GB84

Peter

The Panel, Silverwood — I was a delegate from Thurcroft Strike Committee; delegate took his orders from South Yorkshire Panel at Silverwood; South Yorkshire Panel took its orders from Yorkshire Area Strike Co-ordinating Committee at Barnsley, along with other three Yorkshire panels; Strike Co-ordinating Committee took its orders from National Co-ordinating Committee in Sheffield. In theory — Fat fucking chance. It was a bloody mess — Fuck him, shouted Johnny. It’s a waste of time and manpower — Johnny, Johnny, said Derek. He’s President of bloody Union — I don’t give a shit if he’s Queen of fucking Sheba. He’s wrong — Unity is strength, Comrade. Unity is strength — Aye, Johnny nodded. And blind bloody loyalty is sheer fucking stupidity. Lads in Notts are under more pressure than us. That’s where we should fucking be. Even if we did close Orgreave, wouldn’t mean anything. We won’t win without Nottingham. We can’t — Johnny, Johnny — Nottinghamshire and power stations. That’s where we should be. Not hitting same place every bloody day. Just plain daft, that. Banging your head against a brick bloody wall. Surprise them. One day here. One day not. Keep them guessing. Not us, though. Like an open fucking book, us lot. Derek turned to me. Derek said, You tell him. Make him see sense, Pete — But I had my fingers in my ears. My eyes closed — I’d had world on my back for thirty years. Thirty years I’d carried it. We all had — That was what we did. We were miners — Not pickets. Not thugs. Not hooligans. Not criminals — We were miners. The National Union of Mineworkers — Trade unionists and miners. Thirty years I’d carried it, but I’d carry it no more — Not for likes of MacGregor. Not for likes of Thatcher — It was time to put it down. Put it down and stand — In lines. Under sky — Black and blue. Shoulder to shoulder — But I’d come down to Panel each day for one. I’d sit in this hall and listen to them argue toss about this pit or that — Power stations or depots. Wharves or offices — I’d get our envelope. Our orders — Be back at Welfare for five at best. Never less than fifteen folk waiting for a word — I’d try to sort them out. Do what I could — Then I’d open envelope. Orders — Work out cars. Mini-buses. Vans. Ring round. Click-click. Have drivers in for eight. Tell them who was in with who and have them meet us all back at Welfare for two in morning. Give out instructions. Maps. Petrol money. Quid for going. Send them on their way — Young lads, most of them. Send them on their way to places they’d never been until three month ago. Places where they’d stand about without direction — Without guidance. Leadership — Send them on their way to get beaten or nicked. Krk-krk.Or bored to death — Same with afters. Same with nights — Then back I’d go again next day and Barnsley SCC would sit there and ask Panel why more weren’t out picketing and Silverwood Panel would come back and ask us delegates why more weren’t out picketing and Thurcroft delegate would tell them why more weren’t out picketing — Because they got nicked. Krk-krk. Because they got beaten. Krk-krk.Because they’d got no leadership. Because they’d got no money. No strike pay. No nothing — So they were working other jobs to feed their wives and kids. Why fuck did they think more weren’t out picketing? Pete, Pete — Don’t Pete, Pete me, I told them. I had one of mine knocked unconscious last Friday at Orgreave. Mate of mine called Martin Daly. He was purple in face. Fucking couldn’t find a pulse. Eyes in top of his head. Thought he was dead. This fucking copper hadn’t given him kiss of life, he might be. Three times he give him it. This same copper tells me not to take him to hospital in Sheffield or Rotherham because he’ll be nicked. Had to drive him all way up to Donny. Kept him in overnight. I went round his house to see him couple of days ago. His wife stands at door with pan of boiling fucking water — That’s what she thinks of us. This bloody Union. This fucking strike — I got my jacket. I stormed out — Back again next day like. Every day — Panel. Lads had been going back into Nottinghamshire all week. Some of them staying over a couple of nights. Been going well — Yorkshire Gala on Saturday and Sunday — but it was all

The Fourteenth Week

Monday 4 — Sunday 10 June 1984

Neil Fontaine pulls out into the traffic. Claridge’s to Downing Street. The sky is grey. Sirens wail. Armed police stand on every corner –

Ronnie’s riding into town.

The Jew is in the back. In the saddle. The Jew is ranting –

‘They think they’re winning,’ he shouts. ‘They actually think they’re winning.’

The Jew waves newspapers around the backseat –

‘And these clowns believe them,’ he laughs. ‘They actually believe them.’

The Jew throws his head back. Puts his hands through his hair –

‘So will the bloody Board,’ he moans. ‘And so will half the fucking Cabinet.’

Neil Fontaine stops at the end of Downing Street.

The Jew sighs. He reaches for his aviator sunglasses and a large white umbrella. He takes a deep breath. He is here to set the record straight –

‘Wish me luck, Neil,’ he says.

‘Good luck, sir.’

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Downing Street –

The War Cabinet.

He looks at the clock in the dashboard. He starts the Mercedes –

He takes a deep breath of his own. He has his own records to set straight.

Jerry and Roger are side by side in the dining room of the Special Services Club. They are looking at christening photographs.

Neil Fontaine sits down. He glances at the photographs. He recognizes faces –

Famous faces in private places.

Roger puts the photos in an envelope. He licks it shut. He looks up at Neil.

Jerry drums his fingers on the white linen tablecloth. Jerry leans forward. He says, ‘It isn’t getting any less complicated, is it, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine doesn’t say anything. Neil Fontaine waits.

Jerry leans back –

Roger leans forward. Roger places his hands on the table. Roger stares up at Neil. ‘Unfortunately,’ he says, ‘despite all your protestations, Jerry and I still do not share your conviction that our friends failed to find anything.’

Neil Fontaine waits.

‘However,’ says Jerry, ‘it would appear the panic upstairs has abated. A touch.’

‘A touch,’ repeats Roger. ‘For now.’

Neil Fontaine waits.

Jerry watches Neil Fontaine’s face. He drums his fingers on the tablecloth again. He says, ‘Roger and I feel now would be a good time to draw a line under certain …’

‘People,’ says Roger.

Neil Fontaine waits.

Jerry says, ‘No more loose ends, Neil. Please?’

‘Present company excepted, of course,’ adds Roger.

Neil Fontaine stares back across the tablecloth into their eyes –

Their endless lying, lidless fucking eyes —

Neil Fontaine smiles at Jerry and Roger. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Of course.’

Jerry says, ‘Roger and I do feel the Mechanic has served his purpose.’

‘Dixon is not going to be very happy,’ adds Roger. ‘We know that.’

Neil Fontaine shrugs. Neil Fontaine says, ‘The policeman’s lot.’

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

Roger puts a hand on it. He stops it. He taps it –

‘Both of them,’ he says. ‘Hand in hand into one last sunset.’

Neil Fontaine nods.

‘Both of them,’ Roger repeats. ‘No loose ends, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine nods again. He picks up the envelope. He stands up. He stops now –

‘Aren’t we all forgetting someone?’ he asks.

Jerry raises a hand. He makes a hook. He says, ‘Leave the Tinkerbell to us.’

‘Jerry and I are very fond of our fairy friends,’ adds Roger, with a wink.

Neil Fontaine stares back at them. Neil says, ‘He can hear things.’

‘We know that,’ laughs Jerry. ‘It’s his bloody job, Neil. Why we hired him.’

Neil Fontaine smiles. Neil Fontaine bows. Neil Fontaine leaves them to it –

He gets the car. He looks at the clock. He leaves for Downing Street –

The War Cabinet dissolves –

Neil Fontaine holds open the door.

The Jew gets in the back. The Jew shakes his head.

Neil Fontaine sits behind the steering wheel. He looks into the rearview mirror –

Muscles strain. Leather. Teeth snarl. Chains –

‘Call off the dogs‚’ says the Jew. ‘Call off the dogs, Neil.’

Malcolm Morris drank instant coffee. Malcolm Morris smoked duty-free cigarettes —

Malcolm Morris watched and Malcolm Morris listened –

‘— pick us up by Asda. What he said. But did he? Did he heck as like —’

Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week. Every month —

Malcolm Morris went to his office. Malcolm Morris worked at his desk –

On the fourth floor opposite NUM Headquarters, St James’s House, Sheffield —

‘— scab on her knee was as big as a plate, it was. Should have heard her —’

Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week –

The lenses leered. Smile. The tapes turned –

Cameras clicked and recorders recorded –

‘— I tell you, Rita. I see more of him on telly than in our own home —’

Every minute. Every hour. Every day —

The shadows on the screens. Smile. The whispers in the wires —

The stake-outs and the phone-taps —

‘— Orgreave, they reckon. Big push again, Bomber said. Boots on —’

Every minute. Every hour —

‘— thinks he must have been Special Branch. Paint-stripper. Lot of it and all —’

Every minute –

Every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single week on the taxpayer’s clock —

Operation Vengeance.

*

Skull. Candle. Clock. Mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor. Carpet. Towels. Sheets. Starlight across the wallpaper. Curtains. Fixtures. Fittings. Shadow across bone. Hands. Hair. Boots across the room. Building. Town. Country –

She doesn’t move.

Neil Fontaine sits in the dark with one curtain open. He thinks about legerdemain; the sleights of hand and the juggling –

He looks at his watch. He taps it. It is two in the morning –

Today the Jew will get his reward. The Prime Minister has promised.

Today the Jew will meet the President of the United States of America –

The Prime Minister has promised. This will be his reward –

The London Economic Summit. The D-Day celebrations –

With the world watching —

The Prime Minister has promised (and she always keeps her promises).

The telephone rings –

Neil Fontaine gets up. He picks up the phone. He listens. He hangs up –

Jennifer sits up in the bed. Jennifer says, ‘Forgive me, Neil. Take me back. Kill him —’

Skull. Candle. Clock. Mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor to the bed. Carpet. Towels. Sheets. Light across the wallpaper. He holds her. Curtains. Fixtures. Fittings. Shadows across their bones. He kisses her. Hands. Hair. Loves her –

There are always moments like this.

He dresses. He leaves. He takes the fast lane North –

He has his other promises to keep. Orders to give. Instructions. Hand-delivered –

Now is not the time, the day or the hour —

The world watching.

But the time, the day and the hour will come –

The world not watching.

Neil Fontaine comes off the motorway at half-past seven. He parks the Mercedes. He walks through the gathering pickets to the old chemical factory. He goes through the police lines into the command post. He has his binoculars. The envelope.

The South Yorkshire Brass looks up. He says, ‘Christ, what now?’

Neil Fontaine smiles. He hands him the envelope –

The Brass opens it. He takes out the letter. He reads it. He shakes his head –

‘Patience,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Patience.’

Neil Fontaine leaves him to it. He goes up to the roof. He raises the binoculars. He sees the horse-boxes. The kennels. The Transits. The PSUs –

He hears the hooves. The barking. The tyres. The boots –

Fresh from Creswell.

Radios crackle. Signals are given. Arms linked –

Ready.

The pickets move down the road to the field –

The lorries are coming.

Neil Fontaine watches them speed along the top road. Watches the pickets push. The police line hold. The lorries inside.

Neil Fontaine puts down the binoculars. He turns to leave –

‘We’ll support you. We’ll support you. We’ll support you ever more (ever more) —’

Neil Fontaine raises the binoculars again –

‘We’ll. Support. You. E-ver. More!’

The President of the National Union of Mineworkers is coming down the road. Grey trousers. Black anorak. Baseball cap –

Neil Fontaine has him in his sights again.

All the President’s men clap. They cheer –

Salute their Communist Caesar.

Neil Fontaine smiles –

For those about to die.

*

Diane got out of bed. Diane found her knickers in the sheets. Diane put them back on. Her bra. Her tights. Her petticoat. Her blouse. Her skirt. Her jacket.

Terry sat up. He looked at his watch. He had an hour before the train to London. Theresa and the kids thought he was already there. Gone down last night. For the march –

The first major Commons debate. The lobby of Parliament –

The Home Match with the Met.

Terry had booked the coaches. Made the arrangements. Paid the prices –

London. Wakefield. Orgreave.

‘That’s all he thinks I’m good for,’ Terry said. ‘Booking bloody buses.’

Diane came back over to the bed. She sat down on the edge. She kissed his cheek.

Terry said, ‘When will I see you again?’

Diane put her hand beneath the sheet. She held his cock. She smiled.

Terry lay back. He closed his eyes. He said, ‘When?’

Diane went under the covers. She kissed his cock. She sucked it.

Terry said, ‘I’ve got a lot of money, you know? We could just —’

She reached up. She put her finger to his lips.

*

The Jew calls Neil Fontaine at the Victoria Hotel again. It is the very middle of the night. The Jew is lonely. The Jew is bored. The Jew is depressed. The Jew is drunk –

He has been mixing his drinks; equal parts bravado and dread.

The Jew boasts about the success of the Derbyshire High Court action. Brags that the Nottinghamshire elections will rout the Militants –

Bravado.

But the Jew worries that it will all have been in vain. Fears the Board and the Wets will seek to use the Employment Acts –

Dread.

The Jew tells Neil Fontaine the Board are due to meet the Union again. Today. This time in Edinburgh. As far away as they can get. The Jew knows he’s been cut out. After all he’s done. The Jew senses a cave-in. A climb-down –

Beer and sandwiches at Number 10.

The Jew talks about Cabinet leaks. Talks about Wets. He says they are scared. Scared by the sight of ten thousand miners marching through the streets of London –

By the headlines in the Daily fucking Mirror —

The leaks about government intervention in the railway pay dispute.

They will betray her. These neophytes. These proselytes.

But the Jew is ready –

Ready to defend her. To save her. To send her victorious –

Victorious.

The Jew wants Neil back down in London –

ASAP.

Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. He tells the Jew he’ll see him on Monday. Not before.

The Jew sulks.

Neil asks the Jew about the President of the United States. The Summit. D-Day.

The Jew gushes. Neil Fontaine yawns –

He hangs up on the Jew. He checks out. He gets the car. He goes for a drive –

A job to do.

Neil Fontaine turns into the car park of the café. David Johnson is already here. Two big dogs in the back of his car.

Neil Fontaine signals for him to follow.

David Johnson starts his car. The dogs in the back –

The two cars head South.

Neil Fontaine winds down the window. Puts on the radio –

Ronnie goes home; the GLC Jobs Festival; England beating Brazil in Rio.

Neil Fontaine switches off the radio. Winds up the window –

Two cars. South.

Junction 14. Newport Pagnell. Milton Keynes –

Two cars.

Slip-roads. Side-roads. Back roads –

A cul-de-sac.

Nice houses. Detached houses. Barratt houses –

Safe houses for the unsafe.

Neil Fontaine parks in the drive. David Johnson parks on the road. Neil Fontaine gets out. He locks his door. David Johnson gets out. Locks his –

The dogs in the back –

David Johnson follows Neil Fontaine up the drive. He follows him inside –

They stand in the hall. The holdalls in their hands. The handguns in their belts.

The air smells old. The codes for Belfast and Derry are written above the phone.

David Johnson says, ‘Where is she? Where’s Jen?’

Neil Fontaine swallows. Neil Fontaine closes his eyes –

There are skulls. Mountains of skulls. There are candles. Boxes of candles —

‘Your silence? Or hers?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘It’s your choice, David.’

Peter

about collapse of talks now. Looked like it’d go all way to winter — Thatcher on TV talking no surrender; Heathfield saying it was stalemate; Board wanting to hold its own bleeding ballot — That’s why they’d scuppered talks, said Tom. Fucking planned it that way — They’ll go back to High Court now, said Derek. Mark my words — Everyone nodded. Everyone knew — He’s going to want one last push before they do, I said. Derek nodded. Derek said, Lads won’t like it. But if he says go, they’ll go — Last fucking time then, said Johnny. Last fucking time I go there — Everyone nodded again. But everyone knew — National Executive were in session in Sheffield. They were set to end all dispensations — No secret meetings. No secret deals. No sell-out — Not that we gave a shit; we ran South bloody Yorkshire. No one else, Johnny was shouting over chat. And that goes for more than just steel — Everyone nodded. But everyone knew where we were going — Orgreave. I looked round Welfare. Lads knew what it was going to say before I even opened frigging envelope. There were sixty-odd of us. Every one of them nodding. Big Tom came in. He said, Few thousand already up Handsworth end. It’s on radio. So off we set — Half-five. Didn’t take us long to find out what was happening. Lads were waiting for us at fence. Thought they were CID because this one bloke had a walkie-talkie. Krk-krk. Keith and Sammy were ready to give him a thump. Turned out he was from Doncaster area. He got out his map. Got on his walkie-talkie. Idea was we were to occupy frigging plant — He didn’t know how, like — But that was plan. Being local, we told him best way was to march ourselves round back of old tip and over top. Drop down right into plant. So that’s what we did — Bloody look on faces of security guards and coppers that were there — Shit themselves. Krk-krk. Just this one bloke who fancied his chances. Said he was going to set his dog on us. We told him to piss off. But he only went and let dog loose, didn’t he? Big one and all. Dog come running at us. This one lad Steve, one of ours — he just stuck up his foot. Kicked dog in head. Dog went down. Dog was dead. Fucking killed it — Just like that. But we were in — Inside fucking plant — and for that one sweet bloody moment we were here and they were there — and we were winning. Winning. We had fucking plant. We were holding them on tip, too. Dust going up. Folk black as pitch. Bobbies head to toe in stuff. Krk-krk. Dawn coming up with it — Beautiful one it was, too. Right hot one — But that was end of it. No fucking clue what to do next. Doncaster lads went for pump house. All wagons that were there. Rest of them ready to go toe-to-toe with boys in fucking blue — but they’d fucked off to get their riot gear. Krk-krk. Back in a bit with big sticks and their kits — Bits of wood, all we had. Like waiting to get kicked and nicked — Big push or a few hundred more and we’d have had them. Had them bastards. No messing. Shut plant — Won day. Then and only then, like — But there was no support. No big push — No sense waiting to be clobbered or collared either. So we walked. Headed back up Treeton Lane onto Orgreave Road — First lorries coming off Parkway and past us as we went. I looked at my watch again: eight-fifteen — Massive roar. Big noise went up — First lorries were in. It had started again — Lads had heard they were using dogs to mop folk up. Stragglers left back in villages — Lads wanted to join main body up Handsworth end. It was where Our Arthur was — Our Leader. Our King — Safety in numbers. That’s what they wanted — What police wanted, too. They marched us south down onto Highfield Lane — Police cordon across road. They broke to let us through. Told us to join thousands they’d penned in up at Handsworth end of lane — What a sight that was. Thousands of us — They’d laid on buses from all over: Kent, Notts, Wales, Durham, Newcastle, Scotland — Parked them up in centre of Sheffield. Then they’d all walked out to Orgreave — Thousands and thousands of us. Like Saltley Revisited — Everyone marching out here. Traffic at a standstill — Police were a sight themselves, mind. Thousands of them and all. Got their own buses, too — Fifteen different forces, they reckoned — Big black sea of

The Fifteenth Week

Monday 11 — Sunday 17 June 1984

Operation Vengeance. Imported from Ulster. Updated for Yorkshire. Computer recording equipment activated by voice-imprint, the speaking of selected words, the coincidence of individual listed or unlisted telephone numbers, and the combinations of telephone numbers and/or area codes. Recordings filed and cross-referenced with terminal surveillance records on all employees of the National Union of Mineworkers, their families, friends and known sympathizers. This included, but was not limited to, the home phone numbers of all members of the National Union of Mineworkers; the home and office phone numbers of the owners of all vehicles logged in noteworthy circumstances in the Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire coalfields; all public telephones in the Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire coalfields. Information cross-referenced with data from the Department of Health and Social Security, the Inland Revenue and the Union, company and personal bank accounts of the above via two hundred and fifty terminals nationwide. The movement of all persons and assets could be further tracked byGCHQCheltenham in tandem with NSAC-groupnetwork via the Morwenstow and MenwithHillstations –

Operation Vengeance. Imported from Ulster. Updated for Yorkshire —

By Malcolm Morris —

‘— picked them until they bled —’

Malcolm Gordon Morris, forty, government fairy –

Tinkerbell.

‘—told her, leave them bloody scabs alone. Would she? Would she —’

For the collection of words —

The air full of them. Everywhere. Heard but not seen —

Expressions. Assertions. Declarations. Statements. Utterances. Asseverations Designations. Locutions. Affirmations. Pledges. Promises. Guarantees Assurances. Commitments. Reports. News. Information. Accounts. Intelligence. Advice. Tidings. Greetings. Phrases. Secrets. Passwords. Catchwords. Watchwords. Shibboleths. Signals. Calls. Signs. Countersigns Codes. Commands. Orders. Announcements. Enunciation. Proclamations Pronouncements. Judgements. Rows. Polemics. Quarrels. Feuds. Altercations. Contentions. Debates. Arguments. Shouts. Questions. Answers. Responses. Facts. Figures. Messages. Interactions. Interplay. Intercourse. Transmissions. Connections. Contacts. Intercommunications. Communications. Interchange. Notifications. Telling. Discussion. Articulation. Rhetoric. Vocalization. Dialogue. Discourse. Speech. Comment. Remark. Observation. Opinion. Critique. Wisecrack. Prattle. Conference. Confabulations. Chatter. Rumours. Gossip. Hearsay. Tattle. Scandal. Suggestions. Hints. Undertones. Murmurs. Grumbles. Mumbles. Whimpers. Lies.Cries. Whispers. Talk —

‘— sent up the horses, brained us, knocked shit out of us, to disperse us, he said —’

Talk. All talk. Nothing but talk —

Language. The air full of it. Everywhere —

‘— ruptured blood vessels in his chest which caused a massive accumulation of —’

Words and –

‘— blood around his heart —’

Death.

Terry was out of the talks again. Terry took another aspirin. Fuck them –

One day in. The next day out. In. Out. In. Out. Piss Terry all about. Fuck them –

Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them —

It was a waste of petrol anyway. Terry knew that –

Terry had seen the so-called shopping list: the settlement of the pay dispute; early retirement; a shorter working week; extra holidays –

The President thought the Chairman was on the ropes. Terry didn’t –

Terry had just finished reading the interview with the Chairman in today’s Times. The Chairman had described the President as a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde character.

A waste of petrol. A waste of breath. Terry could read their minds –

The Board were winning the legal actions; they were getting men back in Derbyshire day by day; the scabs unseating the pro-strike delegates in the Nottinghamshire branch elections. The government were further cutting off benefits one by one; they were saying they had coal enough until the New Year –

Repeatedly.

A waste of petrol. A waste of breath. A waste of time. It was up to Terry –

Terry Winters would save the day. Terry packed his briefcase. His papers and his pens. His facts and his figures. He locked up his office. He checked the door –

Fuck them all.

There was a Denim in the lift. He said, ‘Missed you on the march, Comrade.’

Terry put his finger to his lips. He whispered, ‘Union business, Comrade.’

The Denim looked at Terry. The Denim raised his eyebrows.

Terry tapped the end of his nose. He winked at him (glad it wasn’t a Tweed) –

Fuck him. Fuck them all.

Terry got his car. He drove out to Huddersfield Road. He’d left it too long –

Clive had kept phoning. Kept leaving messages. Never using the code.

Terry parked outside the headquarters of the Yorkshire NUM. Terry went inside. Terry went upstairs. Terry knocked on the door of the Yorkshire Area Finance Officer. Terry didn’t wait. Terry went straight in –

Clive Cook looked up. Clive shook his head. He said, ‘Fuck —’

Terry put his finger to his lips again. He said, ‘Walls have ears, Comrade.’

Clive shook his head. He got his coat. He followed Terry down the stairs –

Clive and Terry went for a walk. They found a bench in the sun.

Clive said, ‘Me and Gareth have been talking. We’re worried …’

‘What about?’

Clive sighed. He said, ‘The money. What do you think we’re worried about?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Terry. ‘The strike? The hardship? The legal issues …’

Clive said, ‘People are beginning to ask questions.’

‘And that’s exactly why we’ve done what we’ve done,’ said Terry.

Clive said, ‘These are our own people asking the questions. Not just Bill Reed.’

‘Let them ask.’

Clive held out his hands. Clive said, ‘So what do we tell them?’

‘You tell them to ask me,’ said Terry. ‘That’s what you tell them.’

‘The President knows what we’re doing?’ asked Clive. ‘Supports us?’

Terry leant into his face. He said, ‘Who got Bill Reed off your back, Comrade?’

‘But who put him on my back in the first —’

Terry poked Clive in his chest. Terry said, ‘Who? Who was it, Comrade?’

