his chest. She had kissed his left nipple. She had licked his nipple. She had sucked it. She had bitten it. She had held it in her mouth. Down his stomach to his cock –

‘Looking for something down there, are you, Comrade?’

Terry opened his eyes. Terry turned from the window to the door –

Paul Hargreaves held out an envelope. He said, ‘Happy reading, Comrade.’

Terry took the envelope. He opened it. He read the letter. Read the words –

YOUR FUTURE IS IN DANGER —

Terry looked up –

Paul had gone. He had left the door open again –

The Denims in the corridor. Arms folded. Backs against the wall –

The Shostakovich shaking the ceiling.

Terry put his head back against the glass. Terry closed his eyes again –

‘They have left me with no choice,’ he had told Diane again. ‘No choice at all.’

thought of them — He’d marked their cards. They’d marked his — Put him in Rotherham Hospital. Beaten up Jack Taylor down Catcliffe end and all — Least lads had given ITN a good kicking. They’d get their revenge at 5.45 mind — Knew Mary and our Jackie would be watching. Knew it wasn’t over yet, either — There were young lads wanting to get on with it. Lads on about making petrol bombs. Police had got guns, they said. Back of them vans. Be tear gas out next, they said. Rubber bullets. Paras — Bloody Monday, that’s what this is. Bloody Monday — Don’t know why I fucking stopped there. I was that bloody knackered from all running, though. So fucking hot — I should have kept walking, though. But then it all started up again. For last time — Blokes were throwing brick down at police line. Line broke again. Out came horses. Short shields behind them. Hundreds of them — They weren’t stopping, either. Not this time — They were here to clear field. To take bridge and take road. Hold them both — Knuckle and boot for anyone in their way. Batons out — Barricades going up. Vehicles dragged out of this scrapyard. Set alight. Thick smoke. Cars burning. Tyres. Thick smoke all over place. Barricades looked like hedgehogs, that many spikes sticking out of them. Hand-to-hand fucking combat. Coppers had bridge. Coppers tried to hold bridge. Coppers couldn’t. Missiles falling through sky on them from out of scrapyard. Coppers heading off back down road behind their shields — Lads all cheering. Not for long, like — Coppers regrouped. Mass charge again — Horses. Men — That fucking white horse back for more. Bastards — Up Highfield Lane. Pushing us right back over bridge all way down Orgreave Lane — But then I saw this one young lad. This one young lad who’d got left behind — He was walking about alone in field. Blood from his head. White with shock, he was — Let’s go get them, he was shouting. Give them a good sorting. Let’s — He was alone in field. God deaf and far from here — Horses still coming. Sticks out — I went back for him. I grabbed hold of him. I took him back over bridge with me. I ran into village with him. I sat him down behind this garden hedge; old couple stood at their window just watching us. Lad turned to me. Looked at me. He said, I won’t go back down pit again. I won’t, you know. I’ll not work down there no more. I won’t do it. I want to go home now, please. I want to go home — I got out my handkerchief. I tried to stop blood from his head. He put his hand out towards us. He touched my mouth. He had blood on his hand — He said, What happened to you, like? I put up my hand. I touched my mouth. I’d got blood on my hand. No front teeth. I looked down at myself. My shirt was ripped. Strap of my watch was broken. Face stepped on and crushed. My father’s watch it was and all. Shoes split open. Trousers ripped at bottom. Felt a right big bruise across my back. Ribs and my shins. Cuts and marks all over me. I stood young lad up. I said, Best get you home, hadn’t we? I walked us away through all people — Police. Pensioners. People with Asda carrier-bags full of shopping. Like it was all normal — Ambulance drivers effing and blinding at policemen. Blokes being brained in front of them. Beaten up behind their houses. In their gardens. Their alleys — Up by truck company there were a bloody icecream van. This one bloke just sat having a fucking ice-cream. Like it was a day out — Back up road you could still see smoke. Black, bitter smoke from cars and tyres. Police just watching us go. Behind their visors. Two of them waving tenners at us. Bye-bye, I thought. I’ll not see thee again. Not where you’re going. Not where you’re going — Been a week tomorrow. Bloody long one and all. I’d spent most of it looking at ceilings. Bedroom.Dentist’s. Welfare. One time I did go out in open air was for Joe’s funeral. Beautiful and sad day, that was. There was a coach laid on, but that were full by nine. So Little Mick took Keith Cooper and their Tony with us in his car. No sign of Martin again. Met up with coach in Knottingley. There were eight thousand easy. Put me in mind of Fred Matthews. His funeral in 1972. He’d been killed on a picket outside a power station and all. Keadby. Been