The War of the Worlds into his pocket —
The telephone ringing. Malcolm picked it up. Listened —
‘Having a bit of a clear out, are we?’ asked Roger Vaughan.
‘What do you want?’
‘Not forgotten already, have we?’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘Your eyes and ears, Malcolm,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and ears.’
‘What about them?’
‘We had a deal,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and your ears are ours now.’
Roll up. Roll up. The police have had to close part of Northgate. There are diversions. The Jew has brought the carnival to the streets of Newark. TV trucks and cars full of cameramen choke the town centre of Newark. The carnival has come to see the cash –
To smell it. To touch it —
The Jew stands downstairs in the reception area at the front of Robinson & Harris. He tips the contents of an oversized post-bag across the reception desk and hands the envelopes to the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News –
‘Read them and weep, Adolf,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Read them and weep.’
Behind him stand Don and Derek; Don wearing his new Nottingham Forest shirt; Derek his new leather jacket –
‘“Dear Don and Derek,”’ reads the Jew. ‘“You are real heroes to me and all the other miners at our pit. We are only on strike because we are too scared of his Red Guard and South Yorkshire Hit Squad and what they would do to our wives and kids if we were to go into work. We think you are the bravest men in this country. We have not got much money, as you know, but here is over one hundred pounds that we want you to have. We hope you will win soon, so we can all return to work. Sorry we can’t sign our real names, but we know you know why. Your friends and your fans.”’
Pens scribble, cameras flash –
‘And this one,’ says the Jew. ‘This one from a pensioner in Brighton who says, “Thank God that this country still has men like Mr Colby and Mr Williams to fight not only for their own and their mates’ rights, but also for all the members of the public who are decent and hard-working like them, and who support them wholeheartedly —”’
‘How much have the lads got so far, then?’ ask the press.
Piers Harris steps forward. He says, ‘To date, since the launch of the Ballot Fund, we have received over five hundred letters a day and a total of more than twenty thousand pounds.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ shrieks the Jew. ‘It just keeps flooding in. Pouring in. Pound notes from pensioners and schoolchildren, cheques for a hundred or for a thousand pounds from individuals and businesses.’
‘How do you feel about all this, Don?’ ask the press.
‘It’s fantastic,’ says Don. ‘Just fantastic.’
‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘It is fantastic.’
‘Remember,’ says the Jew. ‘Their own homes are under twenty-four-hour guard. They are accompanied everywhere by members of the Special Branch. They are both heavily overdrawn and their mortgages have not been paid. Heaven forbid they should lose, this action could cost each man more than one hundred thousand pounds.’
‘How do you feel about that, Derek?’ ask the press.
‘It would have been worth every penny,’ says Derek. ‘Every penny.’
‘Yes,’ says Don. ‘Every penny.’
‘But they’re not going to lose,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Not with this kind of support from ordinary members of the Great British Public –
‘The people of Great Britain won’t let them lose!’
‘What do you think of Carl Baker, the ex-Grey Fox?’ ask the press.
Don and Derek look at the Jew. The Jew nods at Don and Derek –
‘He has a lot of courage and integrity,’ says Don. ‘A lot.’
‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘A lot of courage and integrity.’
‘OK, that’s all folks,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Show’s over for now.’
Neil Fontaine watches the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News leave the offices of Robinson & Harris. He watches them run back to their trucks and their cars with their headlines for their deadlines.
The telephone rings. The secretary says, ‘Mr Sweet, it’s Carl Baker for you.’
The Jew looks at Neil Fontaine. The Jew draws a finger across his throat.
Neil Fontaine takes the phone from the girl –
‘Hello, Carl,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Mr Sweet is busy. Can I take a message?’
Malcolm showed the receptionist at the County his new warrant card and the receptionist showed Malcolmthe register. Malcolmasked for Room707 and the receptionist gave him a key attached to a long wooden stick.
Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor past the bathrooms —
The rooms were empty. The rooms were quiet —
A black man pushed a vacuum cleaner down the corridor.
Malcolm came to Room 707. He unlocked the door. He stepped inside —
It smelt stale.
Malcolm hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle of the door. He closed the door. Locked it. He took off his shoes. Placed them on the double bed. He walked across the room. Drew the curtains. He took a gauze mask from his trouser pocket. Put it on. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed.
Malcolm lay down on the floor between the bed and the door —
He turned his head to the left. His ear to the floor —
Malcolm closed his eyes. He controlled his breathing beneath the mask —
He listened —
No one home down below.
Malcolm breathed out through the mask. He opened his eyes —
Not today.
