Jennifer puts on her shades. She runs her hands through her blonde hair and ties it back. She scowls at Neil Fontaine. She sticks out her tongue –
She says, ‘You want a fucking picture, do you?’
Neil Fontaine gets up from the edge of the bed. The notebook still in his hand. The years in pieces on the floor. He opens the dawn curtain –
Jennifer slams the hotel door as she leaves –
Neil stood at the window. In the real light and the electric –
The very last moment like this.
The Jew isn’t sleeping nowadays, either. He is too fearful of what the future holds. He doesn’t wait for the doorman or Neil. He opens the back door of the Mercedes himself. He slams it shut –
‘Downing Street,’ he shouts.
‘Certainly, sir.’
The Jew slumps in the backseat. The Prime Minister has cut short her holiday. The Prime Minister has cancelled her trip to the Far East due to the industrial situation. The Jew is embarrassed. The Jew shakes his head. He wants to hammer nails into coffins. He mumbles on about the danger in the docks. The TUC. The weak sisters of the Board. Bent nails and empty coffins –
‘– I told her go. Leave everything to me. But those lascivious leeches begged to differ. Margaret, Margaret, you can’t leave us. You mustn’t leave us. Sterling is slipping, our shares are sliding, our ship is sinking. That’s all they can ever think about, Neil. Feeding their own fat faces. Saving their own sorry selves. They have no conception, Neil. No conception whatsoever of the Big Picture. The War –’
The Jew is wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday.
‘Two steps forward,’ the Jew says to himself. ‘One step back.’
Neil Fontaine stops at the end of Downing Street –
The Jew sighs.
Neil Fontaine opens the back door for the Jew. Neil says, ‘Good luck, sir.’
The Jew stops. He looks at Neil Fontaine. He says, ‘Thank you, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Downing Street –
The Total War Cabinet.
He starts the car. He has his own steps to take –
Backwards and forwards.
Roger Vaughan drops three sugar lumps into his cup. He picks up the teaspoon. He stirs his coffee. He takes the spoon out of the cup. He knocks it twice against the rim. He puts the silver spoon down on the saucer. He looks across the table at Neil Fontaine –
Neil Fontaine is waiting.
‘Fortunately,’ says Roger, ‘it would appear all our troubles will soon be over.’
Neil Fontaine is still waiting.
Roger Vaughan lifts up his napkin. He pushes the envelope across the cloth.
Neil Fontaine opens the envelope. He stares at the photo inside –
‘He’s been watching you,’ says Roger. ‘Listening to you. Both of you.’
Neil Fontaine starts to speak. To protest and to lie. To beg and to plead –
‘There’s no need for that,’ says Roger. ‘It’s a blessing in disguise.’
Neil Fontaine looks down at the tablecloth. He closes his eyes –
There are mountains of skulls. Boxes of candles –
‘He’s waiting for you,’ says Roger Vaughan. ‘Expecting you.’
There were bandages upon the floor. Two small balls of cotton wool. Blood upon the blades. Blood upon his fingers. Malcolm opened the box. Two cassettes inside –
He took out the second cassette. Tape 2. He put it in the recorder. Side A–
He pressed fast-forward. Stop. He adjusted the tone. He lowered the volume –
Pressed play and played it all back (one last time) –
‘– no, please, no, please, no, please –’
‘– in here, that what you want –’
‘– please, no, it’s at the cottage at Llanymynech –’
‘– shut up, it’s too late –’
‘– please don’t, it’s at the cottage, please don’t, in the cottage, no –’
‘– too late!’ screamed Julius Schaub. ‘Too late!’
‘–’
Malcolm lay on the floor between the bed and the door. In the spots of blood. Head to the left again. In a pool of blood. His wounds to the floor. In the sea of blood –
These nights across the world. The shadows everywhere.
Malcolm lay on the floor covered in blood. Between the bed and the door –
He wished for day and he wished for light –
Head to the floor. In 1984. The knock upon the door –
Malcolm stood up. Malcolm listened –
The sounds of the animal kingdom filled the room. The knock on the door again.
Malcolm walked over to the door. Malcolm touched the Emergency Procedures –
Malcolm Morris wiped his eyes. Malcolm Morris asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Room service.’
Between the bed and the door. In the shadows. In the night –
How he wished for day and wished for light.
It is the hour before dawn. Neil Fontaine parks at the junction of Gate House Lane and Mosham Road. To the left is Finningley Airfield (disused). To the right Auckley Common. Doncaster straight ahead. The Jew sits in the back with his army binoculars. He is dressed in combat fatigues. He is wearing his aviator sunglasses.
Neil Fontaine sees the headlights approach. He says, ‘They’re coming, sir.’
The Jew raises his sunglasses. He lifts up his binoculars.
Four sets of headlights come down Gate House Lane from the airfield.
