David Peace - GB84

Neil Fontaine says, ‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Really?’ asks the Jew. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’

him or something, him waving shotgun around like a bloody madman. I told him, Put gun away fore someone gets hurt, Frank — You want some and all, do you, Pete? he shouted down from window. I said, Don’t be daft. It’s not a bloody film, is it? This is real life — Fuck off, you and whole bloody lot of you — Fair enough, I said. I’ve tried. I walked back down path to pavement. I could hear them all over in next street. It sounded like they were giving Paul’s car some hammer. I didn’t blame them. You couldn’t. Next news police van was coming down road. Krk-krk. Lads all walking back this way now. Police obviously didn’t fancy their chances. But when I turned round I could see a load more vans coming down into village. Krk-krk. Be putting on riot gear in back — Lads started running. Me and all — I thought, Fucking hell, and I said to Keith, It’s starting again — Never bloody ends, he said. Never bloody ends — Panelagain. David Rainer nodded. He said, It’s right. Tomorrow. Gascoigne Wood — There’ll be civil war, said Johnny. Civil fucking war, that’s what there’ll be. I said, What you think we got now? Not a fucking picnic, is it? Johnny shook his head. He said, It’ll be nothing compared to what’s coming — He’s right, said Tom. Will look like a bloody picnic next to this, I tell you — So what we going to do? asked Derek. What bloody hell we going to do about it? Does anyone know who he is? Tom asked. Johnny nodded. Johnny said, Name’s Brian Green. Fucking electrician. I said, Has anyone from Kellingley or Barnsley spoken to him? Johnny said, He’s a scab, Pete. First fucking scab in Yorkshire. What’s point? Not until tomorrow, said David Rainer. Not until tomorrow, he’s not — It was another one of them mornings when lads didn’t need telling. Not after last week. I went up with Tony Stones, Mick Marsh and Lester. Gascoigne Wood.Just as dawn came up. That many pickets, there were tailbacks. Easy four thousand by eight o’clock. Easy. Most anybody had seen since Orgreave. Police out in force, of course. Krk-krk. Thousand of them. One. Fucking. Thousand — All for one bloke. One. Fucking. Bloke. Five thousand folk on both side, gathered in a fucking pit lane, first thing of a morning, all because one bloody bloke wanted to sell his fucking soul. Take their scab shilling. I hoped he choked on it. Hoped he fucking choked. But you looked at all them coppers on all that overtime and you knew it was more than any bloody shilling and all. I stood there trying to work it out. How much it must have been costing them to get this one scabby bastard into that one pit to sit on his arse for eight hour. Say this for coppers, they’re always quick enough to tell you how much they’re on. How King Arthur had done more for police pay than any Home Secretary. Everyone knew they didn’t get out of bed down South for less than a hundred quid a shift these days. There were a thousand of them easy, so that were a hundred grand straight off then. Just on police pay. Like Billy in Welfare said, She must really hate us. Really fucking hate us— And then shout went up. I got on my toes to get a good look at him. I couldn’t see much, though — Raining fucking bricks as usual. Heavy weather — Just this blue taxi coming roaring up pit lane. Ninety mile an hour — Mass push. Lot of fucking scrapping. Helmets going up. Smoke coming off fields where lads had lit some bales — They got him in, though. They always did — Mick Marsh said there were two of them in back and all today. Lester bet other one was just a pig — Ten quid said so. Why they called him Lester — But how could you tell? Both scabs were sat in back of taxi with their jackets over their heads — Like real men. Them jackets would be on their heads for rest of their lives now — Fucking pressure they must have put on him, though. That first one. Felt for him in a way. Not that it was something you’d ever say, like — But who’d want to be him? That bastard. Only scab in Yorkshire. First scab in Yorkshire — What a thing to tell your kids. Your grandkids — There was Home Front. Then there was your own doorstep — And this was our own doorstep all right: Silverwood— Home of our Panel. Fucking war zone, what it was now. Like pictures of bloody Belfast or

Monday 13 — Sunday 19 August 1984

The wind rattled the wire. The question distorted. The torture displaced. The pain disembodied. Theguard backto haunt the ghost —

Malcolm heard her inhale. Malcolm heard her exhale. Malcolm opened his eyes.

Diane said, ‘They took your warrant card?’

Malcolm swallowed. Malcolm nodded.

She stubbed out the cigarette. She put a hand on his wounds. She kissed his ears.

Malcolm flinched. Malcolm cried.

Diane stood up. Diane said, ‘Run, Malcolm. Hide.’

Malcolm closed his eyes until she’d gone. Her smell always the same now —

Disinfectant.

Theresa Winters had gone down to Bath to stay with her parents and the children. Theresa had said she would stay there until Terry apologized for all the things he had done. For all the things he had said –

The stupid things.

Terry dried his eyes. Terry said, ‘I blame myself.’

The President stood up in front of the huge portrait of himself. He walked round to where Terry was sitting. He handed Terry a tissue. He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder –

Terry looked up at the President. Terry said, ‘Please don’t blame Gareth.’

‘I don’t blame either of you, Comrade,’ said the President. ‘How could I?’

Terry blew his nose. Terry waited –

The sequestrators had seized seven hundred thousand pounds from South Wales. Itwould be held until the NUM leaders purged their contempt —

Terry’s plans had failed.

‘How could anyone,’ continued the President, ‘how could anyone possibly have foreseen the extent to which this government would manipulate the country’s legal system in order to conspire against and crush the attempts of any trade unionist to save their job? How could you have foreseen that? You tried your best, Comrade —’

Terry sniffed. Terry nodded –

‘But your best was not good enough,’ said the President. ‘Next time, Comrade?’

‘Next time,’ said Terry. ‘Next time my best will be more than good enough.’

The President sat down in front of his portrait. He said, ‘Then you are forgiven.’

Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘Thank you, President. Thank you.’

The President did not look up from his desk.

Len held open the door for Terry. Terry walked backwards out of the room –

Terry went upstairs. He sat on his chair and looked around the Conference Room. Terry saw Bill Reed. Bill Reed winked. Terry looked away. Terry saw Samantha Green. Samantha was the Union’s new solicitor. Terry smiled. Samantha looked away –

The President entered. Everyone rose –

The President was still fuming about the former Grey Fox –

‘Least he’s from Nottinghamshire,’ shouted the President. ‘Not a collier either, bloody blacksmith or something. Only done that for five year too. But I will say again, here and now, I don’t want a single hair of his head touched.’

Everybody nodded.

‘Not one hair,’ said the President. ‘But these other two —’

‘Don Colby and Derek Williams,’ said Paul.

‘— these two are from Yorkshire. Bloody faceworkers at Manton —’

‘Nottingham in all but name,’ said Paul.