David Peace - GB84

Monday 6 — Sunday 12 August 1984

There is a full board meeting of the NCB today. The Jew has his invitation. He has been asked to address the Board by the Chairman. He knows the Board do not care for him. The Jew doesn’t care. He is on the front line. Not them. He’s fighting this fight. Not them. He’s winning the war, not them –

‘Help the Miners, yes,’ says the Jew. ‘But not him. Never. Not him. Never him. That one man’s war has brought over five thousand arrests. Injured six hundred police and two hundred pickets. That one man’s war has killed two of his own on the picket line. Driven to suicide many, many more. It has cost countless millions in damage to property. It has seen miner attack miner. Colleague attack colleague. Brother attack brother. It has led to threats of assault, rape and murder on the families of those that will not join this one man’s war –

‘Well, gentlemen, the time has come to fight back and I am here today to tell you that fightback has already started. Independent legal actions by ordinary working miners across the coalfields of Britain have begun. Collections by ordinary working miners to compensate the victims of intimidation and violence have begun. Committees of ordinary miners who want to organize a return to work have begun –

‘These men are on the front line. They stand alone against one man’s attempts to destroy the democratic rights of working-class people. If he succeeds and these men fail, this country fails too –

‘The battle has been joined. The fightback has begun. If it is to be won, and won speedily, all who love and believe in freedom and democracy should do and give what they can financially or in any other way they see fit.’

Neil Fontaine claps long and loud. He says, ‘Bravo, sir. Bravo.’

‘To Hobart House, then,’ says the Jew. ‘To Hobart House, Neil.’

Malcolm didn’t sleep because Malcolm didn’t want to dream. He didn’t want to dream because he didn’t want to hear them —

Hear them in his dreams. Laughing. See them in his sheets. Fucking.

These were the nights from which he ran and hid. The days when he disappeared —

Checked into a hotel. Locked the doors. Drew the curtains —

Disappeared off the face of the Earth —

To lie deceived and defeated on hotel sheets. For nights and days like these —

These dark dog-days of August 1984.

Malcolm Morris lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and watched the night retreat across the ceiling. The curtains. The shadows become sunlight. Malcolm lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and wished that it were so —

That shadows became light.

Malcolm got up. Dressed. He checked out. Drove —

Dalton, Nottinghamshire.

He parked and sat low in the car and watched them arrive with their radios on –

‘— I plan to come out into the open to prevent my friends from being hurt and intimidated by militant miners who are trying to identify Grey Fox through violence —’

He watched Carl Baker at the door of the pub between four large policemen —

‘— I do not agree with the Board’s pit closure programme but eighty per cent of striking miners want to go back to work —’

He watched him shake hands with each man who came to his meeting —

‘— don’t let this animal element, these left-wing bully-boys and their hit squads, don’t let them destroy your lives. Call your mates, then call your pit manager —’

He watched him talk to the journalists and the TV crews with his sunglasses on —

‘— let’s all go back to work next Monday. Tell your wives to pack your lunch, then go to your pit and strike a blow for democracy —’

He watched him break down into hundreds of tears ( a lifetime of fears to come).Hewatched StephenSweetput an armaround him —

A silent movie.

He watched their secret meeting break up before the cameras and the microphones. Their cars leave and the car park empty. He watched the police escort Carl Baker and Stephen Sweet and some journalists out to a police Range Rover.

Malcolm looked at his watch —

Fuck.

He started the Volvo. Drove back up to South Yorkshire. The A57 onto the A638 –

The Great North Road.

He passed through Retford and Ranskill. Noticed the Montego in the rearview—

Fuck.

The driver holding something to his mouth. Larger men in the front and rear—

Fuck.

Malcolm put his foot down. The car in front braked —

Fuck.

Malcolm swerved to the left. Into the hedgerow. Into the ditch —

Fuck.

Doors opened. Boots came —

Fuck.

Malcolm opened his door. He got out. Hands over his ears. But it was too late —

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

It never goes away. Tony Davies has left two messages for Neil Fontaine. They arrange to meet in the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel on Bloomsbury Way. Tony is wearing a floral waistcoat under his stained linen jacket. Tony smells of sweat. Tony is a paedophile. Tony is a member of Nazi groups. Tony drinks double vodkas. Neil drinks a Britvic orange. They talk about the Olympics. They talk about Nigel Short. They talk about the weather –

‘Too bloody hot,’ says Tony. ‘Unbearable. I need to get away. You too.’

Neil Fontaine stares at Tony Davies. Neil asks, ‘What makes you say that, Tony?’

‘I know about Shrewsbury,’ he whispers. ‘Very bad business. Very bad.’

Neil Fontaine keeps staring at Tony Davies –

The flowers and the stains —

Tony smiles. Tony points at Neil. Tony says, ‘They’re asking for names.’

Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. Neil Fontaine takes another sip from it.

Tony puts a hand on Neil’s arm. Tony says, ‘I can help you, Neil. I can help you.’

Neil Fontaine removes Tony’s hand from his arm. He says, ‘You’re drunk, Tony.’

‘Am I?’ says Tony. ‘Am I really? Well, so bloody what if I am?’

Neil Fontaine pulls him close. He whispers, ‘You got something to say? Say it.’

‘I want to know what you’ve done with my Julius?’ says Tony. ‘Where is he?’

Neil Fontaine puts his hand between Tony’s legs. He grabs Tony’s testicles –

Tony Davies sits in the corner of the pub and tries not to scream.

Neil Fontaine lets go of Tony’s testicles. He says, ‘Go back to your hole, Tony.’

Tony stands up. Tony runs out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.

Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. He finishes it. He stands up –

He follows Tony out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.

*

The Old Man was sick. He’d collapsed at the rally to commemorate the Tolpuddle Martyrs. He hadn’t got up again yet. The Annual Congress was only three weeks away. The Fat Man had seized his chance. He took the train to Sheffield. The lift up to the tenth floor. The Fat Man wanted to see for himself. Hear for himself –

‘The South Wales NUM accounts with the local Co-operative and Midland banks have all been frozen,’ Terry Winters was telling him. ‘The majority of their assets had already been transferred for safety, so the amounts involved are not great. However, they do include all recent donations and so we’re hopeful we can argue in court that this money is then technically not the property of the South Wales NUM and should therefore be unfrozen. But, in the meantime, it leaves them on a day-to-day basis with no cash.’