GB84

Martin

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

The First Week

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.

Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite. He listens to the toasts — Inside.

*

They had their breakfasts across the road from the County Hotel on Upper Woburn Place, Bloomsbury. Four tables of them. Full English. Terry Winters just drinking sweet tea. Dick after more toast. No one else speaking. Everyone hungover –

Everyone but the President. He was on the early train down from Sheffield.

They mopped their plates with the last of the bread. They put out their cigarettes. Drained their teas. Terry Winters paid the bill. They got four cabs down to Hobart House. Terry paid the drivers. They pushed through the press and the sleet. They went inside.

The President was waiting with Joan, Len and the news from South Yorkshire –

Solid.

They had their last cigarettes. Looked at their watches. They went upstairs –

The Mausoleum –

Room 16, Hobart House, Victoria:

Bright lights, smoke and mirrors –

The orange anti-terrorist curtains always drawn, the matching carpet and the wall-length mirrors, the tables round the edge of the room. In the middle –

No man’s land.

The Board at the top end; BACM and NACODS down the sides –

The National Union of Mineworkers at the foot of the table.

Fifty people here for the Coal Industry National Consultative Committee –

But there was no consultation today. Just provocation –

More provocation. Real provocation –

Fifty people watching the Chairman of the Board let his Deputy get to his feet.

The Mechanic hangs up. He closes up the garage. He picks up the dogs from his mother’s house in Wetherby. He puts the dogs in the back of the car. He takes the A1 down to Leeds.Hepulls into the carpark. Heleaves the dogs in the back.Hewalks across to the transport café–

Paul Dixon is already here. He is sitting at a table facing the door and the car park.

The Mechanic sits down opposite Dixon.

‘Nice tan that, Dave,’ says Dixon. ‘Garage must be doing well.’

The Mechanic says, ‘Look like you could do with a fortnight in the sun yourself.’

‘Not all as fortunate as you, Dave,’ says Dixon.

The Mechanic shakes his head. He says, ‘I owe it all to you, Sergeant.’

‘I’m glad you appreciate the advantages of our special relationship,’ says Dixon.

The Mechanic smiles. He says, ‘That why they call it Special Branch, is it?’

Paul Dixon laughs. He offers the Mechanic a cigarette.

The Mechanic shakes his head again. He says, ‘Never know when you might have to quit, do you?’

‘How about a nice cup of Yorkshire tea then, Dave?’ asks Dixon.

The Mechanic smiles again. He says, ‘Coffee. Black.’

Paul Dixon goes to the counter. He orders. He pays. He brings over the tray.

The Mechanic has changed seats. He is facing the door. The car park.

‘Expecting company?’ asks Dixon.

The Mechanic shakes his head, ‘Just keeping an eye on the dogs, Sergeant.’

Paul Dixon sits down with his back to the door. The car park. He passes the Mechanic his coffee.

The Mechanic puts in four spoonfuls of sugar. He stirs. He stops. He looks up —

Dixon is watching him. The dogs barking in the car —

They want to go home. Out.

Terry Winters didn’t sleep. None of them did –

It was never dark. It was always light –

The bright lights on the train back North. The TV crews outside St James’s House. The fluorescent lighting in the foyer. In the lift. In the corridors. In the office –

Always light, never dark.

Terry phoned Theresa. Click-click. Told her he didn’t know when he’d be home. Then he got out the files. Got out his address book. His calculator –

He did his sums –

All night, again and again, over and over.

First thing Wednesday morning, Terry Winters was across in the Royal Victoria Hotel with the finance officers from each of the Union’s twenty separate areas and groupings. Terry made them all stand up before the meeting could begin. He made them search the room for hidden microphones and bugs. He made them frisk each other.

Then Terry Winters drew the curtains and locked the doors. Terry made them write down their questions in pencil and seal them in envelopes. He made them pass the envelopes forward.

Terry Winters sat at the head of the table and opened the envelopes one by one. Terry read their questions. He wrote the answers in pencil on the other side of their papers. He put the answers back in the envelopes. He resealed them with Sellotape. He passed them back down the table to the individual authors of each question –

The finance officers read the answers in silence, then returned them to be burnt.

Terry Winters stood up. Terry told them how it was –

The government would come after their money; hunt them through the courts.

He told them what had to be done to cover their tracks –

Nothing on paper; no phone calls; personal visits only, day or night –

He handed out sheets of codes and dates for them to memorize and destroy.

The finance officers thanked him, then returned to their areas.

Terry Winters went straight back to St James’s House. Straight back to work.

He worked all day. They all did –

Each of them in their offices.

People coming and going. Meetings here, meetings there. Deals made, deals done.

Breaking for the Nine o’Clock News, News at Ten, Newsnight –

Notebooks out, videos and cassettes recording:

‘I want to make it clear that we are not dealing with niceties here. Weshall not be constitutionalized out of our jobs. Area by area we will decide and in my opinion it will have a domino effect.’

Cheers again. Applause –

Domino effect. Essential battles. Savage butchery.

Then it was back to work. All of them. All night –

Files, phones and calculators. Tea, coffee and aspirins –

The Communist Party and the Socialist Workers arguing in the corridors –

Tweeds and Denims at each other’s throats. Their eyes. Their ears –

Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony on loud upstairs in the office of the President –

All night, through the night, until the brakes of dawn.

Terry put his forehead against the window, the city illuminated beneath him.

Never dark —

You couldn’t sleep. You had to work –

Always light.

Head against the window, the sun coming up –

The troops were gathering on the street below him. The Red Guard in good voice:

SCAB, SCAB, SCAB –

The dawn chorus of the Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire.

Another cup of coffee. Another aspirin –

Terry Winters picked up his files. His calculator.

Terry locked the office. Terry walked down the corridor to the lift.

Terry went up to the tenth floor. To the Conference Room –

The National Executive Committee of the National Union of Mineworkers.

Terry took his seat at the right hand of the President. Terry listened –

Listened to Lancashire: ‘There is a monster. It’s now or never.’

Listened to Nottinghamshire: ‘If we’re scabs before we start, we’ll become scabs.’

Listened to Yorkshire: ‘We are on our way.’

For six hours Terry listened and so did the President.

Then the President stopped listening. The President stood up with two letters –

It was their turn to listen to him now.

The request from Yorkshire in one hand, the request from Scotland in the other –

The President talked about the secret December meetings between the Chairman and the Prime Minister. He talked about their secret plans to denationalize the coal industry. Their secret nuclear, electric dreams. Their secret hit lists –

Their open and savage schemes to butcher an industry. Their industry –

For then the President spoke of history and tradition. The history of the Miner. The tradition of the Miner. The legacies of their fathers and their fathers’ fathers –

The birthrights of their children and their children’s children –

The essential battles to come. The war that must be won.

The motion from South Wales was before them –

‘It is now the crunch time,’ said the President. ‘We are agreed we have to fight. We have an overtime ban. It is only the tactics which are in question.’

They listened and then they voted –

They voted twenty-one to three to endorse the striking areas under Rule 41.

It was the only vote. The only vote that mattered –

The vote for war.

The President put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. The President whispered in his ear –

Terry Winters nodded. Terry picked up his files. His calculator.

He went back down to his office. He closed the door.

Terry walked over to the window. He put his forehead against the glass –

He listened to the cheers from the street below. Terry Winters closed his eyes.

*

Neil Fontaine receives the call. He fetches the Mercedes from the underground car park. He drives up to the front of Claridge’s. The doorman opens the back door –

The Jew gets into the car.

Neil Fontaine looks up into the rearview mirror. The Jew strokes his moustache. The Jew smiles. The Jew says, ‘Chequers, if you would please, Neil.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Zero notice,’ laughs the Jew. ‘So don’t spare the horses.’

Neil Fontaine nods. He puts his foot down.

The Jew picks up the car phone. The Jew starts dialling and chattering –

The Jew wants the world to know where he’s going.

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew in the mirror. The Jew plays with his moustache. The Jew sits forward. The Jew looks out of the windows. The Jew prattles into the phone. The Jew never shuts up until the Mercedes is in sight of the place –

Her place.

Neil Fontaine stops before the gates –

Before the guns.

Neil Fontaine winds down his window –

The car is surrounded.

Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Stephen Sweet to see the Prime Minister.’

The officer speaks into his radio.

Neil Fontaine glances up into the mirror. The Jew isn’t stroking his moustache. The Jew isn’t smiling. The Jew isn’t on the car phone –

The Jew is sweating in his pinstripe suit.

The officer steps back from the car. The officer gestures at the gates –

The gates open.

Neil Fontaine starts the car.

‘I told you, Neil,’ laughs the Jew from the backseat. ‘I am expected.’

Neil Fontaine drives slowly up the gravel drive. He parks before the front door.

The Help is waiting. The Help opens the back door of the Mercedes for the Jew. The Help slams the door behind him.

The Prime Minister appears in blue. The Jew gushes. The Prime Minister swoons. They disappear inside, arm in arm.

‘You want a fucking picture?’ asks the Help. ‘Round the back.’

Neil Fontaine starts the car again. He parks in an empty garage. He sits in the car. He can smell exhaust fumes. He can hear peacocks screaming.

*

Terry Winters opened the front door of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. His family were asleep upstairs. The lights off downstairs. Terry quietly closed the door. He stood his briefcase in the hall. He caught his face in the dark mirror: Terry Winters, Executive Officer of the National Union of Mineworkers; Terry Winters, the highest non-elected official in the National Union. Terry applauded himself in the shadows of South Yorkshire, in the suburbs of Sheffield –

In his house with the lights off but everybody home.

Martin

make up their own minds. Chadburn and Richardson had a rough time of it yesterday. Chadburn saying Notts will have a secret ballot with a recommendation from him to strike. But we all know what that fucking means. Day 4. Cath wipes her face. Cath dries her eyes. Cath looks at television. Cath says, She hates us. Day 5. Fucking hell. She’s getting on my nerves. She doesn’t want to use Hoover so she’s on her hands and knees with a dustpan and brush in front of television. She’s singing bloody hymns so I can’t hear Weekend World. There’s no Sunday dinner either. Frozen Cornish pasties and baked beans. Same as last night. When adverts come on she makes me switch it off for two minutes. I go out into back garden. It’s pissing down. I have a cigarette. We’d talked about having a patio this summer. A conservatory. I go back inside. Pasties are on table. Cath’s crying again upstairs. Phone’s ringing. I close my eyes — We suffocate. We drown — Day 8. Panel in Silverwood has twinned us with Bentinck, just south of Mansfield. Doesn’t matter what any bleeding High Court judge says. It’s a quid a shift and there’s a coach and some cars. I put my name down for nights. I play darts with Geoff all afternoon. Pete comes in about four o’clock and tells us coach will be out front at six. Geoff says he’s off home for his tea and his duffel coat. I don’t fancy going all way back to Hardwick for another set-to with Cath, so I have a bag of chips and a walk up Pit Lane. It’s quiet. Almost dark. Getting cold and all. I sit across from brickworks and eat my chips, staring up hill at colliery. Folk must think I’m crackers. Chips are wrapped in a photo of Scottish pickets and police at Bilston Glen. I smooth it out and read it. I think about phoning Cath, but what’s use? I stick paper in my pocket and go back down hill. I have a quick pint and a piss in Hotel, then go over Welfare and get on coach for Bentinck. Day 9. Middle of night. Pissing it down. Absolutely fucking freezing. Police won’t let us light brazier. Not local. Not tonight. Last couple of nights they’ve been from Lincoln and Skegness. Even shared a flask of soup with them. Not that they’d put that on television or in papers. Even manager was decent at first — Canteen. Cups of tea. Toilets. Knew that wouldn’t last — Wasn’t for us, they’d all be working. He knows that. We know that. Make me laugh — Quick enough to tell you how they’ll vote, how you can count on them. But you know half of them are heading straight round back to get in under fences on their bellies. How they are round here. Always have been. Even their Branch. Minute you left, they’d be backed up for five mile in their brand-new Fords. There are them that don’t even bother to lie to you. Just drive straight in. Won’t even talk to you. Then there’s them that fancy themselves. They stop. Give you a mouthful. Their cars get a bit of hammer in return. Least you know where you are with them — They’re cunts. But they’re honest cunts — Wish I’d gone back on coach now. Just standing about, taking it in turns to go and sit in cars, waiting for day picket to show up. Freezing to death. Then these lads from Dinnington and Kiveton pull up. They’ve killed one of ours, they say. He’s fucking dead. I say, You what? It’s right, they say. Where? Ollerton. We’re off there now. Hold up, says Geoff. We’ll follow you there — We take A6075 through Sherwood fucking Forest. Get there about half-two. It’s ugly — five hundred police, five hundred of us and counting — CB radios got cars coming in from all over as news spreads. Everyone with a different fucking story — He was hit by car; he was hit by a truncheon; he was hit by a brick — Women and kids from houses are all out in street hollering at us. Pit manager appealing for calm. Blokes from their Branch doing same — No one’s listening like. Then word comes down that colliery is closing for night. That Arthur’s coming. There’s cheering then. Three o’clock and Arthur gets up on roof of a car. He asks for two minutes’ silence — Mark of respect. Police are first off with their helmets — Say that for them. But there’s no cheering now. You took us from the mountains. Only silence. Day 14. I get my head down about five. You took us from the sea. I wake up at one for news. Leon Brittan promising all police in world to make sure anybody who wants to

The Second Week

Monday 12 — Sunday 18 March 1984

The Jew has his orders. Neil Fontaine has his.

Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew outside The Times building at ten o’clock sharp. He is on the steps in his leather flying-jacket with his camera and his tape-recorder –

‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he tells Neil Fontaine.

They do ninety up the M1 with the Jew on the car phone. He’s in a good mood. South Wales have voted overwhelmingly to reject the Union’s call to strike; Nottinghamshire have called for a pit-head ballot; the pickets are flying –

The Jew wants to be where the action is –

Two rooms reserved at the Royal Victoria Hotel, Sheffield –

In the Heartland –

A suite for the Jew upstairs, a single for Neil downstairs; fried kidneys and champagne for the Jew in his room, a burger and Coke for Neil at the bar –

Familiar faces, Union faces, in and out all night –

Other faces.

Neil Fontaine lies on his single bed in his single room with the single light on.

He can’t sleep. He never can. He has his own orders –

Other eyes and other ears.

The telephone rings three times at three o’clock.

Neil Fontaine brings the car round. The Jew is waiting in his leather flying-jacket. The Mercedes drives out of the city centre up through Rotherham and onto the A631. They cross the A1 into Nottinghamshire.

There is snow on the roads. The hedgerows. The fields –

The police van parked at the bus stop.

The Jew can’t sit still. He looks out of the left window, he looks out of the right –

‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he tells Neil again.

They come to the Harworth Colliery on the Yorkshire— Nottinghamshire border; this the place where the Spencer Union was finally defeated in a last bloody battle –

It’s 1937 again.

Harworth’s men have voted to cross the Yorkshire picket line in military columns; there are one hundred and fifty policemen here to help them; five hundred of Doncaster’s hardest out to hinder them –

The men of Harworth turn back to their homes and their families –

First blood to Arthur’s Fliers.

The Jew is in a bad mood now. They park in a lay-by with the radio on:

‘The National Coal Board has applied to the High Court for an injunction to prevent Yorkshire miners picketing other areas.’

The Jew is in a worse mood. Livid. The Jew is on the car phone. Furious –

‘There’ll be a bloody general strike if the Chairman does this. Tell him from me, it’s absolute insanity. You will hand that red prick the entire labour movement on a plate. He saw it on TV, did he? He saw it on TV? Well, I’m bloody here in fucking Harworth and you can tell your Chairman from me, the answer isn’t the 1980 Employment Act. The answer is more fucking police. More fucking police with more fucking balls from their so-called senior officers. That’s your answer. Bloody dogs, too. More fucking dogs. And you tell him that’s what Stephen Sweet will tell the Prime Minister –

‘Because I am her eyes and her ears. Her fucking eyes and her ears out here!’

The Jew hangs up. The Jew sits back. The Jew sighs. The Jew shakes his head.

Neil Fontaine watches a minibus of miners go past –

Bare arse-cheeks pressed against the back windows.

‘The gloves are off now, Neil,’ shouts the Jew. ‘The gloves are bloody off!’

Jen looks fucking gorgeous under these lights. Her hair. Her tan. That blouse. Thatskirt. Frankie for the thousandth time.Fucking gorgeous. The Mechanic could sit here for the rest of his life. They put on Your Love Is King. She waves him over. He finishes his drink. Onto the dance floor of an empty club on a Tuesday night in March. He puts his arms around her. Holds her. The rest of his life.

*

It’s been a long Wednesday –

Harworth, Bilsthorpe, Bevercotes, Thoresby.

The police vans in convoys now, checkpoints at every junction –

The Jew takes the credit.

The Yorkshire pickets abandoning their coaches, marching through the fields –

The Jew back on the phone.

It’s been a long Wednesday and it isn’t over –

This is Ollerton.

The police had to march in the afternoon shift in columns.

Ten p.m. and the Jew is where the action is; the Jew is in the Plough –

Packed. Pickets waiting for the Nightshirt. Pissed.

The Jew is talking. Taking notes. Sending Neil to the bar to buy the drinks.

The barmaid says, ‘Must have some brass, your mate Biggles.’

‘Four pints of Mansfield’s and a gin and tonic,’ says Neil Fontaine.

‘You not having one?’

‘Given it up.’

‘Well,’ she laughs. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’

‘Keep the change,’ Neil tells her.

He’s halfway back with the drinks when the roar goes up outside –

The Nightshirt here.

Everyone heads for the door –

‘Neil!’ the Jew is shouting. ‘Come on, Neil. This is it!’

Neil Fontaine sees the Jew disappear through the door. He goes out after him –

Everyone running. Pint glasses breaking. Car doors slamming.

Neil Fontaine can’t see the Jew anywhere –

Fuck.

Neil Fontaine starts up the lane towards the pit, the pickets and the police –

Bricks and bottles, sticks and stones, flying through the air –

There’s a hand on Neil’s arm. There’s a voice in his ear: ‘Hello, hello, hello.’

Neil Fontaine turns round –

Paul Dixon is stood beside an old Allegro. He’s in his best new sweater, his jeans with a fresh crease and his polished size tens.

‘Paul?’

‘The fuck you doing here, Neil?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘I knew you were going to say that,’ laughs Paul Dixon. ‘I just knew it.’

Neil Fontaine looks up the road. Everyone by the gates now. The Jew too.

Paul Dixon opens the door of the Allegro. He says, ‘Got a minute, have you?’

Neil Fontaine looks back up the road. He shrugs. He gets into the Allegro –

The car smells bad. The car feels dirty.

They sit and watch four coppers dragging a picket down the road by his hair.

‘So what are you doing here, Neil?’ Paul Dixon asks again.

‘Like I say —’

‘Don’t ask,’ winks Paul Dixon. ‘Well, I am asking.’

‘In what capacity?’

Paul Dixon opens his wallet. He taps his warrant card. ‘In this capacity.’

‘Don’t be silly, Sergeant.’

Paul Dixon closes his wallet. He looks out of the windscreen. Embarrassed –

Six coppers are handcuffing two pickets round a lamp-post.

‘All right,’ sighs Neil Fontaine. ‘I’m driving this Captain of Industry up and down the country so he can write little pieces on industrial relations for his mate at The Times. Happy now?’

‘I’d heard you were —’

Neil Fontaine turns to stare at Paul Dixon. He asks, ‘Were what?’

‘Nothing. I must have misheard.’

‘Yeah,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘You must have misheard.’

Paul Dixon looks out of his window again. Embarrassed again –

Local lads are setting about the pickets’ cars parked up and down the street.

‘So what brings you to a pretty place like this, Paul?’ asks Neil Fontaine.

‘National Reporting Centre. Liaison officer.’

‘Nice work,’ says Neil Fontaine.

‘If you can get it.’

‘And you got it,’ smiles Neil Fontaine.

‘Thanks to the Yorkshire Stalin, aye.’

‘Old King Coal to his friends,’ laughs Neil Fontaine.

Paul Dixon looks out of the windscreen again. He says, ‘Few of them about tonight.’

‘How about our old mate?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘The Mechanic still about, is he?’

Paul Dixon shakes his head. ‘Man’s in love. Married. Two dogs. Retired.’

‘That’s a shame,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Our Dave had his talents.’

Paul Dixon points through the windscreen. ‘How about your new friend?’

Fuck –

There are six men carrying another man back down the lane towards the pub –

The Jew has an arm.

Neil Fontaine opens the car door. He gets out.

Paul Dixon leans over the passenger seat. He says, ‘Stay free.’

Neil Fontaine slams the door.

*

Terry Winters had been home twenty minutes when the phone went. Theresa picked it up. She didn’t speak. She just listened and rolled her eyes. She handed it to Terry –

Click-click.

Terry Winters drove back to St James’s House.

Terry unlocked his office. Terry got out his calculator. Terry went upstairs.

The music was loud. Terry knocked once. The music stopped. Terry waited –

‘Come.’

Terry opened the door. Terry went inside.

The Tweed Jackets were sitting around the table. The President at the window –

His back to the room.

Terry Winters coughed. Terry said, ‘You wanted to see me.’

The President didn’t turn. He said, ‘They’re not moving fast enough, Comrade.’

‘I’ve told them,’ said Terry. ‘I —’

‘They’re in the pub talking about it when they should be on the phone doing it.’

Terry Winters nodded.

The President turned now. He said, ‘Twenty-four hours from now they will have outlawed this Union and every union in the country which believes they still have the right to strike to save their jobs, the right to picket to save their jobs. Every working man and woman in this country will have to rise as one to defeat this government. This Union will be in the vanguard of that battle, as it has been in every struggle, as it has been in every victory.’

Terry nodded.

The President stared at Terry. The President turned back to the window.

One of the Tweeds emptied his pipe into the glass ashtray with three sharp taps. He looked up at Terry. He said, ‘The President is counting on you, Comrade. We all are.’

Terry Winters nodded again.

‘So get rid of the fucking money.’

Terry nodded again.

Someone switched the Shostakovich back on.

Terry Winters went back downstairs. Terry knocked on Mike Sullivan’s door. Terry told him the President wanted them to go out to the Yorkshire Area Headquarters on Huddersfield Road in Barnsley. The President needed Terry and Mike to double-check. The President didn’t trust Yorkshire any more. He never had. Not since he’d left the place. The President didn’t trust anyone any more. The President was paranoid –

They all were.

The Tweeds made Terry and Mike change cars twice. The Denims had them take the long way round. They travelled the ten miles in an hour and in three different cars. They had two empty suitcases in the boot –

Theresa had taken them down from the loft.

Terry and Mike arrived in Barnsley unannounced. Terry and Mike went upstairs. Terry and Mike took over an office. Terry and Mike searched the room for microphones. Terry drew the curtains. Terry sent Mike out on a wild paper-chase. Terry called in the finance officer for the Yorkshire Area. Terry locked the door. Terry frisked Clive Cook. Terry made Clive put the radio on while they talked. Terry taught Clive his latest code. Terry told him to use it in all future contact. Then Terry put the two empty suitcases on the table and asked Clive about the eight million quid.

*

The Jew is in shock. He spent Thursday on the phone in his double bed at the Royal Victoria. He sent Neil out to buy an electric typewriter and every single newspaper he could find.

The Jew had met the dead man. They had both helped carry an injured miner back to the pub. The dead man was a picket, the injured man a scab. The dead man had tended to the cut above the scab’s eye. The dead man had called an ambulance from the pub. Then the dead man had gone back to the front –

The Jew has spots of blood on the lamb’s-wool collar of his leather flying-jacket.

‘Her eyes and her ears, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘I am her eyes and her ears.’

Neil Fontaine drives the Jew back over to Ollerton on Friday morning. The Jew wants to see the place in daylight. The Jew wants to take notes. Take some pictures –

Upturned cars, ripped-up pavements. Uprooted hedges, boarded-up windows.

There are a lot of police vans and a lot of television crews and no pickets –

There is a forty-eight-hour truce while the Nottinghamshire men have their vote.

The Jew puts his arm around a woman in her ruined garden. He tells her how the pogroms drove his family out of Russia. He tells her how his family lost everything. He tells her how they started over again. He tells her how his father worked eighteen-hour days, seven days a week. He tells her how he himself was sent to Eton. He tells her how they bullied him –

He tells her bullies never win –

The Jew promises her that.

Neil Fontaine drives the Jew back to his hotel suite.

The Jew has some fresh orders for Neil Fontaine –

The Jew wants Neil to hire a van. Neil Fontaine hires a van.

The Jew gives Neil a shopping list. Neil Fontaine goes shopping.

The Jew gives Neil an address:

The Proteus Territorial Army Barracks, Ollerton.

Neil Fontaine makes his delivery:

500 bottles of whisky, 500 bottles of vodka, 1000 mixers and 4000 cans of lager.

The Jew should have laid on some ladies –

A thousand Met boys with nothing to do and nowhere to go on a Saturday night in the North of England; two thousand more at the Beckingham Camp in Newark; another thousand at the Prince William Barracks, Grantham –

Three hours from now they’ll be wanking in circles –

‘These men are the backbone of this nation,’ the Jew tells Neil. ‘The backbone.’

