GB84

Peter

Total darkness again — Had its own rhythms, did strike. Life of its own. Peaks and troughs. There’d be storms and there’d be quiet. Quiet and then storms again. Now it was quiet again. Quietest it had ever been. Tense, though. Now some had gone back from village. Rumour. Lot of rumour. Folk would stop us in street to tell us Alan from their road hadn’t picked up his parcel in over two week. That them in 16 had just come back from Canaries and how could they do that if he were still out, like? It was building. I could feel it — Christmas coming. General Winter on horizon. Power cuts not far behind him. Due a harsh winter and all — One last storm. Then home straight — That’s what I told myself. That’s what I said, Home straight — Touch my nose with my finger. Not see my finger — Mary had taken extra shifts up at factory, so I’d make breakfast and wash up before I went down Welfare. First her and our Jackie thought it was a bit of a laugh, me in kitchen. It wasn’t that funny now. Not that I couldn’t fry a couple of eggs. Bit of bacon. But it was just another of them signs. Signs that things weren’t right. Least with them both working I had something to cook — Lot that didn’t. Bloody lot — I put breakfast onto plates and took it through. Mary had scissors and glue out, cutting up bloody paper fore anyone had had a chance to read thing. For her scrapbook. True History of Great Strike for Jobs, that was what she called it. Filled three books now. Most of it were lies, said so herself. Bloody lies, she’d say as she cut stuff out. Tory bloody lies. But what she’d do was, under all lies she cut out, she’d then write truth of matter. Even had two of books signed by King Arthur himself — Just another way to pass time, I suppose. Between news — That was all we seemed to do these days, wait for bloody news to come on. Then it was all about money — Fines, sequestration. Receiver — Like that was only thing that mattered. It was only thing that fucking mattered to them on other side. Money — There were blokes down Welfare who read three papers a day. Then there were them that sat at home, glued to teletext. Not much else to do. Not now — Flying had dropped off since Dinnington last month. Branches just didn’t have brass to keep sending lads out — Only got about five hundred turning out for a mass picket now. Police had that contained, no bother. Didn’t even let lads shout. Heard tales of some blokes being done for glaring at scabs, police making lads stand with their eyes on floor — Nick you for sneezing, some of them. Just to get two days’ paid leave and expenses when you went to court — If they couldn’t charge you, they’d take you for a drive. Throw you out back of their van — Parachuting tests, they called it. Bastards got away with bloody murder — Had our own pit to picket anyway. Everyone did — That and coal picking. That was what most lads did — Picked coal. Picketed pit. Read papers and watched news — That was all there was now. That and worry. That was it — I was down Welfare most of time now. I was writing a lot of letters and making visits — I felt bad about some of them that had gone in. Felt we could have prevented it, like. Not all of them. Because some of them were just like that — Whatever you’d have done, it wouldn’t have been enough. Folk were just born like that. Or their wives — But couple of them had been on their own. There’d been a death in family or wife had left them. Board had taken advantage of their weakness and got them back in. Now we’d set up a sort of monitoring system. Regulars at Welfare would let us know if anything had happened to anyone. Ears to ground. If anyone were having any problems, either with money or family worries. Then I’d go up and see them. Try to help them out if we could. Tell them about loans we could arrange for them through Union. That sort of thing. I’d send a letter first, then follow it up with a visit. Take a parcel out to them. Especially if they weren’t in village and were somewhere further away. I kept writing to them that had already gone back and all. I didn’t advertise it because there were them that wouldn’t have had them back anyway — Oncea scab,always a scab — That lot. That was what scabs thought themselves, though — They’d crossed line. No turning back — I’d talk to some of them on telephone.

The Fortieth Week

Monday 3 — Sunday 9 December 1984

They had lost control. Lost control of their money. Lost control of their membership –

Two of their members in South Wales had dropped a concrete block from a bridge onto a taxi taking a working miner to Merthyr Vale Colliery. The block had gone through the windscreen. The taxi-driver had been killed. He had two children, his wife expecting their third at Christmas. Two young miners from the Oakdale and Taff Merthyr collieries had been arrested and charged with murder –

They were thugs and bullies. Hooligans. Terrorists and now murderers –

They were all lepers now —

Their offices were their hospitals. Their villages, their colonies.

There was silence in every office on every floor of every one of their buildings. There was silence in the street, their buckets empty now –

Just buckets of rain. Buckets of pain —

Bomb scares and death threats came by the hour. Letter bombs in the hate mail.

The President was frightened. Frightened of the outside. Frightened of the inside. The President didn’t trust anyone but Len and Joan –

The crows circling the monastery. The wolves at the gates —

The Moderates were meeting. Meeting with the TUC and with the Labour Party. Meeting in corridors. Meeting in motorway hotels. The backrooms of pubs –

Meeting and talking —

Talking of breakaways. Talking of returns without settlement or returns with a settlement. Hands over their mouths. Behind their backs –

Talking and planning —

Planning to sell out. Planning to cave in and compromise. Planning their coup –

Scheming and plotting —

Plotting his downfall. His descent and demise. Conspiring and dreaming. Dreaming of the President’s defeat –

His destruction and death —

The President caught between the rocks of the Right and the hard places of the Left. Cornered and trapped, he lived behind locked doors. He spoke in secret and talked on to tape. Taped all transmissions, recorded all reports. Joan cooked his food. Len tested it. The President ate only small amounts, staggered in stages. He drank only boiled water. The President left the locked doors of his office only for rallies. He travelled only in the Rover. Driven only by Len –

Len paid miners to watch the Rover twenty-four hours a day. Len paid men to watch the miners watching the Rover twenty-four hours a day –

From Friday 30 November 1984.

Today was Monday and tonight the President was to appear at a rally in Stoke. There had been bomb scares and death threats all day. Men with muffled voices had phoned local radio stations and whispered their warnings.

The President took Terry Winters and Paul with him. The President never let Terry out of his sight. The President had Terry and Paul stand before him on the stage. The President shared the platform with the Labour Leader. Terry Winters stared out into the spotlights –

He watched for the nooses. He waited for the snipers.

The Leader spoke first. The Leader said the violence had to stop –

The violence must stop and the violence must stop now.

Hecklers called him a traitor. Judas. Scab! Scab! Scab!

The hecklers were ejected. The Leader given a standing ovation.

The President stood up behind Terry and Paul –

The Town Hall fell silent –

The President’s voice was uncertain here. The President’s words were unsure now. The President admitted his deep shock at the tragic death of the taxi-driver –

He was given a standing ovation. The Town Hall sang the Red Flag —

Then the Town Hall fell silent again.

Len went for the car. Terry and Paul shielded the President as he left the building. The President sat in the back of the Rover between them, drenched in sweat and shaking. Len stayed in the fast lane all the way back to Yorkshire. Len dropped Terry off first. There was a police car parked outside his house –

There was a police car parked outside all their houses now.

*

These have been most fortuitous days for the Jew –

The murder of this taxi-driver in South Wales. The appointment of the receiver. The resignations of a few more Suits –

‘I could not have planned it better had I tried, Neil,’ muses the Jew.

The Jew is sitting pretty behind his desk and a huge new advertisement –

It’ll pay every miner who’s not at work to read this.

The Jew reorganizes his desk into two simple halves –

To the right are the reports on the progress of the receiver and the sequestrators. To the left are the reports on the progress of the National Working Miners’ Committee.

The Jew tracks the information from both left and right on his graphs and maps. The Jew walks round to the front of his desk. The Jew touches his graphs and maps –

The rising blue lines and the many blue pins –

The Jew runs a finger up and down North Derbyshire –

‘Is it not a beautiful thing, Neil?’ asks the Jew. ‘To win?’

Neil Fontaine picks red pins from out of the carpet. Neil Fontaine nods.

‘There were but three hundred and forty-three local lions in May,’ says the Jew. ‘To think there are now four thousand and forty-three in North Derbyshire alone, Neil.’

Neil Fontaine nods again. Neil Fontaine puts the red pins in the bin –

‘Four thousand and forty-three of them!’

But there is a price (there is always a price) –

The Jew has asked Neil to provide security for the homes of every working miner; every single working miner; every single home –

Neil jumps at the chance. The chance of a ghost. The ghost of a chance –

He leaves the Jew to sit pretty at Hobart House. He makes the usual calls –

Jerry Witherspoon. Roger Vaughan. The General –

No one answers the phone. No one takes a message. No one returns his calls.

He makes the usual rounds. He knocks on the usual doors –

The Special Services Club. The Institute of Professional Investigators. The TA —

But no one answers the door. No one knows his face. Remembers his name –

This is how it feels to be out in the cold.

He rents two post-office boxes and he places two adverts in the right magazines. He reserves a room in a hotel out by Heathrow. He pays cash money for all these things –

He uses the name Mr Farrant.

Fuck them. Fuck them all, thinks Neil Fontaine –

Promises Neil Fontaine.

*

The President was staying in Sheffield until the very last minute. Paul and Terry Winters travelled down to London separately. Paul in second class. Terry in first. Paul and Terry checked in to the County separately. Paul got a single room with a sink. Terry got a double with a private bath. Paul and Terry had both registered under assumed names –

Paul chose the name Smith. Terry chose Verloc –

Terry had been rehabilitated. But not by Paul. He had had a choice –

The President had had no choice.

Terry and Paul took separate taxis to the High Court.

The lawyers representing the working miners had claimed the Union trustees, including the President, were not fit and proper persons to be in charge of other people’s money. Not fit and proper persons –

Including the President.

The High Court had agreed. The High Court had removed the five trustees. Including the President. The High Court had appointed a receiver to take control of the Union’s funds and assets.

The receiver was a Mr Booker. Mr Booker planned to leave for Luxembourg. Mr Booker intended to seek the release of the Union’s five million pounds held in a small private bank account there –

Immediately.

Terry and Paul had come to the High Court to appeal. To swear not to move the money. To assure the court they would abide by its jurisdiction.

The lawyers for the working miners said such words were worthless. The lawyers said the Union had embarked on a concerted course of action to hide its funds –

From Sheffield to the Isle of Man. From the Isle of Man to Dublin –

From Dublin to New York. From New York to Zurich –

From Zurich to Luxembourg.

The lawyers said the Union did not recognize the court. The Union had not purged its contempt. The Union continued to be in serious and deliberate contempt of orders, which placed the funds they held on behalf of their members in jeopardy.

The lawyers said the Union, including the President, were not to be trusted –

Especially the President.

The High Court agreed. The High Court asked for the word of the President.

The President was not in court.

Terry and Paul asked for a ten-minute adjournment. Terry and Paul rushed out to the phones. Terry and Paul called Sheffield. Terry and Paul asked for the President –

The President was not in Sheffield. The President was travelling to London –

The President could not be reached.

Terry and Paul went back before the High Court. Terry and Paul told the judge that the President was on his way to the court. Terry and Paul asked for an adjournment until tomorrow. Terry and Paul said that then the President would appear.

The High Court did not agree. The High Court rejected their appeal –

The appointment of Mr Booker as receiver stood –

Mr Booker held the purse strings now. Mr Booker was the boss.

Mr Booker left for Luxembourg –

Immediately.

Paul took a taxi to Congress House to wait for the President and brief the TUC Terry took a taxi to sit at a table in the bar at the County and pray –

Pray for miracles. Pray for resurrection. Pray for redemption –

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

‘Your lips are moving again, Comrade.’

Terry opened his eyes. Terry looked up. Terry crossed himself.

Bill Reed sat down. Bill Reed put an envelope on the table.

Terry looked at the envelope. Terry looked at Bill. Terry said another prayer.

Bill tapped the envelope. Bill winked. Bill said, ‘Gotcha.’

Terry picked up the envelope. Terry opened it. Terry took out the contents –

‘Hubert Harold Booker, come on down,’ laughed Bill Reed. ‘Because, tonight, this is your life.’

Terry read the contents. Terry was amazed. Terry looked at Bill –

Bill looked at his watch. Bill said, ‘The President’s train is just arriving.’

‘This is dynamite,’ said Terry. ‘You must take it to the President, Comrade.’

Bill shook his head. Bill said, ‘The Fourth Estate have copies. That’s enough.’

‘But the President should know what you have done for him,’ said Terry.

Bill shook his head again. Bill said, ‘The President doesn’t need to know.’

‘But you would be forgiven,’ said Terry. ‘Your friendship restored.’

Bill stood up. Bill said, ‘Secret loves are best kept secret, don’t you think?’

Terry looked down at the table. The marks and the scars in the wood.

Bill Reed put his hand on Terry’s shoulder. Bill Reed said, ‘You go to him.’

And Terry went to him. Terry ran to him. Terry met with him —

The President, Terry and all the President’s men met with the TUC for six hours. The President asked the TUC to take out leases on all the Union’s property. The President asked the TUC to pay the wages of all the Union’s employees –

The TUC said they would need legal advice. The TUC were worried they would be held in contempt for assisting the National Union of Mineworkers –

The President shook his head. The President rolled his eyes.

The President and all the President’s men met the National Executive Committee. The NEC voted eleven to six to recommend that the Union’s cash be brought back to Britain, bringing the Union back into compliance with the law –

The President had supported the recommendation –

Terry was amazed. Terry was anxious —

The NEC were recommending to the Special Delegate Conference that the Union pay the £200,000 fine for contempt and obey all future court actions –

That there could be no disciplinary measures against scabs –

That they would have to hold a national ballot, if the court so decreed –

That the strike was unofficial –

Terry was appalled. Terry was afraid.

The meeting broke up in the small hours. Len drove the President and the ladies back to the Barbican. Terry and Paul walked back up to the County –

They took different routes.

Mr Verloc had messages waiting. Mr Verloc asked for an early morning alarm call and for The Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, the Mirror and the Morning Star.

Mr Verloc did not sleep. Mr Verloc did not need his alarm call –

Mr Verloc read the headlines. Mr Verloc read the stories –

Hubert Harold Booker was vice-president of a Derbyshire Conservative Association. Hubert Harold Booker was an ex-Tory councillor. Hubert Harold Booker was a member of the Institute of Directors –

Hubert Harold Booker was also in for a shock and the sack.

Mr Verloc ate breakfast alone with half a smile and a slice of toast.

Terry Winters walked up to Congress House for the Special Delegate Conference. The President had called the delegates to discuss the legal assault upon the NUM –

To debate the three options. To decide on the best course to take.

‘Comrades, we will win this strike because the issue is right,’ said the President. ‘No matter what actions are taken against the NUM or its officers, it will not deter people in this Union who fight for what they know to be right: the right to work.’

The two hundred and twenty delegates applauded their president.

The President sat down. Paul then stood up and outlined the options –

‘The Union could ignore the courts. The Union could take no action whatsoever. The Union could recognize the supremacy of the High Court and thus purge its contempt; pay its fine, but gain the release of its funds.’

The two hundred and twenty delegates argued. The delegates squabbled and spat. The two hundred and twenty delegates fought. They bickered and they brawled –

Terry got a message from Mike in Luxembourg. Terry went to the phone –

‘Comrade, the bank have refused Booker admittance,’ Mike Sullivan told Terry. ‘The bank won’t hand over any money to any third party without a local court order. Booker is going to have to go to court here in Luxembourg to establish the validity of their claim. The plan’s worked!’

‘Of course,’ said Terry. ‘Didn’t I say it would?’

Terry hung up. Terry went back inside the conference to break the good news –

‘Good news, Comrades,’ shouted Terry. ‘The receiver has been defeated.’

There was applause for Terry Winters. There were accolades for Terry Winters –

The two hundred and twenty special delegates voted 139 to 80 to reject the moderate recommendation of the National Executive to bring their bacon back home to Britain. The money was to stay right where it was –

In the more than capable hands of their Comrade Chief Executive –

Terry Winters was absolved. Terry Winters was astonished.

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

In 1969. In 1972. In 1974. In 1979 —

These were the times and the places where Malcolm Morris had sat and stared into the silences and the spaces —

The loving wife he’d never met and the whore he had. The lovely children they’d never had and the abortions they had.

The waiters did not bring him the menu. The waiters did not take his order —

Malcolm Morris was nothing but a ghost now. Nothing but a shadow —

In 1984 —

A shadow in the back where the light did not reach.

Mr Verloc woke up in his double room at the County. He was naked in his private bath. The water was cold, the shower still running. Mr Verloc dried and dressed himself for the day ahead. Mr Verloc ate breakfast alone with a sore cock and extra toast –

Terry had known it was risky. Diane had known it too. But they just didn’t care. Diane wanted to fuck Mr Verloc in his double room at the County. In his private bath. And Mr Verloc wanted to fuck Diane to thank her for all the things she’d done. So Terry and Diane had waited until the President was back at the Barbican; Paul and Dick in the Crown & Anchor with everyone else. Then Terry had gone to King’s Cross for Diane –

And no one saw them. Not even the moon.

Diane had fucked Mr Verloc in his double room at the County. In his private bath. Then Mr Verloc had fucked Diane to thank her for all the things she had done –

And no one heard them. Not even the man pacing about in the room upstairs.

Mr Verloc finished his breakfast. Mr Verloc went back up to his room to pack. Mr Verloc checked out before Mr Smith.

Terry spent the morning back at Congress House on the phone to Luxembourg –

‘The bank won’t let us move the money until after the court has made its decision as to the validity of the receiver’s claim against us,’ said Mike in Luxembourg.

‘Find out all you can about the judges‚’ Terry told him. ‘And fax it to Bill Reed.’

Terry hung up. Terry went upstairs to the President and the TUC Seven –

The President wasn’t asking for sympathy Just sympathy strikes –

But the Seven said they would need legal advice. The Seven were still worried they would be held in contempt for assisting the National Union of Mineworkers –

The President shook his head again. The President rolled his eyes again –

The President went back to Sheffield.

Terry and Paul went back to court. Terry and Paul took separate taxis.

Hubert Harold Booker had asked to be allowed to resign.

Terry and Paul agreed. They argued he was not a fit and proper person.

The court did not agree. But the court accepted Mr Booker’s resignation.

Terry and Paul asked that the Union be taken out of receivership. Terry and Paul argued that the trustees of the Union were fit and proper persons –

Including the President.

Terry and Paul argued that the trustees were only following the orders of the Union’s National Executive when the money was transferred from British to foreign banks. Terry and Paul argued that the trustees, including the President, were therefore very fit and proper persons to be in charge of other people’s money –

Fit and proper persons. Including the President –

Especially the President.

The High Court did not agree. The High Court appointed a new receiver to take control of the Union’s funds and assets.

The receiver was a Matthew Ruskin. Mr Ruskin planned to leave for Dublin. Mr Ruskin intended to seek the release of the Union’s two and a half million pounds held in a secret bank account there –

Immediately.

Terry and Paul asked for an adjournment. Time to appeal.

The High Court did not agree. The High Court rejected their appeal –

The appointment of Mr Ruskin as receiver stood –

Mr Ruskin held the purse strings now. Mr Ruskin was the boss.

Mr Ruskin left for Dublin –

Immediately.

Terry and Paul travelled back to Sheffield separately. First and second class –

There was still silence on every floor of their building. Still silence in the street –

Just the buckets of rain. The buckets of pain —

The bomb scares and death threats still coming. The letter bombs in the hate mail.

