David Peace - GB84

‘Is it fuck,’ said Mike Sullivan.

‘You weren’t expecting us, were you, Comrade?’ asked Terry.

Clive Cook looked at Terry. Clive said, ‘Should I have been?’

Terry and Mike Sullivan went through the arched doorway. Clive followed them. On the stairs, Clive asked, ‘Is there anything I can help you with, Comrades?’

‘You can show us where you keep your area minutes and agendas,’ said Mike.

Clive shook his head. He said, ‘They are all locked in the Area President’s office.’

‘And you don’t have a key, I suppose?’ asked Terry.

Clive shook his head again. He said, ‘Of course not.’

‘Who does?’ asked Mike.

Clive stopped a step below Terry and Mike. He said, ‘What is this, Comrades?’

‘You have a mole in this building,’ said Terry.

Mike nodded. He said, ‘An enemy within.’

‘So what are you two?’ asked Clive. ‘The Sheffield Inquisition?’

‘Yes,’ said Terry Winters. ‘That’s exactly what we are. Now find us the keys.’

Clive Cook walked back down the stairs. Clive Cook produced the keys –

Terry and Mike set to work; Clive Cook watched them –

Tear up plans. Budgets. Rewrite reports. Minutes –

Then Terry sent Mike out on another paper-chase and called Clive Cook closer. Terry ran his hands over Clive’s chest. Across his back. Up and down his legs –

Terry pulled him closer still and said, ‘I hope you’re being a good boy, Clive.’

Clive put his arms around Terry. Clive put his head against Terry’s chest –

Clive held on to Terry until he heard the footsteps –

The footsteps in the dark corridor.

Terry Winters got back to the office first. There would be no one here today. They’d still all be up at Gascoigne Wood. The Denims too. There to greet Brian Green –

The first Yorkshire scab –

The Home Front had opened up.

Terry had a long list of phone-calls to return. His old friend Jimmy at NACODS. The Daily bloody Mirror. Nearly every finance officer in the whole fucking Union. Terry took another three aspirins. He sat down under the large portrait of the President. He waited for the phone to ring. For her to call –

Please, please, please –

At five o’clock it rang.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Hope you missed me.’

Terry dropped the phone –

He did the stairs and the streets in five minutes. The drive in ten –

He ran through the hotel. Up the stairs. Through her door –

Terry dropped his pants –

Beds creaked. Headboards banged. Walls shook. Mouths cursed –

‘My best was not good enough,’ shouted Terry. ‘Not fucking good enough!’

Diane reached over to touch him. To hold him –

Terry turned away. Terry said, ‘I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him!’

‘And I know, I know, I know you do,’ said Diane.

‘No, you don’t,’ shouted Terry. ‘You’ve no idea. No one has!’

‘Just tell me what you want,’ she said. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you to do it.’

‘Tell you what I want?’ repeated Terry. ‘You really want to fucking know?’

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I want to know. I want to help you.’

Terry stood up. He held Diane’s face in his right hand. He looked into it. He said, ‘I want this strike to end. I want my marriage to end. I want to run away with you.’

‘But where would we go?’ she asked. ‘How would we live?’

Terry said, ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got money —’

Diane put her finger to his lips. She led him back to the bed. She sat him down. She said, ‘Last week in Doncaster, I met a man who said he wanted to help —’

‘Help who?’ asked Terry. ‘Help you?’

Diane smiled. She said, ‘The Union, silly. I really think you need to meet him.’

*

The Jew has had Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn down to Claridge’s for the night again. The Jew is keeping his options open. The Jew has some big plans for Fred and Jimmy. The Jew introduced Fred and Jimmy to Piers Harris and Tom Ball over breakfast this morning. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew, Fred, Jimmy, Piers and Tom to Hobart House. Don and Derek are waiting for them. The Jew has a conference room reserved and ready. The Jew leaves them to it. The Jew goes upstairs. The Jew knocks on the double-doors –

The Chairman of the Board.

Neil Fontaine closes the doors behind the Jew. He waits in the corridor outside.

The Jew coughs. The Jew says, ‘It is a simple plan.’

The Chairman is listening –

‘The emphasis now needs to be moved towards substantial, prearranged returns to work on the first shift of each Monday,’ argues the Jew. ‘At selected pits known only to ourselves and the police. Each area director agrees then to target just one pit per week, each with a set date for a mass return. This in turn allows us to release an ever-increasing weekly figure of the number of men going back to work. Reach fifty-one per cent and it’s over and they know it.’

The Chairman is still listening –

‘The situation in Yorkshire is quite different,’ continues the Jew. ‘The emphasis here should, for the time being, remain on isolated returnees. Their damage to local Union resources and morale are incalculable. The Union will be unable to picket pits outside Yorkshire, or at docks or power stations. Police resources can, therefore, also be concentrated on the areas we choose —’

The Chairman likes what he’s hearing –

‘The Back to Work campaign will be supported by Tom’s campaign of local and national adverts, as well as our own continued legal campaign. These disparate campaigns and their various finances can now be brought under the single umbrella of the National Working Miners’ Committee, which will be formally launched later this week. This will, at last, herald the birth of our union within a union. However, I’m afraid to say we will have to cut loose our Grey Fox, though Mr Colby and Mr Williams remain firmly on board and on course for a most helpful result.’

The Chairman claps. The Chairman likes what he’s heard –

‘Thank you, Stephen. Thank you,’ says the Chairman. ‘Unlike our adversary in the North, I am not a believer in overstatement. However, I have now a decided feeling that we have crossed a watershed. Until July I always felt as though we were sailing into a quite strong breeze. For the last few days there has been a period of calm. Now, after all these weeks, I can finally feel the wind on my back.’

The Jew leads the applause. The Jew says, ‘Bravo, bravo.’

Neil Fontaine waits in the corridor outside. He watches men in suits storm out –

He watches them scowl and sulk. Them pace and then slam their office doors –

Them clean out their desks. Them write their letters of resignation –

Them screw them up. Them throw them at their bins –

But the men in suits always miss.

Neil Fontaine knows how they feel. The Jew has invited all his new friends and their families down to Colditz this weekend. They are to be awed by the affluence. Astonished by the abundance. The Jew will take them for spins in his private helicopter. Tours of the grounds in his golf buggy. Rides on his electric lawnmower. Punts on the lake. Billiards on his tables. Darts on the boards he has bought especially for their visit. He will let their kids play with his horses and his ponies, his dogs and his hawks, while their mothers and fathers eat and drink as much and as often as they like. Then they will sleep in his four-poster beds, wash in his porcelain sinks, and shit in his porcelain bogs, laughing behind his back at the outfits he wears and the things he says and does –