David Peace - GB84

Fucking loves you. So fuck them –

Fuck. Them. All.

The Mechanic waves to Phil and Adam in the Fiesta. He shouts, ‘Stay free.’

And he means it –

Stay. Fucking. Free –

Free of everything and everyone.

The President preferred Scarborough or Blackpool. But he liked the Promenade at Brighton. The President walked from meeting to meeting along the seafront with Len and Terry. The President accepted the accolades and the abuse with the same smile. The people who wanted to shake his hand. The people who wanted to spit in his eye. The people who wanted an autograph for their wives. The people who wanted an apology for the violence. The President talked to them all. The President didn’t hate the man on the street who kicked him up the backside. The woman on the pier who tried to push him into the sea. The President would talk to them all because the President blamed the press. Blamed the press for the letter bombs that came in the post. For the death threats on the phone. The meat pie in his face on the train. The elderly lady with the kitchen knife. The man with the axe at Stoke. The President would talk to them all –

The President would talk to anyone, almost.

The miners and their minders marched from the Curzon along to the Grand where Bill Reed introduced John James. John James wrote for the Daily Mirror –

The Miners’ Mate –

The Daily Mirror which was now owned by Mr Robert Maxwell –

John James introduced Mr Maxwell of the Mirror –

Proprietor and Editor-in-Chief, holding court in his suite at the Grand Hotel.

Mr Maxwell of the Mirror lit a large cigar. He rolled up his sleeves –

Mr Maxwell of the Mirror said, ‘Think of me as a human switchboard.’

The President stood up. He said, ‘Then don’t call us, we’ll call you.’

The President, Paul, Joan and Terry walked out of the suite at the Grand Hotel –

The President had other fish to fry back at the Curzon.

Len called the lift. Bill Reed came running down the corridor –

Bill said, ‘Comrades, Comrades, he only wants to help.’

‘Help his circulation,’ said Joan.

Bill shook his head. He said, ‘You’re wrong and you’ve offended him.’

The President turned to Bill. He said, ‘He isn’t what he seems, Comrade.’

Bill Reed shook his head again. Bill looked at Terry. He said, ‘Terry?’

Terry shrugged his shoulders. He said, ‘I don’t —’

‘You’re all wrong,’ shouted Bill. ‘And you’ve made an enemy of a friend.’

The President turned back to Bill. He said, ‘He was never a friend, Comrade.’

Len held open the lift doors. The President and the rest of them got in –

‘Never a friend,’ said the President again –

Bill Reed watched the doors close. Bill Reed said, ‘But I was.’

*

The Jew likes Brighton. The Jew loves Brighton. The Jew had even lived here at one time; the time the Jew went bankrupt. The Trades Union Congress is a very good reason to be here again. The Jew has a large third-floor suite with a sea view at the Grand Hotel. Neil Fontaine is upstairs in a different room. Room 629. Under a different name. But Neil is never there. The Jew has an ever-open door to an ever-open bar. Here the Jew keeps thieves’ hours with the Big Men from the unions of the New Right. These Big Men with their Bigger Minders who smoke cigars and drink spirits by the pint, who like to stake their subs in the company of loose ladies. The Jew pays these ladies to stroke the thighs of these Big Men. To suck the cocks of these Big Men in the bathroom of the Jew’s third-floor suite with its sea view. To spit their semen into his sink –

The Jew looks away from the bathroom door. He shouts, ‘Neil! Neil!’

Neil Fontaine walks across the suite to the Jew. He bends over to listen –

‘Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Be a pal and hire the plane for tomorrow again.’

Neil Fontaine nods. He says, ‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Do you know what tomorrow’s slogan on the banner will say, Neil?’

‘No, sir,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Get stuffed Scargill!’ giggles the Jew. ‘Get stuffed Scargill!’

The Big Men queuing for the bathroom applaud.

There is a loud knock on the door to the suite.

Neil Fontaine goes to the door. He opens it. He smiles at the man in the corridor –

‘Long time, no see,’ says the man in his peaked white cap –

Neil Fontaine smiles. Neil Fontaine nods.

The Jew is standing on the bed. He shouts, ‘Who the fuck is it now, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine turns to the room. He says, ‘It’s Mr Maxwell of the Mirror , sir.’

Mr Maxwell of the Mirror strides into the room. He opens his arms –

‘It’s been too long, Sweet Stephen,’ he bellows. ‘Much too long.’

The Jew jumps off the bed and into the arms of Mr Maxwell of the Mirror –

‘Captain, my Captain,’ squeals the Jew. ‘How long has it been?’

*

Welcome to the New Realism –

The Conference Hall of the 1984 Trades Union Congress, shoulder to shoulder. The Easington Scab might have made legal history with an injunction against the Durham NUM; the Dock Strike might look set to crumble; the steel and power unions might have been booed for their views. But the President had the promises of the General Council; the promise of the total support of their ten million members; the promise to heighten the confrontation; the promise to black all coal, coke and oil –

Promises, promises, promises.

Ray Buckton took the platform. He said, ‘It is all too easy to ignore someone else’s problems. But it is no good in the long run, because solidarity is not something which comes with conditions attached. Solidarity is a simple principle —’

The noise like thunder –

‘— this government has destroyed the dreams and ambitions of a generation. Britain is now a country ruled by fear. The fear of being ill. The fear of losing your job. The fear of not being able to keep up at work. The fear of growing old –

‘But we must not let fear extinguish the ideas of trade unionism —’

Like a bomb had gone off.

The Old Man was next. The Old Man said, ‘This Congress sends a message to this government that it will not let the miners and their families starve –

‘It will not let the miners lose —’

The whole hall shook with it –

‘We will not let them lose!’

Like an explosion.

The President rose. The President walked to the front of the platform. He said, ‘Give that support today and I am confident that in the weeks ahead we shall grow increasingly strong —’

Like thunder. Like a bomb. The whole hall shaking. Exploding –

‘And that we will not lose!’

Delegates clapping their hands and stamping their feet –

Standing shoulder to shoulder.

Terry Winters looked round for the New Realists –

For Bill Sirs. For Frank Chapple. For Eric Hammond. For John Lyons –

They were nowhere to be seen. But Terry could still hear them –

Backstage. Offstage. Whispering.

Terry had had enough. Terry stepped out of the Conference Hall –

Into the sunshine and the sea; the shining badges and sea of banners –

Victory to the Miners! Organize the General Strike! Miners Must Win!

The Revolutionary Communist Party and the Socialist Workers’ Party; the Young Socialists and the Old Communists; the Denims and the Tweeds; NALGO, NUPE and the All Trades Union Alliance –