David Peace - GB84

Terry Winters stopped speaking. Salem stopped translating.

The Colonel stood up. Terry stood up.

The Colonel gave Terry Winters three copies of his Little Green Book.

Terry thanked the Colonel many times. Terry shook his hand again. Many times.

The Colonel left the room. Terry and Mohammed left the fort with Salem.

The jeep took them back to Tripoli. Through the desert and the end of the night –

The dawn rising out of the desert with the city. Like a mirage, thought Terry –

‘— I fly for refuge unto the Lord of the Daybreak,’ quoted Salem from the Koran. ‘That he may deliver me from those things of mischief which he hath created —’

Terry nodded. He had never seen a dawn like it in his life. It was extraordinary –

The dawn. The stars. The food. The people. Their leader. The whole country –

‘People back home could have seen me with the Colonel,’ said Terry –

‘Terry Winters and Colonel Gadhafi,’ he laughed. ‘They’d never believe it.’

Mohammed and Salem laughed. Mohammed and Salem put their thumbs up.

The jeep came through Green Square. The jeep stopped outside the Al-Kabir.

Terry and Mohammed got out. Salem had places to go. Salem said goodbye –

‘And thank you,’ said Terry Winters. ‘That was the best night of my life.’

now is a riddle. Lady Luck smiles for once. Next door’s rabbit died and bloke lets me have hutch. Ideal that. Like a bloody riddle kit. Mesh and wood off hutch. Use hacksaw on it. Bang four pieces into a square. Tack mesh onto bottom — That’s my riddle. I’m set — Both good and bad time to start up, though. It’s getting cold so there’s a demand — There’s a demand because there’s no free coal. No concessionary coal — Means there are more folk at it, though. Lot have been doing it since start. That means all best stuff’s gone from yard. No easy pickings — Board are having clampdown on security and all. Because of all vandalism — Big riot in Grimethorpe week before when all South Yorkshire coppers pulled a load of lads who were at it. Pigs are all over place anyway because of Geoff the Scab and his mates — It’s bloody dangerous, too. Not forget that — Lad already died at Upton. Fourteen-year-old — But what you going to do? Live off a quid a picket and hope for a bit from petrol money? — I’ve been going in car with Tim and Gary again this past week or so. I asked them if they fancy coming with me — Make a proper job of it on weekend. Bit of brass for themselves — Jump at chance. Tim says a mate of his was nicked in yard by this copper from Met. Didn’t charge him or anything. But bastard made him tip out what he’d got. Night’s work down drain. Gary says they’ve got Alsatians up there, too. Set them on you — Three of us decide it’s best to stick to spoil. Right up on top of heap is best place, too. Dig a fucking hole up there. Bottom of that is where your bloody nuggets are — Hard fucking work, spoil is. But least with three of us we can rotate jobs a bit, though. First thing is to get to bloody stuff. Have to dig through all dust that’s been pressed and packed down on top. There’s always a good foot or so of that. Then comes softer muck. Load of that. Maybe four foot or more. Best stuff is under that. Then you get riddle out and go to work with sieving. Take it in turns to shovel and sieve. One with shovel and two with riddles. Fucking back-breaking, it is. Not alone up here, either, like bloody Gold Rush on top of here, it is. First day here we realized we needed a bigger riddle. Did well enough, but knew we could do a lot fucking better. Flogged what we had. Brass we made we bought some more wood, more mesh and more bags. Made this six-foot bloody riddle. Huge it is. Today we’re doing a bag every quarter of an hour. Six big shovel loads of stuff on riddle at a time. Fill a bag every fifteen minutes. Do sixty bags over weekend. Eight-hour days, like. Hard fucking days, too. Flog each bag for two quid a pop — That’s forty quid each. Forty fucking quid — Take orders for next week and all. Like a proper fucking business — Daft thing is, I’ve got this forty quid in my pocket. I don’t know what to do with it — I buy twenty Park Drive and a pint. Have a bag of chips on way home — That’s it. Lie down on floor under my coat and I’m straight out — That bloody knackered, hands that bloody raw. Like a light — Fragments come away under my tread. Fragments fall — I wake up under blanket on bedroom floor. Middle of night. I get up. I go down Welfare — Day 239. I get my orders from envelope. I go and do my picket. Kiveton Park again today. I take Tim and Gary and this other young lad. I drive down back roads and side-streets. I park car a good two mile or so from pit gates. I fall in and walk with rest of lads. I take abuse from police on way to front with rest of lads. Krk-krk .I get stopped and searched for fireworks with rest of lads. I get to front with rest of lads. I stand in dark and cold with rest of lads. I squint into their searchlights with rest of lads. I blink with rest of lads. I tell television crews to fuck off home with rest of lads. I hear scab bus coming up lane with rest of lads. I push with rest of lads. I shove with rest of lads. I shout with rest of lads. I call them what they are with rest of lads. I call them scabs with rest of lads. I watch their bus go in with rest of lads. I listen to coppers laugh and chant and bang their shields with rest of lads. I turn and walk away with rest of lads. I take abuse from police on way back to car with rest of lads. I drive Tim and Gary back to Thurcroft with that other young lad. I go in Welfare with most of lads. I get

