David Peace - GB84

Monday 23 — Sunday 29 July 1984

The winds rattled the wires up here. The chatter distorted. The conversations displaced. Thevoices disembodied. Theguards scared the ghosts in here —

Diane put a cigarette to her lips, a lighter to her cigarette.

Malcolm Morris waited.

She inhaled, her eyes closed. She exhaled, her eyes open.

On Menwith Hill, he waited.

‘Don’t let it happen again,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever let it happen again, Malcolm.’

Malcolm nodded.

She stubbed out the cigarette. She put a hand to his ear. She kissed his forehead.

Malcolm Morris shut his eyes until she’d almost gone. Her smell still here —

The Free World.

All at sea again. The Dock Strike had collapsed. Negotiations with the Board suspended. Mrs Thatcher and her Cabinet back on the attack. The miners now Britain’s enemy within. The President a Yorkshire Galtieri –

There was a war on, declared The Times.

Terry Winters had his head pressed against the glass of the window in his office, exhausted. Terry and Theresa had driven Christopher, Timothy and Louise down to Bath yesterday. They had stopped for lunch with her mum and dad. They had said goodbye to the children. Then Terry and Theresa had driven back to Sheffield. He had kept the radio on all the way home. He had dropped Theresa off at the end of the drive. Then he had gone back to work. Terry hadn’t seen his wife since then. Terry had slept downstairs last night. Theresa had already gone when he got up –

The Women Against Pit Closures Conference.

He opened his eyes. He looked up at the bright blue Sheffield sky –

Always light, never dark.

He turned back to his desk. To the piles of files. The mountains of –

The telephone was ringing.

Terry picked it up. Click-click. Terry said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Guess who?’

Terry swallowed. Terry said, ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

‘Where else would you be?’ she laughed. ‘With your wife?’

Terry sat down. Terry stood up again. Terry said, ‘I told you, we’re finished.’

‘We’re not finished,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve not even begun.’

Terry said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s our anniversary on Tuesday.’

Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘No, it’s not.’

‘I was just thinking about that first night, sitting here alone, brushing my hair —’

Terry’s mouth opened. Terry swallowed again.

‘I’m still holding my hairbrush, Terry. I’m still thinking about you —’

Terry’s mouth –

‘I want you —’

Terry –

‘Don’t make me use the handle again, Terry. Please don’t make me —’

Terry sat down under the portrait of the President –

‘Please don’t make me —’

The walls began to turn. The chair began to fall —

‘Please —’

Terry said, ‘Where are you?’

*

Back to base. Back to Sheffield. To drink more instant coffee. To smoke more duty-free cigarettes. To stare at rows and rows of huge reels turning. To stare at the strips and strips of gaffer tape turning on those reels. To stare at the names and the places turning on that gaffer tape—

10F CON.RM #1–4

10F GENTS —

9F LADIES –

8F PRES. off #1–4

8F PRES. OFF O/L #1–4

7F TW OFF #1–2

The names and the places, the tapes and the reels recording it all —

Every single resonance and reverberation of every single sound in every

single room on every single floor of every single building the Union used –

St James’s House. The University. The Royal Victoria. Hallam Towers –

To be numbered, dated and copied. Transcribed and collated. Analysed, interpreted and debated —

In pitch. In tone. In note –

This beautiful, ugly noise. This heathen cathedral of sound —

Renovated and repainted for Yorkshire, but conceived and borne of Ulster —

By Malcolm Gordon Morris, government fairy, the original Tinkerbell, then thirty:

May 1974, Ulster — the Ulster Workers’ Council Strikes combined mainland industrial action techniques with homegrown paramilitary intimidation to bring the Province to a standstill. The telephone-intercept system known as Pusher (Programmable Ultra and Super-High-Frequency Reception) was failing to provide the necessary information as key figures rightly assumed their phones were being tapped and so spoke only in codes in the privacy of their own guarded homes. Malcolm Gordon Morris, government fairy, the original Tinkerbell, then just thirty, bounced microwaves off the windows of their offices and their homes to monitor the vibrations of the glass in order to reproduce and record the conversations taking place within –

In pitch. In tone. In note —

Those beautiful, ugly noises. Those heathen cathedrals –

The timbres in which Malcolm lived and lost himself. Hid and hurt himself.

Malcolm unwrapped his bandages. He took the cotton wool from his ears —

He picked up the headphones. He switched channels —

Hallam Hotel Room 308 #6 –

Doors would slam. Beds creak. Headboards would bang. Walls shake —

He put on the headphones. He closed his eyes. He turned up the volume —

‘— I want you, Terry. I have you, Terry —’

He listened to their words –

‘— Now fuck me, Terry. Fuck me —’

Blood in his ears. Headphones against the wall Malcolm screamed —

‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

*

Neil Fontaine sits before the dawn in the Mercedes in the car park of Woolley Edge service station. He is here to watch. He is here to wait –

This is what Neil Fontaine does –

Before the dawns he parks in the dark in service station car parks.

This is what he has always done –

He parks. He watches. He waits for –

Possibilities.

The Celica arrives at half-past seven. Five minutes later the Sierra pulls in –

Neil Fontaine watches –

Don Colby and his best mate Derek Williams get out of the brand-new Celica. They walk over to the new Sierra. They are wearing low hats and dark glasses. They have a shopping list. Don gets into the Sierra. Derek waits by the boot. He is nervous. Unstrung –

The clock in the dashboard of the Mercedes ticks. Neil Fontaine waits –

Don Colby gets back out of the Sierra. Don has a pile of documents in his arms.

The Sierra reverses out of the parking space. The Sierra leaves at speed.

Don Colby and his best mate Derek Williams get back in the brand-new Celica.

Five minutes later the Celica leaves Woolley Edge services –

At speed.

Neil Fontaine gets out of the Mercedes. He walks across the car park to the phone. He makes two calls –

Neil Fontaine tells the first voice: ‘Presents were exchanged as planned.’

He hangs up.

Neil Fontaine tells the Jew: ‘This time for real.’

Jerry Witherspoon was smoking a cigar at his table. He was waiting today.

Not Roger.

Malcolm Morris sat down.

Jerry smiled. He said, ‘And how are we today, Malcolm?’

‘I don’t have the tapes,’ said Malcolm. ‘If that’s what this is about?’

Jerry stubbed out his cigar. He leant forward. He smiled. He said, ‘We know.’