The Sixteenth Week
Monday 18 — Sunday 24 June 1984
Terry had sat with his office door open all Sunday night. He had watched them stagger back from the Wakefield Gala. A few of them had had to be carried in. They had stuck them in rooms where the President wouldn’t look. He was still in Wakefield –
Rallying the troops.
Terry had kept the office door open all night. He had listened to them making their plans. Listened to them talk about the death of the picket at Ferrybridge. The siege of Maltby. The police reprisals. They were waiting for the President –
Their general.
‘Comrade —’
Terry looked up. The President was stood in the doorway. He was wearing his baseball cap. Len and Joan were standing behind him. They were carrying maps. Plans –
Battle-plans.
‘Comrade,’ said the President, ‘we’re going to need more envelopes.’
Terry nodded. He opened his bottom drawer. He took out the requisition forms. He completed the order. He initialled the forms. He stood up. He walked over to the door. He handed them back to the President.
‘Thank you, Comrade,’ said the President and passed the order to Joan.
Terry watched the President walk away down the corridor –
To his tent and to his dreams.
Terry closed his office door. Terry had his own plans. His own dreams –
Soon it would be dawn: Monday 18 June 1984.
*
‘Have you ever, ever, seen anything like this before, Neil?’
Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He never, never, has seen anything like this before:
The Third English Civil War.
Neil Fontaine closes his eyes. He never, never, wants to see anything like this again.
‘Thank you, Brixton,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Thank you, Toxteth.’
*
Tell the world that you’re winning –
The morning after the day before:
The miner was cowering. The miner was wearing just a pair of jeans and trainers. The miner had his shirt tied round his waist. His back to the car. Hispalms up —
The policeman had a shield and a helmet. The policeman had a baton.
The policeman hit the miner with his baton. Hit him —
Again. Again. Again. And again –
The TV showed the policeman hit the miner.
The President watched the TV. The President touched the back of his neck –
The President said, ‘These bastards rushed in and this guy hit me on the back of the head with his shield and I was out.’
The President had spent the night in Rotherham District Hospital.
The police had cheered as he’d been taken to the ambulance.
The nation was outraged –
Not by the assault on the miner. Not by the assault on the President. No –
The TV had lied again. They had cut the film. They had stitched it back together –
Stitched up the Union with it –
Miners threw stones. Miners hurt horses. Miners rioted –
‘— the worst industrial violence since the war —’
Police defended themselves. Police upheld the law. Police contained the riot –
That was it.
The lorries had emptied the place of coke. The miners had lost –
That was it.
Meanwhile, Nottingham had continued to produce coal. The power stations power.
‘The President of the National Union of Mineworkers slipped off the top of the bank and hit his head on a sleeper,’ said the Assistant Chief Constable of South Yorkshire. ‘He was not near a riot shield. The officers with the riot shields were on the road and he was off the road. They did not come within seven or eight yards of him.’
The President was a liar. The President had lost –
That was it —
End of story. Finished.
The President switched off the TV. The President went upstairs.
The National Co-ordinating Committee was meeting in the Conference Room –
For the first time –
Today was the hundredth day of the Great Strike to Save Pits and Jobs.
Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He had tears in his eyes. In his dreams –
Tell the world that you’re winning —
The hundredth day.
Malcolm listened to the tapes. He played it all back. Listened to the tapes. To them payit all back—
‘If a highwayman holds you up, it is always possible to avoid violence by handing over to him what he wants.’
EVERY WOMAN’S GOT ONE –
‘— shields up —’
[— sound of body against Perspex shield — ]
‘— breach of line at middle holding area. Request —’
BUT MARGARET THATCHER IS ONE –