The Mechanic is screaming into the phone in a service station, southbound on the M6 –

‘Schaub? Julius fucking Schaub?’ he’s screaming. ‘You think I’d have gone anywhere fucking near this if I’d known that little cunt was going to be in on it?’

‘Relax,’ says the voice on the receiving end. ‘Relax —’

‘Relax?’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘You’re telling me to fucking relax? I got the wife in the fucking car, you fucking wanker. You think I’d have brought her along if I’d known fucking Schaub was going to be there?’

‘Someone dropped out,’ says the voice. ‘We needed —’

‘Wise fucking man.’

‘Let me finish,’ says the voice. ‘Someone dropped out. We needed a body at short notice. We called Vince. Vince called Julius. Julius was available.’

‘Schaub’s always fucking available,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Because no one wants to work with the fucking cunt.’

‘Please,’ sighs the voice. ‘We need you on this one.’

‘You should’ve fucking thought of that before you went and invited that fucking little pervert along then.’

‘We will make it up to you,’ says the voice.

‘I’m listening.’

‘An even four for your troubles.’

‘I should fucking think so,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I should fucking think so.’

‘Have you ever seen anything like this before, Neil?’ shouts the Jew from the backseat.

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He never has seen anything like this before –

An entire county completely sealed off –

All roads in and out of Mansfield and Nottinghamshire blocked with checkpoints; the motorway down to a single lane in each direction; tracker dogs in every field; helicopters and spotter planes overhead; three thousand police deployed –

Every taxi and coach firm in Yorkshire and Derbyshire told not to accept fares from miners or face immediate arrest; every taxi and coach stopped just to make sure; every private car and van –

The Dartford Tunnel closed. The borders with Scotland and Wales.

Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes in sight of the Mansfield Headquarters of the Nottinghamshire NUM; the Jew waiting in the back by the car phone for the result –

The sound of helicopters in the sky and the Attorney-General on the radio:

‘If it does involve a lot of extra police work, then so be it. It is not involving the government in the dispute.’

The car phone rings. The Jew picks it up. The Jew listens –

‘Two hundred and seventy for a return?’ he says. ‘That’s seventy-five per cent. That’s fantastic news.’

The Jew hangs up. The Jew dials South –

‘What did I tell you?’ says the Jew. ‘He’s already lost.’

Martin

work can. Threatening anybody who obstructs them with jail. I mooch about house all afternoon. Telly and crossword for company. My name’s down for nights again this week. Cath’s got more hours at shop. Never see each other. I go down into Thurcroft for about half-five. One in Hotel. One in Welfare. Folk start to meet up about seven-thirty. Now they’ve had their little vote and one of ours has died, it’s different. Up a notch. Don’t need a coach now either. Can see how it’s going to be from here on — Hardcore unless it’s a rally or something. No firm will hire us a coach anyway — None would get through either. Private cars and vans, that’s us. Fifteen to twenty per shift. Pete gives out pieces of paper with name of pit and best way there. Bloody Bentinck again. He gives us quid for shift and money for petrol. Me and three other lads are in with Geoff again tonight. Dayshift have told us police are all over shop. Krk-krk. Not messing about either. Numbers, names, and piss off back to where you come from. Told some lads to be down their local nick first thing with their driving licences. Lip and they’ll have your keys. We’ve got maps out in car. Don’t even bother with usual ways, ways Pete’s written. Fields and farms for us. Helicopters with big bloody searchlights overhead. Everyone but Geoff with their heads down — Hour later we give up on Bentinck. Like a fucking police state. Geoff calls Silverwood. Click-click. Tell us to try Harworth. But then a carload of lads from Markham pull up. Got a CB radio. Heading to Bilsthorpe — Know a good way up there. We follow them — Anything’s better than lying among crisp packets on floor of Geoff’s car. It’s gone half-nine by time we get there. Never seen so many fucking police. We park up on side of main road and join picket at entrance to pit lane. Some of scabs have already started showing up. They don’t hang about either. Leg it straight in. Can’t even see them for police half of time — Shove. Shout. Scab. Shove. Shout. Scab — There’s a song every now and again from us. Sneers and jeers from police. This goes on for a couple of hours — Shove. Shout. Scab. Shove. Shout. Scab — One point I’m right up against this copper. Won’t tell us where he’s from. Not from round here though. Tell from his accent. Things he says. They’ve had their vote, he tells me. They want to work. So why don’t you lot fuck off back to Yorkshire. About midnight, we do that. Day 17. Cath’s laid out my suit on bed. Ironed us a shirt. I watch end of breakfast telly. Have a couple of hours. You took us from the wild-fields. Get up. Put on my suit. Sit there till it’s time. Just thinking. We meet at Welfare at one. There’re about twenty cars and banners going. Everyone to be at South Kirkby cricket club for two. We have a pint then into cars. I go with Geoff again. Unbelievable scene at their cricket field: hundreds of buses and cars parked up; thousands and thousands of men in their Sunday best; banners from every lodge in Britain; other unions here and all. Hearse sets off from lad’s house. Five cars follow with family and friends. There’s a drummer up at head with Arthur, Jack Taylor and all big shots — our lads and all banners walking behind them. First banner is from lad’s own lodge, Ackton Hall. Procession goes for a mile up to All Saints’ Parish Church, village streets lined with women and kids. Three hundred of lad’s family and friends inside church. Everyone else outside in silence. Blokes with tears down their faces. Big blokes: Pete; Geoff; me. It’s hard — Two kids. No dad now — Follow them up to cemetery in Moorthorpe. Lad goes into ground for last time. We call in Robin Hood on way back. Long faces and short drinks. Lots of both. Big disputes develop a logic of their own, Pete is saying. It’ll be right. Back in Thurcroft, King Arthur’s on television in Hotel. Dead lad’s dad had told him, Under no circumstances must we give up now. We must fight to save pits and jobs because that is what their son gave his life for. We all get right fucking smashed. Nothing to eat. I walk all way home. Pass out. You took us from the whale-roads. Wake up in my suit and I can’t stop fucking crying. Day 20. Cath’s on warpath again. Every time he comes on news, she switches it off. I tell her, You’re blaming wrong bloke. Blind,

The Third Week

Monday 19 — Sunday 25 March 1984

They wake up in a four-poster bed in an olde hotel in the centre of Stratford-upon-Avon. They are hungover. It takes a minute to remember why they’re here. The Mechanic switches the radio on. 99 Luftballons. They have a shower. Eat breakfast in the room. They check out. Feel better. Theytake the A46 and the A422 into Worcester. Jendrives. Theypark outsidethe Pear Tree. They go inside. The Mechanic makes the phone call. Gets the address.

They have a drink. A bite to eat.

An hour later they stop at Diamond Detectives to pick up the key and the money. Vince Taylor isn’t about. Just his old secretary Joyce. Jen has never met Joyce before. Joyce gives them a cup of tea. Tries to get hold of Vince. She says Vince is a bit down in the dumps at the moment. Looks like she’s had enough herself The Mechanic asks her if there’s anything him and Jen can do. She shakes her head. Locks herself in the toilet for ten minutes.

Vince isn’t going to show.

They finish their tea. Make their excuses. Joyce gives them the key. The money. Theytake the A44 outto Leominster then the A49 straight up to Shrewsbury. Jencounts the money. Theyfind the house. Two-up, two-down terrace near Sutton Road. They let themselves in. The Mechanic makes another phone call.

They sit down. Stick the telly on. Wait –

Bad weather. Bad dreams all night.

The Yorkshire Area Executive had defied the High Court injunction on picketing and the pickets continued to fly. The Yorkshire Area had been found in contempt of court and the bailiffs dispatched –

The Yorkshire Industrial Action Fund already exhausted.

The President sent Terry Winters and Mike Sullivan back to Huddersfield Road again.

This time they weren’t alone –

Two thousand from the Yorkshire Coalfield had answered the President’s call; two thousand miners here to defend the battlements of King Arthur’s (former) Castle, ringing the black, stained bricks of the Yorkshire HQ –

Four thousand eyes watching and waiting for the bailiffs.

In an upstairs room Terry and Mike shredded papers.

There were scuffles outside. The men attacked photographers and camera crews. The police stepped in. Punches were thrown. Arrests made.

Clive Cook brought in more boxes. Terry and Mike shredded more papers.

There was a sudden, huge cheer from the men outside –

Terry and Mike went to the window.

Clive came back with the last box. He said, ‘The Board’s abandoned the action.’

The Tinkerbell doesn’t knock. They never do. He has his own key. Doesn’t introduce himself. Never do. Wise men. He has a good look at Jen, then takes his gear straight up to the little bedroom. The Mechanic sends Jen out to buy a pint of milk. He reads yesterday’s paper again. Jen comes back. It’s raining outside. She makes a pot. The Mechanic takes a cup up to the Tinkerbell. He’s sitting on the bed with his headphones on and his notebook out. The Mechanic taps him on the shoulder. The Tinkerbell jumps. The Mechanic hands him the mug. The Tinkerbell nods. The Mechanic goes back downstairs.

Half-twelve, Jen goes out for fish and chips. The Mechanic sits and waits for The One o’Clock News. Jen comes back with the chips. The Mechanic sticks some on a plate for the Tinkerbell and takes them up. He’s still sitting on the bed with his headphones on. He nods. The Mechanic goes back downstairsto Jen.Theyeat lunch. Jenmakes a fresh pot.TheMechanic does the dishes.

Three o’clock, the Tinkerbell comes downstairs. He hands the Mechanic a piece of paper –

The Mechanic reads it. Picks up the phone.

Hour later, Julius Schaub arrives with Leslie in a red Ford Escort. Schaub’s grown his hair out since the Mechanic saw him last. Leslie looks exactly the same. The Mechanic doesn’t introduce them to Jen. Schaub keeps it shut. He’s been warned. He’s on his best behaviour. The Mechanic gives them their instructions. He takes Jen up to the little bedroom with him. The Tinkerbell is sitting on the bed with his headphones on. Notebook out. He turns to look at them. He shakes his head. They sit down on the bed next to him to wait –

Bad weather. Bad dreams all night.

Just after half-seven the Tinkerbell nudges the Mechanic. He taps his headphones. He puts his thumb up. The Mechanic and Jen go back downstairs. Wake up Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.

They leave the house.

Schaub and Leslie take the Escort. The Mechanic and Jen take the Rover.

Both cars drive to Sutton Road. The Escort parks at one end of the street, the Rover at the other. Schaub gets out of his car. Leslie stays put behind the wheel. The Mechanic gets out the Rover. Jen stays where she is.

The Mechanic takes the bag out of the boot. He walks along the street. He comes to the house. He goes up the drive. Schaub already has the back door open. They go inside. The Mechanic opens the bag. He hands Schaub a camera–

Schaub takes the upstairs. The Mechanic the downstairs.

The Mechanic goes through the kitchen into the living room and then the study. He searches drawers and bookshelves for twenty minutes.

Schaub comes back downstairs into the study. He shakes his head.

They leave the house. They close the back door. They go down the drive.

The Mechanic walks back to the Escort with Schaub –

Schaub gets into the front. The Mechanic the back.

Leslie turns round –

The Mechanic shakes his head.

Schaub says, ‘She must have it on her.’

‘Like where?’ Leslie asks him.

He pulls out a large white pair of women’s knickers from the inside of his jacket. He holds them up. He laughs and says, ‘Hide all sorts in these sexy things.’

The Mechanic leans forward. He grabs Schaub by his hair. Pulls his head over the backof the seat –

Whispers in Schaub’s ear, ‘I thought it was kids you liked. Your own.’

‘Fuck off,’ shouts Schaub. ‘Fuck off!’

The Mechanic pushes him forward again. He leans over the seat with him –

Bangs Schaub’s forehead once onto the top of the dashboard.

‘Fuck!’ screams Schaub. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

‘Take him back to the house,’ the Mechanic tells Leslie. ‘Wait for me there.’

Leslie nods. He starts the car.

The Mechanic gets out. He walks back down the street to the Rover. Gets in.

‘What’s wrong?’ asks Jen.

‘Nothing,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Have to go out to the cottage.’

Jen starts the car. They drive out to Four Crosses and turn off up to Llanymynech. Theystopat a phonebox.TheMechanic calls the number –

Lets it ring. Ring and ring. No one answers.

They find the cottage. They park.

The Mechanic takes the bag off the backseat. He gets out –

Jen waits in the car.

The Mechanic walks up the path. He does the door. He goes inside. He searches the place. He goes back outside. He locks the lock. He walks down the path –

Jen starts the car.

The Mechanic puts the bag in the boot. He gets in. Shakes his head.

They drive back to Shrewsbury. They park outside the terrace –

The Escort isn’t here.

They go inside. No Schaub. No Leslie. The Mechanic goes upstairs –

The Tinkerbell is still sat on the bed. Headphones in his hand. He looks up –

‘What the fuck happened in there?’ he asks the Mechanic.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The phone’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t hear anything —’

The Mechanic goes straight back down the stairs.

Jen’s just put the kettle on. She says, ‘What is it?’

‘Come on,’ the Mechanic tells her. ‘Quick!’

They go back outside to the car. They drive back to Sutton Road –

No Escort here either.

They park at the end of the road –

‘Wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Jen.

‘You’re never going back in there?’ she says. ‘She could come —’

The Mechanic gets out. Closes the door. He walks along the street. Comes to the house –

The curtains are drawn. Lights on inside –

Fuck.

He goes up the drive. Round the back of the house. The door wide open –

Fuck.

He leans inside. Shouts out, ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

There’s no answer.

He steps inside the house. Dirty washing scattered all over the kitchen floor. Two handbags emptied on to the table. The telephone ripped from the wall.

He goes into the living room then the study –

No one.

He goes upstairs. One of the railings in the banister is missing.

He goes into the front bedroom –

No one.

Into the bathroom –

No one.

The back bedroom –

Fuck –

Wet towels on the floor. The bed stripped –

Blood and semen on the mattress.

The Jew hasn’t been to sleep for days. He’s too excited. Too busy –

He’s just had his tour of the thirteenth floor of New Scotland Yard –

The National Reporting Centre.

Neil Fontaine opens the back door for the Jew. The Jew gets in.

‘Downing Street, if you would please, Neil.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

The Jew tells Neil of the twenty-four-hour operations and the banks of telephones, the walls of maps and the coloured pins –

‘They keep them in biscuit tins,’ he laughs. ‘Would you believe it? Biscuit tins.’

Neil Fontaine stops for a red light. He glances at his watch then the rearview –

The Jew is wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt and a white silk tie. The Jew has another report to make; another speech to give –

‘There will be no ballot. That much is clear,’ the Jew is saying aloud in the back. ‘The strategy of the committee must be based upon this reality. The Employment Acts have to be kept in reserve. No resort to ballot, no resort to court. In the very unlikely event of a national ballot and an even unlikelier vote for a strike then, and only then, should the Employment Acts be used to protect those areas that will inevitably defy the ballot and continue to work —’

The Jew is practising his speech again. The Jew is out to turn the screw –

He talks to himself in the back of the Mercedes. He talks about Social Security. Talks about the non-payment of benefits. About late payments. He talks about the Electricity and Gas boards. Talks about demanding weekly payments. About cutting the strikers off. He talks about the banks and the building societies. Talks about mortgages –

About repossession –

The Jew wants to turn the screw. To turn it again and again –

Week by week, little by little, day by day, piece by piece –

‘To roll back the frontiers of Socialism for ever, Neil!’

Neil Fontaine stops at the checkpoint at the end of Downing Street.

The Jew puts on a pair of aviator sunglasses and his large-brimmed panama hat. He takes a deep breath. He says, ‘Wish me luck, Neil.’

‘Good luck, sir.’

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Number 10, Downing Street.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch again. He starts the Mercedes –

He has his own screws to turn. Different screws.

Midnight Wednesday into Thursday. Dark side of the moon. They pull up outside Vince’s bungalow. No lights on –

‘Wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Jen.

He gets out. He goes up the drive. Rings his bell. Bangs on his door.

‘Who is it?’ shouts Vince from inside. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s me,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want a word.’

Keys turn. Chains fall. Vince Taylor opens the door —

The Mechanic shines the torch full in his face. Vince’s hand goes up –

Vince knows.

‘Dave,’ he says. ‘Put that away.’

‘Vince,’ shouts his wife down the hall. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’

‘Nothing, love,’ he says. ‘Go back to sleep.’

The Mechanic lowers the torch.

Vince tightens the belt on his dressing-gown. He looks down the drive. He says, ‘Who you got in the car with you?’

‘Jen.’

‘Fucking hell,’ says Vince.

The Mechanic nods. He says, ‘Schaub? Leslie?’

‘Just Leslie,’ says Vince.

‘Schaub?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘So where’s Leslie?’

‘He’s afraid, Dave.’

‘We’re all afraid, Vince,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘Now where is he?’

‘Dave —’

The Mechanic shakes his head. He asks him again, ‘Where is he?’

‘They call it Little America,’ says Vince. ‘But, Dave —’

‘Where is it, Vince?’

‘Atcham on the way to Telford. It’s a disused airfield.’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘He’s hiding. What you think he’s doing there?’

The Mechanic looks at his watch. He says, ‘Put some clothes on, Vince.’

Vince shakes his head. Vince says, ‘Dave —’

The Mechanic grabs Vince Taylor by his dressing-gown. He says again, ‘Put some fucking clothes on.’

Vince goes to get dressed. Vince comes back out. Vince sits in the front seat –

And off they set.

Thirty minutes later, Vince points to the left –

The Mechanic switches off the headlights. He turns off the main road –

Drives through an industrial estate.

Vince points straight ahead.

There is a fence with a gate and an old USAF sign. A red Escort parked up.

The Mechanic pulls in beside the Escort. He switches off the engine.

The Mechanic turns to Vince in the passenger seat. He says, ‘So where’s Leslie?’

‘Fuck knows,’ says Vince.

The Mechanic grabs Vince Taylor’s fat face in his right hand. He squeezes those pasty cheeks tight together. Turns him towards the backseat –

‘You know who that is?’ the Mechanic asks Vince.

Vince nods.

‘That’s the woman I love,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘So don’t speak like that in front of her.’

Vince nods again.

The Mechanic pushes Vince’sheadback into the side-window. Lets him go.

Vince holds his face. He says, ‘I’m sorry, Dave.’

‘Right,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Then let’s go and find Leslie.’

They all get out into the dark. The cold and the rain.

‘Shall we split up?’ asks Vince.

The Mechanic switches the torch on. He shines it in Vince’s face —

Vince puts his hand up again.

‘Vince,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Splitting up is always a mistake.’

Vince shrugs and opens the gates.

They start walking towards the airstrip and an old control tower.

Vince cups his mouth in his hands. He shouts, ‘Leslie! It’s me, Vince!’

Nothing.

‘Leslie! It’s me, Vince,’ he shouts again. ‘Dave and Jen are here with me.’

‘There,’ says Jen. She points at a light flashing on and off up ahead.

They wave their torches at the signal. They walk towards it.

Leslie is standing in front of a small shed. He is shaking. He drops to his knees. Helooks up at them —

‘It was fucking Julius,’ he sobs. ‘He only went to put back them fucking knickers. I told him not to. But he thought you were going to hurt him again. Thenhe was inside and she come home. I went to help him. But—’

They stand in a semicircle. They look down on Leslie.

He looks up again —

‘He lost it.’

‘Where are they now, Leslie?’ the Mechanic asks him.

‘I don’t know. I swear. Really. I don’t. I went upstairs. I didn’t want any part of it. I went back to the car. I didn’t know what to do. Then Julius come backoutwith her. Tookher off in her car.Thatwas last I sawof him. Them.’

The Mechanic squats down next to Leslie. He takes Leslie’s face in his hands –

The Mechanic holds it up to his –

Little Leslie is crying.

The Mechanic wipes away Leslie’s tears. He looks into his eyes.

‘I swear that’s all I know,’ says Leslie.

The Mechanic lets go of Leslie’s face. He stands up.

Vince is staring at the Mechanic.

The Mechanic nods.

Vince spits into the ground.

‘What?’ says Leslie. ‘Vince? What is it?’

‘You two wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Vince and Leslie.

The Mechanic takes Jen’s hand. They walk back to the Rover.

‘Lock the doors,’ the Mechanic tells her. ‘Put the radio on.’

Jen nods. She gets in. She locks the doors. She puts the radio on. Loud.

The Mechanic goes to the back of the Rover. He opens the boot –

Takes out the spade.

*

Terry Winters walked the floors and corridors of St James’s House. His ear to the doors, he listened to the voices. The telephones ringing. The typewriters –

Terry was the boss now. The big man –

The President had left him in charge. The President was touring the coalfields. The President was making certain that the lessons had been learnt. That through solid unity and with more trade union support, pits and jobs could be saved. The Tory anti-trade union legislation resisted. That now was no longer the time to ballot. Now no longer the time when the Haves could stop the Have-nots fighting to save their homes and their communities. Their jobs and their pits –

There were standing ovations. There were songs in his name –

Autographs for the wives and kids. Big boots to fill for Terry Winters –

Terry called meetings. Asked for briefings. Terry demanded updates. Analysis.

The President would call. The President would need to know –

Not tomorrow. Today. Now.

Terry Winters sat bolt upright at his desk under the large portrait of the President. Terry waited for the phone to ring. For the President’s call –

At five o’clock, it rang.

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

‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Guess who?’

Terry swallowed. He said, ‘Diane?’

‘Who’s a clever boy then?’

‘How did you get this number?’

She paused. She said, ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that —’

Terry stood up behind his desk. He said into the phone, ‘No, wait.’

‘You gave it to me,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

Terry nodded. He said, ‘Of course.’

‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘I’ve got a present for the Chief Executive.’

‘For me?’

‘But you have to guess what it is,’ she giggled.

‘I —’

‘I’m looking at it right now. I’m touching it.’

‘I —’

‘I’ll give you another hint,’ she whispered. ‘It’s wet and it’s waiting for you.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Now that would be telling,’ she laughed.

‘Where?’ he screamed.

‘I’m sat at the bar of the Hallam Towers Hotel, holding your vodka and tonic.’

Terry Winters hung up. Terry dialled Theresa. Click-click. He told Theresa lies. Terry hung up again. He got his coat. He switched off the lights. Terry locked the door. He went down the corridor. He took the stairs –

Two at a time.

There was a Tweed at reception. The Tweed said, ‘In a hurry are we, Comrade?’

‘No,’ said Terry. ‘Just off to meet the wife.’

‘Now, why don’t I believe you, Comrade?’ smiled the Tweed.

‘What?’ said Terry. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just pulling your leg, Comrade,’ laughed the Tweed. ‘Just pulling your leg.’

Terry Winters left the building. He ran up the street to the underground car park. He drove out to Hallam Towers. He sucked mints all the way there –

Two at a time.

Terry ran through the lobby into the bar.

Diane was sitting on a high stool with her legs crossed. She pushed the vodka and tonic towards him. She put her right hand on the inside of Terry’s right thigh. She said, ‘I’m afraid the ice has melted. It went all warm and wet.’

Terry Winters took off his glasses. Terry put them in his jacket pocket. He smiled.

Diane leant forward. She whispered, ‘Fuck me before dinner. Upstairs. Now.’

Terry nodded. He said, ‘Without me, they’d be bankrupt already.’

Diane rubbed her fingers over his lips. She said, ‘You talk too much, Comrade.’

*

The Mechanic needs time to think this through. Space. He drops Jen off at her sister’s. Goes in with her just to make sure. He picks up the dogs from his mother’s. Goes back to his. Theirs. He makes a couple of calls. Makes sure he’ll be rid of the Rover first thing tomorrow. He has another shower. Another drink —

The Mechanic lies on his bed. Their bed. He switches on the news —

‘An elderly woman has been found brutally murdered in the Shropshire countryside. The seventy-nine-year-old rose grower and anti-nuclear campaigner was —’

They will want answers. Then they’ll want silence.

