‘Us?’
‘For the whole movement. For the NUM and NACODS. For the President.’
‘What do they want?’
‘I’ve got a letter from them saying what I just told you. But they want a response. And they want it as soon as possible. Then we’ll talk about setting the time and the place. But I do need to speak to the President.’
Terry drummed his fingers on the desk. He said, ‘Get their letter to me by courier. I’ll make sure the President sees it —’
‘He’ll thank you, Terry.’
‘I’ll ensure you have our response by the end of the day,’ said Terry. ‘Personally.’
‘You’re a hero, Comrade,’ said the man from NACODS. ‘A real hero, Terry.’
Terry put down the phone. Terry stood up. Terry smiled to himself –
Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him for everything –
But not for long.
Good Friday will be the Führer’s birthday. Ninety-five years old –
Happy birthday, Uncle Alf.
Ten days of feasting and festivities until the finale in the Walpurgisnacht fires –
The rehearsals will have already begun.
The Mechanic drives through Evesham onto Cirencester, across to Stroud and up to Cheltenham. This is the heart. The secret heart. The dark heart.
The Cotswolds. The Norfolk Broads. The West Coast of Scotland –
These are the places. The secret places. The dark places.
The Mechanic looks for the signs. The secret signs. The dark signs –
He finds them. Remembers.
This is the place. The secret place. The darkest place –
The Estate. The Big House –
Wewelsburg.
He parks well away. Lets the dogs out. He goes to the boot of the car. Takes out the rucksack. He puts it on. Whistles. The dogs come back. He feeds them. Locks them in the car. The windows open just a crack. He walks through the fields.Thestreams –
He comes to the trees. The leaves. He sits in the tall grass. He waits –
Is she sleeping. In the dark? Is she waking. In the light?
He watches the back of the house. The grounds through the binoculars –
The marquee is up. The fairy lights on.
It’ll be night. Darker still soon –
The generals in the house with their Wagner and their Bruckner under the portraits of Robert K. Jeffrey and A. K. Chesterton, the troops drunk in the grounds singing their songs about nig-nogs and wogs under the Fylfot and StGeorgebunting –
Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not here –
And he’d be here somewhere.
The Mechanic watches. The Mechanic waits –
The music stops. The rehearsal starts –
The doors from the house to the grounds are opened. The trolley is wheeled out.Thefakeswastika cakerevealed. Ninety-fiveunlit candles –
The birthday boy with the party knife in his hand –
Uncle Adolf played by Julius Schaub, a.k.a. Martin Peter Cooper.
The Mechanic gets the car. The dogs.
Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Christopher and Timothy were too fast for him. They were incorrigible. Louise fell over on the flagstones. She started to cry. She looked around for her daddy. Terry stopped chasing after the boys and the football. He walked back across the lawn. Louise pointed at the graze on her knee. Terry bent down. He kissed it better. He picked her up. He held her. Theresa came out of the house. She was carrying a tray of barley water. Ice clinked in the glasses. She looked at Terry –
She didn’t speak. She never did. Theresa Winters just smiled –
He didn’t speak either. He never dared. Terry Winters just smiled back –
He winked at his wife. He was going to amaze them all.
*
Last week was a dress rehearsal for the main event. The aperitif for today’s main course. Neil Fontaine has dressed for this dinner in a donkey jacket. He helps the Jew into his –
NCB on the back.
The Jew stands in the middle of his hotel suite in the donkey jacket. He says, ‘When in Rome, eh, Neil?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Chop-chop then,’ says the Jew. ‘Let’s not miss their Nero and his games.’
Neil Fontaine escorts the Jew downstairs. They walk through the hotel lobby They step out into the bright Sheffield sunshine.
The Jew puts on his sunglasses. He looks up at the helicopters.
Neil Fontaine leads the Jew through the deserted backstreets. Towards the noise. Neil Fontaine leads him to the Memorial Hall. Towards the chants –
This is what the Jew has come back to see:
The Special Delegate Conference of the National Union of Mineworkers.
Seven thousand men on the streets. One single message on their lips –
Their badges and their banners:
No ballot.
The Jew waits in the shadows. Neil Fontaine stands behind him.
The Jew watches the crowd. The Jew listens to the crowd –
Listens to their cheers. Their thunderous cheers.
The Jew watches the speakers. The Jew listens to the speakers –
Speech after speech from speaker after speaker –
Against the government. Against the police. Against the state. Against the law.
The Jew listens to their reception. Their thunderous reception –
Not for the Labour Party. Not for parliamentary opposition. Not for democracy –
But for extra-parliamentary opposition. And for their President.
They have their victory again and their President has his –
His victory. His victory speech:
‘I am the custodian of the rulebook and I want to say to my colleagues in the Union that there is one rule, above all the rules in the book, and that is when workers are involved in action –
‘YOU DO NOT CROSS PICKET LINES IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.’
The Jew listens. The Jew watches –
He watches their leader lauded. He watches their delegates disperse –
He watches the men move on –
To bottles. To stones. To attack the press –
The banks of photographers. The mass of TV crews.
To attack the police and the police attack back –
The pub fights and the snatch squads.
The Jew in the shadows. Neil Fontaine behind him.
It is Thursday 19 April 1984 –
Maundy Thursday –
‘But this is not Britain,’ whispers the Jew. ‘This is another Nuremberg.’
*
‘The fuck is this, Winters?’
Terry looked up from his figures. Paul Hargreaves was standing before his desk. Len Glover in the doorway. Paul holding out a piece of paper –
A letter. The letter.
Terry put down his pen. He took off his glasses.
Len stepped inside. He closed the door.
‘Is there a problem, Comrades?’ asked Terry.
Paul banged the letter down onto Terry’s desk –
‘Yes there’s a problem, Comrade,’ he said. ‘The fucking problem is you.’
‘Have I done something wrong?’ asked Terry.
Paul stared at him. He tapped the letter. He said, ‘You changed this.’
‘Did I?’ asked Terry. ‘Did I really?’