Monday 29 October — Sunday 4 November 1984

The Board dropped the ball. The President’s man caught in flagrante on film in the arms of the Tyrant of Tripoli. The Union’s begging bowl outstretched to the Terrorist’s Friend. The sponsors of the Irish Republican Army. The assassins of WPC Yvonne Fletcher. Their president with his pants down. His monstrous political agenda finally exposed. National news. International news. Hold-the-front-page fucking news –

But the Suits of the Board had dropped the ball.

The Chairman had been back in Boston for a weekend with his grandchildren. The Jew left here to hold the fort. The Jew issued instructions in the Chairman’s name. The Suits ignored his instructions. The Suits squabbled –

Say this. Don’t say that. Push this agenda. Not that –

The Suits had dropped the ball between them. Dropped it for the last time –

Heads would now roll. Heads for tall poles.

These are the nights of the long knives, and the Jew has the sharpest blade of all –

No more distraction. No more conciliation. No more negotiation –

Much more litigation. Much more retaliation. Much, much more determination –

To win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win and win again.

But the Jew knows they need a better public face. No more plastic bags on heads –

Neil Fontaine carries videotape after videotape up from the office to the Boardroom. The Jew and Tom Ball watch videotape after videotape. The Jew and Tom Ball are searching for Mr Right. A public face. A Mr Fixit to make things right. The Jew and Tom Ball finally find their Mr Fixit –

The parrot who blinked the least. The parrot who smiled the most –

The Jew will dispatch Neil to the North. To fetch their Mr Fixit –

Neil Fontaine jumps at the chance. The chance of a ghost.

*

Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan had changed planes in Frankfurt. Terry and Mohammed had sat in the lounge. The British papers full of reports on the sequestration. The collapse of the latest talks. The intransigence of the President. The persistence of the Chairman. Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan had both agreed the strike was set to run and run. That the Union would need all the cash they could get. Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan had congratulated each other on a job well done. They had boarded their flight to Manchester and home. Shared a taxi from the airport to Victoria Station. Then Mohammed Divan had gone one way and Terry Winters the other. Terry had sat on the train to Sheffield and studied Libyan. Terry would surprise them all with his stories and secrets from Tarabulus al-Gharb. Terry had even thought of going straight to the office. But Terry wanted to see Theresa and the children. Terry had missed Theresa and the children. Terry had wished they had been there with him. Had seen what he had seen. Done what he had done. Terry had taken a taxi direct to his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. The house had been dark. The curtains not drawn. Terry had paid the driver. Terry had walked up the drive. Had put his key into the lock. His foot in the door, when the two men had stepped out of the shadows of South Yorkshire and said, ‘Care to comment on reports that you have just returned from a meeting with Colonel Gadhafi himself in Libya? That you were sent there on behalf of the President of the National Union of Mineworkers? That you were there to obtain money and guns for your war against the government? Care to comment on such reports, would you, Mr Winters? Care to comment, Mr Winters? Care to comment, Comrade?’