Martin

she shouts. You’re all bloody blind. I get up from table. I say, Do you want a lift in? Listen to you, she laughs. How long you think you’ll be able to keep car? I say, They give us petrol money — Aye, he’ll pay you when you picket for him, she says. I shake my head. Do you want a lift in or not? He going to pay your tax, your MOT? He going to pay for your tyres, your radiator? You’ll have driven it into ground before he’s finished with it. You’ll be no bloody use to him then. See how much he pays you then — Bugger her. I put on my coat. I go outside. I get car out of garage. I sit in drive for a bit. She doesn’t come out — Bloody bugger her. I set off into Thurcroft. Go down Welfare. I’m very early. I wish I’d put my name down for either days or nights now. Not fucking afternoons. Pete comes in. Asks if I fancy going into Doncaster with him. Coal House. Too right, I do. Get there just before eight. There are only a couple of coppers. Krk-krk. Hundred-odd of us — Parkas. Kagools. Boots. Trainers — Coppers on their walkie-talkies. Krk-krk. Shitting it. NCB staff turn up about quarter-past to half-past eight. Police everywhere now. There’s usual shoving. Shouting. Scuffles. Most of NCB staff take one look and go home. One — nil to us. Pete and me drive on over to Bentinck — Reality. Windows down. Roadblock fucking City. Krk-krk. Have you heard what I was telling them other lads? Pete shakes his head. No, he says. I have not — We know you are peaceful, says copper. But if you carry on you’ll be arrested because you’re liable to cause a breach of the peace. What? says Pete. So if we just drive on towards colliery, then we’ll be arrested? Aye, says copper. You will. So don’t bother. Day 22. Bred into them, John is saying on A18. They’re not Union men. Never have been. You’ve seen their houses. Their cars. Remember me dad telling our Kevin, Work down there and you’ll end up a scab — Rich like, but a scab. That was fifteen, twenty year back. They’re all, Fuck you, I’m all right Jack, says Tony. Always have been — Fucking incentive schemes, says Michael. Made it worse. Remember that fucking ballot? John laughs. They were completely outvoted. Cunts just ignored result and went their own sweet fucking way as usual. Now them same cunts want another vote, says Michael. Long as it suits them, says Tony. If it didn’t, they’d just sod us anyway, says John. Bred into them. I say, Aye-up. Company. Fucking hell, says John. Not again. I pull over. I wind down window. Krk-krk. Where you going? Fishing — Fuck off — That’s not very nice, says John. I don’t give a shit, says copper. You’re pickets and I want to know where you’re going? I say again, We’re off fishing. Get out, he says. I get out — Driver’s licence — I hand it over. Rest of you, out, he says. John, Tony and Michael get out of car. Two other coppers come up. One of them takes down registration. Other takes keys out of ignition. He goes round back, opens up boot. You got a warrant to do that, have you? asks Tony. Why? asks copper. Got something to fucking hide, have you? I think they have, sir, says one with his head in my boot. He stands up, six small logs in his arms. One with driver’s licence in his hands, he’s shaking his head. Now what have we here? he asks. They look like offensive weapons to me. I look at him and smile. He throws my driver’s licence down on road. You’ve got ten minutes to get back to Yorkshire, Mr Daly of Hardwick — Or what? asks John. Or you’re all fucking nicked. Day 25. Cath wants to go over to her sister’s. She lives just outside Lincoln. Place called Branston. It’s a straight run down A57. We get on road after breakfast. I want to try to get there and back before National starts. We pass Shireoaks and are just by first turn off into Worksop when I see all cones across road. Them parked up in a lay-by. Krk-krk. Crowbars and cameras out. Smile. They wave us over to side. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He taps on glass. I wind down window. Where you going? Lincoln. Why? See her sister. Where you live? Hardwick. Where’s that? Just back up there. Near Thurcroft, says Cath. What you do? You what? Your job? I’m a miner. Are you now? he says. Thurcroft? I nod. Working, are you? What’s that to you? He shakes his head. Turn your vehicle around, he says. What?

The Fourth Week

Monday 26 March — Sunday 1 April 1984

Theresa Winters woke Terry up. She had made him porridge. Scrambled eggs on toast. She stuck the kids in the back of the car. Half asleep. She dropped him at the station.

Terry stood on the platform. He stamped his feet. He rubbed his hands together. He had a first-class seat on the first train down.

The train was ten minutes late.

Terry found his seat. He ordered coffee. Breakfast. He checked his files:

National Coal Board vs National Union of Mineworkers: NCB High Court action against the NUM’s pension-fund investment policy.

Terry checked his notes:

Union constitutionally opposes investment of funds overseas and in industries that compete with coal.

He checked his sums:

£84.8 million annual contributions from members; £151.5 million from the NCB; £22.4million in pensions and £45.2million lump-sumpayments to be paid annually; £200 million for investment.

The President would be representing the Union. Himself. The President would be conducting their defence. Personally. The President would be waiting for Terry. Himself. The President would be counting on Terry –

Personally.

Terry put away the file. He picked up the complimentary copy of The Times:

More miners join strike as pickets increase; BSC cutbacks 50 % at Scunthorpe; Miner found hanged —

Terry felt sick. Terry looked at his watch. Terry changed carriages –

Terry sat at a table in second class as the train pulled into King’s Cross.

Terry Winters knew they would be waiting for him. Watching him.

*

‘These people need our help‚’ says the Jew again –

‘They are putting concrete blocks and metal poles across their roads. They are smashing their windscreens and slashing their tyres. They are urinating in plastic bags and throwing them at these people as they try to go to work.’

Neil Fontaine nods. He keeps his eyes on the motorway.

‘Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Lancashire, Leicestershire — these are the places where we shall win this war.’

The Mercedes leaves the M1 at Junction 21.

‘These are our people, Neil. These are their places.’

Neil Fontaine follows the police cars to the Brant Inn at Groby. He parks among the TV vans and the Transit vans. He opens the back door for the Jew.

The Jew gets out of the car. The Jew takes off his aviator sunglasses. He says, ‘What a charming little place, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine nods. He holds open the saloon door of the Brant Inn –

The room is packed with Union Moderates and police, TV crews and reporters –

Lights. Cameras. Action:

‘My name is Stephen Sweet,’ shouts the Jew. ‘I am here to help.’

*

The court had adjourned for the day. The President to his fortieth-floor flat in the Barbican with Len and the ladies. The rest of them back to their rooms at the County. They were all watching the news on the telly in Terry’s room. They were all laughing at the sight of the Union Right –

‘Some bloody secret meeting,’ roared Paul. ‘Look on Sam’s fucking face, eh?’

‘Couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, that lot,’ said Mike.

‘Talking of breweries,’ winked Dick. ‘We’re wasting valuable drinking time.’

Terry switched off the telly. Terry stubbed out their cigarettes again.

They all went down to the Crown & Anchor for old times’ sake.

Dick drank pints of half-and-half and told the stories –

Drunken stories from different times.

Industrial and labour correspondents in and out all night –

Just like in the old days. Different days.

Terry sat in the corner with his vodka and tonic and paid for their drinks. Tomorrow the President would ask him what they had done last night –

The President would smell it on them and Terry would tell him.

The Mechanic sleeps with the curtains open. The dogs in the garden. He watches the news five times a day. Buys every different paper they have. He cuts out the stories. Sticks them in a scrapbook. He phones Jen at her sister’s. Every hour. On the hour —

The Mechanic is waiting for their call —

The call comes. The voice says, ‘You owe us.’

‘Like fuck I do.’

‘Really?’ says the voice. ‘Well you’ve got four grand of our money and we’ve got a front-page murder that’s costing us a further five grand a day to clean up. Now does that sound fair to you, Dave? Does it? Really?’

‘I warned you about Schaub,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Only got yourselves to blame.’

‘Not quite,’ says the voice. ‘We can think of three or four other people.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Dave,’ says the voice. ‘If we were threatening you, you’d be tied up watching usfeedyour dogs’ cocks to your wife—’

‘Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.’

‘Finished?’ asks the voice. ‘Now listen —’

The Mechanic hangs up.

The President had not come to ask for help. He did not want help. He did not need help. The President had not come to beg. He did not want charity. He did not need charity. The President had come only to hold them to their word. To have them keep their promises. Honour their pledges. The President had come only to collect. To collect what was his –

From the steel men. The lorry drivers. The railwaymen. The seamen –

The promise and the pledge to cease all movement of coal –

By road. By rail. By sea –

To cut off the power stations. To shut down the steel works –

The whole country.

This was what he had come to collect and the President meant to collect it.

The Union took over the TGWU. They ordered tea. They ordered sandwiches. They listened to the report. The daily update:

Thirty-five out of one hundred and seventy-six pits still working; tailbacks on the M1 and A1 as pickets took revenge on the roadblocks; fresh trouble at Coal House; arrests at three-hundred-plus.

The President was in his court suit again. The President was impatient –

‘This case is going to go on for ever,’ he said.

‘But we knew this,’ said Paul.

‘For ever!’ he shouted. ‘While the Right are up there plotting and scheming.’

‘You’re taking on too much,’ said Dick.

‘Ballot. Ballot. Ballot,’ said the President. ‘That’s all I ever hear.’

‘We shouldn’t be down here,’ said Paul. ‘We should be up where the fight is.’

‘We’ve been set up,’ whispered the President. ‘Set up.’

‘Let me take care of the pension problem,’ said Terry.

The President looked up at Terry Winters. The President smiled at Terry. He said, ‘Thank you, Comrade.’

There was a knock at the door. One of the President’s ladies came in. Alice said, ‘They’re waiting for us.’

‘No,’ laughed the President as he rose to his feet. ‘We’re waiting for them –

‘Waiting for their unconditional support; for the movement of all coal in the British Isles to be blacked –

‘Then we cannot lose,’ said the President.

Everybody nodded –

Kiss me.

‘Not one single piece of coal will move in the whole country without our say so. We will picket out every pit. We will close down every power station and steelworks.’

Everybody nodded –

Kiss me in the shadows.

‘We will bring the government to its knees. We will make her beg.’

Everybody nodded –

Kiss me, Diane.

‘We cannot lose,’ said the President again. ‘We will not lose! We shall not lose!’

Everybody stood up. Everybody applauded –

Kiss me in the shadows —

Everybody followed the President. Down the corridor. Down to business –

Kiss me in the shadows of my heart —

To victory.

*

Neil Fontaine leaves the Jew in his suite at Claridge’s. He drives back to Bloomsbury. Back to his single room at the County. Neil Fontaine hasn’t been here in almost a week. He checks his mail. His messages –

Just the one.

Neil Fontaine goes up to his room on the sixth floor. The door with the extra lock. He takes off his shirt. He washes his hands and face in the sink. He puts on a clean shirt. He opens the wardrobe. There is a blazer in a polythene bag –

Just the one.

Neil Fontaine puts on the blazer. He locks the two locks. He goes down the stairs. He walks past the bar and out into the night. He takes a cab to the Special Services Club. Neil Fontaine hasn’t been here in almost a year –

‘Really?’ asks Jerry Witherspoon. ‘Has it been that long?’

‘Election night,’ nods Neil.

‘Night to remember and all that,’ smiles Jerry –

Jerry pushes away his dessert. Jerry lights a cigar. Jerry smokes in silence –

Jerry knows people upstairs. Upstairs pass jobs down to Jerry. Jerry owns Jupiter. Jupiter Securities pass the jobs down to Neil. Neil takes on the jobs –

The little jobs. The sudden jobs. The cut-out jobs —

Neil knows people downstairs. People under the stairs. Under the floorboards.

Jerry finishes his cigar. Jerry pushes away the ashtray. Jerry leans forward –

‘Bit of a night to forget in Shrewsbury by all accounts,’ says Jerry.

Neil Fontaine waits.

Jerry lifts up his napkin. Jerry pushes an envelope across the tablecloth –

Just the one.

Neil Fontaine takes the envelope. Neil Fontaine stands up –

Jerry smiles. He says, ‘Don’t let one lapse in judgement become a habit, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine takes a taxi back to Bloomsbury. He walks down towards Euston. He goes into St Pancras. He sits in the pew. He bows his head. He says a little prayer –

Just the one —

Bring her back.

*

It was April Fool’s Day and it was snowing outside. Terry Winters lay in the double bed. He could smell Sunday lunch. He could hear the kids fighting. The little tempers rising. The little fists flying. The President had been fuming too. The President had been raging. The Iron and Steel Trades Confederation had very predictably denied him. Betrayed him! The President demanded revenge. The President would be on Weekend World again today. The President would let the whole world know what he thought of those who would deny him. Those who would betray him, his members and their families. Judases. Terry turned over in the double bed. He looked at his briefcase with the broken strap. The one he never used now. The papers piled up on the dressing table. Terry got out of the bed. It was cold. He put on his slippers. His dressing-gown. He went across to the bathroom. His cock was sore when he pissed. He flushed the toilet. He washed his hands. His face. His hands again. Terry went back onto the landing. He switched on the light. He pulled down the ladder to the loft. He climbed up the ladder. He looked into the loft –

The two suitcases standing in the shadows –

Kiss me.

Insurance. April Fool’s Day, 1984.

Martin

You heard. You can’t do this, says Cath. We’re going over to my sister’s. Not today, love, you’re not. Why not? says Cath. Why can’t we? I have reason to believe that you’re liable to cause a breach of the peace. You can’t do this, says Cath again. Turn your vehicle around or you’ll be arrested. I start car. Martin, she says. He can’t do this. I say, Yes he can. Yes, he bloody can — We warmed your houses. Your kitchens and your beds—Day 30. They think they’re being clever. Well, so do we. Don’t tell Cath what I’m up to. I sit in dark with curtains open. Van pulls up about four. Builder’s sign on side. Ladders on roof. They give me a pair of overalls. Off we set. Back roads all way. Get into Mansfield with time to kill. Park up down a side-street. Sit in back. Quiet as mice, we are. Half-eight CB wakes us up. Take off our overalls. Jump out back of van. Follow Pete to Notts HQ. Come round corner, see we aren’t alone. About five hundred of us, all told. Fair few of them and all. And police. Krk-krk. Their delegates are making their way inside. We start up — Judas. Traitor. Scab. Judas. Traitor. Scab. Judas. Traitor. Scab — Five hours it goes on. Then word comes out: hundred and eighty-six to seventy-two against. Wankers. They’d let a train driver be sent home for respecting an NUM picket line. They’d let a train driver be suspended for respecting an NUM picket line. They’d let a train driver be sacked for respecting an NUM picket line — NUM picket lines they cross with not a second thought for anything but brass in their own pockets. Fucking wankers. Get back to van and they’ve done every bloody tyre, haven’t they. Stanley knife. Left us a Polaroid photograph of front of van and registration number under windscreen wipers. Smile. Pete’s name, address and telephone number on back in black pen. He just shakes his head. Calls a local garage. They send a tow truck. Half-nine by time I get home. Cath’s already in bed. Thank Christ — Wedrove your dreams. Your cities and your empires — Day 31. Nottingham again. Silverhill for a change. Just outside Sutton in Ashfield. Geoff shows his face. Take two other lads with us in his car. Tim and Gary. Stay on A61 past Chesterfield, out of Nottinghamshire. Park up on Derbyshire side. Walk to pit through farms and fields. Proud of ourselves. There’s six blokes stood at gate as we come up to Lane. We’re still on public footpath. From distance they look like they’re our lads. They’re not though — They’re fucking plainclothes. We get to end of footpath. What you up to, lads? they ask us. I say, We’re having a walk on a public footpath. Go any further and I’ll arrest you, says one. I say, For what? Behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace. I say, Look, we just want to go over and stand by gate and talk to them that’ll stop. If you step off this path, he says, I’ll arrest you. I say, All right, you come and stand with us at gate. I’ve told you once, he says, I’ll arrest you. I say, But we’ve got a right to go and stand over there and tell people our opinion. Not going to stop anyone who doesn’t want to stop. But we have rights too. I’ve told you, he says. Now fuck off. Geoff walks past them onto road. Fuck this, says Geoff. Arrest him, says copper. Another plainclothes goes up to Geoff. What’s your name and address? Geoff Brine, says Geoff Brine. From Todwick. I’m arresting you then, Mr Brine, for obstructing me in the course of my duty, says plainclothes. What? Geoff laughs. Plainclothes puts his hand on Geoff’s shoulder. You heard. Geoff shrugs off man’s hand. There’s no need for that, says Geoff. Which van you want me in? Plainclothes points down road. That one, he says. This Inspector comes over. What’s going on here? he asks. They tell him. He looks at other three of us. Take them all, he says. I say, What? Obstruction, says Inspector. Day 32. Mansfield Nick. There’s a funnel of coppers from van to station. They’re taking photos of us. Smile. I keep my head down. Get that bastard’s head up, says biggest one of them. They can’t. Pull his hair, he says. They pull my hair. I keep my head down. Grab his nose. They put their fingers up my nostrils. I move my head from side to side. Right, you bastard, says big one. He punches me in face. Top of my nose. Between my eyes. Tears come. They put my head in an arm lock. Force my head

The Fifth Week

Monday 2 — Sunday 8 April 1984

The committee breaks up. The Jew comes out of Downing Street. Neil Fontaine opens the back door of the Mercedes for him. The Jew gets in. He picks up the car phone.

Neil Fontaine drives across the Thames. The Jew is still on the phone –

‘Play it long and cool, then pay them off. No common cause. No second front.’

The Jew is talking trains. The Central Electricity Generating Board. Deals –

Deals, deals, deals —

Deals and secrets –

Secrets, secrets, secrets —

Secrets and deals.

Neil Fontaine spots the man sitting on a bench up ahead. The man is wearing a blue belted raincoat. He is reading the Financial Times.

Neil Fontaine pulls up in the shadows of Battersea Power Station. He leaves the Jew sat in the back of the car. He walks towards the bench. The man looks up from his newspaper –

Neil Fontaine remembers his lines. He asks, ‘What kind of dog have you lost?’

The man remembers his. He replies in a foreign accent, ‘A Yorkshire terrier.’

Neil Fontaine nods. The man stands up. They walk in silence over to the car.

Neil Fontaine opens the back door of the Mercedes. The man gets in.

The Jew moves over. The Jew says, ‘Join us.’

Neil Fontaine drives back across the Thames. The Jew practises a little Polish. The man in the back whispers in English. The Jew closes the partition with his driver –

Neil Fontaine switches on the radio. He can hear every word.

*

The Mechanic goes to work. He opens the garage up. Puts the radio on. Gets changed. The Mechanic drinks a cup of coffee. He works on the Allegro. Finishes it. Calls the owner. The Mechanic has another cup of coffee. He works on the Capri. Gearbox. MOT next week. The Mechanic doesn’t have the part. He goes home. Lets the dogs out. Puts a can of soup on. The Mechanic makes a sandwich. He eats lunch. Watches The One o’Clock News. Reads the paper. The Mechanic washes up. He goes into Wetherby for the part. Back at the garage for half-two. Finishes the Capri. The Mechanic starts on the Lancia. He stops at half-six. Gets changed. Locks the garage up. TheMechanic goes home —

It is a war of nerves.

Jen is asleep. The dogs in the garden. The Mechanic goes into the lounge. He puts a record on low. Sade again. The Mechanic pours a brandy. He sits on the sofa in the dark. The curtains open. Just the lights on the stereo. The Mechanic watches them rise and fall through the brandy in the glass. He has gottengrand in the bank.Thishouse paid off. Thegarage ticking over —

The Mechanic thinks about things. Thinks about the things he has done —

The supermarkets. The post offices. The Mechanic opens his eyes. He looks up —

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ says Jen —

She is stood in the doorway in one of his T-shirts. She is beautiful.

‘They’re not worth it,’ the Mechanic tells her –

It is a war of nerves and there will be casualties.

The Jew is beaming. He says, ‘You know, Neil, I practically wrote that speech for her.’

Neil Fontaine keeps his eyes on the A616.

The Jew is repeating himself. He says, ‘I believe the police are upholding the law; they are not upholding the government.’

The Mercedes comes to a roadblock outside Creswell. Neil Fontaine pulls over. He winds down the driver’s window –

‘Good morning, sir,’ says the young policeman. He is not local. He is nervous. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you the nature of your business in Creswell today.’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘The man in the back is Mr Stephen Sweet. Mr Sweet is here to meet the Assistant Chief Constable.’

‘Sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir,’ says the policeman.

‘Don’t be sorry, either,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘You’re just following orders, son.’

Neil Fontaine winds up the window. Neil Fontaine drives into the village –

What’s left of the village –

There are over sixty Transits parked along the main street. Police everywhere. Their dogs barking and snarling at the Mercedes. No civilians on the streets –

Just debris. Rubble. Glass under the tyres of the car –

The village camouflaged in smoke.

Neil Fontaine parks beside a white saloon car outside the church hall. He gets out of the Mercedes. He walks through the police into the hall –

The hand-drawn posters for jumble sales and keep fit, judo and the Boy Scouts.

Another policeman a long way from home stops Neil Fontaine at the door.

Neil Fontaine says, ‘I have an appointment with the Assistant Chief Constable.’

‘Neil!’ shouts the Assistant Chief Constable across the hall. ‘Neil Fontaine!’

John Waterhouse, Assistant Chief Constable of North Derbyshire, greets Neil. The two men shake hands among the folding chairs.

John Waterhouse says, ‘I didn’t realize you were working for these people now.’

Neil Fontaine shrugs. He says, ‘Just short term.’

John Waterhouse says, ‘Could be long term, the way things are going.’

‘Let’s just hope it’s not permanent,’ smiles Neil Fontaine.

John Waterhouse nods. He says, ‘So where is your man? This Stephen Sweet.’

Neil Fontaine points at the door. He says, ‘He’s in his car.’

‘What on earth is he doing sat out there? Bring him in, for heaven’s sake, man,’ laughs John Waterhouse. ‘Don’t leave him out there like a lemon.’

‘Mr Sweet wishes to talk with you in his car,’ says Neil Fontaine.

‘What?’ says John Waterhouse. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine smiles at the Assistant Chief Constable. He gestures at the doors. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Sweet insists.’

John Waterhouse, Assistant Chief Constable of North Derbyshire, rolls his eyes. He follows Neil Fontaine outside. Neil Fontaine opens the back door of the Mercedes –

The Jew says, ‘Assistant Chief Constable, do join us.’

John Waterhouse gets into the back of the car.

Neil Fontaine closes the door. He sits in the front. He switches on the radio:

‘— must tell you, she is very, very, very disappointed in you,’ the Jew is saying. ‘The Prime Minister wishes — insists even — insists there be no repetition of such scenes. No repetition whatsoever. And she has asked me to make that very plain to you.’

‘I’m afraid the situation on the ground —’

‘The situation on the ground is completely unacceptable,’ interrupts the Jew –

The Jew leans forward. He taps on the partition. Neil Fontaine lowers the radio –

‘Drive slowly through the village to the pit, if you would please, Neil.’

‘Certainly, sir‚’ says Neil Fontaine. He starts the car. He turns the radio back up:

‘Just look at the place,’ the Jew is saying. ‘Windows smashed, cars wrecked, homes daubed in paint, telephone poles brought down, barricades erected, fires started —’

‘Mr Sweet, there were one thousand pickets and —’

‘Please, we know very well how many bloody pickets there were,’ says the Jew. ‘We also know how many arrests there were. Or were not.’

‘I can assure you —’

‘Mr Waterhouse, nineteen arrests and the cancellation of the night-shift fail to assure either the Prime Minister or myself of anything. There were sixty arrests in Babbington last night and not a fraction of the damage I see here.’

John Waterhouse takes off his cap. He runs his hand through his hair.

The Jew puts his arm round the Assistant Chief Constable. The Jew tells him, ‘Never again must this happen, John.’

John Waterhouse dries his eyes. He blows his nose.

‘Never again,’ says the Jew. ‘Never again.’

The Assistant Chief Constable nods.

*

They’d taken apart Terry Winter’s office. Everything in it. Everything –

The carpet off the floor. The cabinets. The bookcase. The desk. The telephones. The chairs. The blinds. The lights –

Everything but the portrait off the wall –

It had been Terry’s idea.

These were paranoid times at the Headquarters of the National Union of Mine workers. Even more than usual. The press and television coverage was almost all hostile and negative. Even more than usual. Every question returned to the issue of a national ballot and democracy –

Democracy. Democracy. Democracy –

Even more than usual.

Terry took three aspirin. Terry picked up his files. His calculator.

He walked down the corridor. He didn’t take the lift. He took the stairs up.

Len Glover frisked him at the door. Len told him to leave his jacket outside.

Terry took off his jacket. Terry went inside –

Just the plastic chairs and the plastic tables remained. Melting –

The heating on full. The lights all on.

Terry drew the curtains.

The President looked up. He whispered, ‘Thank you, Comrade.’

Terry nodded. He took his seat at the right hand of the President. He listened –

No ballot. No ballot. No ballot —

Listened to the schemes and the plots. The counter-schemes and the counter-plots:

‘Without Durham,’ said Gareth, ‘the Moderates haven’t got the numbers.’

‘You rule it out of order,’ said Paul. ‘We’d get twelve-nine our way. Possibly thirteen-eight.’

‘The simple-majority proposal is going to derail them anyway,’ laughed Dick. ‘They’ll agree to hold a Special Delegate Conference just to buy themselves more time.’

‘Then come the SDC,’ said Paul. ‘Then we’ll have them.’

‘I’ll talk to Durham,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll make sure they deliver for us.’

Everybody looked up the table. Everybody looked at the President –

‘Then it’s decided,’ said the President.

Everybody smiled. Everybody clapped. Everybody patted each other on the back.

‘There’s just one more thing,’ said the President –

Everybody stopped clapping. Everybody stopped smiling.

The President stood up. The President stared around the room. The President said, ‘They are opening our post. They are tapping our phones. They are watching our homes.’

Everybody nodded.

‘This we knew. This we had come to expect from a democratic government.’

Everybody nodded again. Everybody waited.

‘What we didn’t know and we didn’t expect is that we also have a mole.’

Everybody waited. Everybody shook their heads.

