David Peace - GB84

‘See it,’ says the Jew. ‘See it, because it’s you.’

Carl Baker looks at the Jew. Carl Baker looks confused.

The Jew takes out his chequebook. He says, ‘How much do you need, Carl?’

Carl Baker looks at Mark from the Mail. Carl Baker says, ‘He knows my name —’

‘Soon everyone will know your name,’ winks the Jew.

Carl Baker puts his sunglasses back on. Carl Baker clutches his stomach.

‘People are crying out to hear a name like yours, Carl,’ says the Jew.

*

They had breakfast across the road from the County. There was only the one table today. Terry was going to the High Court later. The Troika back to the Rubens for more talks. Dick and Paul just played with their food. They had to be at the Rubens Hotel in an hour. There was supposed to be confidence going into these talks. The Dock Strike was solid. There was obvious panic in Downing Street and Fleet Street. There was no rise in the rate of men returning to work. This was supposed to bring confidence. But there was none. The friends Terry Winters had on the inside of Hobart House (and there were many these days), these friends from the other side suggested the Board would withdraw the March 6 closure programme –

Not for nothing, though.

But the Union had only nothing to give. Nothing further they could take, either. The EAC had made that clear. Crystal. Their hands were tied. Dick and Paul stood up. Terry paid the bill.

Dick and Paul had gone when Terry came out of the café. Terry hailed a cab. Terry got in the taxi. Terry asked the driver to take him to court. The driver smiled and dropped him at the High Court.

Terry sat in the public gallery of the Crypts. He listened to Sir Robert Megarry declare their new disciplinary rule 51 unlawful. Null and void. Terry left the High Court. He ate a ploughman’s lunch in the pub across the road. He bought an Evening Standard —

There was no news. They were still talking –

Thirteen hours they talked. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth for thirteen hours. Thirteen hours. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth for thirteen hours –

Terry in the bar. Terry on the bog. Terry on the phone. Terry on his knees –

Back and forth for thirteen hours. Then they stopped.

It was midnight when they got back to the County. The press and television tried to follow them inside. Doors were slammed in their faces. The Troika took off their jackets. They collapsed in the armchairs –

There was silence.

Paul went to the toilet. Joan asked for some tea and sandwiches to be brought up –

‘Fuck cups of tea,’ said Dick. ‘I’ve drunk enough bloody cups to last me all year. I want a proper fucking drink.’

The President had his head right back. His eyes closed –

It was a long march home from here —

There was the wet trail of a tear from his eye to his ear.

*

The nightmares are recurrent. Neil Fontaine dreams of skulls. Many, many skulls. Skulls and candles. He wakes in their room at the County. The light is still on. He sits on the edge of their bed. The notebook is in his hand. He picks apart the months. Puts the pieces back together his way. He stops writing. The notebook to one side. He stands up. He opens the dawn curtain.

Jennifer thrashes in their bed. She screams his name in her sleep –

There are only moments like these now —

Neil Fontaine stands at the window. The real light and the electric –

The summer angry. The enemies within —

A scar across the country.

Keith, his cousin Sean and his mate who was staying with them. We were hitting Nottingham every day now — Linby. Moor Green. Every pit we could — Dayshift. Afters — Often as we could. Many as we could — Annesley a lot. Best way there was straight down M1. Junction 27 — No roadblocks today, either. Few spotter cars on hard shoulder. Krk-krk. Plainclothes mob on bridges with their cameras and stuff. That was all — Think they just wanted to see how many of us they were dealing with after Orgreave. Take down names and car registrations — Keith said he’d started getting silent phone-calls first thing of a morning. Reckoned it was just to see if he was in. Sean’s mate Liam said, That’s what they do with IRA in Northern Ireland. To keep tabs on them. If they don’t see a face about for a bit, they know something’s up. Big job coming — I put on radio for rest of way. Two Tribes — Must have heard that bloody song ten times a day now for weeks. Ought to make it bloody National Anthem, said Sean. It was early when we got to pit. Load of coppers, though. Krk-krk. White shirts, too. Fucking Met. Scum. Bloody lot of them. Arrogant scum and all — Do this. Do that. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Fair few lads were arriving now. Maltby mob. Dinnington. More of our lads. Big Knob drove up to where we were stood around in cowfield. Got his notebook out ready. Head darting about like a bloody pigeon. Right, he said to us. Where are you men from? I told him. I said, We’re from Yorkshire. Are you indeed? he said. Indeed we are, I said. Right then, he said. Get back in your vehicles and fuck off back to Yorkshire. I said, That’s not very nice language, Inspector. No, he said. And if you don’t move, you’ll hear more of it in Lincoln Jail. That was when it started up. Like a bloody dance. Us quite prepared to play it to death — Him threatening us with this, that and other. This time, though, Keith had only gone behind bastard’s back and taken fucking keys out of his car. Chucked them over hedge into next field. Mad bastard. I thought we best be off now. I said, Right, Inspector, you’ve made a good point there. We’ll get on our way now. Big Knob couldn’t keep smug bloody look off his face. Right proud he was. Probably thought they were going to give him Queen’s Medal for Bravery or something. Us lot just trying not to laugh — Keep a straight face. Not give game away — Me, Keith and other two headed back to our car. Rest of lads did same. I made sure we all drove off past him. And there he was, going through his pockets. Keith wound down passenger window. He said to him, What’s up with thee? Never you mind, shouted Knob. Keith said, Not lost your keys, have you? Think police would set a better example than that, said their Sean — Everybody laughing. Laughing all way back to Thurcroft — All way back to another fucking letter from bloody Board on us mats. Must have had some fucking time and brass to spare, that bloke. That fat fucking Yankee bastard — This was a dangerous time. Talks were over. Board busy telling us how pit faces were in danger of collapse. Telling us how coal stocks would last well into next year. Telling us how sixty thousand were still working. Telling us how we needed a ballot. Telling us in their personal letters. Telling us in their telephone calls. In their home visits. Their vendettas. Their lies. Derek said, Lads are itching for more mass pickets — Shirebrook give them taste back last week, said Tom. Panelwere nodding. Johnny said, Get rusty if they don’t — Few of mine are saying they’ll only turn out if it’s a mass picket, I said. David Rainer nodded. He said, Barnsley are hearing same — How many are going out on a usual day, David? asked Johnny. David looked at his notes. He shook his head. He said, Under four thou’ — And how many of them make it to target? said Derek. David sighed. He said, About half on a good day — What about if it’s a mass picket? How many turn out then? asked Johnny. David said, There were ten thou’ at Orgreave, easy — Not counting coppers’ narks, I said. Folk nodding. Johnny said, More mass pickets it is, then — Babbington. Creswell. Them types of pits, said Tom. Derek said, Lads will be happy. Just itching for another crack — Babbingtonit was. This where strike was for today