Terry Winters drove back to his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield. There were no lights on, the police car still parked outside –

They were all still lepers. Second class, the lot of them –

Forever lepers now.

Peter

Tell them it weren’t like that. That if they stopped scabbing they’d be welcomed back — They didn’t believe me. They saw graffiti all over village — We won’t forget scabs — Drawings of gallows and nooses. Wall of shame up by gates. Signs in pubs and shop windows telling them their business wasn’t wanted — They weren’t daft. Not that daft, anyway — They heard words on picket line as bus sped them inside. They saw faces filled with hate — They’d gone too far. They knew it — They were lost to most folk. Dead — Hammering in distance. Maybe here. Near — I went over to Silverwood on Monday for Panel — Just Mondays at moment. Unless something sudden came up — No more new faces going in. Big back-to-work push had finished. Time to take advantage of their bribes had passed. Our own brass drying up, what with sequestrators and receiver. More bloody cars packing up and all. Packing up or smashed up. Johnny reckoned that had been bloody plan all along — Police had waited until High Court had begun to bite. Then they’d gone in with their truncheons into cars — Not just what had happened to our lads at Brodsworth. Happened everywhere and all on same day — Tyres had been slashed. Windscreens smashed — Knew it meant we wouldn’t be able to fly as much and that saved them brass, I suppose. Main thing now was taking care of business at your own pit — It was twenty-four hour a day now. Front and back — Broke it down into six shifts. Each shift were four hour. Long enough now winter was here. Lads had used this old horse-box to put a little hut up there on front gate. They’d stuck a stove and couple of car seats from scrap inside. Them on back gate just used old snap cabin that was already there. Folk had their preferences, both for time and for folk they’d be stood with. There were family commitments and what-have-you to take into consideration, too. I was in Welfare doing that up when Barry came in to tell me latest — Fucking hell, I said. You’re joking? Barry shook his head. I got my coat and we walked up to Pit. Undermanager was waiting for us by hut. Morning, Pete, he said. I said, There’s floor lift, is there? That what you saying, is it? Under-manager had a big drawing of flood. He said, Just take a look, Pete. Barry and under-manager held corners of paper so I could have a good look. We all got your letter, I said. But what do you expect us to do? Pete, there has to be some safety work done or — Not by my men, I told him. They cross a picket line for any reason, they’re scabs — They came in before in summer, he said. You all helped us then — Aye, I said. There was no picket line then, though, was there? No picket line because there were no bloody scabs. That’s why we helped you. And what thanks did we get? You took bloody scabs back. That’s what thanks we got. Get them to bloody help you — We didn’t want scabs back, he said. Board made us take them. We had to — That’s as-may-be, I said. But there’s a picket line now and no one will cross it — So what do we do? he said. Just let waters keep rising? Let all them bloody scabs you got in there deal with it, I told him. There’s not enough of them and them we have are useless and you know it. I said, You shouldn’t have took them back then, should you? He shook his head. He said, Pit will flood and then there’ll be no bloody work for anyone. That what you want? Look, I said. I’ll phone Barnsley and get Union engineer in. See what he says — Thank you, Pete, said under-manager. Thank you very much — Smell of wood.Mice— Tommy Robb came out minute I phoned. Click-click. Tommy was Union’s mining engineer for this area. He met Barry and me and manager and under-manager. Picket had been taken off for duration of our visit. Tommy wanted to go down straight away. This was a problem because only folk doing winding were members of management union who shouldn’t have been anywhere near bloody winding gear in first place: There was no way Tommy and me and Barry were off down if they were doing winding. That meant I had to get in touch with Winders’ delegate. Click-click. I called him up and he came out to wind us down. That was what I was dreading. Fucking dreading it, I was — Been best part of a year since I was down there. Reason more

The Forty-first Week

Monday 10 — Sunday 16 December 1984

The Jew has spent the weekend in retreat at Colditz. He has gathered his majors and generals. He has had them pack their black suits and ties. He puts on his leather flying-jacket. Neil Fontaine performs the safety checks on the helicopter. They eat hearty breakfasts in the Jew’s enormous kitchen. Then the Jew flies the leaders of the National Working Miners’ Committee down to Cardiff –

The cloud is heavy. The visibility poor. The journey rough. The passengers green.

Neil Fontaine has hired a limousine for them. He drives them from the airport to the crematorium. The National Working Miners’ Committee smell of cigarettes and last night’s ale. They argue among themselves about money. Two of them vomit into carrier bags at the side of the road. The Jew sits in the back among his majors and generals and looks at his watch. They are late for the funeral of Derek Atkins.

Neil Fontaine takes two wreaths out of the boot of the limousine –

‘You have paid the supreme price for democracy.’

He hands the two wreaths to the National Working Miners’ Committee –

‘In glory may you rest in peace.’

The National Working Miners’ Committee go into the crematorium.

The Jew waits in the car with Neil Fontaine. The Jew does not speak.

Rain sweeps down from the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains –

Down and out into the mouth of the Severn.

Half an hour later, the family of the murdered taxi-driver leave the crematorium.

Neil Fontaine opens the back door of the limousine. He holds an umbrella over the Jew. The Jew walks up to the family. The Jew embraces the dead taxi-driver’s common-law wife under their different umbrellas. He puts an envelope full of cash into her wet hands –

‘Your common-law husband did not die in vain,’ the Jew tells the young widow. ‘We shall fight on and we shall win.’

Malcolm Morris asked for his key to Room 707. Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor pastthe bathrooms —

The rooms were all empty. The rooms were all quiet.

Malcolm unlocked the door. He stepped inside. He 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 drew the curtains. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed. He stood before the mirror. He unwrapped the bandages. Took the cotton wooloutof his ears. Helooked into the mirror —

A new face in an old place.

The army had taught him how to live. How to survive. To stay alive for ’85.Thearmyhad taught him to expect the knock on the door in the middle of the night. The drive out into the woods. The nozzle of the gun at the back of the skull. Thespade and the hole.Butthen they would never know—

Never know the truth from the lies. The lies from the truth —

Never know the secrets sold. The secrets saved —

The things he’d kept up his sleeve.

The army had taught him how to live. How to survive. Ulster honed those habits, whetted the ways—

To live among death.

Then the service had brought him back. Brought him home. To live alone in a house with a car and a pension plan. Brought him back to listen. To listenfor the knock on the door in the middle of the night. The drive out into the woods. Thegunat the backof the skull. Thespades and the holes –

The truths and the lies. The secrets saved and the secrets sold —

The things up his sleeve.

The service had brought him back. Back home —

To die among life.

Malcolm Morris picked up the phone. He dialled the number. Made the call.

The Jew is livid again. Fucking furious this time. Yesterday was the first day coal had come up from the Yorkshire seams since the strike began. It was a victory, a famous victory in the long campaign –

Miners mining at Manton.

It should have been front-page news. Headlines for them. Death knells for Stalin –

But no.

The Minister has hijacked the Jew’s agenda. The Minister has been holding secret meetings with the TUC. The TUC have gone over the heads of the NUM. The Minister has gone over the head of the Chairman. The Chairman and the Jew –

‘No fucking wonder the numbers have dried up, Neil,’ shouts the Jew –

The Jew must guard against weakness. Inside and out. Outside and in –

The Jew cannot rest. The Jew must not rest.

Neil Fontaine rights the hotel furniture. He picks up the morning papers. He nods. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew to Hobart House. He waits outside the Chairman’s office –

The Chairman is already livid. Already fucking furious –

‘That damned junkie hands out one hundred grand to them,’ shouts the Chairman. ‘Hundred fucking grand to the bloody Red Guard for Christmas. Just like that!’

‘I think,’ says the Jew, ‘we should pay the altruistic Noble Lord a visit.’

Neil Fontaine drives the Chairman and the Jew to a private Harley Street clinic. Neil Fontaine accompanies the Chairman and the Jew to a private upstairs room –

The Jew knows Lord John of old. Lord John wakes up to greet him long and lost –

‘Stephen, sweet Stephen!’ he shrills. ‘Where have you been all my life?’

The Jew sits down on the edge of the bed. He has Lord John’s hand in his own.

‘How frail you look, dear Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘Are they treating you well?’

‘The nurses are harridans, Stephen,’ pouts the Lord. ‘Harridans!’

‘Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘I’d like you to meet the Chairman of the Coal Board.’

The Chairman steps forward. The Chairman nods, but does not offer his hand.

The Lord giggles. He whispers in the Jew’s ear. He hides his face in his pillows. He peeps out from behind his fingers. He asks, ‘Did he bring me grapes, Sweet Stevie?’

‘Johnny,’ says the Jew, ‘did you give money to the miners?’

The Lord sits upright in his bed. He tidies himself and says, ‘And what if I did?’

The Jew slaps Lord John across his face. The Jew shouts, ‘Idiot! Fool!’

The Lord collapses in tears into his sheets. He pulls his pillow to him. He hugs it.

‘Do you want your dear mummy to work in Woolworth’s, Johnny?’ asks the Jew. ‘In a uniform? With her name on a tag?’

The Noble Lord shakes his head.

‘That’s what their president has in store for our Queen,’ says the Jew.

The Noble Lord sobs.

‘Just imagine what he has in mind for you, Junkie Johnny,’ says the Jew.

The Noble Lord looks out from behind his pillow. He asks, ‘What, Stevie? What?’

The Jew turns to Neil Fontaine. Neil Fontaine hands the big envelope to the Jew. The Jew opens the envelope. He lays out the photographs on the Lord’s bed –

Ten photographs of beaten faces; of broken bones and burnt-out homes.

Lord John stares. He swallows. He says, ‘To me? They plan to do this to me?’

‘Much worse,’ says the Chairman. ‘Much, much worse.’

Lord John pales. He puts his hand to his mouth. He says, ‘What have I done?’

The Jew goes to the Lord’s bedside drawer. He takes out the Lord’s chequebook. ‘How much did you give them, Johnny?’ he asks. ‘How much?’

‘I feel such a fool,’ says the Lord. ‘Fool! Fool! Fool that I am!’

‘How much, Johnny?’

‘Ten thousand? One hundred thousand?’ he says. ‘I can’t remember now.’

The Jew opens the Lord’s chequebook. The Jew writes out a cheque –

‘This is one for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ he says. ‘Just sign it.’

‘Then everything will be all right?’ asks the Lord.

The Jew nods. The Chairman nods. The Jew hands the Lord his pen.

‘The Queen won’t have to work in Woolworth’s any more, will she?’

‘No, Johnny,’ says the Jew. ‘The Queen will be fine, if you just sign that.’

The Lord smiles. The Lord signs the cheque. The Lord hands it to the Jew.

‘Thank you very much,’ says the Jew. ‘You’ve turned a bad day into a good one.’

*

The President had appeared before Rotherham Magistrates over charges of obstructing the Queen’s Highway at Orgreave on May 30 1984. The magistrates had found him guilty. The magistrates had fined him two hundred and fifty pounds, plus seven hundred and fifty pounds costs. Meanwhile, the government had agreed to meet the entire costs incurred by the receiver and the sequestrators, and more High Court actions had been brought to make the national and area officials of the Union personally liable for monies spent on the strike. The Nottinghamshire Area had also voted heavily in favour of a new constitution to give them greater autonomy from the National Union of Lepers –

The President was back locked behind his door. Not touching his food.

Len Glover came into Terry Winter’s office. Len didn’t knock –

Terry was sat under the portrait of the President. Terry looked up at Len –

Loyal Len had a bandage across his nose and two black eyes. Someone had thrown a tin of cat food and a can of extra-hold hairspray at the President –

They had missed the President.

Len said, ‘The President wants you to come to Goldthorpe with him.’

Terry shrugged. Terry nodded. Terry put his coat back on.

Loyal Len drove. Terry Winters sat in the back of the Rover with the President. The President talked about moving the families of Union employees into the St James’s building. For protection –

Insurance —

Terry tried not to listen to the President. Terry didn’t want to think about Theresa. Think about Christopher, Timothy or Louise. Terry had enough to think about.

Len parked outside the Goldthorpe Miners’ Welfare Club. Len paid four local lads to watch the Rover. Len and Terry rushed the President out of the back of the car –

Up the steps. Into the hall. Through the crowd –

The rapturous welcome. The thunderous applause –

To the stage and onto the podium.

The President stood on the stage. The President poised at the podium –

The branch banner hanging behind him on the wall.

The President turned to see the branch banner. The President stared at the banner. The President turned back to the hall. The hall packed to capacity. Eager and expectant. The President closed his eyes. The President bowed his head –

The hall silent.

The President opened his eyes. The President raised his head. The President said –

‘You are not saying: “Here we go.” You are saying: “Here we are” –

‘We are here and have found ourselves!

‘And with that spirit, this government and their courts can put their receivers in; they can put their sequestrators in; they can smear us and they can attack us –

‘But there’s one thing for certain: provided we stand firmly together, your Union –

‘Not my union, not any receiver’s union –

‘Your Union is on its way to the greatest victory in history!’

There was rapture. There was thunder –

The President bowed his head. The banner hanging behind him –

Rapture and thunder —

Terry looked at his watch. The clock ticking. The storm soon upon them all.

*

The Chairman goes home to the States for Christmas. The Jew moves down the hall into the Chairman’s office. He cannot go home. He must stay to guard against weakness. Guard against defeat –

Inside and out. Outside and in –

There are still Suits about. There are still Suits out to settle –

Informal talks. Preliminary discussions —

The papers full of Christmas cheer. Hints of hope. Peace in the coalfields.

The Jew shows some Suits the front door and the street. The Jew sends others on compulsory leave. The Chairman has given him permission. Permission to use his name. The Jew uses it. Uses it to guard against weakness –

Defeat.

There are still new battles to win. New campaigns to run –

Here’s something for every miner to think about in the New Year.

The Jew already knows his New Year’s resolution. It’s the one he always makes –

For the worldwide defeat of Marxism, Communism and all forms of Socialism.

The Jew has good reason to believe his wish might finally arrive in ’85.

The Prime Minister has invited the Jew to dinner with Mikhail Gorbachev. Mr Gorbachev is from the Politburo. Mr Gorbachev is tipped for the top. The Prime Minister says Mr Gorbachev is a man they can do business with.

The Jew hopes the PM is right. The Jew will put Mr Gorbachev to the test. The Jew will ask Mr Gorbachev to stop all Soviet support for the NUM –

For the worldwide defeat of Marxism, Communism and all forms of Socialism.

The Jew can’t wait to meet Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev –

For the New Year to begin. For this Christmas to end –

Foul feast of the pagan and the Roman.

The Jew hates Christmas. Neil, too.

Peter

than any other I got involved with doing Union — Hammering stops. Mice gone — I didn’t want to be down there any more. I hated it. But I wasn’t going to show it today. Not in front of management. Not in front of scabs — They’d actually had sense to lock scabs up when we went through yard. Must have stuck them in offices or somewhere. Thing was, I was that worried about going back down that I didn’t think about scabs. I got into cage with Tommy and Barry and manager and we went down — Different noise now — No one spoke until we got down there and Tommy started to have a look about. Took him for ever, it did — Fucking for ever. I thought I was going to collapse. That bloody nervous — Slightest sound set us off and there’s always strange fucking noises down there. Especially with water. I don’t think I spoke once whole time I was down there — Three and a half fucking hours. It was worst when we were going back up — Thing was out of practice and it was stopping and starting like an old fucking woman. Longest fucking ride up I’d ever had — It were worth it, though, I suppose. Tommy said it wasn’t that bad. There was no need for lads to go in. There was enough of management there to deal with it. Thing now was to get message out to all lads. Fucking rumours flying about — Pit was falling to bits. Pit was going to be lost. Be no pit to go back to — Must have been coming from scabs, most of it. Had to be. Even after we’d been down, there were still them that said we hadn’t — That it was a lie and we’d never gone down. That pit was too flooded even to check on it. That it’d be shut before Christmas if lads didn’t go back in and start on safety work — Pack of lies. Bloody lies — But fucking hell, did folk go on about it. They’d come up to you in street and call you a liar to your face — I couldn’t be doing with it. Not now — I just gave them Tommy’s number at Huddersfteld Road. Told them to phone him themselves. Did my head in, to be honest. These fucking rumours — No end to them. To any of it — Sound of hooves. Horses’ hooves again — Latest police trick was to take photos of folk up at picket line. Smile. Lot of rumours again about why they were doing that. Folk reckoned it was because they were going through all film they had of mass pickets. Using photos to identify anyone who they’d caught on tape throwing. That way police could nick them and Board could sack them. Then there’d be no need for mass redundancies. Half of workforce would have already been sacked. That was rumour anyway. That and talk about privatization of pits, too. That was another big one doing rounds. This was reason why so many had got so agitated about flooding and general state of pit — No one was going to buy a broken pit, were they? Top of all that, you had business with Nottingham changing their rulebook. Moving closer to UDI–It was going to happen. That was obvious — Good riddance to bad rubbish, said most blokes. They’d come crawling back like last time — But then brave talk stopped and rumours started up about future of NUM. About what would happen if there were two unions and so on — Rumours. Tension — It was all scabs’ doing. They had no shame these days — There was one older bloke who had been on bloody committee at one time. Had always claimed he was right Militant. Even been to Soviet Union with King Arthur once. Liked to tell you how it was paradise on Earth. Two of others had been two of hardest we’d had on picket lines. Dead keen, they’d been. Liked nothing better than a scrap with coppers. Had called first scab all names under sun. Now they were sat on scab bus, laughing and waving at all their old mates on picket line. It were these three who were behind all rumours — Rumours that filled emptiness. That was thing that made it worse — Never any bloody news to give lads. Rumours were all they had — Dark days now. Days when I’d walk round village and it was like walking round village of dead — Like one of them old photos or something. Little figures all thin and drawn — Their clothes hanging off them. Pushing their babies down to Welfare — Ladies going through bundles of other folk’s clothes. Cast-offs and hand-me-downs — Putting tins and packets into boxes. Making three meals

The Forty-second Week

Monday 17 — Sunday 23 December 1984

The Right Honourable Member of Parliament met Malcolm Morris in the underground carpark —

In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach —

His mouth moved. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm questions —

Malcolm could not answer. Malcolm could not hear —

But Malcolm had the tapes.

In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –

They would find the answers here. They would hear the tapes —

These field recordings of the Dead.

Terry stuck two bitten fingers in his ears. They were playing carols in the corridors again. For morale, said the Denims. Even the Tweeds agreed. Terry took another three aspirins –

Christmas. Christmas. Christmas –

It was all anybody ever talked about. Phoned about. Click-click —

Lorryloads of toys from France. From Poland. From Australia –

Santa suits and plastic trees. Party hats and pantomimes –

Turkeys and all the fucking trimmings —

It was all anyone thought about. Cared about. Almost –

Terry picked up his files. Just his files. He didn’t need his calculator these days.

Terry locked the office. Terry took the stairs up to the Conference Room –

The lift was out of order.

Terry tapped on the door. Terry went inside. Terry took his seat by the exit –

The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had just made their report –

The report which said that efforts to block the supply of oil had had little discernible effect; that there was no likelihood of crucial fuel shortages at the generating stations; that prospects for an early settlement of the dispute were remote –

Remote.

So the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had been to see the Minister –

Again.