The President looked around the table. The President said, ‘A mole, Comrades.’

Everybody shook their heads again. Everybody looked down at the table.

The President nodded to Bill Reed. Bill Reed stood up. Bill edited the Miner –

Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters as he said, ‘Contact of mine, very well placed. Told me they’re boasting they’ve got someone on the inside. Here and in Barnsley.’

Everybody else stared at the table. Their hands. Their fingernails. The dirt there –

Terry Winters stared back at Bill Reed –

Bill Reed said again, ‘They’ve got someone, Comrades.’

Bill Reed sat down.

The President said, ‘I need strategies. I need ideas.’

Terry coughed. He said, ‘It could be disinformation. Create mistrust. Paranoia.’

The Tweed next to Dick said, ‘And so could that remark, Comrade.’

Mike Sullivan raised his hand. He said, ‘Do we have any actual proof?’

The President stared at Mike. The President said, ‘We have proof, Comrade.’

Everybody looked up. Everybody waited.

‘The proof is on the face of every policeman on every picket line,’ he shouted. ‘The smile that says, We knew you were coming –

‘We knew you were coming before you even did!’

*

The battle for a ballot is as relentless as the Union’s refusal to hold one. It is the one battle in this war that the Jew is prepared to lose. The Jew knows where the war will be won. Where the real battles lie. The real struggle –

For hearts and minds. Bodies and souls —

The Jew waves the Sun around his Sheffield suite. The banner headline –

UNION’S REAL AIM IS WAR!

The Jew opens another bottle of champagne. The Jew types another article –

Another Sweet Piece.

Neil Fontaine leaves the Jew to his hangover and his hallucinations –

Neil Fontaine has his own struggles. His own battles. His own war –

Neil Fontaine drives out of Sheffield. He turns off at the first motorway services. He watches the café. He waits. He stubs out his cigarette. He gets out of the Mercedes. He walks across the car park. He goes up the stairs into the restaurant.

The bastard sits down opposite the Mechanic. The bastard says, ‘Nice tan, David.’

‘Where is she? Where’s my wife?’

Bastard puts a packet of cigarettes on the table. Bastard says, ‘Safe enough.’

‘Where?’

Bastard lights a cigarette. Inhales. Exhales. Bastard shakes his head.

‘Fucking bastards. Fucking cunts.’

Bastard nods. Bastard says, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘What do they want?’

Bastard holds up three fingers. Bastard says, ‘The diary. Julius Schaub. Silence.’

‘I don’t have the bloody diary and I don’t want to know where fucking Schaub is. But I never talk. You know that. Never.’

Bastard stubs out the cigarette. Bastard says, ‘I’ll tell them what you said.’

The Mechanic puts an envelope on the table. ‘Give them that when you do.’

‘What is it?’

The Mechanic taps the envelope. ‘The four grand they paid me.’

‘It’s not about the money, David. Ever. You know that.’

The Mechanic pushes the envelope towards the bastard. The cunt —

‘I want my wifeback,’says the Mechanic. ‘I love her, Neil.I love her.’

The nightmares have returned. Neil Fontaine dreams of the skull. The skull and a candle. He wakes in his room at the County. The light is still on. He sits on the edge of the bed. The notebook in his hand. He picks apart the night. Puts the pieces back together his way. He stops writing. The notebook to one side. He stands up. He opens the dawn curtains.

Jennifer Johnson turns over in the bed. She says his name in her sleep –

There are moments like this.

Neil Fontaine stands at the window. The real light and the electric –

There are always moments like this.

Martin

up. Smile. They take their photo — Next! They take my wallet, my watch, my wedding ring, my belt and my shoelaces. They put me in a cell. They leave me here for about three hour, maybe four. I sit on floor with my knees up. My arms on my knees. My head on my arms. They come and take us to an interview room. There are two of them. Both plainclothes — One old. One young — They don’t speak. Old one goes off somewhere. Leaves me with young one. He doesn’t speak. Then old one comes back. He sits down. How did you get to Silverhill? he asks me. We drove. Whose car? Geoff Brine’s. Where is it? We parked it in Tibshelf. Other side of M1. How did you get there? Down A61. He nods. What’s your Cath think of all this, then? he asks me. You what? Your wife? he says. Your Cath? She support you, does she? What’s that got to do with anything? Well here you are nicked, while she’s working two jobs to put food in your face and beer in your belly — just so you can go out breaking the law. I ask, How do you know this? Who you been talking to? He smiles. Suppose, not having kids, he says, you don’t have same commitments rest of us have, do you? I don’t answer him. Young one leans forward. Why is that? he asks. I look at him. I say, Why is what? Is it you or is it your wife? he asks. What? That can’t do the business? I look at him. I shake my head. He smiles. He winks. Suppose you must have a fair bit of spare cash? says old one again. Not having any kids. I say, You after a loan, are you? He laughs. He shakes his head. Not me, he says. But your mate Geoff might be. Debts he has. Hire purchase. Mortgage. Two kids. Won’t be long before he’s cap in hand at your door. Unless he does go back to work, says young one. Old one nods. He will, he says. That’s why he wants a ballot. How about you? asks young one. You want a ballot? Course he does, says old one. He loves democracy, does our Martin. He voted Tory last year. Well fancy that, smiles young one. Here we are, three good Tories having a nice little chat in a police station. I say, I didn’t vote at all. Old one laughs in my face. Liar, he says. No, I’m not. Yes, you are. No, I’m not. You are, he says. You must be. Because I’ve been told not to charge you. Been told to release you. I say, You’re lying now. He shakes his head. You’re lying, I say. I know you are. Stay here if you like, he says. I don’t care. I stand up slowly. He nods. Pete Cox is waiting outside for you, he says. Take you home. I go to door. They smile. They wave. Whatever it is you’re do-ing, says young one. Keep up the good work. Pete drives me home. Drops us off. I don’t invite him in. Thought there might be fireworks. I open door. House is quiet. I go into kitchen. Cath isn’t here. Day 36. There’s no talking to her. She either shouts and carries on or lies on bed and cries. Picket line’s a bloody relief and that’s saying something this week. Babbington was a mass picket. Two or three thousand. Massive shove. Krk-krk. Load of arrests. Smile. Cameras out again. Pete told us to keep at back after what had happened at weekend. Today it’s Agecroft over in Lancashire. Tomorrow it’ll be Sheffield for big meeting. No sign of Geoff. Pete says he got bail but has to keep out of Nottingham. His wife hit roof and all. Poor bastard. There are about six hundred by time we get over to Agecroft. Doesn’t look to be that many police but they’re pulling anyone who swears or shouts Scab — Use of threatening words and behaviour. About half-eleven they start turning up for afternoon shift. Inspector lets six lads stand at gate and talk to them that’ll stop. Not one fucking stops. Same as Nottingham. That pisses everyone off. Lot of pushing then. Plan is to make a human wall across road. Have a bit of luck at first but then coppers get their act together and that’s that then. Few punches. Few arrests. Scabs go in. Lads have a go at an ITN camera crew on way back to cars. Be different after tomorrow. Day 37. Sirens and chants all day — Arthur Scargill, Arthur Scargill, we’ll support you ever more. We’ll — support — you — ever — more. It’s supposed to be just four men from each colliery in Yorkshire coalfield. Fat chance. Not today — No ballot. No sell-out — Time to see who’s who. Four thousand lads ringing St James’s tower block — Arthur’s Red

The Sixth Week

Monday 9 — Sunday 15 April 1984

Bastards. Dark side of a bloody and a fucked-up moon. The Mechanic drives through the night. North to South. Fucking bastards. The dogs in the back. He comes into Worcester with the dawn. He parks outside the bungalow. He goes up the drive. Hebangs on the door —

Keeps his finger on the bell.

‘Who is it? What do you want?’ someone shouts from inside.

‘I want to speak to Vince.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Where is he?’

There are whispers behind the door. Someone says again, ‘Who is it?’

‘His mate, David Johnson. I need to speak to him. It’s important.’

The door opens. His wife and teenage son stare out. They shake their heads.

The Mechanic asks them again, ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s gone,’ says his wife. ‘Left us.’

‘Where?’

She shakes her head. She says, ‘Ask Joyce bloody Collins.’

The Mechanic nods. He says, ‘Thank you.’

She slams the door.

The Mechanic goes back down their drive. He gets into the car. He drives over to Diamond Detectives. He parks among the minicabs. He sticks the radio on. Hewaits —

Hands holding the steering wheel —

Tight.

Half-past eight, Joyce pulls up in her Fiat. She gets out. She opens the office up. She goes inside. She puts the lights on.

The Mechanic turns the radio off. He gets out of the car. He walks past the cabs.Hegoes into their office —

Joyce is filling an electric kettle at the sink in the back.

The Mechanic doesn’t knock. He says, ‘Where is he?’

She turns round. She drops the kettle in the sink. She starts to cry.

‘Where is he, love?’

‘I don’t know,’ she cries. ‘He’s gone.’

The Mechanic puts an arm round her. He sits her down behind one of the desks. He asks, ‘When?’

She has her elbows on the desk. Her head in her hands. She says, ‘Last week.’

‘What happened, love?’

She pulls her hands down her face. She says, ‘Men came.’

‘And?’

She swallows. She says, ‘They turned the place upside down. They hit him.’

‘They took him away?’

She says, ‘No.’

‘He ran?’

She nods. She looks at him. She says, ‘This is about Shrewsbury, isn’t it?’

The Mechanic puts a finger to his lips. He walks over to the telephone sockets and disconnects them. He goes over to the filing cabinets and goes through their files. He finds the three files that he wants. He goes over to the desks and goes through the drawers. He finds two sets of keys, a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. He walks over to the window. He looks up and down the street. Hepoints at the door —

She nods. She dries her eyes. She goes outside.

The Mechanic stands behind Vince Taylor’s desk. He lights a cigarette. He drops it in the bin. He watches it burn. He picks up Joyce’s handbag. He goes outside. He gives Joyce her bag.

She asks, ‘Where are we going?’

The Mechanic puts his finger to his lips again. She nods again.

They walk down past the cabs. They get into his car –

The dogs are barking.

The Mechanic locks all the doors. He checks both mirrors. He looks at his watch. He starts the car.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Joyce again.

‘Find Vince.’

There were times when Terry Winters thought he had bitten off more than he could chew. More than they would swallow. More than he could stomach. Two coke hauliers had begun legal action against the South Wales Area’s secondary picketing of the Port Talbot steel-works. South Wales had sought legal advice from Terry. Click-click. Terry said he’d have to call them back. Terry took an aspirin. And another and another. The Board’s action against the Union’s management of the Pension Fund was concluding. The President was counting on victory from Terry. Terry hadn’t the balls to tell him. Terry took another aspirin. Terry threw the empty container into the bin beside his desk. He missed. He put his head in his hands. There were still forty-eight hours before the Executive met. Terry didn’t think he could stand much more of this. The tensions. The suspicions. The machinations. The talk of ballots. The rumours of moles. The whispers of coups. The silence and the fear. Nobody spoke in the corridors. In the lift. On the stairs. Everybody locked themselves in their offices. People were summoned by one word on the telephone. No reason given. People went upstairs to stand before the President’s desk. No small talk. People were given their instructions. Nothing on paper. People went back to their offices. No questions asked. They locked their doors. They sat at their desks –

Guilty monks, thought Terry. The lot of them.

Terry looked at his watch. The abbot would be waiting.

Terry went upstairs –

No Len on the door. Len was inside. Terry hung up his jacket. He knocked once. He went inside. The Conference Room was still stripped. The curtains drawn again. Terry mumbled his apologies. He took his seat at the right hand. He stared at his fellow friars –

Most didn’t know if it was light or dark outside. They’d been up here so long.

Paul stopped speaking. Paul sat down.

The President stood back up. The President said, ‘Comrades, as you are all aware, over the course of the next week this office will take over the control and the deployment of all picketing for the entire British Isles. It will also take full responsibility for ensuring the blockade on the movement of all coal or alternative fuel within the British Isles. All local requests for the support of our brothers and sisters within the trades union movement must also be made to this office. To provide the support the areas and branches require, the office will be staffed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Yorkshire Area is preparing a list of volunteers to help us meet the necessary staffing demands. The question of internal security and the degree to which our communications have been compromised remain a problem. To that end, the Chief Executive has some practical, short-term measures that can be implemented with immediate benefits in our fight to preserve jobs and pits. Comrade —’

The President sat down again.

Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘Thank you, President. I have drawn up a code that will allow the areas and branches to contact us here at the Strike HQ using our existing telephone lines and numbers. I intend to reveal the code to you here and now, though I would ask you to write nothing down but rather to commit the details and instructions of what I am about to say to memory. On returning to your areas you are to brief the panels verbally and in turn instruct the panels to brief their local branches in the same manner. I repeat, nothing is to be written down. I shall now reveal to you the code –

‘Pickets will henceforth be referred to as apples. I repeat, apples –

‘Police are to be referred to as potatoes. Repeat, potatoes –

‘Henceforth, branches will be requested to supply X number of apples based upon Y number of potatoes at a given site. Likewise branches can request extra apples from HQ in response to superior numbers of potatoes. Our brothers and sisters in the NUR are henceforth to be known as mechanics –

‘I repeat, mechanics –

‘Members of the NUS are henceforth plumbers. Repeat …’

They turn off the main road. They drive through the industrial estate. They come to the fence. Thegate.Theold USAFsign –

There is a resprayed Escort parked up.

‘What would he be doing here?’ asks Joyce.

The Mechanic opens his door. He lets the dogs out. He says, ‘Waiting for me.’

They get out into the cold. The rain.

‘Where is he?’ she asks.

The Mechanic pushes open the gate. He says, ‘This way.’

They walk across the rough ground towards the airstrip. The old control tower.

Joyce cups her mouth in her hands. She shouts, ‘Vince! It’s me, Joyce!’

They keep walking.

‘Vince,’ she shouts again. ‘We just want to talk. That’s all. Come on —’

The dogs are barking. The Mechanic and Joyce stop walking —

Vince Taylor is coming down the steps of the control tower. He is pointing a double-barrelled shotgun at them —

‘Vince,’ the Mechanic says. ‘There’s no need for that.’

Vince walks towards them. He says, ‘Shut up. On your knees. Both of you.’

They kneel down on the ground —

It is wet. It is cold.

Vince points the shotgun at their chests. He says, ‘Hands on your heads.’

They place their hands on their heads –

It is raining and the dogs are barking.

Vince puts the barrel of the shotgun under his chin. He pulls the trigger.

There are roadblocks on the routes in and out of Sheffield. There are checkpoints on the streets of Sheffield city centre. There are private security guards here on the hotel doors. There are big miners down to protect and serve their big leaders in the dining room of the Royal Victoria Hotel. They put their hands on the Jew’s chest and ask him his business. The Jew laughs and tells them his business is business. He is here because he means to do business –

The Jew is wearing his leather flying-jacket.

Neil Fontaine asks them to take their hands off the Jew and to step to one side. The big miners take their hands off the Jew and step to one side. The Jew thanks them. The Jew goes from breakfast table to breakfast table introducing himself to the big leaders from Durham, Northumberland and Cumberland, from the Midlands, Lancashire and Derbyshire. He urges these moderate men, these weak and cowardly men, to become extreme men, to be strong and brave men today –

Thursday 12 April 1984 —

Today of all days.

The big leaders from the Midlands, Lancashire and Derbyshire smoke cigarette after cigarette, the big leaders from Durham, Northumberland and Cumberland drink cup after cup of tea. Then these moderate men, these weak and cowardly men, make their excuses and leave the Jew to sit alone among the breakfast tables with their full ashtrays and their empty cups –

The Jew is wearing his leather flying-jacket. The Jew means war now.

The Jew retreats upstairs to the temporary war room of his Sheffield suite –

He paces the carpet. He strikes the poses. He barks the orders –

The windows to open. The sun to shine in. The curtains to billow.

Neil Fontaine opens the windows to the sun, the wind and the world outside:

Three thousand striking miners ringing their National Headquarters. Two thousand policemen watching fruit and cans rain down on theNottinghamshireleaders.

Neil Fontaine calls room service. The Jew wants wine with his lunch –

Their President ruling the Right’s demand for a national ballot out of order.

Neil Fontaine calls room service again. The Jew wants another bottle of wine –

Their National Executive proposing to reduce the 55 per cent majority required for strike action to a simple majority and to convene a Special Delegate Conference.

The Jew drinks bottle after bottle. The Jew lies on the double bed –

Their President leaning out of an upstairs window with a megaphone to tell the mob below, ‘We can win provided we show the resolution we did in 1972 and 1974.’

The curtains fall. The sun goes in. The hotel windows are closed –

‘Easy. Easy. Easy,’ chant the mob on the dark streets of Sheffield.

The Jew puts pillows over his head. The Jew shakes. The Jew sobs.

Neil Fontaine picks up another empty bottle. He rights another upturned table.

The Jew gets up. The Jew wobbles about amid the wreckage of his hotel suite. He is panting. He is drunk. He is morbid –

‘These are the dreadful hours, Neil. The dreadful hours of his shameful war –

‘He has his army, Neil. His Red Guard. The Shock Troops of Socialism –

‘But where are our soldiers, Neil? The soldiers who will fight this war with us, who will win this war for her –

‘Oh, she has placed so much faith in me, Neil. So very, very much –

‘And I have failed her, Neil. Failed her so very, very miserably –

‘She expects so much, Neil. So very, very much –

‘And I must deliver, Neil. Deliver her victory –

‘Victory, Neil. Victory –

‘I promised her victory, Neil. Promised her nothing less …’

The Jew falls back onto his bed. He is sobbing. He is drunk. He is moribund.

Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew’s bedding from the carpet. He draws the curtains. He puts a blanket over the Jew. He tucks him in –

‘Easy. Easy. Easy —’

He wishes him sweet dreams. He kisses him goodnight.

She’s still screaming. She’s still shaking. She’s still trying to wipe his blood from her clothes. From her hair. Her face. The dogs going mental in the back–

They’re on the A49 outside Ludlow. A Little Chef up ahead –

The Mechanic turns into the car park. He switches off the engine. He grabs her –

Joyce stares at him.

The Mechanic holds her by her shoulders. He says, ‘You got family?’

She chews her lips in her teeth.

The Mechanic squeezes her hard. He says, ‘Have you got any family, Joyce?’

She stares.

The Mechanic says, ‘Who?’

‘My son,’ she says.

‘How old is he?’

‘He’s nine.’

The Mechanic asks, ‘Where is he now?’

‘School.’

‘Where’s school?’

‘Worcester,’ she says.

The Mechanic looks at the dashboard clock. He says, ‘What time’s school finish?’

‘Quarter to four,’ she says.

‘Who picks him up?’

‘Me or his dad.’

‘His dad?’ the Mechanic asks. ‘Where’s his dad?’

‘It’s Vince,’ she says. ‘Vince is his dad.’

The Mechanic sits back. He watches a young couple come out of the Little Chef —

He watches them run from the rain, run for the cover of their car.

Joyce squeezes herself between her legs. She says, ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Go pick your car up,’ the Mechanic says. ‘The police will be waiting for you.’

‘They’ll have found him already?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘But I set fire to the office when we left.’

She starts to cry. She starts to shake again.

‘Just think of your boy,’ he tells her. ‘Think of him and you’ll get through this.’

She wipes her eyes with her hand. She nods. She says, ‘What shall I say?’

‘You haven’t seen Vince since last week. He’s been depressed about his marriage. You went into the office this morning. Vince wasn’t there. You tried to find him. There was nosign. You came backto the office. Fire.’

She starts to cry again. She says, ‘I’m covered in blood. They’ll never believe me. They’ll think I setfireto the office. Think I killed him.’

‘There’s no blood on you, love,’ the Mechanic says. ‘No blood on you.’

One day they won. The next day they lost –

The Judge said the President had not been acting in the best interests of the three hundred and fifty thousand beneficiaries of the Pension Fund. The Judge ruled the President was in breach of his legal duty. The Judge ordered the President to lift the embargo on overseas investments. The Judge threatened to dismiss the President from the management committee of the fund, if he did not comply with his orders.

Terry Winters hailed a cab outside the High Court. Five of them squeezed inside. The President on the backseat in the middle. Flaming. Furious. Terry looked at his watch. They weren’t going to make the four o’clock train. The President wiped his face with his handkerchief. He hated London. The South. Terry turned to look over the driver’s shoulder up the road. Nothing was moving. The President gently touched his hair. He said, ‘That’s British justice.’

Everybody nodded.

Terry Winters looked at his watch again. Terry Winters had to think of an excuse. The President straightened his tie. His collar was wet. Terry wound down the window. The radio in the car next to them was playing pop music loudly. The President reached across Terry and wound the window back up. He sat back in his seat, touched that hair. He said, ‘I’m disappointed, but not surprised.’

Everybody nodded.

Terry Winters put his briefcase on his knee. He opened it and searched through it. The President was watching him. Terry looked at his watch. He searched through his briefcase again. The President leant forward. He said, ‘What is it, Comrade?’

Everybody nodded.

Terry Winters looked at his watch again. Terry checked his case again. Terry said, ‘I think I must have left one of the files at the court. You’ll have to let me out.’

Everybody nodded.

Terry stopped the taxi. He got out. He gave Joan the fare and the tickets. He said, ‘Don’t worry about me. Don’t wait for me.’

Everybody nodded –

Everybody except Paul. Paul shook his head. Paul watched him go –

Disappear again.

*

He buys some dog food. A can opener. Bread. Water. He pulls over in a layby. He feeds the dogs. Lets them run in the field. He sits in the car with the door open. He eats the bread. Drinks the water. He takes out the three files. He reads them. Then burns them by the side of the road. He whistles. The dogs come. They jump into the back of the car. He puts the can opener in the glove compartment. Hecloses the door. Turns the key –

The Mechanic knows where Julius Schaub will be.

Martin

Guard. Provisional wing of Labour & Trade Union Movement — That’s us. Brought in three thousand police from across country. Krk-krk. Stuck them in army camps. Can’t stop us, though. Not today — No ballot. No sell-out — Time to see who’s bloody who. Banners. Placards. Jackets. Badges — Victory to Miners. Pete and me hop on top of a pair of giant bins so we can see them arrive. Tell when it’s Ottey or one of them lot. Cans and fruit start flying. They grab Ray by his collar. They shake their fists in his face. Henry pulls him away — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scabs — Chants and sirens. Helicopters. Then word comes down from top — Ballot proposal from Leicestershire is out of order. Special Delegate Conference next Thursday — King Arthur comes out onto steps. Salutes all lads. Lads go mental. They pass him a megaphone. Can’t hear a word he says — Easy. Easy. Easy. Easy — Chants. No more sirens. Not today — No ballot. No sell-out — Arthur’s Red Guard. That’s me. I’ll support you ever more. Day 41. This is first time we’ve sat down, shared a meal in a week. You know that? I say, I’m sorry, love. I wish it wasn’t like this. It’s just, you know — No, I don’t know, Cath says. I put my knife and fork down, not hungry. I do know you’re living in cloud-cuckoo-land, she says. I do know that. Cath, please — Cuckoo-land, the lot of you. Bloody lot of you. Look — You think she’s going to give up, do you? They’ve been planning this for years, you’ve said so yourself. For years, Martin. I say, We can win. Like Arthur says, if we show same resolution, we — Listen to yourself, Martin. Arthur? You’ve never met the bloody bloke. You’re like some daft teenage lass with a crush on some bloody pop star or someone. I leave my plate. I stand up. I walk over to sofa. I put on television — Torvill and fucking Dean again. Cath comes in front of sofa. She switches off television. She says, I’m warning you. I’ll not stick around and watch you throw everything away again. Once was enough, thank you very much. I get up. I go into kitchen. I open back door. I go out into back garden. I stand in rain where conservatory was going to be. I have a cigarette. We fuelled your fears with ourraven-wings — I open my eyes. I can hear phone ringing. I go back inside. I pick it up. Click-click. It’s Pete. Front door slams. Day 44. Sheffield — all day. Fucking worth it, this, though. Result we get. Feels like we’re bloody getting somewhere now. Feels like victory — Simple majority. No ballot — Sixty-nine to fifty-one. Notts told they’re officially out — officially scabs if they’re not. King Arthur taking charge of things himself. By scruff of neck. Fight to finish. To victory. Just like before. Time to celebrate. Not going to let her rain all over it either. We stop in Sheffield drinking. Miss coach back. Massive fight in pub next to station. Scab bastards. Chairs flying. Glasses. Police wading in. Krk-krk. Hide under pool table like in a fucking film or something. Taxi back to Thurcroft with Pete and Big Tom. Keep drinking — all on Pete’s tab. Welfare. Hotel. Club. Hotel. Welfare. Club. Walk home again. Clear my head. She’s put something against bedroom door. My gear in spare room. Thomas Cook brochure in about a million pieces on floor. She must have cancelled holiday. I sit down on carpet with my back to wall. Head on my knees. Good Friday tomorrow. Day 46. Lads are fucking seething. So much for so-called Triple bloody Alliance. Nobody wants to see other blokes put out of their jobs — But they’re taking piss as far as we’re concerned. ISTC begged — Fucking begged. Deal had been to send Scunthorpe fifteen thousand tons a week to keep their furnaces in good nick. To be moved by rail. Loaded only by British Steel drivers. From Cortonwood, Bull-cliffe Wood, Dinnington and us — To help them out. That was deal — Not to be bleeding working at over 50 bloody per cent. Fucking bollocks, that is. We tell Pete to tell Barnsley we don’t want them to have it — Bastards. But they’ve done their deal. Fucking pisses everyone right off. Day 47. Easter Sunday. I knock on bedroom door again. I say, We need to talk, love — Go away. Come on, Cath. We can’t go on like this — Go away. Please, love — Go away! she shouts. Can’t just lock yourself in there all day. Come on just — Go away,

The Seventh Week

Monday 16 — Sunday 22 April 1984

Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Diane was too much for him. She was insatiable. He fell over onto his back. He was out of breath. He hurt. She rolled on top of him. She mounted him. She rode him. He groaned. He moaned. She smiled. She laughed. He cried out. She screamed. He came. She lay beside him. He had his eyes closed. She took his cock in her hand. He opened his eyes. She stroked his cock. He closed his eyes again. She whispered, ‘You got a codeword for him, Mr Chief Executive?’