Clive Cook closed his eyes. Clive Cook nodded.

Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘The battle hasn’t even begun yet, Comrade.’

Clive opened his eyes. Clive looked up at Terry. Clive said nothing.

‘They’re laying traps,’ said Terry. ‘Setting out the bait. But I’m ready for them.’

Clive stood up now. Clive sighed. Clive said, ‘I really fucking hope you are.’

‘Trust me,’ said Terry Winters, his hand on Clive Cook. ‘Trust me, Comrade.’

Clive shook Terry off. Clive headed back to the office.

Terry watched him go. Terry banged his head against the trunk of a tree –

The stupid things he said.

Go, go, go, go, go —

‘We are on target for more and more conflict.’

Edinburgh down to Sheffield. Sheffield out to Rotherham –

The Clifton Park Hotel, Rotherham —

Cole said, ‘This is the place the press have been using for Orgreave.’

‘Place is tidy, then?‘Malcolm asked him.

Cole flicked through the notes on his lap. He said, ‘Bar the Conference Suite.’

Fuck. Malcolm looked at his watch. He put his foot down —

Go, go, go, go —

Car park.

Go, go, go —

Reception. Register. Key. Twin room for one night.

Go, go –

Lift. Corridor. Door. Key. Door open. Room.

Go —

Bed stripped. Linen in the bath. Cases open. Floor plans out. Headphones on —

Malcolm looked at his watch.

Go. Door. Corridor. Keys out. Inside —

Malcolm looked at his watch.

Plant one. Plant two. Plant three. Plant four —

Grid one in place. Test signal to first receiver. Check —

Malcolm looked at his watch.

Plant five. Plant six. Plant seven. Plant eight –

Grid two in place. Test signal to second receiver. Check —

Malcolm looked at his watch.

Toilet –

Plant nine. Plant ten —

Ante-room —

Plant eleven. Plant twelve —

Grid three in place. Test signal to third receiver. Check –

Malcolm looked at his watch.

Outside. Corridor —

Plant thirteen. Plant fourteen. Plant fifteen. Plant sixteen —

Grid four in place. Test signal to fourth receiver. Check —

Malcolm looked at his watch.

Go out —

Out, out, out —

Past the Board and the Union in the corridor. Room service —

‘I would not trust him if he told me the time of day.’

And Malcolm Morris was gone –

Back to their twin room. Cole with the cases open. Headphones on. Thumb up —

Tapes turning. Static. Recording –

The sounds of bags being unpacked. Chairs scraping. Voices:

‘— just at the outset, that the train leaves at —’

‘— kindly address all your questions to the President —’

Silence. Static –

Malcolm touched his headphones. Watched dials. Checked levels. Equipment —

For ten minutes. Static. Silence. Then:

‘— our membership, we ask for the withdrawal of pit closures and job losses —’

‘— nope.’

Chairs scraped. Bags packed. Doors opened. Slammed shut —

Static. Silence. Tapes ending —

Silence.

Cole looked at Malcolm. Malcolm looked at Cole. They shrugged their shoulders. Tookoff their headphones. Packed their bags—

Boxed tapes for drop boxes. Cole the cleaner for today. Malcolm off the clock –

He drove home. Radio off. Silence. He put the car in the garage. He went inside —

The house quiet, but not quiet enough.

Malcolm drew the curtains. He sat down on the sofa. He rolled two large pieces of cotton wool into two small balls. Placed them deep inside his ears. Hewrapped his headin bandages. Heclosed his eyes –

Silence. Sleep. Dreamless sleep. Silent sleep —

Dull sleep. Dying sleep. Dying silence. Dull noise —

The telephone ringing –

Malcolm Morris opened his eyes. He unwrapped the bandages. Took out the cotton-wool balls.

He pressed buttons. Picked up the telephone —

‘Late night?’ asked Roger Vaughan.

Malcolm sat up. He double-checked —

The wheels were turning. Wheels within wheels. The tapes recording.

Malcolm said, ‘Aren’t they all?’

‘We’ve got a shopping list for you.’

‘How many?’

‘Watches, not radios,’ said Roger. ‘Two, if you have them?’

‘Presents, are they?’

‘Birthday.’

‘What colour wrapping-paper do you want?’

‘Green.’

‘For when?’

‘As soon as you can.’

‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Good man,’ said Roger. ‘Jerry and I will be waiting.’

Malcolm hung up. He stopped the recording. Pressed rewind. Stop. Play —

He listened again. Pressed stop again. Rewind. Stop –

Malcolm took out the tape. He found a case and wrote on the tape and its box —

RVPSN/MM/150684.

He put it somewhere safe.

Malcolm looked at his watch. He looked at the alarm clock. They were both fast —

He washed and shaved. Dressed. Made two cups of instant coffee. He ate cereal. Toast and marmalade. He drank the other cup of coffee. He put on a tie. Picked up his briefcase. His car keys. He locked the house. Backed the car outof the garage. Helocked the garage. Drove to work —

Harrogate to Sheffield.

He sat at his desk. He drank instant coffee. He smoked duty-free cigarettes –

And Malcolm Morris listened –

His hands over his ears. His headphones. Eyes closed. Head splitting —

Every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month —

He heard it. Heard it coming. Coming near. Nearer and nearer. Now –

The traffic erupting. The dials turning. The levels rising. Deafening –

Noise.

Something was happening. Happening again. Happening near. Happening now –

The wheels turning. The tapes recording –

Death –

A Kellingley picket crushed to death by a lorry at Ferrybridge power station —

Silence.

The Jew has got his reward. The Jew has an office in Hobart House –

Full steam ahead with the legal actions. Individual legal actions. No more talks –

Except of victory.

Neil Fontaine carries the boxes up from the Mercedes. He sets them down on the office carpet –

Derbyshire. Lancashire. North Wales. Notts.

The Jew’s secretary takes the files from the boxes. She puts them in the cabinets. Chloe is new. Black. Beautiful. She started today.

A man in an overall is unscrewing a name-plate from the door. It is old. Finished.

Men in suits pace the corridors. They scowl. They slam their office doors –

The Jew doesn’t care. The Chairman doesn’t care –

The Chairman is an American. From Glasgow.

The Jew wants to be an American, too. From Suffolk.

They get on like a house on fire, the Chairman and the Jew –

They love Capitalism and Opportunity. They hate Communism and Dependency. The Freedom of Cash versus the Slavery of Coin –

The United States of Free Enterprise.

The Jew spins round in his new leather chair –

A house on fire.

It will be dark when the Jew and Neil Fontaine begin the drive North –

The world asleep.

The Yorkshire Miners’ Demonstration and Gala Day, Thornes Park, Wakefield —

In the Year of the Strike to Save Pits and Jobs.

Malcolm Morris marched from Wakefield city centre —

Behind the brass bands and the branch banners. The families and their friends. Thekids with their stickers. Their mumsin their T-shirts–

Women Against Pit Closures.

He followed the miners and the majorettes down to the park –

Sunshine and skin; beer tents and boxing rings; side-shows and singing.

This year’s Coal Queen contest had been cancelled. Just the fancy dress —

First prize to Dusty Bin (for putting scabs in); Maggie got fourth —

‘— Out. Out. Out. Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. Out. Out. Out —’

There must have been a thousand plainclothes police and security personnel here. Everywhere Malcolm looked; wearing wires; talking into their collars and their cuffs —

Just like Malcolm –

Malcolm stood in the marquee. Pressing buttons. Making tapes. Recording —

The speech and the speeches; the speaking and the speakers.

‘— a fight to the finish and it is not going to be a white flag — it is going to be a victory for the White Rose —’

Dennis. Ray. Jack. Hamlet without the Red Prince —

But Arthur would be here tomorrow —

Malcolm too. He moved on. Back to the post —

To sweat in a mobile on some industrial estate. PSUs playing cricket outside. Helmets for wickets. Truncheons for bats. Heads down. Out of sight —

Pit villages burning. Police stations stoned. Sieges and mass arrests in Maltby–

Payback. Playback. Payback. Playback –

Everything felt wrong. Bad –

Thunder. Heat. Static. Death. Noise. Ghosts –

Saltley. Orgreave. Saltley. Orgreave. Saltley. Orgreave. Saltley —

Worse coming —

Vengeance.

Head on his desk. Eyes closed. Headphones off. Fingers in his ears –

But the tapes didn’t stop. Nor the dreams. The echoes –

Miners and their wives. Their kids. Their brass bands and their banners —

Their badges —

Victory to the Miners. Coal not Dole –

Surrounded by spies —

Spies like Malcolm.

Desk. Eyes. Phones. Ears. Tapes. Dreams. Echoes —

A miner and his wife. Their two sons. Their two placards —

I Support My Dad — Me Too.

Surrounded by spies –

Like Malcolm.

Fingers out. Eyes open. He was awake at his desk —

Malcolm stopped the tape. He pressed rewind. Pressed stop. Play —

The sound of sobbing –

Under the ground, the echo.

Peter

them. Riot shields up. Crash helmets on. Right across road and over two whole fields. Three double ranks. Six to seven yard apart. Four deep behind each shield. To left and right there were snatch squads. Further right still they’d got cavalry ready. To left were dogs. Helicopters above us. Reserves stretching back three hundred yard. More vans and buses parked up in lanes. They must have been bloody hot. Boiling. TV was here, too. Fucking couldn’t keep away, could they? — None of us could. Everywhere you looked — You looked and you knew. Knew there was going to be a lot of bloody hurt today — It was now or never. Everyone knew that. Now or never — Lines had been drawn. Lion’s mouth was open — Now or never. Bloke side of me said, Wish I’d wore me boots — Now: half-nine — Lorries coming back out. Loaded up. Police fucking drivers. Royal Corps of Transport. HGV licences still fucking wet — Saluting as they left. Two fingers — Us trapped right in middle of push. Meat in sandwich we were. Bloody truncheon meat — Fucking big push from lads now. T-shirts and skin hard against Perspex and leather — Jumpers round our waists. Faces against their shields — Truncheons coming over top of shields. Ribs and shins struck in the ruck. Ribs and shins — Fuck me. Bricks and sticks over top of us. Bricks and sticks — Fuck. It had started again all right. Fuck me it had — Black. Blue. Bloody. All the colours of war — Then police line gave. Ground moved — Like Doomsday. End of fucking world — Hooves tasted earth. The hooves bit. The hooves chewed. The hooves ate fucking earth — Here they came. Here they came. Here they came — Noise of it all. Boots and stones. Flesh and bones — There we went. There we went. There we went — Smell of it all. Earth and sweat. Grass and shit — Noise. Torn flesh and broken bones — Stink. Piss and puke. Shit — Taste as I hit ground. Salt. Dirt. Blood — I tried to stand. I tried to turn. I did stand. I did turn and CRACK — I saw stars not comets. CRACK — He’d felled me. This copper — Listen to the voice. Ground was hard — The voice saying, Follow me. Sun right warm — Follow me. Lovely on my face — My father used to take us as a lad to many of fields from Roses and Civil Wars: Wake-field. Ferry Bridge. Towton. Seacroft Moor. Adwalton Moor. Marston Moor — Picnics in them fields. Flask of tea in car if weather was against us — Photograph of me somewhere, squinting by Towton memorial on a Palm Sunday. Snow on ground — He was dead now, was my father. Ten year back. I was glad he was, too. Not to see me in this field. Here — Orgreave. South Yorkshire. England. Today — Monday 18 June 1984. Sun on my face. Blood in my hair. Puke down my shirt. Piss on my trousers — I was glad he was dead. I closed my eyes. Forgotten voices. A lost language. A code.Echoes — Like funeral music. Drumming was. They beat them shields like they beat us. Like we were air. Like we weren’t here — Here. Now — I opened my eyes. I tried to stand. To turn my head — Three coppers were carrying this other copper back. He was a young lad this one. Helmet off. His nose too. Looked like he’d stopped a brick. They passed me. They saw me — First one turned back. He swung his truncheon — I ducked down. Hands over my head — But he was gone. I picked myself up. Fast. Didn’t know where I was really. I just started walking away. Through field from where all police were. Fast as I could. Then I heard them again — Them hooves. Them boots — I legged it. Ran for my bloody life. Mouth full of salt. Heart pounding ten to dozen — Thousands running with me. Jumping walls and fences. Like Grand National — That one white horse charging down on us. Bastard with his baton out again. Half lads over embankment. Down banking onto train line — I was lucky. Horses went back down hill. Left us be — I’d managed to get top-side of Highfield Lane. Like half-time up here — Most folk seemed to have headed up this way and on to village. But some had stripped off for sun. Bit of a lie down for a few minutes. Others had other ideas. Taken all bricks off walls ready. All way up road on both sides of lane. Talk was how Arthur had gotten a hiding. They said he’d walked police lines first thing. Told them what he

The Sixteenth Week

Monday 18 — Sunday 24 June 1984

Terry had sat with his office door open all Sunday night. He had watched them stagger back from the Wakefield Gala. A few of them had had to be carried in. They had stuck them in rooms where the President wouldn’t look. He was still in Wakefield –

Rallying the troops.

Terry had kept the office door open all night. He had listened to them making their plans. Listened to them talk about the death of the picket at Ferrybridge. The siege of Maltby. The police reprisals. They were waiting for the President –

Their general.

‘Comrade —’

Terry looked up. The President was stood in the doorway. He was wearing his baseball cap. Len and Joan were standing behind him. They were carrying maps. Plans –

Battle-plans.

‘Comrade,’ said the President, ‘we’re going to need more envelopes.’

Terry nodded. He opened his bottom drawer. He took out the requisition forms. He completed the order. He initialled the forms. He stood up. He walked over to the door. He handed them back to the President.

‘Thank you, Comrade,’ said the President and passed the order to Joan.

Terry watched the President walk away down the corridor –

To his tent and to his dreams.

Terry closed his office door. Terry had his own plans. His own dreams –

Soon it would be dawn: Monday 18 June 1984.

*

‘Have you ever, ever, seen anything like this before, Neil?’

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

The Third English Civil War.

Neil Fontaine closes his eyes. He never, never, wants to see anything like this again.

‘Thank you, Brixton,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Thank you, Toxteth.’

*

Tell the world that you’re winning –

The morning after the day before:

The miner was cowering. The miner was wearing just a pair of jeans and trainers. The miner had his shirt tied round his waist. His back to the car. Hispalms up —

The policeman had a shield and a helmet. The policeman had a baton.

The policeman hit the miner with his baton. Hit him —

Again. Again. Again. And again –

The TV showed the policeman hit the miner.

The President watched the TV. The President touched the back of his neck –

The President said, ‘These bastards rushed in and this guy hit me on the back of the head with his shield and I was out.’

The President had spent the night in Rotherham District Hospital.

The police had cheered as he’d been taken to the ambulance.

The nation was outraged –

Not by the assault on the miner. Not by the assault on the President. No –

The TV had lied again. They had cut the film. They had stitched it back together –

Stitched up the Union with it –

Miners threw stones. Miners hurt horses. Miners rioted –

‘— the worst industrial violence since the war —’

Police defended themselves. Police upheld the law. Police contained the riot –

That was it.

The lorries had emptied the place of coke. The miners had lost –

That was it.

Meanwhile, Nottingham had continued to produce coal. The power stations power.

‘The President of the National Union of Mineworkers slipped off the top of the bank and hit his head on a sleeper,’ said the Assistant Chief Constable of South Yorkshire. ‘He was not near a riot shield. The officers with the riot shields were on the road and he was off the road. They did not come within seven or eight yards of him.’

The President was a liar. The President had lost –

That was it —

End of story. Finished.

The President switched off the TV. The President went upstairs.

The National Co-ordinating Committee was meeting in the Conference Room –

For the first time –

Today was the hundredth day of the Great Strike to Save Pits and Jobs.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He had tears in his eyes. In his dreams –

Tell the world that you’re winning —

The hundredth day.

Malcolm listened to the tapes. He played it all back. Listened to the tapes. To them payit all back—

‘If a highwayman holds you up, it is always possible to avoid violence by handing over to him what he wants.’

EVERY WOMAN’S GOT ONE –

‘— shields up —’

[— sound of body against Perspex shield — ]

‘— breach of line at middle holding area. Request —’

BUT MARGARET THATCHER IS ONE –

‘— heads —’

[— sound of rock hitting Perspex shield — ]

‘— field operatives be advised horses imminent —’

DE DEE DEE DEE –

‘— take prisoners —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— DSGs D and E to Main Gate —’

DE DEE DEE DEE.

‘— bodies, not heads —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— Zulus in retreat. MP 4 and 5 stand down —’

HERE WE GO –

‘— can’t throw stones if they’ve got broken arms —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— target is wearing white T-shirt, blue jeans and distinctive hat —’

HERE WE GO –

‘— on then, fucking hit him —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— officers down at topside holding area. MP 6, please respond —’

HERE WE GO –

‘— fuck off back where you come from —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— prisoners to be restrained in vans until further notice —’

HERE WE –

‘— Commie bastards are going to lose and so is that bald bastard Scargill —’

[— sound of police truncheon against body — ]

‘— exceptional DSG B. Exceptional. Drinks are on us —’

HERE –

‘We are going down the royal road in this country that Northern Ireland went down in 1969.’

Malcolm listened to the tapes. He played it all back. The tapes never stopped. Listened to her –

The Union burying another one under the ground today —

Pay it all back (but she would never, never, never stop).

They were playing Shostakovich upstairs again. Loud again. The Seventh Symphony. Leningrad. Terry Winters had his head in his hands. There were now five separate legal actions:

Lancashire. North Wales. North Derbyshire. Nottinghamshire. Staffordshire.

The Tweeds knocked on his door –

Day and night they knocked –

‘This is serious, Comrade,’ they told him, day and night.

Terry agreed. Terry said, ‘But everything is in its place.’

They left the door open –

The Denims in the corridor. Arms folded. Backs to the wall –

Day and night they watched Terry Winters –

It was not Leningrad. It was Stalingrad.

Terry slammed the door. He walked to the window, forehead against the glass –

How long has it been?

They had buried another yesterday. Terry had put on his best black funeral suit. Had told Theresa he was off to Pontefract. Told the President and the Tweeds he had to work out the implications of the legal actions against South Wales. Then he’d gone to Hallam Towers. He had taken off his best black funeral suit and fucked Diane in the Honeymoon Suite –

‘They’ve left me with no choice,’ he had told her. ‘No choice at all.’

They had cut him out –

‘Because I’ve never worked in a pit. Because my father wasn’t a bloody miner. Because I’ve never been a Communist. Because my father was never a Communist. Because I’m not working class. Because I’m from the fucking South. It makes me laugh. It really does. Their talk about equality. Fraternity. Socialism. You can hardly breathe in the place. It’s that snotty. Egotistical. Solitary —’

Diane had kissed his left ear. She had licked his ear. She had sucked it. She had bitten it. She had held it in her mouth. Then she had moved down his cheek to his mouth. She had kissed his bottom lip. She had licked his lip. She had sucked it. She had bitten it. She had held it in her mouth. Moved down his neck to his chest. She had kissed his left nipple. She had licked his nipple. She had sucked it. She had bitten it. She had held it in her mouth. Down his stomach to his cock –

‘Looking for something down there, are you, Comrade?’

Terry opened his eyes. Terry turned from the window to the door –

Paul Hargreaves held out an envelope. He said, ‘Happy reading, Comrade.’

Terry took the envelope. He opened it. He read the letter. Read the words –

YOUR FUTURE IS IN DANGER —

Terry looked up –

Paul had gone. He had left the door open again –

The Denims in the corridor. Arms folded. Backs against the wall –

The Shostakovich shaking the ceiling.

Terry put his head back against the glass. Terry closed his eyes again –

‘They have left me with no choice,’ he had told Diane again. ‘No choice at all.’

Peter

thought of them — He’d marked their cards. They’d marked his — Put him in Rotherham Hospital. Beaten up Jack Taylor down Catcliffe end and all — Least lads had given ITN a good kicking. They’d get their revenge at 5.45 mind — Knew Mary and our Jackie would be watching. Knew it wasn’t over yet, either — There were young lads wanting to get on with it. Lads on about making petrol bombs. Police had got guns, they said. Back of them vans. Be tear gas out next, they said. Rubber bullets. Paras — Bloody Monday, that’s what this is. Bloody Monday — Don’t know why I fucking stopped there. I was that bloody knackered from all running, though. So fucking hot — I should have kept walking, though. But then it all started up again. For last time — Blokes were throwing brick down at police line. Line broke again. Out came horses. Short shields behind them. Hundreds of them — They weren’t stopping, either. Not this time — They were here to clear field. To take bridge and take road. Hold them both — Knuckle and boot for anyone in their way. Batons out — Barricades going up. Vehicles dragged out of this scrapyard. Set alight. Thick smoke. Cars burning. Tyres. Thick smoke all over place. Barricades looked like hedgehogs, that many spikes sticking out of them. Hand-to-hand fucking combat. Coppers had bridge. Coppers tried to hold bridge. Coppers couldn’t. Missiles falling through sky on them from out of scrapyard. Coppers heading off back down road behind their shields — Lads all cheering. Not for long, like — Coppers regrouped. Mass charge again — Horses. Men — That fucking white horse back for more. Bastards — Up Highfield Lane. Pushing us right back over bridge all way down Orgreave Lane — But then I saw this one young lad. This one young lad who’d got left behind — He was walking about alone in field. Blood from his head. White with shock, he was — Let’s go get them, he was shouting. Give them a good sorting. Let’s — He was alone in field. God deaf and far from here — Horses still coming. Sticks out — I went back for him. I grabbed hold of him. I took him back over bridge with me. I ran into village with him. I sat him down behind this garden hedge; old couple stood at their window just watching us. Lad turned to me. Looked at me. He said, I won’t go back down pit again. I won’t, you know. I’ll not work down there no more. I won’t do it. I want to go home now, please. I want to go home — I got out my handkerchief. I tried to stop blood from his head. He put his hand out towards us. He touched my mouth. He had blood on his hand — He said, What happened to you, like? I put up my hand. I touched my mouth. I’d got blood on my hand. No front teeth. I looked down at myself. My shirt was ripped. Strap of my watch was broken. Face stepped on and crushed. My father’s watch it was and all. Shoes split open. Trousers ripped at bottom. Felt a right big bruise across my back. Ribs and my shins. Cuts and marks all over me. I stood young lad up. I said, Best get you home, hadn’t we? I walked us away through all people — Police. Pensioners. People with Asda carrier-bags full of shopping. Like it was all normal — Ambulance drivers effing and blinding at policemen. Blokes being brained in front of them. Beaten up behind their houses. In their gardens. Their alleys — Up by truck company there were a bloody icecream van. This one bloke just sat having a fucking ice-cream. Like it was a day out — Back up road you could still see smoke. Black, bitter smoke from cars and tyres. Police just watching us go. Behind their visors. Two of them waving tenners at us. Bye-bye, I thought. I’ll not see thee again. Not where you’re going. Not where you’re going — Been a week tomorrow. Bloody long one and all. I’d spent most of it looking at ceilings. Bedroom. Dentist’s. Welfare. One time I did go out in open air was for Joe’s funeral. Beautiful and sad day, that was. There was a coach laid on, but that were full by nine. So Little Mick took Keith Cooper and their Tony with us in his car. No sign of Martin again. Met up with coach in Knottingley. There were eight thousand easy. Put me in mind of Fred Matthews. His funeral in 1972. He’d been killed on a picket outside a power station and all. Keadby. Been

The Seventeenth Week

Monday 25 June — Sunday 1 July 1984

It is flesh time in the corridors and toilets of Westminster. The Jew whistles Waterloo. They pat him on the back. They shake his hand. The Jew says:

‘Four thousand men in one hundred and eighty PSUs. Forty-two mounted police. Twenty-four dog handlers. Spotters in among their men. Helicopter and military surveillance. Regiments in reserve. One hundred arrests. Countless injuries inflicted –

‘Orgreave was a battle; they are right to call it that. Because it is a war –

‘But it was a battle we won. And it is a war we shall win.

‘Our finest hour to date, gentlemen. Our very finest yet. Rugeley power station alone received one thousand and twenty-eight deliveries of coal that day and —’

The Jew stops mid-flight. The corridor has cleared –

There is a fresh hand on the Jew’s back. A word in his ear. Then the hand is gone.

The Jew rushes into the toilets. He comes out again. He’s not whistling –

He smells of vomit.

Neil Fontaine fetches the car.

Malcolm Morris drove down to London. To Hounslow. This was the place where they’d built the village. The place where they trained their divisional support groups. Their mounted police —

In Hounslow.