The Jew watches them through his binoculars.
Four trucks turn left and head down the Mosham Road towards Doncaster.
Neil Fontaine starts the car.
‘Most impressive,’ shouts the Jew from the back. ‘Most impressive indeed, Neil.’
The Mercedes follows the four trucks. Their brake lights in the grey light –
The Mercedes loses sight of the lights in Doncaster. For now –
Neil Fontaine parks close to Rossington Colliery. The Jew with his binoculars. There are no scabs at Rossington. No scabs as yet. Just six pickets and a cardboard sign. Two policemen in their car. Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it –
Bentley. Hatfield. Armthorpe –
Neil Fontaine turns to the Jew in the back. He says, ‘Any minute now, sir.’
The Jew takes off his sunglasses. He sits up. He looks through his binoculars.
Neil Fontaine looks at his watch again. He taps it again.
‘Here they come,’ says the Jew. ‘Here they come, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine watches the pickets stand. The policemen get out of their car –
Neil turns to see the four trucks hurtle up the road and through the gates.
The pickets and the police run towards the trucks, then stop –
Pit managers come out of their offices, then back off –
Everybody staring, staring at the trucks –
The fifty men disembarking at the sound of a whistle –
Fifty men in camouflage jackets, boiler suits and balaclavas –
Fifty men with pick-axe handles, their leader in a baseball cap and sunglasses –
Fifty men setting about the yard at the sound of the leader’s second whistle.
Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it. He looks at the Jew in the mirror –
The Jew watching through his binoculars from the backseat of the car –
Fifty men taking out the security cameras, the windows of the offices –
The cars and vehicles belonging to the NCB and their staff.
Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it. He looks up at the two policemen –
They are still hiding behind their car doors, still shouting into their radios.
There is the third sound of the whistle –
The men form columns. The men board the trucks. The first three trucks leave.
The team leader looks around the yard. The leader bangs on the side of the truck –
The last truck starts up. The team leader gets up into the cabin –
The leader takes off the baseball cap –
Long blonde hair blows across her face and shades as the truck accelerates away.
‘Most impressive,’ says the Jew again. ‘Really most impressive, Neil.’
The NUM were on their way to Brighton. The fast lane –
‘Comrades,’ Dick had said on the phone. ‘You have got to come tonight.’
The NUM had been summoned to account for themselves. The TUC were losing patience with the NUM and its president. That was what the TV was saying. Repeatedly. That was what the papers would say –
That was what made the President laugh. Made him really, really laugh –
‘They accuse us of setting worker against worker,’ he said. ‘Accuse us!’
Terry and Paul were in the back with the President. Joan in the front with Len –
They all shook their heads.
‘Is it our members who cross picket lines?’ asked the President. ‘Is it?’
Paul Hargreaves coughed. Paul said, ‘It is actually, President.’
The President looked at Paul. The President bit his lip.
‘Not our true members,’ said Terry. ‘Our true and loyal members, President.’
‘Thank you, Comrade,’ said the President. ‘Thank you very much.’
Paul stared over at Terry. Paul raised his eyebrows. Paul shook his head –
Terry didn’t care. Terry Winters was on a roll –
Terry had a three-point public plan (separate to his two-point secret plan). Terry had sold the President his three-point public plan (as he would later sell the President his two-point secret plan). The President liked Terry’s three-point public plan (as he would later like his two-point secret plan). Terry was convinced of these things –
Two hundred and twenty miles later Terry was even more convinced.
The top men from the TUC were waiting on the steps of the Metropole Hotel –
The President shook their hands. Then the President led the way upstairs.
The meeting began at eight o’clock in the Louis XV Suite –
‘This is a fancy place,’ said the President. ‘For some plain talk.’
The top men from the TUC smiled. The top men from the TUC waited.
‘I am here for your total support,’ said the President. ‘Nothing less.’
Then the arguments and the accusations began. The spats and the squabbles.
Eight hours later, Terry Winters tore a piece of paper from his notebook –
Terry handed it to the President. The President read it. The President stood up –
‘The National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress support our objectives of saving pits, saving jobs and saving communities,’ said the President. ‘The National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress campaign to raise money to alleviate the tremendous hardship in the coalfields and to maintain the Union, nationally and locally. Finally, the National Union of Mineworkers demands Congress make this dispute more effective and once and for all call upon all trade unionists to block the movement of coal and coke and the use of oil.’
The President sat back down to applause. The President winked at Terry Winters –
Terry Winters smiled back.
‘It’s been a very long night,’ said the Fat Man. ‘But I would like to thank the President of the National Union of Mineworkers for coming here tonight in advance of the Congress. I’d also like to thank him and all the members of his team for their help in finding this agreed form of words. I am certain these proposals will be implemented to the fullest extent after further discussions with the General Council and with the agreement of the unions concerned –’
No one was listening. The President in a huddle with Paul, Dick and Terry –
Terry Winters still smiling. Terry Winters on a roll –
The world his oyster.