The President looked up with tired eyes at the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends. The President wasn’t sleeping. Dick wasn’t. Paul. Len. Joan. Alice. Mike –

None of them were –

Always light, never dark.

‘We don’t want the TUC or anybody else to go along and argue a case that effectively undermines the NUM,’ said the President again.

The Fat Man did not blink. Did not bat an eyelid. He said, ‘What do you want?’

‘Do you remember all the promises you gave in September?’ asked the President. ‘The decisions the TUC conference made? The financial support? The physical support? The practical support? The total support?’

The Fat Man did not flinch. Did not move a muscle. He said, ‘I remember.’

‘Good,’ said the President. ‘Because that’s what we bloody want.’

The Fat Man flinched. That Fat Man said, ‘It’s too late now.’

‘It’s late, I’ll give you that,’ said the President. ‘But not too late. Never too late.’

The Fat Man blinked. The Fat Man said, ‘The entire TUC could be bankrupted. The entire movement in the hands of receivers and sequestrators —’

‘Aye,’ shouted the President. ‘And there’d be battles and there’d be bloodshed. And the working class would as one rise like lions after slumber –

‘In unvanquishable number. For we are many and they are few —’

Terry Winters started to cough. Terry Winters couldn’t stop –

Terry made his excuses. His exit. His way back down the stairs.

Terry took more aspirins. His head against the glass. Terry watched the city –

The Christmas lights. The street lights. The shop lights. The office lights –

Always light, never dark.

Terry looked at the calendar. He looked at his watch. Terry was going to be late –

He locked the office. He ran down the stairs. He went for his car –

The remains of Roche Abbey had been chosen for the rendezvous –

Terry drove out through Rotherham, across the M18 and South at Maltby.

The dark Sirocco was already parked, waiting for Terry.

Terry pulled off the A634. Terry parked and Terry waited –

There was a tap on his window. There was a torch in his face –

Terry put one hand up to shield his eyes and released the car boot with his other.

Then the torch was gone. The boot full.

*

Malcolm Morris pressed play. Malcolm played it all back. All of it —

The voices from the shadows at the back, where the silences did not quite reach —

‘— first heard in a room with bright lights and no windows and a locked door, screaming I came into this place. It was Easter Sunday and I was on my back on the bed in her blood, kicking and screaming. The woman in the blue apron took me in her arms and scrubbed me clean of the blood and wrapped me in soft white sheets and a yellow woollen blanket, smiling and kicking, I shat everywhere and she scolded me –

‘I hate you —’

These promises from the shadows, where their threats did not reach —

‘— three houses in three years, these memories from these years. The man in his shop with his loose teeth that fell on the stone floor and broke at my feet. The woman in the lane with the dog that jumped up and barked into my pram. The trees in the park with the words in their bark that must have hurt –

‘I love you. I love. I love you —’

These voices from the shadows at the back, where the silences did not reach –

‘— heard my name called in a classroom with long lights and high windows and locked doors, screaming I’d come into this place. It was Monday morning and I was on my back in the gym in my own blood, kicking and screaming. The man in the black gown took me by my ear and scrubbed me clean of the blood and dressed me in harsh white shorts and a soft cricket sweater, smiling and kicking, I shat everywhere the first time —’

These curses from the shadows, where his prayers did not reach —

‘— more houses in more years, more memories from more years. The man in the uniform who said he was my father and shook me by my hand. My mother in tears who called him a liar and slapped his face raw. The doctor in the white coat who said he would help us and gave us all pills —’

These voices from the shadows, where the silences did not reach –

‘— new town, new school; the same frown, the same fool in classrooms less bright and windows less high but with doors still locked, sniffing I came into these places. It was Friday teatime and I was on my back on the playing field in my own blood, aching and sweating. The captain of the house took me by my hand and showered me clean of the blood and watched me dress in my clean cotton pants and blue school shirt, giggling and kicking, he shat everywhere the first time –

‘I love you —’

This was a truth from the shadows at the back, where their lies did not reach —

‘— that last house from that last, final year, these last memories from that last, final year. The man in the uniform who said he was my father and carried me out to his car, kicking and screaming. My mother in tears who cried and chased the car to the end of the lane. The doctor in the white coat who ran behind her with his help and his pills –

‘I hate you. I hate you. I hate you —’

These lies that drove the truth from the light. Into the shadows —

The voices that followed. Into the silence.

*

Neil Fontaine drives out to the hotel by Heathrow. Neil Fontaine checks into the hotel. Neil Fontaine uses the name Anthony Farrant. Mr Farrant goes up to his double room. Mr Farrant has their letters in his hand. Mr Farrant waits for the applicants to arrive –

The light fades. The light fails –

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

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

Jerry Witherspoon and Roger Vaughan are stood in the corridor –

There are carols playing —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is something tied up inside a supermarket carrier bag.

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

There is a parcel wrapped in old newspapers.

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

The severed head of Jennifer Johnson stares up at him –

The former Mrs Fontaine.

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

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

In their silences. In their spaces.

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

They were shadows. They were ghosts —

The orchestra of ghosts –

Back from the Dead to the Land of the Living.

Peter

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

The Forty-third Week

Monday 24 — Sunday 30 December 1984

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

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

Terry stopped clapping. Terry stopped smiling –

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

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

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

The phone rang again on his desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘For what?’ asked Terry.

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

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

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

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

The index cards were gone.

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

It was home time. Christmas time –

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Christmas Eve, 1984.

*

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

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

Neil Fontaine makes calls. Neil Fontaine pays visits –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

Now there were rats within the precinct walls –

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

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

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

Nothing but admiration.

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

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

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

Terry shrugged his shoulders. Terry got on with it –

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

It was Boxing Day, 1984.

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

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

There was always a chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where do you think?’ she laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

The music symphonic, deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Len said, ‘Just asking, that’s all.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘With the President?’ asked Terry.

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

‘I’d love to,’ said Terry, ‘but I have neglected the wife and kids this Christmas.’

Len stopped outside the President’s office. Len turned to Terry Winters. Len said, ‘Just put the boxes down there then, Comrade. I’ll take them from here.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Terry. ‘I can bring them in for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Len. ‘But you’ve done enough, Comrade.’

‘Merry Christmas and happy New Year then,’ said Terry. ‘And to the President.’

‘And to you and your family, Comrade,’ said Len. ‘Theresa and the kids.’

Terry Winters walked back down the corridor. Terry took the stairs two at a time. He went back into his office. He picked up his briefcase. He locked the door behind him. He switched off the lights as he went. He took the lift down to the ground floor –

There were no Tweeds. No Denims –

Just the Red Guards on the door.

Terry gave them a tenner for a drink and wished them season’s greetings.

Terry clutched the briefcase. Terry walked quickly to the car.

Terry drove to Hallam Towers. Terry went straight up to Room 308 –

Terry had an erection and a briefcase full of cash.

Terry Winters knocked on the door. Terry said, ‘Room service.’

Malcolm caught red buses. Malcolm took black taxis –

The streets quiet, the city dead. The trains empty, the ghosts overground –

From station to station. Place to place —

The lights blew in the wind. The lights fell in the rain –

His shoes full of holes on pavements full of holes. His dirty raincoat in a dirty doorway —

Hobart House and Congress House. Claridge’s and the County Hotel —

The buildings quiet. The buildings empty.

Malcolm had his key. Malcolm took the lift –

An old black man pushed an industrial vacuum cleaner down the seventh-floor corridor. There were rope marks around his neck. There were scars across both his wrists. The light flickered on and off, on and off. The lift door opened and then closed —

Deserted silences. Deserted spaces —

From place to place. Room to room –

The bodies hiding in the fixtures. The bodies hanging from the fittings.

A young Asian woman washed industrial-strength bleach down a seventh-floor wall. There were whip marks across her backside. There were wounds around her vagina –

She was naked from the waist down. Bleeding from the waist up.

The television in the corner switched itself off and on, off and on —

The Prime Minister talked of resolution. The Prime Minister talked of exorcism.

‘Everybody’s saying it’ll soon be over,’ said Diane. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘I know,’ said Terry.

‘Two months, maybe even less,’ she said. ‘That’s what they’re saying.’

‘I know,’ said Terry again.

‘The finances won’t recover,’ she said. ‘The Union will split in two.’

Terry’s stomach tightened. Turned and emptied. Terry nodded.

‘They’ll look for scapegoats,’ she said. ‘They’ll look to you.’

Terry nodded again. Empty and turning. Terry felt sick.

‘You need an escape plan,’ said Diane. ‘Funds.’

Terry got out of bed. Terry opened his briefcase. Terry put the money on the bed –

‘Will you help me?’ said Terry. ‘Help me escape? Disappear? The two of us?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you really want.’

Peter

land in World War One — In end there were quite a few at hut for countdown. Everyone was upbeat and positive. Difficult to tell how they really felt, though. Lot of us stopped on right through until sun came up. Took it in turns to get warm in hut or go across road to one of houses. They kept an open door for us, did some of pensioners who lived up there. Not just on New Year’s Eve. There were two who’d been in last big one. Back in ’26. They’d soon get going. Tell you who’d scabbed and who’d stayed out. Folk had long bloody memories and when sun did come up there was a bit of emotion. I know I felt it. I got off home pretty sharp after that. Mary and our Jackie were asleep. I sat on settee downstairs for a bit. Just me and tree and all cards. I’d be glad when tree came down and it got put away for another year. Just didn’t seem same this year. Ironic really, because I’d never been to so many bloody Christmas parties in my life. I didn’t usually bother about it much. I couldn’t remember what I’d done last New Year. I went up to bed. Tried not to wake Mary. But it was too light to sleep now and she’d be up to make dinner soon — I start running. Running and running — I pushed chicken round my plate. Every family had been given a free chicken — That’s all I’d done this bloody Christmas, give out free fucking chickens. Make sure no one got two and someone got none. I shouldn’t have taken off that Father Christmas hat — Mary had made a big effort today, though. Made us put on paper party hats — I wanted to enjoy it. But one look at this bloody room said it all — Lights were all on in kitchen and dining room. Bloody tree in corner flashing away. Heating on full. Cooker on all morning. Radio. TV–It were all bloody on. Everything that could be and there still wasn’t so much as a flicker — Not a single fucking flicker after ten bloody months. Not one power cut — Just more fucking bills we couldn’t pay. Fuck— How much was it fucking costing them to do this to us? How bloody much? They’d sit on their fucking hands and watch this country crash before they’d break and give us even an inch. Fuck me. I pushed that chicken round through gravy and knew I should have been more grateful. Tried to smile for Mary and our Jackie. Brave face and all that bollocks — There were them that would have no special dinner this New Year, I knew that. Not just them in fucking Ethiopia or Sudan, either — Here in South bloody Yorkshire. Then there were them lads starting five-year prison sentences down in Kent — It was then that it dawned on me. Hit me for first time — That it was over. All over now. Finished. Bar shouting — Just a matter of time. Be like waiting for end of bloody world — I looked up from chicken. From trimmings — Mary and Jackie were watching me. Our Jackie holding a cracker out for me — I didn’t want to let her see what I was thinking. I closed my eyes — Deeper and deeper — I lay on bed after lunch. Listened to match on Radio Sheffield. Wednesday bloody beat Man United two-one. Two-fucking-one! Put us up to fifth. Final scores were coming in, Mary sticks her head round bedroom door. Big smile on her face, scrapbook in her hand. Never know, she said. Might be an omen. I laughed. I gave her a big kiss as I went down stairs. I loved her. I really loved her. Her and our Jackie. Didn’t know what I’d have done without them — Not this. I couldn’t do this without them, I knew that — I was a lucky man. I knew that — Faster and faster. I turn corner — There were six front gate pickets up by hut on Pit Lane. There were also a fair few out today down road and all. Police had got hundred lads surrounded at junction by post office. Krk-krk. Not as many police as usual, either. Bit of snowballing going on, which was pissing them off. They got on their radios for cavalry. Krk-krk— Transits appeared full of riot squad. Then scab bus came up road at usual eighty mile an hour and into yard — Got welcome it deserved and all. I had a good look to see how many they had this morning — It didn’t look any more than before. Just usual wankers — Big two-fingered salute from two of them. One lad drawing his finger across his neck — I had a meeting with Panel over in Silverwood, so I walked back down to Welfare with some of lads. Most of

The Forty-fourth Week

Monday 31 December 1984 — Sunday 6 January 1985

The Jew hates even New Year. The Jew hates holidays. Full stop. The Jew hates all rest. Neil Fontaine hates New Year too. Holidays and all the rest now. But Neil needs time –

Time to make things right. Time to pay it all back.

The Jew asks Neil to drive him to Nottingham for New Year’s Eve. The Jew has organized a countdown party for the Board and his new toy, his embryonic new union. The Jew asks Neil to take this time to review the home security of the working miners. The Jew fears there might yet be one last wave of attacks and retribution to come –

For the Jew understands that scores are there to be settled –

Crimes punished. Justice exacted. Vengeance wrought —

Neil Fontaine jumps at the chance. The chances and the ghosts.

Neil leaves the Jew to his plots and his plans. His speeches and schemes.

Neil drives further North. There are speed restrictions on the M1 –

Snow and sleet. Fog and frost. Rain and ruin.

Neil Fontaine visits Wood Street police station, Wakefield, and Millgarth, Leeds. There are people who know him here. There are people who owe him here –

People consumed by this bloody strike. People consumed by this fucking war.

He chooses his questions carefully. He asks his questions ambiguously.

He hears horror stories about dead coppers. Hears rumours about missing men –

Philip Taylor. Adam Young. Detective Sergeant Paul Dixon –

David Johnson, a.k.a. the Mechanic.

Neil Fontaine drives further North again. He parks, watches and he waits again –

Parks, watches and he waits outside the home of Paul Dixon, Special Branch.

But Paul Dixon’s not coming home for New Year’s Eve. Not this New Year’s Eve. His daughter stands on her tiptoes at the window and looks out over the tops of the Christmas cards at the man in the Mercedes who is not her daddy –

Her mother pulls her away from the glass by her sleeve and she shouts and scolds.

Paul Dixon is not coming home.

There was no one on the desk when Malcolm walked out of the County. He rang the bell but no one came. He left his key with the long wooden handle on the register. He cut through Endsleigh Square onto Gower Street. He took a taxi to the station and the train to Birmingham New Street. No one on the gate when he came out of the station.

He walked down to the Rotunda. He looked for the pubs he had known –

The Mulberry Bush. The Tavern in the Town —

They were gone.

He called a private hire cab from a card in a phone box. The cab drove him out to Handsworth. It dropped him off and left him on the street. He walked among the blacks and the whites, the yellows and the browns, and he remembereddifferent times in different colours –

‘You want business, do you, love?’ she asked —

She was not so young. Not so black —

Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Yes.’

‘Hand, French or full?’ she asked. ‘Five, ten or thirty?’

Malcolm nodded again. Malcolm said, ‘Full.’

‘You got a car, have you, love?’ she asked.

Malcolm shook his head. Malcolm said, ‘No.’

‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘Back to mine it is, then.’

Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Just round the corner,’ she said. ‘This way —’

Malcolm followed her round the back to the steps above a launderette.

‘Give us the thirty quid, then,’ she said by the door.

Malcolm gave her the money and she opened the door –

‘Age before beauty,’ she said.

The flat was dark. The electricity off.

‘Go through to the front,’ she said. ‘There’s light from the street.’

Malcolm went through to the front. To the light from the street —

Day and light. Light and shadow. Shadow and night –

‘Put this on,’ she said and handed him a condom.

Malcolm unbuttoned his coat and trousers. Pulled down his pants. Put it on.

‘Which way do you want it?’ she asked. ‘Religious or heathen?’

Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Heathen.’

‘Thought you would,’ she said and took down her panties. Bent right over –

The wounds still weeping.

Malcolm walked with the dawn out to the old coke depot at Saltley Gate –

The Winter Palace, 1972.

Malcolm climbed up onto the roof of the municipal lavatory —

Close the Gates! Close the Gates! Close the Gates!

He listened as he looked to the horizon. The lost and empty horizon —

It was cold and almost time.

Malcolm climbed down from the roof. He stepped inside the toilets —

He removed his bandages. His dressings. He made the call.

Neil Fontaine makes his excuses. He leaves the Jew hungover in his Nottingham hotel. Neil Fontaine drives North again. First to Leeds. Then onto the York Road. Neil Fontaine turns off before Tadcaster. Neil Fontaine comes to the village of Towton –

Neil Fontaine knows this might be a set-up –

That is what they do. Set things up. This is what he does –

He parks at the end of the road. He watches the unlit bungalow –

He waits in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac. This is what Neil Fontaine does –

In the middle of the night he parks in the dark at the end of all roads –

The noises in his head. The holes in his heart. The pits in his belly —

This is what he has always done. Park, watch and wait –

But tonight the traps are empty. Tonight the bait just rotting on their teeth.

Neil Fontaine gets out of the car. Neil Fontaine makes his way over the fields. Neil Fontaine watches the back of the bungalow. Neil Fontaine waits for night again –

For the bungalow to fall dark. The bungalow to fall silent.

He climbs the fence. He drops into the garden. He watches and he waits –

The two dead crows lie upon the lawn, untouched –

The bungalow dark. The bungalow silent.

He crosses the lawn. He works on the French windows. He opens them –

Neil Fontaine enters the bungalow –

The place dark. The place silent.

He goes from room to room. Empty room to empty room –

The place stripped bare but for curtains and carpets, a sofa and a table.

David Johnson is not coming home either –

The trail cold. Dark and silent. The end dead –

Here in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac.

Neil Fontaine sits in the dark and the silence on David Johnson’s sofa –

He lights a cigarette. He inhales. He exhales –

Two steel knives on the glass table –

The severed head of their former wife between them.

*

The President had come out from behind his desk. The President had come out fighting. The President had spent his New Year on the picket lines. The President had spent New Year’s Day itself on the picket line outside Thorpe Marsh power station, near Doncaster. The President had smiled for the solitary camera crew from Germany –

‘The only difference between now and March 1984’, the President had told them, ‘is that we are more convinced and more confident of winning now than we were then.’

Then the Germans had gone home and left the President and Len alone –

Just the President and Len with their flasks and their mugs out in the cold.

No massed guard of pickets beside them. No halting the power supply –

No champagne breakfast in bed in Room 308 of the Hallam Towers Hotel

Terry made Diane keep the TV off; there was always something or someone on. The Leader or the Fat Man. A Militant or a Moderate. A Denim or a Tweed. A Minister or a Suit from the Board. From studio to studio, they went. From TV-AM to Newsnight —

In circles, they went. In circles, they talked.

It was distracting and Terry Winters needed to stay focused on the job at hand –

There were meetings planned for all this week, in preparation for next week; everyone knew next Monday would bring the end of the Christmas truce –

Hostilities would be resumed.

Terry left Diane in bed. For now. Terry got dressed. For now –

Terry travelled down to Birmingham. Terry took his seat at the table –

The Knights of the Hard-Left Table.

‘This coming Monday will mark the beginning of a new phase,’ declared Paul. ‘The Board will concentrate all their energies on stepping up the back-to-work movement. Upon gaining their magical fifty per cent —’

Fifty per cent. Fifty per cent. Fifty per cent –

The mantra for the remaining months, maybe weeks or possibly only days ahead –

Fifty per cent spelt death for the Union and glory for the Board.

