Guilty monks, thought Terry. The lot of them.
Terry looked at his watch. The abbot would be waiting.
Terry went upstairs –
No Len on the door. Len was inside. Terry hung up his jacket. He knocked once. He went inside. The Conference Room was still stripped. The curtains drawn again. Terry mumbled his apologies. He took his seat at the right hand. He stared at his fellow friars –
Most didn’t know if it was light or dark outside. They’d been up here so long.
Paul stopped speaking. Paul sat down.
The President stood back up. The President said, ‘Comrades, as you are all aware, over the course of the next week this office will take over the control and the deployment of all picketing for the entire British Isles. It will also take full responsibility for ensuring the blockade on the movement of all coal or alternative fuel within the British Isles. All local requests for the support of our brothers and sisters within the trades union movement must also be made to this office. To provide the support the areas and branches require, the office will be staffed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Yorkshire Area is preparing a list of volunteers to help us meet the necessary staffing demands. The question of internal security and the degree to which our communications have been compromised remain a problem. To that end, the Chief Executive has some practical, short-term measures that can be implemented with immediate benefits in our fight to preserve jobs and pits. Comrade —’
The President sat down again.
Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘Thank you, President. I have drawn up a code that will allow the areas and branches to contact us here at the Strike HQ using our existing telephone lines and numbers. I intend to reveal the code to you here and now, though I would ask you to write nothing down but rather to commit the details and instructions of what I am about to say to memory. On returning to your areas you are to brief the panels verbally and in turn instruct the panels to brief their local branches in the same manner. I repeat, nothing is to be written down. I shall now reveal to you the code –
‘Pickets will henceforth be referred to as apples. I repeat, apples –
‘Police are to be referred to as potatoes. Repeat, potatoes –
‘Henceforth, branches will be requested to supply X number of apples based upon Y number of potatoes at a given site. Likewise branches can request extra apples from HQ in response to superior numbers of potatoes. Our brothers and sisters in the NUR are henceforth to be known as mechanics –
‘I repeat, mechanics –
‘Members of the NUS are henceforth plumbers. Repeat …’
They turn off the main road. They drive through the industrial estate. They come to the fence. Thegate.Theold USAFsign –
There is a resprayed Escort parked up.
‘What would he be doing here?’ asks Joyce.
The Mechanic opens his door. He lets the dogs out. He says, ‘Waiting for me.’
They get out into the cold. The rain.
‘Where is he?’ she asks.
The Mechanic pushes open the gate. He says, ‘This way.’
They walk across the rough ground towards the airstrip. The old control tower.
Joyce cups her mouth in her hands. She shouts, ‘Vince! It’s me, Joyce!’
They keep walking.
‘Vince,’ she shouts again. ‘We just want to talk. That’s all. Come on —’
The dogs are barking. The Mechanic and Joyce stop walking —
Vince Taylor is coming down the steps of the control tower. He is pointing a double-barrelled shotgun at them —
‘Vince,’ the Mechanic says. ‘There’s no need for that.’
Vince walks towards them. He says, ‘Shut up. On your knees. Both of you.’
They kneel down on the ground —
It is wet. It is cold.
Vince points the shotgun at their chests. He says, ‘Hands on your heads.’
They place their hands on their heads –
It is raining and the dogs are barking.
Vince puts the barrel of the shotgun under his chin. He pulls the trigger.
There are roadblocks on the routes in and out of Sheffield. There are checkpoints on the streets of Sheffield city centre. There are private security guards here on the hotel doors. There are big miners down to protect and serve their big leaders in the dining room of the Royal Victoria Hotel. They put their hands on the Jew’s chest and ask him his business. The Jew laughs and tells them his business is business. He is here because he means to do business –
The Jew is wearing his leather flying-jacket.
Neil Fontaine asks them to take their hands off the Jew and to step to one side. The big miners take their hands off the Jew and step to one side. The Jew thanks them. The Jew goes from breakfast table to breakfast table introducing himself to the big leaders from Durham, Northumberland and Cumberland, from the Midlands, Lancashire and Derbyshire. He urges these moderate men, these weak and cowardly men, to become extreme men, to be strong and brave men today –
Thursday 12 April 1984 —
Today of all days.
The big leaders from the Midlands, Lancashire and Derbyshire smoke cigarette after cigarette, the big leaders from Durham, Northumberland and Cumberland drink cup after cup of tea. Then these moderate men, these weak and cowardly men, make their excuses and leave the Jew to sit alone among the breakfast tables with their full ashtrays and their empty cups –
The Jew is wearing his leather flying-jacket. The Jew means war now.
The Jew retreats upstairs to the temporary war room of his Sheffield suite –
He paces the carpet. He strikes the poses. He barks the orders –
The windows to open. The sun to shine in. The curtains to billow.
Neil Fontaine opens the windows to the sun, the wind and the world outside:
Three thousand striking miners ringing their National Headquarters. Two thousand policemen watching fruit and cans rain down on theNottinghamshireleaders.
Neil Fontaine calls room service. The Jew wants wine with his lunch –
Their President ruling the Right’s demand for a national ballot out of order.
Neil Fontaine calls room service again. The Jew wants another bottle of wine –
Their National Executive proposing to reduce the 55 per cent majority required for strike action to a simple majority and to convene a Special Delegate Conference.
The Jew drinks bottle after bottle. The Jew lies on the double bed –
Their President leaning out of an upstairs window with a megaphone to tell the mob below, ‘We can win provided we show the resolution we did in 1972 and 1974.’
The curtains fall. The sun goes in. The hotel windows are closed –
‘Easy. Easy. Easy,’ chant the mob on the dark streets of Sheffield.
The Jew puts pillows over his head. The Jew shakes. The Jew sobs.
Neil Fontaine picks up another empty bottle. He rights another upturned table.
The Jew gets up. The Jew wobbles about amid the wreckage of his hotel suite. He is panting. He is drunk. He is morbid –