Malcolm found his plastic pass inside his clothes. He handed it to the officer at the metal gates. The officer took it inside a sentry hut —

Malcolm waited in the car with the radio on —

I Won’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.

The officer came back with his pass. The gate went up. Malcolm was inside again.

He drove past the stables. The kennels. The barracks —

He could hear them banging their shields. Practising.

He turned into the village —

Pitsville, UK –

Two rows of mock-redbrick houses either side of a strip of road with an estate of mock-grey semis behind them. Malcolm watched the mounted police and the snatch squads drilling by a row of mock shops. Boarded-up shops. Charging —

NATO helmets on. Staffs drawn —

Men in donkey jackets and yellow stickers ran. Loudspeakers on street-corners barked orders. The horses stopped their charge. The horses cantered back —

The men were banging their shields again. Training.

Roger Vaughan was parked in the mock car park by the mock pub —

The Battered Ram –

Roger waiting today. Not Jerry.

Malcolm parked. He got out. Shut the car door.

Roger got out of his car. Roger said, ‘I’ve been waiting, Malcolm.’

Malcolm walked round the back of his car. He opened the boot. Took out the Slazenger holdall. He placed it on the tarmac. He closed the boot. Picked up the holdall again. He walked over to Roger. Handed him the holdall.

Roger took it. Roger said, ‘Two?’

Malcolm nodded.

Roger said, ‘Wrapped in green?’

Malcolm nodded again.

Roger took out an envelope from his coat. He handed it to Malcolm.

‘Wrapped in red, white and blue?’ asked Malcolm.

Roger smiled. Roger said, ‘There was one other small matter, Malcolm

Malcolm waited.

Roger said, ‘That business in Shrewsbury?’

Malcolm waited.

Roger said, ‘Jerry and I would be very grateful if we could have the tapes.’

‘The tapes were destroyed,’ said Malcolm.

Roger stared at him. Roger said, ‘Is that right?’

Malcolm nodded.

Roger sighed. Roger said, ‘That’s a shame, Malcolm. A very great shame.’

‘Standard procedure,’ said Malcolm. ‘In compromised operations.’

Roger said, ‘The operation in question was not subject to standard procedures.’

‘But it was compromised.’

‘In your opinion.’

Malcolm turned to go. He said, ‘I don’t like loose ends,MrVaughan.’

‘Neither do we, Malcolm,’ shouted Roger after him. ‘Neither do we,’

Malcolm turned back. He said, ‘I hopethat wasn’t a threat, Mr Vaughan?’

‘No, Malcolm,’ said Roger. ‘That wasn’t a threat.’

The Jew paces his fourth-floor suite. The Jew wants to get his show back on the road. Back to the front line. Back among his new-found friends. And foes. Fighting the good fight. The Jew is tired of the offices and the corridors of the capital. Tired of the handshakers and the backstabbers. Tired of the good news/bad news brigade –

The Jew asks Neil for another cup of tea. He says, ‘Did you speak with Frank —’

‘Fred?’ says Neil.

The Jew blinks. The Jew says, ‘Did you speak with him or not, Neil? Yes or no?’

Neil Fontaine closes the suitcase. He says, ‘Briefly.’

‘And how is life with our hero?’ asks the Jew. ‘The John Wayne of Pye Hill?’

‘He thinks the pit managers and local police are talking people out of returning —’

‘What?’ screams the Jew. ‘What? Tell me you are joking with me, Neil.’

‘To avoid bloodshed.’

The Jew throws his cup against the wall. He screams again, ‘What?’

Neil Fontaine nods.

The tea runs down the wall. The tea drips onto the carpet.

The Jew looks at Neil. The Jew shakes his head from side to side –

Neil Fontaine nods again.

‘Remember what she once said, Neil?’ asks the Jew.

Neil Fontaine waits for the words of wisdom from the wise –

‘A criminal is a criminal is a criminal,’ says the Jew. ‘Remember, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine nods now.

‘The good news?’ asks the Jew. ‘Please tell me there is good news, Neil?’

‘The strike in Lancashire is about to be ruled unofficial by Justice Caulfield up in Manchester; their delegate decisions at their area conference will be meaningless; their hands tied. The Union won’t be able to discipline members who cross picket lines; the Union won’t be able to instruct members not to cross picket lines; the Union won’t be able to call the strike or the picket lines official —’

But it is not enough —

‘There is still talk, though, of a return to court by the likes of British Rail and Steel. Rumblings at the Board, too. The Cabinet.’

The Jew nods. The Jew asks for a fresh pot of tea. The Jew picks up the phone –

The railways will stop tomorrow and certain newspapers not appear —

The Jew shouts down the phone again:

‘No, no, no. Use their own domino strategy against them. Take the individual area ballots that went against a strike and use them to beat the National Union. These actions — these actions from within — these will be the very key. The key to victory –

‘How many more times must we go over this?

‘Further action from British Rail, from British Steel, from the Board itself, will only be detrimental to the overall strategy. The nation perceives this dispute to be about the assault and intimidation of ordinary men who simply want to go to work but who are being prevented and frightened by the vicious hooligan thugs of an extra-parliamentary hard left –

‘Assault and intimidation are a matter of criminal law not industrial legislation. The individual actions by members against their own Union underline this perception –

‘OK? OK?’

The Jew throws the phone against the wall. The Jew closes his eyes –

The broken telephone lies on the damp carpet in a pool of cold tea.

Neil Fontaine puts the Jew’s suitcase and briefcase by the door. He says, ‘Sir?’

The Jew opens his eyes. He looks at Neil Fontaine. The Jew smiles. He says, ‘Neil, there are two separate paths for them to choose now; they will either choose the way of the ballot or, better yet, they won’t. Either way, the courts can really roll now –

‘Really, really roll now, Neil.’

*

The Union was alone in an upstairs room in Congress House. There was still no support. Just a few sandwiches. The Union was on its own. Isolated –

‘I remember we gave that bastard an oil lamp back in 1980,’ said the President. ‘He had tears in his eyes. Tears in his eyes because of support our lads had given his lads. Our lads who would rather salvage used steel in old workings than touch any scab steel. Now they sit by sea in Scarborough and their conference applauds the striking miners. Gives us a bloody standing ovation. Promises of moral, financial and physical support. Then they go back to their plants and their offices and handle scab coal and scab coke. There’d have been no need for Orgreave if they did for us what we did for them. Bastards. Bloody bastards. Thank Christ for the railwaymen —’

There was a knock on the door. The President stopped speaking. Terry stood up. He opened the door –

It was just Stan with more sandwiches.

*

Roll up. Roll up. The carnival is back on the road. Roll up. Roll up. The Border Country. Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire. Roll up. Roll up. For this week only –

The fear. The misery.

The Mercedes tours the coalfields with a convoy of pressmen and television vans. The Jew takes them to Bolsover. To Creswell. To Warsop. The Jew shows them the places where gangs of men with wooden sticks wrapped in barbed wire rampage and maraud at night –

Intimidating. Threatening.

Roll up. Roll up. The Jew introduces them to Bolsover Bill. Bill has had his waste pipes blocked. Bill’s house was flooded as a result. This happened to Bill because Bill chooses to work. The Jew tells them that there have been fifty-six attacks upon homes. Ninety-five vehicles damaged –

The intimidation and the fear.

Roll up. Roll up. The Jew introduces them to Creswell Chris. Chris was attacked outside the Top Club. Chris had his leg broken. This happened to Chris because Chris chooses to work. The Jew tells them that there have been sixty-two cases of physical assaults upon men and their families –

The threats and the misery.

Roll up. Roll up. The Jew introduces them to Warsop Wendy. Wendy’s cat was covered with paint. Wendy’s cat is blind now. This happened to Wendy’s cat because Wendy’s husband chooses to work. The Jew tells them there have been countless cases of attacks upon the pets of working miners and their families –

Of fear and misery. Intimidation and threats.

Roll up. Roll up. The Jew leads the carnival on through the Scab Alleys –

Suddenly Neil Fontaine brakes hard. He swerves to the side –

Cavaliers struggle with the broken wheel of a wagon. Purple-frocked men bark orders in the rain and the mud. Crosses around their necks. Rings on their fingers —

Neil Fontaine blinks. He starts the car. He glances in the rearview –

The Jew is staring at the back of Neil’s head. The Jew is watching Neil.

Roll up. Roll up. Finally the Jew brings the carnival to the village of Shirebrook. The ringmaster leads them with their cameras and their pens up the garden path to the home of Stuart Tarns –

The late Stuart Tams.

Mrs Tams shows the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News their boarded-up windows, each covered with one single painted word –

Scab.

‘They were getting at the kids,’ says Mrs Tarns. ‘That’s what hurt him the most. He tried to tell them of the hardship he was facing. They would not listen to him. They spat at him. They turned their backs on him. They had been his mates. His colleagues. He bottled everything up. He kept putting off discussing financial matters. He would just go upstairs. He sat in his bedroom alone for long periods. Then the telephone calls started. Nine times they called. They were against our daughters. That was it then. Stuart was put in a position where he had to decide whether to continue to put the children through this ordeal. Stuart chose not to. Stuart chose —’

The Jew puts his arms around Mrs Tarns. The Jew glances at the garage –

The press take their photographs. The press shoot their story.

‘The men who made the telephone calls threatening violence against a twelve-year-old and ten-year-old girl are cowards. Murderers,’ says the Jew. ‘They are not fit to stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with miners such as Stuart Tarns. They are a disgrace to the great tradition of mining and mining folk.’

Mrs Tams nods.

The ringmaster leads everybody back down the garden path to stand out on the street. To stand before the skinny hedge and the boarded-up windows covered with that single painted word –

Scab.

The Jew introduces Fred Wallace from Pye Hill –

‘Fred is the spokesman for the Nottinghamshire Working Miners’ Committee. He is here to help any miner, regardless of his area. Here to help any miner who wants to work but is denied that right by his own Union. Any miner who is intimidated and threatened. Any miner’s wife who is intimidated and threatened. Any miner’s children who are intimidated and threatened. Fred is here to tell you that you are not alone. That what happened here to the Tarns family will never again happen –

‘Never!’ shouts the Jew. ‘You are not alone.’

Fred Wallace nods.

‘Fred would also like to add that the Nottinghamshire Working Miners’ Committee will compensate any miner for any act of criminal damage or vandalism to his person, property or vehicle which occurs as a result of his determination to exercise his right to work, if that miner does not himself have insurance,’ says the Jew.

Fred Wallace nods again.

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

Peter

ten thousand that day. Put me in mind of my father and all — Marched with my father that day. He’d be retired now if he were still alive. He’d still march for Joe, though — Banners were out and bands. Arthur, Jack and all lads. Half of us with black eyes and bandages. Piper playing Flowers of the Forest in a right strong wind. Service were at Pontefract Crematorium. It lasted an hour. Then Arthur spoke. He said, We owe it to memory of Joe Green and David Jones to win fight to keep pits open, jobs secure and our mining communities intact, and make no mistake — We are going to win. Magnificent, Arthur was. Needed to be — They weren’t going to charge that TV Copper. Krk-krk. Talk Union might take out a private summons against bastard. He were only one of many, like, but he were one they caught. One they caught on camera, lathering this young lad with his truncheon. That was Great Britain in 1984 for you — Policeman could belt living fucking shit out of an unarmed, shirtless kid on national television and get away with it. Not only that, whole of state jumped to his defence — But if a bloody miner, who had served this country, man and boy for thirty year, if he wanted to stand on a picket line and persuade another man to help him defend his job, his family, his community, his whole way of life, then they’d nick you and charge you — 3444 of us since start of March. Probably a few fucking more today and all — Back on active service. Coal House again. NCB’s Regional Office, Doncaster. Not all lads were impressed. Older blokes especially — Just lasses that work there, said Joey Wood. Tall Paul nodding, too. He said, Going to look bad on telly — Fuck telly, said Brian. It always looks bad on fucking telly. I said, If you don’t want to go, go direct to Harworth for half-eleven — Few of blokes nodded and stayed put. Rest of us went out to cars and vans. Drove straight up to Doncaster, no problem. There for quarter to eight. Parked down a back street. Made us way to Coal House. Not many stormtroopers today. Krk-krk. Them that were there looked a bit shocked when we all rocked up. Made themselves into a police wall for scabs to hide behind. Only enough of them to reach from Police Station to Court House, which was where lads had chased first lot of office scabs they’d come upon. Half-eight scuffles started. Then reinforcements arrived from RAF Newton or Lind-holme or wherever it was they were hiding them this week. Now wall stretched from Court House to doors of Coal House. Nine o’clock and scabs set off — Big push from all lads. Load of bricks thrown at Coal House windows — Lot of lasses who were scabbing had got bags over their faces. Lot of them crying and shaking. Running as fast as they could, like — Not very nice for them. All abuse they got — Then this fucking policeman went through a plate-glass window. That was that then. Load of arrests after that — Sixteen windows broken. Eleven cars damaged. Thirty-seven people assaulted. One thousand pickets — Bloody pointless. Drove back to Welfare. Queue of folk waiting for us as usual — Bills. Debts. Bills. Debts — Bloody DHSS. YEB. Same as fucking usual — They were talking about discipline, Panel were — NEC were proposing a new national disciplinary rule. Rule 51 — It was a way to clamp down on acts detrimental to Union, meaning Notts mob mainly, though it could be anything: breaking strike by crossing picket line; leaking documents; anything — There was a lot of anger about our own discipline, too. Discipline on our own side — Disobedience. Things that had happened at Coal House — SCC had been dead against it. Lads had still gone — Pissed a lot of folk off, that had. Then there was still anger about Orgreave; Scholey, vice-chairman of BSC himself, he’d been on box saying Orgreave was only a diversion so they could bring in what they needed through Immingham and Trent Wharves. But here we were still arguing toss about whether to picket place or not. I’d heard enough — Enough to last me a lifetime — I stood up. I took out piece Mary had cut from paper. Notes we’d made from news. MacGregor’s told his area directors that a long strike was preferable to an early settlement, I said. Now how’s that

The Eighteenth Week

Monday 2 — Sunday 8 July 1984

Malcolm Morris and Alan Cole drove down from Euston to Buckingham Palace Road —

The Rubens Hotel. A few steps up from the Clifton Park Hotel, Rotherham —

The job was the same, though.

They parked and used the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the hotel. Introduced themselves to the in-house security and the men from the Met. The talks were to be in one of the larger rooms on the second floor. The Board would have the room to the right. The Union the room to the left. Everyone had a chuckle at that.

The man in charge of in-house security handed over two sets of keys. He said, ‘Thekeys to the roomon the left. Thekeys to the talks.’

Malcolm handed back the keys to the room on the left. He shook his head.

‘We know what King Arthur’s going to say,’ Cole told everyone. ‘Big Mac, though, now that man’s a lawuntohimself. Lawuntohimself.’

In-house security put the keys to the room on the right into Malcolm’s hand.

Malcolm picked up the cases. He stood up. Left.

Cole followed him back out into the corridor. They took the service lift up to the third floor. Room 304. The room above the talks.

Cole said, ‘I’m sorry, Chief.’

Malcolm opened the door. Locked it after them. ‘Just can’t keep it shut, can you?’

Cole sighed. He closed his eyes. Nodded and said again, ‘I’m sorry.’

Malcolm looked at his watch. He drew the curtains. Switched on the lights. He stripped down the double bed. Handed the linen to Cole. Cole dumped it in the bath. Malcolm took the mattress off the bed. Leant it against the curtains. Heopened up their cases on the baseof the bed—

They laid out their equipment. They set it up. They looked at their watches —

Malcolm put on his overalls. He picked up the smaller case. Took the stairs—

Room service –

On a silver plate.

The Troika had gone to the Rubens Hotel for the talks. Everybody else was left to wait. Divide their time between Congress House and the pub. Pace the corridors. Cross their fingers. Pray at a table in the bar at the County, if you were Terry Winters –

Pray that both sides wanted a deal. That a deal could be reached —

That Terry could be saved.

Terry nodded to himself. Terry thought the President knew the time was right –

There was no Triple Alliance any more. No support. No stomach for it.

Terry nodded again. Terry thought the Chairman knew the time was right, too –

There’d been only seven hundred responses to the Chairman’s letter. The huge NCB adverts running in the papers this week looked like a waste of taxpayers’ money –

Money —

Terry closed his eyes. Terry bowed his head. Terry said his prayers.

‘Your lips are moving, Comrade.’

Terry opened his eyes. Terry raised his head. Terry said another prayer –

‘First sign of madness that, Comrade,’ said Bill Reed. ‘Talking to yourself.’

‘What do you want now?’ asked Terry.

Bill Reed put an envelope down on the table. Bill Reed said, ‘Gotcha, Comrade.’

Malcolm drank instant coffee. Malcolm smoked duty-free cigarettes –

Malcolm watched and Malcolm listened —

Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week. Every month. Every year —

The shadows and the whispers. In his thoughts and in his dreams —

Hotel doors. Hotel doors slammed —

I want you I want you I want you now –

Hotel beds. Hotels beds creaked —

I love you I love you I love you for ever –

Hotel headboards. Hotel headboards banged —

I have you I have you I have you here –

Hotel walls. Hotel walls shook —

I hate you –

Blood on hotel walls and hotel floors, hotel beds and hotel doors —

Malcolm opened his eyes. He unwrapped the bandages. Took the cotton wooloutof his ears. Bloody and wet —

Malcolm put on his headphones —

‘I HATE YOU!’

Every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single week of every single month of every single year of his whole fucking life —

The ghosts without. The ghosts within —

Operation Vengeance –

Public and private. Personal.

The Jew hasn’t been to sleep. He’s too anxious. He doesn’t wait for the doorman or Neil. He opens the back door of the Mercedes himself. He fidgets on the backseat –

He wants to tighten the screw further –

He rambles on about Enterprise Oil. The GLC. The House of Lords –

About loose screws.

He is wearing his dark blue pinstripe suit, his pale blue shirt with a white silk tie –

He has a boot full of pale blue notes to donate to his true-blue secret cells –

‘Our men have control of the Nottinghamshire Area Council,’ the Jew boasts. ‘We have our bridgehead now, Neil. The intimidation stops here.’

The car phone rings. The Jew pounces. Listens –

‘What?’ shouts the Jew into the phone. ‘What?’

Neil Fontaine looks into the rearview mirror.

The Jew hangs up. He bangs on the partition. He wails, ‘Stop the car, Neil!’

Neil Fontaine pulls over onto the hard shoulder. He switches on the hazard lights.

The Jew gets out. The Jew paces the verge –

Neil Fontaine joins him.

The Jew looks up. He says, ‘Be a pal and pass me a coffin nail, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine hands the Jew a cigarette. He lights it for him.

The Jew inhales. He coughs and he coughs. The Jew exhales.

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew choke again.

The Jew throws away the cigarette. The Jew says, ‘There’s a dock strike, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine knows.

‘She wants answers, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Heads.’

Neil Fontaine nods again. Neil Fontaine knows –

The Jew coughs. The Jew spits. The Jew clambers back into the back of the car.

Neil Fontaine starts the car. Puts his foot down –

One spark —

The Immingham bulk terminal out over the use of unsupervised non-scheme labour to unload iron-ore pellets at a registered port –

The Jew opens his window. The Jew screams into the road and the wind –

‘This is a disaster. An absolute, utter disaster. Exactly what we didn’t want, Neil. This is a second front. A second bloody front. Exactly what he wanted —’

Neil Fontaine has a slight smile on his face. The road rising –

The one spark –

The lorries would work round the clock for forty-eight hours to move at least half the Immingham stockpile to the Scunthorpe steel works—

Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine knew a set-up when he saw one –

This was a set-up.

Neil Fontaine stops before the gates and the guns and winds down his window –

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

The officer speaks into his radio.

Neil Fontaine glances into the rearview mirror. The Jew is sweating again –

His pinstripe soaked.

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

The guns rise. The gates open.

Neil Fontaine starts the car.

‘Doubt she’ll be in a very good mood,’ says the Jew for the third time.

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

There is no one here to meet the car today –

Neil Fontaine has to open the back door of the Mercedes for the Jew.

The Jew gets out. The Jew goes up to the front door –

The door opens.

The Jew turns back to look at Neil. The Jew nods. The Jew gives a little wave –

The Jew has tickets for Wimbledon. The final –

The Jew planned to take Fred, Don and James. Their special treat.

Fred, Don and James will have to go on their own now –

The Jew is due out on the real centre court today –

And he has left his aviator sunglasses and his panama hat on the backseat.

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

Neil Fontaine is thinking of Vincent Taylor and Julius Schaub –

One spark, he thinks. That’s all it ever takes –

David Johnson and Malcolm Morris –

One spark to burn the whole thing down —

Jennifer Johnson.

Malcolm took the weekend off. He drove North. He ate dinner at Da Marios on the Headrow in Leeds. Deep-fried garlic mushrooms. Lasagne. A bottle of the house red. He smoked two cigarettes. He finished with coffee. Drove home to Harrogate. He put the car in the garage. He went into the house. Picked up the post. The papers from the mat. He left his briefcase in the hall. Took off his tie. He made a cup of instant coffee. He went into the lounge. Drew the curtains. He switched on the lights. The stereo. He went over to the shelves. The many shelves which lined every wall of the room. He took down the double-cassette boxof Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds –

Malcolm opened the box. Two cassettes inside —

He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the stereo. Side A.

Malcolm unwrapped his bandages. Took the cotton wool out of his ears —

He lowered the volume. He adjusted the tone. He pressed play —

The Eve of the War started. Four minutes later The Eve of the War stopped —

There were other noises on the tape now —

Other noises from other rooms. Other rooms, other sounds –

The wheels turning. The wheels within wheels —

The sound of a door opening. The sound of footsteps coming –

Malcolm pressed stop. Forward. Stop —

Silence. Just the silence. Pregnant –

Two bloody wet cotton-wool balls in his hands, Malcolm pressed play —

Screams. Just her screams –

Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Malcolm played it all back –

Over and over and over –

Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Again and again and again.

Peter

preferable when it’s costing them an arm and leg? Because he’s worried that any settlement now would breakdown again when stocks were still low. That’s why. So I say we take his warning as a piece of bloody good advice. I say we push for a return right now. Keep overtime ban on. Mend some fences. Build our bridges back with Nottingham. Triple Alliance. Rest of movement. Clear some debts. Then, Bang! Hit bastards hard, right before Christmas. They won’t be able to last long then, I’m telling you. I sat back down. David Rainer nodded. He said, Not up to us, though, is it, Pete? So who is it up to then? asked Johnny — But there were no answer to that. Because we all knew bloody answer. That was why. Martin Daly came round ours tonight. Thought they’d put you in Middlewood, I said. He didn’t laugh. He shook his head. He said, You don’t know half of it — Fair enough, I said. How’s your Cath? Not bad, he said. What about you? Looks like it hurts — Only when I breathe, I said. He laughed. He shook his head again. He said, Bloody state of us, eh? I said, Not just us, lad — Right there, he said. Pint going to hurt, is it? Not if you’re buying. He laughed again. He stood up. He said, Best get our straitjackets on then, hadn’t we? Ended up in Hotel. I could tell Martin weren’t keen. Talk at tables was what you’d expect — They go on about uneconomic pits and then they spend sixty-five million quid a week on police, compensation costs to industry, alternative power and lost income tax. Sixty-five million fucking quid. Every week. That’s nigh on ten million fucking quid a day. It’s been over a hundred days. Hundred days at ten million quid a day. Never spent a bloody penny round here before. Think about it, said Billy. Ten million quid a day for a hundred days. Fucking hell, she must really hate us. Really fucking hate us — I was nodding. Everybody was — That fucking letter, Danny said. Wish I’d never opened bloody thing. Should’ve fucking burnt it like Keith did. Dear Colleague, Your future is in danger. Everybody will lose — and lose disastrously. Your savings will disappear. The industry will be butchered. Twenty or thirty pits in danger of never reopening, Join your associates who have already returned to work. Sincerely, Ian MacGregor. Your future is in danger? Little Mick nodded. Who does that Yankee bastard think he is? I’m sat there reading that fucking thing with a black eye and two fucking broken ribs. I know my future is in fucking danger — In fucking danger from him and her and their fucking boot-boys — That’s who my future’s in fucking danger from — I was nodding. Everybody was — You saw photo on front of Miner? That bloke were an army sergeant driving that police van during London march — Khaki shirt. Sergeant stripes. Badges. Insignia. The lot — Clear as fucking day. I’m telling you, that weren’t first time, either. That were never just police at Orgreave. Never. Not in a month of fucking Sundays. Not a number on any of them, were there? I know I didn’t bloody see one. Army, that’s who they were. Fucking troops. Light relief after Northern Ireland. Light relief. 1926 all over again — I was nodding. Nodding and watching Martin at bar. Bar and dartboard. Bloke at table got out his photocopy of Ridley Plan. Revenge, he said. That’s what this is. Revenge — I nodded. Everybody nodded — I’d had enough, though. I stood up. I went outside. I needed some fucking air. Our Jackie had left a sandwich out for us when I got back — Two slices of Mighty White. Margarine. Packet of cheese and onion crisps — Bloody crisp sandwiches again. I ate it and went up. Mary was asleep. I checked alarm clock. Put on my pyjamas. Got into bed. Lay there looking up at ceiling. It was midnight. Had to be bloody up again in an hour and a half. Didn’t want to sleep, though. Ruined even that, hadn’t they? I couldn’t remember a single bloody dream I’d had before strike. Now I couldn’t close my eyes for more than five minute fore I had them open again — Shitting bricks. Sweating like a bastard — Total darkness. I can touch my nose with my finger and still not see my finger. Hear hammering on metal in distance. Or was it here? Near. Here with smell of wood. Mice. Then hammering stops. Mice are gone. There’s a different noise. Different

The Nineteenth Week

Monday 9 — Sunday 15 July 1984

Christopher, Timothy and Louise were about to break up for their summer holidays. Theresa Winters thought the children should go down to Bath to stay with her mum and dad, at least for a couple of weeks. Terry thought Theresa should go too. Theresa was hurt. How would she be able to help him if she went down to Bath? How would she be able to support the strike? Help the women’s action groups? Did he not appreciate the cuttings she took from the papers, the videos she made from the news? Did he not want her to assist the welfare groups? Did he not want her to attend the Women Against Pit Closures Conference at Northern College next Sunday? Theresa had stopped washing the frying pan and the grill. She was staring at her husband. Her hands wet. Christopher, Timothy and Louise had stopped eating their cereal. They were staring at their dad. Their mouths open. Terry Winters looked down at his newspaper. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His mouth moved –

‘I’m sorry,’ he told them. He stood up. He left them –

Terry Winters went to work.

