David Peace - GB84

The Fat Man turned to the President. He asked, ‘The National Union cannot offer them any assistance? Short-term loans? Divert other donations?’

‘Impossible,’ said the President. ‘Comrade Chief Executive, continue.’

‘The National Union is itself desperately short of money,’ said Terry. ‘Our own assets were also transferred abroad at the start of the dispute. The substantial amounts of money we have received through donations and loans from other unions have, almost in their entirety, been used to alleviate hardship within the communities. There is no longer any finance available to assist areas with strike-related activities. This office itself requires well over one hundred thousand pounds a week to keep going, and by the end of October we will be unable to cover those costs —’

‘Unless’, said the President, ‘the trade union movement comes to our aid.’

The Fat Man nodded. He picked up his TUC pen. He said, ‘How about loans?’

‘We’ve had loans,’ said the President. ‘We need total physical support —’

The Fat Man nodded again. He said, ‘I know that. But what about interest-free loans from across the entire trade union movement? Not just the usual suspects.’

‘It would show tangible physical support,’ agreed the President.

‘The loans would have to be shown to be secure,’ said the Fat Man. ‘And they would obviously have to be repaid.’

‘Obviously,’ said the President.

‘And, obviously, ’ continued the Fat Man, ‘they would have to be made in such a way as not to compromise the legal position of our members.’

The President looked over to Terry. He said, ‘Comrade Chief Executive?’

‘There’s over eight million pounds of our assets overseas at present,’ said Terry. ‘These assets are untraceable and can therefore act as security for any loans received. If the loans themselves are made in the form of donations, then the legal position of the donor cannot be compromised should the National Union be subject to any future court actions in regard to our finances. At the conclusion of the dispute, our assets will be returned to Britain and repayments on the loans could then commence.’

The Fat Man stopped writing. The Fat Man put down his TUC pen again. He said, ‘The assets are untraceable? You’re absolutely certain of that?’

Terry Winters smiled. Terry Winters said, ‘Of that I am certain.’

‘There is another way,’ said the President.

The Fat Man picked up his TUC pen again and asked, ‘And what way is that?’

‘Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the President again, ‘if you would —’

‘The President has already submitted a motion calling for all-out support from the Trades Union Congress,’ said Terry. ‘Following last Wednesday’s meeting with ASLEF, the NUS and the NUR, it was decided that we would add to our resolution a number of amendments — one of which is to demand a ten-pence-a-week levy from each individual member of each of the ninety-eight affiliated unions of Congress.’

The Fat Man put down his pen. He said, ‘You’re talking a million quid a week.’

‘No,’ said the President. ‘I’m talking ten pence a week.’

The Fat Man shook his head –

There was silence on the tenth floor. Then footsteps –

Paul Hargreaves opened the door. Paul Hargreaves looked at Terry Winters –

The General Secretary stood and stared at the Chief Executive.

‘What is it, Comrade?’ asked the President. ‘What’s happened?’

‘They’ve found and frozen the South Wales assets,’ said Paul. ‘All of them.’

The President turned to Terry Winters. The Fat Man turned to Terry Winters –

The whole room turned to Terry fucking Winters –

Terry shook his head. His head red. His head in his hands. His hands dirty –

His hands over his eyes –

His eyes full.

*

They’ve had a bit of a lie-in this morning have these would-be Working Miners. They have yet to come down to the lobby of the Mayfair Westbury and it is already well past ten o’clock. But they have had a busy week have these would-be Working Miners. They have been in court each day to hear their action against the Yorkshire Area of the NUM over the Union’s failure to hold a ballot. They have been on television. They have been on the radio. In the papers. They are the men of the moment are these would-be Working Miners.

Neil Fontaine waits for them in a comfortable chair in the lobby of the Westbury while the Jew tries to keep Carl Baker patient.

‘They certainly deserved their champagne,’ the Jew is telling him.

Carl Baker shakes his head. He says, ‘I could do with a glass or ten myself.’

‘And you will have one, Carl,’ says the Jew. ‘As many as you want. Later.’

Carl Baker nods. He looks at his watch again –

The Jew has organized a lunchtime press conference for Grey Fox in the upstairs room of a pub near the High Court. Here Grey Fox will reveal himself to be none other than mild-mannered father-of-two Carl Baker from the Bevercotes pit. He will announce the launch of the Carl Baker Fund for Democracy. Then Carl will travel to the BBC and speak on The World This Weekend, after which the Mail on Sunday will accompany Carl on yet another tour of the pits and the villages of the British coalfields –

Carl Baker looks at his watch again. He says, ‘I don’t want to be late.’

‘And you won’t be,’ says the Jew. ‘You won’t be.’

Carl Baker nods. He says, ‘I think I need to use the bathroom again.’

The Jew and Neil Fontaine watch Carl Baker walk across the lobby in his tight pale denim jeans and his tight pale cotton jacket. He is going greyer by the minute. He has also grown a moustache since he first met the Jew. The Jew is flattered –

But Neil Fontaine is worried. He is not sure this is the right man. He tells the Jew, ‘Fred Wallace called, sir.’

‘And has the John Wayne of Pye Hill assembled his posse?’

Neil Fontaine says, ‘They are all saddled up, sir.’

‘Excellent news,’ says the Jew. ‘Will you make the necessary arrangements?’

Neil Fontaine says, ‘Certainly, sir.’

The lift doors open. Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie step out. The ladies are laughing; their men carrying the suitcases.

The Jew stands up. The Jew says, ‘Good morning. And how are we all today?’

The Working Miners and their wives all nod and smile.

‘Good, good, good,’ says the Jew. ‘Now where has our friend Carl got to?’

Neil Fontaine stands up. He goes down to the Gents’ –

Carl Baker is washing his face in the sink. He looks up at Neil –

His skin is grey. His eyes red. His tongue forked —

Neil Fontaine staggers back. Back from the sink. Back from the mirror.

Carl Baker dries his face with a paper towel. He says, ‘Are you all right?’

‘They’re waiting for you upstairs,’ says Neil.

Carl Baker puts the wet paper towel in the basket with the other wet paper towels. He follows Neil Fontaine back up the stairs and across the lobby. He says hello to Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie –

He smells of sick.

‘Right then,’ says the Jew. ‘To the pub.’

Neil Fontaine holds open the doors for the Jew and his friends and their families. He hails a taxi for Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie. He gives the driver the name of the pub near the court. He hands him the fare in advance. He shuts the door of the cab –

The Jew and Carl wave them bye-bye.

Neil Fontaine holds open the back door of the Mercedes. Carl gets into the back. Neil Fontaine waits for the Jew to get in –

The Jew stops. He looks at Neil. He says, ‘You don’t look at all well, Neil.’