David Peace - GB84

Gareth Thomas stared at Terry Winters. Terry smiled at Gareth –

The two men stood in silence in the empty office. Just a telephone on the floor between them –

Terry Winters said, ‘Do you mind calling me a taxi back to Cardiff?’

‘That’s it?’ said Gareth Thomas.

Terry Winters nodded. Terry said, ‘I think so, yes.’

‘You came all this way just to tell us not to worry?’

Terry nodded again. He said, ‘The President wanted to show his support —’

‘What about the money? Where’s the cash?’

Terry looked at Gareth. Terry said, ‘What money? What cash?’

‘The bloody money you promised us to get us through this fucking mess!’

Terry said, ‘I don’t know what money you could mean, Comrade.’

‘The money we fucking gave you!’

Terry held out his hands. He said, ‘What money are you talking about?’

Gareth Thomas looked at Terry Winters. Gareth punched Terry in the face –

Terry Winters fell on the floor. His glasses broken. His nose bleeding.

Gareth Thomas spat at Terry Winters. Gareth Thomas walked out.

Terry Winters took out his handkerchief. Terry Winters wiped his face –

Blood and spit again.

The briefing at Gower Street was at ten. The usual maps and photographs on the walls. The one word and two numbers on the board:

Week 23.

The private door at the side opened. Forty faces followed her down to the front. Forty faces watched her stand behind the podium. Take her notes out of her briefcase. Herpenfrom her pocket. Hercigarettes —

Forty faces that wanted to fuck her. Again —

Malcolm closed his eyes until she’d finished. Until Diane had almost gone —

Her smell still here —

The New Order.

Malcolm went back to a different desk in a different office. He stared at the phone on the desk. The clock on the wall. He drank coffee. He smoked cigarettes —

And stared at the phone –

The car packed and ready to go.

Malcolm and Cole on stand-by —

Lot of secret talk about a lot of secret talks.

Malcolm sat at the desk. He stared at the phone. The clock. Drank another coffee. Smoked another cigarette and stared and stared and stared at the bloody phone—

The car packed. Ready to go.

Cole lay on the floor of the office. He had his eyes closed. His headphones on. Thesound of National Radio 1.

Malcolm just sat there. Drinking and smoking —

And staring from the phone to the clock and back to the phone —

The car packed and ready to go. Fuck it —

Malcolm put on his headphones. He sat and still stared. But he listened now —

To them chatter — chatter — chatter —

‘— I call on the British trade union movement to give total physical support to the NUM currently under attack from the government’s anti-trade union laws —’

Chattering —

‘— it has not penetrated the minds of this government and their judiciary that you cannot sequestrate an idea nor imprison a belief —’

Their ceaseless fucking chattering —

‘— we will continue to operate, even if it means operating out of a telephone box —’

To them bicker — bicker — bicker —

‘— she says she loves her country. For the sake of her country, she should go —’

Bickering —

‘— there is only one word to describe the policy of the Right Honourable gentleman when faced with threats, whether from home or abroad, and that word is appeasement —’

Their bankrupt fucking bickering —

‘— even in narrow financial terms, the three-hundred-and-fifty-million-pound cost of the strike represents a worthwhile investment for the good of the nation and that is before taking account of the wider issues in this debate —’

Ceaseless and bankrupt, endless and destitute —

Malcolm Morris wanted to cut off his ears. To put the pieces in an envelope —

Send her the envelope. First class. The scissors and a note —

Your turn, dear. For old times’ sake.

Malcolm took off his headphones. Threw them across the room —

Cole was staring at him. The telephone ringing —

The voice telling them, ‘Unity House, Euston Road —’

A date in the trees, their eyes and their ears among the branches and the leaves —

The Headquarters of the National Union of Railwaymen –

Just a hop, skip and a jump from here —

Malcolm put away the scissors. He stubbed out his cigarette —

Pressed record.

