David Peace - GB84

The Jew wants weaknesses –

Men who have transferred to their pit. Men who live a distance from their pit –

Men who are married. Men divorced. Men who have children. Men who can’t –

Men who have mortgages. Men who have debts –

Men who used to work a lot of overtime. Men who used to have a lot of money –

Men who have weaknesses –

Age. Sex. Drink. Theft. Gambling. Money.

The Jew wants lists –

Area by area. Pit by pit. Shift by shift. Miner by miner –

Picket by picket –

Village by village. Street by street. House by house. Man by man –

Scab by scab.

The Jew wants to see the pins change –

Red to yellow. Yellow to blue –

Back to work with Mr Sweet –

‘The canteen cat comes in from the cold,’ shouts the Jew. ‘It counts.’

*

Paul stood in the doorway. Paul watched Terry Winters walk down the corridor from his office to the lift. Every time Terry left his desk. There was Paul. In the doorway to his office, watching him walk down the corridor to the lift. Terry had stopped the first time. Terry had said, ‘Can I help you?’

‘You’ve done enough already, Comrade,’ Paul had said. ‘You’ve done enough.’

The second time, Terry had asked, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Just you, Comrade,’ Paul had said. ‘Just you.’

Terry hadn’t stopped the third time. Terry had walked on by –

Paul blamed him. Blamed Terry for everything –

The collapse of the talks. The state of their finances. The fate of the legal actions –

The Derbyshire Three had won their right to work. The Derbyshire NUM was now bound by injunctions guaranteeing no disciplinary hearings against the three men from Bolsover, Markham and Shirebrook –

Paul blamed Terry. Blamed him for everything.

Paul was the least of his worries, though. Terry knew time was running out –

There was a shortage of shotguns and a queue for the President’s skull –

Every day another death threat. Today’s had been to the Independent News Room –

The President would be shot if he came to Stoke tonight.

The Special Branch had demanded the President accept a detail of their best men. The President had laughed in their faces. The President had said, ‘They’re already here.’

The President put down the phone. Click-click . The President’s hands shook –

Terry knew time was running out. Fleeing –

Terry wrote warnings in soap on the mirrors in the bathrooms of St James’s House. Terry wiped them off with paper towels that smelt of schools. The Tweeds and the Denims came in. They washed their hands in the basin next to his. They looked at him as if he were from another planet. Terry walked back down the corridor to his desk –

Paul was there. In the doorway to his office. He grabbed Terry’s arm as he passed. He held his hand. He sniffed his fingers –

‘Someone’s been drawing obscene pictures on the toilet doors,’ he said.

‘I’ve seen them,’ said Terry. ‘There are swastikas shaped in a heart around them.’

‘Very artistic,’ said Paul. ‘Now why do you do it, Winters?’

Terry shook his head. He said, ‘You’ve got the wrong man this time, Comrade.’

‘I’m watching you, Winters,’ said Paul Hargreaves. ‘And I’ll catch you—’

Paul blamed him. Blamed Terry for everything.

Terry didn’t have time to care. Time was running out. Escaping –

Terry needed the President’s ear. Terry walked back down the corridor to the lift. Paul watched him. Terry Winters took the lift up to the tenth floor –

There was a queue for the President’s ear –

Terry waited in line. Behind the bishops and the Members of Parliament; the men from NACODS and ACAS; ASLEF and the TGWU.

Terry looked at his watch. Time was running out. Telephones were ringing –

But Terry had to be a patient man. Diane had said his turn would come.

Diane was not wrong. Terry whispered three words in the President’s ear –

He said, ‘Mohammed Abdul Divan.’

*

Neil Fontaine opens the door. Jennifer pushes straight past him into the hotel room. Jennifer empties her handbag onto the floor. Her pills. Her prescriptions. Her purse. Jennifer kneels among her possessions. She spreads her property out across the carpet. She searches for the newspaper cutting. She holds it up –

‘You fucking liar,’ screams Jennifer Johnson. ‘He’s not dead. He’s back.’