Terry spent most of the day organizing the hand-delivery of confidential envelopes to the finance officers on each executive committee of each separate area. These envelopes contained individual sets of instructions; the individual sets of instructions to his latest master plan –

His greatest masterstroke —

Instructions to authorize with immediate effect the payment in full to all non-elected employees of the Union (Regional and National) their entire salary for fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend the collection of rents on any properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to transfer the deeds and titles of properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) to the tenants of the properties concerned for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend repayments to the Union (Regional and National) of loans made by the Union (Regional and National) to employees for the duration of fiscal 1984/85 –

Each instruction a masterstroke —

Each instruction divesting the Union of its assets at national and regional level, pre-empting the possible sequestration of funds while simultaneously ensuring the loyalty of its employees in its darkest of hours –

The darkest, darkest of hours yet to come.

Clive Cook called Terry back within an hour. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive used the telephone in his office at Huddersfield Road to call Terry at St James’s House. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive failed to use the codes. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would –

Just like Bill Reed had said Clive would.

Terry listened to Clive’s questions. Then Terry said, ‘Just fucking do it, Clive.’

Terry hung up. Terry stood by the phone. Terry picked it up again –

Click-click.

Terry hung up again. Terry walked backwards down the stairs. Terry went out.

Terry called Diane back from a phone box in the station. He’d dreaded this call. He’d gone over it tens of times in his head. Hundreds. He knew it had to be said –

Had to be done.

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He dialled their room. Listened to it ring –

Listened to Diane say, ‘It’s all very 007 is this, Mr Chief Executive Officer.’

‘These are very dangerous times,’ said Terry. ‘I can’t see you any more.’

‘What?’

‘I am under surveillance. I am being tailed and I am being bugged.’

‘What are you —’

‘If they found out about us, they could use you against me. Against the Union.’

‘What are you talking about, Terry?’

‘They’ve bugged our offices,’ he said. ‘Our houses. All our phones —’

‘What on earth does that have to do with us? Our relationship?’

‘It can’t go on,’ said Terry. ‘I can’t see you any more. It’s over.’

*

These are the hours Neil knew had to come –

The recondite hours.

He wants to be believed. Not to be deceived. His messages received —

The Jew naked on the carpet of his suite. The Jew shouting, ‘There is no crisis.’

He clutches his cock in both hands. He quotes Hayek –

‘Crucial truths,’ whispers the Jew. ‘Crucial battles, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine drags the Jew into the bathroom. He throws him into the cold bath –

Neil watches the Jew thrash –

His white limbs and his red chest.

He listens to the Jew scream –

His right fingernails scratching at his left breast, tearing it open.

Neil changes the water. He runs the hot tap. He fetches the Jew’s rubber duck –

The Jew soaks among the suds until he is clean and sober again –

His wounds almost healed.

It is here that the phrase comes to him. He often thinks about that war in the bath. It was where the Jew first came in –

The Jew’s grande entrée —

She had been surrounded then by apostates and apologists, cowards and caitiffs. Milksops to a man. The Jew had ridden a coach and horses through that dastardly pack.

The Jew had walked straight up to her and introduced himself with the words, ‘The British public wants you to stick it to Johnny Dago, ma’am.’

The Jew had been right too. The Iron Lady had conquered the Tin-Pot General. The Jew would be right this time too. The Iron Lady would vanquish King Coal –

It was time again to break out the coach and horses.

This the hour Neil knew had to come –

The occult hour.

He wants to be admitted. Not to be rejected. His membership accepted.

The Jew drips bloody water across the carpet of his suite. The Jew says to Neil, ‘The enemy within.’

*

All hands on deck. The Dock Strike was national. Notts strikers had occupied the Mansfield committee rooms, preventing the Area Council meeting to mandate their representatives to oppose the introduction of the new disciplinary rule at this week’s Extraordinary Annual Conference. The talks between the Union and the Board had resumed in Edinburgh. The Troika had taken with them a written draft of an agreement on which they would be prepared to settle.

These were the days. The best days yet –

The President had left Terry Winters in charge at Strike HQ –

‘To hold the fort,’ he had told him.

Terry stayed at the office all night. He had had the staff enlarge photocopies of the draft agreement. He had them pinned to the Conference Room walls. He stared at them. He watched TV. Ceefax. Oracle. He paced the carpet –

He waited for the telephone call.

His eyes began to close. He sat down in the President’s chair. He –

— is sat in a tall chair made of gold in a dim room made of dull walls. He wears a white cassock with a purple shawl. His head is shaved, his hands bejewelled. Theroombegins to turn. Thechair falls. Terry–

Opened his eyes, his face white with shock, his breath black with –

‘Comrade,’ said the Tweed again. ‘Telephone.’

Terry stood up. Terry rubbed his face. Terry took the phone. Terry said, ‘Hello?’

‘Rise and shine, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the voice of Paul Hargreaves.

Terry rubbed his face again. Terry looked up. Terry looked around –

There were four Tweeds standing over the President’s desk.

Terry said into the phone, ‘What news, Comrade General Secretary?’

‘Cautious optimism,’ said Paul. ‘That’s the phrase for today.’

‘Let us hope it bears fruition‚’ said Terry. ‘Our members are counting on you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Paul. ‘Thank you very much. The President and the Vice-President have asked if you would prepare a draft agenda for the pre-conference NEC meeting tomorrow. There is every chance we will be back in Sheffield by six.’

Terry nodded. Terry said into the phone, ‘You can rely on me, Comrade.’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Paul. ‘Because the President would also like you to prepare an additional item for the agenda on the possible legal challenges from the Nottinghamshire action against Rule 51.’

‘I can tell you now,’ said Terry. ‘If and when the scabs get the High Court decision they want, we could well be in contempt even holding a conference, let alone debating the rule itself.’

‘But will they come after us?’ asked Paul. ‘And can we withstand it if they do?’

Terry looked back up at the Tweeds. Terry looked down at the phone. Terry said, ‘They will come after us as soon as they can, that’s certain. But we have taken the appropriate and necessary measures. We are ready for them.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Paul again. ‘The President will be heartened by your words.’

‘Good luck, Comrade General Secretary,’ said Terry. ‘We are counting on you!’

‘Goodbye, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said Paul Hargreaves.

Terry Winters put down the phone –

There was clapping from the doorway to the Conference Room.

The Tweeds turned round. Terry looked up –

‘Fuck ‘em all,’ shouted Bill Reed. ‘And fuck you all, Comrades.’

*

The Norton Park Hotel, Edinburgh. The talks had failed. The Chairman blamed semantics over the third category of pit closures. The President blamed the third hand —

‘The third ear more like,’ laughed Cole.

Malcolm Morris pressed rewind. He pressed stop. Play —

‘— paragraph 3c is a demonstration of positive negotiations —’

‘— we just added one word, that’s all —’

‘— there is not much between us —’

‘— just added one word, that’s all —’

‘— but beneficial is not acceptable —’

‘— then you will have to think of another word —’

‘— someone better go get us a bloody thesaurus then —’

‘— just one word, that’s all —’

‘— we could not sell that to the lads —’

‘— I am too old for victories —’

‘— you have the Prime Minister’s ear, Mr Chairman —’

‘— just one word —’

‘— we have to find a formula that takes us beyond March 6 —’

‘— it’s in your hands —’

‘— all the guidelines and safeguards protect you — not us —’

‘— one word —’

‘— we have stopped running and we cannot be chased any further —’

‘— it’s now up to you.’

Malcolm pressed stop. Rewind again. Eject.

‘Love is a battlefield,’ laughed Cole again.

Malcolm labelled each cassette. Each spool Put the copies into separate boxes. The boxes into the express-delivery pouches. The spools into the briefcase —

He closed the door behind them. They took the stairs –

Heartache to heartache. Room to room. Wall to wall –

Behind private walls in private rooms, the private heartaches of public demons —

Malcolm and Cole had their headphones back on. Tapes turning again —

‘Whatever we do to them, whatever action we take, they’ve still got a job.’

‘We won’t work with scabs.’

‘We’ll have no fucking choice.’

‘Lads won’t have it.’

‘Lads won’t have a job, then.’

‘It’s unacceptable.’

‘It’s unacceptable but it’s now the bloody policy of the fucking Coal Board. They’ve set us a trap and we’ve walked into it. Doesn’t matter what we say or do now. Means we’ve lost Nottingham for good —’

‘Means we’ve lost full stop, President.’

‘Does it heck mean we’ve lost.’

‘See sense, man. Course it bloody does. Nottingham will keep working. Nottingham will keep producing fucking coal. We can’t call strike official in Nottingham. We can’t order them to respect picket lines. Can’t take action against them if they don’t. And now, if we do take away their membership, Board will still let them work —’

‘They’re scabs.’

‘Aye, they’re scabs and they’ll always be scabs — so they’ll keep working no matter how long we stay out. In a word, we’re fucked now.’

‘It’s time to settle, President. Settle now and keep this Union together —’

‘He’s right —’

‘Lads won’t go for it.’

‘Lads always listen to you. Lads will hear you now. Lads will see sense.’

‘Take it, President. Take it now. Take it just for now.’

‘I can’t.’

‘They’ve said they’ll withdraw bloody closure programme —’

‘Verbally.’

‘Verbally, orally, whatever. Them five pits will be kept open. It gives us victory.’

‘Does it heck.’

‘It can be made into one. They’ve backed down. Pits will be kept open.’

‘Not kept open. They said they’ll be subject of further consideration —’

‘Joint consideration —’

‘But for how long? Won’t be like before. Old procedures won’t be there —’

‘President, President, there’ll be time for talk —’

‘And how bloody long will it be before they stop talking and start closing —’

‘But we’d have kept our powder dry, while we still had powder to keep dry.’

‘It’s just one word, President.’

‘It’s one word, aye. It’s retreat. It’s carte-blanche to do what the hell they want. There’s never been a third category before. They’ve set no parameters for exhaustion of reserves. The government is insisting on that word. Because it’s carte-blanche —’

‘But they’ve got that anyway now. Now closed shop’s out the window —’

‘Seam exhaustion, and that’s it. Safety grounds. Geological grounds. That’s it.’

‘It’s time to take what’s on the bloody table, man. Take it to the lads —’

‘Not now! Not bloody likely. Now is the hour —’

The tapes ran. They ran and ran. The wheels turned. Turned and turned again —

The private heartaches of public demons, in private rooms between private walls —

Headphones off. Suitcases packed. Cigarettes. Coffee. Goodbyes —

The drive South again. The wheels in motion (the wheels within wheels) —

Trucks full of troops being deployed. Lorryloads of shaven heads —

‘— there is in no sense a crisis —’

There were curfews in English villages. There were curfews on English estates —

‘— no state of emergency —’

Fitzwilliam. Hemsworth. Grimethorpe. Wombwell. Shirebrook. Warsop.

‘— a touch of midsummer madness —’

York Minster had been struck by lightning. York Minster was burning —

‘— acts of God —’

Malcolm Morris stood among the crowd of ten thousand people at the DurhamMiners’ Galaand listened to the speeches —

‘— we will at the end of the day inflict upon Mrs Thatcher the kind of defeat we imposed on Ted Heath in 1972 and 1974 —’

The spectres. Rising from the dread. The rectors. Raising up the dead —

The old ghosts, without and within –

Malcolm Morris spied Neil Fontaine parked in a lay-by in a black Mercedes —

England was a séance, within and without.

*

The SDC had passed the rule change to discipline anyone responsible for actions detrimental to the interests of the Union. The SDC had passed the disciplinary rule change with a two-thirds majority and in defiance of a court injunction.

Terry made the call. Terry used the code. Terry drove up to Hoyland –

Terry was late. Clive Cook was already parked behind the Edmund’s Arms.

Terry walked over to the brand-new Sierra. Terry tapped on the passenger door.

Clive gestured for Terry to get in.

Terry shook his head. Terry walked away.

Clive jumped out of his new Sierra. Clive shouted, ‘Where are you going?’

Terry went back over to stand by his car. Terry waited –

Clive ran after him. Clive grabbed him. Clive said, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve spoken to Bill Reed.’

Clive let go of Terry. Clive sighed. Clive said, ‘What did he want this time?’

‘I know everything.’

Clive blinked. Clive said, ‘Know what? He’s a fucking liar and a drunk.’

Terry pushed Clive against the car. Terry ripped open Clive’s shirt –

Pulled up his vest.

Clive Cook was shaking. Clive Cook was sobbing.

Terry tore the microphone off his chest. The micro-recorder off his back.

Clive Cook slid down the side of the car –

‘They pay me fifty quid a day,’ Clive Cook wept. ‘Fifty quid. Monday to Friday. A grand a month. Tax free. Just to tell them what they already know.’

Terry threw the equipment onto the ground. Terry stamped on it –

Repeatedly.

Clive Cook looked up at Terry Winters. Clive Cook said, ‘I’m sorry, Comrade.’

Terry grabbed him by his hair. Terry spun him across the car park.

Clive Cook fell on the floor. Clive Cook lay on the ground. Clive Cook smiled –

‘I’m the one you’re meant to find,’ he laughed.

Terry spat on him once. Terry got into his car –

Terry went back to work.

Peter

sound now. Hooves. Horses’ hooves. I start running. Running and running — Like a bastard. A bastard — Shitting bricks. Sweating buckets — I stared up at bedroom ceiling. I was thinking about my father — How my father died. How my father lived — Then alarm went off and I jumped. They said talks were going well. They said there was a dock strike in offing — It was a bloody beautiful day and all. Felt like we were winning — Then I got down Welfare and saw queue. Be double if it weren’t for Women’s Action Group and Welfare Rights folk — It was still out door, like. Knew what half of them were going to say before they’d even opened their gobs and all. Arthur Larkin was back about his compensation claim; Paul Garrett’s wife had had another run-in with YEB; John Edwards was still being given runaround by DHSS; and Mrs Kershaw would want to know why Mrs Wilcox had got two cans of beans in her food parcel and she’d only got one and did I know that some had got a bag of potatoes and others hadn’t? And, while she was here, what about all them tins from Poland. How was that fair? I nodded and wrote down what she said. What they all said — I didn’t say I knew her husband was working cash in hand on a building site in Chesterfield and that was why he never went on a picket. Didn’t say I knew he’d be first on mesh bus when they started it here. I just nodded and wrote down what she said. What they all said — Didn’t say there were folk ten times worse off than them. Folk that never came down here. Folk that never asked for anything. Folk that said thank you when you did see them and gave them something. Folk that didn’t tell us what we already knew — That we were unprepared. That we were badly organized. That things were going to get worse — Folk whose bloody addresses we didn’t even have. Faces we couldn’t remember — You’re not even bloody listening, are you? shouted Mrs Kershaw. Typical. Bloody typical. I nodded and I wrote it down — Day of Jitters, they were calling it down in London. Not up here, they weren’t — Not at Sheffield University. The Extraordinary Annual Conference — High Court or no High Court, we were still here — Here to say you cannot break ranks to our collective disadvantage. Here to accept Rule 51 with a two-thirds majority. Here to say sod state interference. Sod pit closures. Sod scabs — And sod her. King Arthur stood up and we all stood up with him — Through the police, the judiciary, the social security system, he said. Whichever way seems possible, the full weight of the state is being brought to bear upon us in an attempt to try to break this strike. On the picket lines, riot police in full battle gear, on horseback and on foot, accompanied by police dogs, have been unleashed in violent attacks upon our members. In our communities and in our villages, we have seen a level of police harassment and intimidation which organized British trade unionists have never before experienced; the prevention of people to move freely from one part of the country, or even county, to another; the calculated attacks upon striking miners in streets of their villages; the oppressive conditions of bail under which it is hoped to silence, discourage and defeat us — all these tactics constitute outright violation of people’s basic rights. So to working miners, I say this: Search your conscience — Ours is a supremely noble aim: To defend pits, jobs, communities and the right to work, and we are now entering a crucial phase in our battle. The pendulum is swinging in favour of NUM. Sacrifices and hardships have forged a unique commitment among our members. They will ensure that the NUM wins this most crucial battle in the history of our industry. Comrades, I salute you for your magnificent achievement and for your support — Together, we cannot fail! We will not fail! We were stood with him — Stood by him. Stood for him — Shoulder to shoulder we were all stood. And they must have been able to hear applause and cheering in Downing Street — The new war cry: Herewe are — TGWU had voted to extend their strike to all ports. Here we are — Pound had collapsed. Herewe are — Billions had been lost in stocks and shares. HERE. WE. ARE — I drove down to Annesley before Panel today. Took

The Twentieth Week

Monday 16 — Sunday 22 July 1984

Neil Fontaine stands outside the door to the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. He listens to the Jew whimper and whine in his dreams. He listens to him weep and wail. Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s and wonders where the angels are tonight. Those better angels, their wings tonight –

The lights out. The shadows long –

The scars across his back.

Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite. Neil Fontaine listens to the summer –

Inside.

‘— at the time of the Falklands conflict, we had to fight the enemy without —’

Malcolm Morris had found Clive Cook first —

He was sitting in the road outside the telephone box in Hoyland.

Clive was a mess. His shirt open. His buttons gone —

He was pissed. Frightened.

‘I’m fucked,’ Clive had kept saying. ‘I’m fucked! Fucked! Fucked! Fucked!’

Malcolm got Cole to take Clive’s car. Malcolm stuck Clive in the back of his. Gave him a lager —

To keep him pissed.

Malcolm drove him down through Mexborough and Doncaster to Finningley —

Eyes in the rearview mirror, ears bleeding.

Malcolm took Clive into the barracks —

Light inside, dark outside. It was night now, and that was good —

Things changed in the night. Things always looked different in the morning.

Clive woke in the room with the mirror. In a change of clothes.

He said, ‘I want to go home now. I want to go backhome.’

‘OK,’ said Malcolm. ‘I’ll get the car.’

But before Malcolm reached the door Clive had remembered —

Clive said, ‘No, wait. I don’t —’

‘What?’ said Malcolm.

Clive looked at him. Clive said, ‘I don’t want to go home any more. I’m fucked.’

‘Relax,’ Malcolm told him. ‘She’ll be here any minute. Then everything will be all right.’

Clive nodded. Malcolm nodded, too. Clive smiled. Malcolm smiled back —

Clive said, ‘That’s good. That’s very good. Diane will make things better.’

‘— but the enemy within, much more difficult to fight, is just as dangerous to liberty —’

Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew in the small hours. The Chairman and the Great Financier carry the Jew down the stairs from the flat in Eaton Square and out to the Mercedes. They have been drinking jeroboams again. The Jew demands that Neil pin black cloths over the inside of the windows in the back of the car. He demands that Neil play the elegy from Tchaikovsky’s Serenade in C for String Orchestra, Op.48.He demands that –

Neil Fontaine does ninety up the M1 with the Jew asleep on the backseat –

Neil Fontaine likes to drive North through the night. To hurtle into the new dawn. To meet the light head on –

The Jew wakes in the black of the back. He is disorientated and has a hangover. He taps on the partition. Neil Fontaine lowers the glass.

The Jew says, ‘Where on earth are you taking me, Neil?’

‘Oxton, sir.’

The Jew struggles to remember why on earth Neil would be taking him to Oxton.

‘Grey Fox, sir.’

The Jew slumps back in his seat. The Jew sighs. The Jew says, ‘Quite.’

Neil Fontaine turns off the Tchaikovsky.

The Jew sits forward again. The Jew says, ‘Can we stop somewhere, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine exits the M1 at the next services –

Leicester Forest East.

Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes among the lorries and the coaches.

‘Please tell me you’ve brought my flying-jacket, Neil,’ says the Jew.

Neil Fontaine nods. He says, ‘Along with a complete change of clothes, sir.’

‘You’re a national treasure, Neil. A national treasure.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ says Neil Fontaine. He gets out of the car. He opens up the boot. He takes out a small suitcase and the worn leather flying-jacket with the blood-spotted collar. He closes the boot of the car. He opens the back door of the Mercedes.

The Jew steps out into the sunshine. He has found his sunglasses and his panama.

Neil Fontaine points. He says, ‘I believe the toilets are that way, sir.’

‘Very good, Neil,’ says the Jew.

Neil Fontaine hands him the small suitcase.

‘Thank you, Neil,’ says the Jew.

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew cross the car park of the Leicester Forest services. The Jew is wearing a cream tuxedo cut short in the manner of a hussar, with a gold brocade front and matching epaulettes. His jodhpurs are tucked into his riding boots. He takes off his panama as he enters the toilets.

Neil Fontaine lights a cigarette. Neil Fontaine waits.

Five minutes later the Jew reappears in his flying-jacket and his chinos. He hands Neil the small suitcase and his panama hat. He puts his aviator sunglasses back on. He caresses his moustache. He stretches. He breathes in deeply through his nose. He slaps Neil on the back. He says, ‘What’s the ETA, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine checks his watch. He taps it. He says, ‘Under an hour, sir.’

‘Let’s press on then, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Our people are waiting.’

Neil Fontaine says, ‘Certainly, sir.’

The Jew gets in the back of the Mercedes. Neil Fontaine closes the door.

They drive on to Oxton –

The Green Dragon.

Neil Fontaine holds open the door of the pub for the Jew. They go up the stairs to the first floor. There are two men sitting at a table in the corner. One of them has prematurely grey hair. He is wearing sunglasses. Both men stand up as the Jew approaches –

The man from the Mail says, ‘Stephen Sweet meet Grey Fox.’

The Jew shakes hands with the man with the prematurely grey hair. The Jew says, ‘Do I call you Grey or Mr Fox?’

Grey Fox shrugs his shoulders. He says, ‘Whichever you want. It’s just a —’

The Jew holds up his hand. The Jew says, ‘Or how about just plain Hero?’

This Grey Fox has turned a deep red. He takes off his sunglasses.

The Jew sits him down. The Jew says, ‘You are the bravest man I’ve ever met.’

The man from the Mail nods. He says, ‘The bravest man in Britain.’

Grey Fox shakes his head. Grey Fox says, ‘I’m just an ordinary man who —’

The Jew squeezes his hand. The Jew says, ‘You are a far from ordinary man, sir. You are an extraordinary man. Please, I want to know everything. Tell me your story, Grey Fox. The story of the Bravest Man in Britain —’

The Jew and Grey Fox sit side by side at the table in the corner of the upstairs bar of the Green Dragon public house in Nottinghamshire.

