David Peace - GB84

To bury the Cortina.

Doncaster back to Sheffield; Sheffield back to London –

From British Ropes to the Rubens Hotel, via the NEC meeting in Sheffield.

This time there was room for Terry Winters. The drive down like a dim dream. Service station to service station, Loyal Len stopping at every single services on the M1. The President and Terry straight to the phones –

The men from NACODS had met in their tiny terrace office in Doncaster. Their Deputies’ delegates had voted for a vote. Voted for a vote to strike –

The Day of the Pawns –

The Colliery Overmen, Deputies and Shotfirers were set to deliver.

NACODS would strike. NACODS would settle. The miners would be saved –

Not their President. Not the Yorkshire Galtieri. The Yorkshire Stalin –

Just the miners; that was the plan. One of the many –

‘Piggies in fucking middle,’ Jimmy had said to Terry. ‘That’s all we bloody are.’

‘Maybe, then,’ Terry had said, ‘it’s time these little piggies went to market.’

‘Going to make chops of us,’ laughed Jimmy. ‘That what you’re saying?’

‘Or maybe you can bring home the bacon for everyone,’ said Terry –

Jimmy had laughed and laughed and then Jimmy had hung up.

The Board stood up in the Rubens. The Board read out the Doncaster agreement:

‘— in the case of a colliery where a report of an examination by the respective NCB and NUM qualified mining engineers establishes that there are no further reserves that can be developed to provide the Board, in line with their responsibilities, with a base for continuing operations there will be an agreement between the Board and the unions that such a colliery shall be deemed exhausted —’

The Union said, ‘— in line with the Plan for Coal —’

The Board said, ‘— in line with our responsibilities —’

The Union pointed their fingers. They said, ‘— in line with the Plan for Coal —’

The Board folded their arms. They said, ‘— in line with our responsibilities —’

The Union shouted, ‘— in line with the Plan for Coal —’

The Board shouted back, ‘— in line with our responsibilities —’

The Union said, ‘— in line with the bloody Plan for Coal —’

The Board said, ‘— in line with our bloody responsibilities —’

The Union said, ‘— in line with the fucking Plan for Coal —’

The Board said, ‘— in line with our fucking responsibilities —’

The Union threw the paper across the table. The Board tore it up –

The Union stood up. The Board waved goodbye –

The Union slammed the door. The Board picked up the red phone –

The time for talking was through.

Pure fucking provocation — This is same DHSS that refused a family a grant to bury their twelve-year-old handicapped son because dead lad’s dad was on strike. Same DHSS that let families and their kids freeze and starve in dark. That drive young lads out on to slag heaps to sift through spoil for crumbs of black fucking coal that their dads have fucking brung up out of earth in first place. DHSS that would watch them young lads die picking that coal, crushed under weight of a tip that wouldn’t sodding be mere in first place if it weren’t for fact that some young lad’s dad had risked his bloody life every day of that fucking life to keep other folk warm, fed and lit — He was only fourteen, says Keith. Lad from Upton. Fucking fourteen. Everybody shakes their heads. Everybody says, Fourteen. Pete says, Nineteen eighty-bloody-four and a kid dies coal-picking. There’ll be a lot more before she’s through with us and all, says Chris. Everybody nods. Everybody says, Bastards. That’s mood as we set off in dark up to Maltby. Day 202. Press say later that we had bottles. Bricks. Catapults. Air-guns. Fired pellets — Liars. Bloody fucking liars — We’ve got clumps of fucking mud is what we’ve got. Aye, we take down branches to build barricades to stop scabs. Do that, that’s true. Take down some trees from Maltby Wood — But mesh on front of their vans brushes them branches aside like they’re not there — Like nothing is. Don’t stop, either. Keep right at us — Nowhere for us to go. Nowhere for us to run. Nowhere to hide — Two lots of their riot squad coming out of woods. Each side of road. Trap us in a pincer movement or what-have-you — Banging on their shields. Their dogs bloody barking — Frightening. Fucking frightening — Nowhere to go. Nowhere but down — Just like last week at Silverwood. Same game — No more arrests. Just assaults — Duffel coats. Anoraks. Parkas. Hats and scarves. Wellington boots. Docs. Ordinary boots and shoes. That’s all we have — Nothing that can save us. That can save us from them — Lad behind me goes down. Down hard — Perspex shield in back of neck. Truncheon on crown of head. Hear his skull crack — Hear him scream. Hear him moan — Down hard onto ground. Down hard and he stays down — Hear him echo. Hear him whisper, Help me somebody. Help me — Keith and me have got him in our arms. Pick him up between us. Dirt and muck stuck to half his face with his own blood — Blood on our duffel coats. On our anoraks. Our parkas. Over our hats and our scarves. On our Wellington boots. Our Docs. Our ordinary shoes — Keith and me and some other lads knot handkerchiefs together to bandage up his head. I look up. Policemen just standing there, watching us with their shields — He needs an ambulance, I say. They look down at lad on ground in pool of his own blood. They spit on him. They laugh their cocks off at him — Hope cunt fucking dies, they say. Hope he fucking dies — They’ll not say that again, I think. Not to Martin Daly. But then they walk away. Just leave us — To reverse. Regroup. Ready for village — They’re done with us. They’re ready for village now — Done with us. For now. Pete puts lad on backseat of a car with two other blokes — Bloke with a broken arm. Bloke with three broken fingers — Pete says they beat up Kevin Barron and all — He’s MP for Rother Valley. Our MP — Pete sends them all to Badsley Moor Hospital. No one speaks on way home in car. Keith puts on radio. Tory fucking cunt comes on. Represents Police Federation. Tells whole world that police should be free to fire plastic bullets at pickets — His name is Eldon Griffiths. He is a Member of Parliament too, as well as a cunt who’ll burn in hell — Keith puts his foot down on brake. He stops car. He rips radio out. He gets out — He throws radio on ground. He jumps up and down on it in road — His name is Keith Lewis. He is a miner and a father of two — The soil is cold. The wounds old — Telephone wakes me up about two. Day 205. Incoming calls only now. Noise it makes in an empty house — Wake bloody dead, it would. Think it might be Cath. Never know — It’s Keith. Click-click. He says, There’s thousands of police at pit. Fucking thousands. Krk-krk . Thousands? I say. Joking with us? I wish I were, he says.

Monday 17 — Sunday 23 September 1984

The Jew stands at the foot of his bed in his suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. The Jew is still in his silk dressing-gown and slippers. The Jew is practising his golf swing again. The Jew and the Chairman have spent the weekend at Sir Hubert’s house in Wiltshire. The Prime Minister and her husband came for dinner on Saturday night –

Sir Hubert gave the Jew a cheque for £250,000 –

The Jew thanked him on behalf of the National Working Miners’ Committee –

The Chairman thanked him on behalf of the National Coal Board –

The Prime Minister thanked him on behalf of the nation.