Malcolm took his shoes off the bed. Placed them by the door. He took his trousers and jacket off the bed. Hung them on the back of the door. He took the pillows, the blankets and the sheets off the bed. Folded them up and placed them inside the wardrobe. He lifted up the double bed. Placed it on its side. He picked up his case. Put it on the dressing table. He opened it. Took out a Stanley knife. He cut a large square out of the thicker carpet under where the bed had stood. Placed the square of carpet to one side. He cut a smaller square out of the underlay. Placed it to one side. He put the Stanley knife back in his briefcase. Took out a small brush. He dusted the floorboards clean. Put the brush back in his briefcase. He took out the stethoscope and the micro-recorder, the micro-tapes and the microphones. Malcolm laid them out. He set them up. He tested and adjusted them. He went back to the briefcase.Tookoutthe envelope –
The photograph.
Malcolm Morris pinned the photograph to the wall of Room 707, the County Hotel, and layon the floor and stared up into that face —
The ghosts without. The ghosts within –
The face of Neil Fontaine.
Peter
Beirut — Barricades across roads. Trees. Scrap cars. Tyres. Supermarket trolleys — David Rainer stood up with more bad news. He said, Board are saying seventeen went in today — Is that scabs or coppers in disguise? asked Johnny. Folk were nodding. I said, Know which pits, do we? Allerton-Bywater and Gascoigne Wood up there. Askern, Brodsworth, Hatfield and Markham Main in Doncaster area. Just Silverwood here, David read from his list. Folk were shaking their heads. Tom said, Thought Donny were solid? All part of their plan, said Derek. Board and police know them lads flying from those pits are hardcore. They’ve pushed them pits first so as to keep local lads busy — Lot of them blokes are stuck out in middle of nowhere, too, said Tom. Easy to get at them — Pressure they put on them is immense, said David. Folk were nodding again. I said, Talking to them. It’s only way to help them — Help them? Johnny laughed. They’re fucking scabs, Pete. How many more times? They’re as good as dead to us — Be blackout curtains over Welfare’s windows soon. That bad. I looked up — Built like a brick shithouse, he was. Not been down here before. Never been on a picket, either. Lads said he just sat about house or went up reservoir with his dog. His wife worked. Packing factory in Rotherham. Not as bad off as some, then. Two teenage kids at school, mind — But here he was. First thing after breakfast — Tears down both cheeks. Dog on a lead — Aye-up, Chris, I said. What’s up with you, lad? It’s about her, he said. Who? He pointed at his dog on lead. He said, Her — What about her? I said. I can’t keep her. Can’t feed her. RSPCA won’t bloody take her — I looked at pair of them. I shook my head. I said, I don’t know what — Thought you might know someone, he said. Bloody good dog, she is — I can see that, I said. But what — Don’t want to just let her loose, he said. She wouldn’t go, either. I know she wouldn’t. Daft thing’d get hit by a car or something. I took her up reservoir last night. Had a bag with me. Few stones. Bit of rope. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it — Chris, Chris, listen to me, I told him. If you came on picket with us, you’d get a quid a day. Bill Blakey’s will sell you a bag of bones for a quid. He looked up. He wiped his nose. He said, You don’t want her, then? I bloody don’t, I said. But I want you to come picketing. That way you can keep her. He wiped his nose again. He said, But I seen it on telly, Pete. It’s not for me. I said, Looks worse than it is on TV. Nine time out of ten, nothing ever happens. Die of boredom most days. He shook his head. He said, That how you lost your teeth then, is it? Chris, I said, you’d be biggest bloody bloke there. He looked at dog. He said, I know that. That’s why I don’t want to go — I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, I said. Not when I were with you. He looked up at me again, then back down at dog. He said, Just a quid? Unless there’s anything left over from petrol and there will be, I said. Big bastard like you in car. He sighed. He said, I’ll see you Monday then. I nodded. I said, I’ll be waiting — Armthorpe. Askern. Bentley. Brodsworth. Easington. Hatfield. Silverwood. Wearmouth — Waiting for war to come to us — Her war. My war — Teeth woke me up again. Bloody hurt, they did. I didn’t want to get out of my bed, though. Fucking week we’d had. Hardly been in house. I couldn’t think last time I sat down for a meal with Mary and our Jackie — Mary was folding washing when I came downstairs. Jackie had gone to get us a paper. I made us all a pot. Jackie came back. Read bits of paper. Best news of week was Wednesday beating Forest three-fucking-one — Take that, you scabby fucking bastards, I thought — Mary said, What you grinning at? Nothing. She said, I saw Martin’s wife yesterday. Cath Daly? I said. Where was that then? In town, she said. Centre of Rotherham. In precinct, wasn’t it? Our Jackie looked up from her tea. She nodded. Did you speak to her? Just how’s it going, Mary said. Usual — What did she say? Nothing — Mention Martin, did she? No — Keith thought they might have moved, you know? Mary shook her head. She said, What does he know about anything? I said, Might go up there after dinner — I got car out. Drove up to Hardwick. Parked outside their house. No sign of life. I knocked on