The Twenty-third Week
Monday 6 — Sunday 12 August 1984
There is a full board meeting of the NCB today. The Jew has his invitation. He has been asked to address the Board by the Chairman. He knows the Board do not care for him. The Jew doesn’t care. He is on the front line. Not them. He’s fighting this fight. Not them. He’s winning the war, not them –
‘Help the Miners, yes,’ says the Jew. ‘But not him. Never. Not him. Never him. That one man’s war has brought over five thousand arrests. Injured six hundred police and two hundred pickets. That one man’s war has killed two of his own on the picket line. Driven to suicide many, many more. It has cost countless millions in damage to property. It has seen miner attack miner. Colleague attack colleague. Brother attack brother. It has led to threats of assault, rape and murder on the families of those that will not join this one man’s war –
‘Well, gentlemen, the time has come to fight back and I am here today to tell you that fightback has already started. Independent legal actions by ordinary working miners across the coalfields of Britain have begun. Collections by ordinary working miners to compensate the victims of intimidation and violence have begun. Committees of ordinary miners who want to organize a return to work have begun –
‘These men are on the front line. They stand alone against one man’s attempts to destroy the democratic rights of working-class people. If he succeeds and these men fail, this country fails too –
‘The battle has been joined. The fightback has begun. If it is to be won, and won speedily, all who love and believe in freedom and democracy should do and give what they can financially or in any other way they see fit.’
Neil Fontaine claps long and loud. He says, ‘Bravo, sir. Bravo.’
‘To Hobart House, then,’ says the Jew. ‘To Hobart House, Neil.’
Malcolm didn’t sleep because Malcolm didn’t want to dream. He didn’t want to dream because he didn’t want to hear them —
Hear them in his dreams. Laughing. See them in his sheets. Fucking.
These were the nights from which he ran and hid. The days when he disappeared —
Checked into a hotel. Locked the doors. Drew the curtains —
Disappeared off the face of the Earth —
To lie deceived and defeated on hotel sheets. For nights and days like these —
These dark dog-days of August 1984.
Malcolm Morris lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and watched the night retreat across the ceiling. The curtains. The shadows become sunlight. Malcolm lay awake in his room at the Clifton Park Hotel and wished that it were so —
That shadows became light.
Malcolm got up. Dressed. He checked out. Drove —
Dalton, Nottinghamshire.
He parked and sat low in the car and watched them arrive with their radios on –
‘— I plan to come out into the open to prevent my friends from being hurt and intimidated by militant miners who are trying to identify Grey Fox through violence —’
He watched Carl Baker at the door of the pub between four large policemen —
‘— I do not agree with the Board’s pit closure programme but eighty per cent of striking miners want to go back to work —’
He watched him shake hands with each man who came to his meeting —
‘— don’t let this animal element, these left-wing bully-boys and their hit squads, don’t let them destroy your lives. Call your mates, then call your pit manager —’
He watched him talk to the journalists and the TV crews with his sunglasses on —
‘— let’s all go back to work next Monday. Tell your wives to pack your lunch, then go to your pit and strike a blow for democracy —’
He watched him break down into hundreds of tears (a lifetime of fears to come).Hewatched StephenSweetput an armaround him —
A silent movie.