‘These scabs and their NWMC have succeeded in cutting off our arms and legs,’ continued Paul. ‘Their legal actions together with our own—’

‘Incompetence?’ suggested Dick.

Paul looked over at Terry. Paul shook his head. Paul said, ‘Or intrigue —’

‘That’s a very serious accusation, Comrade,’ shouted Bill Reed. ‘Very serious.’

Paul nodded. Paul said, ‘These are very serious times —’

‘Depressing times, too,’ said Terry. ‘Our members and their families are starving. Our members and their families are freezing. Our members and their families are crying out for new initiatives and leadership. But here we all sit, with our toasted sandwiches and our central heating, and squabble among ourselves, debating rule changes to a rulebook that won’t have a bloody union to rule over, if we don’t all face up to the reality of the situation, and fast —’

‘The reality of the situation?’ laughed Paul. ‘You’d know about reality then, would you, Comrade?’

‘I know this strike has cost over two and a half billion pounds,’ shouted Terry. ‘That this government will spend however many billions it takes in order to beat us –

‘That’s reality,’ said Terry. ‘I know that.’

Paul shook his head. Paul sighed. Paul held up his palms. Paul sat down.

Bill Reed squeezed the end of his nose between two of his fingers and said, ‘WE. ARE. ALL. BEING. MANIPULATED. AND. DESTROYED –

‘DESTROY –

‘DESTROY!’

‘But by whom?’ asked the President. ‘That’s the question.’

*

It has just gone midnight. Neil Fontaine washes his hands again in the sink of the private bathroom of the Jew’s office at Hobart House. He washes them again and again. He dries them and goes back into the office.

The Jew is standing by the phones with his tins full of pins. The Jew is waiting for the word from the area directors. The Jew and the directors have high hopes for high numbers today. There have been adverts in all the newspapers. New bribes on the table. Under the table, too. Tax-free incentives. Interest-free loans. Cash advances –

Safety in numbers. High numbers. High hopes.

The Chairman has even called from Palm Beach to wish them luck –

They will need it. In his heart of hearts, the Jew knows they will.

The Jew stands by the phone with his tins of pins and waits for the word –

But in his heart of hearts, the Jew knows it won’t come. Not this morning. Not yet.

The directors will blame the weather. They’ll say next Monday will be better –

The Jew will be disappointed. But in his heart of hearts, the Jew won’t care.

The Jew stares at the remaining clusters of red pins on his map. The Jew smiles. The Jew likes symmetry. Precision. In his heart of hearts. The six points of a star –

‘March the sixth,’ the Jew tells Neil. ‘That will be the last day of this dispute.’

Peter

them popping into soup kitchen for their breakfasts on their way home. There was snow on ground and sun out now. Mood still seemed positive and I felt guilty about way I’d been over New Year. Maybe it’d be all right. But then I opened my eyes and I looked about us — Folk waiting for a word down Welfare. Folk queuing out door for electricity payments — Lads pushing their barrows through village to riddle through snow on top of spoil. Police on every corner. Either spitting or smiling at women with their babies — Place looked like a late fucking Christmas card from hell. A bloody, fucking hell — I got in car. I switched on engine. Let it turn a bit. Got it going — Went down Panel. People had something to look forward to before Christmas, said Derek. There was a sense of purpose and a sense of community. Knowledge that people were there to help. There were supporters coming up from London. From down South. From abroad. Now people just see strike with no end in sight. Except defeat — Heathfield coming out like that and saying there’d be no power cuts, said Tom. That were a disaster, that. Like saying we’ll have to be out another year, that is — If that’s what it takes, said Johnny. That’s what it takes — Johnny, I said, with best will in world, folk can’t do it — Not another year. Derek nodded. This kind of talk’s premature, said David Rainer. Talking like we’ve lost — Talking realistically, said Tom. That’s what we’re doing. Derek nodded again. He said, If there are no power cuts, our whole strategy’s buggered — Buggered anyway, I said. There’s been no support whatsoever. Just talk. Not one single leaflet. Not one fucking march. After all that was said at Congress in September — No brass. No support. Nothing — That’s trade union movement for you. History repeating itself, said Johnny. That’s what it is. David Rainer shook his head. He said, Been out longer than in 1926 now — Result will be same though, said Tom. Beaten and divided — Beaten and divided, said Derek. That’s what it’ll be. Mark my words — There was this portable television we had in Welfare. Little black-and-white one, on its last legs, it was. It was in good company and all. Folk would just sit there all bloody day and watch it. Just waiting for some news. I dreaded it when I came back from Panel and I had nothing for them. Half of them knew more than me anyway. They all had a different paper and would sit there and compare notes. There was not much else to do. Just wait for news and talk — Talk, talk, talk. That’s all I’d bloody done for past ten months — Talk and listen. But folk had enough of it all now, I could tell. Local folk — Lot of their goodwill was fading now we were into January. Police presence wasn’t as heavy in village itself. Like folk had forgotten what had happened. I’d hear people moaning about amount of stuff miners’ kids had got for Christmas. Like it were kids’ fault — Hear them moaning about miners and their families having too much to eat and drink. To smoke — How they weren’t as bad off as they made out. How they liked being on strike — It got our Mary right mad. Nearly got her sacked from factory — This supervisor was going on about how she’d seen all Christmas parties on telly for kiddies with all raffles and stuff. How miners had never had it so good and why was it only miners that folk ever felt sorry for? — No one had done anything for her and her family. Not when her husband was out during steel strike — Mary had had a right go. Told her she knew nothing. That she had no idea how hard up folk were. That it was the kindness and generosity of others that had given them kiddies a Christmas. People from down South and people from abroad. Not round here. How miners had supported the steelworkers. How they had made sacrifices for them. But where were steelworkers now? That was what Mary wanted to know — Woman had backed off when she saw how worked up Mary was — But it wasn’t just her. There was moaning all over now — Feeling it had gone on too long. People wanted to get back to normal — Pensioners. Shopkeepers. Local businesses — Painters and decorators. Builders and garages — Each one of them had been undercut by miners looking for a bit of cash in hand. Folk

The Forty-fifth Week

Monday 7 — Sunday 13 January 1985

The Right Honourable Member of Parliament had come back for more in the underground car park. In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach —

His mouth moved again. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm more questions —

Malcolm still could not answer. Malcolm still could not hear –

But Malcolm had more tapes —

From the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –

They would find more answers here. They would hear more tapes —

More recordings of the Dead.

Today was the day. Yet another of the days. These endless fucking end days –

Another NEC meeting. Another showdown between the Militants and Moderates. There would be an attempt to expel Nottingham. There would be a move to restructure and reorganize the remaining areas. The Militants would then command the majority on the Executive. The Militants would then have the initiative. The Militants would then control the course of the dispute –

Then the witch hunts could begin. The witch hunts and the inquisition –

The torture and confessions. The trials and executions. Burnings and beheadings.

Today was the day and Terry wasn’t invited. Terry wouldn’t be missed.

Terry Winters had the house to himself. Terry got out of bed and went to work. Into the loft and the suitcases. Into the pantry and the biscuit tins.

Terry called the office. He told them he was going to Bath to pick up his family. He said he’d be back in the office tomorrow or the morning after. The weather willing –

This fucking weather.

He would have to change routes. He didn’t want to cross the Moors on an A road. He’d have to go up to the M62. He rechecked her plans and reset his watch –

He could still do it, but he’d have to get his skates on.

Terry locked up. Terry put the suitcases in the boot. Terry set off –

Sheffield up to Junction 42. The M62 to Manchester –

Snow. Sleet. Rain. Sleet. Snow. Sleet. Rain. Sleet. Snow –

Through Manchester into Liverpool. Terry Winters boarded the fast ferry –

The last fast ferry to Dublin until the weather improved.

Terry hated boats. Terry hated the sea. The currents and the depths –

Terry knew this would be a nightmare.

But Diane had said the airports were being watched. Terry’s face too well known.

Terry knew she was right. Terry knew he was a national hero to some people –

The enemy within to others. Terry knew she was right. It was the price of fame.

Terry left the suitcases locked in the boot. Terry sat in the bar and drank –

Puked and puked —

The crossing rough. The crossing slow. The crossing taking forever.

Terry had another drink and tried to read the papers –

The papers full of the Big Freeze. Record demands for power. But no power cuts.

Terry puked again. Terry drank again. Terry took out his own papers –

Their own Big Freeze. The eight million pounds still frozen overseas.

Terry looked at his watch. He was going to arrive too late for the banks –

For the regular banking hours. But Diane had phoned ahead. Made arrangements.

Terry disembarked in Dublin and went straight to the bank.

The bank was waiting for Terry –

Mr Winters and his suitcases were expected.

Terry Winters opened the account in the name of Pine Tree Investments –

It was a name that had come to him when he’d been putting out the kids’ presents –

Diane liked the name too.

The President, Paul and Dick were listed as joint trustees with Joan and Mike. However, only Terry could authorize deposits and withdrawals from the account, transactions that could be completed only by the appropriate password –

The password known only to Terry and Diane. The account known only to them –

The account containing £250,000 and counting.

Hats off to Diane. It truly was a master plan –

If the account was discovered, then Terry was only protecting the Union’s assets. If they tried to make a scapegoat out of Terry, then he had his exit. They both did –

Terry would divorce his wife. Diane would divorce her husband.

Terry and Diane would catch the first fast ferry to Dublin –

Terry and Diane would go to the bank. Terry and Diane would say the word –

The money would be theirs. The future would be theirs –

A £250,000 future and counting.

*

Malcolm Morris pressed play again. Malcolm played it all back again —

Again and again. All of it. Over and over —

More voices from the shadows, where the silences did not quite reach yet —

‘— my father took me from my mother. Not to raise me, but to train and cure me. He failed me and I failed him. He took his own life as I took mine. Lincoln College, Oxford, offered me a place out of respect for him and pity for me. I took up their offer of Medieval and Military History, out of pity for him, and paid my last respects with three last little words –

‘I hate you —’

More lies from the light, from which the truth ran and hid. In the shadows —

‘— in a dull room in Great Marlborough Street they asked me dull questions and I gave them dull answers. Then they offered me tea laced with whisky and a dull job, which I took with a handshake and a peppermint for the train back to Oxford —’

This one promise from those shadows, where their threats would not follow —

‘— Diane was morbid even then. Drawn to secrets, suicides and sex. She pretended to like my poetry. She pretended to like my personality. She pretended to like the inside of my pants, and I pretended too. It was all good practice. It was all good fun. Then it all went wrong when I said those three last little words –

‘I love you —’

This one truth from the shadows inside, the lies upstairs and down —

‘— I got off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane and onto Curzon Street and on a grim September day I stepped inside Leconfield House and they put me to work behind a grim desk in a grim, windowless room for the rest of my grim days, laced with whisky and peppermints they all said would help pass the grim time —’

These whispers from the shadows, where their spirits had all fled and hid —

‘— they gave me the Yorkshire branches of the Communist Party of Great Britain. The British Road to Socialism and The Theory and Practice of Communism to read on all those long lunch breaks from which they never returned —’

Those slim truths from those dark pages, where their fat lies had not yet reached –

‘— and I got off the tube at Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane and onto Curzon Street and on a dead August day in 1969 I stepped inside Leconfield House and they gave me a dead letter with Diane’s name crossed out and mine pencilled in, marked Urgent and stamped Ulster —’

That voice from the shadows at the back. The silence at the gates —

The scissors in her hands. Hungry.

*

Neil Fontaine pours the drinks in the Jew’s Hobart House office. He pours large ones. Stiff ones all round. One thousand two hundred new faces went back in yesterday. Thirty-eight per cent of all miners now working –

But it’s not enough. Not yet. It’s never enough. Not now.

The bloody Bank of England has been forced to step in to save the Midland Bank. Two billion pounds pumped into the system overnight. Interest rates going up, up, up –

The total cost of the strike ballooning –

A huge red balloon and still rising.

There have been calls from the Great Financier. There have been angry calls. Threatening calls –

For restitution and remuneration. For retribution and retaliation.

The Jew has made promises and pleas. Supplications and solicitations –

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough –

The Jew knows it and the Jew knows why –

Christmas was finished. New Year was finished. Everything was finished –

It was time for each miner to make up his own mind.

But there is talk of talks about talks again. Third parties on the television –

Pressure mounts for peace. Prospects of fresh pit peace talks.

The Jew curses. The Jew fumes. The Jew rages. The Jew roars –

‘They have stayed out for ten whole months,’ the Jew shouts down the telephone. ‘Ten whole fucking months! They’re not going to surrender all that sacrifice and scab if there’s a chance of a settlement, are they? Tell the Minister to call me —’

The Jew slams down the phone. He slumps in his chair. He stares at his guests –

Piers Harris and Dominic Reid look at their nails and their notes –

Don Colby and Derek Williams look at each other and raise their eyebrows.

‘I’m calling off the dogs,’ says the Jew. ‘There’s no sense in any further legal attacks upon the Union, not now it is under the control of the receiver.’

Piers and Dominic nod. Don and Derek scratch themselves.

‘Of course, we’ll continue to pursue personal actions against individual members of their National Executive,’ promises the Jew. ‘And the restraints on mass pickets.’

‘The other actions should be suspended, then?’ asks Piers. ‘Indefinitely?’

The Jew strokes his moustache. The Jew nods. The Jew walks over to his map. ‘The focus now will be upon the return to work and upon our friends in Nottingham.’

‘Nottingham?’ asks Derek. ‘They’re practically all at work anyway.’

‘The men might be at work,’ says the Jew. ‘But their union remains on strike.’

Don and Derek are frowning. Piers and Dominic nodding now.

‘Those men need a new union,’ says the Jew. ‘That will be our next victory.’

The tape had stopped turning. The orchestra had stopped playing —

The restaurant was quiet. Empty now —

The Right Honourable Member of Parliament sat at a table among the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach and the waiters never brought the menuand never took his order –

Malcolm Morris watched him. Malcolm Morris waited for him —

In the silences. In the spaces –

The Right Honourable Member pressed the eject button. He picked up his pen. He turned the pages of the transcript. He underlined. He circled. He scored —

These transcripts of the Dead —

Their comminations.

Peter

eager to help them by putting work their way. Didn’t seem as much like charity. Local shops and all — These folk had all given. But there was never any end to it. Never anything to receive in return. Now they’d nothing more to give. They just wanted it to end. We all did — And it got to you. It really bloody did — The moaning and the grumbling. The rumours and the whispers. The ups and the downs — Felt like progress. Then next news momentum had just disappeared — No talks at national level. Nothing — Then talks were back on again. Then they weren’t — Frustrating and it began to take its bloody toll. You’d see it in people’s eyes — The way they sat. The way they approached you over things — Electricity bills. Car repairs. Shoes for the young ones. Anything — People were more agitated. Jumpy. Quick to anger. To blame Union more and more — But it were these peaks and troughs that did it. False dawns. These ups and downs — Lads would see six o’clock news and hear they were still talking. Lads would go to bed thinking they’d be back at work next Monday — Brass would be coming in again. Debts going back down — Wake up to find out talks had failed again. And that were that then for next few weeks or months — Back to picketing or coal-picking. Just waiting — I go down. Down — To break things up a bit we started sending a few cars out to power stations. Relieve boredom — I went over in car to Ferrybridge with Keith and Chris. Martin had done another of his disappearing acts — It was just good to get away from village. Keith stuck radio on — Last Christmas. Least it wasn’t that fucking Band Aid record. Billy in Hotel had been telling us how that was all a government plot to distract public sympathy away from miners. Make miners look greedy next to little brown babies dying of starvation in Africa. That was how BBC had come to film it. How they’d sent those pop stars over there. He went on a bit, did Billy — Rattle off Ridley Plan to you. Tell you how he’d seen his brother’s lad on picket line. His brother’s lad who was in the British Army on the Rhine. His brother’s lad dressed as a copper — Thing is, said Keith, he might be right about that bloody record. People giving to them, they won’t be giving to us. Chris nodded, See his logic — I switched radio off. Wished I’d never opened my mouth now — Got to Ferrybridge and they gave us a gate and some leaflets. There were a couple of blokes there from SWP. Keith had a laugh with them. Taking piss like always. Fucking freezing though, stood before that thing — That power station. Big clouds of white smoke against that heavy grey Yorkshire sky. Ticking over without a care in world, it was. Like we weren’t even here — Made your eyes smart. Two cars from Frickley came up to relieve us at lunchtime. Bloody glad to see them. Keith dropped us back at Welfare and him and Chris went up to Soup Kitchen for their lunch. Bet you it’s casserole again, said Keith. Don’t care what it is, said Chris. Long as it’s bloody hot. I did without. I didn’t have time. Knew queue would be there and it was. Hardest hit were them that had had babies on way when strike started. Didn’t plan on having a baby and no brass at same time. Emotional period in people’s lives at best of times. Took its toll, you could see. Husbands would be out picketing for their quid or doing a bit of cash in hand and wife was left inhouse with new baby and worry of bills and food and mortgage and what-have-you. These lasses going without meals to make sure baby got what it needed — Lot of these were the ones that were splitting up. Blokes who should have been on top of world looked like bottom had dropped out of it — I could hear babies crying before I even set foot in place. Screaming place down — Where’s my fifteen quid, Pete? shouted Adrian Booker. You got my fifteen quid yet, have you? He said it every fucking week. He wasn’t only one and all. Sixteen quid now government were taking off benefits in lieu of strike pay. Blokes like Adrian Booker would go down DHSS and argue with them. DHSS would send him back here to argue with me. It was their wives that had started it. How Union should give their men strike pay. Thing was, I agreed with them. But what could you do? There wasn’t even enough brass to

The Forty-sixth Week

Monday 14 — Sunday 20 January 1985

There were never any standing ovations now. There were never autographs for the kids. Never songs in his name. There was just the silence –

The silence of the strike rolling towards the edge of the cliffs –

The petrol gone. The engine off. The brakes broken and the doors locked –

Eighty thousand faces pressed against the windows –

The cold seas breaking on the rocks below, waiting.

*

The Jew has Neil doing this. The Jew has Neil doing that. This for him and that for them. This for the Chairman and that for Tom Ball. This for Piers and that for Dominic. This for Don and Derek and that for Fred and Jimmy –

Morning, noon and bloody night —

The Jew has him running here. The Jew has him running there. Here for the Jew and there for them. This article over to The Times and that paper over to the High Court. These reports up to the Chairman and those rulebooks up to Mansfield –

Mr High and bloody Mighty. His beck and fucking call —

Neil Fontaine needs to be out on the pavements. To be stood in the doorways –

Station to station. Place to place —

Knightsbridge flats and Mayfair clubs. Empty bars and rented rooms –

Room to room. Service to service –

To watch their windows and their doors. Their gardens and their car parks –

Their comings and their goings —

But Jerry and Roger never come. Jerry and Roger nowhere to be seen –

Jerry and Roger have gone –

To ground.

*

‘The dead hand of Number 10,’ the President had said and the President had been right –

The President and the Chairman had been set to meet at one of the coal industry’s many social and benevolent gatherings. Then the Board abruptly cancelled the gathering –

‘Her dirty fingerprints,’ the President had said and bowed his head.

