David Peace - GB84

The light fades. The light fails –

There is a call from the front desk. There is a knock on the door.

Mr Farrant opens the door, Neil Fontaine opens his mouth –

Jerry Witherspoon and Roger Vaughan are stood in the corridor –

There are carols playing —

Jerry has a handkerchief over his mouth. Roger has a black bin-liner in his hands.

Neil Fontaine steps back into the room. Jerry and Roger follow him inside –

Jerry shuts the door. Roger puts the bin-liner on the bed –

‘This came to the Jupiter offices for you,’ says Roger. ‘Merry Christmas, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine stares at the bin-liner. He says, ‘What is it?’

‘I would hate to spoil the surprise,’ says Roger.

Neil Fontaine shrugs. He goes over to the bed. He opens the bin-liner –

There is the box for a portable TV inside. It has been opened and resealed.

Neil Fontaine takes the cardboard box out of the bin-liner. He opens the box –

There is something tied up inside a supermarket carrier bag.

Neil Fontaine takes the carrier bag out of the box. He undoes the carrier bag –

There is a parcel wrapped in old newspapers.

Neil Fontaine takes out the parcel. He unwraps the newspapers –

The severed head of Jennifer Johnson stares up at him –

The former Mrs Fontaine.

The Kalamares in Inverness Mews, the Capannina on Romilly Street, the Scandia Roomin the Piccadilly Hotel, the Icelandic Steakhouse on Haymarket—

The quiet times and empty places where Malcolm conducted the orchestra –

In their silences. In their spaces.

The waiters did not bring them menus. The waiters did not take their orders —

They were shadows. They were ghosts —

The orchestra of ghosts –

Back from the Dead to the Land of the Living.

a day for soup kitchen — Lads just doing our own pit and coal-picking. Pushing their barrows up to spoil — Looked like ants, they did, up there on top of heap. Pushing their barrows back down lane — Minds just set on Christmas now. Raffles and parties. Presents and dinner. That’s all folk talked about — Christmas. Christmas. Christmas — Talked about it more than bloody strike itself. Especially after last picket on twenty-first — Been a bigger push than usual. Bit of a drink — Not even got that now for a while. So I didn’t blame them — Thinking about Christmas. It was just when it was all over and done with — That was what worried me. Them first few days of January — longest month of bloody year. Bad enough when you weren’t on strike — I went into back of Welfare.Put on my Santa suit ready for party — Hardly move in there for all presents. Food that had been collected — Presents from SOGAT. From CGT in France. Loads of food and drink from NALGO people in Sheffield. Housing Department of local council had held a raffle — Four hundred kids going mental. Never seen such a mountain of presents and stuff — Crackers. Chocolates. Trifles. Sweets. Sandwiches — Our Mary said it took them five hours just to butter all bread for potted meat sandwiches — Ham. Pork. Salmon. Cucumber — You name it, it was there. Kids were in heaven and, I tell you, all grown-ups had tears in their eyes. This one little lad comes up to me. He tugs on hem of my Santa suit and he says, I hope my dad’s on strike next year, Santa. And that was just young ones — There was a disco for older lot and a gift voucher each. Trip to pantomime in Sheffield and all — Busy time. Not all glad tidings, mind — Rumours were still there. Tension — People out and about. Few drinks in them — Drink got to folk more and all. Now they didn’t have it as often as and as much as they’d like — Few pints and things would get said. Things would get heard. Things would get done — If there was going to be trouble, it was going to be this week. This one scab — One of them younger ones who’d been an active picket before. This one had had his fair share of bother before strike. Big mouth on him. Quick with his fists. Not sort to keep his head down. Even if he was scabbing — He’d been out and about in village. Told a few of younger lads that him and other scabs had got a hit list of all pickets that had called him — Told folk he would have his revenge. It was all talk. Never came near Welfare with it, either — But it got to younger lads. Lads who he’d been out picketing with not a month ago. Lads who’d looked up to him — This one bloke, Steve, he hated this scab. Had had bother with him since they were in same class at school — Friday night before New Year, they crossed each other’s path again in village. Steve had a go — Told him he should be ashamed of himself. Scab said Steve was on hit list and he’d have him — Steve went back to pub. Kept drinking. Then he goes up to scab’s houseand chucks a milk bottle at it. Bottle goes through window — Minutes later scab has put Steve’s windows through with an airrifle. Steve goes back up to scab’s house — Scab comes out with a hatchet in his hands. Police come — Krk-krk . Police don’t touch scab. Just cart Steve off to Maltby— Don’t let him see a solicitor. Don’t let him see his wife. Don’t let him have his phone call — Police want Steve to grass up folk for vandalism to pit and NCB gear. Police want this so Board can sack them — Steve tells them nothing. Keeps it shut — Police took him to Rotherham police station.Police charged him with threatening behaviour and criminal damage. Bring him straight up. Judge fines him four hundred and ten quid — For one window. No charges for scab. Nothing — I didn’t say anything to Steve but I knew Board would sack him. That was policy now. Fuck— New Year’s Eve we put on a token picket up at pit. I spent night on picket line up by hut. Our Alamo — Decked out in a bit of tinsel. Trees tied up — There was a good atmosphere. Folk came out from houses near by and gave us food and drink. Lots of other people stopped by for a song and a chat. Just a couple of police on. Local bobbies keen to be mates tonight. Had a drink with them at midnight. Bite to eat — Like they did with Hun. No man’s

Monday 24 — Sunday 30 December 1984

Terry put down the phone. Terry sighed. Terry smiled. Terry clapped his hands –

The Union had regained partial control of the Dublin money. The sequestrators had admitted in court that they were having great problems getting to the miners’ money.

Terry stopped clapping. Terry stopped smiling –

Terry tried to remember what he had been doing before the phone rang –

Terry saw all the boxes stacked up in his office. The papers piled up on his desk. The empty cups on the windowsill. The aspirin bottles in the bin. The Denims outside. The Tweeds upstairs. The Red Guard downstairs –

Terry walked over to his jacket. Terry went to the right-hand pocket of his jacket. Terry needed an index card –

The phone rang again on his desk.

Terry walked back over. Terry picked it up. Click-click —

‘It’s Christmas time,’ sang the voice on the end. ‘There’s no need to be afraid —’

Terry sat down. Terry said, ‘What do you want, Clive?’

‘Let me guess,’ laughed Clive. ‘You’re Scrooge in the Union pantomime?’

Terry said, ‘I haven’t the time for this —’

‘Really?’ asked Clive. ‘But I’m the ghost of all our Christmases-yet-to-come —’

‘Fuck off,’ shouted Terry. ‘I’m going to hang up right —’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clive. ‘I just wanted to say thank you. That’s all.’