David Peace - GB84

Monday 2 — Sunday 8 July 1984

Malcolm Morris and Alan Cole drove down from Euston to Buckingham Palace Road —

The Rubens Hotel. A few steps up from the Clifton Park Hotel, Rotherham —

The job was the same, though.

They parked and used the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the hotel. Introduced themselves to the in-house security and the men from the Met. The talks were to be in one of the larger rooms on the second floor. The Board would have the room to the right. The Union the room to the left. Everyone had a chuckle at that.

The man in charge of in-house security handed over two sets of keys. He said, ‘Thekeys to the roomon the left. Thekeys to the talks.’

Malcolm handed back the keys to the room on the left. He shook his head.

‘We know what King Arthur’s going to say,’ Cole told everyone. ‘Big Mac, though, now that man’s a lawuntohimself. Lawuntohimself.’

In-house security put the keys to the room on the right into Malcolm’s hand.

Malcolm picked up the cases. He stood up. Left.

Cole followed him back out into the corridor. They took the service lift up to the third floor. Room 304. The room above the talks.

Cole said, ‘I’m sorry, Chief.’

Malcolm opened the door. Locked it after them. ‘Just can’t keep it shut, can you?’

Cole sighed. He closed his eyes. Nodded and said again, ‘I’m sorry.’

Malcolm looked at his watch. He drew the curtains. Switched on the lights. He stripped down the double bed. Handed the linen to Cole. Cole dumped it in the bath. Malcolm took the mattress off the bed. Leant it against the curtains. Heopened up their cases on the baseof the bed—

They laid out their equipment. They set it up. They looked at their watches —

Malcolm put on his overalls. He picked up the smaller case. Took the stairs —

Room service –

On a silver plate.

The Troika had gone to the Rubens Hotel for the talks. Everybody else was left to wait. Divide their time between Congress House and the pub. Pace the corridors. Cross their fingers. Pray at a table in the bar at the County, if you were Terry Winters –

Pray that both sides wanted a deal. That a deal could be reached —

That Terry could be saved.

Terry nodded to himself. Terry thought the President knew the time was right –

There was no Triple Alliance any more. No support. No stomach for it.

Terry nodded again. Terry thought the Chairman knew the time was right, too –

There’d been only seven hundred responses to the Chairman’s letter. The huge NCB adverts running in the papers this week looked like a waste of taxpayers’ money –

Money —

Terry closed his eyes. Terry bowed his head. Terry said his prayers.

‘Your lips are moving, Comrade.’

Terry opened his eyes. Terry raised his head. Terry said another prayer –

‘First sign of madness that, Comrade,’ said Bill Reed. ‘Talking to yourself.’

‘What do you want now?’ asked Terry.

Bill Reed put an envelope down on the table. Bill Reed said, ‘Gotcha, Comrade.’

Malcolm drank instant coffee. Malcolm smoked duty-free cigarettes –

Malcolm watched and Malcolm listened —

Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week. Every month. Every year —

The shadows and the whispers. In his thoughts and in his dreams —

Hotel doors. Hotel doors slammed —

I want you I want you I want you now –

Hotel beds. Hotels beds creaked —

I love you I love you I love you for ever –

Hotel headboards. Hotel headboards banged —

I have you I have you I have you here –

Hotel walls. Hotel walls shook —

I hate you –

Blood on hotel walls and hotel floors, hotel beds and hotel doors —

Malcolm opened his eyes. He unwrapped the bandages. Took the cotton wooloutof his ears. Bloody and wet —

Malcolm put on his headphones —

‘I HATE YOU!’

Every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single week of every single month of every single year of his whole fucking life —

The ghosts without. The ghosts within —

Operation Vengeance –

Public and private. Personal.

The Jew hasn’t been to sleep. He’s too anxious. He doesn’t wait for the doorman or Neil. He opens the back door of the Mercedes himself. He fidgets on the backseat –

He wants to tighten the screw further –

He rambles on about Enterprise Oil. The GLC. The House of Lords –

About loose screws.

He is wearing his dark blue pinstripe suit, his pale blue shirt with a white silk tie –

He has a boot full of pale blue notes to donate to his true-blue secret cells –

‘Our men have control of the Nottinghamshire Area Council,’ the Jew boasts. ‘We have our bridgehead now, Neil. The intimidation stops here.’

The car phone rings. The Jew pounces. Listens –

‘What?’ shouts the Jew into the phone. ‘What?’

Neil Fontaine looks into the rearview mirror.

The Jew hangs up. He bangs on the partition. He wails, ‘Stop the car, Neil!’

Neil Fontaine pulls over onto the hard shoulder. He switches on the hazard lights.

The Jew gets out. The Jew paces the verge –

Neil Fontaine joins him.

The Jew looks up. He says, ‘Be a pal and pass me a coffin nail, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine hands the Jew a cigarette. He lights it for him.

The Jew inhales. He coughs and he coughs. The Jew exhales.

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew choke again.

The Jew throws away the cigarette. The Jew says, ‘There’s a dock strike, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine knows.

‘She wants answers, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Heads.’

Neil Fontaine nods again. Neil Fontaine knows –

The Jew coughs. The Jew spits. The Jew clambers back into the back of the car.

Neil Fontaine starts the car. Puts his foot down –

One spark —

The Immingham bulk terminal out over the use of unsupervised non-scheme labour to unload iron-ore pellets at a registered port –

The Jew opens his window. The Jew screams into the road and the wind –

‘This is a disaster. An absolute, utter disaster. Exactly what we didn’t want, Neil. This is a second front. A second bloody front. Exactly what he wanted —’

Neil Fontaine has a slight smile on his face. The road rising –

The one spark –

The lorries would work round the clock for forty-eight hours to move at least half the Immingham stockpile to the Scunthorpe steel works—

Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine knew a set-up when he saw one –

This was a set-up.

Neil Fontaine stops before the gates and the guns and winds down his window –

Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Stephen Sweet to see the Prime Minister.’

The officer speaks into his radio.

Neil Fontaine glances into the rearview mirror. The Jew is sweating again –

His pinstripe soaked.

The officer steps back from the car. The officer gestures at the gates –

The guns rise. The gates open.

Neil Fontaine starts the car.

‘Doubt she’ll be in a very good mood,’ says the Jew for the third time.

Neil Fontaine drives slowly over the gravel. He parks before the front door.

There is no one here to meet the car today –

Neil Fontaine has to open the back door of the Mercedes for the Jew.