David Peace - GB84

Monday 12 — Sunday 18 March 1984

The Jew has his orders. Neil Fontaine has his.

Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew outside The Times building at ten o’clock sharp. He is on the steps in his leather flying-jacket with his camera and his tape-recorder –

‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he tells Neil Fontaine.

They do ninety up the M1 with the Jew on the car phone. He’s in a good mood. South Wales have voted overwhelmingly to reject the Union’s call to strike; Nottinghamshire have called for a pit-head ballot; the pickets are flying –

The Jew wants to be where the action is –

Two rooms reserved at the Royal Victoria Hotel, Sheffield –

In the Heartland –

A suite for the Jew upstairs, a single for Neil downstairs; fried kidneys and champagne for the Jew in his room, a burger and Coke for Neil at the bar –

Familiar faces, Union faces, in and out all night –

Other faces.

Neil Fontaine lies on his single bed in his single room with the single light on.

He can’t sleep. He never can. He has his own orders –

Other eyes and other ears.

The telephone rings three times at three o’clock.

Neil Fontaine brings the car round. The Jew is waiting in his leather flying-jacket. The Mercedes drives out of the city centre up through Rotherham and onto the A631. They cross the A1 into Nottinghamshire.

There is snow on the roads. The hedgerows. The fields –

The police van parked at the bus stop.

The Jew can’t sit still. He looks out of the left window, he looks out of the right –

‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he tells Neil again.

They come to the Harworth Colliery on the Yorkshire— Nottinghamshire border; this the place where the Spencer Union was finally defeated in a last bloody battle –

It’s 1937 again.

Harworth’s men have voted to cross the Yorkshire picket line in military columns; there are one hundred and fifty policemen here to help them; five hundred of Doncaster’s hardest out to hinder them –

The men of Harworth turn back to their homes and their families –

First blood to Arthur’s Fliers.

The Jew is in a bad mood now. They park in a lay-by with the radio on:

‘The National Coal Board has applied to the High Court for an injunction to prevent Yorkshire miners picketing other areas.’

The Jew is in a worse mood. Livid. The Jew is on the car phone. Furious –

‘There’ll be a bloody general strike if the Chairman does this. Tell him from me, it’s absolute insanity. You will hand that red prick the entire labour movement on a plate. He saw it on TV, did he? He saw it on TV? Well, I’m bloody here in fucking Harworth and you can tell your Chairman from me, the answer isn’t the 1980 Employment Act. The answer is more fucking police. More fucking police with more fucking balls from their so-called senior officers. That’s your answer. Bloody dogs, too. More fucking dogs. And you tell him that’s what Stephen Sweet will tell the Prime Minister –

‘Because I am her eyes and her ears. Her fucking eyes and her ears out here!’

The Jew hangs up. The Jew sits back. The Jew sighs. The Jew shakes his head.

Neil Fontaine watches a minibus of miners go past –

Bare arse-cheeks pressed against the back windows.

‘The gloves are off now, Neil,’ shouts the Jew. ‘The gloves are bloody off!’

Jen looks fucking gorgeous under these lights. Her hair. Her tan. That blouse. Thatskirt. Frankie for the thousandth time.Fucking gorgeous. The Mechanic could sit here for the rest of his life. They put on Your Love Is King. She waves him over. He finishes his drink. Onto the dance floor of an empty club on a Tuesday night in March. He puts his arms around her. Holds her. The rest of his life.

*

It’s been a long Wednesday –

Harworth, Bilsthorpe, Bevercotes, Thoresby.

The police vans in convoys now, checkpoints at every junction –

The Jew takes the credit.

The Yorkshire pickets abandoning their coaches, marching through the fields –

The Jew back on the phone.

It’s been a long Wednesday and it isn’t over –

This is Ollerton.

The police had to march in the afternoon shift in columns.

Ten p.m. and the Jew is where the action is; the Jew is in the Plough –

Packed. Pickets waiting for the Nightshirt. Pissed.

The Jew is talking. Taking notes. Sending Neil to the bar to buy the drinks.

The barmaid says, ‘Must have some brass, your mate Biggles.’

‘Four pints of Mansfield’s and a gin and tonic,’ says Neil Fontaine.

‘You not having one?’

‘Given it up.’

‘Well,’ she laughs. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’

‘Keep the change,’ Neil tells her.

He’s halfway back with the drinks when the roar goes up outside –

The Nightshirt here.

Everyone heads for the door –

‘Neil!’ the Jew is shouting. ‘Come on, Neil. This is it!’

Neil Fontaine sees the Jew disappear through the door. He goes out after him –

Everyone running. Pint glasses breaking. Car doors slamming.

Neil Fontaine can’t see the Jew anywhere –

Fuck.

Neil Fontaine starts up the lane towards the pit, the pickets and the police –

Bricks and bottles, sticks and stones, flying through the air –

There’s a hand on Neil’s arm. There’s a voice in his ear: ‘Hello, hello, hello.’

Neil Fontaine turns round –

Paul Dixon is stood beside an old Allegro. He’s in his best new sweater, his jeans with a fresh crease and his polished size tens.

‘Paul?’

‘The fuck you doing here, Neil?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘I knew you were going to say that,’ laughs Paul Dixon. ‘I just knew it.’

Neil Fontaine looks up the road. Everyone by the gates now. The Jew too.

Paul Dixon opens the door of the Allegro. He says, ‘Got a minute, have you?’

Neil Fontaine looks back up the road. He shrugs. He gets into the Allegro –

The car smells bad. The car feels dirty.

They sit and watch four coppers dragging a picket down the road by his hair.

‘So what are you doing here, Neil?’ Paul Dixon asks again.

‘Like I say —’

‘Don’t ask,’ winks Paul Dixon. ‘Well, I am asking.’

‘In what capacity?’

Paul Dixon opens his wallet. He taps his warrant card. ‘In this capacity.’

‘Don’t be silly, Sergeant.’

Paul Dixon closes his wallet. He looks out of the windscreen. Embarrassed –

Six coppers are handcuffing two pickets round a lamp-post.

‘All right,’ sighs Neil Fontaine. ‘I’m driving this Captain of Industry up and down the country so he can write little pieces on industrial relations for his mate at The Times. Happy now?’

‘I’d heard you were —’

Neil Fontaine turns to stare at Paul Dixon. He asks, ‘Were what?’

‘Nothing. I must have misheard.’

‘Yeah,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘You must have misheard.’

Paul Dixon looks out of his window again. Embarrassed again –

Local lads are setting about the pickets’ cars parked up and down the street.

‘So what brings you to a pretty place like this, Paul?’ asks Neil Fontaine.

‘National Reporting Centre. Liaison officer.’

‘Nice work,’ says Neil Fontaine.

‘If you can get it.’

‘And you got it,’ smiles Neil Fontaine.

‘Thanks to the Yorkshire Stalin, aye.’

‘Old King Coal to his friends,’ laughs Neil Fontaine.

Paul Dixon looks out of the windscreen again. He says, ‘Few of them about tonight.’