Grey Fox doesn’t drink. The Jew does –

‘Hair of the dog that bit me‚’ he says. ‘Now, please, tell me everything —’

‘There was no one you could turn to,’ says Grey Fox. ‘The branch officials were on strike. You couldn’t go in on the nightshift because they’d brick your house or worse. Richardson — our leader — came down to Welfare and he called us scabs. Told us all to stop scabbing. I thought, What-the-bloody-hell-is-this-world-coming-to when this man who is our elected representative comes down to our Welfare and tells us, the men that pay his wages, tells us that we are scabs? I was offended, Mr Sweet. Offended and afraid because folk didn’t know who to turn to. But I thought there must be hundreds like me —’

The Jew is leaning forward. He hangs on to the words of Grey Fox –

‘The areas were like islands though. Isolated from one another. Some pits were cut off. Rumours were going round, that was all we heard. I wanted to bring people together. Then at Mansfield on May 1, I got the chance. I got the chance to make a difference. I gave my name and number out to people on slips of paper. That night the phone started ringing and it’s never stopped since —’

The Jew nods. His eyes are full of tears –

‘Then again, I’ve always said, and I still say, if fifty per cent were out and it was official, then Grey Fox would be one of them.’

Grey Fox stops speaking.

The Jew is drying his eyes. He is wiping the tears from his cheeks.

Neil Fontaine stares at Grey Fox –

Grey Fox looks back.

Neil Fontaine smiles at him –

Carl Baker, 35-year-old blacksmith and father-of-two from Bevercotes Colliery. Carl Baker, the former small businessman, now of 16 Trent Street, Retford—

Carl Baker smiles back, because he is a nice man –

He is a very nice man, but Carl Baker already has his doubts. And his doubts will become regrets. His regrets will bring blame. Blame will bring bitterness –

Then Carl Baker won’t be a very nice man any more.

‘Will you please excuse me?’ he says. ‘I need to use —’

‘I think it’s downstairs,’ says the man from the Mail.

‘Would you like Neil to go with you?’ asks the Jew.

Carl Baker looks at Neil Fontaine. He shakes his head. He says, ‘No, thanks.’

The Jew smiles. He nods. He stands up to let Carl Baker out.

Carl Baker puts his sunglasses back on. He goes downstairs for a shit –

‘That’s his fourth today,’ says the man from the Mail.

The Jew turns to the man from the Mail. He says, ‘Well done, Mark.’

Mark from the Mail laughs. He says, ‘My pleasure. Now, about the —’

The Jew raises his hand. He says, ‘Neil will take care of the details.’

Neil Fontaine hands Mark from the Mail a piece of paper and a pen.

Mark from the Mail looks down at the notepaper. He looks up at Neil Fontaine.

‘Your name, branch, sort code and account number, please,’ says Neil Fontaine.

Mark from the Mail nods. He writes quickly. He hands the note back to Neil.

Carl Baker comes back upstairs. He sits back down. He takes off his sunglasses.

‘You really are a hero to me,’ says the Jew. ‘And not just to me and the thousands of terrified miners who want to work and are too intimidated to leave their families and their houses, but you’ll also become a hero to millions of ordinary people throughout this country and around the world who are sick and fed up of the bully-boys and the Black Shirts, the Socialists and the skinheads –

‘Have you ever seen On the Waterfront with Marlon Brando?’ asks the Jew.

Carl Baker shakes his head. He says, ‘I don’t think that I —’

‘See it,’ says the Jew. ‘See it, because it’s you.’

Carl Baker looks at the Jew. Carl Baker looks confused.

The Jew takes out his chequebook. He says, ‘How much do you need, Carl?’

Carl Baker looks at Mark from the Mail. Carl Baker says, ‘He knows my name —’

‘Soon everyone will know your name,’ winks the Jew.

Carl Baker puts his sunglasses back on. Carl Baker clutches his stomach.

‘People are crying out to hear a name like yours, Carl,’ says the Jew.

*

They had breakfast across the road from the County. There was only the one table today. Terry was going to the High Court later. The Troika back to the Rubens for more talks. Dick and Paul just played with their food. They had to be at the Rubens Hotel in an hour. There was supposed to be confidence going into these talks. The Dock Strike was solid. There was obvious panic in Downing Street and Fleet Street. There was no rise in the rate of men returning to work. This was supposed to bring confidence. But there was none. The friends Terry Winters had on the inside of Hobart House (and there were many these days), these friends from the other side suggested the Board would withdraw the March 6 closure programme –

Not for nothing, though.

But the Union had only nothing to give. Nothing further they could take, either. The EAC had made that clear. Crystal. Their hands were tied. Dick and Paul stood up. Terry paid the bill.

Dick and Paul had gone when Terry came out of the café. Terry hailed a cab. Terry got in the taxi. Terry asked the driver to take him to court. The driver smiled and dropped him at the High Court.

Terry sat in the public gallery of the Crypts. He listened to Sir Robert Megarry declare their new disciplinary rule 51 unlawful. Null and void. Terry left the High Court. He ate a ploughman’s lunch in the pub across the road. He bought an Evening Standard —

There was no news. They were still talking –

Thirteen hours they talked. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth for thirteen hours. Thirteen hours. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth for thirteen hours –

Terry in the bar. Terry on the bog. Terry on the phone. Terry on his knees –

Back and forth for thirteen hours. Then they stopped.

It was midnight when they got back to the County. The press and television tried to follow them inside. Doors were slammed in their faces. The Troika took off their jackets. They collapsed in the armchairs –

There was silence.

Paul went to the toilet. Joan asked for some tea and sandwiches to be brought up –

‘Fuck cups of tea,’ said Dick. ‘I’ve drunk enough bloody cups to last me all year. I want a proper fucking drink.’

The President had his head right back. His eyes closed –

It was a long march home from here —

There was the wet trail of a tear from his eye to his ear.

*

The nightmares are recurrent. Neil Fontaine dreams of skulls. Many, many skulls. Skulls and candles. He wakes in their room at the County. The light is still on. He sits on the edge of their bed. The notebook is in his hand. He picks apart the months. Puts the pieces back together his way. He stops writing. The notebook to one side. He stands up. He opens the dawn curtain.

Jennifer thrashes in their bed. She screams his name in her sleep –

There are only moments like these now —

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

The summer angry. The enemies within —

A scar across the country.

Peter

Keith, his cousin Sean and his mate who was staying with them. We were hitting Nottingham every day now — Linby. Moor Green. Every pit we could — Dayshift. Afters — Often as we could. Many as we could — Annesley a lot. Best way there was straight down M1. Junction 27 — No roadblocks today, either. Few spotter cars on hard shoulder. Krk-krk. Plainclothes mob on bridges with their cameras and stuff. That was all — Think they just wanted to see how many of us they were dealing with after Orgreave. Take down names and car registrations — Keith said he’d started getting silent phone-calls first thing of a morning. Reckoned it was just to see if he was in. Sean’s mate Liam said, That’s what they do with IRA in Northern Ireland. To keep tabs on them. If they don’t see a face about for a bit, they know something’s up. Big job coming — I put on radio for rest of way. Two Tribes — Must have heard that bloody song ten times a day now for weeks. Ought to make it bloody National Anthem, said Sean. It was early when we got to pit. Load of coppers, though. Krk-krk. White shirts, too. Fucking Met. Scum. Bloody lot of them. Arrogant scum and all — Do this. Do that. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Fair few lads were arriving now. Maltby mob. Dinnington. More of our lads. Big Knob drove up to where we were stood around in cowfield. Got his notebook out ready. Head darting about like a bloody pigeon. Right, he said to us. Where are you men from? I told him. I said, We’re from Yorkshire. Are you indeed? he said. Indeed we are, I said. Right then, he said. Get back in your vehicles and fuck off back to Yorkshire. I said, That’s not very nice language, Inspector. No, he said. And if you don’t move, you’ll hear more of it in Lincoln Jail. That was when it started up. Like a bloody dance. Us quite prepared to play it to death — Him threatening us with this, that and other. This time, though, Keith had only gone behind bastard’s back and taken fucking keys out of his car. Chucked them over hedge into next field. Mad bastard. I thought we best be off now. I said, Right, Inspector, you’ve made a good point there. We’ll get on our way now. Big Knob couldn’t keep smug bloody look off his face. Right proud he was. Probably thought they were going to give him Queen’s Medal for Bravery or something. Us lot just trying not to laugh — Keep a straight face. Not give game away — Me, Keith and other two headed back to our car. Rest of lads did same. I made sure we all drove off past him. And there he was, going through his pockets. Keith wound down passenger window. He said to him, What’s up with thee? Never you mind, shouted Knob. Keith said, Not lost your keys, have you? Think police would set a better example than that, said their Sean — Everybody laughing. Laughing all way back to Thurcroft — All way back to another fucking letter from bloody Board on us mats. Must have had some fucking time and brass to spare, that bloke. That fat fucking Yankee bastard — This was a dangerous time. Talks were over. Board busy telling us how pit faces were in danger of collapse. Telling us how coal stocks would last well into next year. Telling us how sixty thousand were still working. Telling us how we needed a ballot. Telling us in their personal letters. Telling us in their telephone calls. In their home visits. Their vendettas. Their lies. Derek said, Lads are itching for more mass pickets — Shirebrook give them taste back last week, said Tom. Panel were nodding. Johnny said, Get rusty if they don’t — Few of mine are saying they’ll only turn out if it’s a mass picket, I said. David Rainer nodded. He said, Barnsley are hearing same — How many are going out on a usual day, David? asked Johnny. David looked at his notes. He shook his head. He said, Under four thou’ — And how many of them make it to target? said Derek. David sighed. He said, About half on a good day — What about if it’s a mass picket? How many turn out then? asked Johnny. David said, There were ten thou’ at Orgreave, easy — Not counting coppers’ narks, I said. Folk nodding. Johnny said, More mass pickets it is, then — Babbington. Creswell. Them types of pits, said Tom. Derek said, Lads will be happy. Just itching for another crack — Babbington it was. This where strike was for today

The Twenty-first Week

Monday 23 — Sunday 29 July 1984

The winds rattled the wires up here. The chatter distorted. The conversations displaced. Thevoices disembodied. Theguards scared the ghosts in here —

Diane put a cigarette to her lips, a lighter to her cigarette.

Malcolm Morris waited.

She inhaled, her eyes closed. She exhaled, her eyes open.

On Menwith Hill, he waited.

‘Don’t let it happen again,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever let it happen again, Malcolm.’

Malcolm nodded.

She stubbed out the cigarette. She put a hand to his ear. She kissed his forehead.

Malcolm Morris shut his eyes until she’d almost gone. Her smell still here —

The Free World.

All at sea again. The Dock Strike had collapsed. Negotiations with the Board suspended. Mrs Thatcher and her Cabinet back on the attack. The miners now Britain’s enemy within. The President a Yorkshire Galtieri –

There was a war on, declared The Times.

Terry Winters had his head pressed against the glass of the window in his office, exhausted. Terry and Theresa had driven Christopher, Timothy and Louise down to Bath yesterday. They had stopped for lunch with her mum and dad. They had said goodbye to the children. Then Terry and Theresa had driven back to Sheffield. He had kept the radio on all the way home. He had dropped Theresa off at the end of the drive. Then he had gone back to work. Terry hadn’t seen his wife since then. Terry had slept downstairs last night. Theresa had already gone when he got up –

The Women Against Pit Closures Conference.

He opened his eyes. He looked up at the bright blue Sheffield sky –

Always light, never dark.

He turned back to his desk. To the piles of files. The mountains of –

The telephone was ringing.

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

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

Terry swallowed. Terry said, ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

‘Where else would you be?’ she laughed. ‘With your wife?’

Terry sat down. Terry stood up again. Terry said, ‘I told you, we’re finished.’

‘We’re not finished,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve not even begun.’

Terry said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s our anniversary on Tuesday.’

Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘No, it’s not.’

‘I was just thinking about that first night, sitting here alone, brushing my hair —’

Terry’s mouth opened. Terry swallowed again.

‘I’m still holding my hairbrush, Terry. I’m still thinking about you —’

Terry’s mouth –

‘I want you —’

Terry –

‘Don’t make me use the handle again, Terry. Please don’t make me —’

Terry sat down under the portrait of the President –

‘Please don’t make me —’

The walls began to turn. The chair began to fall —

‘Please —’

Terry said, ‘Where are you?’

*

Back to base. Back to Sheffield. To drink more instant coffee. To smoke more duty-free cigarettes. To stare at rows and rows of huge reels turning. To stare at the strips and strips of gaffer tape turning on those reels. To stare at the names and the places turning on that gaffer tape—

10F CON.RM #1–4

10F GENTS —

9F LADIES –

8F PRES. off #1–4

8F PRES. OFF O/L #1–4

7F TW OFF #1–2

The names and the places, the tapes and the reels recording it all —

Every single resonance and reverberation of every single sound in every

single room on every single floor of every single building the Union used –

St James’s House. The University. The Royal Victoria. Hallam Towers –

To be numbered, dated and copied. Transcribed and collated. Analysed, interpreted and debated —

In pitch. In tone. In note –

This beautiful, ugly noise. This heathen cathedral of sound —

Renovated and repainted for Yorkshire, but conceived and borne of Ulster —

By Malcolm Gordon Morris, government fairy, the original Tinkerbell, then thirty:

May 1974, Ulster — the Ulster Workers’ Council Strikes combined mainland industrial action techniques with homegrown paramilitary intimidation to bring the Province to a standstill. The telephone-intercept system known as Pusher (Programmable Ultra and Super-High-Frequency Reception) was failing to provide the necessary information as key figures rightly assumed their phones were being tapped and so spoke only in codes in the privacy of their own guarded homes. Malcolm Gordon Morris, government fairy, the original Tinkerbell, then just thirty, bounced microwaves off the windows of their offices and their homes to monitor the vibrations of the glass in order to reproduce and record the conversations taking place within –

In pitch. In tone. In note —

Those beautiful, ugly noises. Those heathen cathedrals –

The timbres in which Malcolm lived and lost himself. Hid and hurt himself.

Malcolm unwrapped his bandages. He took the cotton wool from his ears —

He picked up the headphones. He switched channels —

Hallam Hotel Room 308 #6 –

Doors would slam. Beds creak. Headboards would bang. Walls shake —

He put on the headphones. He closed his eyes. He turned up the volume —

‘— I want you, Terry. I have you, Terry —’

He listened to their words –

‘— Now fuck me, Terry. Fuck me —’

Blood in his ears. Headphones against the wall Malcolm screamed —

‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

*

Neil Fontaine sits before the dawn in the Mercedes in the car park of Woolley Edge service station. He is here to watch. He is here to wait –

This is what Neil Fontaine does –

Before the dawns he parks in the dark in service station car parks.

This is what he has always done –

He parks. He watches. He waits for –

Possibilities.

The Celica arrives at half-past seven. Five minutes later the Sierra pulls in –

Neil Fontaine watches –

Don Colby and his best mate Derek Williams get out of the brand-new Celica. They walk over to the new Sierra. They are wearing low hats and dark glasses. They have a shopping list. Don gets into the Sierra. Derek waits by the boot. He is nervous. Unstrung –

The clock in the dashboard of the Mercedes ticks. Neil Fontaine waits –

Don Colby gets back out of the Sierra. Don has a pile of documents in his arms.

The Sierra reverses out of the parking space. The Sierra leaves at speed.

Don Colby and his best mate Derek Williams get back in the brand-new Celica.

Five minutes later the Celica leaves Woolley Edge services –

At speed.

Neil Fontaine gets out of the Mercedes. He walks across the car park to the phone. He makes two calls –

Neil Fontaine tells the first voice: ‘Presents were exchanged as planned.’

He hangs up.

Neil Fontaine tells the Jew: ‘This time for real.’

Jerry Witherspoon was smoking a cigar at his table. He was waiting today.

Not Roger.

Malcolm Morris sat down.

Jerry smiled. He said, ‘And how are we today, Malcolm?’

‘I don’t have the tapes,’ said Malcolm. ‘If that’s what this is about?’

Jerry stubbed out his cigar. He leant forward. He smiled. He said, ‘We know.’

‘Good,’ said Malcolm. ‘I just wanted to get that out of the way.’

Jerry smiled again. He said again, ‘We know.’

‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Witherspoon?’

Jerry sat back. He said, ‘Roger and I would like to borrow your eyes and ears.’

‘I’m afraid the price has gone up.’

Jerry said, ‘Whatever you feel is fair, Malcolm. They are your eyes and ears.’

‘Who?’

Jerry lifted up his napkin. He pushed an envelope across the table. ‘Him.’

Malcolm opened the envelope. He stared at the photograph inside —

He looked back up at Jerry Witherspoon.

Jerry nodded. Jerry said, ‘Love will always let you down, Malcolm. Always.’

Peter

— Nowhere else. Not Hobart House. Not St James’s House. Not Shirebrook. Not today — Today it was here. Here in Babbington — Here and only here. Here where camera crews were. Here where aggro was. Here where strike was. Here — South Nottinghamshire. Our own enemy within — Mass picket at last. Lads on both sides of road. Here — and I wished I wasn’t. Here — I was at back with Ken when it all wheeled round. Put us down at front — Listen to voice. Massive shove, massive — Voice saying, Follow me. Had them halfway across road, traffic stopped — Follow me. More police running up to shove us back, clear way for snatch squad — Scabs just walking and driving in. Like nothing was going on — Like nothing was wrong. Bounders. Traitors. Bastards. Scab. Scab. Scab — They went in hard, snatch squad. Fucking hard on this one lad — Five on to one. Trail of blood told you where they’d taken him. Must have given them taste for it too, because they were all going in hard now. Hard after anyone they could — Hard until they got their seventy arrests or however many it was they were after today. Mission accomplished — That was it, then. That was strike over for today — Be somewhere else tomorrow. Not here — Hobart House. St James’s House. Creswell — Not Babbington. Not tomorrow — Tomorrow it’d be somewhere cameras were. Where aggro would be. That was where strike would be — Not here. Not tomorrow — Been out twenty week now. Twenty bloody week. Fucking hell. Our Jackie made Sunday lunch today. Been a while since we’d had one. Proper one, like. Not sort of thing you said when you went down Welfare, either. Blokes looked at your dinner medals to see what you’d had. One too many roasts down you and folk would think you were scabbing or out robbing — And they’d sooner you were out robbing. Better that than other — Some of older blokes buying us drinks again today. They were glad of company and we were glad of pint. Listen to their stories of 1926 and who’d done what then; who’d scabbed and who’d not. Richest folk in village nowadays, pensioners and some of them on dole. I was in toilets when Keith came in. He said, Seen anything of Martin? Not since start of month, I said. Keith nodded. Keith said, No one’s seen him — I might have a drive up there then, I said. Keith shook his head. He said, There’s no one about — What about his Cath? I asked him. Keith shook his head again. He said, Jacked her job in, I heard. Fucking hell, I said. You don’t think they’ve flit? I don’t know, Keith said. Thought you might. Why? I asked — Not seen hide nor hair of him, I said. Or her — Maybe they’ve just gone away for a bit. Holiday or something? said Keith. I looked at him. I said, They take Scotch Mist, do they? Lunn Poly? No, he said. I doubt they do. I said, These are dangerous times, Keith. Be careful what you say. Be careful what you think. There were a few festivals on down in London. Yorkshire Area were laying on coaches. Demand was such that we’d had to stick on a few more. Mary and lot of lasses were off in fancy dress as usual. Should have seen bloody state of them. Boost to morale, though, so they said. Loaded up our buckets and badges, our begging bowls and flat caps and off we set. Ironic really, it must have been only time it had bloody rained all month. Been glorious weather. Now it was pissing it down. Pissing it down all fucking day and all. I was stood at Jubilee Gardens. Must have been a hundred bloody buckets. Every branch here, plus mob from GLC. Only good thing that happened all day was when this one coloured lad come past. He stops. He looks at all buckets. He takes out his wage packet from his pocket. He opens it up and pulls out two pound notes. I thought, That’s decent of you. But then he only goes and sticks the two quid back in his pocket and drops his whole bloody wage packet into our bucket — His whole week’s wages. Bar two pound — It made me think, that did. There were no coloured people in Thurcroft and there were them that were right glad about that. I wished they’d been here to see that — But I was same; grew up thinking that blacks had a chip on their shoulder and that Irish were all bloody nutters. I didn’t think that now, I tell

The Twenty-second Week

Monday 30 July — Sunday 5 August 1984

The National Executive Committee had rejected the Board’s offer. The Special Delegate Conference had been recalled for August 10. It was set to run and run –

It was cap-in-hand time to Congress House. Almost –

The Denims and the Tweeds were staring at Terry Winters.

The President had just asked, ‘Will it be jail or fines, Comrade?’

‘Fines first,’ said Terry.

The President said, ‘And how much do you think the fines will be?’

‘For contempt? Fifty thousand plus costs,’ said Terry.

The President said, ‘And what steps will they take to recover it?’

‘The court will set a deadline of twenty-four to forty-eight hours for payment.’

The President said, ‘And when that passes?’

‘They’ll appoint sequestrators to take over the Welsh assets.’

‘Who?’

‘Price Waterhouse,’ said Terry. ‘Who else?’

The President nodded. The President said, ‘But everything is in place?’

‘Everything is in place. Everything is set. Everything ready.’

The President stood up. The President put his hand on Terry’s shoulder –

Terry looked up into his eyes. Terry smiled.

The President said, ‘Unity is just around the corner, Comrade.’

‘Unity and strength, Comrade President,’ said Terry.

The President left the room for the meeting.

*

Neil Fontaine drives the Jew North again. The Jew closes his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches on the radio in the front and the back of the Mercedes –

‘— there is no going back. There is no surrender. We will fight and we will win— or we will diein the attempt —’

Neil Fontaine glances in the mirror. The Jew opens his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches off the radio in the front and back of the Mercedes –

This time for real.

The Jew holds court with the people from the court. The legal eagles of Newark. The Jew talks about the individual. The individual’s resistance. The resistance of the cell. The cell’s resilience –

‘But I digress,’ says the Jew. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen.’

Grey Fox, Don Colby and Derek Williams stare blankly at the Jew.

Dominic Reid sweats.

Piers Harris touches the huge pile of Union documents on his desk again. He says, ‘This is quite a trove you men have amassed.’

Don Colby and Derek Williams smile, proud of what they have become.

‘But does the trove contain the treasure we seek?’ asks the Jew.

Piers Harris nods. He says, ‘I would think so. Don’t you, Dominic?’

Dominic Reid wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. He nods too. He says, ‘Looking at the inventory of the documents the men have obtained, there does appear to be some real meat here.’

‘Meat for the traps,’ says the Jew. ‘Bait.’

‘Anything else you need,’ says Don Colby. ‘You just let us know.’

The Jew applauds. The Jew says, ‘This mole of yours is certainly a busy bee.’

‘He knows it’s the right thing to do,’ says Don Colby. ‘The right thing.’

‘It’s certainly a brave thing to do, too,’ says the Jew. ‘One really dreads to imagine what the Red Guard would do to the poor creature should he ever be unmasked.’

Everybody imagines. Everybody nods –

Grey Fox puts his sunglasses back on. Picks his underpants out of his arse.

The Jew claps his hands. He says, ‘To the battle-plan. Piers, if you would —’

Piers Harris stands up. He walks to the blackboard. He picks up a piece of chalk. ‘Through the very great endeavours of the Chairman and Stephen on our behalf,’ he says, ‘Justice Megson is set to hear the orders a week on Friday. It is unlikely anyone from either the Yorkshire or National Union will be in court. Therefore, there will be an adjournment to allow the Union time to prepare their case. But —’

Derek Williams is fidgeting. Derek Williams puts up his hand.

Piers stops. Piers smiles. Piers says, ‘Yes, Derek?’

‘Will we have to be in court a week on Friday? Me and Don?’

Piers looks over at the Jew. Piers sits down –

The Jew says, ‘Neil has made reservations for yourselves and your wives to travel down to London on Thursday and for you all to spend two nights at the —’

‘Westbury Hotel in Mayfair,’ says Neil.

Derek and Don whistle. Derek says, ‘What about the kids?’

‘We’d like them to spend the week at Bridlington or some place,’ says the Jew. ‘With their grandparents or some other relatives or friends.’

‘It’s going to cost a pretty penny is all this,’ says Don.

‘But worth every pretty penny,’ says the Jew. ‘If it brings you both piece of mind during your stay in London.’

Grey Fox takes off his shades and says, ‘Folk are going to know who they are.’

