David Peace - GB84

Neil Fontaine wishes the Jew wouldn’t invite them.

He hates these working miners and their fucking families –

He hates this whole bloody strike and every cunt in it.

Neil Fontaine screws up his own letter of resignation. He throws it at a bin –

He misses by a mile.

It will be the death of him, thinks Neil Fontaine. This bloody strike –

The death of everyone.

*

Terry Winters parked in the Doncaster station car park. Terry locked up and left the car. He stood in front of the main station building. Diane picked him up at two o’clock. Diane drove them over the Don into Bentley and up the York Road. She parked outside a row of old terrace houses. They walked along the street to the little shop on the corner. It was an off-licence and newsagent’s. Diane opened the door. Terry followed her inside. Behind the counter stood an Asian family. Diane pointed towards the middle-aged father of four. Diane said, ‘Terry Winters, meet Mohammed Abdul Divan.’

Malcolm didn’t hear them any more because Malcolm didn’t dream. He didn’t dream because he didn’t sleep –

He lay on the floor between the bed and the door. His head to the left. His ear to the floor. He watched the night march across the carpet and the floorboards. Up the four walls. The sunlight become shadow. He lay on the floor between the bedand the door and wished it was not so –

That light never became shadow.

Malcolm stood up. He took out the double-cassette box of The War of the Worlds. He opened the box. The two cassettes inside –

He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the recorder. Side B –

He pressed fast-forward. Stop. He adjusted the tone. He lowered the volume –

Pressed play and played it all back –

‘— in again, if you don’t fucking tell me where it fucking is —’

‘— please. I can’t breathe —’

‘— just tell us where it is then, you old fucking slag —’

‘— told you, it’s not —’

‘— come on, or you’re going to make me —’

‘— stop it, don’t —’

‘— you fucking like it, I know you —’

‘— no, no —’

‘— fucking love it really, you —’

‘— no —’

‘— put it back in, Granny —’

‘—’

Between the bed and the door. Eyes closed. Head to the floor –

Malcolm listened to night march across the Earth. The world become dark again –

Between the bed and the door. The ears in his head. That bled and that bled –

O, how Malcolm wished it was not so.

He opened his eyes. He sat up. He went to his briefcase. He took out his scissors.

Downstairs a couple were fucking. Fucking and then fighting. Fighting and then –

Beds creaked. Headboards banged. Walls shook –

Reunited –

Neil and Jennifer. Jennifer and Neil. Terry and Diane. Diane and Terry –

Malcolm and his scissors. His scissors and his ears.

It was all about the numbers now. Not words. Numbers –

150 back last week; 170 this.

Numbers. Figures.

The President summoned them to the tenth floor. The President sat them down. The President told them what they already knew. What they had seen on TV –

First the bad news:

The latest Labour Party initiative had failed; the Board had said the Union must accept pit closures on grounds other than exhaustion; more scabs had started to work in Yorkshire; police had launched massive attacks on the communities concerned –

Then the good (always the good news last):

The men from NACODS were fuming with the Board; the Board weren’t listening to them but the Union were; steel-workers had unloaded the Ostia, which dockers had blacked at Hunterston; last night TGWU dockers had voted 78to 11 at their delegate conference to strike in support of the miners; the TUCjust around the corner –

‘Along with victory,’ said the President. ‘I am not going to the Congress to plead. I am going to the Congress to demand — as one trade unionist to another — the assistance of my brothers and sisters in the trade union movement because –

‘Comrades!’ he shouted. ‘Together we cannot lose. Together we will not lose!’

The President put down his notes. The President began clapping –

The entire tenth floor got to their feet. The entire tenth floor applauded.

Terry Winters cupped his mouth in his hands. He shouted, ‘Here we go —’

‘Here we go. Here we go,’ echoed the entire tenth floor. ‘Here. We. Go.’

Terry laughed. Terry wanted to dance on the desks of St James’s House.

