David Peace - GB84

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Paul again. ‘The President will be heartened by your words.’

‘Good luck, Comrade General Secretary,’ said Terry. ‘We are counting on you!’

‘Goodbye, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said Paul Hargreaves.

Terry Winters put down the phone –

There was clapping from the doorway to the Conference Room.

The Tweeds turned round. Terry looked up –

‘Fuck ‘em all,’ shouted Bill Reed. ‘And fuck you all, Comrades.’

*

The Norton Park Hotel, Edinburgh. The talks had failed. The Chairman blamed semantics over the third category of pit closures. The President blamed the third hand —

‘The third ear more like,’ laughed Cole.

Malcolm Morris pressed rewind. He pressed stop. Play —

‘— paragraph 3c is a demonstration of positive negotiations —’

‘— we just added one word, that’s all —’

‘— there is not much between us —’

‘— just added one word, that’s all —’

‘— but beneficial is not acceptable —’

‘— then you will have to think of another word —’

‘— someone better go get us a bloody thesaurus then —’

‘— just one word, that’s all —’

‘— we could not sell that to the lads —’

‘— I am too old for victories —’

‘— you have the Prime Minister’s ear, Mr Chairman —’

‘— just one word —’

‘— we have to find a formula that takes us beyond March 6 —’

‘— it’s in your hands —’

‘— all the guidelines and safeguards protect you — not us —’

‘— one word —’

‘— we have stopped running and we cannot be chased any further —’

‘— it’s now up to you.’

Malcolm pressed stop. Rewind again. Eject.

‘Love is a battlefield,’ laughed Cole again.

Malcolm labelled each cassette. Each spool Put the copies into separate boxes. The boxes into the express-delivery pouches. The spools into the briefcase —

He closed the door behind them. They took the stairs –

Heartache to heartache. Room to room. Wall to wall –

Behind private walls in private rooms, the private heartaches of public demons —

Malcolm and Cole had their headphones back on. Tapes turning again —

‘Whatever we do to them, whatever action we take, they’ve still got a job.’

‘We won’t work with scabs.’

‘We’ll have no fucking choice.’

‘Lads won’t have it.’

‘Lads won’t have a job, then.’

‘It’s unacceptable.’

‘It’s unacceptable but it’s now the bloody policy of the fucking Coal Board. They’ve set us a trap and we’ve walked into it. Doesn’t matter what we say or do now. Means we’ve lost Nottingham for good —’

‘Means we’ve lost full stop, President.’

‘Does it heck mean we’ve lost.’

‘See sense, man. Course it bloody does. Nottingham will keep working. Nottingham will keep producing fucking coal. We can’t call strike official in Nottingham. We can’t order them to respect picket lines. Can’t take action against them if they don’t. And now, if we do take away their membership, Board will still let them work —’

‘They’re scabs.’

‘Aye, they’re scabs and they’ll always be scabs — so they’ll keep working no matter how long we stay out. In a word, we’re fucked now.’

‘It’s time to settle, President. Settle now and keep this Union together —’

‘He’s right —’

‘Lads won’t go for it.’

‘Lads always listen to you. Lads will hear you now. Lads will see sense.’

‘Take it, President. Take it now. Take it just for now.’

‘I can’t.’

‘They’ve said they’ll withdraw bloody closure programme —’

‘Verbally.’

‘Verbally, orally, whatever. Them five pits will be kept open. It gives us victory.’

‘Does it heck.’

‘It can be made into one. They’ve backed down. Pits will be kept open.’

‘Not kept open. They said they’ll be subject of further consideration —’

‘Joint consideration —’

‘But for how long? Won’t be like before. Old procedures won’t be there —’

‘President, President, there’ll be time for talk —’

‘And how bloody long will it be before they stop talking and start closing —’

‘But we’d have kept our powder dry, while we still had powder to keep dry.’

‘It’s just one word, President.’

‘It’s one word, aye. It’s retreat. It’s carte-blanche to do what the hell they want. There’s never been a third category before. They’ve set no parameters for exhaustion of reserves. The government is insisting on that word. Because it’s carte-blanche —’

‘But they’ve got that anyway now. Now closed shop’s out the window —’

‘Seam exhaustion, and that’s it. Safety grounds. Geological grounds. That’s it.’

‘It’s time to take what’s on the bloody table, man. Take it to the lads —’

‘Not now! Not bloody likely. Now is the hour —’

The tapes ran. They ran and ran. The wheels turned. Turned and turned again —

The private heartaches of public demons, in private rooms between private walls —

Headphones off. Suitcases packed. Cigarettes. Coffee. Goodbyes —

The drive South again. The wheels in motion (the wheels within wheels) —

Trucks full of troops being deployed. Lorryloads of shaven heads —

‘— there is in no sense a crisis —’

There were curfews in English villages. There were curfews on English estates —

‘— no state of emergency —’

Fitzwilliam. Hemsworth. Grimethorpe. Wombwell. Shirebrook. Warsop.

‘— a touch of midsummer madness —’

York Minster had been struck by lightning. York Minster was burning —

‘— acts of God —’

Malcolm Morris stood among the crowd of ten thousand people at the DurhamMiners’ Galaand listened to the speeches —

‘— we will at the end of the day inflict upon Mrs Thatcher the kind of defeat we imposed on Ted Heath in 1972 and 1974 —’

The spectres. Rising from the dread. The rectors. Raising up the dead —

The old ghosts, without and within –

Malcolm Morris spied Neil Fontaine parked in a lay-by in a black Mercedes —

England was a séance, within and without.

*

The SDC had passed the rule change to discipline anyone responsible for actions detrimental to the interests of the Union. The SDC had passed the disciplinary rule change with a two-thirds majority and in defiance of a court injunction.

Terry made the call. Terry used the code. Terry drove up to Hoyland –

Terry was late. Clive Cook was already parked behind the Edmund’s Arms.

Terry walked over to the brand-new Sierra. Terry tapped on the passenger door.

Clive gestured for Terry to get in.

Terry shook his head. Terry walked away.

Clive jumped out of his new Sierra. Clive shouted, ‘Where are you going?’

Terry went back over to stand by his car. Terry waited –

Clive ran after him. Clive grabbed him. Clive said, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve spoken to Bill Reed.’

Clive let go of Terry. Clive sighed. Clive said, ‘What did he want this time?’

‘I know everything.’

Clive blinked. Clive said, ‘Know what? He’s a fucking liar and a drunk.’

Terry pushed Clive against the car. Terry ripped open Clive’s shirt –

Pulled up his vest.

Clive Cook was shaking. Clive Cook was sobbing.