Neil Fontaine lies in the dark with his curtains open in his room at the Royal Victoria. Neil Fontaine thinks about sortilege. He looks at his watch. He taps it –
It is three in the morning. The telephone rings three times.
Neil Fontaine goes upstairs. He knocks on the Jew’s door. He knocks again.
The Jew shouts, ‘I am her eyes and her ears.’
Neil Fontaine brings the Mercedes round. The Jew waits in his flying-jacket.
They take the A57 out of Sheffield through Handsworth, Richmond and Hackenthorpe. They turn down the Mansfield Road, then left over the M1 through the village of Wales and into Kiveton Park –
The slag heap and the colliery black and hard against the dawn and the sky –
The enormous, empty, endless sky.
The Jew worries he has lost touch. The Jew wants to be back where the action is –
‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he says again. ‘Her eyes and her ears, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine drives down Station Road. He parks at the junction with Hard Lane.
The Jew gets out. The Jew says, ‘Keep out of trouble, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew march up Hard Lane across Hard Bridge –
Two thousand pickets and half the London Met here to meet seven fucking scabs.
Neil Fontaine drops his cigarette on the ground. He stands on it. Turns his boot.
The Met have their boiler suits and helmets on. Their horses and dogs out –
Neil Fontaine watches them charge through the village.
The Met want the pickets on the other side of the pit. The pickets won’t go –
Neil Fontaine watches the sticks and the stones rain down –
The bones that always break and the names that always hurt.
The Met have attached metal grilles to the fronts of their Transits –
Neil Fontaine watches them sweep up and down the road.
Neil Fontaine has lost sight of the Jew again –
Fuck.
Neil Fontaine starts up Hard Lane towards Hard Bridge.
There is a hand on his arm. The voice in his ear, ‘Hello, hello, hello.’
Fuck. Neil Fontaine turns round –
Paul Dixon is standing beside a mud-coated new Montego. He’s in an old, dirty anorak, his jeans and size tens in need of a wash and a polish, too.
‘Paul,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘We really must stop meeting like this.’
Paul Dixon nods. Paul smiles. He says, ‘People will start talking.’
‘They always do,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘They always do.’
Paul Dixon opens the door of the Montego. He says, ‘That’s people for you.’
Neil Fontaine looks back up the road. He shrugs. They both get into the car –
The Montego smells worse than the Allegro.
‘You sleeping in this thing, are you?’ asks Neil Fontaine.
Paul Dixon shakes his head. He says, ‘Who says I’m sleeping?’
They watch police horses jump hedges and trample gardens.
‘I thought you were NRC liaison,’ says Neil Fontaine.
Paul Dixon shakes his head again. He says, ‘Pit Squad.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Fuck did you take that for?’
‘Bit rich coming from you,’ says Paul Dixon.
Neil Fontaine shrugs again. He says, ‘I’m just a driver-cum-dog’s body.’
‘Right,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘A dog’s body. If that’s what you say.’
Neil Fontaine looks at Paul Dixon. He says, ‘That’s what I say.’
Paul Dixon takes out a photo. He asks, ‘And what would you say to her?’
Neil Fontaine glances at the photo –
Long, blonde hair, gaunt.
Neil Fontaine shakes his head. Fuck. He says, ‘Never seen her before. Sorry.’
‘I bet you are,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘I bet you are.’
Neil Fontaine closes his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. He says, ‘Who is she anyway?’
Paul Dixon smiles at Neil. He says, ‘Jennifer Johnson?’
Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He shakes his head.
‘The lucky lady who married our mutual mate the Mechanic?’
‘News to me,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Anyway, thought you told me Dave retired?’
Paul Dixon shrugs his shoulders. He says, ‘Maybe permanently. He’s missing.’
‘Missing?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘Since when?’
Paul Dixon takes out another photo. He says, ‘Since he met you in this photo?’
Fuck. Neil Fontaine glances at the photo. Fuck. Fuck. He shakes his head –
‘You’re talking to the wrong man,’ says Neil. ‘That’s not me. I haven’t seen him.’
Paul Dixon looks down at the photo again. He says, ‘The camera does lie, then.’
‘Can’t trust anything these days,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Anything or anyone.’
Paul Dixon points up the lane. He asks, ‘That go for him and all, does it?’
The Jew and another man are carrying another bloodied picket down Hard Lane –
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck –
Neil Fontaine opens the car door –
Never fucking ends –
Paul Dixon holds out the photo. ‘Bad pennies, Neil. They always turn up.’
Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He slams the door on Paul Dixon, Special Branch –
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK –
Bad fucking pennies.