David Peace - GB84

‘They’re Yorkshiremen,’ said the President. ‘They should know better.’

Everybody nodded again.

The President looked over at Samantha Green. He said, ‘Love —’

‘There are, in total, eleven orders now facing the Yorkshire Area,’ she said. ‘These scabs want a declaration from Justice Warner that the strike is not official in Yorkshire without a ballot. In some respects it’s similar in nature to the actions brought against North Wales and the Midlands. Their lawyers are to argue that the 1983 Inverness Conference decision calling for action against any proposed pit closures was discretionary — not mandatory — and that this supersedes the 1981 vote, which, they argue, is too remote anyway. They have had help though —’

‘Inside help and all,’ said the President. ‘Lot of it too —’

Everybody stopped nodding. Everybody looked back up the table.

‘They have copies of the National and Yorkshire rulebooks. They have copies of the agendas and minutes for the past five area conferences, for the National and Area executive committees, and for the Yorkshire Strike Co-ordinating Committee. Not just minutes, actual verbatim reports.’

Terry Winters glanced across the table at Bill Reed. Bill Reed said, ‘Who?’

‘Huddersfield Road,’ said the President.

Bill Reed said, ‘I warned you.’

‘Aye, you warned us,’ said Dick. ‘But you didn’t give us a name, did you?’

Bill Reed smiled. Bill said, ‘You want it on a silver plate, do you, Comrade?’

‘I wanted more than gossip and rumour, aye,’ said Dick.

Bill shook his head. He said again, ‘I warned you, Comrade. I warned you.’

‘Enough of this bloody bickering,’ said the President.

Bill Reed tapped the table. Bill said, ‘Here, here.’

The President looked at Bill Reed. The President looked around the whole room. The President said, ‘Now is the time for action, Comrades. Action.’

Everybody nodded once again. Everybody clapped.

Terry Winters glanced back across the table at Bill Reed. Bill winked.

Terry Winters looked away. Terry looked over at Samantha Green –

Samantha was staring at Bill Reed –

Bill winked again.

‘To your posts,’ said the President. ‘Be vigilant! Be valiant! Be victorious!’

Everyone applauded. Briefly. Then everyone ran for cover –

The Chairman wanted the President prosecuted for criminal conspiracy.

Terry took the lift back down. Terry stood between the Denims and the Tweeds. The Denims had their tobacco tins in their hands. The Tweeds their pouches –

‘Fuck you, Stalin. Bugger you, Trotsky,’ all the way down and out –

Terry walked through the lunchtime shoppers. Made his way across the precinct. He went into Boots. He wandered around the pharmacy. He looked at the pills and the medicines. He bought two hundred aspirins. Deodorant and mouthwash. He paid by cash. He went into W. H. Smith. He wandered around the newspapers and the magazines. He looked at the contents and the headlines. Reagan had joked about bombing Russia in five minutes. He bought every paper with a jobs section. Writing paper and envelopes. He went into Marks & Spencer. He wandered around the Men’s Department. He looked at the shirts and the suits. He picked up a pair of socks –

‘Not getting cold feet are we, Comrade?’ asked Bill Reed.

Malcolm drove home to Harrogate. Fast. He left the car parked in the middle of the road. Doors open. He ran into the house. The lounge. He tore the cassettesoff the shelves —

The War of the Worlds into his pocket —

The telephone ringing. Malcolm picked it up. Listened —

‘Having a bit of a clear out, are we?’ asked Roger Vaughan.

‘What do you want?’

‘Not forgotten already, have we?’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘Your eyes and ears, Malcolm,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and ears.’

‘What about them?’

‘We had a deal,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and your ears are ours now.’

Roll up. Roll up. The police have had to close part of Northgate. There are diversions. The Jew has brought the carnival to the streets of Newark. TV trucks and cars full of cameramen choke the town centre of Newark. The carnival has come to see the cash –

To smell it. To touch it —

The Jew stands downstairs in the reception area at the front of Robinson & Harris. He tips the contents of an oversized post-bag across the reception desk and hands the envelopes to the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News –

‘Read them and weep, Adolf,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Read them and weep.’

Behind him stand Don and Derek; Don wearing his new Nottingham Forest shirt; Derek his new leather jacket –

‘“Dear Don and Derek,”’ reads the Jew. ‘“You are real heroes to me and all the other miners at our pit. We are only on strike because we are too scared of his Red Guard and South Yorkshire Hit Squad and what they would do to our wives and kids if we were to go into work. We think you are the bravest men in this country. We have not got much money, as you know, but here is over one hundred pounds that we want you to have. We hope you will win soon, so we can all return to work. Sorry we can’t sign our real names, but we know you know why. Your friends and your fans.”’

Pens scribble, cameras flash –

‘And this one,’ says the Jew. ‘This one from a pensioner in Brighton who says, “Thank God that this country still has men like Mr Colby and Mr Williams to fight not only for their own and their mates’ rights, but also for all the members of the public who are decent and hard-working like them, and who support them wholeheartedly —”’

‘How much have the lads got so far, then?’ ask the press.

Piers Harris steps forward. He says, ‘To date, since the launch of the Ballot Fund, we have received over five hundred letters a day and a total of more than twenty thousand pounds.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ shrieks the Jew. ‘It just keeps flooding in. Pouring in. Pound notes from pensioners and schoolchildren, cheques for a hundred or for a thousand pounds from individuals and businesses.’

‘How do you feel about all this, Don?’ ask the press.

‘It’s fantastic,’ says Don. ‘Just fantastic.’

‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘It is fantastic.’

‘Remember,’ says the Jew. ‘Their own homes are under twenty-four-hour guard. They are accompanied everywhere by members of the Special Branch. They are both heavily overdrawn and their mortgages have not been paid. Heaven forbid they should lose, this action could cost each man more than one hundred thousand pounds.’

‘How do you feel about that, Derek?’ ask the press.

‘It would have been worth every penny,’ says Derek. ‘Every penny.’

‘Yes,’ says Don. ‘Every penny.’

‘But they’re not going to lose,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Not with this kind of support from ordinary members of the Great British Public –

‘The people of Great Britain won’t let them lose!’

‘What do you think of Carl Baker, the ex-Grey Fox?’ ask the press.

Don and Derek look at the Jew. The Jew nods at Don and Derek –

‘He has a lot of courage and integrity,’ says Don. ‘A lot.’

‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘A lot of courage and integrity.’

‘OK, that’s all folks,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Show’s over for now.’

Neil Fontaine watches the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News leave the offices of Robinson & Harris. He watches them run back to their trucks and their cars with their headlines for their deadlines.

The telephone rings. The secretary says, ‘Mr Sweet, it’s Carl Baker for you.’