David Peace - GB84

The team leader looks around the yard. The leader bangs on the side of the truck –

The last truck starts up. The team leader gets up into the cabin –

The leader takes off the baseball cap –

Long blonde hair blows across her face and shades as the truck accelerates away.

‘Most impressive,’ says the Jew again. ‘Really most impressive, Neil.’

*

The NUM were on their way to Brighton. The fast lane –

‘Comrades,’ Dick had said on the phone. ‘You have got to come tonight.’

The NUM had been summoned to account for themselves. The TUC were losing patience with the NUM and its president. That was what the TV was saying. Repeatedly. That was what the papers would say –

That was what made the President laugh. Made him really, really laugh –

‘They accuse us of setting worker against worker,’ he said. ‘Accuse us!’

Terry and Paul were in the back with the President. Joan in the front with Len –

They all shook their heads.

‘Is it our members who cross picket lines?’ asked the President. ‘Is it?’

Paul Hargreaves coughed. Paul said, ‘It is actually, President.’

The President looked at Paul. The President bit his lip.

‘Not our true members‚’ said Terry. ‘Our true and loyal members, President.’

‘Thank you, Comrade,’ said the President. ‘Thank you very much.’

Paul stared over at Terry. Paul raised his eyebrows. Paul shook his head –

Terry didn’t care. Terry Winters was on a roll –

Terry had a three-point public plan (separate to his two-point secret plan). Terry had sold the President his three-point public plan (as he would later sell the President his two-point secret plan). The President liked Terry’s three-point public plan (as he would later like his two-point secret plan). Terry was convinced of these things –

Two hundred and twenty miles later Terry was even more convinced.

The top men from the TUC were waiting on the steps of the Metropole Hotel –

The President shook their hands. Then the President led the way upstairs.

The meeting began at eight o’clock in the Louis XV Suite –

‘This is a fancy place‚’ said the President. ‘For some plain talk.’

The top men from the TUC smiled. The top men from the TUC waited.

‘I am here for your total support,’ said the President. ‘Nothing less.’

Then the arguments and the accusations began. The spats and the squabbles.

Eight hours later, Terry Winters tore a piece of paper from his notebook –

Terry handed it to the President. The President read it. The President stood up –

‘The National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress support our objectives of saving pits, saving jobs and saving communities‚’ said the President. ‘The National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress campaign to raise money to alleviate the tremendous hardship in the coalfields and to maintain the Union, nationally and locally. Finally, the National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress make this dispute more effective and once and for all call upon all trade unionists to block the movement of coal and coke and the use of oil.’

The President sat back down to applause. The President winked at Terry Winters –

Terry Winters smiled back.

‘It’s been a very long night,’ said the Fat Man. ‘But I would like to thank the President of the National Union of Mineworkers for coming here tonight in advance of the Congress. I’d also like to thank him and all the members of his team for their help in finding this agreed form of words. I am certain these proposals will be implemented to the fullest extent after further discussions with the General Council and with the agreement of the unions concerned —’

No one was listening. The President in a huddle with Paul, Dick and Terry –

Terry Winters still smiling. Terry Winters on a roll –

The world his oyster.

*

Neil Fontaine lies in the dark with his curtains open in his room at the Royal Victoria. Neil Fontaine thinks about sortilege. He looks at his watch. He taps it –

It is three in the morning. The telephone rings three times.

Neil Fontaine goes upstairs. He knocks on the Jew’s door. He knocks again.

The Jew shouts, ‘I am her eyes and her ears.’

Neil Fontaine brings the Mercedes round. The Jew waits in his flying-jacket.

They take the A57 out of Sheffield through Handsworth, Richmond and Hackenthorpe. They turn down the Mansfield Road, then left over the M1 through the village of Wales and into Kiveton Park –

The slag heap and the colliery black and hard against the dawn and the sky –

The enormous, empty, endless sky.

The Jew worries he has lost touch. The Jew wants to be back where the action is –

‘I am her eyes and her ears‚’ he says again. ‘Her eyes and her ears, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine drives down Station Road. He parks at the junction with Hard Lane.

The Jew gets out. The Jew says, ‘Keep out of trouble, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew march up Hard Lane across Hard Bridge –

Two thousand pickets and half the London Met here to meet seven fucking scabs.

Neil Fontaine drops his cigarette on the ground. He stands on it. Turns his boot.

The Met have their boiler suits and helmets on. Their horses and dogs out –

Neil Fontaine watches them charge through the village.

The Met want the pickets on the other side of the pit. The pickets won’t go –

Neil Fontaine watches the sticks and the stones rain down –

The bones that always break and the names that always hurt.

The Met have attached metal grilles to the fronts of their Transits –

Neil Fontaine watches them sweep up and down the road.

Neil Fontaine has lost sight of the Jew again –

Fuck.

Neil Fontaine starts up Hard Lane towards Hard Bridge.

There is a hand on his arm. The voice in his ear, ‘Hello, hello, hello.’

Fuck . Neil Fontaine turns round –

Paul Dixon is standing beside a mud-coated new Montego. He’s in an old, dirty anorak, his jeans and size tens in need of a wash and a polish, too.

‘Paul‚’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘We really must stop meeting like this.’

Paul Dixon nods. Paul smiles. He says, ‘People will start talking.’

‘They always do.’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘They always do.’

Paul Dixon opens the door of the Montego. He says, ‘That’s people for you.’

Neil Fontaine looks back up the road. He shrugs. They both get into the car –

The Montego smells worse than the Allegro.

‘You sleeping in this thing, are you?’ asks Neil Fontaine.

Paul Dixon shakes his head. He says, ‘Who says I’m sleeping?’

They watch police horses jump hedges and trample gardens.

‘I thought you were NRC liaison,’ says Neil Fontaine.

Paul Dixon shakes his head again. He says, ‘Pit Squad.’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Fuck did you take that for?’

‘Bit rich coming from you,’ says Paul Dixon.

Neil Fontaine shrugs again. He says, ‘I’m just a driver-cum-dog’s body.’

‘Right,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘A dog’s body. If that’s what you say.’

Neil Fontaine looks at Paul Dixon. He says, ‘That’s what I say.’

Paul Dixon takes out a photo. He asks, ‘And what would you say to her?’

Neil Fontaine glances at the photo –

Long, blonde hair, gaunt.

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. Fuck . He says, ‘Never seen her before. Sorry.’

‘I bet you are,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘I bet you are.’

Neil Fontaine closes his eyes. Fuck. Fuck . He says, ‘Who is she anyway?’