David Peace - GB84

The Jew looks at Neil Fontaine. The Jew draws a finger across his throat.

Neil Fontaine takes the phone from the girl –

‘Hello, Carl,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Mr Sweet is busy. Can I take a message?’

Malcolm showed the receptionist at the County his new warrant card and the receptionist showed Malcolmthe register. Malcolmasked for Room707 and the receptionist gave him a key attached to a long wooden stick.

Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor past the bathrooms —

The rooms were empty. The rooms were quiet —

A black man pushed a vacuum cleaner down the corridor.

Malcolm came to Room 707. He unlocked the door. He stepped inside —

It smelt stale.

Malcolm hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle of the door. He closed the door. Locked it. He took off his shoes. Placed them on the double bed. He walked across the room. Drew the curtains. He took a gauze mask from his trouser pocket. Put it on. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed.

Malcolm lay down on the floor between the bed and the door —

He turned his head to the left. His ear to the floor —

Malcolm closed his eyes. He controlled his breathing beneath the mask —

He listened —

No one home down below.

Malcolm breathed out through the mask. He opened his eyes —

Not today.

Malcolm took his shoes off the bed. Placed them by the door. He took his trousers and jacket off the bed. Hung them on the back of the door. He took the pillows, the blankets and the sheets off the bed. Folded them up and placed them inside the wardrobe. He lifted up the double bed. Placed it on its side. He picked up his case. Put it on the dressing table. He opened it. Took out a Stanley knife. He cut a large square out of the thicker carpet under where the bed had stood. Placed the square of carpet to one side. He cut a smaller square out of the underlay. Placed it to one side. He put the Stanley knife back in his briefcase. Took out a small brush. He dusted the floorboards clean. Put the brush back in his briefcase. He took out the stethoscope and the micro-recorder, the micro-tapes and the microphones. Malcolm laid them out. He set them up. He tested and adjusted them. He went back to the briefcase.Tookoutthe envelope –

The photograph.

Malcolm Morris pinned the photograph to the wall of Room 707, the County Hotel, and layon the floor and stared up into that face —

The ghosts without. The ghosts within –

The face of Neil Fontaine.

Beirut — Barricades across roads. Trees. Scrap cars. Tyres. Supermarket trolleys — David Rainer stood up with more bad news. He said, Board are saying seventeen went in today — Is that scabs or coppers in disguise? asked Johnny. Folk were nodding. I said, Know which pits, do we? Allerton-Bywater and Gascoigne Wood up there. Askern, Brodsworth, Hatfield and Markham Main in Doncaster area. Just Silverwood here, David read from his list. Folk were shaking their heads. Tom said, Thought Donny were solid? All part of their plan, said Derek. Board and police know them lads flying from those pits are hardcore. They’ve pushed them pits first so as to keep local lads busy — Lot of them blokes are stuck out in middle of nowhere, too, said Tom. Easy to get at them — Pressure they put on them is immense, said David. Folk were nodding again. I said, Talking to them. It’s only way to help them — Help them? Johnny laughed. They’re fucking scabs, Pete. How many more times? They’re as good as dead to us — Be blackout curtains over Welfare’swindows soon. That bad. I looked up — Built like a brick shithouse, he was. Not been down here before. Never been on a picket, either. Lads said he just sat about house or went up reservoir with his dog. His wife worked. Packing factory in Rotherham. Not as bad off as some, then. Two teenage kids at school, mind — But here he was. First thing after breakfast — Tears down both cheeks. Dog on a lead — Aye-up, Chris, I said. What’s up with you, lad? It’s about her, he said. Who? He pointed at his dog on lead. He said, Her — What about her? I said. I can’t keep her. Can’t feed her. RSPCA won’t bloody take her — I looked at pair of them. I shook my head. I said, I don’t know what — Thought you might know someone, he said. Bloody good dog, she is — I can see that, I said. But what — Don’t want to just let her loose, he said. She wouldn’t go, either. I know she wouldn’t. Daft thing’d get hit by a car or something. I took her up reservoir last night. Had a bag with me. Few stones. Bit of rope. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it — Chris, Chris, listen to me, I told him. If you came on picket with us, you’d get a quid a day. Bill Blakey’s will sell you a bag of bones for a quid. He looked up. He wiped his nose. He said, You don’t want her, then? I bloody don’t, I said. But I want you to come picketing. That way you can keep her. He wiped his nose again. He said, But I seen it on telly, Pete. It’s not for me. I said, Looks worse than it is on TV. Nine time out of ten, nothing ever happens. Die of boredom most days. He shook his head. He said, That how you lost your teeth then, is it? Chris, I said, you’d be biggest bloody bloke there. He looked at dog. He said, I know that. That’s why I don’t want to go — I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, I said. Not when I were with you. He looked up at me again, then back down at dog. He said, Just a quid? Unless there’s anything left over from petrol and there will be, I said. Big bastard like you in car. He sighed. He said, I’ll see you Monday then. I nodded. I said, I’ll be waiting — Armthorpe. Askern. Bentley. Brodsworth. Easington. Hatfield. Silverwood. Wearmouth — Waiting for war to come to us — Her war. My war — Teeth woke me up again. Bloody hurt, they did. I didn’t want to get out of my bed, though. Fucking week we’d had. Hardly been in house. I couldn’t think last time I sat down for a meal with Mary and our Jackie — Mary was folding washing when I came downstairs.Jackie had gone to get us a paper. I made us all a pot. Jackie came back. Read bits of paper. Best news of week was Wednesday beating Forest three-fucking-one — Take that, you scabby fucking bastards, I thought — Mary said, What you grinning at? Nothing. She said, I saw Martin’s wife yesterday. Cath Daly? I said. Where was that then? In town, she said. Centre of Rotherham. In precinct, wasn’t it? Our Jackie looked up from her tea. She nodded. Did you speak to her? Just how’s it going, Mary said. Usual — What did she say? Nothing — Mention Martin, did she? No — Keith thought they might have moved, you know? Mary shook her head. She said, What does he know about anything? I said, Might go up there after dinner — I got car out. Drove up to Hardwick. Parked outside their house. No sign of life. I knocked on

Monday 20 — Sunday 26 August 1984

The President sent Terry Winters and Mike Sullivan back to Huddersfield Road again. The President wanted them to find out what-the-bloody-hell-was-going-on-over-there. The President didn’t trust Huddersfield Road at all now. Not one inch. None of them. The President was really, really fucking paranoid now –

They all were (they all said so). Everyone –

Dick and Paul. Joan and Len. The Tweeds and the Denims. Everyone –

Clive Cook was waiting on the front steps outside the Yorkshire Headquarters. Clive said, ‘Good morning, Comrades.’