They were handing out more three-and five-year jail sentences to the Kent miners. They were cutting the Pit Police Force by a third. Restarting production at Kellingley. There were now seventy-three thousand men back at work –

They were saying it was all but finished –

All over bar the shouting –

‘Why on earth do they think we are fighting to defend these stinking jobs in the pitch black? There are no lavatories or lunchbreaks, no lights or scenery –

‘We are fighting because our culture and our community depends —’

Terry switched off the radio. He didn’t want to wake them. Terry had work to do –

Back among the cake and biscuit tins. The cereal boxes and the Tupperware.

Dublin had been a success. Diane had been pleased –

Pine Tree Investments was up and running –

Her schemes and his dreams –

Hand in hand.

The corridors were long, the carpets old and wrong. The lights flickered off and on –

The lift door opened and closed and opened again and out they fell –

Diane Morris and Terry Winters were young and drunk.

She had her hands up his neck and in his hair. His up her legs and at her hairs. Theyfumbled with their clothes. Theyfumbled with their key —

The door opened and closed and opened again and in they fell —

The room was small, the carpet crawled. The light flickered on and off —

The bed creaked. The headboard banged. The wall shook —

They were not as young as they used to be. Not as drunk as they used to be.

She had her nails in his arse, then his back. His cock in her mouth, then her cunt—

Malcolm Morris sat in the corner with bloody fingers in his bleeding ears, watching his wifefucking TerryWinters –

Off and on, on and off. On and off, off and on –

‘I hate you. I hate you.I hate you.’

For the next ten bloody, bleeding, fucking years. Her scissors in his hands.

The war in heaven raged on. The Militants and the Moderates tearing their wings off. Nottinghamshire were stripping their president and their secretary of their positions. Exiling them to Sheffield. Determined to declare independence. South Derbyshire set to join them. This was all they talked about in the corridors and the canteen. The pubs and the bars around the Headquarters. Not the strike. Not their members stood out in the snow. Not their families –

They could swing in the wind now.

Just like Terry. They had left Terry on his own to handle the sequestrators and the receiver now. The legal actions. The day-to-day finances. The requests for this and the requests for that. The President had asked only that nothing further be written down. That all their existing files and records be shredded –

The paper trail burnt.

Terry liked that idea. He had actually been the one who’d suggested it –

Or had it been Diane?

But the cash kept on coming in. In briefcases and boxes, in suitcases and sacks. From home and abroad, from near and far. And the cash kept on going out. In briefcases and boxes, in suitcases and sacks. Home and abroad, near and far –

Terry sat in his office under the portrait of the President, surrounded by mountains of money. Len and the Denims brought it up from the cars and the taxis, from the trains and the planes. Terry wrote out receipts in pencil for the donors to burn –

Terry doled out the funds –

Forty-five thousand pounds for Yorkshire. Thirty-five thousand for South Wales. Twenty-five thousand for Durham. For Scotland and for Kent –

For wages. For rent. For food. For kids. For bills. For transport. For picketing –

Twenty thousand. Fifteen thousand. Ten thousand. Five thousand –

The money-go-round never stopped. Len and the Denims brought it up –

The Tweeds took it back down in twos; others came up from the areas personally.

Terry’s fingers smelt of money. Terry’s hands smelt of money –

Diane liked that. The smell of money. The scent of cash –

‘The world is our oyster,’ she liked to say and sniff him like a dog –

Like a dog.

Terry checked the phone was working. Click-click. Terry had an erection again –

Terry locked the door. Terry went back to his desk. Terry opened a box –

Money. Money. Money. Always funny –

Terry filled his briefcase. Terry shut and locked it. Terry erased this figure here. That figure there. Terry went back to the door. Terry listened. Terry unlocked his door. Terry checked the corridor. Terry got his coat. Terry put his briefcase under his arm. Terry took it down to his car. Terry put it in the boot with the suitcases. Terry –

‘That where you keep the bodies then, is it, Comrade?’

Terry shut the boot. Terry turned round. Terry dropped his keys –

Bill Reed picked them up off the floor of the car park. Bill said, ‘Butter fingers.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Terry. ‘Sneaking up like that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘I know how jumpy you must be in your position.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Terry. ‘My position?’

‘Just the responsibility of it all,’ said Bill. ‘The family. The fame—’

‘What do you want?’ asked Terry again.

‘I want to know what you keep locked in the boot of your car, Comrade.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said Terry.

Bill smiled. Bill nodded. Bill stepped forward. Bill kneed Terry in his balls –

Terry collapsed.

Bill opened the boot. Bill said, ‘Planning a few days away with the wife, were we, Comrade?’

Terry lay on the floor of the car park. Terry held his balls. Terry blinked.

Bill opened up the suitcases. Bill whistled.

Terry stood up. Terry pushed Bill away from the boot. Terry said, ‘Fuck off.’

Bill pushed Terry back. Bill followed him. Bill poked him in the chest and said, ‘You’d better start talking now, Comrade. Tell me what all that fucking money’s for.’

Terry stared at him. Terry took a deep breath. Terry said, ‘It’s for the President.’

‘Fuck off, Winters,’ said Bill. ‘What’s it doing in the boot of your car, then?’

‘The Union is buying the President’s house,’ said Terry. ‘That’s the money.’

Bill Reed shook his head. Bill said again, ‘So what’s it doing in there?’

‘Both the Union and our President are under legal attack, or hadn’t you noticed?’

Bill Reed grabbed Terry again. Bill said, ‘Fuck off, Winters. You’re a liar.’

‘It’s Union money for the President,’ said Terry. ‘I’m putting it in a trust. OK?’

Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters. Bill Reed let him go. Bill Reed shook his head.

‘What?’ said Terry. ‘You still don’t believe me? Ask him yourself —’

Bill shook his head again. Bill turned round to look behind him –

The President, Paul and Len were walking across the car park.

The President nodded at Terry and Bill. The President said, ‘Evening, Comrades.’

Terry and Bill nodded back. Terry and Bill said, ‘Evening, President.’

‘You two coming to the rally, are you, then?’ asked Paul.

‘Of course,’ said Terry. ‘We were just waiting to follow you.’

Bill Reed nodded. Bill Reed said, ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Take the motorway to Leeds,’ said Len. ‘Then the A1. If you can keep up.’

Terry Winters and Bill Reed smiled and watched the Jaguar pull out.

Bill turned to Terry. Bill chucked him his keys. Bill said, ‘Do give my apologies.’

Terry closed the boot of the car. Terry locked it. Terry opened the car door.

‘And remember,’ Bill shouted back, ‘all property is theft, Comrade.’

Terry got into the car. Terry slammed the door. Terry drove up to Durham –

He stopped once at Scotch Corner to call Diane, but she had already checked out.

Terry stood at the side of the stage with Len. The President took deep breaths. Then the President said, ‘I believe we are in crunch times. I believe we have now entered into a phase that will be the final and decisive stage, if our members remain solid –

‘For if we retain our solidarity, we can bring the Coal Board and the government to the realization that there has to be a negotiated settlement.’

There was no talk of victory. There was no standing ovation –

There was no applause.

Peter

go picketing any more. Be fucked if government did start moving coal from pit heads to power stations. Not be able to do a thing about it — Not properly. These parcels are supposed to have sausage, some chops, some liver and bacon in them, said Mrs Kershaw. Past three parcels all I’ve had is bloody mince. But Mrs Wilcox, she’s had sausage. She’s had chops. She’s had liver. She’s had bacon — I’m sorry, I said. I’ll talk to ladies who are parcelling it all up — Don’t bother, she said. They just look out for their mates. I know that sort — I nodded. I wrote it all down — I said, I promise I’ll see what I can do — Bloody nothing, she said. That’s all you can do. This Union is a disgrace. Bloody disgrace. Eggs. Beans. Bread. Spaghetti. That’s all we ever bloody eat. For nigh on a year now. But I’ve seen them and I’ve seen you too, Peter Cox. Not losing any weight, are you? Not losing any sleep either, I bet — I wait for horses. Hooves. Batons — Bad day this one. In a bad week. Hundred and fifty walked back in at Kiveton on Monday. Hundred and fifty in one day. Lot of faces down Welfare said it all. Said, That’s it then. That’s us — Grim sight it was, on news. In snow and slush, frozen and starved back — That was truth of it. Frozen and starved back — Hurt it did, to see them walk up that lane in snow and sludge. Their plastic bags for bits of coal and thin old coats against the cold — Pickets didn’t say much to them. This was different now — These weren’t your pit idiots. Your shirkers and your arse-lickers. Your head-cases and big mouths — These were honest, decent, hard-working miners who you lived and worked beside. These were your mates with their plastic bags and thin coats in snow and sludge. Frozen and starved — It was a terrible sight. Heartbreaking — Board and government on same news telling us there’d be no more talks. No more concessions — Been three bloody months now since last negotiations. Lot of rumours again — Board said there were now hundred and fifty in at our pit. That they’d had sixty in last two weeks — It was horrible. You didn’t know who was scabbing and who wasn’t — Blokes would stand there and lie to your face. People were accusing each other at drop of a hat — Thing was, once someone was branded a scab they’d just think, Fuck it then, and in they went. Board and scabs were behind this — Picking on a whole street at a time. Getting majority back in. Isolating families who were still out. Pressuring them. Putting it about that they’d gone in when they hadn’t — Whole teams and all. Face teams. Headings teams — Phoning each other up. All-for-one-and-one-for-all type thing. Didn’t care what rest of folk thought as long as all team were agreed. I could see that — Had to work together. To trust each other — Few of scabs were even going about trying to organize returns. There was talk of Silver Birch and National Working Miners’ Committee coming up to speak to them. I went to Panel and it was same story at all other pits — Talk now of expulsion for Nottingham. An amnesty for miners sacked during dispute — I didn’t say anything. I just drove home — Mary was out at a meeting with Action Group. Our Jackie round at her mate’s house — Just me. I stuck kettle and news on. I sat down — Ministers were telling media that they ould let the strike run on until it collapsed — Telling us. Telling Peter Heathfield. Mick McGahey. Arthur Scargill — No more talks. No more negotiations. No more concessions. No more chances — I got up. I switched it off. I picked up paper. I put it down. I stood up again. I sat back down. I got up. I paced room — I felt like I had a bloody knife in me. I felt cold. Horrid inside. Bloody horrible — I paced and I paced. There were Mary’s scrapbooks on side. True History of Great Strike for Jobs. I picked them up. Early ones — Herewe go. Herewe go. Herewe go — I turned pages. Those first few days in Sheffield — Wewill win.Wewill win.We will win— Mansfield rally. The Wakefield Gala. Orgreave — I put them down. I paced and I paced. I didn’t know what to do. I felt sick inside — Like I couldn’t get clean. Like I couldn’t get warm — I’d never felt anything like this in my life. I thought, You’re cracking up here. Be loony-bin for you now, old son — Mary and Jackie will come

The Forty-seventh Week

Monday 21 — Sunday 27 January 1985

‘More to the point,’ says the Jew, ‘how are you sleeping, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine sets down the breakfast tray. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Like a baby, sir.’

‘So we’re waking four times a night and screaming blue murder for a suck on a tit and clean pair of jim-jams, are we, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine pours the Darjeeling. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Exactly, sir.’

‘Exactly?’ laughs the Jew. ‘Very droll, Neil. Very droll indeed.’

Neil Fontaine hands the Jew his morning tea and the day’s Times.

The Jew is still in his dressing-gown. His slippers up on the sofa of his suite –

He sips his tea and skims the paper and the telephone rings. Three times.

Neil Fontaine picks it up. Click-click. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Sweet’s suite?’

He listens. He hands the phone to the Jew. He says, ‘The Minister, sir.’

The Jew takes the phone with a smile and a wink. He says, ‘Good morning, sir.’

The Jew listens. The Jew stops smiling. The Jew shouts, ‘Did fucking what?’

*

There were only three days to a week. There were only candles for lights —

‘— the CIA believe that the present spate of strikes in Britain has far more sinister motives than the mere winning of extra wages —’

There were rings of tanks around all the major airports —

‘— we believe that the aim is to bring about a situation in which it would be impossible for democratic government to continue —’

It was the State of Britain, 1974. It was a State of Emergency —

‘— you are restricted and squeamish on your own territory about doing the type of things that have to be done to track down and eliminate terrorists and subversives —’

They prised Malcolm from the six-fingered fist. Put him back inside the belly —

‘— the CIA has agents operating on the insides of all the British labour unions. These are British nationals recruited by CIA case officers —’

Back to work. Back to look. Back to listen —

‘— and for some time now we have been trying to convince successive British governments of the power of subversives within your trade union movement —’

Back to learn –

‘— the present state of Britain makes it a troublemaker’s paradise —’

To learn about adultery. Betrayal. Falsity. Infidelity. Perfidy. Treachery.

*

This was killing Neil. These death throes. This last, final rattle –

The Suits from the Board and the Moderates from the Union have been talking –

Talking. Talking. Talking –

Mines have always closed on the grounds of exhaustion. Mines have always closed on the grounds of geology. Mines have also always closed on the grounds of –

Many, many other things –

Things the Suits and the Moderates have been talking about –

Third-category things.

The Suits and the Moderates have been talking so much they actually think they are making progress –

The Board willing to compromise on the five threatened collieries, specifically. The Union ready to compromise on uneconomic collieries, generally –

That’s what they’re saying. That’s what they’re telling everyone –

Everyone who’s listening –

The government and the TUC. The rest of the Board and the rest of the Union. The working miners and the striking miners. The press and the public —

Telling everyone that negotiations were still possible –

‘Still possible,’ screams the Jew. ‘Over my dead fucking body!’

The Jew will soon see about this –

Two and a half billion pounds have been either spent or lost on the strike to date. Thousands of police and reserves have been mobilized. Thousands of miners arrested. Thousands and thousands of miners and their families have been forever branded scabs. Thousands of miners have chosen to break from the National Union of Mineworkers –

One thousand eight hundred and forty abandoned the strike only yesterday –

‘And all for what?’ shouts the Jew. ‘All for fucking what, Neil?’

The Jew picks up the telephone. Click-click. The Jew calls Downing Street –

The Jew talks to the Prime Minister’s Chief Press Secretary –

BB will put a spin on all this talking. BB will put a stop to all this talking –

‘So the government and the Board are just going to turn their backs on the very people who have kept the lights on this winter?’ the Jew asks BB –

‘Leave them to the lynch mobs of the Left? Is that their thanks? Their reward?’

The Jew listens. The Jew laughs. The Jew says, ‘Thank you, BB, thank you.’

The Jew puts down the telephone. The Jew applauds. The Jew looks up at Neil. ‘Looking very pensive there, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Not keeping you, am I?’

*

The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends were saying it would all be over in a matter of days now. There was talk of conciliation. Light on the horizon. Talk of concessions. Historic compromises. The rumour up and down the coalfields. Theendin sight —

The much-whispered-of Yorkshire revolt dead in the bar of a Normanton WMC –

Now was not the time to start scabbing. Not now, after all these months –

All this pain –

The Fat Man and his Fat Friends had come to put them all out of their misery. And the President knew now was the time. Now, after all these months –

All these false dawns –

The TUC put the twelve-point tentative draft agreement on the table before him.

‘This Union is perfectly willing to have negotiations,’ the President told them. ‘This Union is not arguing that there should be preconditions or a set agenda —’

The President knew this was not the time to start scrapping again. Not now –

The light in the dark marked Exit. The light over Terry Winters.

Terry looked at his watch. Clocks ticking. Terry said, ‘It’s time, gentlemen.’

The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends, the President and his last skinny mates, everyone put down the draft agreement. Everyone turned to look at Terry –

Everyone nodded –

Terry switched on the television in the corner of the room –

TV Eye.

‘A lot of heavily loss-making pits will have to be shut down,’ she was saying. ‘Let’s not argue about the definition. Let’s just get it written down –

‘I want it dead straight. Honest and no fudging —’

The President stood up. He walked slowly over to the television and turned it off. He took the twelve-point tentative draft agreement out of Terry’s hands –

The President tore it into a thousand pieces. The President let them fall –

The lights had finally gone out.

*

‘Nothing short of total victory,’ shouts the Jew from the back of the Mercedes –

The Jew has been asked to report for duty at Chequers this weekend. Tout suite. To report on his union within the Union. The mind games and the endgames –

But there have been harsh words between the Chairman and the Minister –

The one blaming the other. The other blaming the one –

Their different agendas. Their different approaches. Their different games.

The Jew has his own agenda. The Jew his own game to play. To play to win –

‘Negotiations now would represent a defeat for the Board and for the nation. For, inevitably, there would be further concessions, in whatever words they were disguised. The time for negotiated settlement has passed. The President of the NUM must accept, in advance of any talks and in writing, that the Board has the right to manage the industry and the right to close pits –

‘There must be no equivocation. No prevarication.

‘There are those among us, however, who call for bridges to be built over which their president can beat an elegant retreat. Those voices misunderstand the temper of the nation. That man challenged the authority of the state. That man boasted that he would do to this government what the miners had done to the Heath government. That man presided over unprecedented violence and intimidation, corruption and conspiracy –

‘The nation wants to see that man defeated and the nation will not easily forgive those who would be held responsible if defeat, whether by compromise or by fudge –

‘If defeat were snatched from the jaws of victory –

‘For nothing short of total victory is acceptable now,’ says the Jew.

Neil Fontaine winds down his window. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Stephen Sweet.’

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

‘So let us set our course for total victory and only total victory,’ shouts the Jew –

The dead hand of Number 10 at the wheel

Neil Fontaine drives up the long drive. Neil Fontaine parks before the front door –

There are corpses in the trees. There are heads upon the posts.

They are all stood on the gravel, waiting. Their mouths all open, laughing –

King. Heseltine. Lawson. Ridley. Havers. Walker. Brittan. Tebbit.

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

Neil Fontaine starts the car again. He parks in the empty garage. He sits in the car. He stares through the windscreen. He sees the Prime Minister at the kitchen window –

She is eating frozen shepherd’s pie. She is drinking cheap white wine –

The corpses in the trees. The heads upon the posts —

He smells the fumes. The rivers. The mountains.

He hears the screams –

Her blood and her skull.

