Paul reached across the desk to take hold of Terry. Len pulled him back –
‘What do you mean, did I?’ shouted Paul. ‘You know fucking well you did. You’re such an arrogant bloody prick, Winters. Arrogant and —’
‘Then I apologize,’ said Terry. ‘I apologize to both of you, Comrades.’
Paul made another lurch towards the desk. Len held him back –
‘It was a fucking opportunity and you fucking killed it,’ screamed Paul. ‘Dead. There’s nothing now. No meeting. Nothing. I hope you’re fucking pleased with yourself, Comrade. Dead in the water. Nothing. Fucking satisfied now, Comrade?’
‘I made a mistake then,’ said Terry. ‘I thought the President said pit closures and job losses were not negotiable. I thought I was simply restating our position. I’m sorry.’
Len let go of Paul. Paul stared at Terry Winters –
Terry smiled at Paul Hargreaves. Terry smiled at Len Glover –
Len shook his head. Len opened the door. Paul pointed at Terry –
Paul said, ‘I’m on to you, Winters.’
Martin
Martin! Please — Go away, will you? I hate you! I lean my head against door. I say, I’m sorry, I — Just leave me alone for God’s sake, she screams. Leave me alone! I walk down stairs. I get my jacket. I drive into Thurcroft. I go into Welfare. They’re looking for people to go and stay in Nottingham for a couple of days at a time. I have a few drinks and I put my name down. Day 50. Harworth. By half-ten we’re starving. There’s a gap in crowd. Head off down a side-street with Little John and Keith. We go into this newsagent’s that’s got some sandwiches and pies. Got a couple of sausage rolls and a can of pop in my hands when police come in — Three of them. White shirts. No numbers. Met — Krk-krk. What you fucking doing in here? Buying a sausage roll and a can of pop. No, you’re fucking not. Get out. I haven’t paid. You got no money, scum. Get out. But — You fucking deaf as well as thick. Fucking out. Bloke behind counter just stands there. Gob open. We put stuff back. Keith turns to bloke behind counter. Sorry, he says. Shut up and get out, says tit-head. We walk outside — They push us in back. Across road. Now, they say. Pick up them feet. We start over road to field where everyone’s being penned in. Police three deep around them. Miles from scabs and gate. Nearly there when this big shout goes up. Lads are charging towards police with a bloody cricket screen. Police counter-charge. Screen goes straight into about half a dozen of police. Lads scatter. Run over tip at back. Hundred or so police haring after them. Rest of lads push forward — Fences go down. Folk grab posts — We’re just stood there on road behind police line. Police vans coming up behind us. Lorries for pit. Scabs. Scuffles. Stones coming over top — Fuck this, says Little John. We head back down side-street. Turn around. No one behind us. We go in shop again. Bloke behind counter shakes his head. Pick up a sausage roll and a can of pop each. Pay for them double-quick. Go outside and walk off back towards pit — Pitch fucking battle now. Ten thousand men kicking the living fuck out of each other — Like something from bloody Middle Ages. Dark Ages. Three of us just stand there — Mouthfuls of sausage roll. Shitting fucking bricks. Day 51. I phone Pete first thing. Tell him I’m a non-runner. Truth is I don’t fancy it. Not after yesterday. I put breakfast TV on — talking about troops moving coal stocks again. Cath comes down. Stands behind sofa. Not a word. I switch it off. She goes into kitchen. I follow her. I walk over to her. I put my hands round her waist. I say, I’m sorry. She nods. I kiss her hair. I say, Let’s go up to Whitby this weekend. She shakes her head. She’s crying. We can’t afford it, she says. I turn her around. I say, Can’t afford not to. Kip in car if it comes to it. She smiles. First time in a long time. Day 52. Pete called late last night, asked if I was up for it today. Told him I still felt bad. Tell from his voice he didn’t believe us — I don’t care though. Done practically every bloody day since it fucking started. Nerves are in shreds. Don’t even switch on television now. Rather spend day in garden. Least Cath is happy. Have tea ready for when she gets in. Sausages and Smash. Lovely. Go up to bed early, ready for tomorrow. Top of stairs, telephone goes again. I think, Bugger it. Let thing bloody ring. But Cath goes down. Martin, she says. It’s for you. I come back down stairs. I say, Who is it? She’s got her hand over receiver. Mr Moore from colliery, she says. I take phone from her. I say, This is Martin Daly. Cath doesn’t move. She stands there, watching my face. I listen to him. I say, I don’t know who told you that. Stands there, watching my face. I say, They were wrong. Stands there — Yes, I tell him. I know where you are. Goodnight to you. Watching. You threw us in a pit. I hang up. Day 53. We set off early. Drive up to York. Avoid Ferrybridge. Drax. Them places. Go through Malton. Pickering. Over North York Moors. Beautiful. Lovely pub lunch. Fresh air, windows down in car. Can smell sea fore we see it. Hear gulls. Turn to Cath. Her handkerchief out. Tears down her face — Mine too. You showered us with soil. Day 54. We hold hands. We walk up to Abbey. Find path. We walk to edge. Look over — The sea. The cliffs. The sky. The sun — I want to jump. Take her with me. Fall –
The Eighth Week
Monday 23 — Sunday 29 April 1984
The skull. The candle. The clock and the mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor. The carpet. The towels and the sheets. The light across the wallpaper. The curtains. The fixtures and the fittings. The shadow across the bone. The face. The hands and the hair. The boots across the room. The building. The town and the country –
Jennifer moves across the bed. The pillow. His name in her dreams.
She wakes in the light –
We bury the ones we treasure –
The door is locked. Neil gone again.
His head falls forward. Schaub is unconscious. Tied up.
The Mechanic goes over to the sink. He rinses his right hand under the cold tap. He puts the plug in the hole. He fills the basin. He soaks his knuckle in the sink.
His head moves. Schaub groans.
The Mechanic pulls out the plug. He dries his hands on a small towel. He walks over to the telephones. He picks up one of the receivers. He dials the number.
Julius Schaub moans.
Neil Fontaine sits in the Mercedes and reads the papers –
Their President claiming CEGB coal stocks will last only nine more weeks. The TGWU threatening to call a national docks strike if dockers are sacked for supporting striking miners. Their President refusing to meet the Board to discuss the rescheduling of pit closures. The Board launching their back-to-work campaign today.
Neil Fontaine tears out two small stories from the inside pages –
He puts them in his pocket. He saves them for later.
The War Cabinet dissolves. The Jew comes out of Downing Street.
Neil Fontaine holds open the door.
The Jew gets in the back. He says, ‘The Club please, Neil.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Neil Fontaine drives to the Carlton Club. He opens the back door for the Jew.
The Jew looks at his watch. He says, ‘Three o’clock please, Neil.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Neil Fontaine leaves the car close to the Club and walks along to Charing Cross. Neil spots Roger Vaughan. Roger spots Neil Fontaine. Neil follows Roger Vaughan down the Strand. Roger turns left down a small alley Neil Fontaine is right behind him. Roger Vaughan goes into the pub. Neil sits down at a table in the corner. Roger orders the drinks. Neil Fontaine lights a cigarette. Roger Vaughan brings over two drinks –