David Peace - GB84

‘For what?’ asked Terry.

‘For not saying anything,’ whispered Clive. ‘For being a pal. I owe you one.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ spat Terry. ‘Nothing. Now fuck off —’

‘Don’t be like that,’ said Clive. ‘We’re on the same side. Both want the same —’

Terry hung up. Terry stood up. Terry went back over to the pocket of his jacket –

The index cards were gone.

Terry closed his eyes. He saw the cards on the kitchen table. He opened his eyes. He saw the boxes and the papers. The cups and the bottles. Terry looked at his watch –

It was home time. Christmas time –

Terry locked up the office. Terry went down the stairs. Terry drove to his house –

On the radio. Again and again. Over and over, Do They Know It’s Christmas?

He opened the front door of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield. The lights were not on, his family not home –

Terry Winters couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Theresa and the children. They must have all gone down to Bath to stay with Theresa’s parents for the holidays. Terry had put all their presents under the Christmas tree ready for them, but they’d left them there under a coat of fallen pine needles and cold, dark lights.

Terry closed the front door. He stood his briefcase and the suitcases in the hall. He went into the front room. He walked over to the socket in the wall. He switched on the lights on the tree. He sat down on his sofa in the shadows of South Yorkshire, in the suburbs of Sheffield –

In the house with the lights flashing on and off, off and on, and nobody home –

It was Christmas Eve, 1984.

*

Neil Fontaine has made mistakes. Neil Fontaine has paid the price –

Now is the time to make things right. Now is the time to pay it all back.

Neil Fontaine makes calls. Neil Fontaine pays visits –

Pockets full of change and his little black book. Telephones and doorbells.

No one answers their phone. No one answers their door –

He kicks in doors. He tips up tables. He cracks heads. He breaks bones.

Nazi bones. Nazi heads. Nazi tables. Nazi doors –

East End pubs and West End bars. South London skins and North London toffs.

Neil Fontaine drives through the old years and the new. The sleet and the rain –

Now is the time. To make things right. Now is the time. To pay it all back –

Sick of the lies. Sick of the life. Sick of the death –

The severed head of his ex-wife in the boot of his car.

*

The President had been voted Man of the Year. The Prime Minister, Woman of the Year. But the Man of the Year was locked away in his office at the top of the monastery –

There were wolves at the gate, there were carrion circling overhead –

Now there were rats within the precinct walls –

The Militants were mutinying. The Militants were muttering about the President. The Militants moaning about his navigation. The very direction and course of the dispute. The lack of vision and initiative –

The Militants and the Moderates. The shots from both sides now.

So the Man of the Year stayed locked in his office during the hours of daylight. The television tuned to Ceefax and Oracle. The Shostakovich on loud, twenty-four hours. He wrote letters to the families of jailed miners. He told them how proud they should be of their fathers and sons. Their husbands and brothers. How he had nothing but admiration for these magnificent men who had fought to save their jobs, their pits and their communities –

Nothing but admiration.

Len carried in the cardboard boxes. Len put them on Terry’s desk. Len went back down for more. Terry opened the boxes. Terry stacked up the bundles on the desk. Terry counted out the cash. Len brought in another box. Len left it on the floor. Terry put the bundles back in the boxes. Terry noted down the names of the donors and the amounts donated. Len came back with another box. Len said, ‘That’s the last one for now.’

Terry nodded. He asked, ‘There will be people outside all night?’

‘It’ll be safe enough in the safe,’ said Len. ‘Just bring it up when you’re done.’

Terry shrugged his shoulders. Terry got on with it –

Len left him to it. Left him alone among the boxes –

It was Boxing Day, 1984.

Terry went back to work. He wrote down the names of the unions and local authorities. He pencilled in the amounts. He banged away on the calculator. He put the money back in the boxes. He taped up the boxes. He wrote words and numbers on the cardboard in black felt-tip pen. He sat back down in his chair under the portrait of the President. He took off his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He swallowed another two aspirins. He drank another cup of cold coffee. He blinked and put his glasses back on –

The red light on his phone was flashing on and off, on and off, on and –

There was always a chance.

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

‘Merry Christmas, Comrade Chief Executive,’ she said.

Terry’s stomach tightened. Turned and flipped. He said, ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘I’ve got a present for you,’ she giggled. ‘Your Christmas present.’

‘A Christmas present for me?’ asked Terry. ‘Really?’

‘Sorry it’s a day late,’ she said. ‘When would you like it, Comrade?’

Terry looked at his watch. It had stopped. He said, ‘Where are you?’

‘Where do you think?’ she laughed.

Terry wound up his watch. He said, ‘Just give me an hour to sort things out here.’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said and hung up.

Terry put the phone down. He picked it back up. Click-click. He dialled home –

He listened to it ring and ring, echo in the empty hall of their empty home.

Terry hung up. He picked up a box to take up the stairs to the President’s office. He put it back down. He opened it back up. He took out four big bundles of cash. He put them in his briefcase. He taped up the box again. He changed a three into a two on the top of the box. He altered the figures in the book. He carried the first two boxes down the corridor to the stairs. He took them up to the President’s office. He put the boxes down in the corridor. He knocked on the door –

The music symphonic, deafening.

‘Who is it?’ shouted Len from the inside.

‘It’s me,’ replied Terry, ‘the Chief Executive.’

The music stopped and Len unlocked the door. He said, ‘All done?’

‘Nearly,’ said Terry. ‘Just the last four.’

Len picked up the ones at Terry’s feet. Terry glanced inside at the President –

He had his glasses on, writing at his desk. He didn’t look up at Terry Winters.

Terry went back down for the rest of the money. Len followed him.

They picked up the last four boxes. They carried them out to the stairwell.

Len asked, ‘What you doing tonight, Comrade?’

‘Why?’ said Terry. ‘Why do you ask that?’

Len said, ‘Just asking, that’s all.’

‘Sorry,’ said Terry. ‘Been a long day.’

Len followed Terry up the stairs. Len said, ‘Been a long bloody year, Comrade.’

‘You’re right there, Comrade,’ said Terry. ‘You’re right there.’

Terry kept open the door for Len with his back. The boxes in both arms –

Len stopped in the door. He stared at Terry. He said, ‘So what are you doing?’

‘Think I’ll just go home to the family,’ said Terry. ‘Yourself?’

Len nodded. Len said, ‘Planning to picket a power station.’

‘With the President?’ asked Terry.

Len nodded again. Len walked down the corridor. Len said, ‘Join us, Comrade.’