David Peace - GB84

Monday 10 — Sunday 16 December 1984

The Jew has spent the weekend in retreat at Colditz. He has gathered his majors and generals. He has had them pack their black suits and ties. He puts on his leather flying-jacket. Neil Fontaine performs the safety checks on the helicopter. They eat hearty breakfasts in the Jew’s enormous kitchen. Then the Jew flies the leaders of the National Working Miners’ Committee down to Cardiff –

The cloud is heavy. The visibility poor. The journey rough. The passengers green.

Neil Fontaine has hired a limousine for them. He drives them from the airport to the crematorium. The National Working Miners’ Committee smell of cigarettes and last night’s ale. They argue among themselves about money. Two of them vomit into carrier bags at the side of the road. The Jew sits in the back among his majors and generals and looks at his watch. They are late for the funeral of Derek Atkins.

Neil Fontaine takes two wreaths out of the boot of the limousine –

‘You have paid the supreme price for democracy.’

He hands the two wreaths to the National Working Miners’ Committee –

‘In glory may you rest in peace.’

The National Working Miners’ Committee go into the crematorium.

The Jew waits in the car with Neil Fontaine. The Jew does not speak.

Rain sweeps down from the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains –

Down and out into the mouth of the Severn.

Half an hour later, the family of the murdered taxi-driver leave the crematorium.

Neil Fontaine opens the back door of the limousine. He holds an umbrella over the Jew. The Jew walks up to the family. The Jew embraces the dead taxi-driver’s common-law wife under their different umbrellas. He puts an envelope full of cash into her wet hands –

‘Your common-law husband did not die in vain,’ the Jew tells the young widow. ‘We shall fight on and we shall win.’

Malcolm Morris asked for his key to Room 707. Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor pastthe bathrooms —

The rooms were all empty. The rooms were all quiet.

Malcolm unlocked the door. He stepped inside. He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle of the door. He closed the door. Locked it. He took off his shoes. Placed them on the double bed. He drew the curtains. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed. He stood before the mirror. He unwrapped the bandages. Took the cotton wooloutof his ears. Helooked into the mirror —

A new face in an old place.

The army had taught him how to live. How to survive. To stay alive for ’85.Thearmyhad taught him to expect the knock on the door in the middle of the night. The drive out into the woods. The nozzle of the gun at the back of the skull. Thespade and the hole.Butthen they would never know—

Never know the truth from the lies. The lies from the truth —

Never know the secrets sold. The secrets saved —

The things he’d kept up his sleeve.

The army had taught him how to live. How to survive. Ulster honed those habits, whetted the ways—

To live among death.

Then the service had brought him back. Brought him home. To live alone in a house with a car and a pension plan. Brought him back to listen. To listenfor the knock on the door in the middle of the night. The drive out into the woods. Thegunat the backof the skull. Thespades and the holes –

The truths and the lies. The secrets saved and the secrets sold —

The things up his sleeve.

The service had brought him back. Back home —

To die among life.

Malcolm Morris picked up the phone. He dialled the number. Made the call.

The Jew is livid again. Fucking furious this time. Yesterday was the first day coal had come up from the Yorkshire seams since the strike began. It was a victory, a famous victory in the long campaign –

Miners mining at Manton.

It should have been front-page news. Headlines for them. Death knells for Stalin –

But no.

The Minister has hijacked the Jew’s agenda. The Minister has been holding secret meetings with the TUC. The TUC have gone over the heads of the NUM. The Minister has gone over the head of the Chairman. The Chairman and the Jew –

‘No fucking wonder the numbers have dried up, Neil,’ shouts the Jew –

The Jew must guard against weakness. Inside and out. Outside and in –

The Jew cannot rest. The Jew must not rest.

Neil Fontaine rights the hotel furniture. He picks up the morning papers. He nods. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to Hobart House. He waits outside the Chairman’s office –

The Chairman is already livid. Already fucking furious –

‘That damned junkie hands out one hundred grand to them,’ shouts the Chairman. ‘Hundred fucking grand to the bloody Red Guard for Christmas. Just like that!’

‘I think,’ says the Jew, ‘we should pay the altruistic Noble Lord a visit.’

Neil Fontaine drives the Chairman and the Jew to a private Harley Street clinic. Neil Fontaine accompanies the Chairman and the Jew to a private upstairs room –

The Jew knows Lord John of old. Lord John wakes up to greet him long and lost –

‘Stephen, sweet Stephen!’ he shrills. ‘Where have you been all my life?’

The Jew sits down on the edge of the bed. He has Lord John’s hand in his own.

‘How frail you look, dear Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘Are they treating you well?’

‘The nurses are harridans, Stephen,’ pouts the Lord. ‘Harridans!’

‘Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘I’d like you to meet the Chairman of the Coal Board.’

The Chairman steps forward. The Chairman nods, but does not offer his hand.

The Lord giggles. He whispers in the Jew’s ear. He hides his face in his pillows. He peeps out from behind his fingers. He asks, ‘Did he bring me grapes, Sweet Stevie?’

‘Johnny,’ says the Jew, ‘did you give money to the miners?’

The Lord sits upright in his bed. He tidies himself and says, ‘And what if I did?’

The Jew slaps Lord John across his face. The Jew shouts, ‘Idiot! Fool!’

The Lord collapses in tears into his sheets. He pulls his pillow to him. He hugs it.

‘Do you want your dear mummy to work in Woolworth’s, Johnny?’ asks the Jew. ‘In a uniform? With her name on a tag?’

The Noble Lord shakes his head.

‘That’s what their president has in store for our Queen,’ says the Jew.

The Noble Lord sobs.

‘Just imagine what he has in mind for you, Junkie Johnny,’ says the Jew.

The Noble Lord looks out from behind his pillow. He asks, ‘What, Stevie? What?’

The Jew turns to Neil Fontaine. Neil Fontaine hands the big envelope to the Jew. The Jew opens the envelope. He lays out the photographs on the Lord’s bed –

Ten photographs of beaten faces; of broken bones and burnt-out homes.

Lord John stares. He swallows. He says, ‘To me? They plan to do this to me?’

‘Much worse,’ says the Chairman. ‘Much, much worse.’

Lord John pales. He puts his hand to his mouth. He says, ‘What have I done?’

The Jew goes to the Lord’s bedside drawer. He takes out the Lord’s chequebook. ‘How much did you give them, Johnny?’ he asks. ‘How much?’

‘I feel such a fool,’ says the Lord. ‘Fool! Fool! Fool that I am!’

‘How much, Johnny?’

‘Ten thousand? One hundred thousand?’ he says. ‘I can’t remember now.’

The Jew opens the Lord’s chequebook. The Jew writes out a cheque –

‘This is one for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ he says. ‘Just sign it.’