*

The traffic out of London is a nightmare. Roadblocks at junctions. Helicopters overhead. Sirens. The Jew sits in the back of the Mercedes. He gets his updates on the car phone. He orders flowers for the dead policewoman’s family. Flowers to mark the place where she was slain. Felled by a single shot from the Libyan People’s Bureau in St James’s Square, South West One.

Neil Fontaine fiddles with the frequencies on the radio:

‘— pursuing its domestic policy, the government relies on the aid of the security service which cynically manipulates the definition of subversion and thus abuses its charter so as to investigate and interfere in the activities of legitimate political parties, the trades union movement, and other progressiveorganizations. Bettaney’s solicitor went on —’

Neil Fontaine changes channels again. He puts his foot down on the motorway.

The Jew looks out of the windows of the Mercedes. He gets excited as they approach Sheffield again. He talks of the body politic. He talks of the soul politic –

She has given him new orders –

New orders from the New Order –

New orders to follow. New orders to give.

Neil Fontaine has his own orders –

Old orders.

*

Terry knew the President blamed him. The situation was extremely dangerous and nobody dared predict what would happen next. The families would not be starved back. Troops could be used to move coal stocks –

The greatest good for the greatest number.

The situation was extremely dangerous and the President blamed Terry. Blamed him for everything. Terry had told the President he’d take care of it –

Take care of everything. Terry had told the President they would win –

They had lost.

Terry put his forehead against the window of his office. Terry closed his eyes. Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him. Blamed him –

Back to the Big House for Terry.

The phone on the desk rang again. It never fucking stopped –

South Wales called him at least twice a day with questions about the injunction. Click-click. They were not alone. Legal questions. Financial questions. Endless fucking questions –

It pissed him off –

Terry had done what he had to do. Terry had done his job –

Why couldn’t they?

Terry thought this would be Clive calling again. Clive Cook called constantly. Clive confused the codes. Clive forgot the codes. Clive ignored the codes. Clive cried –

‘I don’t knowhow much more of this I can take.’

Terry Winters thought Clive Cook might well have been a very poor choice.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘The Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Terry? Thank Christ for that. It’s Jimmy. I’m trying to get hold of the President. No one will tell me where he is. What’s going on?’

‘Not allowed to give out information over the phone. New directive.’

‘Fucking hell, Tel. This is urgent. You seeing him?’

‘I’d like to tell you, but then —’

‘Look, just listen. I’m down in London. We’ve just come out of a JPA meeting. The Board have just told us they’re willing to sit down with you all. Talk. Face to face. No messing about. I’m trying to set something up for next Tuesday —’

‘What’s to bloody talk about? He was on Weekend World saying they should use troops to move stocks. Told Jimmy Young he’d got more constructive things to do with his time than talk to us. There’s Tebbit all over the papers talking about denationalization. You’d be wasting the President’s time, Jimmy —’

‘Terry, listen. No compulsory redundancies and they’ll drop their initial timetable. That’s a fucking climbdown in anybody’s book. It’s a victory for us.’

‘Us?’

‘For the whole movement. For the NUM and NACODS. For the President.’

‘What do they want?’

‘I’ve got a letter from them saying what I just told you. But they want a response. And they want it as soon as possible. Then we’ll talk about setting the time and the place. But I do need to speak to the President.’

Terry drummed his fingers on the desk. He said, ‘Get their letter to me by courier. I’ll make sure the President sees it —’

‘He’ll thank you, Terry.’

‘I’ll ensure you have our response by the end of the day,’ said Terry. ‘Personally.’

‘You’re a hero, Comrade,’ said the man from NACODS. ‘A real hero, Terry.’

Terry put down the phone. Terry stood up. Terry smiled to himself –

Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him for everything –

But not for long.

Good Friday will be the Führer’s birthday. Ninety-five years old –

Happy birthday, Uncle Alf.

Ten days of feasting and festivities until the finale in the Walpurgisnacht fires –

The rehearsals will have already begun.

The Mechanic drives through Evesham onto Cirencester, across to Stroud and up to Cheltenham. This is the heart. The secret heart. The dark heart.

The Cotswolds. The Norfolk Broads. The West Coast of Scotland –

These are the places. The secret places. The dark places.

The Mechanic looks for the signs. The secret signs. The dark signs –

He finds them. Remembers.

This is the place. The secret place. The darkest place –

The Estate. The Big House –

Wewelsburg.

He parks well away. Lets the dogs out. He goes to the boot of the car. Takes out the rucksack. He puts it on. Whistles. The dogs come back. He feeds them. Locks them in the car. The windows open just a crack. He walks through the fields.Thestreams –

He comes to the trees. The leaves. He sits in the tall grass. He waits –

Is she sleeping. In the dark? Is she waking. In the light?

He watches the back of the house. The grounds through the binoculars –

The marquee is up. The fairy lights on.

It’ll be night. Darker still soon –

The generals in the house with their Wagner and their Bruckner under the portraits of Robert K. Jeffrey and A. K. Chesterton, the troops drunk in the grounds singing their songs about nig-nogs and wogs under the Fylfot and StGeorgebunting –

Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not here –

And he’d be here somewhere.

The Mechanic watches. The Mechanic waits –

The music stops. The rehearsal starts –

The doors from the house to the grounds are opened. The trolley is wheeled out.Thefakeswastika cakerevealed. Ninety-fiveunlit candles –

The birthday boy with the party knife in his hand –

Uncle Adolf played by Julius Schaub, a.k.a. Martin Peter Cooper.

The Mechanic gets the car. The dogs.

Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Christopher and Timothy were too fast for him. They were incorrigible. Louise fell over on the flagstones. She started to cry. She looked around for her daddy. Terry stopped chasing after the boys and the football. He walked back across the lawn. Louise pointed at the graze on her knee. Terry bent down. He kissed it better. He picked her up. He held her. Theresa came out of the house. She was carrying a tray of barley water. Ice clinked in the glasses. She looked at Terry –

She didn’t speak. She never did. Theresa Winters just smiled –

He didn’t speak either. He never dared. Terry Winters just smiled back –

He winked at his wife. He was going to amaze them all.

*

Last week was a dress rehearsal for the main event. The aperitif for today’s main course. Neil Fontaine has dressed for this dinner in a donkey jacket. He helps the Jew into his –

NCB on the back.

The Jew stands in the middle of his hotel suite in the donkey jacket. He says, ‘When in Rome, eh, Neil?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Chop-chop then,’ says the Jew. ‘Let’s not miss their Nero and his games.’

Neil Fontaine escorts the Jew downstairs. They walk through the hotel lobby They step out into the bright Sheffield sunshine.

The Jew puts on his sunglasses. He looks up at the helicopters.

Neil Fontaine leads the Jew through the deserted backstreets. Towards the noise. Neil Fontaine leads him to the Memorial Hall. Towards the chants –

This is what the Jew has come back to see:

The Special Delegate Conference of the National Union of Mineworkers.

Seven thousand men on the streets. One single message on their lips –

Their badges and their banners:

No ballot.

The Jew waits in the shadows. Neil Fontaine stands behind him.

The Jew watches the crowd. The Jew listens to the crowd –

Listens to their cheers. Their thunderous cheers.

The Jew watches the speakers. The Jew listens to the speakers –

Speech after speech from speaker after speaker –

Against the government. Against the police. Against the state. Against the law.

The Jew listens to their reception. Their thunderous reception –

Not for the Labour Party. Not for parliamentary opposition. Not for democracy –

But for extra-parliamentary opposition. And for their President.

They have their victory again and their President has his –

His victory. His victory speech:

‘I am the custodian of the rulebook and I want to say to my colleagues in the Union that there is one rule, above all the rules in the book, and that is when workers are involved in action –

‘YOU DO NOT CROSS PICKET LINES IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.’

The Jew listens. The Jew watches –

He watches their leader lauded. He watches their delegates disperse –

He watches the men move on –

To bottles. To stones. To attack the press –

The banks of photographers. The mass of TV crews.

To attack the police and the police attack back –

The pub fights and the snatch squads.

The Jew in the shadows. Neil Fontaine behind him.

It is Thursday 19 April 1984 –

Maundy Thursday –

‘But this is not Britain,’ whispers the Jew. ‘This is another Nuremberg.’

*

‘The fuck is this, Winters?’

Terry looked up from his figures. Paul Hargreaves was standing before his desk. Len Glover in the doorway. Paul holding out a piece of paper –

A letter. The letter.

Terry put down his pen. He took off his glasses.

Len stepped inside. He closed the door.

‘Is there a problem, Comrades?’ asked Terry.

Paul banged the letter down onto Terry’s desk –

‘Yes there’s a problem, Comrade,’ he said. ‘The fucking problem is you.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ asked Terry.

Paul stared at him. He tapped the letter. He said, ‘You changed this.’

‘Did I?’ asked Terry. ‘Did I really?’

Paul reached across the desk to take hold of Terry. Len pulled him back –

‘What do you mean, did I?’ shouted Paul. ‘You know fucking well you did. You’re such an arrogant bloody prick, Winters. Arrogant and —’

‘Then I apologize,’ said Terry. ‘I apologize to both of you, Comrades.’

Paul made another lurch towards the desk. Len held him back –

‘It was a fucking opportunity and you fucking killed it,’ screamed Paul. ‘Dead. There’s nothing now. No meeting. Nothing. I hope you’re fucking pleased with yourself, Comrade. Dead in the water. Nothing. Fucking satisfied now, Comrade?’

‘I made a mistake then,’ said Terry. ‘I thought the President said pit closures and job losses were not negotiable. I thought I was simply restating our position. I’m sorry.’

Len let go of Paul. Paul stared at Terry Winters –

Terry smiled at Paul Hargreaves. Terry smiled at Len Glover –

Len shook his head. Len opened the door. Paul pointed at Terry –

Paul said, ‘I’m on to you, Winters.’

Martin

Martin! Please — Go away, will you? I hate you! I lean my head against door. I say, I’m sorry, I — Just leave me alone for God’s sake, she screams. Leave me alone! I walk down stairs. I get my jacket. I drive into Thurcroft. I go into Welfare. They’re looking for people to go and stay in Nottingham for a couple of days at a time. I have a few drinks and I put my name down. Day 50. Harworth. By half-ten we’re starving. There’s a gap in crowd. Head off down a side-street with Little John and Keith. We go into this newsagent’s that’s got some sandwiches and pies. Got a couple of sausage rolls and a can of pop in my hands when police come in — Three of them. White shirts. No numbers. Met — Krk-krk. What you fucking doing in here? Buying a sausage roll and a can of pop. No, you’re fucking not. Get out. I haven’t paid. You got no money, scum. Get out. But — You fucking deaf as well as thick. Fucking out. Bloke behind counter just stands there. Gob open. We put stuff back. Keith turns to bloke behind counter. Sorry, he says. Shut up and get out, says tit-head. We walk outside — They push us in back. Across road. Now, they say. Pick up them feet. We start over road to field where everyone’s being penned in. Police three deep around them. Miles from scabs and gate. Nearly there when this big shout goes up. Lads are charging towards police with a bloody cricket screen. Police counter-charge. Screen goes straight into about half a dozen of police. Lads scatter. Run over tip at back. Hundred or so police haring after them. Rest of lads push forward — Fences go down. Folk grab posts — We’re just stood there on road behind police line. Police vans coming up behind us. Lorries for pit. Scabs. Scuffles. Stones coming over top — Fuck this, says Little John. We head back down side-street. Turn around. No one behind us. We go in shop again. Bloke behind counter shakes his head. Pick up a sausage roll and a can of pop each. Pay for them double-quick. Go outside and walk off back towards pit — Pitch fucking battle now. Ten thousand men kicking the living fuck out of each other — Like something from bloody Middle Ages. Dark Ages. Three of us just stand there — Mouthfuls of sausage roll. Shitting fucking bricks. Day 51. I phone Pete first thing. Tell him I’m a non-runner. Truth is I don’t fancy it. Not after yesterday. I put breakfast TV on — talking about troops moving coal stocks again. Cath comes down. Stands behind sofa. Not a word. I switch it off. She goes into kitchen. I follow her. I walk over to her. I put my hands round her waist. I say, I’m sorry. She nods. I kiss her hair. I say, Let’s go up to Whitby this weekend. She shakes her head. She’s crying. We can’t afford it, she says. I turn her around. I say, Can’t afford not to. Kip in car if it comes to it. She smiles. First time in a long time. Day 52. Pete called late last night, asked if I was up for it today. Told him I still felt bad. Tell from his voice he didn’t believe us — I don’t care though. Done practically every bloody day since it fucking started. Nerves are in shreds. Don’t even switch on television now. Rather spend day in garden. Least Cath is happy. Have tea ready for when she gets in. Sausages and Smash. Lovely. Go up to bed early, ready for tomorrow. Top of stairs, telephone goes again. I think, Bugger it. Let thing bloody ring. But Cath goes down. Martin, she says. It’s for you. I come back down stairs. I say, Who is it? She’s got her hand over receiver. Mr Moore from colliery, she says. I take phone from her. I say, This is Martin Daly. Cath doesn’t move. She stands there, watching my face. I listen to him. I say, I don’t know who told you that. Stands there, watching my face. I say, They were wrong. Stands there — Yes, I tell him. I know where you are. Goodnight to you. Watching. You threw us in a pit. I hang up. Day 53. We set off early. Drive up to York. Avoid Ferrybridge. Drax. Them places. Go through Malton. Pickering. Over North York Moors. Beautiful. Lovely pub lunch. Fresh air, windows down in car. Can smell sea fore we see it. Hear gulls. Turn to Cath. Her handkerchief out. Tears down her face — Mine too. You showered us with soil. Day 54. We hold hands. We walk up to Abbey. Find path. We walk to edge. Look over — The sea. The cliffs. The sky. The sun — I want to jump. Take her with me. Fall –

The Eighth Week

Monday 23 — Sunday 29 April 1984

The skull. The candle. The clock and the mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor. The carpet. The towels and the sheets. The light across the wallpaper. The curtains. The fixtures and the fittings. The shadow across the bone. The face. The hands and the hair. The boots across the room. The building. The town and the country –

Jennifer moves across the bed. The pillow. His name in her dreams.

She wakes in the light –

We bury the ones we treasure –

The door is locked. Neil gone again.

His head falls forward. Schaub is unconscious. Tied up.

The Mechanic goes over to the sink. He rinses his right hand under the cold tap. He puts the plug in the hole. He fills the basin. He soaks his knuckle in the sink.

His head moves. Schaub groans.

The Mechanic pulls out the plug. He dries his hands on a small towel. He walks over to the telephones. He picks up one of the receivers. He dials the number.

Julius Schaub moans.

Neil Fontaine sits in the Mercedes and reads the papers –

Their President claiming CEGB coal stocks will last only nine more weeks. The TGWU threatening to call a national docks strike if dockers are sacked for supporting striking miners. Their President refusing to meet the Board to discuss the rescheduling of pit closures. The Board launching their back-to-work campaign today.

Neil Fontaine tears out two small stories from the inside pages –

He puts them in his pocket. He saves them for later.

The War Cabinet dissolves. The Jew comes out of Downing Street.

Neil Fontaine holds open the door.

The Jew gets in the back. He says, ‘The Club please, Neil.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Neil Fontaine drives to the Carlton Club. He opens the back door for the Jew.

The Jew looks at his watch. He says, ‘Three o’clock please, Neil.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Neil Fontaine leaves the car close to the Club and walks along to Charing Cross. Neil spots Roger Vaughan. Roger spots Neil Fontaine. Neil follows Roger Vaughan down the Strand. Roger turns left down a small alley Neil Fontaine is right behind him. Roger Vaughan goes into the pub. Neil sits down at a table in the corner. Roger orders the drinks. Neil Fontaine lights a cigarette. Roger Vaughan brings over two drinks –

Fresh orange for Neil, double Scotch for Roger.

Roger Vaughan sits down –

Roger runs Jupiter Securities for Jerry. Jerry is worried about Neil. Neil must meet Roger –

Roger smiles. Roger says, ‘Well?’

‘It’s in hand,’ says Neil Fontaine.

Roger stops smiling. Roger says, ‘Been quite a flap upstairs. You know that?’

‘These are difficult times for all of us,’ says Neil. ‘Bad times.’

Roger shakes his head. Roger says, ‘Not a good time to screw up. For any of us.’

‘They didn’t find anything,’ says Neil. ‘Johnson would have said.’

Roger sips his drink. Roger says, ‘Just a question of their silence then, isn’t it?’

Neil takes out the envelope. He puts it down between the two drinks. He says, ‘He asked me to give you this.’

Roger picks it up. He opens it. He looks inside. He puts it down. Roger laughs. ‘How very trusting. Really believes he can just walk away, doesn’t he?’

‘Hand in hand,’ says Neil. ‘Into the sunset.’

Roger finishes his drink. Roger says, ‘Love will always let you down.’

Neil pushes his drink away. Neil waits.

Roger stands up. Roger asks, ‘How is dear Jennifer these days?’

‘Hungry,’ says Neil.

Roger puts a hand on Neil’s shoulder. Roger says, ‘Always lets you down, Neil.’

*

The President stood up behind his desk. Stood up in front of the huge portrait of himself. He walked round to where Terry was sitting. Handed Terry a tissue, hand on his shoulder. The President said, ‘People make mistakes, Comrade. It’s what makes them human.’

Terry blew his nose. Terry dried his eyes.

‘I believe you had the best interests of the movement in your heart, Comrade.’

Terry sniffed. Terry nodded.

‘This time you are forgiven, Comrade.’

Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘Thank you, President. Thank you. Thank you —’

The President walked back behind his desk. Back in front of the portrait.

Len held open the door for Terry –

‘Thank you,’ said Terry again. Terry went downstairs for his coat –

Terry Winters knew he was on a short leash.

Terry got his coat. Terry took the lift down to the foyer –

They were waiting for him.

Terry sat in the back of the car between the President and Paul –

Joan up front with Len.

They drove to Mansfield. They parked near the Area HQ. They parted the crowd –

No one said a word.

They went inside. They walked through the room. They sat at the top table –

Ray spoke. Ray said, ‘Get off your knees —’

Henry spoke. Henry said, ‘You are mice, not men —’

Paul spoke. Paul said, ‘You are on strike officially —’

Then the President spoke to them. The President scolded them. The President shouted, ‘YOU DO NOT CROSS PICKET LINES!’

They got up from the table. They walked through the room –

There was no standing ovation. No applause. No songs. No autographs. Not here.

A man got up from his seat. A man rushed forward –

He pushed past Terry. He pushed past Len. He poked the President in the chest. He said, ‘You impose this strike on these members and I’ll take you to court.’

‘Sit down, Fred,’ said Henry. ‘Making a bloody fool of yourself.’

The President looked at the finger on his chest. He looked up into the man’s face. The President smiled. He said, ‘See you in court then, Comrade.’

*

The helicopter is in the shop. The Jew needs Neil to drive him down to his Suffolk pile; Colditz, as it’s known to everyone who has ever been there. Everyone but the Jew –

Neil Fontaine knocks once on the door of the Jew’s fourth-floor suite at Claridge’s. Neil steps inside. The Jew is on the phone in the middle of a dark sea of maps and plans. He is saying, ‘She fears a cave-in on Nottingham’s part. Fears he has the initiative …’

Neil Fontaine gathers up the maps and the plans. He puts them in the briefcase.

The Jew hangs up. He looks at Neil. He shakes his head.

Neil Fontaine hands the Jew a file. He says, ‘Spot of reading for the journey, sir.’

The Jew opens the file. He scans the cuttings. He arches an eyebrow. He smiles. He says, ‘Why, thank you, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine takes the briefcase and a small overnight bag down to the Mercedes.

They set off for Colditz.

The Jew reads the cuttings aloud. The Jew strokes his moustache. The Jew smiles. He lowers the partition ten miles out of London. He is excited. He can see possibilities. He says, ‘Interesting, Neil. Perhaps you should pay a personal visit to these people. These places. Assess the potential. The possibilities —’

Neil Fontaine nods. He says, ‘Certainly, sir.’

The cunt sits down. The cunt hands him a folded copy of today’s Times.

The Mechanic opens it. There is an envelope inside. He opens it –

There is a Polaroid inside; Jen sat on a chair holding the same paper.

The Mechanic stares at the photo.

Cunt lights a cigarette. Cunt inhales.

The Mechanic puts the photo in his pocket. He says, ‘Where is she?’

Cunt exhales. Cunt shakes his head.

‘Did you tell them what I said?’

Cunt nods.

‘What did they say?’

Cunt holds up two fingers. Cunt says, ‘One down. Two to go.’

‘I fucking told you, I don’t have the diary. It wasn’t there.’

Cunt stubs out the cigarette. Cunt says, ‘I’ll tell them what you said.’

The Mechanic takes out the key. ‘I found Schaub. Now I want my wife back.’

Cunt shakes his head again. Cunt holds up two fingers again.

The Mechanic drops the key onto the table. ‘I want her back, Neil.’

Cunt picks up the key. Cunt stares at it.

‘I love her,’ says the Mechanic. ‘Ialways have and I always will.’

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. Holds up two fingers. For the last time.

The Jew asked for a list from the Chairman of the National Coal Board. The Chairman approached the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary gave the list to the Chairman. The Chairman handed the list over to the Jew. The Jew passed the list on to Neil Fontaine –

Neil Fontaine likes lists. Neil keeps lists. He loves lists:

Lists of lawyers. Lawyers who might help miners. Miners who might help –

Neil Fontaine parks on Ripley high street. Neil Fontaine opens the door for Fred. Fred Wallace gets out of the car with his armful of books and papers. Neil Fontaine and Fred Wallace walk into Reid & Taylor. They have an appointment to see Dominic Reid. Fred Wallace is nervous. He is not sure this is the right thing –

In his heart.

Neil Fontaine is worried too. He is not sure these are the right men for the job.

Dominic Reid comes out to greet them. His hand out. He is young. Perspiring. Neil Fontaine rechecks his list. They go through into the office. They sit down.

‘Mr Reid,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘This is Fred Wallace. Fred Wallace is a miner. He works at Pye Hill Colliery. Or at least he’d like to work. As I’m sure you’re aware, Fred and the majority of his Nottinghamshire colleagues voted to reject strike action in support of the Yorkshire miners –

‘However, the leaders of the Nottinghamshire Area NUM have gone against the wishes of their members. The leaders have declared the area to be officially on strike. They have instructed the membership not to cross picket lines –

‘Fred has just one simple question for you,’ says Neil. ‘Haven’t you, Fred?’

Fred Wallace nods. Fred Wallace asks the young lawyer, ‘Is this strictly legal?’

