David Peace - GB84

By the river. In the dark. By the gate –

The tempests of our times.

The Earth hungry. The Earth hunts again —

Eyes wide. Mouth open. Nose bloody –

‘The keys,’ the Mechanic says again through the balaclava.

The manager blinks at the Browning. He opens a drawer. Holds up the keys.

‘You do it,’ the Mechanic tells him.

The manager nods. He walks backwards to the safe. Turns and bends down.

‘Faster,’ the Mechanic shouts.

The manager fumbles with the keys. He drops them. Looks up at the Browning.

The Mechanic cocks the gun. He says, ‘Last chance.’

The manager picks up the keys. He opens the safe. Waits.

The Mechanic throws the bag down on the floor. He says, ‘Fill that.’

The manager reaches into the safe. He takes out cash and cheques. Fills the bag.

‘Just the cash,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Just the cash.’

The manager throws cheques to one side. He takes only cash. Puts it in the bag.

‘That’s enough,’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘Pass it here.’

The manager hands him the bag. He looks up the barrel of the gun. Waits again.

‘On your knees,’ the Mechanic tells him.

The manager kneels down. Head bowed. Hands together. He prays —

He prays and the Mechanic runs –

Her eyes wide. Her mouth open. Her nose bloody –

The Mechanic runs from the hungry Earth. The Earth that hunts him.

Neil Fontaine picks the Jew up at Claridge’s. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to the Carlton Club. The Jew meets the Great Financier at the Club. The Great Financier gives one hundred thousand pounds in cash to the Jew. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to Hobart House. The Jew meets the National Working Miners’ Committee in their new office. The Jew gives eighty thousand pounds in cash to the National Working Miners’ Committee. Neil Fontaine drives the National Working Miners’ Committee to the Inns of Court. The National Working Miners’ Committee meet their legal representatives. The National Working Miners’ Committee give seventy thousand pounds in cash to their legal representatives. The legal representatives give writs against the twenty-two members of the National Executive Committee of the National Union of Mineworkers and the five trustees of the Yorkshire Area to the National Working Miners’ Committee. The writs make the twenty-two members of the National Executive personally liable for the two-hundred-thousand-pound fine for contempt of court and forbid the use of Union money to fund picketing or strike-related activities in the Yorkshire Area. Neil Fontaine drives the National Working Miners’ Committee back to Hobart House. The National Working Miners’ Committee meet the Jew. The National Working Miners’ Committee give the writs to the Jew. The Jew posts the writs to the twenty-two members of the National Executive Committee of the National Union of Mineworkers and the five trustees of the Yorkshire Area –

This is the way the world works. This small, small world –

The way it tilts and the way it turns –

The way it tilts and turns again.

Darren fourteen. They were digging to get some pocket money for Christmas presents. Digging it out with their bare hands for two quid a bag. Two pound notes. That was all. Spoil heap fell on them. Crushed them. Buried them. Suffocated them. Killed them. There were no television cameras there to see it happen. No reporters. Just two little lads lying dead under a mountain of muck. Two little lads who wanted to buy their mam and dad a Christmas present — Their father doesn’t have a job. Father doesn’t have any brass — He doesn’t have his lads now. Nothing now — They are fifth and sixth to die coal-picking in Yorkshire. This year. Nineteen eighty-four. Three of dead weren’t even old enough to smoke. Let alone vote — There’s silence in Welfare today. All day. Even in kitchen. No one speaks. No one — The fragments tumble down. The fragments clatter below — Theywhisper and they echo — I wake up. I get bus into Sheffield. Day 261. They’re putting up Christmas lights. Christmas tree. I can’t remember last time I was here. It must have been with our Cath, I suppose. Used to go in twice a month without fail when we first moved here. Window shopping. Looking at all things money could buy — Three-piece suites. Fitted bedrooms. Fridge-freezers. Video-recorders — Cath didn’t like to just look, though. Had to have something. I encouraged her and all. Made her feel better. That would last a day or so. Then catalogues would come back out. Tape measure. Like a drug with her, it was. Buying stuff. Filling up all empty spaces. Needed her fix or there was no talking to her. It was like an addiction. Even had a stone façade stuck on front of house. How much had that cost us? Fuck me, it looked daft. But that’s why I’m here, though. To see if I can see her. But deep down in my heart I know I won’t — I just wander about looking at all them things I can’t have. Then things I’ll never ever have again — Three-piece suites. Fitted bedrooms. Fridge-freezers. Video-recorders — Things I don’t even want again. Things I never wanted — They don’t have one thing I want. You can’t buy thing I want. Not round here. Not any more. Not in Britain today — Thing I want is to go back. Back to my place of work — Not on a bus with mesh over windows. Not in a hood with slits for eyes — I want to drive back up there. Park my car up with all other cars. Go into locker room and have a laugh with lads. Take cage down. Do my shift and have my snap. Do some graft and come back up. Wash up and clock off. Drive straight back home — Back home. Home to wife. My wife. My Cath — That’s what I want. That’s all I want — My wife back. My job back — My life. Life I had — That’s all I want. But I don’t see it. Not here. Not today — Day 264. Sunday again. Fucking Sunday. I can’t stay in house. I go down Hotel. I’ve got just enough for half a pint. Walk there and back will take up most of day. Fresh air helps me sleep. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I really don’t. I know there were them that thought it was best thing that ever happened to them. First few months. Especially some of them with kids — Time in house with them. Helping them with their homework. Doing different stuff. Stuff they’d never had time for before — Swimming. Football. Fishing. Hunting — I wonder how they feel about it all now. After nine months. Nine bloody months — Nine months of toast for their breakfast. Nine months of soup for their dinner. Nine months of spaghetti for their tea. Nine months of their kids without any new gear. Nine months of their kids on hand-outs and other folk’s cast-offs. Nine months of their wives trying to make ends meet. Nine months of their wives trying to hold them together. Nine months of them slowly falling apart. Nine months of them watching every single news programme there was. Nine months of them talking about nothing else. Nine months of them arguing and arguing and arguing and arguing and arguing. Nine months of them going up to the bedroom. Nine months of them lying on their backs. Nine months of them staring up at ceiling. Nine months of them wishing they were fucking dead — Day 267. I stopto rest on the heap.I watch fires light up ahead. This place is old. This stede is niht. This place is cold.

Monday 19 — Sunday 25 November 1984

Terry Winters waited until the children had left for school. Theresa for work. Terry went out onto the landing. He pulled down the ladder to the loft. He climbed up the ladder. Terry looked into the loft. He saw the two suitcases standing in the shadows –