David Peace - GB84

Terry was the boss now. The big man –

The President had left him in charge. The President was touring the coalfields. The President was making certain that the lessons had been learnt. That through solid unity and with more trade union support, pits and jobs could be saved. The Tory anti-trade union legislation resisted. That now was no longer the time to ballot. Now no longer the time when the Haves could stop the Have-nots fighting to save their homes and their communities. Their jobs and their pits –

There were standing ovations. There were songs in his name –

Autographs for the wives and kids. Big boots to fill for Terry Winters –

Terry called meetings. Asked for briefings. Terry demanded updates. Analysis.

The President would call. The President would need to know –

Not tomorrow. Today. Now.

Terry Winters sat bolt upright at his desk under the large portrait of the President. Terry waited for the phone to ring. For the President’s call –

At five o’clock, it rang.

Terry picked it up. Click-click. Terry said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Guess who?’

Terry swallowed. He said, ‘Diane?’

‘Who’s a clever boy then?’

‘How did you get this number?’

She paused. She said, ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that —’

Terry stood up behind his desk. He said into the phone, ‘No, wait.’

‘You gave it to me,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

Terry nodded. He said, ‘Of course.’

‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘I’ve got a present for the Chief Executive.’

‘For me?’

‘But you have to guess what it is,’ she giggled.

‘I —’

‘I’m looking at it right now. I’m touching it.’

‘I —’

‘I’ll give you another hint,’ she whispered. ‘It’s wet and it’s waiting for you.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Now that would be telling,’ she laughed.

‘Where?’ he screamed.

‘I’m sat at the bar of the Hallam Towers Hotel, holding your vodka and tonic.’

Terry Winters hung up. Terry dialled Theresa. Click-click. He told Theresa lies. Terry hung up again. He got his coat. He switched off the lights. Terry locked the door. He went down the corridor. He took the stairs –

Two at a time.

There was a Tweed at reception. The Tweed said, ‘In a hurry are we, Comrade?’

‘No,’ said Terry. ‘Just off to meet the wife.’

‘Now, why don’t I believe you, Comrade?’ smiled the Tweed.

‘What?’ said Terry. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just pulling your leg, Comrade,’ laughed the Tweed. ‘Just pulling your leg.’

Terry Winters left the building. He ran up the street to the underground car park. He drove out to Hallam Towers. He sucked mints all the way there –

Two at a time.

Terry ran through the lobby into the bar.

Diane was sitting on a high stool with her legs crossed. She pushed the vodka and tonic towards him. She put her right hand on the inside of Terry’s right thigh. She said, ‘I’m afraid the ice has melted. It went all warm and wet.’

Terry Winters took off his glasses. Terry put them in his jacket pocket. He smiled.

Diane leant forward. She whispered, ‘Fuck me before dinner. Upstairs. Now.’

Terry nodded. He said, ‘Without me, they’d be bankrupt already.’

Diane rubbed her fingers over his lips. She said, ‘You talk too much, Comrade.’

*

The Mechanic needs time to think this through. Space. He drops Jen off at her sister’s. Goes in with her just to make sure. He picks up the dogs from his mother’s. Goes back to his. Theirs. He makes a couple of calls. Makes sure he’ll be rid of the Rover first thing tomorrow. He has another shower. Another drink —

The Mechanic lies on his bed. Their bed. He switches on the news —

‘An elderly woman has been found brutally murdered in the Shropshire countryside. The seventy-nine-year-old rose grower and anti-nuclear campaigner was —’

They will want answers. Then they’ll want silence.

she shouts. You’re all bloody blind. I get up from table. I say, Do you want a lift in? Listen to you, she laughs. How long you think you’ll be able to keep car? I say, They give us petrol money — Aye, he’ll pay you when you picket for him, she says. I shake my head. Do you want a lift in or not? He going to pay your tax, your MOT? He going to pay for your tyres, your radiator? You’ll have driven it into ground before he’s finished with it. You’ll be no bloody use to him then. See how much he pays you then — Bugger her. I put on my coat. I go outside. I get car out of garage. I sit in drive for a bit. She doesn’t come out — Bloody bugger her. I set off into Thurcroft. Go down Welfare. I’m very early. I wish I’d put my name down for either days or nights now. Not fucking afternoons. Pete comes in. Asks if I fancy going into Doncaster with him. Coal House. Too right, I do. Get there just before eight. There are only a couple of coppers. Krk-krk. Hundred-odd of us — Parkas. Kagools. Boots. Trainers — Coppers on their walkie-talkies. Krk-krk. Shitting it. NCB staff turn up about quarter-past to half-past eight. Police everywhere now. There’s usual shoving. Shouting. Scuffles. Most of NCB staff take one look and go home. One — nil to us. Pete and me drive on over to Bentinck — Reality. Windows down. Roadblock fucking City. Krk-krk. Have you heard what I was telling them other lads? Pete shakes his head. No, he says. I have not — We know you are peaceful, says copper. But if you carry on you’ll be arrested because you’re liable to cause a breach of the peace. What? says Pete. So if we just drive on towards colliery, then we’ll be arrested? Aye, says copper. You will. So don’t bother. Day 22.Bred into them, John is saying on A18. They’re not Union men. Never have been. You’ve seen their houses. Their cars. Remember me dad telling our Kevin, Work down there and you’ll end up a scab — Rich like, but a scab. That was fifteen, twenty year back. They’re all, Fuck you, I’m all right Jack, says Tony. Always have been — Fucking incentive schemes, says Michael. Made it worse. Remember that fucking ballot? John laughs. They were completely outvoted. Cunts just ignored result and went their own sweet fucking way as usual. Now them same cunts want another vote, says Michael. Long as it suits them, says Tony. If it didn’t, they’d just sod us anyway, says John. Bred into them. I say, Aye-up. Company. Fucking hell, says John. Not again. I pull over. I wind down window. Krk-krk. Where you going? Fishing — Fuck off — That’s not very nice, says John. I don’t give a shit, says copper. You’re pickets and I want to know where you’re going? I say again, We’re off fishing. Get out, he says. I get out — Driver’s licence — I hand it over. Rest of you, out, he says. John, Tony and Michael get out of car. Two other coppers come up. One of them takes down registration. Other takes keys out of ignition. He goes round back, opens up boot. You got a warrant to do that, have you? asks Tony. Why? asks copper. Got something to fucking hide, have you? I think they have, sir, says one with his head in my boot. He stands up, six small logs in his arms. One with driver’s licence in his hands, he’s shaking his head. Now what have we here? he asks. They look like offensive weapons to me. I look at him and smile. He throws my driver’s licence down on road. You’ve got ten minutes to get back to Yorkshire, Mr Daly of Hardwick — Or what? asks John. Or you’re all fucking nicked. Day 25.Cath wants to go over to her sister’s. She lives just outside Lincoln. Place called Branston. It’s a straight run down A57. We get on road after breakfast. I want to try to get there and back before National starts. We pass Shireoaks and are just by first turn off into Worksop when I see all cones across road. Them parked up in a lay-by. Krk-krk. Crowbars and cameras out. Smile. They wave us over to side. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He taps on glass. I wind down window. Where you going? Lincoln. Why? See her sister. Where you live? Hardwick. Where’s that? Just back up there. Near Thurcroft, says Cath. What you do? You what? Your job? I’m a miner. Are you now? he says. Thurcroft? I nod. Working, are you? What’s that to you? He shakes his head. Turn your vehicle around, he says. What?