Peter

home and find us in me socks. Drawing little faces on cornflakes like my Uncle Les — This one a copper. This one a picket. This one a copper. This one a picket — Little faces. Re-enacting Battle of Orgreave on kitchen table — That would be me. Mad Pete — I picked up phone. Click-click — I was going to call Derek. Tom. Johnny. David Rainer. Keith — I put it down again. I went upstairs — I laid down on bed. I closed my eyes — I look back.Wall of fucking water bearing down again — I opened my eyes again. I was thinking about my father — How he lived. How he died — He never had a prayer. I closed my eyes again — Water. Water — I opened them again. Straight off — Heart beating ten to dozen. Never had a fucking chance — I could hear Mary and Jackie downstairs. Hear kettle go on. Telly again. News again — I wanted to get up. I wanted to go down and see them — To say hello. To have a chat and a nice cup of tea — But I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t go down — Not let Mary and our Jackie see us like this. Not let them see me with tears down my face — Thiswall of fucking water bearing down again. I run — Difference a bloody day makes. A new day — Talks about talks were back on. Meeting set for Tuesday. Negotiations between our full Executive and Board. Even possibility that they’d talk about pay and overtime ban. Get it all sorted. Once and for all — Delegate Conference had been called to vote on whatever outcome of talks was. Lot of feeling both down at Welfare and up at Panel that it’d all be over by weekend — War of nerves, said Johnny. Tom laughed. He said, Well, mine can’t talk much bloody more, lad — Mine neither, I said. Dave Rainer nodded. He said, All be glad to hear then that we’re going ahead with Cortonwood tomorrow — Nice one, said Johnny. It’s a good time to show solidarity and strength, said Derek. With talks and everything. Let them know that there’s life in old dog yet — Not bothering with envelopes, said Dave. Just get as many as you can afford to send up there — Everyone nodded. Even me — I hadn’t been for it when it was suggested last week. Now, though, it felt good — Good to be doing something. Take your mind off talks and get you away from TV–I drove back down to Welfare and started to phone around. Click-click. Put teams together for cars. Had a feeling this would be last one. Lot of us did — There were them who weren’t that happy. Few that weren’t that keen on going back, you could see it in their eyes — Not because of any political motive or anything like that. Just didn’t want to go back underground — I knew how they felt. That time down with engineers, I’d shit myself — They’d had a taste of something else and they’d liked it. Liked it a lot — Blokes who’d worked down pit since they left school. Never known anything else — They’d had a taste of sun and air. Taste of a different life — They were coming up to me, asking us what I thought chances were of going back. Then they’d ask us about redundancy — Especially older ones. Blokes who were only months off retiring — I didn’t know what to say to them. Had a feeling there’d be a massive clampdown — Just depended what was said in London. How talks went — I went home. Mary and Jackie were still up. Had a crisp sandwich and a chat with them. Newsnight came on. Hopes still high of a settlement to end-strike by 11 February. Lot of talk now about amnesties for sacked miners. Board saying no way. That wasn’t helping. We all went up to bed none the wiser — I didn’t bother getting into my pyjamas. Had to be up again in three hour — I didn’t want to go to sleep, either. Didn’t want to close my eyes — I run. I run and run. I run again — I woke up. Heart going again. Sweating buckets. Shitting bricks — Mary looking at us. She said, You want a cup of tea, do you? I looked at clock by bed — I best be on my way, I said. I got up. Pulled my trousers over my long-johns. Extra jumper — I leant back over bed and give her a kiss goodbye. I said, I’ll see you later, love — Make sure you do, she said. I nodded — I knew she didn’t want me going to Cortonwood. But she knew why I was going. I kissed her again. I drove down to Welfare — Village dark. Village quiet — But I knew there were eyes watching in dark. Ears listening in quiet — Keith was already down there — I don’t want to miss this

The Forty-eighth Week

Monday 28 January — Sunday 3 February 1985

The Right Honourable Member just could not keep away. Just couldn’t keep out —

Of these shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach.

His mouth moved faster and faster. Finger pointed harder and harder –

He asked more and more questions.

There was blood in Malcolm’s mouth. Blood in Malcolm’s ears —

But Malcolm had more tapes. Many, many more tapes —

From the shadows, where the lights did not.

They would find more and more answers. Hear more and more tapes –

And they would drown here –

Here in the answers and the tapes. The shadows and the blood —

These messages from the Dead. These tocsins for the Living.

They had been pounding on its chest. Tick-tock. Banging on its bones –

Mouth to mouth –

The Labour Party. The TUC. Elements of the government and the Board –

The kiss of life —

The Union were to meet the Board for substantive negotiations. The Union and the Board would agree on an agenda to end the dispute by February 11. The Union would call a Special Delegate Conference. The weekend would bring resolution –

But there were fresh wounds upon the headless torso that lay before them here —

The Union insistent upon an amnesty for miners sacked during the dispute; the Prime Minister still insistent on written guarantees from the Union before talks –

Mortal wounds —

‘It has become a purely political strike,’ Paul Hargreaves was telling them all. ‘And it is clear now that she is very involved in the running of the Coal Board’s business, countermanding an arrangement between a senior director and myself –

‘She has total involvement and is out to destroy this Union.’

Terry watched Paul. Terry shook his head. Terry hated Paul –

His secret deals with his secret contacts. His secret talks in secret locations –

He hated his naivety. He hated his self-importance. He hated his suspicions –

Paul had finished his speech. Paul had sat down. Paul was staring at Terry –

Terry started to cough. Terry started to scratch his arms. Terry made his excuses. Terry left them to their increasing talk of a return without settlement –

Living to fight another day –

Terry walked down the corridor. He went down the stairs. Terry left the building. He found a phone box. Terry picked up the receiver. Click-click. He dialled the number –

They could pound and pound. Bang on and on —

Terry said, ‘Clive Cook, please.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Cook is on a temporary leave of absence,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance? To whom am I speaking?’

Terry hung up. He stood in the phone box. Terry closed his eyes. He prayed –

It had run and run but now it had collapsed, lying here before him –

Flat out upon the floor. This body upon the shore. The beach soaked in blood. Theblue waves stained red—

But Terry Winters knew, dead was dead.

*

From the corner of the Euston Road and Warren Street. From Grosvenor Street and on to the Joint Services Intelligence Centre outside Ashford in Kent —

They had sent Malcolm to Lisburn, Ulster —

To the six-fingered fist that held and gripped. That squeezed and crushed until –

Everything blurred. Everything merged. Distorted and faded —

In the shadows at the back, where the truths and the lies, the promises and the threats, the voices and the silences, the prayers and the curses, became one —

In Lisburn, Ulster —

From there everything whispered. Everything echoed. Everything moaned —

These voices from these shadows, these silences and spaces, these truths and lies,their promises and threats, Malcolm’s prayers and his curses —

A deafening, deafening wall of horrible, horrible sounds –

MI5. MI6. Special Branch. The RUC. The army and the SAS –

Until everything became one long, long scream —

One long, long scream of places and names, terror and treachery –

Deny. The Bogside. Belfast. The Lower Falls. The Shankill Road. Chichester-Clark. Faulkner. Stormont. McGurk’s Bar. Bloody Sunday. Widgery. Bloody Friday. Direct Rule. Operation Motorman. Sunningdale. The Ulster Workers’ Council. Dublin. Monaghan. Guildford. Birmingham. The Miami Showband. Tullyvallen Orange Hall. Whitecross. Kingsmills. Mrs Marie Drumm. Captain Robert Nairac. The Ulster Unionist Action Council. La Mon Hotel. The Irish National Liberation Army –

Directed or undirected, formal or casual, acknowledged or not —

Sources and agencies; agents and informants; information and disinformation —

Codes changed. Numbers changed. Names changed. Places changed –

Tapes changed, but the job stayed the same —

Home or away. Near or far. England or Rhodesia. Yorkshire or Ulster –

The job stayed the same. Always the same –

In the shadows. In the silences.

*

These are the most dangerous of days. The financial markets are in crisis and turmoil; seven billion pounds have been wiped off the value of shares; base rates have risen between 12 and 14 per cent. There have been calls for a national government. For a government of reconciliation to heal the divisions in the nation. Echoes from the dark days. The Prime Minister and her Cabinet have launched a television offensive –

TV Eye. Weekend World. This Week, Next Week. A Week in Politics –

The message is loud. The message is clear –

No fudge. No forgiveness. No fudge. No forgiveness —

Unmistakable. Unambiguous. Unequivocal –

Explicit.

The Jew stares at the TV. The Jew smiles at her face. But the Jew cannot focus –

‘— I do not wantanother round of talks to fail.I want them to succeed. I know there are many, many striking miners who want them to succeed too, so they can get back to work and who, I believe, would accept past procedures and would like to get backon that basis —’

‘The play’s the thing,’ mumbles the Jew. ‘The play within a play —’

‘— and I want them to go back. But I do not wish their hopes to be dashed by another round of talks, which are doomed to failure. It is because I want the talks to succeed that I do not want these talks to go ahead on a false basis —’

‘A Revenger’s Tale,’ mutters the Jew to himself. ‘A Revenger’s Tale.’

Neil Fontaine could not agree more. But Neil can wait no more –

He tucks up the Jew in his bed. He switches off the lights at the wall –

‘Sweet dreams, sir,’ he calls from the door of the fourth-floor suite –

‘He always does,’ whispers the Jew in the dark, to no one. ‘He always does.’

Neil Fontaine takes the back way down the back stairs to leave by the back door. Neil had a message waiting for him this lunchtime. Three words –

Trident Marine Limited —

Neil let his fingers do the walking. Neil found it in the Yellow Pages —

Queen Street Place, EC4 –

Right under his fucking nose.

Neil Fontaine changes his clothes. Neil Fontaine changes his car –

He parks again. He watches again. He waits again.

Neil Fontaine breaks into the third-floor offices of Trident Marine Limited.

Neil Fontaine switches on his torch. Neil Fontaine shines a light –

On their offices and their desks. On their letterheads and their directors –

The offices and desks that they share. The letterheads and the directors –

The senior civil servants. The Cabinet secretaries. The City bankers –

The commanding officers of the British armed forces –

Past. Present. And future —

Friendships planted in foreign places –

Malaya. Cyprus. Rhodesia. Ulster. Sheffield. Sizewell –

Jupiter Securities runs Trident Marine. Trident dumps nuclear waste at sea –

For the government. For them. For her.

*

The restaurant was quiet. Empty again. The chairs on the table. The orchestra gone —

Malcolm put down his evening paper. He shook his head and smiled —

The Right Honourable Member had referred the business to the Prime Minister.

Malcolm traced circles. Loops. Rings with his finger —

There was an ancient, enduring majesty to the annular —

Like the fylfot.

Peter

one, he said. Might be last one — You just behave yourself, I told him. He laughed. He said, Be telling that to titheads and all, will you? That’s what I mean, I said. Just watch yourself. They’ll be thinking it might be last one and all. He nodded and we went inside. Lads started to arrive. Big Chris. Kev. Tim. Gary. John from Top. Fair few faces I hadn’t seen for a while — Little Mick. Paul Thompson. His Daniel. Graham from Crescent — Last bloody man still out on that street. Best way to let folk know I’m not a fucking scab, he said — Lads all wanting to know what was going on down in London with talks. Not much news in first papers or on radio — Did a quick count of heads. Made sure cars were all full. Brass sorted out. Rang round for them that had overlaid. Click-click — Then off we set. Damp and dark as usual. Radio on as we drove. Bit of music to cheer us up — Nellie the Elephant. Russ bleeding Abbot — Big Chris telling us all jokes he could remember from time he’d seen Black Abbots at Filey. Least it got us to Cortonwood with a smile on our faces. Coppers must have thought we were on happy pills — Lot of them waiting. Krk-krk. Transits and Land-Rovers. Mesh across their windows, Line of police with long shields out across road — Knew we were coming, of course. Knew how many by looks of things, too — Lot of us, though. Three thousand — Three thousand men. One bloody message — No Surrender. Made our point and all — In every face. In every stare. In every shove. In every shout — TheMiners. United — Willnever be defeated. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie — Out!Out!Out! — Fuck. Keith called round ours on Thursday night. He said, They’re restarting production at Kiveton tomorrow — I know, I said. It’s all over telly — What’s going on, Pete? I don’t know, I said. I’d no idea — No idea what to tell him. Tell anyone — Talks had collapsed. Thatcher had asked for all kinds of written preconditions. Board telling miners to vote with their feet. Looked to be no way out of this for us. Not now — My stomach knotted each time I went down Welfare. I dreaded it — Faces. Questions. Looks. Comments — Kev Shaw sat down. Pete, he said. I’ve got something to say — I know what you’re going to say, I told him. It’s all round village — He nodded. He said, It’s right and all — I shook my head. I said, So don’t waste your breath and my time — Look, he said, you’ve always been right with me and I want to be right with you — Then don’t start scabbing, I said. Not now — He looked at me. He said, I’m going back Monday. Nothing will make me change my mind. I’ve had enough abuse before I’ve even set foot in place. But I’ve seen my kids go without for too long. Wife trying to feed us all on a fiver a week and I’ve had it up to here, Pete. You’ve been decent and you’ve helped us with bills and what-have-you and I’ve no complaints about you and branch. But I’m off back to work on Monday. Come-what-may — Kev, I said. What do you want me to say? You want some kind of bloody dispensation — I’ve done my time, he said. I’ve been on more pickets than most. I nodded. That you have, I said. And now you’re going to piss it all down drain and be known for rest of your life as a scab. He looked away then — First time since he sat down. His eyes didn’t meet mine — This is going to end, I told him. Not going to go on much longer. Might even be over by Tuesday and you’d have scabbed for just twenty-four hour out of eleven month. He looked up. I shook my head. I said, Twenty-four hour, that might be all you’d have scabbed. But for rest of your life you’d be known as Kev the Scab and your kids as the children of Kev the Scab. He looked away again. Down at floor again. I said, You want to be like one of them old blokes that can only have a pint in Sheffield? Places where no one knows he was a scab sixty year ago. You’ve seen that one up at top end. Out by bus stop in all weathers? Kev nodded. You know he was a scab? Kev nodded again. You know how many days he scabbed back then? Kev shook his head. He looked at me. I said, Me neither. That’s my point — it doesn’t matter whether he scabbed through whole strike or just last bloody day — He was a scab then and he’s a scab now — Kev had his eyes closed. He nodded — I leant forward. I put my

The Forty-ninth Week

Monday 4 — Sunday 10 February 1985

Much of the country was flooded. The pound had slipped further. There were unreported power cuts. People swinging in the wind. But the Fat Man was back again –

Fresh from tea at the Savoy with the Minister; dinner at the Ritz with the Board —

Here to save the day –

But not Terry’s day –

The receiver had five million of their pounds. He was on to the Dublin money too. He had paid all their fines. He wanted to end sequestration. He wanted sole control –

Terry’s days were numbered. The clock ticking down. The President’s too –

‘We are not begging and crawling for a resumption of negotiations,’ he shouted. ‘And there appears to be a very real determination to make us accept the principle that pits should close on economic grounds even before getting to the negotiating table —’

But the Fat Man just nodded his fat head. The Fat Man was not going to give up. The Fat Man persuaded the NEC to stay in the capital another twenty-four hours –

For a third fucking day.

‘I am not walking away from the search for negotiations,’ declared the Fat Man. ‘The problem is too big to leave alone.’

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck –

Terry had to get out. Had to get away. Had to get home. He had to find a phone –

Terry made the call. Terry went back inside TUC Headquarters –

‘There is no possibility at all of this Union ever accepting conditions of that kind,’ the President was saying again. ‘No union leaders worth their salt would ever be a party to such measures. Never. Not in a month of bloody Sundays would —’

There was a knock at the door. There was a note passed to the President –

The President read the note. The President looked up at Terry –

Terry blinked. Terry smiled. Terry said, ‘What is it, Comrade President?’

‘It’s your wife,’ said the President. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

*

The Jew attends the unveiling of a memorial to Yvonne Fletcher in St James’s Square. The Jew is in a sombre suit and coat, under an umbrella held by Neil –

‘— without the police,’ the Prime Minister is reminding the assembled people, ‘there would be no law and there would be no liberty —’

The Jew nods in his sombre suit and coat, under an umbrella held by Neil –

His eyes never leave her face; hope never leaves his heart –

But she leaves without a word. Not even a goodbye. Without a second glance –

‘Because of her courage, her resilience,’ the Jew is quick to tell Neil in the car, ‘it’s all too easy to forget that behind the Iron Lady mask is a mother and a woman.’

Neil Fontaine nods. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew back to Hobart House –

The National Working Miners’ Committee will be waiting for them.

‘There is still so much to be done, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘In public and in private.’

Neil Fontaine nods again. Neil Fontaine could not agree more –

He is paying men from the small ads ten quid an hour to stand in doorways.

Neil Fontaine parks the car. Neil Fontaine follows the Jew upstairs to his office –

Chloe shows in Fred and Jimmy. Chloe hands the Jew new reports and a coffee –

‘Did you arrange a time for the meeting with the Chairman?’ asks the Jew.

Chloe bites her bottom lip. Chloe says, ‘I’m afraid he’s unavailable today, sir.’

‘Unavailable? Unavailable to whom?’ laughs the Jew. ‘Unavailable to me?’

Fred Wallace brushes the top of his trouser leg. Jimmy Hearn fiddles with his ear.

Chloe goes over to the phone. Chloe picks it up –

The Jew strides across the room. The Jew slaps the phone out of her hand –

‘Don’t you dare humiliate me again,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Go! You are dismissed!’

Chloe looks at Neil. Neil nods at Chloe. Chloe looks at the door. Neil nods again.

‘What are you waiting for?’ laughs the Jew. ‘A reference? A kiss? A banana?’

Chloe stares at the Jew. Chloe smiles. Chloe leaves the door open on her way out.

The Jew turns to Fred and Jimmy. The Jew says, ‘Now, where were we?’

But Fred and Jimmy are staring at the door. Fred and Jimmy staring at Chloe –

Chloe still standing in the doorway Chloe smiling and pointing at them all –

‘There will be a reckoning,’ she says. ‘There will be a figuring.’

*

Terry took the stairs two at time. Terry banged on the door –

There was no answer —

Terry banged and banged on it. Doors opened up and down the corridor –

All the wrong doors —

Terry put his head against the door. Terry whispered, ‘Please —’

The door opened. Terry fell forward. Into the room. Onto Diane –

‘How long have you been stood out there?’ asked Diane

‘I thought you’d gone,’ said Terry. ‘I thought you’d left me.’

‘I was in the bathroom with the hairdryer on,’ she laughed. ‘Sorry.’

Terry put his arms inside her dressing-gown. Terry held her by her skin –

‘You’re hurting me,’ she laughed again.

‘I want to see you bleed,’ said Terry. ‘I want to see you’re real.’

*

Malcolm got off at Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane onto Curzon Street —

The streets were quiet, the streets empty. The rain was cold, the wind warm.

He walked past Leconfield House to the building next to the Lansdowne Club —

Curzon Street House, a.k.a. the Bunker.

Malcolm went inside the building. Down the stairs and along the corridors —

The stairs quiet, the corridors empty. The air old, the smell worse.

The lights flickered on and off, off and on. The office doors opened and closed –

Deserted silences. Deserted spaces.

Malcolm reached his room. Malcolm took out his key –

They had changed the lock. They had changed the number —

But it opened all the same (it remembered his name).

Malcolm sat down behind his wooden desk in his windowless room —

He reached for his glasses. He took out his files —

The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. The Trade Unions. The Morning Star. The Socialist Workers’ Party. The Militant Tendency. Local governments and councils. The Workers’ Revolutionary Party. The National Front. The British National Party. Bulldog. British Movement. Combat 18 –

Counter-subversion. Left and Right. Right and wrong.

They wanted some things to succeed. They wanted some things to fail –

Discrimination and integration. Racism and Socialism –

The nuclear industry and the coal industry.

The lights flickered on and off, off and on. The office doors opened and closed —

Things succeeded. Things failed. Things came together. Things fell apart —

Societies. Governments. Unions. Marriages. Families. People –

Their hearts and their minds.

This was the way the world turned. This was the way the world ended –

A cigarette. A kiss. A wrong number. A look and then silence –

Not with a bang, but with a knock on the door.