There were rumours of more court actions. Actions from within the Yorkshire coalfield. Lot being written and said about the Home Front now –

Terry watched Theresa Winters dump the frying pan and the grill in the sink. Terry watched Theresa squeeze Fairy Liquid onto the pan and the grill. He watched her run the tap until it was hot. He watched her pick up a Brillo pad. He watched her scrub and scrub the pan and the grill –

Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick. Slow —

Terry watched her put the Brillo pad back between the Fairy Liquid and the tap. He watched her rinse the pan and the grill under the tap. He watched her put the pan and the grill on the draining board. He watched her turn off the tap. He watched her pick up a tea-towel. He watched her dry and dry the pan and the grill –

Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick —

He watched her put the pan and the grill down on the worktop. He watched her dry her hands. He watched her put the tea-towel inside the washing-machine. He watched her put the frying pan in the cupboard above the fridge. He watched her put the grill back in the cooker. He watched her walk out of the kitchen –

Slow. Slow. Quick —

Out of the hall. Out of the house –

Out of their home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire.

you. Not after all I’d seen and heard — Them down here though, I don’t know. Don’t know what to think really. Lot of them gave a lot, but I don’t know. Had a lot to give in first place. Like bloody Kent miners. They fucking pissed me off sometimes. First to tell you how hardcore they were — Militant through and through. Shoulder to shoulder. All that — But they didn’t want their brothers-in-arms collecting down here, did they? Like London was their private bloody patch. Just theirs and rest of us could fuck off back to North. Right little gold mine it was for them and all. They only had two thousand men in three fucking pits and whole of London and bloody South to collect from. Be able to buy their pits soon, that much brass between them — Not like Yorkshire. Us that suffered most — Us that went out on picket. Picket, picket, picket — That were us. Not fannying about with fucking buckets. Having a chat with Red Ken on steps of GLC — Us out on picket lines getting our heads caved in. Beaten and arrested while our wives and kids went without. Curfews and roadblocks round our fucking houses and our villages — But I wouldn’t have it other way round. I wouldn’t want to be down here begging — That wasn’t me. That wasn’t any of us — Just would like a bit of their brass up our way for a change. But they could keep their bloody buckets — It said on front of our banner, From Obscurity to Respect. But part of me would come down here and feel like it ought to bloody say, From Obscurity to Pity — Because that was all it was for most of them. Pity — Not all of them. But a lot of them — Support the Miners. Stick your Southern quid in a Kent bucket to ease your bleeding conscience — But who fucking voted for her in first place? Who put me down here in bloody rain on streets of London with a plastic fucking bucket begging for their loose change? Crumbs off master’s table? No one round where I bloody came from — No. It was all too easy for most of them down here — Different planet. Different world — Different country. Different class — They could keep it and all. Fucking keep it — My head had only just touched pillow when there was a right loud banging on front door. That loud I thought it was riot squad. Mary stuck her head out of bedroom window — It was Keith. He must be drunk, I said — Mary shouted, He’s asleep. He’s got to be up again in three hour — Tell him he’s got to be up now, said Keith. There’s a mob of them gone up Frank Ramsay’s— Fucking hell, I shouted. Hold on then. I’ll be down. This had been brewing for a bit now. Frank Ramsay, Paul Banks and a couple of other lads had had short contracts over border in Nottingham at Bevercotes. Their contracts had run on for just first month of strike and lads here in village had turned a bit of a blind eye to them still working, because what they were doing were scabbing. But if they’d come out with rest of us they’d have got no benefits or nothing. They were all right and all. Known round village as good lads. Then their contracts had expired and that were that. Matter were finished with. But then last week, Board went and offered them permanent work — That was different. If they took them jobs they’d be taking jobs of blokes on Bevercotes picket line — That was same pit where that fucking Silver Birch twat worked and all. They’d be scabs same as him — It was wrong and they knew it. But they’d taken jobs and now they were going to have to pay price — Heavy one by sounds of it, too. Heavy one — Keith said, Frank were walking past Welfare and someone said something. There were words ex-changed. Lads got on about it inside and worked themselves up into a right lather — I bet they did, I said. I bet they did — Minute we turned into Frank’s street we heard his window go through. Then shotgun — Fucking shotgun blast. Daft bastard had only gone and fired his twelve bore out the bloody bedroom window — Keith stopped car where we were. I got out. Frank was shouting, There’s more where that come from. There’s kids in here — Folk already moving off now though. Lad told me they were heading over to Paul Banks’s house on next street. I wanted to go with them to make sure nothing else daft happened, but I was worried about Frank. I was worried coppers would come and shoot