The Seventh Week
Monday 16 — Sunday 22 April 1984
Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Diane was too much for him. She was insatiable. He fell over onto his back. He was out of breath. He hurt. She rolled on top of him. She mounted him. She rode him. He groaned. He moaned. She smiled. She laughed. He cried out. She screamed. He came. She lay beside him. He had his eyes closed. She took his cock in her hand. He opened his eyes. She stroked his cock. He closed his eyes again. She whispered, ‘You got a codeword for him, Mr Chief Executive?’
*
The traffic out of London is a nightmare. Roadblocks at junctions. Helicopters overhead. Sirens. The Jew sits in the back of the Mercedes. He gets his updates on the car phone. He orders flowers for the dead policewoman’s family. Flowers to mark the place where she was slain. Felled by a single shot from the Libyan People’s Bureau in St James’s Square, South West One.
Neil Fontaine fiddles with the frequencies on the radio:
‘— pursuing its domestic policy, the government relies on the aid of the security service which cynically manipulates the definition of subversion and thus abuses its charter so as to investigate and interfere in the activities of legitimate political parties, the trades union movement, and other progressiveorganizations. Bettaney’s solicitor went on —’
Neil Fontaine changes channels again. He puts his foot down on the motorway.
The Jew looks out of the windows of the Mercedes. He gets excited as they approach Sheffield again. He talks of the body politic. He talks of the soul politic –
She has given him new orders –
New orders from the New Order –
New orders to follow. New orders to give.
Neil Fontaine has his own orders –
Old orders.
*
Terry knew the President blamed him. The situation was extremely dangerous and nobody dared predict what would happen next. The families would not be starved back. Troops could be used to move coal stocks –
The greatest good for the greatest number.
The situation was extremely dangerous and the President blamed Terry. Blamed him for everything. Terry had told the President he’d take care of it –
Take care of everything. Terry had told the President they would win –
They had lost.
Terry put his forehead against the window of his office. Terry closed his eyes. Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him. Blamed him –
Back to the Big House for Terry.
The phone on the desk rang again. It never fucking stopped –
South Wales called him at least twice a day with questions about the injunction. Click-click. They were not alone. Legal questions. Financial questions. Endless fucking questions –
It pissed him off –
Terry had done what he had to do. Terry had done his job –
Why couldn’t they?
Terry thought this would be Clive calling again. Clive Cook called constantly. Clive confused the codes. Clive forgot the codes. Clive ignored the codes. Clive cried –
‘I don’t knowhow much more of this I can take.’
Terry Winters thought Clive Cook might well have been a very poor choice.
Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘The Chief Executive speaking.’
‘Terry? Thank Christ for that. It’s Jimmy. I’m trying to get hold of the President. No one will tell me where he is. What’s going on?’
‘Not allowed to give out information over the phone. New directive.’
‘Fucking hell, Tel. This is urgent. You seeing him?’
‘I’d like to tell you, but then —’
‘Look, just listen. I’m down in London. We’ve just come out of a JPA meeting. The Board have just told us they’re willing to sit down with you all. Talk. Face to face. No messing about. I’m trying to set something up for next Tuesday —’
‘What’s to bloody talk about? He was on Weekend World saying they should use troops to move stocks. Told Jimmy Young he’d got more constructive things to do with his time than talk to us. There’s Tebbit all over the papers talking about denationalization. You’d be wasting the President’s time, Jimmy —’
‘Terry, listen. No compulsory redundancies and they’ll drop their initial timetable. That’s a fucking climbdown in anybody’s book. It’s a victory for us.’