Martin

The sky. The cliffs. The sea — Never go home again. Never again. Day 56. Back to reality. Pete called when Cath was at shops — I can’t sit at home. Hide in garden. He knows that. Knows I’ve bloody tried. Even rang redundancy hot line. Told Cath I’d see what they had to say. But I can’t do it. Daren’t tell her I’m going back on tour — Arthur’s Army. Break her heart again — But when I’m here, I wish I was there. When I’m there, I wish I was back here — Fuck. Know where I am today, though — This was always going to be bad. Notts Area are meeting in Mansfield. NCB have given all scabs day off — Full pay with coaches laid on to make sure they show up and let Chadburn and Richardson know they want to scab on. Fucking wankers. Sheffield isn’t having any of this. Lads are to go in — Send scabs back where they come from. That’s plan. Everyone knows it. Press know it. TV know it — Police fucking know it. Get as far as Pleasley. Far as anyone is going today. Thousands of lads standing about. Milling around. Police fucking everywhere. On foot. In cars. Vans. Coaches. Helicopters. Even got a fucking plane up there. Bloody works. Letting everyone know they’re here too. Giving it out to anyone who tries to get into centre of Mansfield. Few lads go down old railway line. Police set dogs on them. Lads throw stones. Police crack heads. Rest of us just stood about. Milling — Top men from Union arguing with this Inspector. Waste of bloody breath as usual. They’ve got their orders for today. No miners in Mansfield — Only scabs. Scabs with their Adolf Scargill placards. Scabs singing, We’re off to work tomorrow. MacGregor’s mates on their NCB coaches with their thirty pieces of bloody silver in their deep fucking pockets. Proud of themselves and all — Scum. Day 57. Feels different now. Big change. Tempo and tempers rising. Fucking Creswell again. Scabs just walking in. Bold as fucking brass. No shame. There’s a big push — Hard. Bloody. Knuckle. Police charging us — Hard. Bloody. Leather. Boots coming from all over. Men run — Scatter. Out of breath. This way and that. I follow Pete over a fence. Through a hedge. Onto cricket pitch. Police on our heels. Across pitch. Some lads hiding in pavilion. Police steam straight in. Haul them out. One lad on floor. Six of them and one of him. Skin exposed. Police dishing out leather — Gloves. Truncheons. Boots — Pete goes back over. I follow him. Lad on pitch isn’t moving. Police still dishing it out. Pete picks up one of deckchairs. I do same. Pete charges coppers. I do same. Pete’s chair breaks over one copper’s back. I throw mine. They turn on us — We run. They chase us — We run. Over fence — We run. Hedge — We run. Onto road — We run. Keith’s car coming up lane — Pete and me waving. Keith pulls up — We get in. Police spitting — Shaking their fists. Keith foot down — Shitting bricks again. Day 63. No fucking end in sight. Folk have gone through their savings now. Them that had any. Holidays cancelled. Stuff taken back to shops — Nothing from social. Nothing from union — Lot of muttering. Pete calls us to order. Tries to — I don’t give a monkey’s what panel says, shouts Keith. Bloody waste of our time. We’re getting nowhere, says Tom. Nowhere but nicked, shouts someone from back. Power stations, says Keith. It’s only way. Talking rubbish, someone else says. It’s all bloody bollocks, says another. They got fucking mountains piled up. Keith turns round. Let’s hear your suggestion then, he says. Pete’s got his hands out in front of him. You’re in T-shirts yourselves, he says. I stand up. I say, What about British Steel? Scunthorpe? They’re taking piss. They keep asking for more coke. They don’t need it. Mate of mine who works at Anchor, he says it’s a con. Keith and John nod. Room nods. How is it a con? asks Pete. Lad told us, you don’t keep a furnace ticking over. Doesn’t work like that. When they were all out, they just bunged it full of coke and shut top. Let in as little air as possible. He reckons it lasts for months like that. Room shakes their heads. Shooting ourselves in bloody foot, someone says again. It’s our fucking coal they need. Us and Cortonwood. Picket them, less reason to buy it from us in first place. Good luck to them, shouts a bloke from back. Three years ago we were voting to

The Ninth Week

Monday 30 April — Sunday 6 May 1984

Wait. Wake. Can’t. Sleep. Can’t. Wake. Wait. Can’t. Sleep. Can’t. Wait. Wake.Can’t. Sleep. Can’t —

The record on the stereo. The money on the table. The Polaroid in his hand.

Wake. Wait. Can’t. Sleep. Can’t. Wait. Wake. Can’t. Sleep. Can’t —

The Mechanic switches off the stereo. The Mechanic counts the money again.

Wake. Wait. Can’t. Sleep. Can’t —

It’s not enough.

Wake. Wait. Can’t —

The Mechanic stares at the money. The Mechanic stares at the Polaroid.

Fuck them. Fuck them all –

The Mechanic picks up the phone. The Mechanic calls Dixon —

Paul Dixon laughs down the line. Paul Dixon says, ‘Well, well, well —’

Hands holding the receiver –

‘Look who’s come crawling back to his Uncle Paul.’

Tight —

‘How the mighty have fucking fallen.’

Upstairs downstairs. In one minute. Out the next. In, out. In, out. They shook Terry all about. This way. That way. Here. There. And everywhere –

Rally. Rally. Rally. Meeting. Meeting. Meeting –

Speech. Speech. Speech. Talk. Talk. Talk –

The Chairman said one thing. The President said another –

Forever reacting. Never acting –

The Chairman said the strike could be defeated with the support of Nottingham. The President said the strike could be won without the support of Nottingham –

You say hello. I say goodbye —

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye –

Terry slipped his leash. Terry had his own plans.

Terry drove straight down from Sheffield. Clive Cook down from Barnsley. Desmond Toole straight up from Kent. Gareth Thomas up from Cardiff –

They met in the Leicester Forest Service Station.

Terry was early. Desmond on the dot. Clive late –

Gareth pissed off. Tired from the drive. He hated all this cloak-and-dagger shit.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Terry. ‘The President insists we take the utmost precautions.’

Gareth pushed his tea away. Gareth said, ‘They want damages.’

‘How big are these firms?’ asked Desmond.

Gareth shook his head. Gareth said, ‘Not big at all. Ten wagons at most.’

‘What about their lawyers?’ asked Terry.

‘Local,’ said Gareth. ‘From Neath.’

‘How much they after?’ asked Clive.

Gareth looked at Terry. Gareth said, ‘Fifty grand.’

‘It’ll be contempt if you picket again,’ said Desmond.

‘Then sequestration,’ said Clive.

Gareth nodded. Gareth tapped the table. Gareth looked at Terry again –

Terry stared back at him. Terry said, ‘Did you do the things I asked, Comrade?’

Gareth nodded again.

Terry looked across the table at Clive and Desmond. Terry said, ‘Comrades?’

Desmond Toole nodded. Clive Cook bit his nail –

Bit his nail and said, ‘You know I fucking did.’

These men are hard. Think they are —

Territorials. Reserves.

These men have debts. Think they have —

Southern Nazis. London hooligans.

These men stare at the walls. The briefing-room walls –

The OS maps. The aerial photographs.

These men read the words on the wall –

Internal Defence and Development. Stability Operations.

These men sit. These men wait.

The side door opens. The Brass step inside. Dressed in black. Their hair cropped. The Brass walk to the front of the room. Put their leather cases on the table next to the OHP. The Brass take out their files. Three big pens. Markers. The Brass turn to the board behind them. The Brass write down two words —

Counter Insurgency.

The Brass replace their pen tops. The Brass look up at these men before them –

These hard men. These men with debts.

The Brass look from these men to this one man at the back —

This one hard man. This man with debts. David Johnson –

The Mechanic.

‘Welcome home, soldier,’ say the Brass. ‘Welcome home.’

Neil Fontaine is at the bridgehead; the Mansfield HQ of the Nottinghamshire Area NUM. The Prime Minister has taken up the Jew’s suggestion. The Minister for Energy has taken up the Prime Minister’s suggestion: the Board has taken up the Minister’s suggestion. The Board has given every miner in Nottinghamshire the day off with full pay and a bus ticket into town on an NCB coach for a demonstration –

A Right to Work demonstration.

Miners from Derbyshire and Yorkshire who planned a counter-demonstration have been turned back in their thousands at the roadblocks on the borders –

The scabs have had a police escort. There are seven thousand of them here –

Just two thousand strikers penned in on the sports field behind the HQ –

Penned in by horses. Penned in by dogs. Penned in by pigs:

Hundreds of Hampshire policemen have been flown in aboard a Boeing 737. From Hum to East Midlands airport. Billeted in Nissen huts. Paid time and a half –

Tax free —

To stand with thousands of local policemen. Three deep in human walls –

Human walls to keep miner from miner. Striker from scab –

Neil Fontaine walks among them. He takes photographs for the Jew:

The people. His people. Their protest. His protest. Their placards. His placards —

Adolf Scargill. Nottinghamshire miners have a lot of bottle. Right to Work.

Neil Fontaine takes notes for the Jew. He listens to their leaders. He hears:

‘— you are the only friends MacGregor has got —

‘— it’s about time you acted like bloody men —

‘— showed your solidarity with other miners.’

He takes notes. Records their response. Hears:

‘— resign —

‘— traitor —

‘— we’re off to work tomorrow. We’re off to work tomorrow. Off to work —’

Neil Fontaine hears –

Possibilities.

Neil Fontaine leaves Mansfield. He drives up the M1. Onto the M62 –

Eastbound. Maps out. Notes –

Possibilities.

Neil Fontaine passes Ferrybridge. Turns off at Goole. Takes small roads through Scunthorpe. To Immingham Dock. He parks. He walks about. He takes photographs. Notes. He listens. He hears –

Possibilities.

Neil Fontaine gets back in his car. He drives back through Scunthorpe. He comes to Flixborough. To Gunness. He parks. He walks about. Takes more photographs. Notes. He inhales. He smells –

Possibilities.

Neil Fontaine gets back in his car. He follows the lorries back down to Sheffield. He comes to the black chimneys. To the giant ovens. He parks. He walks about –

He listens. He hears. He inhales. He smells. He watches. He sees –

Railways. Roads. Slag heaps. Disused workings –

He sees land. Space –

Open space.

He closes his eyes. He remembers. He opens his eyes. He sees –

Batons. Shields. Horses. Dogs. Dust. Blood –

Victory.

Neil Fontaine has his notes. His photographs. His plans. His battle-plans –

The Jew will have his victory –

Here.

Neil Fontaine stands in the telephone box. Neil Fontaine makes the call –

The Jew is at his suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s.

‘This place is called what again?’ asks the Jew.

Neil Fontaine stares out at the possibilities. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Orgreave.’

Training days. They march him across moorland. Put bags on his back. Handcuff him to the next man. Walk him through the days. Warminster and Sandhurst accents in the rain. Whispers in the rain. Echoes. Training nights. They sit him in the back of Transits. Put bags on his head. Handcuff him to the next man. Drive him through the night. Camberley and Latimer accents in the dark –

Whispers in the dark –

Echoes.

The Brass give him a cell. Make him Team Leader. Two thieves and a rapist from the Army of the Rhine. Military Prison. Time off the block for a bitof bad behaviour backin Blighty.Remission. Parole. Early doors —

Whispers. Echoes –

The Brass give his team photographs. The Brass sit them down at the top table. The Brass yawn. His team stare. The Brass pick their noses. His men scratch their balls.

The Brass give his team videos. The Brass sit them down before the big screen. The Brass yawn. His team watch. The Brass bite their nails. His men crack their knuckles.

The Brass give his team orders. The Brass open the door. The Brass yawn —

His team leave. The Brass wave –

The Mechanic and his men gone.

Dick was still in Scotland. Everyone else on the top floor. Terry Winters took the stairs. Two at a time. Late again. Terry hung his jacket outside with all the others. He knocked once. He went inside. He mumbled his apologies –

The Tweeds and the Denims stared. The Tweeds and the Denims muttered.

Terry took a seat by the door.

Joan was standing at the front. Joan saying, ‘— thirty-eight arrested at Wivenhoe. Twenty-one at Harworth. Better news from Lancashire. Only two pits there now working. We calculate that a hundred and twenty-one pits are out, forty-nine still producing some coal. President —’

Joan sat down.

The President stood up. He said, ‘Thank you, Comrade. I have agreed to attend next Monday’s May Day rally in Mansfield. However, Monday week, there will also be a Union family rally in the town. The Areas and Panels will be notified today. Coaches will be provided to ensure every branch is represented. Chief Executive —’

The President looked down at Terry. Everybody looked down at Terry –

Terry looked down at his calculator and his files. Terry blushed. Terry looked up. Terry said, ‘That is correct, President.’

The President waited. The President said, ‘And the Local Council, Comrade?’

Terry nodded. Terry said, ‘All the necessary approval has been granted.’

The President waited. The President said, ‘Anything else, Comrade?’

Terry shrugged his shoulders. Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘No.’

The President said, ‘Thank you, Comrade. The final items on the agenda are the General Secretary’s statement on behalf of the Vice-President on the situation regarding the local agreements with the ISTC and transport unions. No doubt you are all aware that BSC have intensified their use of scab road haulage to maintain deliveries and coal stocks at their plants. The General Secretary will then also make a brief statement of his own in regard to coal stocks at CEGB sites. General Secretary —’

Paul stood up. He was looking at Terry.

Terry looked back down at his calculator. He had pressed 773407734.

He turned the calculator upside down –

Terry smiled. Terry closed his eyes –

Chickens, the lot of them. The Tweeds. The Denims –

Headless chickens, the lot of them.

Terry didn’t panic. He just did it. Terry didn’t read the forms the Council sent him. The small print. He just signed where he had to sign. Signed what he had to sign. Terry didn’t listen to the things the Council asked for on the phone. The guarantees. He just agreed with what they said. Agreed to what they said. Terry didn’t question the terms the coach firms wanted. The prices. He just accepted what they said. Accepted everything. Terry knew the important thing was that the President got what he wanted –

Britain’s biggest ever trade union demonstration —

That he got what he wanted. Next Monday in Mansfield. The biggest –

The phone was ringing. Terry opened his eyes –

He was back downstairs. He was back in his office. Back behind his desk.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

‘Bill Reed here,’ said Bill Reed. Bill edited the Miner —

Terry had stopped smiling.

He knows she’s hurting. In the backs of Ford Transits again. No windows. Transit stops. They put bags on their heads again. No eyeholes. He closes his eyes in the dark. He knows she’s hurting. The doors open. They take them out of the Transit. The air is cold. They march them across the tarmac. Up steps. Onto seats. Doors shut. Motors start. Engines. Helicopter engines. Up they go. He closes his eyes. He knows she’s hurting. Down they come. Motors stop. Doors open. Down steps. Across tarmac. The air cold. Keys turn. Doors open. The air old. Down corridors. Doors open. Keys turn. They stop. They take the bagsoff their heads. Heopens his eyes. Heblinks. Stares –

Bare bulbs. Bunk beds. Blankets. Kit bags —

Barracks.

Doors slam. Keys turn —

The Mechanic closes his eyes again –

He knows Jen is hurting. Knows he is not there for her —

Not yet.

Martin

support them — To save them. They get no coke, they got no job. They got no job, we got no job, someone else shouts. Keith turns round. Divide and rule, he shouts. That’s what she bloody wants. Fucking stick together. That’s only way there is — Stick together, someone laughs. Tell that to fucking Nottingham. Tell them your fucking self, snaps John. Never seen you down there. Should do more for them, Pete says. Them that are out down there, they need all help they can get. All help we can give them. Keith nods. We need everyone on picket line, that’s what we need, says Keith. All of you. Room goes up. Big shouts — Fuck off! Shut up! Need to stop yapping about it. Need to start dishing it out — Petrol money isn’t going to get us a new radiator, is it? Pete shakes his head. Pete stands back up. This is getting us nowhere, he says. Bloody nowhere. Day 65. John’s driving. Following Pete’s piece of paper again. What he’s written. Talk is all of gangs and squads — Hit squads. Super squads. Scab squads. Intercept-or squads — Lads getting hidings from gangs of off-duty coppers — Squaddie gangs. Scab gangs — Like after Sheffield. Police had just waded in. Taken anyone in town centre after dark — Beaten fuck out of them. Nicked them — Tried that shit earlier, says Keith. Be no fucking Sheffield left now. There’s rumours that scabs are giving names of blokes on strike in Notts to police. Their addresses. Police giving names to these hit squads. Hired hands. Lads getting ambushed. Wives getting dirty calls when their men are out picketing. Heavy breathing — I’ve told Cath to keep chain on when I’m out — Be Yorkshire next, says Little John. Mark my words. Get through again. Creswell again. Police waiting. Cameras out. Smile. Stick us out of road. Scabs go in — Waving. Smiling — Bastards. We shove. Shout — That’s all we do. All we fucking can do. They’re in and we’re out. That’s it. Head back to cars. Police waving bye-bye — Smiling. Fucking bastards — Wasting our bloody time down here, says Keith. Never going to change their bloody minds. Be better at power stations. Trent wharves. Pay off would come then. You’d soon see. Day 68. Bad dreams again — We lie among corpses. Thousands of them. We are parched. Drowned in blood. Stained armour. Fallen crowns. We lie among corpses. We listen to the field beneath us. Worms coming. Slugs. Rats. Little bloody footprintsacross cold white skin. We lie among corpses. We look up at the sky. Clouds coming.Rain. Crows — Onelands on me. Struts upon my chest. Cocks its head. It goes for my eye — I wake up. Bad dreams are mine — All mine. Here we go. Here we go. Here we go — Day 69. Mansfield rally today. Most of wives have come — Cath too. She wanted to. Lot of blokes have brought their kids and all. We’ve got on coach. Right laugh it is. Lot of songs. Banter. Come to Leisure Centre. We get off coach — What a sight. Must be thirty thousand easy. Banners as far as you can see — From Scotland. Wales. Lancashire. Derbyshire. Kent and Yorkshire — By bus. By van. By car. By foot — Here to their Heartland. Not to intimidate them. Not to bully them — Here to shame them. God smiling on us too. Baking-hot sunshine. We march through town centre behind our banner. Heads held high, lot of us. Heads high with pride. Hand in hand with Cath. Kids sat on front of banner. Ice creams. Local folk out to welcome us. Clapping us. Cheering us from rooftops — Roaring us on. No scabs and their wives. None of Maggie’s Storm-troopers. Not a helmet in sight. Just thirty thousand ordinary, decent men, women and children. Twelve noon we come back to Leisure Centre. Can’t get near platform. But we can hear them. Tony Benn. Dennis Skinner — We can cross frontiers we have never dreamed of. We can not only stop pit closures — we can have Socialism. Fantastic every one of them. Cath clapping. Cheering. Chant goes up for Arthur. Who people want. One name — Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur — I look over at Cath — Clapping. Cheering. Chanting with best of them. And he’s magnificent. Magnificent — You have got a union leadership who are prepared to lead until we win, and win we will — She looks at me. She squeezes my hand. She has tears in her eyes. Tears in mine — Good ones, for a change.

The Tenth Week

Monday 7 — Sunday 13 May 1984

Bill Reed and the President went way back. Bill Reed knew the President from Woolley. Bill Reed knew the President from Barnsley. Bill Reed had been the President’s candidate. Bill Reed had got the job. Now Bill Reed edited the Miner, the Union’s paper.

Bill Reed put down his cup. Bill Reed said, ‘Think it’s fair? Us donating our salary to the hardship fund? I’m not on strike. I’m working twenty-four hours a day, me.’

‘What do you want, Comrade?’ said Terry.

Bill Reed nodded. Bill Reed said, ‘This contact of mine, very well placed. Remember he told me they’d got someone inside Huddersfield Road?’

Terry said nothing. He stirred his coffee –

Anticlockwise.

Bill Reed leant across the table. Bill Reed said, ‘I know who it is, Comrade.’

Terry stopped stirring his coffee. He put the spoon on the saucer.

‘Did my homework on this feller at Manton,’ said Bill Reed. ‘Feller who’s organized the vote down there. This Don Colby?’

Terry took a sip from his coffee. He put the cup back down. He shook his head.

Bill Reed smiled. Bill Reed said, ‘Turns out you and Don have a mutual friend.’

Terry said nothing. Terry waited –

Bill Reed smiled. Bill Reed said, ‘Clive Cook.’

*

She had got the Jew and Neil Fontaine on a private flight up to Prestwick. Not Glasgow. Her car was there to meet them. Drive them straight to Motherwell –

Neil Fontaine sat in the front with the driver. The Jew in the back with the Brass. The Strathclyde Brass briefed the Jew about the day’s events at Ravenscraig. The Craig. The events at Hunterston –

The lorries. The horses. The injuries. The arrests. The photographs. The numbers.

The Brass told the Jew one thousand pickets had already gathered at Hunterston –

The Jew rubbed his hands. The Jew wanted to be where the action was –

And the action was now steel –

Steel, the New Battlefield.

The Jew watched the horses charge. The pickets fall or fly –

The Jew applauded. The Jew thanked the Brass. The Jew had seen enough. It was home time –

Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. He watches the lights come up from down below. Nothing too good for her friends. Private night flight back: Prestwick to East Midlands. The Jew in the cockpit. The Jew in the co-pilot’s seat. The Jew waving his licence about. The Jew with his hands on the controls. Neil Fontaine with his stomach in his mouth. Touchdown. More applause. Handshakes. Another private car waiting on the tarmac –

Nothing too good for her friends –

Nothing too good for his friends either; the Jew’s new friends:

The link-up of friendship.

The Jew has hired the upstairs room of a modern pub –

The Green Dragon. Oxton. The middle of nowhere.

The Jew has laid on beer and sandwiches. The men arrive in dribs and drabs. They shuffle in. They stand in the corners. They drink heavily –

They don’t touch the sandwiches.

The Jew moves from man to man. The Jew introduces man to man –

Fred, this is Don. Don, this is Fred. Fred is from Pye Hill. Don is from Manton. Fred, this is Jimmy. Jimmy, this is Fred. Fred is from Pye Hill. Jimmy is from Lea Hall –

Jimmy, this is –

The link-up of friendship.

They form small groups. They stand in the corners. They drink heavily –

They don’t touch the sandwiches.

They whisper about this branch and that branch. Behind their hands about this secretary and that secretary. Under their breath about this solicitor. That solicitor –

They stand in the corners and talk about right and wrong. They drink heavily –

They don’t touch the sandwiches.

They are the Nottingham Working Miners’ Committee — The Secret Nottingham Working Miners’ Committee.

*

Terry called Clive Cook from a payphone. Terry spoke in code. Terry set it up –

Dawn. Woolley Edge Services.

Terry was early. Clive was late –

Clive got out of his car. Clive wore sunglasses. Clive crossed the car park –

Clive said, ‘I don’t think I can take much more of this, Comrade.’

‘Get in,’ said Terry. ‘You might not have to.’

Terry drove down little roads and little lanes. Terry drove to Bretton Park –

Down by the lake, they sat down. Terry said, ‘Bill Reed called me.’

‘How very unpleasant for you,’ said Clive.

Terry grabbed Clive by his coat. Terry said, ‘For you actually, Comrade.’

‘What?’ said Clive. ‘What are you talking about?’

Terry pulled Clive closer. Terry whispered, ‘Bill says you’re Special Branch.’

Clive pushed Terry away. Clive swung at Terry. Clive missed Terry –

‘Fuck you!’ screamed Clive. ‘Fuck you for getting me into this, Winters!’

Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘I’m just telling you what Bill said.’

‘You believe him,’ cried Clive. ‘You fucking believe him! You fucking —’

Terry walked over to Clive. Terry put his arms round Clive.

‘I’ve only been doing what you told me to do,’ sobbed Clive. ‘That’s all.’

Terry squeezed Clive tight. Terry said, ‘I know that, Comrade. I know —’

‘Now I’m finished,’ wept Clive. ‘Because of you and that drunk bastard.’

Terry held Clive. Terry said, ‘I’ll talk to the President for you.’

*

They lift weights. They run. They wrestle. They shower. The Brass break them into their cells. Their teams. The Brass give them photographs. Maps. The Brass give them instructions. Uniforms. The teams change into their brand-new boiler suits. They sit on their beds. They crack their knuckles. Theygrind their teeth –

The Brass give them pills. The Brass make them wait.

The Transits come as the sun sets. Ten of them. Back doors open —

The teams get into their Transits. They sit in the backs with their helmets on –

They drink. They listen to music: Ace of Spades on loud.

The Transit carrying the Mechanic and his team stops. The doors open –

The Mechanic and his men get out. They walk into the centre of town. Theycome to the Robin Hood.Theystand outside. Theygrind their teeth —

And wait.

Their targets come out. Easy to spot with their badges on. Their stickers –

They’ve had a few and all, these striking miners.

The Mechanic asks them, ‘Where you lot going, then?’

‘Home,’ the strikers tell him.

The Mechanic and his men step aside.

The strikers start up the road.

The Mechanic and his men follow them.

One striker at the back is very drunk.

The Mechanic catches him up. He pushes him. He trips him up –

Slaps him on the back of his head.

The drunken striker stops.

The Mechanic grabs him. Throws him to Team Member A –

A pushes him to B. B pushes him to C. C gives him back to the Mechanic —

The Mechanic and his men laugh. The Mechanic throws him over to A again.

The rest of the strikers are watching. One of them comes back down the road —

‘Please let him go,’ he says. ‘He’s done nothing. He’s just drunk.’

The Mechanic tears the yellow sticker off this man’s sweater. He folds the yellow sticker up –

The man just stands there, this striking miner. Just watching the Mechanic.

The Mechanic grabs this striker’s head. His hair. He twists this striker’s head —

The Mechanic pushes the yellow sticker up the man’s nostril.

The rest of the strikers come piling back down the road —

The Mechanic and his men have their truncheons out –

Ready.

Terry looked out of the hotel window. Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘I feel terrible.’

‘Why?’ asked Diane. ‘From what you’ve told me, you did the right thing.’

Terry said, ‘But Bill Reed trusted me. I went behind his back to the President.’

‘Congratulations,’ laughed Diane. ‘He needed to know. You had to tell him.’

Terry tightened his towel. Terry said, ‘Bill Reed’s going to be after my blood now.’

‘You worry too much,’ said Diane. ‘He’s an old drunk. Now come back to bed.’

