He watched their secret meeting break up before the cameras and the microphones. Their cars leave and the car park empty. He watched the police escort Carl Baker and Stephen Sweet and some journalists out to a police Range Rover.
Malcolm looked at his watch —
Fuck.
He started the Volvo. Drove back up to South Yorkshire. The A57 onto the A638 –
The Great North Road.
He passed through Retford and Ranskill. Noticed the Montego in the rearview—
Fuck.
The driver holding something to his mouth. Larger men in the front and rear—
Fuck.
Malcolm put his foot down. The car in front braked —
Fuck.
Malcolm swerved to the left. Into the hedgerow. Into the ditch —
Fuck.
Doors opened. Boots came —
Fuck.
Malcolm opened his door. He got out. Hands over his ears. But it was too late —
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
It never goes away. Tony Davies has left two messages for Neil Fontaine. They arrange to meet in the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel on Bloomsbury Way. Tony is wearing a floral waistcoat under his stained linen jacket. Tony smells of sweat. Tony is a paedophile. Tony is a member of Nazi groups. Tony drinks double vodkas. Neil drinks a Britvic orange. They talk about the Olympics. They talk about Nigel Short. They talk about the weather –
‘Too bloody hot,’ says Tony. ‘Unbearable. I need to get away. You too.’
Neil Fontaine stares at Tony Davies. Neil asks, ‘What makes you say that, Tony?’
‘I know about Shrewsbury,’ he whispers. ‘Very bad business. Very bad.’
Neil Fontaine keeps staring at Tony Davies –
The flowers and the stains —
Tony smiles. Tony points at Neil. Tony says, ‘They’re asking for names.’
Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. Neil Fontaine takes another sip from it.
Tony puts a hand on Neil’s arm. Tony says, ‘I can help you, Neil. I can help you.’
Neil Fontaine removes Tony’s hand from his arm. He says, ‘You’re drunk, Tony.’
‘Am I?’ says Tony. ‘Am I really? Well, so bloody what if I am?’
Neil Fontaine pulls him close. He whispers, ‘You got something to say? Say it.’
‘I want to know what you’ve done with my Julius?’ says Tony. ‘Where is he?’
Neil Fontaine puts his hand between Tony’s legs. He grabs Tony’s testicles –
Tony Davies sits in the corner of the pub and tries not to scream.
Neil Fontaine lets go of Tony’s testicles. He says, ‘Go back to your hole, Tony.’
Tony stands up. Tony runs out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.
Neil Fontaine picks up his Britvic. He finishes it. He stands up –
He follows Tony out of the pub next door to the Kingsley Hotel.
*
The Old Man was sick. He’d collapsed at the rally to commemorate the Tolpuddle Martyrs. He hadn’t got up again yet. The Annual Congress was only three weeks away. The Fat Man had seized his chance. He took the train to Sheffield. The lift up to the tenth floor. The Fat Man wanted to see for himself. Hear for himself –
‘The South Wales NUM accounts with the local Co-operative and Midland banks have all been frozen,’ Terry Winters was telling him. ‘The majority of their assets had already been transferred for safety, so the amounts involved are not great. However, they do include all recent donations and so we’re hopeful we can argue in court that this money is then technically not the property of the South Wales NUM and should therefore be unfrozen. But, in the meantime, it leaves them on a day-to-day basis with no cash.’
The Fat Man turned to the President. He asked, ‘The National Union cannot offer them any assistance? Short-term loans? Divert other donations?’
‘Impossible,’ said the President. ‘Comrade Chief Executive, continue.’
‘The National Union is itself desperately short of money,’ said Terry. ‘Our own assets were also transferred abroad at the start of the dispute. The substantial amounts of money we have received through donations and loans from other unions have, almost in their entirety, been used to alleviate hardship within the communities. There is no longer any finance available to assist areas with strike-related activities. This office itself requires well over one hundred thousand pounds a week to keep going, and by the end of October we will be unable to cover those costs —’
‘Unless’, said the President, ‘the trade union movement comes to our aid.’
The Fat Man nodded. He picked up his TUC pen. He said, ‘How about loans?’
‘We’ve had loans,’ said the President. ‘We need total physical support —’
The Fat Man nodded again. He said, ‘I know that. But what about interest-free loans from across the entire trade union movement? Not just the usual suspects.’
‘It would show tangible physical support,’ agreed the President.
‘The loans would have to be shown to be secure,’ said the Fat Man. ‘And they would obviously have to be repaid.’
‘Obviously,’ said the President.
‘And, obviously,’ continued the Fat Man, ‘they would have to be made in such a way as not to compromise the legal position of our members.’
The President looked over to Terry. He said, ‘Comrade Chief Executive?’
‘There’s over eight million pounds of our assets overseas at present,’ said Terry. ‘These assets are untraceable and can therefore act as security for any loans received. If the loans themselves are made in the form of donations, then the legal position of the donor cannot be compromised should the National Union be subject to any future court actions in regard to our finances. At the conclusion of the dispute, our assets will be returned to Britain and repayments on the loans could then commence.’
The Fat Man stopped writing. The Fat Man put down his TUC pen again. He said, ‘The assets are untraceable? You’re absolutely certain of that?’
Terry Winters smiled. Terry Winters said, ‘Of that I am certain.’
‘There is another way,’ said the President.
The Fat Man picked up his TUC pen again and asked, ‘And what way is that?’
‘Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the President again, ‘if you would —’
‘The President has already submitted a motion calling for all-out support from the Trades Union Congress,’ said Terry. ‘Following last Wednesday’s meeting with ASLEF, the NUS and the NUR, it was decided that we would add to our resolution a number of amendments — one of which is to demand a ten-pence-a-week levy from each individual member of each of the ninety-eight affiliated unions of Congress.’
The Fat Man put down his pen. He said, ‘You’re talking a million quid a week.’
‘No,’ said the President. ‘I’m talking ten pence a week.’
The Fat Man shook his head –
There was silence on the tenth floor. Then footsteps –
Paul Hargreaves opened the door. Paul Hargreaves looked at Terry Winters –
The General Secretary stood and stared at the Chief Executive.
‘What is it, Comrade?’ asked the President. ‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve found and frozen the South Wales assets,’ said Paul. ‘All of them.’
The President turned to Terry Winters. The Fat Man turned to Terry Winters –