Know what it fucking means and all, don’t you? Means fucking war, that’s what it means. I tell him, I’m coming down now — Pick up anyone on way you can, he says. Fucking anyone and everyone — I will, I say. I’m coming now. I hang up. I lock up. I get in car — I drive to Geoff’s. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s ages. Don’t matter now — But lights are off when I pull up. Remember he’s got kids. Think better of it — Don’t know anyone else out our way. But I see Chris. I stop for him. He gets in. He says, You heard, then? Aye, I say. Keith called us. He nods. He says, Rang us and all. I thought it were bit strange before like? What were that, then? I ask. Before, he says. This police van were doing circles all round village. Right up by Terrace and Hall. Then back down. Must have passed us five time while I were walking dog. Keith said some of lads had seen it when they come back from Brook-house picket. It were still there at chucking-out time. Up by Barrel — More than one van by sounds of it now, I say. He nods again. He asks, Know who it is, do you? I shake my head. I say, Do you? He shakes his head. He says, Fucking cunt, whoever he is — Dead cunt and all, I say. Then I see roadblock up ahead, just past Rising Deer. I think, Here we go — I stop car. I wind down window — Krk-krk. Met twat in his white shirt sticks in his head. He says, Morning, scum. I can see Chris is nervous. I think, I’m saying nothing here. But Pig says, Come on then, wankers, where you think you going? I work at Thurcroft Colliery, I say. He laughs. He says, No you don’t. You’re on fucking strike, you lying lazy little cunt — It’s my pit, I tell him. I want to picket it. He yawns in my face. He says, Fuck off home. Six pickets, Doris. That’s the law — Bugger it then, I say. I’m going back to bed — That’s a good Doris, he says. Make sure you take Eddie fucking Large with you. I nod — I wind window back up. I reverse down road — Pig in his white shirt turns to his mates. They laugh at us. They wave bye-bye — Chris says, Which way now? Dump car. Go over fields, I say. Head for Welfare, I reckon. Chris nods. Do just that — Ditches. Hedges. Fields. Hedges. Ditches. Fields. Ditches. Hedges. Fields — Roadblocks on every road in. Take a few back gardens on our way — Drop over a couple of walls. Down an alley or two — Find ourselves by school. Cut through playground — Keith up ahead. By Welfare — I start across road to meet him. Chris behind us — Then I see them. Hundreds of them. Fucking hundreds of them. Hundreds of bastards — Fucking army of occupation, that’s what they are. Lined up across foot of Pit Lane — No way anyone is off up there to Hut. I get to where Keith and about ten others are. I say, What’s going on, then? Fuck all, by looks of it, he says. They’re fucking everywhere. Chris says, What about back way? Down Steadfolds Lane, that way? Few of lads are nodding. Keith says, Better than standing round here like lemons. Everyone starts off down Katherine Street towards junction with Sandy Lane — That’s when it starts. For real. Kicks off. Big time — First we know of it these lads are coming down road behind us. Legging it — Pigs! Pigs, they shout. Pigs are coming! I’m up at front. I turn round to see what fuss is — Two police vans are coming full tilt up Katherine Street at us — Fuck! Look, someone says. Fuck — I turn round again to see another vanload coming down Sandy Lane — Shit! Shit, Keith’s saying. Shit! — Two of vans have got their back doors open. Pigs are out with their truncheons — Split up! Split up, someone else says. Split up! — I jump over a hedge into this garden. First few coppers go straight past us — Past us into Keith. Whack — First one’s got his tit-helmet in his hand. Belts Keith with it — Keith goes down like a sack of spuds. Face all cut open by nipple of tit — Hands over his face. Blood through his fingers — He looks up. Looks up straight into this other copper’s boot — Crack! I see his teeth and shit fly out all over place — That’s it for me. Bastards — Fucking bastards. I jump back over hedge and charge them — Four of them laying into him. Keith out cold — I scream, Fucking going to kill him, you bastards. He’s had enough — Cunt with his tit in his hand says, It’s your turn then, is it? — I say, How about just you