David Peace - GB84

‘I’m sorry,’ he told them. He stood up. He left them –

Terry Winters went to work.

Terry spent most of the day organizing the hand-delivery of confidential envelopes to the finance officers on each executive committee of each separate area. These envelopes contained individual sets of instructions; the individual sets of instructions to his latest master plan –

His greatest masterstroke —

Instructions to authorize with immediate effect the payment in full to all non-elected employees of the Union (Regional and National) their entire salary for fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend the collection of rents on any properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to transfer the deeds and titles of properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) to the tenants of the properties concerned for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend repayments to the Union (Regional and National) of loans made by the Union (Regional and National) to employees for the duration of fiscal 1984/85 –

Each instruction a masterstroke —

Each instruction divesting the Union of its assets at national and regional level, pre-empting the possible sequestration of funds while simultaneously ensuring the loyalty of its employees in its darkest of hours –

The darkest, darkest of hours yet to come.

Clive Cook called Terry back within an hour. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive used the telephone in his office at Huddersfield Road to call Terry at St James’s House. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive failed to use the codes. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would –

Just like Bill Reed had said Clive would.

Terry listened to Clive’s questions. Then Terry said, ‘Just fucking do it, Clive.’

Terry hung up. Terry stood by the phone. Terry picked it up again –

Click-click.

Terry hung up again. Terry walked backwards down the stairs. Terry went out.

Terry called Diane back from a phone box in the station. He’d dreaded this call. He’d gone over it tens of times in his head. Hundreds. He knew it had to be said –

Had to be done.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He dialled their room. Listened to it ring –

Listened to Diane say, ‘It’s all very 007 is this, Mr Chief Executive Officer.’

‘These are very dangerous times,’ said Terry. ‘I can’t see you any more.’

‘What?’

‘I am under surveillance. I am being tailed and I am being bugged.’

‘What are you —’

‘If they found out about us, they could use you against me. Against the Union.’

‘What are you talking about, Terry?’

‘They’ve bugged our offices,’ he said. ‘Our houses. All our phones —’

‘What on earth does that have to do with us? Our relationship?’

‘It can’t go on,’ said Terry. ‘I can’t see you any more. It’s over.’

*

These are the hours Neil knew had to come –

The recondite hours.

He wants to be believed. Not to be deceived. His messages received —

The Jew naked on the carpet of his suite. The Jew shouting, ‘There is no crisis.’

He clutches his cock in both hands. He quotes Hayek –

‘Crucial truths,’ whispers the Jew. ‘Crucial battles, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine drags the Jew into the bathroom. He throws him into the cold bath –

Neil watches the Jew thrash –

His white limbs and his red chest.

He listens to the Jew scream –

His right fingernails scratching at his left breast, tearing it open.

Neil changes the water. He runs the hot tap. He fetches the Jew’s rubber duck –

The Jew soaks among the suds until he is clean and sober again –

His wounds almost healed.

It is here that the phrase comes to him. He often thinks about that war in the bath. It was where the Jew first came in –

The Jew’s grande entrée —

She had been surrounded then by apostates and apologists, cowards and caitiffs. Milksops to a man. The Jew had ridden a coach and horses through that dastardly pack.

The Jew had walked straight up to her and introduced himself with the words, ‘The British public wants you to stick it to Johnny Dago, ma’am.’

The Jew had been right too. The Iron Lady had conquered the Tin-Pot General. The Jew would be right this time too. The Iron Lady would vanquish King Coal –

It was time again to break out the coach and horses.

This the hour Neil knew had to come –

The occult hour.

He wants to be admitted. Not to be rejected. His membership accepted.

The Jew drips bloody water across the carpet of his suite. The Jew says to Neil, ‘The enemy within.’

*

All hands on deck. The Dock Strike was national. Notts strikers had occupied the Mansfield committee rooms, preventing the Area Council meeting to mandate their representatives to oppose the introduction of the new disciplinary rule at this week’s Extraordinary Annual Conference. The talks between the Union and the Board had resumed in Edinburgh. The Troika had taken with them a written draft of an agreement on which they would be prepared to settle.

These were the days. The best days yet –

The President had left Terry Winters in charge at Strike HQ –

‘To hold the fort,’ he had told him.

Terry stayed at the office all night. He had had the staff enlarge photocopies of the draft agreement. He had them pinned to the Conference Room walls. He stared at them. He watched TV. Ceefax. Oracle. He paced the carpet –

He waited for the telephone call.

His eyes began to close. He sat down in the President’s chair. He –

— is sat in a tall chair made of gold in a dim room made of dull walls. He wears a white cassock with a purple shawl. His head is shaved, his hands bejewelled. Theroombegins to turn. Thechair falls. Terry –

Opened his eyes, his face white with shock, his breath black with –

‘Comrade,’ said the Tweed again. ‘Telephone.’

Terry stood up. Terry rubbed his face. Terry took the phone. Terry said, ‘Hello?’

‘Rise and shine, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the voice of Paul Hargreaves.

Terry rubbed his face again. Terry looked up. Terry looked around –

There were four Tweeds standing over the President’s desk.

Terry said into the phone, ‘What news, Comrade General Secretary?’

‘Cautious optimism,’ said Paul. ‘That’s the phrase for today.’

‘Let us hope it bears fruition‚’ said Terry. ‘Our members are counting on you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Paul. ‘Thank you very much. The President and the Vice-President have asked if you would prepare a draft agenda for the pre-conference NEC meeting tomorrow. There is every chance we will be back in Sheffield by six.’

Terry nodded. Terry said into the phone, ‘You can rely on me, Comrade.’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Paul. ‘Because the President would also like you to prepare an additional item for the agenda on the possible legal challenges from the Nottinghamshire action against Rule 51.’

‘I can tell you now,’ said Terry. ‘If and when the scabs get the High Court decision they want, we could well be in contempt even holding a conference, let alone debating the rule itself.’

‘But will they come after us?’ asked Paul. ‘And can we withstand it if they do?’

Terry looked back up at the Tweeds. Terry looked down at the phone. Terry said, ‘They will come after us as soon as they can, that’s certain. But we have taken the appropriate and necessary measures. We are ready for them.’