David Peace - GB84

Monday 8 — Sunday 14 October 1984

It is the last night of the Conference. It has been a good conference, too. The Home Secretary has attacked their president. The Minister has had a good go, too –

They all had. Even ministers the Jew did not care for.

The talk was of police that did not buckle. Governments that did not crack –

Governments that would not let the working miners down –

Of heroes and villains. Last battles and lost causes. Winners and losers.

There had been standing ovations for the Widow Tarns from Shirebrook –

For Bolsover Bill, Creswell Chris and Warsop Wendy –

For Don Colby and Derek Williams. For Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn.

Tomorrow the Prime Minister will close the Conference with her own speech. Business will return to London. Normal service resumed. But there is still tonight –

The last night of the Conference is the night the Jew likes best –

The night to boast. The night to gloat –

The Union was fined two hundred thousand pounds for contempt yesterday. Its president one thousand pounds, personally. Its president who had stood on the steps of his Sheffield redoubt and committed further contempt –

The Jew knows they’ll never pay. The Jew knows what this’ll mean –

V.I.C.T.O.R.Y.

So this night belongs to him. It is his night. His night to prance. His night to preen –

The Jew faces the mirror in his suite at the Grand. He fiddles with his bow-tie –

‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the sweetest of them all?’

Neil Fontaine takes the white tuxedo with the gold epaulettes out of the wardrobe. He walks over to the mirror. He helps the Jew into the jacket.

‘How do I look, Neil?’ asks the Jew. ‘Be honest now.’

‘Distinguished, sir.’ replies Neil Fontaine. ‘Very distinguished.’

The Jew smiles. The Jew is happy. The Jew is in love.

Neil Fontaine holds open the doors of the suite for the Jew and then locks them. Tonight Neil Fontaine will watch over the Jew. But from a safe, discreet distance.

So Neil Fontaine waits as the Jew wades down the stairs into the happy hordes –

The boring backbenchers. The courteous constituents. The jaded journalists –

All waiting on a wink or a word from the well connected or the wealthy.

The Jew is straight to the Minister. The Jew shakes his hand. The Jew slaps his back –

The Jew congratulates the Minister on his speeches and his stance. The Jew leaves –

‘I must say the waiters get more forward with each passing year,’ says the Minister.

The Jew doesn’t hear. The Jew is a busy bee. The Jew is already out the door –

Next door. To the Metropole. The Starlight Room.

The Jew alights on Edward du Cann. Sir Robin. The Chief Whip and his wife. The Chairman of the Conservative Party –

The Jew shares sentences with them all –

Heads back. Mouths open. Teeth shining. Tongues pointing. Eyes dead. Cold.

The Jew spots Denis in his evening dress. Denis points at the Jew’s white tuxedo –

‘Anyone order a kebab?’ shouts Denis to the laughter of the Starlight Room –

And the Jew laughs too, long and loud (well, what else would he do?) –

Denis slaps the Jew on the back. Denis digs the Jew in the ribs –

After all, Denis is only pulling the Jew’s leg. Only pulling his leg, you know?

Denis invites the Jew back to the Grand. To drink champers with Lord Mac.

The Jew and Denis leave the Starlight Room arm in arm. Back to the Grand –

The Jew just loves the Grand. The Jew simply adores the Grand –

Between the two piers, the Great and the Good, the Wicked and the Wise –

Home to Napoleon III and the Duke of Windsor; JFK and Ronald Reagan.

The Prime Minister is upstairs working on her speech for tomorrow –

The Jew would love to help. Denis feels the Jew has done quite enough of that –

Now is the time to drink. Denis steers the Jew into Lord Mac’s suite.

Neil Fontaine stands outside the suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel and listens to the corks pop and the glasses chink. More bottles open and more toasts raised. Neil Fontaine stands outside the suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel and waits –

This is what he does. This is what he’s always done –

Neil Fontaine watches and Neil Fontaine waits –

He watches the doors open and close. He waits for the people to come and go –

For Room Service to fetch and carry at the beck and call of the high and mighty –

For the Young Conservatives to stagger and stumble up and down the corridor –

Down their trousers and up their skirts. Up and down the darkening corridor –

He watches and he waits for security to sweep through the floor on the hour –

Every hour. Every floor. Every hour. Every floor. But not this hour. Not this floor –

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it. He waits. It is half-past two –

The lights in the corridor flicker. The shadows on the wall lengthen.

Neil Fontaine opens the door to the suite. Neil picks the Jew off the floor –

His bow-tie loose, a bottle in his hand, the Jew asks, ‘Where next then, Neil?’

‘I think a short stroll along the seafront before the sack, sir,’ suggests Neil.

The Jew nods. The Jew tries to focus. The Jew falls against the corridor wall –

Neil Fontaine helps the Jew to his feet and back down the stairs to the lobby –

The Jew hails the heavy drinkers still up in the lobby and the lounges and leaves.

Neil Fontaine guides the Jew across the pavements and onto the Promenade.

The night is not cold. The night is not dark –

The moon is bright upon the beach.

The Jew stares out to sea. The Jew sways. The Jew steadies himself upon the rail –

There are tears in his eyes. Tears upon his cheeks. Upon his fingers –

The Jew wipes his face. The Jew sniffs. The Jew sighs. The Jew turns to Neil –

‘They hate me, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘I know they do. They wish —’

A thunderous noise behind them. A terrible rumble beneath them –

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ asks the Jew. ‘An earthquake?’

Neil Fontaine stares out at the black sea. Neil Fontaine closes his tired eyes –

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘It was a bomb, sir.’

The Mechanic looks at his watch again. He puts the dogs in the back of the Ford. He drives to the phone box. He parks. He gets out of the car. He waits outside the phonebox.Helooks at his watch again –

The phone rings at 3 a.m.

The Mechanic steps into the phone box. He picks up the phone. He listens –

To Irish voices. Drunk and victorious. Grateful but broke –

Fuck.

Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Nothing but fucking talk. Terry Winters locked the front door. Terry went down the drive with his suitcase in his hand just as Theresa and their three children came up the drive with their suitcases in their hands. Terry Winters stopped. Terry put down his suitcase. He opened his mouth. Theresa Winters didn’t stop. Theresa put her key in the lock. She opened the front door –

There were two taxis at the end of their drive.

Christopher, Timothy and Louise stood on the front step and stared at their father. Terry Winters smiled. Terry waved. Christopher, Timothy and Louise waved back. Theresa Winters came back out. Theresa shepherded her children in off the step. She stared at her husband. Terry Winters smiled. Terry waved –

Theresa Winters slammed the front door in his face.