David Peace: GB84

With the exception of those persons appearing as well-known personalities under their own names, albeit often in occult circumstance, all other characters are a fiction in a novel based upon a fact.

Electricity —

Harsh service station light. Friday 13 January, 1984 –

She puts a cigarette to her lips, a lighter to her cigarette.

A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate —

He waits.

She inhales, her eyes closed. She exhales, her eyes open.

He picks at the solid red sauce on the plastic ketchup bottle.

‘Early March,’ she says. ‘South Yorkshire.’

He rolls the solid red sauce into a soft bloody ball.

She stubs out the cigarette. She puts an envelope on the table.

He squashes the ball between his fingers and thumb –

Predicts the ruin of the State.

She stands up.

He shuts his eyes until she’s almost gone. The stink still here –

Power.

The dead brood under Britain. We whisper. Weecho.Theemanation of Giant Albion — Wake up, says Cath again. Wake up, Martin. I turn over. I look at her. They’re closing Cortonwood, she says. You’ll be out now. I sit up. I reach for my cigarettes. She moves packet out of my reach. I say, Pass them here. She throws them on bed. Expensive habit that, she says. Bloody Manvers. I don’t drive. Geoff Brine picks us up. I wouldn’t be here if he’d not rung — Click-click — Asked us if I wanted a lift into Thurcroft. Not way Cath’s been going on. But she’s gone into Sheffield to meet her mate. On way we stop for one in Rising Deer. Neither of us fancy Hotel. There’ll be enough talk later. They’ve begun by time we park up, get inside Welfare — We’ve fought sixty years to get these snap times, now they’re going to change them so coal will be coming up whole time — It’s packed. They put it to vote, show of hands. Three to one against. Let them sort it out themselves, says Geoff. But it’s all bollocks. We all know it is. Just a matter of time now. On way home we never mention Manvers. Just Sheffield bleeding Wednesday. Geoff stops car when we get to top of our road. I open door. It’s sleeting. I turn back to say ta. He’s staring at us. I shake my head. He nods — Eighteen weeks with no overtime. Fights every day. Rag-ups across area — It’s just a matter of time. Fucking Cortonwood. Monday morning. I’m on days. It’s quiet when we go in but there’s about forty blokes from Silverwood waiting for us when we come off. It’s about more than Manvers fucking snap times now. They’ve been into Barnsley for Area Council meeting. They’re stopping cars. I’ve got my window down. Don’t come tomorrow, they’re telling us. I say, I won’t. Don’t you worry — Stick your telly on when you get home, they shout. I say, Don’t worry. I will. Pete Cox from our Branch comes over to car when he sees it’s me. Few of us are going over to Manton tomorrow, he says. If you fancy it? I tell him, I’ll be there. Nice one, he says and bangs twice on roof of car. I put window up, switch on radio and drive straight home. Cath’s waiting for us, front door open — Television and radio both on: Jack Taylor stood outside Area HQ on Huddersfield Road, telling everyone how Yorkshire have voted to implement 1981 ballot — To stop them butchering our industry and our jobs. Our pits and our communities — All out from Friday over closure of Cortonwood and Bullcliffe Wood. Cortonwood has best coal in South Yorkshire. Least five more years’ worth, says Jack. No more running. That’s it then? asks Cath. I nod — That’s it, we’re out. Day 1.It’ll be National now. Fucking Mac-Gregor. Twenty pits and twenty thousand jobs over next twelve months. Arthur’s been right all along. There’s no talking to Cath though. I drive into Thurcroft. Mini-van’s already gone over to Manton, so I have a drive over with a couple of lads who were just hanging around like me. When we get there it’s solid. There’s talk of a run down to Creswell because that won’t be. Pete and some of older blokes say we best wait for tonight. See what score is. They’re going to set up some kind of Strike HQ at Silverwood. They’ll be telling us where to go. Where we’re needed and where we’re not. Lot of lads have been here since first thing so we have a pint and head back to Thurcroft. I run into Geoff. Have a bag of chips with him in car while Hotel opens. We have one in there, then go across to Welfare. There are that many tonight they’re having to stand out front in car park — Motion to back strike is proposed. Motion is seconded. Motion is backed 100 per cent — Folk head off to Hotel or Club. Lot of talk about ‘72 and ‘74. I’m having a piss in Club when this bloke says to me, It’ll be right then? I say, How do you mean? We’ll win? he says. Yeah, I tell him. What you worried about? Be summer soon, he says. I look at lad. I say, Do I know you? No, he says. You don’t. Day 3.Thousand pounds for every year of service. We’d have fifteen grand, Cath says. I say, And what’d that buy us? Peace and quiet, she says — And for how long? I ask her. Fifteen thousand pounds, Martin — I can’t be doing with it. I leave her to it. I drive into Thurcroft. I play darts and drink. Booze. Sup. There’s nothing else to do. They’re telling us to stay put. Let Nottingham

Monday 5 — Sunday 11 March 1984

Terry Winters sat at the kitchen table of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. His three children were squabbling over their scrambled eggs. His wife was worrying about the washing and the weather. Terry ignored them. He took an index card from the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He read it. He closed his eyes. He repeated out loud what he had just read. He opened his eyes. He read the card again. He checked what he had said. He had been correct. He put the card into the left-hand pocket of his jacket. He took a second card from the right pocket. He read it. He closed his eyes. He repeated out loud what he had read. He opened his eyes. His children were taunting each other over their toast. His wife was still worrying about the washing and the weather. They ignored him. He read the card again. He had been correct again. He put the card into the left pocket. He took another card from his right pocket. He read it. Terry closed his eyes. Terry Winters was learning his lines.

*

Neil Fontaine stands outside the door to the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. He listens to the telephones ring and the voices rise inside. He thinks about the coincidence of circumstances, the meeting of motives and the convergence of causes. Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s and listens to the corks pop and the glasses chink. He thinks about the start of wars and the end of eras. The timing of a meeting and the opening of an envelope –

The closing of a pit and the calling of a strike –

The lighting of a corridor. The shadow on a wall –

Fear and Misery in this New Reich.