*

‘Vote with your feet,’ the Board’s Mr Fixit was urging strikers. ‘Vote with your feet.’

Terry turned into the cul-de-sac. Terry parked the car in front of the house –

There had been pre-executive meetings all last night; there had been fights; accusation and counter-accusation; honourable settlements versus no settlementat all –

Fights to the finish or organized returns with heads held high.

But it will never be enough for them just to lose; they must be seen to have lost —

Her ministers and her Board on television, boasting about not boasting —

Bragging about not bragging. Gloating about not gloating —

Terry switched off the radio. Terry got out of the car. Terry locked the door –

Terry opened the gate. Terry walked up the drive. Terry rang the doorbell –

No answer.

Terry knocked on the door –

No answer.

Terry went down the side of the house. Terry went round the back –

No one.

Terry looked in through the windows. Terry saw –

Nothing.

Terry went back to the front door. Terry banged on it. Terry hammered on it –

‘You fucking cunt,’ shouted Terry through the letterbox. ‘You fucking cunt!’

People came to their curtains. People watched from their windows. People stood on their steps –

Terry punched the door. Terry screamed. Terry kicked the door. Terry howled –

‘Bastard!’ he shouted again. ‘You thieving fucking bastard!’

Terry stormed back down the drive. Terry saw the sign in the garden –

For sale –

The people at their windows. The people on their doorsteps –

Terry raised two fingers to the former friends and neighbours of Clive Cook –

‘Fuck off back to your televisions,’ shouted Terry Winters. ‘Back to your teas.’

Terry got in his car. Terry turned the key. Terry switched on the car radio –

‘Figures don’t lie,’ the President was admitting. ‘But liars can certainly figure.’

There were 43 per cent of all miners at work now –

Just 7 percent to go —

There would be humiliations. There would be recriminations –

Heads on plates, goats outside the gates.

Peter

hand on his shoulder. I said, It’s not worth it. He nodded again. He opened his eyes. He sighed. He said, Will you have a word with wife for us? I nodded. He said, She’s going to go fucking mental. I nodded again. Be in good company then, I said — Deeper and deep er. Faster and faster — I look back up corridor. Water roaring down — I couldn’t get up. I lay there in bed as depressed and fucking down as I’d ever been in my whole life — There were over three hundred back at pit now. They had them washing coal. Yesterday morning these big lorries had come and picked up supplies for power stations in Trent Valley. Had a mass picket waiting for them. But they got in and out no bother. Just showed how low stocks must be for them, though. To have to be moving stuff from here — Fifteen big giant lorries. They were going to move whole fucking lot. All seven thousand tonnes of it — Oh aye, we’d stand there for rest of week. However long it was going to take them — We’d shout and we’d shove. We’d shove and we’d swear — But, fucking hell, I’d have liked to have seen them try to wash and move that stuff if we’d stayed solid — I knew then we could have won. Knew we could have beaten that bitch and all her fucking boot-boys. Her bullies in DHSS and media. Knew we could have beaten them and won because they would have run out of fucking coal — It was that bloody simple. It was that bloody depressing — I had nightmares every time I closed my eyes. Had nightmares every time I switched on TV. Every time I opened fridge. Every time I set foot in village. Every time I went into Welfare or up to Panel — Least bed was warm. Long as I didn’t let my eyes close. There was a tap on door. It was our Jackie with a cup of tea. It’s gone half-nine, she said. I nodded. I said, I know — What’s wrong with you? she asked. You on strike or something? — Get out of here, you cheeky cow, I said. I’ll get up when I’m good and bloody ready and not a moment before. She came over to bed and she give us a kiss on top of my head. Happy Valentine’s Day, she said. I’m a lucky man, I told her. I don’t deserve you and your mother — You don’t, she said. So you best get up before we kick you out. I went up Panel — High Court injunction against Yorkshire Area NUM now. Forbade picketing at eleven pits and limited all pickets to six men from pit itself — Last bloody straw, said Tom. Last bloody nail in coffin, said Johnny. That’s what it is and branches won’t abide by it — They have to, said David Rainer. They have to. I said, You know what this one lad said to me last week? He said, Pete — I used to hate them fucking scabs in Nottingham with all my heart. But you know what? If it hadn’t been for picketing them, I’d have had no brass. I’d have starved — No picket. No pay. No scabs. No scoff — Fucking starved without them. Listen to us all, said Dave. Like last bloody days of Third fucking Reich. It’s not over yet — But no one said anything. We just got up and went back to our branches to tell them they couldn’t even picket their own pit if there were more than six of them — I see a bloke behind us. Water almost on top of him — He was sat on our doorstep. Soaked through — Like a drowned rat. Shiv-ering, he was — I wanted to punch his fucking lights out. The fucking hell you been? I shouted. Been bloody worried sick about you — I’m sorry, he said. Cath went. House went. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face anyone — Bastard, I said. I had you dead at bottom of reservoir. Topped yourself — I’m sorry, he said again. I’ve got nowhere else to go — I opened front door. I stuck hall light on. He looked in a right state. I said, Where you bloody been? Doing bricklaying down in London. Bit in Southampton — Why didn’t you say something? I said again. Folk been worried sick about you — I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want pity — Not pity when it’s mates, is it? I put fire on in front room and sat him down. I put kettle on and fetched him some clean clothes. Thank you, he said. Best stay here, I told him. Until you get yourself sorted out — Mary mind, will she? Probably, I said. But she won’t see you on street, will she? I left him to get changed. I made him a cup of tea and

The Fiftieth Week

Monday 11 — Sunday 17 February 1985

Neil Fontaine dreams of her skull. The nightmare interminable. Her skull and his candle. He screams in his room at the County. The light always on. He kneels down by the bed. The notebooks all gone. He picks apart the hours. The days. The months and the years. Their lives and their deaths. He throws the pieces against the wall. He pulls down the curtains. He throws them on the bed. The bed empty. The sheets old and stained –

They want some things to fail. They want some things to succeed.

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

They let some things succeed. They let some things fail

There are always moments like this. Only ever moments like this –

But for how much longer?

*

Click-click –

He had called from out of the shadows (where there was only night) –

‘Malcolm,’ he had said, ‘you busy, are you?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to temporarily borrow your auricles, if they’re available.’

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Shrewsbury,’ he had said. ‘If you fancy it.’

‘If the price is right.’

‘Two and a half, plus expenses.’

‘You know where I am.’

‘Yes,’ Neil Fontaine had said. ‘I know where you are.’

In the shadows (where there was only night, only endless fucking night). Click –

It had been a Friday; Friday 9 March 1984.

*

The Jew is at sea again. Down at Bournemouth with the Young Conservatives to celebrate her first ten, glorious years. Her Great Leap Forward. The Jew bought a card specially –

‘Valentine,’ he’d sung. His hand on his heart. ‘Won’t you be my valentine?’

The Jew has a place in his heart for Neil too. And the Jew’s left him with lots to do –

‘Idle hands,’ he’d said. ‘Know what they say about idle hands, don’t you, Neil?’

Neil Fontaine had nodded. Neil Fontaine had taken out his pen –

‘So much to be done,’ the Jew had said. ‘Minds to be moulded. Hearts to be won.’

To monitor the returns. To assist Piers & co. To chauffeur the Chairman –

Non-stop Neil, that’s Neil now. From A to B and back again –

Hobart House to Eaton Square. Eaton Square to Congress House. Congress House to Eaton Square. Eaton Square to Thames House. Thames House to Eaton Square. Eaton Square to the Ritz. The Ritz to Congress House. Congress House to Eaton Square —

Non-stop Neil with the bodies and the bottles. The people and the papers –

The Minister and the drafts. The TUC and the whisky. The Board and –

The eight points thrashed out between the Chairman and the General Secretary.

Neil fetches and he carries. He takes and he leaves. He waits and he watches –

The tensions. The mistrust. The deceits. The misgivings. The lies. The mistakes –

These plays within plays within plays within plays –

The games and the hunts. The traps and the baits –

The meat rotten. The prey starved. The flies fat —

‘We’ll be watching developments very closely,’ Piers is telling the Chairman in the back of the Jew’s Mercedes. ‘If we find evidence that these orders are not being complied with, if coach firms are still carrying mass pickets to the pits in clear breach of the injunction, then we shall take legal action against them.’

‘And what of Yorkshire?’ asks the Chairman. ‘The Heartland?’

‘Tomorrow,’ says Piers. ‘After tomorrow there will be no more mass pickets.’

Neil drops the Chairman and Piers at Hobart House. Neil checks the Jew’s office –

The office empty. The lights and the heating off. The windows open to winter –

His maps and his pins. His charts and his tins. In boxes by the door.

‘I need to know everything,’ the Jew had told him. ‘Absolutely everything, Neil.’

Neil switches on the lights. Neil closes the windows. Neil calls the Jew –

Neil tells the Jew one thousand one hundred and ten men returned this week –

‘That’s less than last week,’ screams the Jew. ‘It’s just not good enough, Neil!’

Neil tells him about the bad weather. Neil doesn’t tell him about the talks –

‘The eve of a historic breakthrough,’ the Union were saying —

‘Uncork a bottle of my finest,’ says the Jew. ‘I’ll be back for dinner, Neil.’

‘And not a moment too soon, sir,’ replies Neil Fontaine before he hangs up –

Neil is driving the General Secretary of the TUC back to Congress House.

*

They asked after his wife. They didn’t wait for his reply. They didn’t really care –

Nothing mattered now, but Terry knew that (Terry has known that for a time).

‘It has to be an honourable settlement,’ Dick was telling the rest of the Executive. ‘The men will not sell their souls now. Not at this stage —’

Everybody nodded. Everybody knew that –

Phrases had become empty. Faces become blank. Words empty. Looks blank —

The Fat Man stood up. The Fat Man distributed photocopies of the agreement –

‘This is an honourable settlement,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Honourable —’

The National Executive flicked through the eight points of the document –

Reconciliation. The right of the Board to manage, the right of the Union to represent. A return to work and a return to a new Plan for Coal. The modificationof the Colliery Review Procedure. The incorporation of an independent reference body into the CRP. The future of all pits to be dealt with by this new CRP, including those collieries with no satisfactory basis for continuingoperations. The CRP to provide a further review where agreement could not be reached. But,point eight —

At the end of this procedure the Board will make its final decision –

The President put down his photocopy. The President looked up at the Fat Man –

No more talks. No more alterations. No more discussions. No more negotiations—

‘This is the best possible deal,’ said the Fat Man. ‘The best possible deal.’

‘So she says,’ smiles the President. ‘And so he says. And now so you say.’

‘But what do you say?’ asked the Fat Man. ‘You and your Executive?’

‘It’s unacceptable,’ said the President of the NUM. ‘That’s what I say.’

‘So what can I do now?’ asked the Fat Man. ‘What more can I do?’

‘You can pull out the entire trade union movement in industrial action in support of the National Union of Mineworkers –

‘That’s what more you can bloody do!’

The Fat Man looked up at the President. The Fat Man shook his head –

‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘It’s too late and you know it.’

The President looked down at the Fat Man, and the President shook his head –

His fingers squeezed his nose. His eyes filled with tears –

The President looked round the table at the National Executive Committee –

They shifted in their seats. They picked their pants out of their arses and sighed. The will is there, they said. The wording is not, they argued –

Is it hell, they shouted. The wording is there, they said. It’s the will that’s not –

They lit their cigarettes. They drank their teas. They looked to the President –

The President picked up the points. The President read them through again –

The President put them down again. The President said again, ‘Unacceptable.’

No man’s land –

The President caught again here. The President trapped again –

Piggy-in-the-middle –

The TUC and the government. Hand in hand. The government and the Board. The Board and the TUC. The TUC and his own fucking Union. The Left and the Right. The Militants and the Moderates. The Hardcore and the Soft. The Left within the Left. The Right within the Right. The Tweeds and the Denims. The Traditionalists and the Modernists. The Europeans and the Soviets. The wet and the dry –

The black and the white. The right and the wrong. The good and the bad –

United we stand. Divided we fall —

Factions and fractions. Fictions and frictions –

Never. Fucking. Ending.

The President shook his head. The Executive did not. The Fat Man nodded –

Nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded and nodded —

‘The Minister will help,’ he promised. ‘The Minister wants to end the strike and, where there’s a will, there is always a way.’

The Fat Man picked up his papers. The Fat Man left for Thames House –

Left them to their bitter pills. Their factions and their frictions –

To accept this or reject it. To strike on or return …

Terry made his excuses. Told them he had to go. They didn’t listen. Didn’t care –

To return without an agreement or return with an agreement …

Terry took the train back up to Sheffield. Terry sat in first class –

An agreement that had no amnesty or an agreement that did …

The receiver had ended the sequestration. The receiver had sole control –

An amnesty that included all sacked miners or that only included some …

Terry had to move fast. Terry had to move by night. Terry had lots to move –

The suitcases and the biscuit tins. The cardboard boxes and the padded envelopes. The cash and the columns. The additions and the subtractions. The sums and the cost –

His fractions and his fictions —

The price –

Every. Fucking. Thing.

‘Be careful,’ said the voice from the doorway to his office. ‘Makes you go blind.’

Terry looked up from his desk. Fuck. Terry said, ‘What does?’

Bill Reed switched on the lights. He said, ‘Playing with yourself in the dark.’

‘What do you want now?’ asked Terry.

‘Just wanted to know how your wife was doing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Terry. ‘Recovering very well.’

Bill smiled. ‘Reassuring to know such things are still possible.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ said Terry. ‘Now was there anything else, Comrade?’

Bill Reed stopped smiling. Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters –

Terry Winters smiled back. Terry Winters didn’t care –

Nothing. Fucking. Mattered. Now –

The clock was ticking down. Tick-tock. The final countdown had commenced –

These were the last few days.

*

The Jew is back from the beach. Fresh from the festivities –

‘They’re holding fucking what?’ he is screaming at Neil. ‘When? Where? Who?’

The Jew has Neil take him straight to Hobart House –

‘Monday! Downing Street!’ he shouts into the car phone. ‘The Prime Minister!’

The Jew thunders up the stairs. The Jew storms into the Chairman’s office –

The Chairman is at his desk. Pen in hand. The Chairman is at his tether’s end –

‘They are politicians,’ he sobs. ‘I am just an industrialist.’

‘But this is 1985,’ rants the Jew. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

The Chairman nods. The Chairman stiffens his upper lip –

‘Have they stormed the barricades?’ raves the Jew. ‘Have they killed the King?’

The Chairman tears up his letter of resignation –

‘What time shall I expect the knock upon my door?’ laughs the Jew –

The Chairman laughs now. The Chairman reaches out to embrace the Jew –

‘Remember,’ whispers the Jew. ‘There’s no politics without industry.’

Peter

a slice of toast — So you didn’t get much work, then? I asked him. He shook his head. He said, there must be tenthousand miners down there doing same — I wish they’d stayed bloody put, I said. I wish you had — There were no brass, Pete. And I won’t beg. Never. That’s not me — Least you’re back now, I said. You know there are some that had you down as a scab — I know, he said. I saw what they did to house — I’m sorry, I said. He laughed. He said, Not my house now, is it? I stood up. I said, You still be here in morning, will you? He nodded. He said again, I’m sorry, Pete — Just one bloke. Butit’s not Martin — Final push now. Last few days — Board wanted their 50 per cent. Board wanted us beat — Decision was made to go up to Wath. This was against wishes of Area. But no one gave two shits what anyone else said or thought now — It was a very personal matter now and if you were still out it was because of you — Not because someone told you to stay out. Not because you were intimidated — There were still some rallies in offing. But this looked like last away-day, if you like. Right set-to and all — Had police outnumbered at start. They brought in back-up. Krk-krk. Piled out of vans and straight into us. They were local — South bloody fucking Yorkshire. Force we fucking paid for out of our fucking rates — Here to settle scores, I could see that. Bad as anything in whole strike — But I was numb. Fucking numb to it all now — I watched them grab this one lad. I watched them beat him to ground. I watched them jump up and down on him. Big black boots on his chest. Up and down. Up and down. They were animals — Let loose by government. Free to do what the fuck they wanted — They had got away with every single thing they’d tried. There’d be no going back now — No rights for ordinary folk. Not now — Minute we could, we went straight back to car. Legged it — Keith. Martin. Chris. And me. Most folk did — Made our way back from Wath to Welfare. More rumours and trouble waiting to welcome us there — Lot of talk that they’d got four hundred back in at work now. That they didn’t need any more — Be younger scabs who had started it again. Big gobs on them — Last two hundred in would be sacked. Hundred would be finished — Two hundred laid off. Anyone who was on strike for more than a year faced automatic dismissal — No-strike contracts being prepared. Redundancy rights would be denied to strikers — Every man who stayed out over twelve months would have to undergo a medical. That was one that had really put wind up folk — I’m going to lose my job, said Billy. I’ve spent my whole fucking life down there and I know I’d not pass a medical. Not with my chest problems. Problems they gave me. I didn’t stay out all this time to let her and all her cronies take away my job on health grounds. Health they bloody took from me — It’s not right, I told him. It’s just a rumour — That’s what you say, said Billy. But you know as much as we do and I’m sorry, but you’ll be no good to us when we get back in. Not position Union are in now — He was right. There was nothing I could say to him — Nothing to make it all better. Nothing to make it like it had been — This rate, scabs would be in majority. They’d already taken over Unity Club. Put it about that this Hit Squad of theirs would sort out last of strikers — I knew for a fact that they’d bullied a couple of younger lads into going back. Threatening kiddies of other folk — Kind of blokes they were. But they still had to get a mesh bus into work. One time they did try to walk in, they did it with their eyes on floor — Billy, I said, this morning I saw two scabs walking up our street. You know how I know they were scabs? Because one was walking forwards while other walked backwards. That you, is it, Billy? Walking backwards up a dark street because you’re that ashamed of what you’ve done. That frightened of what folk would say or do to you because of what you had done to them — To their pit. Their village — That you, is it, Billy? Or would you join this Hit Squad and go about picking on young lads? Threatening them. Intimidating them. Waving your pay cheque and your scab brass

The Fifty-first Week

Monday 18 — Sunday 24 February 1985

The cigarette. The kiss. The wrong number. The look and then silence —

Until the knock on the door, and things fell apart —

Hearts. Minds. People. Marriages. Families. Unions. Governments and societies —

They always did. They always have. They always would –

These fragile things. Burdened. These frail things. Broken —

Promises and plans. Fidelities. Arrangements and agreements. Allegiances —

Faiths turned rotten. Faiths gone bad —

Bad Faith, 1969 to 1984 –

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 asked, ‘Who is it?’

‘Room Service.’

The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had met the Prime Minister –

Little boys on their bellies bare —

Met her one year to the day since she had rejected the no-strike deal at GCHQ –

She had picked them up off the floor. She had kissed their bleeding bellies better —

No beer and sandwiches. Just lots of coffee and biscuits to pass the time –

Tea and sympathy, and wasn’t it such a shame it had come to this?

Then the Prime Minister had shown the Fat Man and his Fat Friends the door –

‘We have done a good day’s work,’ the Fat Man told the waiting street –

‘But for fucking who?’ the President spat at Terry and the TV. ‘For who?’

