David Peace - GB84

Paul Dixon smiles at Neil. He says, ‘Jennifer Johnson?’

Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . He shakes his head.

‘The lucky lady who married our mutual mate the Mechanic?’

‘News to me,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Anyway, thought you told me Dave retired?’

Paul Dixon shrugs his shoulders. He says, ‘Maybe permanently. He’s missing.’

‘Missing?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘Since when?’

Paul Dixon takes out another photo. He says, ‘Since he met you in this photo?’

Fuck . Neil Fontaine glances at the photo. Fuck. Fuck . He shakes his head –

‘You’re talking to the wrong man,’ says Neil. ‘That’s not me. I haven’t seen him.’

Paul Dixon looks down at the photo again. He says, ‘The camera does lie, then.’

‘Can’t trust anything these days,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Anything or anyone.’

Paul Dixon points up the lane. He asks, ‘That go for him and all, does it?’

The Jew and another man are carrying another bloodied picket down Hard Lane –

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck –

Neil Fontaine opens the car door –

Never fucking ends –

Paul Dixon holds out the photo. ‘Bad pennies, Neil. They always turn up.’

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He slams the door on Paul Dixon, Special Branch –

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK –

Bad fucking pennies.

Middle of night — We hwisprian. We onscillan — Day 182.There’s no one here. Dead quiet. I walk up from village. Past Hotel. Police Station. Krk-krk . Sports Ground. Pavilion. Up Pit Lane. Green’s on one side. Brickworks on other. I turn right before Villas and there she is — I stop. I stand here. I stare up at headgear and washer — Folk saw me now they’d think I was crackers. Middle of night. No one here — Just her and me. Bloody hell, says Pete. Look what cat’s dragged in — All right, I say. Room for a little one? — Queer one, more like, he says. Fuck you been? I shake my head. I shrug. I say, Just needed to get away, you know? Pete nods. He says, Fair enough. You’re back now. I nod. I say, If you’ll have us. Don’t be daft, he says. In with Keith and me and Chris here. I nod at Big Chris. I say, When did you start coming, then? Monday, he says. I shake my head. I say, Hope they’re paying you bloody double — Are they fuck, says Keith. Less folk to split petrol money with though — Till bleeding Irish Rover returned, laughs Pete. Look, I say. We going to yap all day or we going to go rucking picket? Pete stands up. He says, The Big K here we come. I follow Keith and Chris back out to car park. Rest of lads have already set off. Pete locks up and off we go. Keith’s driving with me and Chris squeezed in back, Pete fiddling with radio: Eighteen patients dead at Stanley Royd Psychiatric Hospital in Wakefield; Coal peace process on verge of collapse; Sterling at record low; Damage Squad arrest fifteen — Usual stuff. Usual day — Can’t you find any bloody music? asks Keith. Pete reaches forward to dial again. He gives it a turn — Agadoo . Pete turns to us in back. He says, Bet you missed all this, didn’t you? I nod. I say, Like a lanced boil. Keith laughs. He points out window. He says, Bet you missed them and all, didn’t you? Krk-krk . I stare out at all police cars and vans parked up on hard shoulders of motorway. I say, No roadblocks, then? Not now it’s on our own bloody doorstep, says Pete. No need. They know us. We know them. Keith takes us off motorway and through Doncaster onto a19 and up over m62 at Eggborough onto A645, back to Knottingley and Kellingley Colliery — The Big K — Right modern super-pit, it is, like them up Selby. But it’s a hardline pit too. Like Sharlston and Acton Hall. It wasn’t a hundred year ago that troops shot dead two miners and wounded sixteen at Featherstone. Lot of Scottish had come down to Kellingley in sixties and all — Hard to credit there’d be scabs round here. But there are — Super-pits breed super-scabs, says Keith. Mega-scabs. Lot of them here and at Gascoigne Wood and at Prince of Wales, they were dead against strike from start, says Pete. No stomach for it. Never on a picket, are they? It’s where their bloody Panel is though, says Chris. Pete nods. Pete says, Not that that means anything. Look at us. Chris turns to me. He says, Hear about Silverwood, did you? I nod. Keith parks up in a field about two mile from pit gates. It’s getting on for half-six now. Pit lane full of cars. It’s a big picket — Horses and dogs are at back. I can smell them. Hear them — You all right? asks Pete. Been a while, I say. But I’m right. He looks at me. He says, What happened to you? Where did you go? I tell him, Sometimes you just don’t want to be with anybody, do you? He nods. He says, How’s Cath? She’s right, I say. Mary said she saw her last week, Pete starts to tell me but then chant goes up — Here we go. Here we go. Here we go — Big push. Shove. Shout — Scab van and police escort fly through pit gates. Hundred mile an hour — Lads go down under weight. Lads out cold — Police hostile. Faces contorted beneath their visors, straps tight under their chins — I turn my back. I walk away — I wait for Pete, Keith and Chris. I see Chris first. White as a fucking sheet. I call out to him. He comes over to where I am. I say, You all right, are you? He just nods. He stands by me. He waits for others. We don’t say anything. Just watch — It’s all over by half-seven. Lads start to make their way back to cars. Police pull few of them out and give them some hammer — Glove. Boot — Half an hour later, Pete and Keith come back and we set off back to Welfare. There’s not much conversation on way. Not much news,

Monday 3 — Sunday 9 September 1984

The best place to nick a car in Yorkshire is outside the Millgarth Police Station in Leeds. Has to be in the morning. Has to be a market day. Has to be a Ford. Has to be light coloured and has to be from the car park between the Kirkgate Market and the bus station. Have to be at least two of you as well –

The Mechanic and Philip Taylor are sitting in Phil’s Ford Fiesta watching a woman lock her yellow Cortina. She checks the door handle. Twice. She walks past the Fiesta. She leaves the car park. She heads up towards Vicar Lane –

‘Here we go,’ says Phil –

Drum roll –

The Mechanic gets out of the Fiesta. He walks over to the yellow Cortina. He puts the key in the lock. He turns the key. The lock gives. He opens the door. He gets into the car. He closes the door. He puts the key in the ignition. Heturns the key. Theengine starts. Hereverses outof the parking space –

Phil pulls out behind him.

The Mechanic goes round the roundabout in the shadow of the Millgarth Police Station, then takes the York Road up through Killingbeck and Seacroft all the waybackto the garage –

Adam Young is waiting. Adam has everything ready –

He closes the garage doors behind them.

Two hours later the Cortina has a new coat of paint and a new set of plates.

Phil and Adam give the Mechanic a lift back to his mother’s house at Wetherby –

The Mechanic says goodbye. See you later. He gets out –

Drum roll –

Here come the dogs. Down the drive. Tongues out and tails up. Fuck, he missed them. Missed his dogs. Back from being the only white face in the place. Back home from weeks and weeks of weed and wonder. Women and wounds. Back home. Where the heart is and all that. Lads in the car must think he’s a bit on the peculiar side. See him here in his mother’s drive with his dogs. But fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Dog doesn’t stab you in your back.Dogdoesn’t break your heart. Dogjust loves you –