Terry said, ‘But he’s one of the President’s oldest and closest friends.’

‘Never change, do you?’ laughed Diane. ‘Now, please. Come. Back. To. Bed.’

*

Don Colby sits in the back of the Mercedes outside Manton Colliery. Don is nervous. Don is scared. Gutless. Don wants to quit. Don looks at the Jew. Don shakes his head. Don says, ‘I haven’t the numbers.’

‘I know you haven’t,’ smiles the Jew. ‘But the men of Manton are scared. Intimidated. The important thing is not the victory. The important thing is the fight. To be seen to fight. For the men to see someone stand up and fight. Someone who is not scared. Not intimidated. Someone with guts. Someone who is made of steel. Someone special. Today that someone is you, Don –

‘You!’

Don Colby raises his shoulders. Don Colby puffs out his chest. Don Colby nods.

‘The day is coming,’ says the Jew. ‘Our day is coming, Don.’

Don Colby beams. Don Colby opens the door.

‘Remember, Don,’ shouts the Jew. ‘The Prime Minister knows your name.’

*

Trench warfare. The NEC had agreed to postpone branch elections for the duration of the strike. Hand-to-hand combat. The NEC had also discussed new disciplinary measures. Internecine –

Manton Colliery in South Yorkshire had held a branch meeting to discuss a possible return to work. The men had voted to stay out. But the result wasn’t the point. The point was they’d had to have a vote in South Yorkshire –

The Heartland.

The President was out on the picket lines. The President was down in Parliament. The President was here. The President was there –

Taking no prisoners. Showing no mercy –

The President was everywhere –

Terry picked up the thank-you card on his desk –

The same painting of the Battle of Saltley Gate which hung in reception.

Terry thought the President might have forgiven him. Truly trusted Terry again. But there were rumours sweeping the building –

Talk of talks. Talk of meetings. Talks about talks. Meetings about meetings.

The President had said nothing to Terry Winters. Terry still not truly forgiven. Not truly trusted again –

Still out of the loop.

Terry sighed. He walked over to the big windows. Immediately the phone rang.

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

‘Terry? It’s Joan here. Can you come upstairs?’

‘Now? This minute?’

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked. ‘Bad time?’

Terry shook his head. He said into the phone, ‘No, no. But is something wrong?’

‘Why do you always think that?’ laughed Joan.

Terry hung up. He went back over to the window. Bit his thumbnail until it bled. Terry wrapped it in his handkerchief. He squeezed it –

Tight.

Terry put on his jacket. He locked his office door. He walked down the corridor. He went upstairs. He knocked on the President’s door –

Terry waited.

Len Glover opened the door. Loyal Len nodded.

Terry went inside.

The President was on the phone. His back to the room –

Joan pointed at the seat next to Paul. Paul looked away. Terry sat down.

‘— know where they stand. They know where we stand,’ the President was saying. ‘There is no change in our position. If there is a shift on their part, then fine. Let’s meet. We’ll listen to what they have to say. But they know very well what we have to say. Know what we want. What our membership want —’

The other phone rang. Joan picked it up. She handed it to Paul.

Terry took his right hand out of his jacket pocket. He opened up his handkerchief. He looked at his bloody thumb. He stuck it in his mouth. He sucked it. He looked up.

The President had finished on the phone. So had Paul –

Everyone was staring at Terry again.

Paul said, ‘Paper cut, Comrade?’

Terry took his thumb out of his mouth. He put his hand back in his pocket.

Paul sighed. He held out four files. He said, ‘You’re going to need these.’

Terry took the files in his left hand. He said, ‘Why? What —’

‘Comrade,’ said the President, ‘I need you in Paris with me next week.’

Terry stared at the President. The portrait behind him. Terry nodded.

‘It’s short notice,’ said Joan. ‘Is there going to be any problem with your family?’

Terry Winters shook his head. Terry said, ‘My family are no problem.’

Martin

Day 70. Put us in the ground — Wake up. Lie here — Lie here smiling. Feels like it was all a dream. Good one for a change — What a day. Cath opens bedroom door. Come downstairs, she says. Quickly, love. I sit up. I reach for my cigarettes. Quick, she says. It’s on telly. I follow her down stairs. I sit on sofa next to her. I put cigarette to my lips. Television has pictures of Mansfield. Pictures of King Arthur looking like Adolf bloody Hitler. Right hand raised in a Nazi salute. Pictures of broken windows. Smashed-up cars. Lads throwing bricks and bottles. Lads fighting with police. Police bleeding. Police on stretchers — I throw cigarette on carpet unlit. I get up from sofa. I switch it off. Liars. Cath is crying. Bloody liars. Day 75. Bad dreams are Cath’s tonight — To drown. To suffocate — Keep us both up. That and rain. Day 78. Orgreave — First day. Bad from get-go. Lot of knuckle on both sides. Thirty of us from Thurcroft. Sixty-odd from Maltby and Silverwood. Outnumbered pigs for once — One convoy of trucks. Motorcycle outriders. Range Rovers. Seventy mile an hour. No stopping them — Someone picks up a stone. Someone throws it through a windscreen — Then that’s it. It’s begun. Day 80. Orgreave — They stick on an extra convoy. Jack and Sammy come down. No talking to drivers. Non-union as usual. Eighty mile an hour. Motorcycle outriders. Range Rovers. Half of South Yorkshire force out to help them in. Command posts. Cameras on roofs. Smile. Bloody works. Bad as Met for dishing out knuckle. Worse because they’re local. Know you. Get too near front you get a hiding — Black eyes. Stars. Broken noses. Ribs. Blood from your ears. Your teeth — Big push starts up. I go forward. Feet off ground. Into front. Into a fist. Take a punch — Here we go. Here we go. Here we go — I go down. Hard. Someone picks us up. I go backwards. Feet off ground. I fall backwards. Blokes all over me. I crawl out — Black eyes. Stars. Broken nose. Ribs. Blood from my ears. Teeth — Fuck me. They’ve got us in field again — Penned in. Like fucking animals — Lorries come up road. Lorries go in. Ninety mile an hour — No stopping them. Cowboys. No talking to them — Lorries come out. Lorries go off — Loaded. There were a thousand pickets up at Anchor today. Thousand fucking lads stood at wrong end. Pigs had set us up. Lorries had gone in Dawes Lane gate. Hundred of them lads here with us and we’d have had them today, says Keith. I say nothing. He’s dreaming. I look back down hill at place. Horrible — Chimneys and storage tanks. Black and ugly. White smoke and motorway — Bloody nightmare, this place. I hate it. Fucking hate it. Day 84. Pete opens envelope. He looks up. He nods — Orgreave. We go out to cars. We get in. It’s that fucking close we could walk it. I’m in with Keith and Tom. There’s room for one more. Pete tells us to hang on for stragglers. We watch rest of them set off. Twenty minutes later a lad comes into car park. He gets in with us. Off we set. It’s just gone eight when we arrive. Union have got blokes with maps and loud-hailers waiting. Directing you. Telling you where to go. Where they want you. Most of lads from Thurcroft are down Catcliffe end. They send us up Handsworth end. Police are helpful, too — Park here. Park there — We go down a side-street. Get out. Go up top field. End of High Field Lane. Walk down towards front. Must be five thousand here. Easy. Arthur himself again. Every man matched, copper for miner. Miner for copper. Stormtroopers stood five abreast. Ten abreast. Fifty abreast — Five deep. Ten deep. Twenty deep. Land fucking black with them again. Marching up and down. Up and down. On bloody double. Like it’s drill time — Like they’re fucking soldiers. Not coppers — Their gaffers bark orders. Try to corral everyone. Push us about. Not so fucking helpful now — Go here. Go there. Shut it, scum. Stand here. Stand there. Fucking shut it — That game. Half on one side of road. Half on other. Stick us lot in front of Rother Wood. Hear they’ve already let dogs loose on them down Catcliffe end. Maybe it’s our lucky day for once. Loud-hailers crackle. Roar goes up. I look at my watch — It’s nine o’clock. Two mile off in distance, twenty lorries are coming up road. I can see them — them and police escort. Lot of shoving now — Push.

The Eleventh Week

Monday 14 — Sunday 20 May 1984

The set-up. The trigger effect. The wheels in motion. The chain reaction. The solution –

Neil Fontaine sets it up –

The final solution.

Waiters wheel in the trolleys. Waiters lay out the plates. Waiters serve the spirits. The Poles are hungry. The Poles take from the silver plates. The Poles drink the spirits –

The Poles are here to offer their coal.

The Poles watch Neil Fontaine pin maps to the board. The Poles watch him use red drawing-pins to mark the sites. The Poles watch Neil Fontaine introduce the Jew –

The Jew is here to accept their offer. Here to sign the blank cheque from her.

‘Gentlemen,’ says the Jew. ‘I am here to tell you all is in hand.’

But the Poles are worried about pickets. The Poles are worried about dockers.

‘Gentlemen, worry not,’ says the Jew. ‘Our intention is to avoid either foe.’

Neil Fontaine points at a red pin on the map. Stuck in the map. In Gunness.

‘Thank you, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘This will be our secret little sanctuary.’

But the Poles ask questions about the Employment Acts. About the law –

‘Our friends in Sheffield need distractions,’ says the Jew again. ‘Not causes.’

But the Poles are still worried about the pickets. Still worried about the dockers.

‘Worry not,’ says the Jew again. ‘We have our distraction planned.’

Neil Fontaine points at another red pin on the map. Stuck in the map. Stuck in –

‘Thank you, Neil,’ says the Jew again.

The Poles offer their coal –

The Jew accepts their offer. The Jew fills in the blanks on her cheque.

The Poles are happy. The Poles clean their plates. The Poles drink toasts –

The Poles leave with the cheque and all the bottles they can carry.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. It’s stopped. He taps it. It’s started –

Time slips.

It stops again. It starts again –

Neil Fontaine used to love her, too.

The Jew turns to Neil with his glass raised. The Jew puts down his glass –

‘Heavens above,’ says the Jew. ‘You don’t look at all well, Neil.’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Really?’ asks the Jew. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’

They lift weights in the morning sun. They run. They wrestle. They shower. The Brass break them back into their cells. Their teams. The Brass give them maps. Instructions. Fresh clothes. They change into their jeans and their boots. They sit on their beds. They crack their knuckles. They grind their teeth —

The Brass give them more pills. Rationed. The Brass make them wait.

The Transits come as the sun sets. The Mechanic and his team sit in the back. They drink. Listen to music: White Riot loud.

The Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team get out. They walk through the centre of Mansfield. They come to the car park. They come to the coaches. They come to the bricks. The bottles. There are kids. Kids with their mums and their dads. His team pick up the bricks. The bottles. They throw the bricks. The bottles. The dads charge. Big men. Soft and drunk. Red from the sun. The Mechanic and his team charge. Big men. Hard and wired. Black from hell. There is fighting. Fists and boots. Boots and bottles. The dads go down. The Mechanic and his team stay up. Helicopters overhead. Sirens. Police car doors. Batons. His team walk away. Through the police. Back into the centre of town. Into the market place. The pubs. They buy drinks. They look for badges. They look for stickers. The Mechanic spills drinks. The Mechanic picks fights. His team take it outside. They fight. Fists and boots. Boots and bottles. The badges go down. His team stay up. Leave the badges on the pavement. In the road. The sirens come. The badges don’t give up. The badges make Sieg Heil salutes. The police beat them again. The police arrest them. The Mechanic and his men walk into the next pub and the next and the next. They look for badges. Look for stickers. Spill drinks. Pick fights. Take it outside. Fight. Fists and boots. Boots and bottles. The stickers go down. His men stay up. Leave the stickers on the pavement. The sirens come. Thestickers chant, ‘Section 5. Section 5.’ Thepolice beatthem again. Arrest them —

Breach of the Peace.

Neil Fontaine has a busy day. He drives North with the Jew. He drops the Jew in the car park of the Green Dragon. The Jew is here to meet with the Working Miners’ Committee. Neil Fontaine drives further North –

First stop Gainsborough.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. Taps it. Twelve noon. He takes the briefcase off the passenger seat. He gets out of the Mercedes. He walks across the forecourt towards the Portakabin –

The door opens. A middle-aged man in a suit appears –

‘Mr Parish?’ asks the man.

Neil Fontaine squints into the sun. He says, ‘Yes.’

‘Brendan Matthews,’ says the man. ‘Nice to be able to put a face to the name.’

Neil Fontaine shakes the man’s hand. He says, ‘John Parish. How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’ says Brendan Matthews. ‘Step this way.’

They walk up the white wooden steps into the Portakabin. A young woman is talking on a telephone at a school desk. They go through into Brendan Matthews’ office –

‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ asks Brendan Matthews.

Neil Fontaine raises a hand. He says, ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

Brendan Matthews unlocks a filing cabinet. He takes out a large manila envelope. He hands it to Neil Fontaine. He says, ‘These are the photocopies of their licences.’

Neil Fontaine takes out the photocopies. He flicks through them.

‘I know you’ll obviously want to do your own checks,’ says Brendan Matthews. ‘But I’m confident these men will meet your needs.’

Neil Fontaine opens his briefcase. He asks, ‘How many are there?’

‘Fifty, as requested.’

Neil Fontaine puts the manila envelope inside his briefcase. He takes out another large envelope and fifty smaller plain brown envelopes held together with a rubber band. He hands the fifty smaller envelopes across the desk to Brendan Matthews. He says, ‘These are retainers of five hundred pounds for each man.’

‘Thank you very much,’ says Matthews.

Neil Fontaine hands him the large envelope. He says, ‘This is a deposit for the transport. The wagons are to be covered with Corporation stickers, which will be with you by the end of the week. Further payment will then be made when we are certain of the dates and the numbers. The men are to be paid in cash on a daily basis.’

‘Hundred quid a run?’ asks Matthews.

‘There and back,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Two runs a day with a completion bonus.’

‘That’s good money,’ says Brendan Matthews.

Neil Fontaine smiles. He says, ‘You want to give me a copy of your licence?’

‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Parish,’ laughs Brendan Matthews.

Neil Fontaine and Brendan Matthews shake hands and say their goodbyes.

Neil Fontaine leaves Gainsborough. He drives to Scunthorpe. To Anchor –

To the furnaces. To the Queen Mary.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. It’s stopped. He taps it. It’s started –

Time slips, like a furnace.

It stops again. It starts again.

*

Terry felt the tide had turned. The Mansfield rally had been a magnificent occasion –

A triumph. A show of strength –

Just as Terry had planned.

Terry felt his own stock had risen. His own star back on the rise –

Yesterday, Mansfield. Today, Paris. Tomorrow, the world –

Just as Terry had planned.

Theresa packed Terry an overnight bag. Shirt. Vest. Pants. Socks. Razor. Toothbrush. Towel. She stuck the kids in the back of the car. Half asleep. She drove him to the station. They kissed him goodbye. He got the Manchester train. Taxi to the airport. The President and Joan were at check-in. They didn’t acknowledge him. He didn’t acknowledge them. The President was calling himself Mr Smith. He was wearing a hat. Sunglasses. They were not to speak to each other until Paris –

The flight took one hour.

There was a big car waiting at Charles de Gaulle. The President took off his hat. His sunglasses. He sat in the back between Terry and Joan. Pierre from the MTUI sat in the front with the driver. They went straight to their big modern offices in East Paris. They met François and Jean-Marc. They had good coffee. They talked about the dispute. The prospects for peace. Then the President and Joan went off with Pierre and François for the meeting with their international comrades –

The French, the Polish and the Australians.

Terry was sent upstairs to meet with Claude. They discussed international law. They discussed international banking. They discussed legal strategies. They discussed financial strategies. They discussed law firms. They discussed private banks. They discussed clauses. They discussed routes. They discussed lawyers. They discussed accountants. They discussed fees. They discussed funds. They discussed perjury. They discussed penury. They discussed sequestration. They discussed bankruptcy –

The meeting took two hours.

There was another big car waiting to take them to a late lunch at Chartier. They sat at the long tables. The waiters wrote their orders on the paper table covers. The President had the chicken and chips. A salad. The house red.

Terry Winters had the same.

The President leant across the table. He touched Terry’s arm. He raised his glass. The President said, ‘There’ll be no more scab coal from Europe, Comrade.’

Terry raised his glass.

The President shouted, ‘Vive la Révolution!’

The President loved Paris. Revolutionary City. Second only to sacred Leningrad. Holy City. The President loved the bread. The cheese. The good coffee. The red wine. The President carried Zola everywhere. Germinal.

Terry had a copy too. He couldn’t get into it –

Terry threw it across the hotel room. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t –

The President and the fucking Frogs had bloody left Terry in town after lunch. The President and Joan had had their own plans for the rest of the day. The evening –

Plans in which Comrade Terry had not been included.

Terry sat up in his single bed. Terry could see the rooftops of Paris. The pigeons. He called Theresa. Click-click. The kids. He said he’d be home tonight. Terry hung up. He called Diane. She wasn’t there. Terry wished she was here. He went to the bathroom. He touched himself. He shaved. He washed. He went downstairs.

Pierre and Francois joined the Union for breakfast. The President ate croissants. He drank hot chocolate. Terry asked for toast and a pot of tea. Then they checked out. Pierre and François drove them back to the MTUI offices. They had informal meetings. They made informal plans. They ate another late lunch together. Pierre drove out with them to Charles de Gaulle.

The flight took one hour.

They were back in Manchester for half-five. The President put on his hat again. His sunglasses. Len was there to meet them. They didn’t offer Terry a lift –

They weren’t going his way.

Terry said he’d see them in London. Terry took the train home. It was raining.

*

Today is the day. The first of many days. The start of the action. The start of many actions. Neil Fontaine parks behind the Law Courts. Fred Wallace sits in the back with his two mates and the Jew –

Today is their day in court. Their first of many days.

Fred is here to issue writs against his own Union, at both area and national level. Fred will first argue the strike in the Nottingham Area is not official. Fred will then argue the instruction to strike does not have to be obeyed. Fred will also threaten to issue further writs if the local branch elections are postponed –

These are expensive arguments for little men in cheap suits –

Frightened men.

Neil Fontaine switches on the signal. He listens to the Jew rally his troops –

‘They stalk your streets while you work. Terrorize your women. Your children. They daub your houses in paint while you sleep. Break your windows. Slash your tyres. Kill your pets. They watch your windows to see when your lights go on. Force you to dress in the dark. Watch your doorways and drives to see who works and who strikes. How long before the arson starts? Before your women are assaulted? Your children? These are the same men who would have you thrown out of your own Union. The same men who are using your own subs which you have loyally paid — and continue to pay –

‘To intimidate you! You!

‘This is why you are here today. This is what you are here to stop –

‘Intimidation. Corruption.’

Neil changes channels. He listens to the Home Secretary make the same speech. Listens to the Home Secretary announce the formation of special squads to counter the intimidation in the pit villages of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire –

Intimidation squads.

Transit van. Boiler suit. House to house in Nottingham. Bringing out the dead scared. Twenty Yorkshire men still lodging down here with the striking families. Picketing pits. Twenty men still staying with the families on ThorneyAbbey Road. Intheir gardens —

In tents. In caravans.

The Mechanic sits in the Transit van. In his black boiler suit. He watches the pickets leave the tents. The caravans. Watches the pickets go into the Jolly Friar. Watches them leave the worse for wear. Watches the pickets buy their bags of chips. Watches them stumble back to Thorney Abbey Road. Watches them thank their hosts. Wish them goodnight. Head into the gardens —

Their tents. Their caravans.

It is gone midnight.

The Mechanic and his team get out of their Transit. They go up the drive of number 52. Round the back. Into the garden. There is an orange tent pitched on the lawn. There are two pickets inside. They are asleep. The Mechanic picks up a child’s bicycle. The rest of his team pick up some garden tools. Garden ornaments. Garden furniture. Theteam look at their leader —

The Mechanic nods.

They throw the objects onto the top of the orange tent. The pickets inside wake up. The pickets shout. Moan. The pickets try to get out of the tent. Thrash around —

The Mechanic and his team jump up and down on the tent. On the pickets inside. The pickets shout. The pickets scream —

They cannot get out.

The Mechanic nods again –

His team drag the tent out of the back garden. They drag it round to the front. Down the drive. They throw the tent and the pickets into the back of the Transit –

Lights going on up and down the street. Curtains opening. Faces at the windows.

The Mechanic and his team get in the back. The Mechanic bangs on the partition. The Transit sets off. The pickets tangled up inside the tent. Poles and ropes everywhere –

The pickets struggling to free themselves —

The Mechanic and his team punch them. They kick them. Beat and batter them —

The pickets shouting. The pickets screaming. Moaning and pleading.

The van stops. The Mechanic opens the back doors. His team jump out —

The Mechanic and his men drag the pickets out. The pickets wrapped in the tent—

They fall onto the ground at the side of the road.

The Mechanic and his men pull the orange tent off the pickets. They drag them round to the front of the van—

The two pickets are in their twenties, dressed only in their underpants and socks –

They are dirty, bloody and bruised –

One of them has pissed himself.

They blink into the headlights of the van.

The Mechanic and his men step forward. They punch the pickets. Bridge of their noses. Kick them. Their balls. The Mechanic and his men put bags on their heads. Tight.Handcuff their hands behind their backs —

Tighter –

They march the pickets to the side of the road. Lie them face down in a ditch —

They cover them with yellow Coal not Dole stickers.

The Mechanic nods. His men get back into their Transit.

The Mechanic stands by the side of the road. He looks at the two pickets face down in the ditch in their underpants and socks —

Bags on their heads. Badges on their bodies. Handcuffed.

The Mechanic takes two Polaroid photographs.

It starts to rain.

The Mechanic jumps down into the ditch. He takes off their handcuffs –

Whispers in their ears, ‘Stay out of Nottingham.’

Neil Fontaine takes the back roads. The lanes. He comes to the bridges. The roadblocks. He slows. He pulls over. He shows the necessary papers to the private security guards. Neil Fontaine comes into Flixborough. The Trent Wharves –

It is a beautiful sight, glorious –

The checkpoints. The helicopters. Stopping and searching –

Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.

The ships in the port. The wagons on the dock. Unloading and loading –

Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week –

Coal.

Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes. He walks across the car park.

She is waiting for him. She exhales. She smiles. She says, ‘Congratulations.’

‘The drivers need helmets,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘The windscreens need grilles.’

‘Never change, do you?’ laughs Diane Morris. ‘Never satisfied, are you?’

Martin

Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push — Police ten deep. Holding — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Everyone shouting — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Few stones coming over. Hands up. Coats up. Shields up — Brick coming. Lorries go in — Folk go down. Folk go under. Folk get lost. I get pulled back. Fall back. I get pulled up. Picked up — It’s Keith. He shakes his head. We go back in. Five minutes later another lot of lorries come up road — Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. More stones — Brick coming. Lorries inside. Gates shut. Lines break. Snatch squads of six coppers charge out. Piling in — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust — Blue helmets. Visors down. Short shields. Round shields. Truncheons out — Hidings on both sides — Snatch squads taking as many prisoners as they can — Taking them hard — By their hair. By their throats. By their balls — Chaos. Bloody fucking chaos — Someone chucks a smoke-bomb. Fire-crackers. Thunder-flashes. Explosions. Red smoke everywhere — Then out come fucking horses. First time I’ve seen them up close. Six at a time. Visors down. Batons swinging — Kill you if they could — And they could. They fucking could — We run. We scatter — Half through wood. Half up hill — Into fields. Into open — Lads stopping to pick up sticks. Stones. Spars. Anything they can — I don’t stop. Horses don’t stop either — Straight into field after us. Open ground — Snatch squads behind horses. Transits behind snatch squads — Under blue skies. Across green fields — Fuck. I keep on running. Don’t stop till I get up near Asda — Till I hear them banging. Banging their truncheons on their shields as horses trot back and lorries leave — Leaving us to blood. To bodies. Burials. Under the ground. Day 85. My car today. I ask Pete for somewhere else. He looks at me. He shrugs. He opens envelope. He shakes his head. He holds it up. He shows it me — Orgreave. I tell him, It’s a waste of time. Fucking side-show. That’s what it is. He nods. He says, Fuck them. Try Bentinck. I say, Thanks, Pete. I go and get Keith and John. Lad called Stevie says he wants to come in with us. Set off. Get on M1. Radio on: Footloose. Everyone dead chuffed to be going somewhere else. Even if it’s back to bloody Bentinck. Wake me up before you go-go. Halfway down motorway it comes on radio Arthur’s been nicked up at Orgreave and pickets have invaded NCB HQ in London. Barricaded themselves in. Hung Free Arthur Scargill banners from windows. Mood in car changes. Radio goes off. Come to Junction 28 and it’s like police Transit van of year contest. Very helpful, they are — Try Junction 31, lads, they tell us. That’s where action is. Orgreave — They’ll let you go to Orgreave. No problem. They’ll even give you directions. Fucking escort — Make bloody sure you get there. There and only there — Nowhere else. I look at Keith. He shrugs. Stevie sticks his head between front seats. I want to go, says Stevie. Let’s go. I look at Keith again. He nods. I look at clock — Gone ten. Probably missed all drama. I go round junction. Set off back way we came. Come off at Junction 31. Take Retford Road. Head back to Orgreave. There for about eleven. Park by another pub called Plough. Place packed. Rammed. Have a pint. Talk all about Arthur. What they’ve done to our Arthur. Talk all about revenge. Payback. What we’re going to do to them. Word is lorries will be back between half-twelve and one o’clock. I look at my watch again. Time for another pint. And another. Dutch fucking courage. Gets to half-twelve and we head back out. Bright sunshine. Start up towards main entrance. Stormtroopers having none of that. Sieg Heil. Herd us all up to top field. Lot of lads are already up there. Not as many as yesterday. Most are sat about in sun. Shirts off. Packs of cards. Cans of cheap ale. Look like a load of tomatoes, that red. Be able to spot a scab by paleness of his skin. There’s a game of football going — Skins and shirts. Then game stops — Police boots march up road. Four abreast by us. Twenty deep down by gate — Lorries must be coming. Everyone pushes forward. Towards truncheons and shields. Full-length

The Twelfth Week

Monday 21 — Sunday 27 May 1984

The Transits come at midnight. His team sit in the back. They drink. Listen to music: Under Cover of the Night. Loud.Deafening —

Their Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team have their bags packed. Ready. Their tools. The paint. The Mechanic and his team go from street to street —

House to house. Scab to scab —

In the last street. The last house. The last scab. They tip paint over the scab’s dog. Put the empty cansthrough his windows. Thelights go on –

The Mechanic and his men shout. They run –

The Transit picks them up.