Don, Derek, Piers and Dominic all turn to look at the Jew –

The Jew says, ‘Folk already know, Carl.’

Grey Fox puts his sunglasses back on. He says, ‘But there’ll be cameras at court.’

‘There are cameras everywhere,’ says the Jew. ‘In fact, the producers of TV-AM have asked if Don and Derek would be good enough to appear on their programme along with their lady wives.’

Derek looks at Don. Don nods. Derek nods. Don says, ‘Aye, go on then.’

‘TV-bloody-AM?’ says Grey Fox. ‘Whole bloody world will know who you are. Where you work. Where you live. Where you drink. Are you mental?’

Don shakes his head. Don says, ‘Time for hiding’s over, Carl.’

The Jew gets up. He walks over to Don Colby –

The Jew embraces him –

This time for real.

Dominic looks at Piers. Piers puts a finger to his lips. Piers winks at Dominic –

Dominic Reid went to school with Piers Harris. Piers is a member of the Newark Conservative Party. The Conservative Member of Parliament for Newark is married to the economics editor of The Times. The Times is often edited by the man who used to bully the

little Sweet Stephen at Eton. Mercilessly. Because he was a Jew –

This is the way the world works. This small, small world.

Neil Fontaine drives the Jew South. The Jew closes his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches on the radio in the front and the back of the Mercedes –

‘— I amfedup of hearing of these movements to return to work byface lessmen. They should stand up for what they believe and identify themselves—’

Neil Fontaine glances in the mirror. The Jew opens his eyes in the back of the car. Neil Fontaine switches off the radio in the front and back of the Mercedes –

The Jew smiles. The Jew grins. The Jew chuckles. The Jew laughs –

Laughs and laughs and laughs.

*

The deadline expired at midnight. Terry Winters caught the first train down to Cardiff. He read books. Newspapers. He wrote notes. Letters. He did sums. Crosswords. It was a long journey. He took a taxi to the office of the South Wales NUM in Pontypridd. The office was in the Engineering Union building. The office was ringed by one thousand big men with moustaches and beards, baseball bats and badges. Terry got out of the taxi –

The big men stepped forward.

Terry said, ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ they said.

‘I am the Chief Executive Officer of the National Union of Mineworkers.’

‘Prove it.’

Terry Winters took his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. He took out his card.

The big men gathered round the card. ‘All right,’ they said. ‘Let him through.’

‘Thank you,’ said Terry. ‘You are gentlemen and comrades.’

‘No hard feelings,’ they said. ‘Thought you might be a sequestrator.’

Terry Winters shook his head. Terry said, ‘They won’t come down here.’

The big men shook their heads. The big men brandished their bats. They said, ‘Just let them fucking try.’

Terry Winters nodded. Terry went inside the Engineering Union building. He took the lift up to the headquarters of the South Wales National Union of Mineworkers. He knocked on the door. He stepped inside –

Gareth Thomas was sitting on the floor next to a telephone. The office bare.

Terry Winters smiled. Terry said, ‘Good afternoon, Comrade.’

‘Have a seat, Comrade,’ said Gareth Thomas. ‘Oh sorry, there aren’t any.’

Terry Winters smiled again. Terry said, ‘It’s the only way, Comrade.’

‘So you say, Comrade,’ said Gareth. ‘So you say.’

‘Has there been any contact with the sequestrators?’ asked Terry.

Gareth stood up. He said, ‘Our accountants in Cardiff have had a few calls.’

‘What kind of information were they after?’

Gareth said, ‘Names of our banks. Our auditors. And so on.’

‘Did the accountants give them the names?’

Gareth shook his head. He said, ‘Total non-cooperation, as you instructed.’

‘Good,’ said Terry. ‘Very good.’

‘So what happens now?’ asked Gareth.

Terry said, ‘They’ll make the rounds of the banks and the auditors.’

‘The banks will talk, won’t they?’

Terry nodded. He said, ‘They are obliged to.’

‘Bastards,’ said Gareth.

Terry nodded again. He said, ‘They’ll have set up a hotline to the judge, too.’

‘That’s convenient for them,’ said Gareth. ‘Lucky we’ve got nothing to take.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Terry. ‘And they know that, too.’

‘Between fifty and a hundred grand a week,’ said Gareth. ‘Just on picketing. Almost a million and a half quid. If they don’t sequestrate us, we’ll be bankrupt anyway.’

‘Nothing to worry about then,’ said Terry.

Gareth walked over to the window. He looked down at the thousand men below.

‘Just that lot,’ he said. ‘And they’re not even going to see a sequestrator, are they?’

Terry shook his head. He said, ‘They’ll soon know exactly how much you had. Then they’ll go after it through the banks and the courts. Try to find it and freeze it.’

Gareth turned back from the window. He nodded. ‘Just like you said.’

Terry Winters looked at Gareth Thomas. Terry said, ‘You did do what I said?’

Gareth Thomas nodded again.

‘Good,’ said Terry Winters. ‘Then there really, really, is nothing to worry about.’

Gareth Thomas stared at Terry Winters. Terry smiled at Gareth –

The two men stood in silence in the empty office. Just a telephone on the floor between them –

Terry Winters said, ‘Do you mind calling me a taxi back to Cardiff?’

‘That’s it?’ said Gareth Thomas.

Terry Winters nodded. Terry said, ‘I think so, yes.’

‘You came all this way just to tell us not to worry?’

Terry nodded again. He said, ‘The President wanted to show his support —’

‘What about the money? Where’s the cash?’

Terry looked at Gareth. Terry said, ‘What money? What cash?’

‘The bloody money you promised us to get us through this fucking mess!’

Terry said, ‘I don’t know what money you could mean, Comrade.’

‘The money we fucking gave you!’

Terry held out his hands. He said, ‘What money are you talking about?’

Gareth Thomas looked at Terry Winters. Gareth punched Terry in the face –

Terry Winters fell on the floor. His glasses broken. His nose bleeding.

Gareth Thomas spat at Terry Winters. Gareth Thomas walked out.

Terry Winters took out his handkerchief. Terry Winters wiped his face –

Blood and spit again.

The briefing at Gower Street was at ten. The usual maps and photographs on the walls. The one word and two numbers on the board:

Week 23.

The private door at the side opened. Forty faces followed her down to the front. Forty faces watched her stand behind the podium. Take her notes out of her briefcase. Herpenfrom her pocket. Hercigarettes —

Forty faces that wanted to fuck her. Again —

Malcolm closed his eyes until she’d finished. Until Diane had almost gone —

Her smell still here —

The New Order.

Malcolm went back to a different desk in a different office. He stared at the phone on the desk. The clock on the wall. He drank coffee. He smoked cigarettes —

And stared at the phone –

The car packed and ready to go.

Malcolm and Cole on stand-by —

Lot of secret talk about a lot of secret talks.

Malcolm sat at the desk. He stared at the phone. The clock. Drank another coffee. Smoked another cigarette and stared and stared and stared at the bloody phone—

The car packed. Ready to go.

Cole lay on the floor of the office. He had his eyes closed. His headphones on. Thesound of National Radio 1.

Malcolm just sat there. Drinking and smoking —

And staring from the phone to the clock and back to the phone —

The car packed and ready to go. Fuck it —

Malcolm put on his headphones. He sat and still stared. But he listened now —

To them chatter — chatter — chatter —

‘— I call on the British trade union movement to give total physical support to the NUM currently under attack from the government’s anti-trade union laws —’

Chattering —

‘— it has not penetrated the minds of this government and their judiciary that you cannot sequestrate an idea nor imprison a belief —’

Their ceaseless fucking chattering —

‘— we will continue to operate, even if it means operating out of a telephone box —’

To them bicker — bicker — bicker —

‘— she says she loves her country. For the sake of her country, she should go —’

Bickering —

‘— there is only one word to describe the policy of the Right Honourable gentleman when faced with threats, whether from home or abroad, and that word is appeasement —’

Their bankrupt fucking bickering —

‘— even in narrow financial terms, the three-hundred-and-fifty-million-pound cost of the strike represents a worthwhile investment for the good of the nation and that is before taking account of the wider issues in this debate —’

Ceaseless and bankrupt, endless and destitute —

Malcolm Morris wanted to cut off his ears. To put the pieces in an envelope —

Send her the envelope. First class. The scissors and a note —

Your turn, dear. For old times’ sake.

Malcolm took off his headphones. Threw them across the room —

Cole was staring at him. The telephone ringing —

The voice telling them, ‘Unity House, Euston Road —’

A date in the trees, their eyes and their ears among the branches and the leaves —

The Headquarters of the National Union of Railwaymen –

Just a hop, skip and a jump from here —

Malcolm put away the scissors. He stubbed out his cigarette —

Pressed record.

There were rumours of more court actions. Actions from within the Yorkshire coalfield. Lot being written and said about the Home Front now –

Terry watched Theresa Winters dump the frying pan and the grill in the sink. Terry watched Theresa squeeze Fairy Liquid onto the pan and the grill. He watched her run the tap until it was hot. He watched her pick up a Brillo pad. He watched her scrub and scrub the pan and the grill –

Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick. Slow —

Terry watched her put the Brillo pad back between the Fairy Liquid and the tap. He watched her rinse the pan and the grill under the tap. He watched her put the pan and the grill on the draining board. He watched her turn off the tap. He watched her pick up a tea-towel. He watched her dry and dry the pan and the grill –

Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick —

He watched her put the pan and the grill down on the worktop. He watched her dry her hands. He watched her put the tea-towel inside the washing-machine. He watched her put the frying pan in the cupboard above the fridge. He watched her put the grill back in the cooker. He watched her walk out of the kitchen –

Slow. Slow. Quick —

Out of the hall. Out of the house –

Out of their home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire.

Peter

you. Not after all I’d seen and heard — Them down here though, I don’t know. Don’t know what to think really. Lot of them gave a lot, but I don’t know. Had a lot to give in first place. Like bloody Kent miners. They fucking pissed me off sometimes. First to tell you how hardcore they were — Militant through and through. Shoulder to shoulder. All that — But they didn’t want their brothers-in-arms collecting down here, did they? Like London was their private bloody patch. Just theirs and rest of us could fuck off back to North. Right little gold mine it was for them and all. They only had two thousand men in three fucking pits and whole of London and bloody South to collect from. Be able to buy their pits soon, that much brass between them — Not like Yorkshire. Us that suffered most — Us that went out on picket. Picket, picket, picket — That were us. Not fannying about with fucking buckets. Having a chat with Red Ken on steps of GLC — Us out on picket lines getting our heads caved in. Beaten and arrested while our wives and kids went without. Curfews and roadblocks round our fucking houses and our villages — But I wouldn’t have it other way round. I wouldn’t want to be down here begging — That wasn’t me. That wasn’t any of us — Just would like a bit of their brass up our way for a change. But they could keep their bloody buckets — It said on front of our banner, From Obscurity to Respect. But part of me would come down here and feel like it ought to bloody say, From Obscurity to Pity— Because that was all it was for most of them. Pity— Not all of them. But a lot of them — Support the Miners. Stick your Southern quid in a Kent bucket to ease your bleeding conscience — But who fucking voted for her in first place? Who put me down here in bloody rain on streets of London with a plastic fucking bucket begging for their loose change? Crumbs off master’s table? No one round where I bloody came from — No. It was all too easy for most of them down here — Different planet. Different world — Different country. Different class — They could keep it and all. Fucking keep it — My head had only just touched pillow when there was a right loud banging on front door. That loud I thought it was riot squad. Mary stuck her head out of bedroom window — It was Keith. He must be drunk, I said — Mary shouted, He’s asleep. He’s got to be up again in three hour — Tell him he’s got to be up now, said Keith. There’s a mob of them gone up Frank Ramsay’s — Fucking hell, I shouted. Hold on then. I’ll be down. This had been brewing for a bit now. Frank Ramsay, Paul Banks and a couple of other lads had had short contracts over border in Nottingham at Bevercotes. Their contracts had run on for just first month of strike and lads here in village had turned a bit of a blind eye to them still working, because what they were doing were scabbing. But if they’d come out with rest of us they’d have got no benefits or nothing. They were all right and all. Known round village as good lads. Then their contracts had expired and that were that. Matter were finished with. But then last week, Board went and offered them permanent work — That was different. If they took them jobs they’d be taking jobs of blokes on Bevercotes picket line — That was same pit where that fucking Silver Birch twat worked and all. They’d be scabs same as him — It was wrong and they knew it. But they’d taken jobs and now they were going to have to pay price — Heavy one by sounds of it, too. Heavy one — Keith said, Frank were walking past Welfare and someone said something. There were words ex-changed. Lads got on about it inside and worked themselves up into a right lather — I bet they did, I said. I bet they did — Minute we turned into Frank’s street we heard his window go through. Then shotgun — Fucking shotgun blast. Daft bastard had only gone and fired his twelve bore out the bloody bedroom window — Keith stopped car where we were. I got out. Frank was shouting, There’s more where that come from. There’s kids in here — Folk already moving off now though. Lad told me they were heading over to Paul Banks’s house on next street. I wanted to go with them to make sure nothing else daft happened, but I was worried about Frank. I was worried coppers would come and shoot

The Twenty-third Week

Monday 6 — Sunday 12 August 1984

There is a full board meeting of the NCB today. The Jew has his invitation. He has been asked to address the Board by the Chairman. He knows the Board do not care for him. The Jew doesn’t care. He is on the front line. Not them. He’s fighting this fight. Not them. He’s winning the war, not them –

‘Help the Miners, yes,’ says the Jew. ‘But not him. Never. Not him. Never him. That one man’s war has brought over five thousand arrests. Injured six hundred police and two hundred pickets. That one man’s war has killed two of his own on the picket line. Driven to suicide many, many more. It has cost countless millions in damage to property. It has seen miner attack miner. Colleague attack colleague. Brother attack brother. It has led to threats of assault, rape and murder on the families of those that will not join this one man’s war –

‘Well, gentlemen, the time has come to fight back and I am here today to tell you that fightback has already started. Independent legal actions by ordinary working miners across the coalfields of Britain have begun. Collections by ordinary working miners to compensate the victims of intimidation and violence have begun. Committees of ordinary miners who want to organize a return to work have begun –

‘These men are on the front line. They stand alone against one man’s attempts to destroy the democratic rights of working-class people. If he succeeds and these men fail, this country fails too –

‘The battle has been joined. The fightback has begun. If it is to be won, and won speedily, all who love and believe in freedom and democracy should do and give what they can financially or in any other way they see fit.’

Neil Fontaine claps long and loud. He says, ‘Bravo, sir. Bravo.’

‘To Hobart House, then,’ says the Jew. ‘To Hobart House, Neil.’

Malcolm didn’t sleep because Malcolm didn’t want to dream. He didn’t want to dream because he didn’t want to hear them —

Hear them in his dreams. Laughing. See them in his sheets. Fucking.

These were the nights from which he ran and hid. The days when he disappeared —

Checked into a hotel. Locked the doors. Drew the curtains —

Disappeared off the face of the Earth —

To lie deceived and defeated on hotel sheets. For nights and days like these —

These dark dog-days of August 1984.

Malcolm Morris lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and watched the night retreat across the ceiling. The curtains. The shadows become sunlight. Malcolm lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and wished that it were so —

That shadows became light.

Malcolm got up. Dressed. He checked out. Drove —

Dalton, Nottinghamshire.

He parked and sat low in the car and watched them arrive with their radios on –

‘— I plan to come out into the open to prevent my friends from being hurt and intimidated by militant miners who are trying to identify Grey Fox through violence —’

He watched Carl Baker at the door of the pub between four large policemen —

‘— I do not agree with the Board’s pit closure programme but eighty per cent of striking miners want to go back to work —’

He watched him shake hands with each man who came to his meeting —

‘— don’t let this animal element, these left-wing bully-boys and their hit squads, don’t let them destroy your lives. Call your mates, then call your pit manager —’

He watched him talk to the journalists and the TV crews with his sunglasses on —

‘— let’s all go back to work next Monday. Tell your wives to pack your lunch, then go to your pit and strike a blow for democracy —’

He watched him break down into hundreds of tears (a lifetime of fears to come).Hewatched StephenSweetput an armaround him —

A silent movie.

He watched their secret meeting break up before the cameras and the microphones. Their cars leave and the car park empty. He watched the police escort Carl Baker and Stephen Sweet and some journalists out to a police Range Rover.

Malcolm looked at his watch —

Fuck.

He started the Volvo. Drove back up to South Yorkshire. The A57 onto the A638 –

The Great North Road.

He passed through Retford and Ranskill. Noticed the Montego in the rearview—

Fuck.

The driver holding something to his mouth. Larger men in the front and rear—

Fuck.

Malcolm put his foot down. The car in front braked —

Fuck.

Malcolm swerved to the left. Into the hedgerow. Into the ditch —

Fuck.

Doors opened. Boots came —

Fuck.

Malcolm opened his door. He got out. Hands over his ears. But it was too late —

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

It never goes away. Tony Davies has left two messages for Neil Fontaine. They arrange to meet in the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel on Bloomsbury Way. Tony is wearing a floral waistcoat under his stained linen jacket. Tony smells of sweat. Tony is a paedophile. Tony is a member of Nazi groups. Tony drinks double vodkas. Neil drinks a Britvic orange. They talk about the Olympics. They talk about Nigel Short. They talk about the weather –

‘Too bloody hot,’ says Tony. ‘Unbearable. I need to get away. You too.’

Neil Fontaine stares at Tony Davies. Neil asks, ‘What makes you say that, Tony?’

‘I know about Shrewsbury,’ he whispers. ‘Very bad business. Very bad.’

Neil Fontaine keeps staring at Tony Davies –

The flowers and the stains —

Tony smiles. Tony points at Neil. Tony says, ‘They’re asking for names.’

Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. Neil Fontaine takes another sip from it.

Tony puts a hand on Neil’s arm. Tony says, ‘I can help you, Neil. I can help you.’

Neil Fontaine removes Tony’s hand from his arm. He says, ‘You’re drunk, Tony.’

‘Am I?’ says Tony. ‘Am I really? Well, so bloody what if I am?’

Neil Fontaine pulls him close. He whispers, ‘You got something to say? Say it.’

‘I want to know what you’ve done with my Julius?’ says Tony. ‘Where is he?’

Neil Fontaine puts his hand between Tony’s legs. He grabs Tony’s testicles –

Tony Davies sits in the corner of the pub and tries not to scream.

Neil Fontaine lets go of Tony’s testicles. He says, ‘Go back to your hole, Tony.’

Tony stands up. Tony runs out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.

Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. He finishes it. He stands up –

He follows Tony out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.

*

The Old Man was sick. He’d collapsed at the rally to commemorate the Tolpuddle Martyrs. He hadn’t got up again yet. The Annual Congress was only three weeks away. The Fat Man had seized his chance. He took the train to Sheffield. The lift up to the tenth floor. The Fat Man wanted to see for himself. Hear for himself –

‘The South Wales NUM accounts with the local Co-operative and Midland banks have all been frozen,’ Terry Winters was telling him. ‘The majority of their assets had already been transferred for safety, so the amounts involved are not great. However, they do include all recent donations and so we’re hopeful we can argue in court that this money is then technically not the property of the South Wales NUM and should therefore be unfrozen. But, in the meantime, it leaves them on a day-to-day basis with no cash.’

The Fat Man turned to the President. He asked, ‘The National Union cannot offer them any assistance? Short-term loans? Divert other donations?’

‘Impossible,’ said the President. ‘Comrade Chief Executive, continue.’

‘The National Union is itself desperately short of money,’ said Terry. ‘Our own assets were also transferred abroad at the start of the dispute. The substantial amounts of money we have received through donations and loans from other unions have, almost in their entirety, been used to alleviate hardship within the communities. There is no longer any finance available to assist areas with strike-related activities. This office itself requires well over one hundred thousand pounds a week to keep going, and by the end of October we will be unable to cover those costs —’

‘Unless’, said the President, ‘the trade union movement comes to our aid.’

The Fat Man nodded. He picked up his TUC pen. He said, ‘How about loans?’

‘We’ve had loans,’ said the President. ‘We need total physical support —’

The Fat Man nodded again. He said, ‘I know that. But what about interest-free loans from across the entire trade union movement? Not just the usual suspects.’

‘It would show tangible physical support,’ agreed the President.

‘The loans would have to be shown to be secure,’ said the Fat Man. ‘And they would obviously have to be repaid.’

‘Obviously,’ said the President.

‘And, obviously,’ continued the Fat Man, ‘they would have to be made in such a way as not to compromise the legal position of our members.’

The President looked over to Terry. He said, ‘Comrade Chief Executive?’

‘There’s over eight million pounds of our assets overseas at present,’ said Terry. ‘These assets are untraceable and can therefore act as security for any loans received. If the loans themselves are made in the form of donations, then the legal position of the donor cannot be compromised should the National Union be subject to any future court actions in regard to our finances. At the conclusion of the dispute, our assets will be returned to Britain and repayments on the loans could then commence.’

The Fat Man stopped writing. The Fat Man put down his TUC pen again. He said, ‘The assets are untraceable? You’re absolutely certain of that?’

Terry Winters smiled. Terry Winters said, ‘Of that I am certain.’

‘There is another way,’ said the President.

The Fat Man picked up his TUC pen again and asked, ‘And what way is that?’

‘Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the President again, ‘if you would —’

‘The President has already submitted a motion calling for all-out support from the Trades Union Congress,’ said Terry. ‘Following last Wednesday’s meeting with ASLEF, the NUS and the NUR, it was decided that we would add to our resolution a number of amendments — one of which is to demand a ten-pence-a-week levy from each individual member of each of the ninety-eight affiliated unions of Congress.’

The Fat Man put down his pen. He said, ‘You’re talking a million quid a week.’

‘No,’ said the President. ‘I’m talking ten pence a week.’

The Fat Man shook his head –

There was silence on the tenth floor. Then footsteps –

Paul Hargreaves opened the door. Paul Hargreaves looked at Terry Winters –

The General Secretary stood and stared at the Chief Executive.

‘What is it, Comrade?’ asked the President. ‘What’s happened?’

‘They’ve found and frozen the South Wales assets,’ said Paul. ‘All of them.’

The President turned to Terry Winters. The Fat Man turned to Terry Winters –

The whole room turned to Terry fucking Winters –

Terry shook his head. His head red. His head in his hands. His hands dirty –

His hands over his eyes –

His eyes full.

*

They’ve had a bit of a lie-in this morning have these would-be Working Miners. They have yet to come down to the lobby of the Mayfair Westbury and it is already well past ten o’clock. But they have had a busy week have these would-be Working Miners. They have been in court each day to hear their action against the Yorkshire Area of the NUM over the Union’s failure to hold a ballot. They have been on television. They have been on the radio. In the papers. They are the men of the moment are these would-be Working Miners.

Neil Fontaine waits for them in a comfortable chair in the lobby of the Westbury while the Jew tries to keep Carl Baker patient.

‘They certainly deserved their champagne,’ the Jew is telling him.

Carl Baker shakes his head. He says, ‘I could do with a glass or ten myself.’

‘And you will have one, Carl,’ says the Jew. ‘As many as you want. Later.’

Carl Baker nods. He looks at his watch again –

The Jew has organized a lunchtime press conference for Grey Fox in the upstairs room of a pub near the High Court. Here Grey Fox will reveal himself to be none other than mild-mannered father-of-two Carl Baker from the Bevercotes pit. He will announce the launch of the Carl Baker Fund for Democracy. Then Carl will travel to the BBC and speak on The World This Weekend, after which the Mail on Sunday will accompany Carl on yet another tour of the pits and the villages of the British coalfields –

Carl Baker looks at his watch again. He says, ‘I don’t want to be late.’

‘And you won’t be,’ says the Jew. ‘You won’t be.’

Carl Baker nods. He says, ‘I think I need to use the bathroom again.’

The Jew and Neil Fontaine watch Carl Baker walk across the lobby in his tight pale denim jeans and his tight pale cotton jacket. He is going greyer by the minute. He has also grown a moustache since he first met the Jew. The Jew is flattered –

But Neil Fontaine is worried. He is not sure this is the right man. He tells the Jew, ‘Fred Wallace called, sir.’

‘And has the John Wayne of Pye Hill assembled his posse?’

Neil Fontaine says, ‘They are all saddled up, sir.’

‘Excellent news,’ says the Jew. ‘Will you make the necessary arrangements?’

Neil Fontaine says, ‘Certainly, sir.’

The lift doors open. Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie step out. The ladies are laughing; their men carrying the suitcases.

