David Peace - GB84

Monday 17 — Sunday 23 December 1984

The Right Honourable Member of Parliament met Malcolm Morris in the underground carpark —

In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach —

His mouth moved. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm questions —

Malcolm could not answer. Malcolm could not hear —

But Malcolm had the tapes.

In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –

They would find the answers here. They would hear the tapes —

These field recordings of the Dead.

Terry stuck two bitten fingers in his ears. They were playing carols in the corridors again. For morale, said the Denims. Even the Tweeds agreed. Terry took another three aspirins –

Christmas. Christmas. Christmas –

It was all anybody ever talked about. Phoned about. Click-click —

Lorryloads of toys from France. From Poland. From Australia –

Santa suits and plastic trees. Party hats and pantomimes –

Turkeys and all the fucking trimmings —

It was all anyone thought about. Cared about. Almost –

Terry picked up his files. Just his files. He didn’t need his calculator these days.

Terry locked the office. Terry took the stairs up to the Conference Room –

The lift was out of order.

Terry tapped on the door. Terry went inside. Terry took his seat by the exit –

The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had just made their report –

The report which said that efforts to block the supply of oil had had little discernible effect; that there was no likelihood of crucial fuel shortages at the generating stations; that prospects for an early settlement of the dispute were remote –

Remote.

So the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had been to see the Minister –

Again.

The President looked up with tired eyes at the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends. The President wasn’t sleeping. Dick wasn’t. Paul. Len. Joan. Alice. Mike –

None of them were –

Always light, never dark.

‘We don’t want the TUC or anybody else to go along and argue a case that effectively undermines the NUM,’ said the President again.

The Fat Man did not blink. Did not bat an eyelid. He said, ‘What do you want?’

‘Do you remember all the promises you gave in September?’ asked the President. ‘The decisions the TUC conference made? The financial support? The physical support? The practical support? The total support?’

The Fat Man did not flinch. Did not move a muscle. He said, ‘I remember.’

‘Good,’ said the President. ‘Because that’s what we bloody want.’

The Fat Man flinched. That Fat Man said, ‘It’s too late now.’

‘It’s late, I’ll give you that,’ said the President. ‘But not too late. Never too late.’

The Fat Man blinked. The Fat Man said, ‘The entire TUC could be bankrupted. The entire movement in the hands of receivers and sequestrators —’

‘Aye,’ shouted the President. ‘And there’d be battles and there’d be bloodshed. And the working class would as one rise like lions after slumber –

‘In unvanquishable number. For we are many and they are few —’

Terry Winters started to cough. Terry Winters couldn’t stop –

Terry made his excuses. His exit. His way back down the stairs.

Terry took more aspirins. His head against the glass. Terry watched the city –

The Christmas lights. The street lights. The shop lights. The office lights –

Always light, never dark.

Terry looked at the calendar. He looked at his watch. Terry was going to be late –

He locked the office. He ran down the stairs. He went for his car –

The remains of Roche Abbey had been chosen for the rendezvous –

Terry drove out through Rotherham, across the M18 and South at Maltby.

The dark Sirocco was already parked, waiting for Terry.

Terry pulled off the A634. Terry parked and Terry waited –

There was a tap on his window. There was a torch in his face –

Terry put one hand up to shield his eyes and released the car boot with his other.

Then the torch was gone. The boot full.

*

Malcolm Morris pressed play. Malcolm played it all back. All of it —

The voices from the shadows at the back, where the silences did not quite reach —

‘— first heard in a room with bright lights and no windows and a locked door, screaming I came into this place. It was Easter Sunday and I was on my back on the bed in her blood, kicking and screaming. The woman in the blue apron took me in her arms and scrubbed me clean of the blood and wrapped me in soft white sheets and a yellow woollen blanket, smiling and kicking, I shat everywhere and she scolded me –

‘I hate you —’

These promises from the shadows, where their threats did not reach —

‘— three houses in three years, these memories from these years. The man in his shop with his loose teeth that fell on the stone floor and broke at my feet. The woman in the lane with the dog that jumped up and barked into my pram. The trees in the park with the words in their bark that must have hurt –

‘I love you. I love. I love you —’

These voices from the shadows at the back, where the silences did not reach –

‘— heard my name called in a classroom with long lights and high windows and locked doors, screaming I’d come into this place. It was Monday morning and I was on my back in the gym in my own blood, kicking and screaming. The man in the black gown took me by my ear and scrubbed me clean of the blood and dressed me in harsh white shorts and a soft cricket sweater, smiling and kicking, I shat everywhere the first time —’

These curses from the shadows, where his prayers did not reach —

‘— more houses in more years, more memories from more years. The man in the uniform who said he was my father and shook me by my hand. My mother in tears who called him a liar and slapped his face raw. The doctor in the white coat who said he would help us and gave us all pills —’

These voices from the shadows, where the silences did not reach –

‘— new town, new school; the same frown, the same fool in classrooms less bright and windows less high but with doors still locked, sniffing I came into these places. It was Friday teatime and I was on my back on the playing field in my own blood, aching and sweating. The captain of the house took me by my hand and showered me clean of the blood and watched me dress in my clean cotton pants and blue school shirt, giggling and kicking, he shat everywhere the first time –

‘I love you —’

This was a truth from the shadows at the back, where their lies did not reach —

‘— that last house from that last, final year, these last memories from that last, final year. The man in the uniform who said he was my father and carried me out to his car, kicking and screaming. My mother in tears who cried and chased the car to the end of the lane. The doctor in the white coat who ran behind her with his help and his pills –

‘I hate you. I hate you. I hate you —’

These lies that drove the truth from the light. Into the shadows —

The voices that followed. Into the silence.

*

Neil Fontaine drives out to the hotel by Heathrow. Neil Fontaine checks into the hotel. Neil Fontaine uses the name Anthony Farrant. Mr Farrant goes up to his double room. Mr Farrant has their letters in his hand. Mr Farrant waits for the applicants to arrive –