In the back. They drink. Laugh. Listen to music: Breaking the Law –

The Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team have their bags. Their tools –

They do the padlocks. Do the chains. Bentley Brothers — Hauliers.

Through the yard. Tools out. The Mechanic and his men set about the trucks —

The windscreens. The brake pipes. The tyres –

Back to the Transit –

More drink. More laughs. More music: Smash It Up –

Transit stops. Bags. Tools. Padlocks. Chains. NCB Property.

Through the pit yard. Set about the offices. The windows. The doors. Anything —

They smash it up —

The Transit comes back for them as the sun rises. This tour finished.

The Transit drops the Mechanic near his mother’s house.

He picks up the dogs. Heads home. He has a shower. A drink. He lies on the bed. Their bed. He switches on the news. Switches it off again. He gets up. Into the lounge —

He puts on a record. Sade. Turns it off again. He sits on the sofa in the dawn —

The curtains shut. His eyes wide open –

The money on the table. The Polaroid —

He knows she’s hurting. Knows he is not therefor her. Knows —

*

The Chairman was ready to meet. The Chairman was not. The President ready to meet. The President not. Preconditions. No preconditions. Set agendas. No set agendas –

The talks were on. The talks were off. The talks on. The talks off –

The talks on again.

Everyone went South with the President. Everyone but Terry –

Terry left to wait by the phone. To wait for the call. The word.

Terry did his homework. Two piles of big files on his desk. One pile of accounts. One pile of actions.

The phone rang. Click-click. It was the President. The President for Terry –

The talks were off again. The Chairman was a liar. Everyone was a liar –

Terry was to chair the morning meeting. The President hung up.

Terry gathered his files. His homework. He went upstairs –

They were waiting for him. They were waiting for news –

Terry had no news. No one told him anything –

So Terry told them things they already knew –

The Board in Derbyshire had sent out personal letters to every miner in the area but just sixty men had gone back; ten thousand still on strike. Lancashire had suspended one thousand members for crossing official picket lines. The President of Kent had been remanded in custody for nine days for breach of bail conditions.

Mike Sullivan raised his hand. Mike asked, ‘Is it true a Nottinghamshire miner nailed himself to his own fucking floor in protest over the scabs at his pit?’

The phone rang. Nigel picked it up –

Click-click.

‘Tell them we’re in a meeting,’ said Terry.

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Nigel. Nigel shook his head –

It was the President. The President for Terry –

The President wanted Terry. The President needed Terry –

Now. In London –

Terry dropped the phone. Dropped everything. Left Mike in charge –

In charge of everything.

Terry caught the first train down. First class –

It was a big day. The talks were scheduled to happen –

Huge. The Nottinghamshire High Court action was set to be heard too –

Terry took a taxi to the hotel. Through the revolving doors. Up the stairs –

Enormous. Terry knocked on the door. Terry walked into the hotel room. Everyone looked at Terry. Everyone but the President and Paul. Terry looked at Joan –

Joan shook her head. Joan whispered, ‘Kent won’t lift the picket of Hobart House. The President won’t cross a picket line. The Board won’t change the venue –

‘The Prime Minister won’t let them.’

Alice Keyes picked up the phone. Click-click. She put her hand over the phone. She said, ‘President. It’s Yorkshire.’

The President took the phone from her. He said, ‘Comrade?’

Terry looked round the hotel room. People came in and people went out again. Took away cups and saucers. Brought in papers and files.

‘They’re liars,’ shouted the President into the phone. ‘Liars! Tell them, no way.’

The President hung up. The President gestured to Len Glover. Len came over. The President whispered in Len’s ear. Len walked over to Paul. Len whispered to Paul. Paul nodded. Paul got up. Paul left the room.

Alice picked up the phone again. Click-click. Put her hand over the phone again. She said, ‘President. It’s Yorkshire again.’

The President took the phone back. He said, ‘Comrade, I don’t care if their whole bloody plant goes up. They’re not having another single piece of coal from us. Not one. Not while they continue to ride roughshod over every agreement we come to.’

Joan picked up the other phone. Click-click. Joan said, ‘President. Kent —’

The President put down one phone. He picked up the other. He said, ‘Comrade?’

The dogs in the back of the car. The Mechanic takes the A1 down to Leeds. He pulls into the car park. He leaves the dogs in the back. He walks across to the transport café—

Paul Dixon is already here. The table facing the door and the car park.

The Mechanic sits down opposite Dixon.

‘Nice work, Dave,’ says Dixon. ‘People are very pleased with you.’

The Mechanic says, ‘Always nice to be appreciated, Sergeant.’

Paul Dixon puts an envelope on the table. He pushes it over to the Mechanic.

The Mechanic opens it. He smiles. ‘Very nice to be appreciated, Sergeant.’

‘Lot more where that came from,’ says Dixon. ‘Way things are going.’

The Mechanic smiles again. He says, ‘Good. I need the money.’

‘Not planning to retire to the sun again, I hope?’ asks Dixon.

The Mechanic looks up from the envelope —

Paul Dixon is staring at him. The dogs barking in the car —

‘No,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Home is where the heart is.’

Neil Fontaine lies in the dark with the curtains open. Neil Fontaine thinks about alchemy; the transmutation of base metal into gold –

He looks at his watch. He taps it. It is five-thirty in the morning –

The telephone rings.

Neil Fontaine picks it up. He listens –

‘There’s been an explosion. Major slip in one of the furnaces.’

Neil Fontaine hangs up. He looks at his watch again. Taps it. He makes two calls. Hangs up again. He takes his blazer from the wardrobe. Puts it on. He checks the windows. The corridor. He leaves the room –

Leaves Jennifer sleeping in his bed, the living and the dead.

He takes the stairs. Goes outside. He hails a cab to the garage. Gets the Mercedes. He drives to Claridge’s. Picks up the Jew.

They head North. The fast lane. The Jew on the phone.

Neil Fontaine comes off the M1 at Junction 33. Heads down Sheffield Parkway. He goes round Poplar Way. Onto Orgreave Road. Down Highfield Lane –

They are here —

Orgreave.

They park. The Jew gets out of the Mercedes. His binoculars round his neck.

Neil Fontaine leads the Jew to a concrete-roofed bus shelter. Neil Fontaine helps the Jew up. They stand on top of the bus shelter. The Jew looks through his binoculars. The Jew sweeps the landscape. The Jew can see Catcliffe and Treeton. Handsworth and Orgreave. The Jew can see the cornfields and the slag heaps. The fences and the trees. The Jew can see the River Rother and the Sheffield-Retford railway. The roadways and the motorway –

The Jew can see a white Range Rover approaching.

Neil Fontaine helps the Jew down. They walk over to meet the Range Rover.

South Yorkshire Brass gets out. Handshakes. Smiles. Nods.

The Jew leads the way. They inspect the apron where the convoys will line up. They walk across the road to the old chemical factory. This is the base of their operations. Their command post. They climb dirty stairs up to the third floor. The ladder to the roof. They walk out into the sunlight. The Jew hands the Brass his binoculars –

The Brass surveys the scene. He lowers the binoculars. He bites his lip. He says, ‘What if they succeed? If we can’t keep the place open? Like Saltley?’

The Jew looks at the Brass. He asks, ‘Do you want to be the next Derek Capper?’

The Brass shakes his head.

The Jew gestures at the empty fields. The Jew points at the road. The Jew says, ‘Look at this place. You can open it. You can close it. Your decision. Your discretion –

‘Just make sure you have enough men –

‘The right men, too. Real men. Hard men. Not dilettantes.’

The Brass nods. The Brass says, ‘Thank you.’

‘She is counting on you,’ says the Jew. ‘The nation is.’

The Brass shakes the Jew’s hand. He hands back the binoculars. He leaves.

The Jew watches the white Range Rover through his binoculars. He lowers them. He is smiling. He is laughing. He turns to Neil –

‘Well done,’ says the Jew. ‘Well done indeed, Neil.’

Here. He. Goes —

The Mechanic through the automatic doors. Hits the alarms. Chaos —

Up the supermarket aisles to the office. Through the office door —

The secretary stands up. ‘No! Please God, no —’

Punch to the security guard. He goes down —

Slap for the secretary. Down and she’s out —

Kick to the guard and he stays down –

The Mechanic drags the manager across his desk by his hair —

Puts his face to the safe and shouts, ‘Open it!’

Manager hesitates. Hit with the handle of the pistol. The manager opens it —

The Mechanic kicks his legs from under him. Manager falls flat on his face —

‘Stay that way,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘And live.’

The Mechanic fills the bag. Just the cash. Takes the money and he runs –

Down supermarket aisles. Through automatic doors. The chaos and he’s gone —

Just. Like. That.

There had been calls all night. There had been talks all night. There had been deals. Concessions. Favours. Kent lifted the picket. The word went out. The talks were back on. Calls were made. Plans. Strategies. Meetings about the meeting. Talks about the talks. Face to faces about the face to face. Everyone was here –

Everyone was going to be there –

The entire National Executive. Their entire staff. Fifty people.

The President addressed his troops. The President laid it out. The President said, ‘Listen to them; let them have their say. Then they will listen to us; let us have our say. But there can be no negotiation. Because there can be no closures. No redundancies –

‘So there is nothing to negotiate. Nothing!’

Everyone cheered. Everyone applauded. Everyone followed the President –

Ten cabs to Hobart House.

Terry paid the drivers, all ten of them.

They pushed through the press. They went inside. Straight upstairs –

The Mausoleum.

Room 16, Hobart House, Victoria:

Bright lights, smoke and mirrors —

The orange anti-terrorist curtains still drawn. The matching carpet and the wall-length mirrors. The tables round the edge of the room. In the middle –

No man’s land.

The Board at the top end; everyone else down at the bottom –

Seventy people –

Sixty-eight people sat in silence as they listened to the Chairman –

To the Chairman tell them that everyone agreed it was the Board’s job to manage. Tell them that everyone agreed the Union had no plans to interfere in that job. That everyone agreed on how much coal had to be produced. Everyone agreed they could not continue to lose money. Agreed pits had to close for reasons of safety. Had to close for reasons of exhaustion. That everyone agreed pits had closed for reasons other than safety or exhaustion in the past –

That pits always had done. That pits always would.

Sixty-nine people sat in silence as they watched the President take his fingers from his ears and shake his head –

Sixty-nine people listen to the President tell the Chairman that pits had always closed for reasons of safety. That pits had always closed for reasons of exhaustion –

Always had. Always would –

But pits had never closed for reasons other than safety or exhaustion –

Never had. Never would –

Not Polmaise. Not Snowdon. Not Herrington. Not Bullcliffe Wood –

Not Cortonwood. Never –

Ever. Ever. Ever –

‘Does everyone agree on that?’ the President asked the Chairman.

The Chairman stood up. The Chairman said, ‘No comment.’

It is a war of nerves. There have been casualties. Prisoners taken. Hostages to be freed —

The dogs in the garden. The Mechanic opens the door. He goes into the lounge –

He has company.

Neil Fontaine is sat on the sofa in the dark with a brandy. Sade on low –

A Polaroid on the glass table.

Neil lights a cigarette. Inhales. Exhales. Neil holds up two fingers —

‘Fuck you,’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.’

‘Finished?’ asks Neil.

The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘I haven’t got her fucking diary.’

‘You haven’t looked, David,’ says Neil. ‘You haven’t even fucking looked.’

‘I don’t know where to fucking look and neither do you.’

‘Girl could be forgiven for thinking you don’t love her. Not like you say you do —’

‘Fuck you,’ the Mechanic screams. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’

Neil finishes his drink. Neil stubs out his cigarette. Neil stands up.

‘Where are you going?’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want her fucking back!’

‘You don’t have the diary,’ says Neil. ‘You won’t help me. I can’t help you.’

‘I don’t know anything about the fucking diary!’

‘Just a question of silence, then,’ says Neil. ‘Yours? Or hers?’

The Mechanic picks up his holdall. He puts it on the glass table. Opens it –

‘What’s in there?‘asks Neil. ‘Your heart?’

The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds in cash.’

‘David, David, David,’ says Neil. ‘Would it were so simple —’

‘I love her,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Never say I don’t, Neil. She’s mine now —’

‘It’s not my decision,’ says Neil. ‘Not my choice.’

It is a war of nerves. There have been casualties. There will be reparations. Ransoms to be paid —

A price.

Martin

ones. Stones coming over. Lads getting hit. Folk shouting to pack it in with stones. I pull my T-shirt over my head, like that’s going to fucking help. I get swept right down to front. Then carried back again — Like a fucking horrible sea. Helmets flying up. Truncheons. Sticks. Stones. Broken bones. Blokes go down. Boots all over them. Then lorries are in and everyone falls back. I start to walk away. To look for Keith or John. Everyone else making their way off road when — Shit. Fucking horses charge — I head for wood. They won’t follow us in here, I think. They fucking do. Wood’s only about fifty bloody metre wide and all. I come out other side and there’s a wall of a thousand fucking coppers with their truncheons out — Fuck me. I turn back — Horses still coming. I try to get up a tree. They’re swinging with their batons. Hitting anyone they can get. I jump down. Run. Horses still coming. Bastards on foot with shields and truncheons behind them. Batons drawn and ready. I come out other side of long grass. Brambles. I’m at embankment. I jump down. Land badly. My ankle fucking kills. End up on railway. Bloke tearing down line towards us — Shit. Train’s fucking coming — I scramble off line. Look up banking. Hundred fucking coppers banging their shields. Beckoning for us to come back up and have a go — Cunts. Fucking cunts — Train goes past. I cross line. Head up other way. Get to Rotherham Road. Lot of lads here — Split heads. Cracked ribs. Broken limbs. Bloody — Mates nicked. Beaten. Lost. Everyone fucking angry. Fucking furious. Things bastards have done to them. Completely unprovoked. Lads you’ve never met before telling you to get back down there. Give them what they’re fucking asking for. Fucking hiding they’ve got coming — To pick up bricks. Fence poles. Milk bottles. To make a trap — Few blokes get some wire and string it between these telegraph poles. They come up to where I am. Tell us to go down lane. Throw stones at bastard pigs. Then leg it back up here. I go down with about fifty or sixty other blokes I don’t know from Adam. I stand there in front of shields. Truncheons. I throw stones. Ranks break. Out come horses again. Eight of them — We run. Fucking run — Wire gets one of riders. Bang! Down he goes — Hard. Onto road — Everyone turns back. Hundred lads heading down on him — Hundred of their lot coming back up for him. I can see his fucking face beneath his visor — White in terror. Thought of his own death. Here on this road. In this place — And I wish him dead. I do. I wish him and all his kind dead. Every last bloody one of them. Dead — But he gets up. He runs. He gets away. Escapes — I watch him get up. I watch him run. I watch him get away. Escape — Taste of salt in his mouth. Taste of salt in mine — Fear. Fucking fear — I spit. I spit and I spit. My stomach knotted — Lads have got a fucking Portakabin from somewhere now. Put a match to it — Smoke everywhere. Next news they’ve got one of telegraph poles — Running down hill towards police lines with it. Like a fucking battering-ram — Not enough of them though. Thing drops to ground — Starts to roll away. Police go for it — Get hold of it. Rest of them all banging on their fucking shields again — Applauding their mates as all lorries leave again. Loaded — Day 87. Orgreave. Fucking Orgreave. Here we go. Here we go. Here we go — Here I go down. Here I go under. Here I get lost — I get kiss of life and a fractured fucking skull. Day 89. They keep us in for ob-servation. Daft bastard fell off a ladder, that’s what Pete tells doctors. Fell off a ladder and down stairs. They send us home after twenty-four hours. Bag of bandages. Load of pills. Plenty of rest. Doctor’s orders — Rest. Sleep. Rest. Sleep — I lie here in our big bed. In our room. Our house. I lie here and I watch shadows on our ceiling. On our walls. Our bedroom door — It’s been three months. Three fucking months — Lifted. Threatened. Beaten. Hospitalized. Broke in every fucking sense — I lie here and I listen to rain on our windows. To her tears — I turn over. I look at her — Her hopes. Her fears — All our hopes. All our fears — I close my eyes. Tight — Under the ground, we brood. We hwisprian. We onscillan. Under the ground, we scream — I open my eyes. Wide — She’s not finished with us. Not finished with any of us.

The Thirteenth Week

Monday 28 May — Sunday 3 June 1984

These were bad days. The deliberate and inevitable failure of the talks. The predictable and inevitable success of the Board and their stooges in the High Court –

The High Court had overruled the President. The Court had overruled the NEC. The Court had instructed the Nottinghamshire Area to hold their Union elections now. The Court had upheld the Nottinghamshire miners’ right to work. The Court had ruled there was no basis to call the strike in Nottingham official –

Bad days, worse weeks —

The Court also held the Union liable for all costs from the Pension Fund case. Terry had not mentioned this to the President. Terry was waiting for the right moment –

Now was not the time —

The Board had just called the President on the phone. Click-click. Their Deputy Director of Industrial Relations. He’d gone on about the Queen Mary furnace at Scunthorpe –

The threat to life. The threat to limb.

He’d begged the President for more tonnage out of Orgreave. He’d pleaded with the President to help them relieve this potential pressure point –

The President put down the phone. He stared at the faces round the table in the Conference Room. He repeated the Deputy Director’s last three words –

‘Potential pressure point.’

The President smiled. Everybody smiled. He nodded. Everybody nodded –

The President turned to Alice and Joan. He said, ‘Get me Barnsley.’

*

Neil Fontaine stands on the dock in the rain. He looks through the showers at the ships and the lorries. He watches the ships unload. The foreign words on their sides. The foreign flags on their masts. The foreign seamen on their decks. He watches the lorries load up. The stickers across their sides. The grilles on their windscreens. The drivers in their motorcycle helmets.

Neil Fontaine leaves Humberside and Lincolnshire. He drives in circles through the lawless Yorkshire borderlands with Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. The back roads. He passes the reserves parked up in their buses and their vans –

Suddenly Neil Fontaine brakes hard. He swerves across two lanes. Lands in the lay-by –

Roundheads lead their horses across the road. Bloody. They are beaten. In retreat. The steam rises from the backs of their horses to meet the rain. To wash away the battle.

Neil Fontaine blinks. He starts the car. He pulls out of the lay-by. Back to Orgreave –

Neil Fontaine has orders for the South Yorkshire Brass on the passenger seat. Signed orders from her. Sealed by the Jew. To be hand-delivered –

Mass arrests. Serious charges. Restrictive bail conditions —

This is what she wants. This is what she’ll get –

She always gets what she wants.

Neil Fontaine stands on the roof in the rain. He looks through his brand-new binoculars at the allied forces. He watches the horseboxes unload 32 police horses; the Transits unload 2200 officers in 96 PSUs. He looks through his brand-new binoculars at the enemy hordes. He watches the President of the National Union of Mineworkers. He watches him walk alone down the hill –

The grey trousers. The black anorak. The navy baseball cap. The rain in his face —

Neil Fontaine has him in his sights.

*

The scabs had won their right to scab. Official. Legal. But no one seemed to care. Notice. Only Terry. The focus had switched. Orgreave. Everything was Orgreave now. Everything had to be done to close Orgreave. It would be the Saltley Gate of this dispute. The turning point. It was a matter of pride. Three miles from the Union’s headquarters. On their own doorstep. Matter of history. The Orgreave coke supplied Anchor. Anchor. The steel complex at Scunthorpe which had been the scene of the Little Saltley of 1974. The President reminded everyone it was his success here in 1974 that had brought down Heath and the Tories. It was a matter of destiny –

His destiny —

The President had done it once. The President would do it again –

This time he would do it alone. This time he had no choice.

The ISTC at Rotherham had refused to black the Orgreave coke.

The President ranted. The President raved –

The President couldn’t tell the difference between union and management –

Management and government –

Government and police –

Police and –

Terry looked up from his calculator. Paul Hargreaves was staring at him again.

Must not sleep. The days of the week are seven pits. Fifty days without her. Fifty nights. Routine now. This loss. These minutes. These hours. These days —

The telephone is ringing —

Fifty days. Fifty nights. Must not sleep. Seven pits —

The Mechanic answers the phone.

They pick him up at Scotch Corner. Black Transit. Four in the back.

They give him a donkey jacket. Stickers. Badges. A sports bag —

Smoke-bombs. Fire-crackers. Thunder-flashes —

Ball-bearings.

They drive him down to Sheffield. They drop him in a suburb called Handsworth.

He walks up Handsworth Road. Police everywhere.

There are a couple of Union men stood about in stickers and badges with a clipboard and a loud-hailer. They call him over. They ask him, ‘Where you from?’

‘Selby,’ he tells them.

They say, ‘Straight up road. Mind yourself now. Pigs are dishing it out.’

The Mechanic nods. He heads up the road —

Disappears from view. Disappears into the war –

Man can lose himself in a war. Man can disappear —

Bide his time. Lie low. Pick his moment. To advance or to retreat —

The decision his. The choice –

Lucky man, lost.

The President was black from the battle. He sat at the end of the table. Maps before him. There had been over 2000 pickets; 84 arrests; 69 in hospital; 1000 tonnes moved.

Paul was in his suit. Terry in his suit. Mike in his.

Joan put a cup of tea down on the table next to the maps. The President was writing notes on scraps of paper. Putting the scraps in envelopes. Putting the envelopes in his pocket. He spoke as he wrote. Spoke about Saltley and Grunwick. Mao Zedong and Che Guevara. Chile and Bolivia –

Spoke of the thousands that would come tomorrow.

‘The Board want to talk,’ whispered Paul in his ear. ‘Talk concessions.’

The President looked up. He nodded. He smiled. He said, ‘I bet they bloody do.’

‘What do I tell them?’ asked Paul.

The President put his baseball cap back on. He said, ‘Tell them we’ll be there.’

Paul picked up his papers. Paul left the room.

The President stood up.

Len said, ‘They’ll arrest you if you go back there.’

The President adjusted his baseball cap. The President nodded.

Len asked, ‘Will you go easy then, or do you go hard?’

‘Hard,’ said the President.

*

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 laughter rise inside. The corks pop and the glasses chink. The bottles break. He waits for them to stagger out. To stick twenty-pound notes in the top pocket of his blazer. Run hands through his hair and pat him on the back. Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s and misses how the angels sing –

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

His wings –

Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite. He listens to the devils –

Inside.

*

Monk Fryston, North Yorkshire. Terry and Paul sat in the hotel lobby and waited. Tommy from the Board tried to make small talk. Did they want a quick game of pool to kill the time? A game of pool in a posh hotel while their members were being beaten. Their members were being nicked. Their members were being charged –

Their President lifted. Their President arrested –

Their President jailed.

Terry and Paul shook their heads. They looked at their watches –

Everyone had had enough.

The police had had enough; the police wanted the Board to go back to court –

For injunctions.

The Board had had enough; the Board wanted to talk conciliation –

Concessions.

Everyone had had enough. Everyone except the President –

They were on the verge of the greatest industrial success in post-war Britain!

The President and the Prime Minister –

Insatiable, thought Terry. The pair of them. Terry looked at his watch again –

The President had been bailed. Len and Dick gone to pick him up –

Len and Dick to drive him straight here. Then the talks could restart.

Paul got up. He went to use the telephone.

Terry looked at Tommy. Tommy winked. Terry looked away, out of the window –

The President’s car was coming up the drive.

Terry stood up. Terry went out to the hotel steps. Tommy followed him.

The President got out of the car. He looked up at Terry. He looked up at Tommy –

The President put his wrists together. He held them up in invisible cuffs –

He said, ‘Great Britain — 1984.’