Diane had shown him the way. The way out of all this –

Now Terry had a much better plan. Now. The best one he had ever had. Ever –

Terry smiled –

He could not lose –

Terry had an erection. Now. The biggest one he had ever had –

Ever.

door. No answer. Had a look through their letterbox. Lot of post and what-have-you on other side of door. No sign of them, though. Had a bad feeling about it, did their house. Like it was a lovely day and all, but this place was all in shadow. Didn’t know what to do for best. I walked across little front lawn they’d got. Put my hands over my face and stuck my nose to their windows. Looked in their front room. It was bare — Not a stick of furniture. Nothing. No carpet. No curtains — Everything gone. No dead bodies, mind. But it looked like Keith was right. For once — Running and running. Deeper and deeper. Faster and faster — I turn corner. I go down. I wait for horses. Hooves. Batons. I look back — Water. Wall of fucking water bearing down — I run again. Deeper and deeper. Faster and faster — I look backup corridor. Water roaring down. Faster and faster — I see two blokes behind me. Water almost on top of them. Two blokes — Oneof them Martin. Other one my father — It wasn’t my teeth that woke me. I lay there in dark in bed, Mary beside us. Bloody sweating again, I was. Buckets. Thinking about my father — How he died. How he lived — I always did these days. These nights — Then I heard something. Like voices out back — I got up. Slippers on — Left lamp off. Didn’t want to wake Mary — I walked onto landing. Had a good listen. I went down stairs. I walked down hall towards kitchen. Lights still off. I stood in kitchen. I looked out onto back garden. I could see something by shed — Like shadows out back. Moving about — I took a few steps back out of kitchen. I reached for hall light. Kept my eyes on back window. I switched hall light on. Then back off again — And I saw them run. Three or four blokes from by shed — Heard them knock over dustbin at side of house as they went. Effing and blinding — I ran back up hall to phone. I picked it up — Click-click . I dialled police — Fuck. I hung up — It probably was fucking police. Bastards — Krk-krk. Fucking bastards — I went back down hall into kitchen. Kept light off. I sat down at table. Kept my eyes open. I stared out window. Into night — Into dark. Into shadows — Lot of us had been at Kivetonyesterday. Lot of us wouldn’t forget that in a bloody hurry — Horses charging through old folks’ gardens. That white horse there again — Horse got a scratch and public were up in arms. Felt sorry for it — Just horses. Horses and scabs — Poor blokes on these buses. Their startled faces behind wire cages welded to windows — Drivers with crash helmets. Pigs on back seat. Them sat on aisle side — But I knew them faces. Everybody did — Every pit had faces like theirs. Faces with little eyes that never met yours. Eyes that’d sooner stare at their boots or ground. Faces of a certain type, they were. Type that hated their work. Type that were out sick more often than not. Type that never pulled their weight. Type who always wanted Union to do this, that and other for them. Cowed and broken men before strike even began. Shirkers or gaffers’ narks. Area managers and chief constables had leant on them hard. Broken them in two all over again — It wasn’t pit managers’ bloody idea. Pit managers knew them too well — Knew them of old. Knew what they were worth — Nothing. Fuckall — Just like this scab they’d got going in here at Silverwood. He’d have been fucking sacked years ago, if it wasn’t for us, said Derek. Tom nodded. He said, That’s thing that gets to me and all — But look at cunt now, said Johnny. Bold as fucking brass in his new V-reg — His time will come, I said. There’ll be a reckoning. He knows that, too. Everybody nodded. Everybody said, Day will come all right — How about Monday? asked David Rainer. Arthur wants us all on front line — He would do, I said. He’s addressing bloody TUC, isn’t he? Talk of mass returns again, said Johnny. Look bad if a lot went in — I can’t see it, said Tom. Not Monday. Everybody shook their heads. Everybody said, Not here. Not Monday — All same, said Derek. Best keep your eyes and ears open — Aye, said Johnny. There’s always one — Everybody nodded again. Everybody knew he was right — Knew it was going to get worse. Much, much worse — Not this Monday. Not next — But it would. Had to — Because everybody knew. Knew one.