‘So will the bloody Board,’ he moans. ‘And so will half the fucking Cabinet.’
Neil Fontaine stops at the end of Downing Street.
The Jew sighs. He reaches for his aviator sunglasses and a large white umbrella. He takes a deep breath. He is here to set the record straight –
‘Wish me luck, Neil,’ he says.
‘Good luck, sir.’
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Downing Street –
The War Cabinet.
He looks at the clock in the dashboard. He starts the Mercedes –
He takes a deep breath of his own. He has his own records to set straight.
Jerry and Roger are side by side in the dining room of the Special Services Club. They are looking at christening photographs.
Neil Fontaine sits down. He glances at the photographs. He recognizes faces –
Famous faces in private places.
Roger puts the photos in an envelope. He licks it shut. He looks up at Neil.
Jerry drums his fingers on the white linen tablecloth. Jerry leans forward. He says, ‘It isn’t getting any less complicated, is it, Neil?’
Neil Fontaine doesn’t say anything. Neil Fontaine waits.
Jerry leans back –
Roger leans forward. Roger places his hands on the table. Roger stares up at Neil. ‘Unfortunately,’ he says, ‘despite all your protestations, Jerry and I still do not share your conviction that our friends failed to find anything.’
Neil Fontaine waits.
‘However,’ says Jerry, ‘it would appear the panic upstairs has abated. A touch.’
‘A touch,’ repeats Roger. ‘For now.’
Neil Fontaine waits.
Jerry watches Neil Fontaine’s face. He drums his fingers on the tablecloth again. He says, ‘Roger and I feel now would be a good time to draw a line under certain …’
‘People,’ says Roger.
Neil Fontaine waits.
Jerry says, ‘No more loose ends, Neil. Please?’
‘Present company excepted, of course,’ adds Roger.
Neil Fontaine stares back across the tablecloth into their eyes –
Their endless lying, lidless fucking eyes —
Neil Fontaine smiles at Jerry and Roger. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Of course.’
Jerry says, ‘Roger and I do feel the Mechanic has served his purpose.’
‘Dixon is not going to be very happy,’ adds Roger. ‘We know that.’
Neil Fontaine shrugs. Neil Fontaine says, ‘The policeman’s lot.’
Jerry laughs. He lifts up his napkin. He pushes an envelope across the tablecloth –
Roger puts a hand on it. He stops it. He taps it –
‘Both of them,’ he says. ‘Hand in hand into one last sunset.’
Neil Fontaine nods.
‘Both of them,’ Roger repeats. ‘No loose ends, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine nods again. He picks up the envelope. He stands up. He stops now –
‘Aren’t we all forgetting someone?’ he asks.
Jerry raises a hand. He makes a hook. He says, ‘Leave the Tinkerbell to us.’
‘Jerry and I are very fond of our fairy friends,’ adds Roger, with a wink.
Neil Fontaine stares back at them. Neil says, ‘He can hear things.’
‘We know that,’ laughs Jerry. ‘It’s his bloody job, Neil. Why we hired him.’
Neil Fontaine smiles. Neil Fontaine bows. Neil Fontaine leaves them to it –
He gets the car. He looks at the clock. He leaves for Downing Street –
The War Cabinet dissolves –
Neil Fontaine holds open the door.
The Jew gets in the back. The Jew shakes his head.
Neil Fontaine sits behind the steering wheel. He looks into the rearview mirror –
Muscles strain. Leather. Teeth snarl. Chains –
‘Call off the dogs‚’ says the Jew. ‘Call off the dogs, Neil.’
Malcolm Morris drank instant coffee. Malcolm Morris smoked duty-free cigarettes —
Malcolm Morris watched and Malcolm Morris listened –
‘— pick us up by Asda. What he said. But did he? Did he heck as like —’
Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week. Every month —
Malcolm Morris went to his office. Malcolm Morris worked at his desk –
On the fourth floor opposite NUM Headquarters, St James’s House, Sheffield —
‘— scab on her knee was as big as a plate, it was. Should have heard her —’
Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week –
The lenses leered. Smile. The tapes turned –
Cameras clicked and recorders recorded –
‘— I tell you, Rita. I see more of him on telly than in our own home —’
Every minute. Every hour. Every day —
The shadows on the screens. Smile. The whispers in the wires —
The stake-outs and the phone-taps —
‘— Orgreave, they reckon. Big push again, Bomber said. Boots on —’
Every minute. Every hour —
‘— thinks he must have been Special Branch. Paint-stripper. Lot of it and all —’
Every minute –
Every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single week on the taxpayer’s clock —
Operation Vengeance.
*
Skull. Candle. Clock. Mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor. Carpet. Towels. Sheets. Starlight across the wallpaper. Curtains. Fixtures. Fittings. Shadow across bone. Hands. Hair. Boots across the room. Building. Town. Country –
She doesn’t move.
Neil Fontaine sits in the dark with one curtain open. He thinks about legerdemain; the sleights of hand and the juggling –
He looks at his watch. He taps it. It is two in the morning –
Today the Jew will get his reward. The Prime Minister has promised.
Today the Jew will meet the President of the United States of America –
The Prime Minister has promised. This will be his reward –
The London Economic Summit. The D-Day celebrations –
With the world watching —
The Prime Minister has promised (and she always keeps her promises).
The telephone rings –
Neil Fontaine gets up. He picks up the phone. He listens. He hangs up –
Jennifer sits up in the bed. Jennifer says, ‘Forgive me, Neil. Take me back. Kill him —’
Skull. Candle. Clock. Mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor to the bed. Carpet. Towels. Sheets. Light across the wallpaper. He holds her. Curtains. Fixtures. Fittings. Shadows across their bones. He kisses her. Hands. Hair. Loves her –
There are always moments like this.
He dresses. He leaves. He takes the fast lane North –
He has his other promises to keep. Orders to give. Instructions. Hand-delivered –
Now is not the time, the day or the hour —
The world watching.
But the time, the day and the hour will come –
The world not watching.
Neil Fontaine comes off the motorway at half-past seven. He parks the Mercedes. He walks through the gathering pickets to the old chemical factory. He goes through the police lines into the command post. He has his binoculars. The envelope.
The South Yorkshire Brass looks up. He says, ‘Christ, what now?’
Neil Fontaine smiles. He hands him the envelope –
The Brass opens it. He takes out the letter. He reads it. He shakes his head –