The Fat Man went from Downing Street first to the Goring Hotel –

The National Executive of the Union were kept waiting; waiting and tired —

From the Goring Hotel back to Congress House –

The National Executive were kept tired; tired and hungry —

For the Fat Man and the Chairman to rewrite the eight points as requested –

The Executive were kept hungry; hungry and desperate —

To the satisfaction of the government. To the satisfaction of the Board –

The Executive were kept desperate; desperate to settle —

To the satisfaction of the TU-fucking-C –

To settle and return to work.

The Executive had been sent home. Then the Executive had been recalled –

Tempers were frayed. Nerves were frayed. Carpets were frayed –

The fifth floor of Congress House. The General Council Meeting-Room –

Around the horseshoe table, the National Executive Committee sat and waited –

Tired, hungry, desperate men gathered in the cold below.

The Fat Man got to his feet. The Fat Man had another document in his hand –

‘When we last met,’ he told the table, ‘the position was fixed. Since then, changes have been made. But the members of the Executive should be aware that it is the clear judgement of the Liaison Committee that no further changes are achievable –

‘That is the judgement of us all and we have been told that in writing by the NCB. The changes that have been made have been wrung out of those concerned, after the TUC had made the case at the very highest level –

‘There is no higher to go.’

There was silence around the table. There was anger around the table –

‘So the TUC is telling this Union that it can make no changes whatsoever to a document that it has had no hand in negotiating?’ asked Yorkshire. ‘Is that correct?’

‘There can be clarification,’ said the Fat Man, ‘but no negotiation.’

‘And if we don’t like the clarification?’ asked Wales. ‘It’s take it or leave it?’

‘This is their final wording,’ said the Fat Man. ‘They are clear on that.’

‘So what about the amnesty for sacked miners?’ asked Kent. ‘What about them?’

‘There will be no amnesty,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That also was made clear.’

The table looked at the President. The President looked at the Fat Man –

‘I’ll give you gentlemen some time alone,’ said the Fat Man, as he rose to his feet.

The table waited for the door to close. The table turned back to the President –

The President pushed the paper away. He said, ‘It is one hundred per cent worse!’

The table nodded. The table agreed. The table was united –

‘A boy sent to do a man’s job,’ said Northumberland. ‘A bloody boy —’

The table nodded. The table shook. The table was furious –

‘The Delegate Conference will bloody tear this up,’ said Paul. ‘Page by page —’

The President nodded. The President shook. The President stood –

‘This dispute goes on,’ the President told them all. ‘This dispute goes on!’

There was no day. There was no light. There was only shadow. There was only night–

The dog no longer a pet, black and starved –

Its master gone, its teeth exposed.

Here came the men. Here came the hour. Here came revenge.

They tied Malcolm’s hands and feet to an upturned bed —

In an upstairs room, they put phones on his head –

The tapes he’d made on loud in his ears.

They stripped his clothes, they shaved his hair —

They scoured him with wires and rubbed him rare.

They injected him with amphetamines, industrial bleach.

In the park, they soaked his skin —

Among the trees, with a petrol tin —

Lighter to his face, they illuminated tears.

They blamed his flesh, they cursed his bones —

They watched him blister, burn and moan.

In an upstairs room, with the curtains drawn.

This was the month when the oracles went dumb –

The unhappy eve, the voice, and the hum.

Here came the men. Here came the hour. Here came revenge.

The skulls sat and stared, with their Soviet dreams —

In the shadows at the back, the woman schemes —

Her nipples hard, her milk all gone.

These things they brought, they made him buy —

They told him stories, they sold him a lie.

The room was bare, the curtains torn.

These were her men by the side of the road —

Among the living with their language and code —

Their winter dresses in the summer cried.

They followed his car, photographed his home —

They recorded him on reels and tapped his phone.

The cigarette. The kiss. The wrong number. The look and then silence –

Half deaf in these rooms he hates —

In half light, the rebel angel waits.

Here came the man. Here came the hour. Here came revenge.

In the small hours, the thieves’ hours, with their knives of Sheffield steel –

Among the bodies of the animals, the Circle of the Tyrants kneel –

To hear her beat her bloody wings, in her new and lonely Reich —

Herr Lucifer! Herr Thatcher!

Beware! Beware! She will eat you like air –

Beware! Beware! The pits of despair.

There is a man who bought his council house and drives an Austin Princess –

He has a dark room and a very good stereo —

His wife does knitting jobs. His son is a garage apprentice. Karen still at school —

The winds will leave seven dead. He is not who he seems –

Beware! Beware! She will eat you like air —

Beware! Beware! The pits of despair –

The temples of doom. The worst weather in weeks –

These are the terms of endearment. This is the knock on the door —

This is their man. This is their hour. This their revenge –

Beware! Beware! The children of a hasty marriage.

*

Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew from the Goring and drives him into Soho for the lunch. The Jew is in a great mood. The Jew is sanguine. The Jew believes again –

The NUM. delegates have rejected the TUC agreement. The final hours nigh —

‘Make an enemy of Doubt,’ the Jew reminds Neil. ‘And a friend of Fear.’

The gang’s all here. The deeds all done –

Their hatchets buried, the corks pop. The knives sheaved, their glasses raised –

The end nigh –

There is a message waiting for Neil at the County Hotel.

There was a car and its doors were open. There were men and their arms were open —

There was a passenger and her legs were open, waiting —

The German car in the black. The drive out to the forest —

The songs on the radio. The silence in the back —

The unmarked road. The quiet brakes. The exhaust fumes. The open boot —

The spade in the dirt. The hole in the ground —

The soil and the stones over Malcolm’s bones.

Peter

through grilles on window of a Coal Board bus. That you, is it, Billy? He looked at us. He said, You know it’s not, Pete. You know I’ll live in shame for rest of my days. Hate myself. But who’s going to look after our lass when I’m gone. I know I’m sick and I know I’ll not pass their medical. I’m going back to work to pick up them redundancy forms so I can give something back to our lass after all she’s given me this past year. Every bloody year of our lives. I’m not going to die of their fucking dust and leave her with nothing. See her out on streets. I’m all she has and this fucking job is all I have. Lose it and we’ve nothing — There was nothing more to say. I left him be — I went back home. I went straight upstairs — Put blankets over my head. Fingers in my ears — I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to hear anyone — Not Martin. Not my father, either — This was worst week. Fucking strangest I’d ever lived — There were meetings and there were rallies. I went to the meetings and I went to the rallies — But it felt like it was all happening to someone else. Not me — The SDC rejecting that final, worthless, fucking document. Last big rally in Trafalgar Square. Nottingham ending OT ban — Then Monday almost four thousand went in. Yorkshire voted to strike on. News that there were over 50 per cent now at work — The endless talk about returns with a settlement. Organized returns without. Returns with an amnesty. Returns without — The Branch meeting. Packed — Us all listening to Arthur. Looking to Arthur — I want to make it clear, he said, that there is no way this Executive Committee will ever be a party to signing a document that would result in the closure of pits. The axing of jobs. The destruction of communities — Felt that it was all happening to someone else. That Arthur was talking about something that was happening to other people. In another place — Not to me. Not to my family. Not to my friends. Not to my pit. Not to my village. Not to my county. My bloody country — That I was just a shell. That this wasn’t me — Not after all these months. After all these weeks. These days — Just a shell. An empty shell — Not this time.Not now — There were so many meetings. There was so much talk — Them that mattered went down to London. Left us here to wait — To wait and watch TV. To watch and wait — It was Sunday again. Day of rest — I was sat there on settee with Mary and our Jackie. Martin had gone off to help Chris try to sell some furniture somewhere — TV was on. Not fire — We’d spent afternoon at Pinderfields Hospital in Wakefield because Mary’s mother had had a fall and burnt herself with a pan of milk. Had all that and then we’d driven back here in rain — Throwing it down, it was. Bloody miserable day — I was sat there. Cup of tea with no milk again — Middle of Dad’s Army. Newsflash — Miners’ Strike is over — That was it. Just like that — I thought I was going to pass out. Right there and then — I could tell Mary and our Jackie didn’t want to look at me. Didn’t know what to say, did they? But what was there to say? — It was over. Finished. We’d lost. The end — I stood up. Jaw clamped shut. I walked across room. Knocked half a dozen things over as I went — Blinking. Fighting back bloody tears — I walked up stairs and ran into bedroom. I laid down on bed. Face down in pillow and I sobbed. Then onto floor. I bloody sobbed and sobbed. I could hear phone ringing downstairs. I could hear Mary pick it up. Hear her calling my name. Hear her tell them I must have just popped out. Yes, she said. He saw news. He does know. Thank you. Heard her hang up and come up stairs. Heard her open door and come over to bed — She put her arms round me. Her head on my back — I love you, she said. I’m proud of you. Things you’ve done. Things you’ve said these past months. This past year. Just remember that — I wiped my face. I dried my eyes. I turned and I kissed my wife — Kissed her ears. Kissed her eyes. Kissed her mouth. Kissed her hair — I held her and felt her heart beating — Hard. Steady. Strong. True — I felt her heart beating and I closed my eyes — Thistimeit’s me. Here — Inthe darkness. Under the ground — There’s nolight. There’s noexit — Justme. Here— Here on the floor.

The Fifty-second Week

Monday 25 February — Sunday 3 March 1985

Terry Winters sat at the kitchen table of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. His three children were squabbling again. His wife worrying. Terry ignored them. Breakfast television was showing pictures from the rally in Trafalgar Square yesterday. The final rallies in the final hours. The police put the numbers at less than fifteen thousand. One hundred arrested. Hundreds more batoned. The Union said there were between eighty and one hundred thousand. Numbers. Numbers. Numbers. Terry ignored it all. He took an index card from the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He read it. He closed his eyes –

It was blank —

Terry Winters opened his eyes. His children had gone to school. His wife to work. Terry looked down at the index card again. He put his hand into his right pocket again. He took out another card, and another, and another –

They were all blank.

Terry went back to work. Terry sat at his desk. Terry watched Ceefax all day:

Four thousand had returned to work today. Highest ever figure for a Monday. Two thousand more returnees and the Board would then have their magical 50 percent. Meanwhile, the NottinghamshireArea Council had called off the overtime ban—

Ten thousand more tonnes a week to the government stockpiles.

Terry changed channels. Terry waited for the next news:

The President and Dick on the steps of Congress House, long coats and faces. ‘When history examines this dispute,’ railed the President, ‘there will be a glaring omission — the fact that the trade union movement has been standing on the sidelines while this Union has been battered.’

Terry switched off the television. Terry waited for the telephone to ring.

*

Neil Fontaine leaves the Jew among the popped corks and the empty bottles. The party hats and the streamers. The trophies and the spoils. The winners and the victors –

Just six hundred bodies short now.

Neil Fontaine takes a cab to the Special Services Club.

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

‘There is a price,’ says Jerry.

Neil Fontaine nods just once. Neil Fontaine says, ‘I know.’

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

Just the one thin, brown envelope.

Neil Fontaine picks it up. Neil Fontaine stands up –

‘Love will always let you down,’ says Jerry. ‘Always has and it always will.’

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

Just one last and final prayer.

*

Mardy Colliery, the very last of the Rhondda pits and forever known as Little Moscow, had voted for an orderly return to work –

The Last Waltz had begun —

‘My concern now is with holding the line,’ said Paul. ‘This is not the time to bow our heads. Not the time to go back to work defeated. This is the time to close ranks –

‘And urge our members to stand firm, to sustain us through this difficult period. Help us over this last hurdle —’

Nobody nodded. Nobody was listening –

‘There’s no prospect of victory now,’ warned Gareth Thomas from South Wales. ‘Not the kind of victory we were all so sure we could achieve a year ago in March 1984. What we must make sure of now is that we do not abuse the loyalty that has been shown to us by the thousands of miners throughout this country, and that loyalty demands –

‘Leadership. Leadership. Leadership! Or there’ll be no Union to lead!’

The leadership met. Again. For seven hours the Executive met. Again –

The Executive leadership prepared now to sign the NACODS agreement –

The leadership desperate to sign the NACODS agreement –

To sign it here. To sign it today. To sign it now –

The Executive called Hobart House. Click-click. The Executive called again –

Again and again and again and again, the leadership called Hobart House –

Click-click. But no one was answering the telephones down at Hobart House –

Click-click. No need to answer them. Click-click. Nothing more to say –

This morning 1114 had gone back. This morning 50.74. per cent of all miners were back.

The majority of the men were gone. The majority of the money was gone –

It was all over. Here. Today. Now —

But Kent and Yorkshire still wanted to stay out to reach a negotiated settlement –

South Wales, with still the fewest scabs, had other ideas –

‘We came out as one,’ they said again. ‘We will go in as one.’

‘It is unreasonable on humanitarian grounds’, agreed Durham, ‘to call upon the membership to endure still further pain and still further sacrifice, to themselves and their families, in loyalty to this Union —’

But there would be further pain and there would be further sacrifice –

For the men. For their families. For their Union –

For weeks. For months. For years and years to come –

‘For there can be no reconciliation,’ said Scotland, ‘until there is an amnesty.’

‘The Coal Board, at the insistence of the government,’ reiterated the President, ‘is not prepared to negotiate. It is a complete war of attrition –

‘And we shall have to take a decision in the best interests of our members.’

Four decisions before them. Four last choices –

To stay out, or to accept the National Coal Board’s offer –

To return without an amnesty, or to return with one.

The Executive called a Special Delegate Conference for Sunday 3 March.

The Executive left the Conference Room one by one –

Back to their local areas. Their panels and their branches. Their local TV studios –

The President sat alone at the table. The President dried his eyes –

He looked up at the empty chairs. The empty table. The empty room –

The heavy curtains. The chipped cups. The two-way mirrors. The hidden bugs –

‘Are you hardcore?’ he asked Terry. ‘Are you hardcore, Comrade?’

Terry picked up his files. His notes and his sums. Terry picked up his calculator –

‘If I flinch from the flames,’ said the President. ‘Believe not a word I have said.’

Terry left the table. The room and the building. Terry left the President alone –

To his dreams of victory in his night of defeat —

‘We are but halfway between Dunkirk and D-Day,’ he shouted after them all. ‘But halfway, Comrades. On the greatest march this world has ever seen —’

Even in winter the days were too long, the nights old and wrong —

They sat in overheated huts. They stood around unlit braziers —

They clapped their hands. They stamped their feet. They woke the Dead.

They had swapped their badges for cigarettes. Their banners for beer –

There were two teenage brothers. Their bodies black, their faces blue —

Spoil fell from their mouths when they said, ‘You don’t remember us, do you?’

Malcolm shook his head. Blood dripped from his holes. From her scissors —

In the shadows. The ghosts without. In the silence. The ghost within –

And then Malcolm nodded. For then Malcolm knew —

This was how it felt to be dead. To be buried –

Under the ground.

Terry changed class as the train approached King’s Cross. It would end here, in London –

Not in Sheffield. Not in Mansfield. Not in Scotland. Not in Wales —

Terry pushed two suitcases and his briefcase along the platform to the lockers –

Here in London. Today or tomorrow. Saturday night. Sunday morning —

Terry put Suitcase 36 into Locker 27. Terry put the key into an envelope –

There was a meeting of the Leftto make decisions for the Executive Committee –

Terry put the envelope in the concourse letterbox. Terry went out to the taxi rank –

The Executive meeting to make decisions for Sunday’s Delegate Conference —

Terry got out. Terry paid the driver. Terry checked in to his room at the County –

The Special Delegate Conference to make decisions for their members —

Terry spat blood in his handkerchief. Terry took another handful of aspirins –

Their members standing in the rain. Their members swinging in the wind.

Terry washed his hands. Again and again. Terry looked at his watch. Tick-tock —

Days to go now. Hours to go. Minutes to go —

Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. Terry called Diane as planned –

They spoke of signals. Tickets and times. They conversed in code –

Terry hung up. Terry went down the stairs and along to the North Sea Fisheries. Dick and Paul and Len on one table. Joan and Alice and the President on the next –

They had all finished eating. Tick-tock. They were waiting for Terry to pay –

Terry paid for the six specials. Terry followed them along to the policy session. Terry kept to his chair in the corner. His mouth shut. His eye on the ball –

Days to go. Hours to go. Minutes to go —

They argued and they argued. Back and forth. They argued and they argued –

Broken words. Broken promises. Broken backs. Broken hearts –

The President threw tantrums. Broken cups. The President threw fits –

The Left achieved nothing. Nothing. Ever. The Left never met again –

Terry paid for twenty breakfasts and followed them to the Executive Committee. Terry kept his chair by the door. Mouth shut. Eye on the ball –

Hours to go now. Minutes to go –

They argued and they argued. Back and forth. They argued and they argued –

The Executive had the choices before them. Decisions to make, courses to take. But the Executive could make no recommendations to the delegates –

Hours to go. Minutes to go –

They voted 11–11 not to recommend the South Wales motion for a return to work. They voted 11–11 not to recommend the Yorkshire motion to strike on for an amnesty –

The President had the casting vote. The President would not cast it –

It was deadlock. It was stalemate. It was cowardice. It was abdication –

In the rain, the delegates came to Great Russell Street. In the rain, the hundreds came. In their hundreds to stand outside Congress House. In their hundreds to shout in the rain –

No surrender! No surrender! No surrender!

The main event started on the floor of the conference. The Last Fight –

Minutes to go now. Seconds out –

The fight between Yorkshire in the red corner –

‘Out until there’s an amnesty and the five named pits reprieved.’

South Wales in the blue –

‘ A dignified and honourable return.’

Outside the rain fell on the men for six hours as the delegates argued inside –

We’ve given you our hearts –

‘You should have the guts to make a recommendation,’ they argued –

We’ve given you our souls –

‘Or you will have ratted out on this strike,’ they argued –

We’ve given you our blood —

‘Give them leadership and repay the loyalty they have given you,’ they argued –

We’ve given you everything we had –

‘Or sit back with blindfolds on, as the strike collapses around you,’ they argued –

And then you sell us out –

‘We have to live in the world as it is,’ they argued, ‘not as we would like it —’

Tarred and feathered with the rest of the scabby bastards —

The Welsh proposal was carried 98 to 91 –

Total. Fucking. Knock. Out; Total. Fucking. Sell Out –

‘Don’t anyone in this conference lower their eyes,’ the President shouted at them. ‘Don’t be ashamed of what we have done. We have put up the greatest fight in history —’

It was all over –

‘We have not sold our birthrights. We have not prostituted our principles —’

Here —

‘The greatest achievement is the struggle itself —’

Today —

‘We have changed the course of history and inspired the workers of the world —’

Now —

‘Comrades, it is upon such struggles that democracy itself depends!’

Total. Fucking. Silence.

The President walked out of the conference and out of Congress House –

Into the rain. Into their tears. Into the pain. Into their fears –

Into the media and into the police. Into the miners and into their families –

Into the guilt and the shame. Into the anger and the sorrow —

‘This dispute goes on,’ shouted the President above the traffic and the weather –

‘We’re not going back,’ chanted the men. ‘We’re not going back!’

‘We will continue to fight against pit closures or job losses!’

‘You’ve been betrayed!’ the men screamed back at him. ‘You’ve been betrayed!’

‘Make no mistake — do not underestimate this Union’s ability to resist!’

‘Scum! Scum! Scum!’ they wailed. ‘Scab! Scab! Scab!’