The Jew stands up. The Jew says, ‘Good morning. And how are we all today?’

The Working Miners and their wives all nod and smile.

‘Good, good, good,’ says the Jew. ‘Now where has our friend Carl got to?’

Neil Fontaine stands up. He goes down to the Gents’ –

Carl Baker is washing his face in the sink. He looks up at Neil –

His skin is grey. His eyes red. His tongue forked —

Neil Fontaine staggers back. Back from the sink. Back from the mirror.

Carl Baker dries his face with a paper towel. He says, ‘Are you all right?’

‘They’re waiting for you upstairs,’ says Neil.

Carl Baker puts the wet paper towel in the basket with the other wet paper towels. He follows Neil Fontaine back up the stairs and across the lobby. He says hello to Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie –

He smells of sick.

‘Right then,’ says the Jew. ‘To the pub.’

Neil Fontaine holds open the doors for the Jew and his friends and their families. He hails a taxi for Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie. He gives the driver the name of the pub near the court. He hands him the fare in advance. He shuts the door of the cab –

The Jew and Carl wave them bye-bye.

Neil Fontaine holds open the back door of the Mercedes. Carl gets into the back. Neil Fontaine waits for the Jew to get in –

The Jew stops. He looks at Neil. He says, ‘You don’t look at all well, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine says, ‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Really?’ asks the Jew. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’

Peter

him or something, him waving shotgun around like a bloody madman. I told him, Put gun away fore someone gets hurt, Frank — You want some and all, do you, Pete? he shouted down from window. I said, Don’t be daft. It’s not a bloody film, is it? This is real life — Fuck off, you and whole bloody lot of you — Fair enough, I said. I’ve tried. I walked back down path to pavement. I could hear them all over in next street. It sounded like they were giving Paul’s car some hammer. I didn’t blame them. You couldn’t. Next news police van was coming down road. Krk-krk. Lads all walking back this way now. Police obviously didn’t fancy their chances. But when I turned round I could see a load more vans coming down into village. Krk-krk. Be putting on riot gear in back — Lads started running. Me and all — I thought, Fucking hell, and I said to Keith, It’s starting again — Never bloody ends, he said. Never bloody ends — Panel again. David Rainer nodded. He said, It’s right. Tomorrow. Gascoigne Wood — There’ll be civil war, said Johnny. Civil fucking war, that’s what there’ll be. I said, What you think we got now? Not a fucking picnic, is it? Johnny shook his head. He said, It’ll be nothing compared to what’s coming — He’s right, said Tom. Will look like a bloody picnic next to this, I tell you — So what we going to do? asked Derek. What bloody hell we going to do about it? Does anyone know who he is? Tom asked. Johnny nodded. Johnny said, Name’s Brian Green. Fucking electrician. I said, Has anyone from Kellingley or Barnsley spoken to him? Johnny said, He’s a scab, Pete. First fucking scab in Yorkshire. What’s point? Not until tomorrow, said David Rainer. Not until tomorrow, he’s not — It was another one of them mornings when lads didn’t need telling. Not after last week. I went up with Tony Stones, Mick Marsh and Lester. Gascoigne Wood. Just as dawn came up. That many pickets, there were tailbacks. Easy four thousand by eight o’clock. Easy. Most anybody had seen since Orgreave. Police out in force, of course. Krk-krk. Thousand of them. One. Fucking. Thousand — All for one bloke. One. Fucking. Bloke. Five thousand folk on both side, gathered in a fucking pit lane, first thing of a morning, all because one bloody bloke wanted to sell his fucking soul. Take their scab shilling. I hoped he choked on it. Hoped he fucking choked. But you looked at all them coppers on all that overtime and you knew it was more than any bloody shilling and all. I stood there trying to work it out. How much it must have been costing them to get this one scabby bastard into that one pit to sit on his arse for eight hour. Say this for coppers, they’re always quick enough to tell you how much they’re on. How King Arthur had done more for police pay than any Home Secretary. Everyone knew they didn’t get out of bed down South for less than a hundred quid a shift these days. There were a thousand of them easy, so that were a hundred grand straight off then. Just on police pay. Like Billy in Welfare said, She must really hate us. Really fucking hate us—And then shout went up. I got on my toes to get a good look at him. I couldn’t see much, though — Raining fucking bricks as usual. Heavy weather — Just this blue taxi coming roaring up pit lane. Ninety mile an hour — Mass push. Lot of fucking scrapping. Helmets going up. Smoke coming off fields where lads had lit some bales — They got him in, though. They always did — Mick Marsh said there were two of them in back and all today. Lester bet other one was just a pig — Ten quid said so. Why they called him Lester — But how could you tell? Both scabs were sat in back of taxi with their jackets over their heads — Like real men. Them jackets would be on their heads for rest of their lives now — Fucking pressure they must have put on him, though. That first one. Felt for him in a way. Not that it was something you’d ever say, like — But who’d want to be him? That bastard. Only scab in Yorkshire. First scab in Yorkshire — What a thing to tell your kids. Your grandkids — There was Home Front. Then there was your own doorstep — And this was our own doorstep all right: Silverwood — Home of our Panel. Fucking war zone, what it was now. Like pictures of bloody Belfast or

The Twenty-fourth Week

Monday 13 — Sunday 19 August 1984

The wind rattled the wire. The question distorted. The torture displaced. The pain disembodied. Theguard backto haunt the ghost —

Malcolm heard her inhale. Malcolm heard her exhale. Malcolm opened his eyes.

Diane said, ‘They took your warrant card?’

Malcolm swallowed. Malcolm nodded.

She stubbed out the cigarette. She put a hand on his wounds. She kissed his ears.

Malcolm flinched. Malcolm cried.

Diane stood up. Diane said, ‘Run, Malcolm. Hide.’

Malcolm closed his eyes until she’d gone. Her smell always the same now —

Disinfectant.

Theresa Winters had gone down to Bath to stay with her parents and the children. Theresa had said she would stay there until Terry apologized for all the things he had done. For all the things he had said –

The stupid things.

Terry dried his eyes. Terry said, ‘I blame myself.’

The President stood up in front of the huge portrait of himself. He walked round to where Terry was sitting. He handed Terry a tissue. He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder –

Terry looked up at the President. Terry said, ‘Please don’t blame Gareth.’

‘I don’t blame either of you, Comrade,’ said the President. ‘How could I?’

Terry blew his nose. Terry waited –

The sequestrators had seized seven hundred thousand pounds from South Wales. Itwould be held until the NUM leaders purged their contempt —

Terry’s plans had failed.

‘How could anyone,’ continued the President, ‘how could anyone possibly have foreseen the extent to which this government would manipulate the country’s legal system in order to conspire against and crush the attempts of any trade unionist to save their job? How could you have foreseen that? You tried your best, Comrade —’

Terry sniffed. Terry nodded –

‘But your best was not good enough,’ said the President. ‘Next time, Comrade?’

‘Next time,’ said Terry. ‘Next time my best will be more than good enough.’

The President sat down in front of his portrait. He said, ‘Then you are forgiven.’

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

The President did not look up from his desk.

Len held open the door for Terry. Terry walked backwards out of the room –

Terry went upstairs. He sat on his chair and looked around the Conference Room. Terry saw Bill Reed. Bill Reed winked. Terry looked away. Terry saw Samantha Green. Samantha was the Union’s new solicitor. Terry smiled. Samantha looked away –

The President entered. Everyone rose –

The President was still fuming about the former Grey Fox –

‘Least he’s from Nottinghamshire,’ shouted the President. ‘Not a collier either, bloody blacksmith or something. Only done that for five year too. But I will say again, here and now, I don’t want a single hair of his head touched.’

Everybody nodded.

‘Not one hair,’ said the President. ‘But these other two —’

‘Don Colby and Derek Williams,’ said Paul.

‘— these two are from Yorkshire. Bloody faceworkers at Manton —’

‘Nottingham in all but name,’ said Paul.

‘They’re Yorkshiremen,’ said the President. ‘They should know better.’

Everybody nodded again.

The President looked over at Samantha Green. He said, ‘Love —’

‘There are, in total, eleven orders now facing the Yorkshire Area,’ she said. ‘These scabs want a declaration from Justice Warner that the strike is not official in Yorkshire without a ballot. In some respects it’s similar in nature to the actions brought against North Wales and the Midlands. Their lawyers are to argue that the 1983 Inverness Conference decision calling for action against any proposed pit closures was discretionary — not mandatory — and that this supersedes the 1981 vote, which, they argue, is too remote anyway. They have had help though —’

‘Inside help and all,’ said the President. ‘Lot of it too —’

Everybody stopped nodding. Everybody looked back up the table.

‘They have copies of the National and Yorkshire rulebooks. They have copies of the agendas and minutes for the past five area conferences, for the National and Area executive committees, and for the Yorkshire Strike Co-ordinating Committee. Not just minutes, actual verbatim reports.’

Terry Winters glanced across the table at Bill Reed. Bill Reed said, ‘Who?’

‘Huddersfield Road,’ said the President.

Bill Reed said, ‘I warned you.’

‘Aye, you warned us,’ said Dick. ‘But you didn’t give us a name, did you?’

Bill Reed smiled. Bill said, ‘You want it on a silver plate, do you, Comrade?’

‘I wanted more than gossip and rumour, aye,’ said Dick.

Bill shook his head. He said again, ‘I warned you, Comrade. I warned you.’

‘Enough of this bloody bickering,’ said the President.

Bill Reed tapped the table. Bill said, ‘Here, here.’

The President looked at Bill Reed. The President looked around the whole room. The President said, ‘Now is the time for action, Comrades. Action.’

Everybody nodded once again. Everybody clapped.

Terry Winters glanced back across the table at Bill Reed. Bill winked.

Terry Winters looked away. Terry looked over at Samantha Green –

Samantha was staring at Bill Reed –

Bill winked again.

‘To your posts,’ said the President. ‘Be vigilant! Be valiant! Be victorious!’

Everyone applauded. Briefly. Then everyone ran for cover –

The Chairman wanted the President prosecuted for criminal conspiracy.

Terry took the lift back down. Terry stood between the Denims and the Tweeds. The Denims had their tobacco tins in their hands. The Tweeds their pouches –

‘Fuck you, Stalin. Bugger you, Trotsky,’ all the way down and out –

Terry walked through the lunchtime shoppers. Made his way across the precinct. He went into Boots. He wandered around the pharmacy. He looked at the pills and the medicines. He bought two hundred aspirins. Deodorant and mouthwash. He paid by cash. He went into W. H. Smith. He wandered around the newspapers and the magazines. He looked at the contents and the headlines. Reagan had joked about bombing Russia in five minutes. He bought every paper with a jobs section. Writing paper and envelopes. He went into Marks & Spencer. He wandered around the Men’s Department. He looked at the shirts and the suits. He picked up a pair of socks –

‘Not getting cold feet are we, Comrade?’ asked Bill Reed.

Malcolm drove home to Harrogate. Fast. He left the car parked in the middle of the road. Doors open. He ran into the house. The lounge. He tore the cassettesoff the shelves —

The War of the Worlds into his pocket —

The telephone ringing. Malcolm picked it up. Listened —

‘Having a bit of a clear out, are we?’ asked Roger Vaughan.

‘What do you want?’

‘Not forgotten already, have we?’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘Your eyes and ears, Malcolm,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and ears.’

‘What about them?’

‘We had a deal,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and your ears are ours now.’

Roll up. Roll up. The police have had to close part of Northgate. There are diversions. The Jew has brought the carnival to the streets of Newark. TV trucks and cars full of cameramen choke the town centre of Newark. The carnival has come to see the cash –

To smell it. To touch it —

The Jew stands downstairs in the reception area at the front of Robinson & Harris. He tips the contents of an oversized post-bag across the reception desk and hands the envelopes to the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News –

‘Read them and weep, Adolf,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Read them and weep.’

Behind him stand Don and Derek; Don wearing his new Nottingham Forest shirt; Derek his new leather jacket –

‘“Dear Don and Derek,”’ reads the Jew. ‘“You are real heroes to me and all the other miners at our pit. We are only on strike because we are too scared of his Red Guard and South Yorkshire Hit Squad and what they would do to our wives and kids if we were to go into work. We think you are the bravest men in this country. We have not got much money, as you know, but here is over one hundred pounds that we want you to have. We hope you will win soon, so we can all return to work. Sorry we can’t sign our real names, but we know you know why. Your friends and your fans.”’

Pens scribble, cameras flash –

‘And this one,’ says the Jew. ‘This one from a pensioner in Brighton who says, “Thank God that this country still has men like Mr Colby and Mr Williams to fight not only for their own and their mates’ rights, but also for all the members of the public who are decent and hard-working like them, and who support them wholeheartedly —”’

‘How much have the lads got so far, then?’ ask the press.

Piers Harris steps forward. He says, ‘To date, since the launch of the Ballot Fund, we have received over five hundred letters a day and a total of more than twenty thousand pounds.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ shrieks the Jew. ‘It just keeps flooding in. Pouring in. Pound notes from pensioners and schoolchildren, cheques for a hundred or for a thousand pounds from individuals and businesses.’

‘How do you feel about all this, Don?’ ask the press.

‘It’s fantastic,’ says Don. ‘Just fantastic.’

‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘It is fantastic.’

‘Remember,’ says the Jew. ‘Their own homes are under twenty-four-hour guard. They are accompanied everywhere by members of the Special Branch. They are both heavily overdrawn and their mortgages have not been paid. Heaven forbid they should lose, this action could cost each man more than one hundred thousand pounds.’

‘How do you feel about that, Derek?’ ask the press.

‘It would have been worth every penny,’ says Derek. ‘Every penny.’

‘Yes,’ says Don. ‘Every penny.’

‘But they’re not going to lose,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Not with this kind of support from ordinary members of the Great British Public –

‘The people of Great Britain won’t let them lose!’

‘What do you think of Carl Baker, the ex-Grey Fox?’ ask the press.

Don and Derek look at the Jew. The Jew nods at Don and Derek –

‘He has a lot of courage and integrity,’ says Don. ‘A lot.’

‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘A lot of courage and integrity.’

‘OK, that’s all folks,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Show’s over for now.’

Neil Fontaine watches the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News leave the offices of Robinson & Harris. He watches them run back to their trucks and their cars with their headlines for their deadlines.

The telephone rings. The secretary says, ‘Mr Sweet, it’s Carl Baker for you.’

The Jew looks at Neil Fontaine. The Jew draws a finger across his throat.

Neil Fontaine takes the phone from the girl –

‘Hello, Carl,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Mr Sweet is busy. Can I take a message?’

Malcolm showed the receptionist at the County his new warrant card and the receptionist showed Malcolmthe register. Malcolmasked for Room707 and the receptionist gave him a key attached to a long wooden stick.

Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor past the bathrooms —

The rooms were empty. The rooms were quiet —

A black man pushed a vacuum cleaner down the corridor.

Malcolm came to Room 707. He unlocked the door. He stepped inside —

It smelt stale.

Malcolm hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle of the door. He closed the door. Locked it. He took off his shoes. Placed them on the double bed. He walked across the room. Drew the curtains. He took a gauze mask from his trouser pocket. Put it on. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed.

Malcolm lay down on the floor between the bed and the door —

He turned his head to the left. His ear to the floor —

Malcolm closed his eyes. He controlled his breathing beneath the mask —

He listened —

No one home down below.

Malcolm breathed out through the mask. He opened his eyes —

Not today.

Malcolm took his shoes off the bed. Placed them by the door. He took his trousers and jacket off the bed. Hung them on the back of the door. He took the pillows, the blankets and the sheets off the bed. Folded them up and placed them inside the wardrobe. He lifted up the double bed. Placed it on its side. He picked up his case. Put it on the dressing table. He opened it. Took out a Stanley knife. He cut a large square out of the thicker carpet under where the bed had stood. Placed the square of carpet to one side. He cut a smaller square out of the underlay. Placed it to one side. He put the Stanley knife back in his briefcase. Took out a small brush. He dusted the floorboards clean. Put the brush back in his briefcase. He took out the stethoscope and the micro-recorder, the micro-tapes and the microphones. Malcolm laid them out. He set them up. He tested and adjusted them. He went back to the briefcase.Tookoutthe envelope –

The photograph.

Malcolm Morris pinned the photograph to the wall of Room 707, the County Hotel, and layon the floor and stared up into that face —

The ghosts without. The ghosts within –

The face of Neil Fontaine.

Peter

Beirut — Barricades across roads. Trees. Scrap cars. Tyres. Supermarket trolleys — David Rainer stood up with more bad news. He said, Board are saying seventeen went in today — Is that scabs or coppers in disguise? asked Johnny. Folk were nodding. I said, Know which pits, do we? Allerton-Bywater and Gascoigne Wood up there. Askern, Brodsworth, Hatfield and Markham Main in Doncaster area. Just Silverwood here, David read from his list. Folk were shaking their heads. Tom said, Thought Donny were solid? All part of their plan, said Derek. Board and police know them lads flying from those pits are hardcore. They’ve pushed them pits first so as to keep local lads busy — Lot of them blokes are stuck out in middle of nowhere, too, said Tom. Easy to get at them — Pressure they put on them is immense, said David. Folk were nodding again. I said, Talking to them. It’s only way to help them — Help them? Johnny laughed. They’re fucking scabs, Pete. How many more times? They’re as good as dead to us — Be blackout curtains over Welfare’s windows soon. That bad. I looked up — Built like a brick shithouse, he was. Not been down here before. Never been on a picket, either. Lads said he just sat about house or went up reservoir with his dog. His wife worked. Packing factory in Rotherham. Not as bad off as some, then. Two teenage kids at school, mind — But here he was. First thing after breakfast — Tears down both cheeks. Dog on a lead — Aye-up, Chris, I said. What’s up with you, lad? It’s about her, he said. Who? He pointed at his dog on lead. He said, Her — What about her? I said. I can’t keep her. Can’t feed her. RSPCA won’t bloody take her — I looked at pair of them. I shook my head. I said, I don’t know what — Thought you might know someone, he said. Bloody good dog, she is — I can see that, I said. But what — Don’t want to just let her loose, he said. She wouldn’t go, either. I know she wouldn’t. Daft thing’d get hit by a car or something. I took her up reservoir last night. Had a bag with me. Few stones. Bit of rope. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it — Chris, Chris, listen to me, I told him. If you came on picket with us, you’d get a quid a day. Bill Blakey’s will sell you a bag of bones for a quid. He looked up. He wiped his nose. He said, You don’t want her, then? I bloody don’t, I said. But I want you to come picketing. That way you can keep her. He wiped his nose again. He said, But I seen it on telly, Pete. It’s not for me. I said, Looks worse than it is on TV. Nine time out of ten, nothing ever happens. Die of boredom most days. He shook his head. He said, That how you lost your teeth then, is it? Chris, I said, you’d be biggest bloody bloke there. He looked at dog. He said, I know that. That’s why I don’t want to go — I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, I said. Not when I were with you. He looked up at me again, then back down at dog. He said, Just a quid? Unless there’s anything left over from petrol and there will be, I said. Big bastard like you in car. He sighed. He said, I’ll see you Monday then. I nodded. I said, I’ll be waiting — Armthorpe. Askern. Bentley. Brodsworth. Easington. Hatfield. Silverwood. Wearmouth — Waiting for war to come to us — Her war. My war — Teeth woke me up again. Bloody hurt, they did. I didn’t want to get out of my bed, though. Fucking week we’d had. Hardly been in house. I couldn’t think last time I sat down for a meal with Mary and our Jackie — Mary was folding washing when I came downstairs. Jackie had gone to get us a paper. I made us all a pot. Jackie came back. Read bits of paper. Best news of week was Wednesday beating Forest three-fucking-one — Take that, you scabby fucking bastards, I thought — Mary said, What you grinning at? Nothing. She said, I saw Martin’s wife yesterday. Cath Daly? I said. Where was that then? In town, she said. Centre of Rotherham. In precinct, wasn’t it? Our Jackie looked up from her tea. She nodded. Did you speak to her? Just how’s it going, Mary said. Usual — What did she say? Nothing — Mention Martin, did she? No — Keith thought they might have moved, you know? Mary shook her head. She said, What does he know about anything? I said, Might go up there after dinner — I got car out. Drove up to Hardwick. Parked outside their house. No sign of life. I knocked on

The Twenty-fifth Week

Monday 20 — Sunday 26 August 1984

The President sent Terry Winters and Mike Sullivan back to Huddersfield Road again. The President wanted them to find out what-the-bloody-hell-was-going-on-over-there. The President didn’t trust Huddersfield Road at all now. Not one inch. None of them. The President was really, really fucking paranoid now –

They all were (they all said so). Everyone –

Dick and Paul. Joan and Len. The Tweeds and the Denims. Everyone –

Clive Cook was waiting on the front steps outside the Yorkshire Headquarters. Clive said, ‘Good morning, Comrades.’

‘Is it fuck,’ said Mike Sullivan.

‘You weren’t expecting us, were you, Comrade?’ asked Terry.

Clive Cook looked at Terry. Clive said, ‘Should I have been?’

Terry and Mike Sullivan went through the arched doorway. Clive followed them. On the stairs, Clive asked, ‘Is there anything I can help you with, Comrades?’

‘You can show us where you keep your area minutes and agendas,’ said Mike.

Clive shook his head. He said, ‘They are all locked in the Area President’s office.’

‘And you don’t have a key, I suppose?’ asked Terry.

Clive shook his head again. He said, ‘Of course not.’

‘Who does?’ asked Mike.

Clive stopped a step below Terry and Mike. He said, ‘What is this, Comrades?’

‘You have a mole in this building,’ said Terry.

Mike nodded. He said, ‘An enemy within.’

‘So what are you two?’ asked Clive. ‘The Sheffield Inquisition?’

‘Yes,’ said Terry Winters. ‘That’s exactly what we are. Now find us the keys.’

Clive Cook walked back down the stairs. Clive Cook produced the keys –

Terry and Mike set to work; Clive Cook watched them –

Tear up plans. Budgets. Rewrite reports. Minutes –

Then Terry sent Mike out on another paper-chase and called Clive Cook closer. Terry ran his hands over Clive’s chest. Across his back. Up and down his legs –

Terry pulled him closer still and said, ‘I hope you’re being a good boy, Clive.’

Clive put his arms around Terry. Clive put his head against Terry’s chest –

Clive held on to Terry until he heard the footsteps –

The footsteps in the dark corridor.

Terry Winters got back to the office first. There would be no one here today. They’d still all be up at Gascoigne Wood. The Denims too. There to greet Brian Green –

The first Yorkshire scab –

The Home Front had opened up.

Terry had a long list of phone-calls to return. His old friend Jimmy at NACODS. The Daily bloody Mirror. Nearly every finance officer in the whole fucking Union. Terry took another three aspirins. He sat down under the large portrait of the President. He waited for the phone to ring. For her to call –

Please, please, please –

At five o’clock it rang.

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

‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Hope you missed me.’

Terry dropped the phone –

He did the stairs and the streets in five minutes. The drive in ten –

He ran through the hotel. Up the stairs. Through her door –

Terry dropped his pants –

Beds creaked. Headboards banged. Walls shook. Mouths cursed –

‘My best was not good enough,’ shouted Terry. ‘Not fucking good enough!’

Diane reached over to touch him. To hold him –

Terry turned away. Terry said, ‘I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him!’

‘And I know, I know, I know you do,’ said Diane.

‘No, you don’t,’ shouted Terry. ‘You’ve no idea. No one has!’

‘Just tell me what you want,’ she said. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you to do it.’

‘Tell you what I want?’ repeated Terry. ‘You really want to fucking know?’

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I want to know. I want to help you.’

Terry stood up. He held Diane’s face in his right hand. He looked into it. He said, ‘I want this strike to end. I want my marriage to end. I want to run away with you.’

‘But where would we go?’ she asked. ‘How would we live?’

Terry said, ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got money —’

Diane put her finger to his lips. She led him back to the bed. She sat him down. She said, ‘Last week in Doncaster, I met a man who said he wanted to help —’

‘Help who?’ asked Terry. ‘Help you?’

Diane smiled. She said, ‘The Union, silly. I really think you need to meet him.’

*

The Jew has had Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn down to Claridge’s for the night again. The Jew is keeping his options open. The Jew has some big plans for Fred and Jimmy. The Jew introduced Fred and Jimmy to Piers Harris and Tom Ball over breakfast this morning. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew, Fred, Jimmy, Piers and Tom to Hobart House. Don and Derek are waiting for them. The Jew has a conference room reserved and ready. The Jew leaves them to it. The Jew goes upstairs. The Jew knocks on the double-doors –

The Chairman of the Board.

