David Peace - GB84

The Jew gets out. The Jew goes up to the front door –

The door opens.

The Jew turns back to look at Neil. The Jew nods. The Jew gives a little wave –

The Jew has tickets for Wimbledon. The final –

The Jew planned to take Fred, Don and James. Their special treat.

Fred, Don and James will have to go on their own now –

The Jew is due out on the real centre court today –

And he has left his aviator sunglasses and his panama hat on the backseat.

Neil Fontaine starts the car again. He parks in the empty garage. He sits in the car. He can smell the exhaust fumes. He can hear the peacocks scream –

Neil Fontaine is thinking of Vincent Taylor and Julius Schaub –

One spark, he thinks. That’s all it ever takes –

David Johnson and Malcolm Morris –

One spark to burn the whole thing down —

Jennifer Johnson.

Malcolm took the weekend off. He drove North. He ate dinner at Da Marios on the Headrow in Leeds. Deep-fried garlic mushrooms. Lasagne. A bottle of the house red. He smoked two cigarettes. He finished with coffee. Drove home to Harrogate. He put the car in the garage. He went into the house. Picked up the post. The papers from the mat. He left his briefcase in the hall. Took off his tie. He made a cup of instant coffee. He went into the lounge. Drew the curtains. He switched on the lights. The stereo. He went over to the shelves. The many shelves which lined every wall of the room. He took down the double-cassette boxof Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds –

Malcolm opened the box. Two cassettes inside —

He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the stereo. Side A.

Malcolm unwrapped his bandages. Took the cotton wool out of his ears —

He lowered the volume. He adjusted the tone. He pressed play —

The Eve of the War started. Four minutes later The Eve of the War stopped —

There were other noises on the tape now —

Other noises from other rooms. Other rooms, other sounds –

The wheels turning. The wheels within wheels —

The sound of a door opening. The sound of footsteps coming –

Malcolm pressed stop. Forward. Stop —

Silence. Just the silence. Pregnant –

Two bloody wet cotton-wool balls in his hands, Malcolm pressed play —

Screams. Just her screams –

Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Malcolm played it all back –

Over and over and over –

Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Again and again and again.

preferable when it’s costing them an arm and leg? Because he’s worried that any settlement now would breakdown again when stocks were still low. That’s why. So I say we take his warning as a piece of bloody good advice. I say we push for a return right now. Keep overtime ban on. Mend some fences. Build our bridges back with Nottingham. Triple Alliance. Rest of movement. Clear some debts. Then, Bang! Hit bastards hard, right before Christmas. They won’t be able to last long then, I’m telling you. I sat back down. David Rainer nodded. He said, Not up to us, though, is it, Pete? So who is it up to then? asked Johnny — But there were no answer to that. Because we all knew bloody answer. That was why. Martin Daly came round ours tonight. Thought they’d put you in Middlewood, I said. He didn’t laugh. He shook his head. He said, You don’t know half of it — Fair enough, I said. How’s your Cath? Not bad, he said. What about you? Looks like it hurts — Only when I breathe, I said. He laughed. He shook his head again. He said, Bloody state of us, eh? I said, Not just us, lad — Right there, he said. Pint going to hurt, is it? Not if you’re buying. He laughed again. He stood up. He said, Best get our straitjackets on then, hadn’t we? Ended up in Hotel.I could tell Martin weren’t keen. Talk at tables was what you’d expect — They go on about uneconomic pits and then they spend sixty-five million quid a week on police, compensation costs to industry, alternative power and lost income tax. Sixty-five million fucking quid. Every week. That’s nigh on ten million fucking quid a day. It’s been over a hundred days. Hundred days at ten million quid a day. Never spent a bloody penny round here before. Think about it, said Billy. Ten million quid a day for a hundred days. Fucking hell, she must really hate us. Really fucking hate us — I was nodding. Everybody was — That fucking letter, Danny said. Wish I’d never opened bloody thing. Should’ve fucking burnt it like Keith did. Dear Colleague, Your future is in danger. Everybody will lose — and lose disastrously. Your savings will disappear. The industry will be butchered. Twenty or thirty pits in danger of never reopening, Join your associates who have already returned to work. Sincerely, Ian MacGregor. Your future is in danger? Little Mick nodded. Who does that Yankee bastard think he is? I’m sat there reading that fucking thing with a black eye and two fucking broken ribs. I know my future is in fucking danger — In fucking danger from him and her and their fucking boot-boys — That’s who my future’s in fucking danger from — I was nodding. Everybody was — You saw photo on front of Miner? That bloke were an army sergeant driving that police van during London march — Khaki shirt. Sergeant stripes. Badges. Insignia. The lot — Clear as fucking day. I’m telling you, that weren’t first time, either. That were never just police at Orgreave. Never. Not in a month of fucking Sundays. Not a number on any of them, were there? I know I didn’t bloody see one. Army, that’s who they were. Fucking troops. Light relief after Northern Ireland. Light relief. 1926 all over again — I was nodding. Nodding and watching Martin at bar. Bar and dartboard. Bloke at table got out his photocopy of Ridley Plan. Revenge, he said. That’s what this is. Revenge — I nodded. Everybody nodded — I’d had enough, though. I stood up. I went outside. I needed some fucking air. Our Jackie had left a sandwich out for us when I got back — Two slices of Mighty White. Margarine. Packet of cheese and onion crisps — Bloody crisp sandwiches again. I ate it and went up. Mary was asleep. I checked alarm clock. Put on my pyjamas. Got into bed. Lay there looking up at ceiling. It was midnight. Had to be bloody up again in an hour and a half. Didn’t want to sleep, though. Ruined even that, hadn’t they? I couldn’t remember a single bloody dream I’d had before strike. Now I couldn’t close my eyes for more than five minute fore I had them open again — Shitting bricks. Sweating like a bastard — Total darkness. I can touch my nose with my finger and still not see my finger. Hear hammering on metal in distance. Or was it here? Near. Here with smell of wood. Mice. Then hammering stops. Mice are gone. There’s a different noise. Different

Monday 9 — Sunday 15 July 1984

Christopher, Timothy and Louise were about to break up for their summer holidays. Theresa Winters thought the children should go down to Bath to stay with her mum and dad, at least for a couple of weeks. Terry thought Theresa should go too. Theresa was hurt. How would she be able to help him if she went down to Bath? How would she be able to support the strike? Help the women’s action groups? Did he not appreciate the cuttings she took from the papers, the videos she made from the news? Did he not want her to assist the welfare groups? Did he not want her to attend the Women Against Pit Closures Conference at Northern College next Sunday? Theresa had stopped washing the frying pan and the grill. She was staring at her husband. Her hands wet. Christopher, Timothy and Louise had stopped eating their cereal. They were staring at their dad. Their mouths open. Terry Winters looked down at his newspaper. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His mouth moved –