David Peace - GB84

Four thousand men and women from every branch of the NUM –

Pride of place for the Cortonwood banner and the miners that bore it.

They were all here, down by the sea –

Their arms outstretched to shake Terry’s hand. To pat him on the back –

To have him sign their Morning Star, their News Line –

To make sure it was shoulder to shoulder –

Shoulder to shoulder to Victory –

‘Keep on keeping on,’ they shouted as Terry shook the hands, signed the papers –

Shoulder to shoulder in the sun by the sea. But it was a charade –

Like the small plane in the sky said, Come off it, Arthur!

It was a sham and they knew it –

The President and the Proprietor. The Old Man and the Fat Man –

The Chairman and his Boss –

A dirty fucking lie –

And everyone saw it. Everyone heard it. Everyone smelt it –

Tasted it. Knew it –

Everyone except the men and women out in the minefields.

Late till eight. It is the busiest shopping night of the week at the Morley branch of Morrison’s supermarket. The Mechanic and Adam are in the back of the Ford Cortina. Phil is in the driver’s seat. The Mechanic has the shotgunand the stopwatch. Adam has the handgun and the holdall. Phil turns into the car park. It is two minutes past eight o’clock. The place is almost deserted now. The last shoppers leaving. Phil drives slowly through the car park towards the store. He reverses into a parking space. The Cortina faces the exit, their backs to the supermarket. Phil watches through the rearview mirror, the Mechanic through the wing. Adam looks straight ahead. The Mechanic and Phil see the two security guards and the manager wheel the trolley along the row of cash registers. They fill bags with notes and coins from each till. The two security guards and the manager then push thetrolleyback up the aisles towards the office and the safe. The wages for the week are also in the safe in the office. Phil looks at his watch. The Mechanic looks at his. Phil nods. The Mechanic nods. Adam puts his crash helmet on. The Mechanic puts his on. It is five minutes past eight o’clock. The Mechanic opens the back door on the left side of the car. Adam opens the back door on the driver’s side of the car. The Mechanic and Adam get out. The Mechanic and Adam stand in the car park. The Mechanic and Adam put their visors down. Phil starts the carup. TheMechanic starts the stopwatch –

Here. We. Go –

Through the automatic doors. Hit the fire alarm. Chaos –

Up the aisle to the office. Through the door –

‘What the —’

Punch to the first security guard. He goes down –

Punch to the second. He goes down –

Kick to the first guard. He stays down –

Kick to the second. Down and out –

The Mechanic drags the manager across his desk by his tie –

Puts the manager’s face to the safe and shouts, ‘Open it.’

The manager dithers. The Mechanic turns the manager’s face to the first guard –

Adam puts the handgun to the guard’s temple. He cocks the hammer –

The manager opens the safe.

The Mechanic pushes him away. ‘On your knees. Hands behind your back.’

Handcuffs on. The Mechanic kicks him over.

Adam fills the holdall with wage packets and banknotes.

The Mechanic looks at the stopwatch. ‘One minute thirty —’

Adam nods. Adam keeps filling the holdall. Adam shouts, ‘Done.’

They leave the office. Leave them on the floor –

Down the aisle. Through the automatic doors –

The back doors of the car open –

Jump inside. Phil puts his foot down and they are –

Gone. Just like that –

Eight minutes past eight o’clock –

Just. Like. That.

either. Just music — Agadoo. Keith pulls into car park. Pete says, Probably be back to Kiveton tomorrow. Keith nods. Chris nods. I nod. Pete gives us three quid each. I say goodbye. I walk over road to Bottom Club. I get in our car. I drive home. I park in drive. I unlock door. I step inside — There’s nothing. No one — My hands are black. My face blue. Theseais cold. Thewindold — Day 189.I wake up at midnight on a pile of clothes on bedroom floor. That’s all that’s left. Clothes and bits of my gear. Nothing else now. Makes place seem massive. Ironic really, Cath had always wanted a bigger place. Makes it smell, though. I walk from room to room. I open up windows. Room to room. Downstairs. Letter from TSB still on floor in hall. Back up stairs. Then down stairs again. End up stood in kitchen. No cooker now. No fridge. No washing-machine. Nothing. Just spaces where they used be. I just stand there looking out on back garden again — It’s black. Pitch black. Pissing it down — Never going to be a patio now. No conservatory here. I light a cigarette — Expensive habit that, she says. I turn round — Nothing. No one — I close my eyes. My heart — You have stolen my language. You have stolen my land — Bloody hell, says Pete. Thought you’d have buggered off and left us again by now. I say, You bloody want me to, do you? He shakes his head. He says, You know I don’t — Then shut up and open that envelope, will you? He laughs. He opens envelope. He takes out paper. He says, Silverwood. Entire room groans. Keith shouts, Lovely. Pete says, Where were you expecting? Las bloody Vegas? How about Doncaster racecourse? says Tim. John Smiths brewery? Tell you what I’ll do, says Pete. I’ll have a word with King Arthur next time he pops round, shall I? You do that, says everyone. You do that. Pete smiles. He says, Now that’s all sorted, let’s have you all up Silverwood then. Day 192.About hundred yards from pit, headlights go on full in our faces. Krk-krk. Bastards. Hands straight up to shield our eyes. Few stones aimed at lights. Hear horses coming then. Dogs. Vans. Everyone off like a shot. Into woods. Off road. Through trees. Best plan. Out of lights. Into fog and mist. Hooves still coming. Dogs barking. Headlights shining through trunks and branches. Throwing shadows left and right. Police boots over deadwood. Truncheons banging on their shields. Lads going down. Falling over stumps and fucking roots of trees. Picked up by snatch squads and beaten badly. No arrests today. Just lot of fist. Mainly older blokes getting it and all — Hear them go down but you can’t see them. Fog and lights in your eyes — I hear voices above me then. Look up and there are blokes hanging from trees — Just swinging there in fog with lights behind them. Dangling like strange fruit off branches — Police and dogs waiting for them underneath. Truncheons out and teeth bared ready for fruit to fall — For dead to drop. It is Yorkshire, 1984 — You have buried my family. You have buried my faith — Day 195. I wake on floor again. I get up off floor. I walk over to window. I look out — There’s a car on road. Passenger door open. There are men in car. Man at gate — There are shadows over man. He stares up at house. He points up at window. His bones white in night — I step back out of sight. Into my own shadows. I stand against wall. I hold my breath — I listen to gate open. I hear footsteps on path — I hear them whisper. I hear them echo — Hear them moan. Hear them scream — It is dark. I swallow. I spit. I swallow again. I hear knock on door. I listen to letterbox rattle — I listen to it whisper. Listen to it echo — Listen to it moan. Listen to it scream — It is dark. I close my eyes. I open my eyes. I close them again. I listen to him try door. I hear him shake it — I hear him whisper. Hear him echo — Hear him moan. Hear him scream, Martin! Get up, you lazy fucking sod. Day 201.Pete comes back from Panel. Pete says, It’s provocation. Pete’s right. Provocation is only word for it — DHSS now said contractors at Maltby are engaged in secondary strike action. Not laid off like they’d said before. DHSS has stopped their dole — Contractors have gone back. Board have fucking stuck them in their back-to-work figures — It’s bloody bollocks.