David Peace - GB84

‘Good,’ said Malcolm. ‘I just wanted to get that out of the way.’

Jerry smiled again. He said again, ‘We know.’

‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Witherspoon?’

Jerry sat back. He said, ‘Roger and I would like to borrow your eyes and ears.’

‘I’m afraid the price has gone up.’

Jerry said, ‘Whatever you feel is fair, Malcolm. They are your eyes and ears.’

‘Who?’

Jerry lifted up his napkin. He pushed an envelope across the table. ‘Him.’

Malcolm opened the envelope. He stared at the photograph inside —

He looked back up at Jerry Witherspoon.

Jerry nodded. Jerry said, ‘Love will always let you down, Malcolm. Always.’

— Nowhere else. Not Hobart House. Not St James’s House. Not Shirebrook. Not today — Today it was here. Here in Babbington — Here and only here. Here where camera crews were. Here where aggro was. Here where strike was. Here — South Nottinghamshire. Our own enemy within — Mass picket at last. Lads on both sides of road. Here — and I wished I wasn’t. Here — I was at back with Ken when it all wheeled round. Put us down at front — Listen to voice. Massive shove, massive — Voice saying, Follow me. Had them halfway across road, traffic stopped — Follow me. More police running up to shove us back, clear way for snatch squad — Scabs just walking and driving in. Like nothing was going on — Like nothing was wrong. Bounders. Traitors. Bastards. Scab. Scab. Scab — They went in hard, snatch squad. Fucking hard on this one lad — Five on to one. Trail of blood told you where they’d taken him. Must have given them taste for it too, because they were all going in hard now. Hard after anyone they could — Hard until they got their seventy arrests or however many it was they were after today. Mission accomplished — That was it, then. That was strike over for today — Be somewhere else tomorrow. Not here — Hobart House. St James’s House. Creswell — Not Babbington. Not tomorrow — Tomorrow it’d be somewhere cameras were. Where aggro would be. That was where strike would be — Not here. Not tomorrow — Been out twenty week now. Twenty bloody week. Fucking hell. Our Jackie made Sunday lunch today. Been a while since we’d had one. Proper one, like. Not sort of thing you said when you went down Welfare,either. Blokes looked at your dinner medals to see what you’d had. One too many roasts down you and folk would think you were scabbing or out robbing — And they’d sooner you were out robbing. Better that than other — Some of older blokes buying us drinks again today. They were glad of company and we were glad of pint. Listen to their stories of 1926 and who’d done what then; who’d scabbed and who’d not. Richest folk in village nowadays, pensioners and some of them on dole. I was in toilets when Keith came in. He said, Seen anything of Martin? Not since start of month, I said. Keith nodded. Keith said, No one’s seen him — I might have a drive up there then, I said. Keith shook his head. He said, There’s no one about — What about his Cath? I asked him. Keith shook his head again. He said, Jacked her job in, I heard. Fucking hell, I said. You don’t think they’ve flit? I don’t know, Keith said. Thought you might. Why? I asked — Not seen hide nor hair of him, I said. Or her — Maybe they’ve just gone away for a bit. Holiday or something? said Keith. I looked at him. I said, They take Scotch Mist, do they? Lunn Poly? No, he said. I doubt they do. I said, These are dangerous times, Keith. Be careful what you say. Be careful what you think. There were a few festivals on down in London. Yorkshire Area were laying on coaches. Demand was such that we’d had to stick on a few more. Mary and lot of lasses were off in fancy dress as usual. Should have seen bloody state of them. Boost to morale, though, so they said. Loaded up our buckets and badges, our begging bowls and flat caps and off we set. Ironic really, it must have been only time it had bloody rained all month. Been glorious weather. Now it was pissing it down. Pissing it down all fucking day and all. I was stood at Jubilee Gardens.Must have been a hundred bloody buckets. Every branch here, plus mob from GLC. Only good thing that happened all day was when this one coloured lad come past. He stops. He looks at all buckets. He takes out his wage packet from his pocket. He opens it up and pulls out two pound notes. I thought, That’s decent of you. But then he only goes and sticks the two quid back in his pocket and drops his whole bloody wage packet into our bucket — His whole week’s wages. Bar two pound — It made me think, that did. There were no coloured people in Thurcroft and there were them that were right glad about that. I wished they’d been here to see that — But I was same; grew up thinking that blacks had a chip on their shoulder and that Irish were all bloody nutters. I didn’t think that now, I tell

Monday 30 July — Sunday 5 August 1984

The National Executive Committee had rejected the Board’s offer. The Special Delegate Conference had been recalled for August 10. It was set to run and run –

It was cap-in-hand time to Congress House. Almost –

The Denims and the Tweeds were staring at Terry Winters.

The President had just asked, ‘Will it be jail or fines, Comrade?’

‘Fines first,’ said Terry.

The President said, ‘And how much do you think the fines will be?’

‘For contempt? Fifty thousand plus costs,’ said Terry.

The President said, ‘And what steps will they take to recover it?’

‘The court will set a deadline of twenty-four to forty-eight hours for payment.’

The President said, ‘And when that passes?’

‘They’ll appoint sequestrators to take over the Welsh assets.’

‘Who?’

‘Price Waterhouse,’ said Terry. ‘Who else?’

The President nodded. The President said, ‘But everything is in place?’

‘Everything is in place. Everything is set. Everything ready.’

The President stood up. The President put his hand on Terry’s shoulder –

Terry looked up into his eyes. Terry smiled.

The President said, ‘Unity is just around the corner, Comrade.’

‘Unity and strength, Comrade President,’ said Terry.

The President left the room for the meeting.

*

Neil Fontaine drives the Jew North again. The Jew closes his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches on the radio in the front and the back of the Mercedes –

‘— there is no going back. There is no surrender. We will fight and we will win— or we will diein the attempt —’

Neil Fontaine glances in the mirror. The Jew opens his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches off the radio in the front and back of the Mercedes –

This time for real.

The Jew holds court with the people from the court. The legal eagles of Newark. The Jew talks about the individual. The individual’s resistance. The resistance of the cell. The cell’s resilience –

‘But I digress,’ says the Jew. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen.’

Grey Fox, Don Colby and Derek Williams stare blankly at the Jew.

Dominic Reid sweats.

Piers Harris touches the huge pile of Union documents on his desk again. He says, ‘This is quite a trove you men have amassed.’

Don Colby and Derek Williams smile, proud of what they have become.

‘But does the trove contain the treasure we seek?’ asks the Jew.

Piers Harris nods. He says, ‘I would think so. Don’t you, Dominic?’