Neil Fontaine closes the doors behind the Jew. He waits in the corridor outside.

The Jew coughs. The Jew says, ‘It is a simple plan.’

The Chairman is listening –

‘The emphasis now needs to be moved towards substantial, prearranged returns to work on the first shift of each Monday,’ argues the Jew. ‘At selected pits known only to ourselves and the police. Each area director agrees then to target just one pit per week, each with a set date for a mass return. This in turn allows us to release an ever-increasing weekly figure of the number of men going back to work. Reach fifty-one per cent and it’s over and they know it.’

The Chairman is still listening –

‘The situation in Yorkshire is quite different,’ continues the Jew. ‘The emphasis here should, for the time being, remain on isolated returnees. Their damage to local Union resources and morale are incalculable. The Union will be unable to picket pits outside Yorkshire, or at docks or power stations. Police resources can, therefore, also be concentrated on the areas we choose —’

The Chairman likes what he’s hearing –

‘The Back to Work campaign will be supported by Tom’s campaign of local and national adverts, as well as our own continued legal campaign. These disparate campaigns and their various finances can now be brought under the single umbrella of the National Working Miners’ Committee, which will be formally launched later this week. This will, at last, herald the birth of our union within a union. However, I’m afraid to say we will have to cut loose our Grey Fox, though Mr Colby and Mr Williams remain firmly on board and on course for a most helpful result.’

The Chairman claps. The Chairman likes what he’s heard –

‘Thank you, Stephen. Thank you,’ says the Chairman. ‘Unlike our adversary in the North, I am not a believer in overstatement. However, I have now a decided feeling that we have crossed a watershed. Until July I always felt as though we were sailing into a quite strong breeze. For the last few days there has been a period of calm. Now, after all these weeks, I can finally feel the wind on my back.’

The Jew leads the applause. The Jew says, ‘Bravo, bravo.’

Neil Fontaine waits in the corridor outside. He watches men in suits storm out –

He watches them scowl and sulk. Them pace and then slam their office doors –

Them clean out their desks. Them write their letters of resignation –

Them screw them up. Them throw them at their bins –

But the men in suits always miss.

Neil Fontaine knows how they feel. The Jew has invited all his new friends and their families down to Colditz this weekend. They are to be awed by the affluence. Astonished by the abundance. The Jew will take them for spins in his private helicopter. Tours of the grounds in his golf buggy. Rides on his electric lawnmower. Punts on the lake. Billiards on his tables. Darts on the boards he has bought especially for their visit. He will let their kids play with his horses and his ponies, his dogs and his hawks, while their mothers and fathers eat and drink as much and as often as they like. Then they will sleep in his four-poster beds, wash in his porcelain sinks, and shit in his porcelain bogs, laughing behind his back at the outfits he wears and the things he says and does –

Neil Fontaine wishes the Jew wouldn’t invite them.

He hates these working miners and their fucking families –

He hates this whole bloody strike and every cunt in it.

Neil Fontaine screws up his own letter of resignation. He throws it at a bin –

He misses by a mile.

It will be the death of him, thinks Neil Fontaine. This bloody strike –

The death of everyone.

*

Terry Winters parked in the Doncaster station car park. Terry locked up and left the car. He stood in front of the main station building. Diane picked him up at two o’clock. Diane drove them over the Don into Bentley and up the York Road. She parked outside a row of old terrace houses. They walked along the street to the little shop on the corner. It was an off-licence and newsagent’s. Diane opened the door. Terry followed her inside. Behind the counter stood an Asian family. Diane pointed towards the middle-aged father of four. Diane said, ‘Terry Winters, meet Mohammed Abdul Divan.’

Malcolm didn’t hear them any more because Malcolm didn’t dream. He didn’t dream because he didn’t sleep –

He lay on the floor between the bed and the door. His head to the left. His ear to the floor. He watched the night march across the carpet and the floorboards. Up the four walls. The sunlight become shadow. He lay on the floor between the bedand the door and wished it was not so –

That light never became shadow.

Malcolm stood up. He took out the double-cassette box of The War of the Worlds. He opened the box. The two cassettes inside –

He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the recorder. Side B –

He pressed fast-forward. Stop. He adjusted the tone. He lowered the volume –

Pressed play and played it all back –

‘— in again, if you don’t fucking tell me where it fucking is —’

‘— please. I can’t breathe —’

‘— just tell us where it is then, you old fucking slag —’

‘— told you, it’s not —’

‘— come on, or you’re going to make me —’

‘— stop it, don’t —’

‘— you fucking like it, I know you —’

‘— no, no —’

‘— fucking love it really, you —’

‘— no —’

‘— put it back in, Granny —’

‘—’

Between the bed and the door. Eyes closed. Head to the floor –

Malcolm listened to night march across the Earth. The world become dark again –

Between the bed and the door. The ears in his head. That bled and that bled –

O, how Malcolm wished it was not so.

He opened his eyes. He sat up. He went to his briefcase. He took out his scissors.

Downstairs a couple were fucking. Fucking and then fighting. Fighting and then –

Beds creaked. Headboards banged. Walls shook –

Reunited –

Neil and Jennifer. Jennifer and Neil. Terry and Diane. Diane and Terry –

Malcolm and his scissors. His scissors and his ears.

It was all about the numbers now. Not words. Numbers –

150 back last week; 170 this.

Numbers. Figures.

The President summoned them to the tenth floor. The President sat them down. The President told them what they already knew. What they had seen on TV –

First the bad news:

The latest Labour Party initiative had failed; the Board had said the Union must accept pit closures on grounds other than exhaustion; more scabs had started to work in Yorkshire; police had launched massive attacks on the communities concerned –

Then the good (always the good news last):

The men from NACODS were fuming with the Board; the Board weren’t listening to them but the Union were; steel-workers had unloaded the Ostia, which dockers had blacked at Hunterston; last night TGWU dockers had voted 78to 11 at their delegate conference to strike in support of the miners; the TUCjust around the corner –

‘Along with victory,’ said the President. ‘I am not going to the Congress to plead. I am going to the Congress to demand — as one trade unionist to another — the assistance of my brothers and sisters in the trade union movement because –

‘Comrades!’ he shouted. ‘Together we cannot lose. Together we will not lose!’

The President put down his notes. The President began clapping –

The entire tenth floor got to their feet. The entire tenth floor applauded.

Terry Winters cupped his mouth in his hands. He shouted, ‘Here we go —’

‘Here we go. Here we go,’ echoed the entire tenth floor. ‘Here. We. Go.’

Terry laughed. Terry wanted to dance on the desks of St James’s House.

Diane had shown him the way. The way out of all this –

Now Terry had a much better plan. Now. The best one he had ever had. Ever –

Terry smiled –

He could not lose –

Terry had an erection. Now. The biggest one he had ever had –

Ever.

Peter

door. No answer. Had a look through their letterbox. Lot of post and what-have-you on other side of door. No sign of them, though. Had a bad feeling about it, did their house. Like it was a lovely day and all, but this place was all in shadow. Didn’t know what to do for best. I walked across little front lawn they’d got. Put my hands over my face and stuck my nose to their windows. Looked in their front room. It was bare — Not a stick of furniture. Nothing. No carpet. No curtains — Everything gone. No dead bodies, mind. But it looked like Keith was right. For once — Running and running. Deeper and deeper. Faster and faster — I turn corner. I go down. I wait for horses. Hooves. Batons. I look back — Water. Wall of fucking water bearing down — I run again. Deeper and deeper. Faster and faster — I look backup corridor. Water roaring down. Faster and faster — I see two blokes behind me. Water almost on top of them. Two blokes — Oneof them Martin. Other one my father — It wasn’t my teeth that woke me. I lay there in dark in bed, Mary beside us. Bloody sweating again, I was. Buckets. Thinking about my father — How he died. How he lived — I always did these days. These nights — Then I heard something. Like voices out back — I got up. Slippers on — Left lamp off. Didn’t want to wake Mary — I walked onto landing. Had a good listen. I went down stairs. I walked down hall towards kitchen. Lights still off. I stood in kitchen. I looked out onto back garden. I could see something by shed — Like shadows out back. Moving about — I took a few steps back out of kitchen. I reached for hall light. Kept my eyes on back window. I switched hall light on. Then back off again — And I saw them run. Three or four blokes from by shed — Heard them knock over dustbin at side of house as they went. Effing and blinding — I ran back up hall to phone. I picked it up — Click-click. I dialled police — Fuck.I hung up — It probably was fucking police. Bastards — Krk-krk. Fucking bastards — I went back down hall into kitchen. Kept light off. I sat down at table. Kept my eyes open. I stared out window. Into night — Into dark. Into shadows — Lot of us had been at Kiveton yesterday. Lot of us wouldn’t forget that in a bloody hurry — Horses charging through old folks’ gardens. That white horse there again — Horse got a scratch and public were up in arms. Felt sorry for it — Just horses. Horses and scabs — Poor blokes on these buses. Their startled faces behind wire cages welded to windows — Drivers with crash helmets. Pigs on back seat. Them sat on aisle side — But I knew them faces. Everybody did — Every pit had faces like theirs. Faces with little eyes that never met yours. Eyes that’d sooner stare at their boots or ground. Faces of a certain type, they were. Type that hated their work. Type that were out sick more often than not. Type that never pulled their weight. Type who always wanted Union to do this, that and other for them. Cowed and broken men before strike even began. Shirkers or gaffers’ narks. Area managers and chief constables had leant on them hard. Broken them in two all over again — It wasn’t pit managers’ bloody idea. Pit managers knew them too well — Knew them of old. Knew what they were worth — Nothing. Fuckall — Just like this scab they’d got going in here at Silverwood. He’d have been fucking sacked years ago, if it wasn’t for us, said Derek. Tom nodded. He said, That’s thing that gets to me and all — But look at cunt now, said Johnny. Bold as fucking brass in his new V-reg — His time will come, I said. There’ll be a reckoning. He knows that, too. Everybody nodded. Everybody said, Day will come all right — How about Monday? asked David Rainer. Arthur wants us all on front line — He would do, I said. He’s addressing bloody TUC, isn’t he? Talk of mass returns again, said Johnny. Look bad if a lot went in — I can’t see it, said Tom. Not Monday. Everybody shook their heads. Everybody said, Not here. Not Monday — All same, said Derek. Best keep your eyes and ears open — Aye, said Johnny. There’s always one — Everybody nodded again. Everybody knew he was right — Knew it was going to get worse. Much, much worse — Not this Monday. Not next — But it would. Had to — Because everybody knew. Knew one.

The Twenty-sixth Week

Monday 27 August — Sunday 2 September 1984

Jennifer puts on her shades. She runs her hands through her blonde hair and ties it back. She scowls at Neil Fontaine. She sticks out her tongue –

She says, ‘You want a fucking picture, do you?’

Neil Fontaine gets up from the edge of the bed. The notebook still in his hand. The years in pieces on the floor. He opens the dawn curtain –

Jennifer slams the hotel door as she leaves –

Neil stood at the window. In the real light and the electric –

The very last moment like this.

The Jew isn’t sleeping nowadays, either. He is too fearful of what the future holds. He doesn’t wait for the doorman or Neil. He opens the back door of the Mercedes himself. He slams it shut –

‘Downing Street,’ he shouts.

‘Certainly, sir.’

The Jew slumps in the backseat. The Prime Minister has cut short her holiday. The Prime Minister has cancelled her trip to the Far East due to the industrial situation. The Jew is embarrassed. The Jew shakes his head. He wants to hammer nails into coffins. He mumbles on about the danger in the docks. The TUC. The weak sisters of the Board. Bent nails and empty coffins –

‘— I told her go. Leave everything to me. But those lascivious leeches begged to differ. Margaret, Margaret, you can’t leave us. You mustn’t leave us. Sterling is slipping, our shares are sliding, our ship is sinking. That’s all they can ever think about, Neil. Feeding their own fat faces. Saving their own sorry selves. They have no conception, Neil. No conception whatsoever of the Big Picture. The War —’

The Jew is wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday.

‘Two steps forward,’ the Jew says to himself. ‘One step back.’

Neil Fontaine stops at the end of Downing Street –

The Jew sighs.

Neil Fontaine opens the back door for the Jew. Neil says, ‘Good luck, sir.’

The Jew stops. He looks at Neil Fontaine. He says, ‘Thank you, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Downing Street –

The Total War Cabinet.

He starts the car. He has his own steps to take –

Backwards and forwards.

Roger Vaughan drops three sugar lumps into his cup. He picks up the teaspoon. He stirs his coffee. He takes the spoon out of the cup. He knocks it twice against the rim. He puts the silver spoon down on the saucer. He looks across the table at Neil Fontaine –

Neil Fontaine is waiting.

‘Fortunately,’ says Roger, ‘it would appear all our troubles will soon be over.’

Neil Fontaine is still waiting.

Roger Vaughan lifts up his napkin. He pushes the envelope across the cloth.

Neil Fontaine opens the envelope. He stares at the photo inside –

‘He’s been watching you,’ says Roger. ‘Listening to you. Both of you.’

Neil Fontaine starts to speak. To protest and to lie. To beg and to plead –

‘There’s no need for that,’ says Roger. ‘It’s a blessing in disguise.’

Neil Fontaine looks down at the tablecloth. He closes his eyes –

There are mountains of skulls. Boxes of candles –

‘He’s waiting for you,’ says Roger Vaughan. ‘Expecting you.’

There were bandages upon the floor. Two small balls of cotton wool. Blood upon the blades. Blood upon his fingers. Malcolm opened the box. Twocassettesinside –

He took out the second cassette. Tape 2. He put it in the recorder. Side A –

He pressed fast-forward. Stop. He adjusted the tone. He lowered the volume –

Pressed play and played it all back (one last time) –

‘— no, please, no, please, no, please —’

‘— in here, that what you want —’

‘— please, no, it’s at the cottage at Llanymynech —’

‘— shut up, it’s too late —’

‘— please don’t, it’s at the cottage, please don’t, in the cottage, no —’

‘— too late!’ screamed Julius Schaub. ‘Too late!’

‘—’

Malcolm lay on the floor between the bed and the door. In the spots of blood. Head to the left again. In a pool of blood. His wounds to the floor. In the seaof blood –

These nights across the world. The shadows everywhere.

Malcolm lay on the floor covered in blood. Between the bed and the door –

He wished for day and he wished for light –

Head to the floor. In 1984. The knock upon the door –

Malcolm stood up. Malcolm listened –

The sounds of the animal kingdom filled the room. The knock on the door again.

Malcolm walked over to the door. Malcolm touched the Emergency Procedures –

Malcolm Morris wiped his eyes. Malcolm Morris asked, ‘Who is it?’

‘Room service.’

Between the bed and the door. In the shadows. In the night –

How he wished for day and wished for light.

It is the hour before dawn. Neil Fontaine parks at the junction of Gate House Lane and Mosham Road. To the left is Finningley Airfield (disused). To the right Auckley Common. Doncaster straight ahead. The Jew sits in the back with his army binoculars. He is dressed in combat fatigues. He is wearing his aviator sunglasses.

Neil Fontaine sees the headlights approach. He says, ‘They’re coming, sir.’

The Jew raises his sunglasses. He lifts up his binoculars.

Four sets of headlights come down Gate House Lane from the airfield.

The Jew watches them through his binoculars.

Four trucks turn left and head down the Mosham Road towards Doncaster.

Neil Fontaine starts the car.

‘Most impressive‚’ shouts the Jew from the back. ‘Most impressive indeed, Neil.’

The Mercedes follows the four trucks. Their brake lights in the grey light –

The Mercedes loses sight of the lights in Doncaster. For now –

Neil Fontaine parks close to Rossington Colliery. The Jew with his binoculars. There are no scabs at Rossington. No scabs as yet. Just six pickets and a cardboard sign. Two policemen in their car. Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it –

Bentley. Hatfield. Armthorpe –

Neil Fontaine turns to the Jew in the back. He says, ‘Any minute now, sir.’

The Jew takes off his sunglasses. He sits up. He looks through his binoculars.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch again. He taps it again.

‘Here they come,’ says the Jew. ‘Here they come, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine watches the pickets stand. The policemen get out of their car –

Neil turns to see the four trucks hurtle up the road and through the gates.

The pickets and the police run towards the trucks, then stop –

Pit managers come out of their offices, then back off –

Everybody staring, staring at the trucks –

The fifty men disembarking at the sound of a whistle –

Fifty men in camouflage jackets, boiler suits and balaclavas –

Fifty men with pick-axe handles, their leader in a baseball cap and sunglasses –

Fifty men setting about the yard at the sound of the leader’s second whistle.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it. He looks at the Jew in the mirror –

The Jew watching through his binoculars from the backseat of the car –

Fifty men taking out the security cameras, the windows of the offices –

The cars and vehicles belonging to the NCB and their staff.

Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it. He looks up at the two policemen –

They are still hiding behind their car doors, still shouting into their radios.

There is the third sound of the whistle –

The men form columns. The men board the trucks. The first three trucks leave.

The team leader looks around the yard. The leader bangs on the side of the truck –

The last truck starts up. The team leader gets up into the cabin –

The leader takes off the baseball cap –

Long blonde hair blows across her face and shades as the truck accelerates away.

‘Most impressive,’ says the Jew again. ‘Really most impressive, Neil.’

*

The NUM were on their way to Brighton. The fast lane –

‘Comrades,’ Dick had said on the phone. ‘You have got to come tonight.’

The NUM had been summoned to account for themselves. The TUC were losing patience with the NUM and its president. That was what the TV was saying. Repeatedly. That was what the papers would say –

That was what made the President laugh. Made him really, really laugh –

‘They accuse us of setting worker against worker,’ he said. ‘Accuse us!’

Terry and Paul were in the back with the President. Joan in the front with Len –

They all shook their heads.

‘Is it our members who cross picket lines?’ asked the President. ‘Is it?’

Paul Hargreaves coughed. Paul said, ‘It is actually, President.’

The President looked at Paul. The President bit his lip.

‘Not our true members‚’ said Terry. ‘Our true and loyal members, President.’

‘Thank you, Comrade,’ said the President. ‘Thank you very much.’

Paul stared over at Terry. Paul raised his eyebrows. Paul shook his head –

Terry didn’t care. Terry Winters was on a roll –

Terry had a three-point public plan (separate to his two-point secret plan). Terry had sold the President his three-point public plan (as he would later sell the President his two-point secret plan). The President liked Terry’s three-point public plan (as he would later like his two-point secret plan). Terry was convinced of these things –

Two hundred and twenty miles later Terry was even more convinced.

The top men from the TUC were waiting on the steps of the Metropole Hotel –

The President shook their hands. Then the President led the way upstairs.

The meeting began at eight o’clock in the Louis XV Suite –

‘This is a fancy place‚’ said the President. ‘For some plain talk.’

The top men from the TUC smiled. The top men from the TUC waited.

‘I am here for your total support,’ said the President. ‘Nothing less.’

Then the arguments and the accusations began. The spats and the squabbles.

Eight hours later, Terry Winters tore a piece of paper from his notebook –

Terry handed it to the President. The President read it. The President stood up –

‘The National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress support our objectives of saving pits, saving jobs and saving communities‚’ said the President. ‘The National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress campaign to raise money to alleviate the tremendous hardship in the coalfields and to maintain the Union, nationally and locally. Finally, the National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress make this dispute more effective and once and for all call upon all trade unionists to block the movement of coal and coke and the use of oil.’

The President sat back down to applause. The President winked at Terry Winters –

Terry Winters smiled back.

‘It’s been a very long night,’ said the Fat Man. ‘But I would like to thank the President of the National Union of Mineworkers for coming here tonight in advance of the Congress. I’d also like to thank him and all the members of his team for their help in finding this agreed form of words. I am certain these proposals will be implemented to the fullest extent after further discussions with the General Council and with the agreement of the unions concerned —’

No one was listening. The President in a huddle with Paul, Dick and Terry –

Terry Winters still smiling. Terry Winters on a roll –

The world his oyster.

*

Neil Fontaine lies in the dark with his curtains open in his room at the Royal Victoria. Neil Fontaine thinks about sortilege. He looks at his watch. He taps it –

It is three in the morning. The telephone rings three times.

Neil Fontaine goes upstairs. He knocks on the Jew’s door. He knocks again.

The Jew shouts, ‘I am her eyes and her ears.’

Neil Fontaine brings the Mercedes round. The Jew waits in his flying-jacket.

They take the A57 out of Sheffield through Handsworth, Richmond and Hackenthorpe. They turn down the Mansfield Road, then left over the M1 through the village of Wales and into Kiveton Park –

The slag heap and the colliery black and hard against the dawn and the sky –

The enormous, empty, endless sky.

The Jew worries he has lost touch. The Jew wants to be back where the action is –

‘I am her eyes and her ears‚’ he says again. ‘Her eyes and her ears, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine drives down Station Road. He parks at the junction with Hard Lane.

The Jew gets out. The Jew says, ‘Keep out of trouble, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine watches the Jew march up Hard Lane across Hard Bridge –

Two thousand pickets and half the London Met here to meet seven fucking scabs.

Neil Fontaine drops his cigarette on the ground. He stands on it. Turns his boot.

The Met have their boiler suits and helmets on. Their horses and dogs out –

Neil Fontaine watches them charge through the village.

The Met want the pickets on the other side of the pit. The pickets won’t go –

Neil Fontaine watches the sticks and the stones rain down –

The bones that always break and the names that always hurt.

The Met have attached metal grilles to the fronts of their Transits –

Neil Fontaine watches them sweep up and down the road.

Neil Fontaine has lost sight of the Jew again –

Fuck.

Neil Fontaine starts up Hard Lane towards Hard Bridge.

There is a hand on his arm. The voice in his ear, ‘Hello, hello, hello.’

Fuck. Neil Fontaine turns round –

Paul Dixon is standing beside a mud-coated new Montego. He’s in an old, dirty anorak, his jeans and size tens in need of a wash and a polish, too.

‘Paul‚’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘We really must stop meeting like this.’

Paul Dixon nods. Paul smiles. He says, ‘People will start talking.’

‘They always do.’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘They always do.’

Paul Dixon opens the door of the Montego. He says, ‘That’s people for you.’

Neil Fontaine looks back up the road. He shrugs. They both get into the car –

The Montego smells worse than the Allegro.

‘You sleeping in this thing, are you?’ asks Neil Fontaine.

Paul Dixon shakes his head. He says, ‘Who says I’m sleeping?’

They watch police horses jump hedges and trample gardens.

‘I thought you were NRC liaison,’ says Neil Fontaine.

Paul Dixon shakes his head again. He says, ‘Pit Squad.’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Fuck did you take that for?’

‘Bit rich coming from you,’ says Paul Dixon.

Neil Fontaine shrugs again. He says, ‘I’m just a driver-cum-dog’s body.’

‘Right,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘A dog’s body. If that’s what you say.’

Neil Fontaine looks at Paul Dixon. He says, ‘That’s what I say.’

Paul Dixon takes out a photo. He asks, ‘And what would you say to her?’

Neil Fontaine glances at the photo –

Long, blonde hair, gaunt.

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. Fuck. He says, ‘Never seen her before. Sorry.’

‘I bet you are,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘I bet you are.’

Neil Fontaine closes his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. He says, ‘Who is she anyway?’

Paul Dixon smiles at Neil. He says, ‘Jennifer Johnson?’

Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He shakes his head.

‘The lucky lady who married our mutual mate the Mechanic?’

‘News to me,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Anyway, thought you told me Dave retired?’

Paul Dixon shrugs his shoulders. He says, ‘Maybe permanently. He’s missing.’

‘Missing?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘Since when?’

Paul Dixon takes out another photo. He says, ‘Since he met you in this photo?’

Fuck. Neil Fontaine glances at the photo. Fuck. Fuck. He shakes his head –

‘You’re talking to the wrong man,’ says Neil. ‘That’s not me. I haven’t seen him.’

Paul Dixon looks down at the photo again. He says, ‘The camera does lie, then.’

‘Can’t trust anything these days,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Anything or anyone.’

Paul Dixon points up the lane. He asks, ‘That go for him and all, does it?’

The Jew and another man are carrying another bloodied picket down Hard Lane –

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck –

Neil Fontaine opens the car door –

Never fucking ends –

Paul Dixon holds out the photo. ‘Bad pennies, Neil. They always turn up.’

Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He slams the door on Paul Dixon, Special Branch –

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK –

Bad fucking pennies.