David Peace - GB84

Salem had said, ‘Rooms have been reserved for you at the Al-Kabir Hotel.’

The taxi came out of the dark into the city. It sped through the deserted streets; the narrow alleys and the wide boulevards; the Arabic and the European. The driver sounded his horn as he crossed junctions and passed through red lights. Terry bounced up and down on the back seat. The driver held down his horn and kept his foot on the pedal. The member of the welcoming committee turned around to grin at Terry again. Terry thought of Theresa. Terry Winters thought of another taxi in another city on another street on another day in another life –

This taxi pulled up in front of an illuminated hotel.

Salem had said, ‘You will have guides.’

Mohammed Divan was waiting outside the Al-Kabir with three Libyan men. Mohammed introduced Terry to their guides in the empty lobby of the Al-Kabir. Their guides ordered tea for Terry and Mohammed from a boy behind a bar that sold only tea. The boy brought Terry and Mohammed warm Arabic tea in small Pyrex glasses. The three Libyans held their prayer beads in one hand and filterless cigarettes in the other. Terry wanted to go to bed. First Terry was shown his schedule. Terry and Mohammed were to relax for a few days –

To see the sights and the sounds of Tarabulus al-Gharb.

‘For a few days?’ said Terry. ‘I can’t stay here for a few days. I’m needed —’

Mohammed spoke in Arabic with the three Libyans. Mohammed turned to Terry –

Mohammed shrugged his shoulders. The three Libyans nodded –

‘Everything is arranged,’ they said. ‘Salem has arranged everything.’

Dixon stops the car opposite Rotherham police station. He hands the Mechanic his hood. Dixon leaves.

The Mechanic stands outside the police station. He stamps his feet in the last of the night.

There are men parked across the road. Men with notebooks. Men with cameras.

The bus arrives. The doors open.

The Mechanic puts on the hood. He climbs up inside. He doesn’t pay the driver –

He walks down the aisle. He takes a seat halfway up.

The bus is off again. The bus is cold and dark. The bus is damp and stinks –

It stinks of cigarettes and sweat. It stinks of fear. Dread –

Guilt.

The Mechanic stares through the slits in the hood –

There are eight policemen. Two other men in hoods.

The Mechanic stares through the windows and the mesh –

There are now police cars in front and back of them.

The men in hoods bow their heads. The police lower the visors on their helmets –

‘Here we go,’ one of police shouts.

Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety miles an hour –

The bus picks up speed. The bricks hit the bus –

Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety –

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang –

Blue lights and burning barricades:

Welcome to Kiveton Park.

The bus stops inside. The mob bays. The gates close. The mob barks –

The smell of blood. The stink of shit –

The men in hoods run from the bus to the office. The men in hoods hide inside.

There are boards across the office windows. Heaters on. Kettles boiling. Cigarettes lit –

The three men keep their hoods on. Heads bowed.

Police come in and out off the fire escape. Tell them how the battle’s going –

‘They’re letting horses out for a gallop,’ police laugh. ‘Bit of exercise for them.’

‘Who’s that then?’ other police ask. ‘Fucking horses or pickets?’

The three men keep their mouths shut under their hoods. Police don’t like that –

‘Take them hoods off,’ police say. ‘No one can see you in here, can they?’

‘It’s better this way,’ the Mechanic says from under his. ‘Leave us be.’

‘Anyone would think you were fucking ashamed of yourselves,’ police laugh.

‘Afraid of us, are you?‘police ask. ‘Afraid we’ll grass you up to that mob?’

‘Imagine if we did,‘police say. ‘They’d have you swinging from pit head.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ the Mechanic tells them. ‘Pack it in.’

‘Or what?’ police ask. ‘You’ll go home, will you?’

‘Like to fucking see you try that,’ police laugh.

‘Not last ten seconds out there without us,’ police say. ‘So be fucking nice.’

The other two men in their hoods are shaking. Their legs are trembling .

The Mechanic hates the police. Pigs. Fucking hates them. Cunts –

‘You know why they won’t take their hoods off?’ pigs ask each other.

‘They’re afraid one of them will go back on strike and grass other two up.’

‘I’d have stayed out with scum‚’ pigs say. ‘Least scum can hold their heads up.’

‘Just long enough for us to give them a crack,’ pigs laugh.

‘I’ve heard enough,’ the Mechanic tells them. ‘Shut up.’

‘Or what, scab?’ pigs say. ‘What you going to fucking do?’

The Mechanic stands up. He takes off his hood. He stares at the pigs in their white shirts. He says, ‘I’ll walk out that door and out them pit gates, that’s what I’ll fucking do.’

Eldest pig walks over to the door. He opens it. He says, ‘Be my fucking guest.’

The Mechanic stares at the four pigs. The two hooded scabs. The open door –

The noise of the battle outside filling the office. The shouts. The sirens.

‘Fucking got cold feet, have you, hard man?’ another pig says –

The Mechanic stares back at him. He shakes his head. He smiles.

‘Fucking funny, is it?’ pig asks. ‘Thought you were going to walk out that door?’

‘Think I will,’ the Mechanic says. ‘And think I’ll show lads on picket line this —’

He takes out a wad of cash from the pocket of his jeans. He holds it up. Counts –

Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety quid –

‘Fuck is that?’ pigs ask him. ‘Your wages for a year?’

‘No,’ the Mechanic says. It’s what you lot paid me to act as a scab for day. That’s what it is.’

Boss pig slams the door shut. He says, ‘Fuck off. Fuck off.’

The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘No. You fuck off and make your call.’

The two scabs stare up at the Mechanic through the slits in their hoods –

The tears in their eyes.

‘Tell you this,’ the Mechanic says to them. ‘I’d rather be a scab than a pig anydayof fucking week.’

The scabs bow their heads in their hoods. Their hoods heavy –

Their tears on the floor.

Terry Winters opened his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling. He remembered where he was. Terry got out of bed. He opened the window on to the balcony. He stepped outside –

It was warm. It was beautiful.

The balcony opened out on to the Green Square. Terry could see the Red Castle. The mosques and their minarets. The Medina and the markets –

Terry could smell the Mediterranean. Terry was amazed. Terry was excited.

Terry went back inside. Terry took his underpants off the window ledge. Terry dressed. Terry opened his door –

His guide was sitting on a chair in the corridor. His guide smiled. His guide said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’

Terry smiled back. Terry asked, ‘Good morning?’

His guide nodded. His guide smiled again. His guide said again, ‘Sabah alkheer.’