The Twenty-fifth Week
Monday 20 — Sunday 26 August 1984
The President sent Terry Winters and Mike Sullivan back to Huddersfield Road again. The President wanted them to find out what-the-bloody-hell-was-going-on-over-there. The President didn’t trust Huddersfield Road at all now. Not one inch. None of them. The President was really, really fucking paranoid now –
They all were (they all said so). Everyone –
Dick and Paul. Joan and Len. The Tweeds and the Denims. Everyone –
Clive Cook was waiting on the front steps outside the Yorkshire Headquarters. Clive said, ‘Good morning, Comrades.’
‘Is it fuck,’ said Mike Sullivan.
‘You weren’t expecting us, were you, Comrade?’ asked Terry.
Clive Cook looked at Terry. Clive said, ‘Should I have been?’
Terry and Mike Sullivan went through the arched doorway. Clive followed them. On the stairs, Clive asked, ‘Is there anything I can help you with, Comrades?’
‘You can show us where you keep your area minutes and agendas,’ said Mike.
Clive shook his head. He said, ‘They are all locked in the Area President’s office.’
‘And you don’t have a key, I suppose?’ asked Terry.
Clive shook his head again. He said, ‘Of course not.’
‘Who does?’ asked Mike.
Clive stopped a step below Terry and Mike. He said, ‘What is this, Comrades?’
‘You have a mole in this building,’ said Terry.
Mike nodded. He said, ‘An enemy within.’
‘So what are you two?’ asked Clive. ‘The Sheffield Inquisition?’
‘Yes,’ said Terry Winters. ‘That’s exactly what we are. Now find us the keys.’
Clive Cook walked back down the stairs. Clive Cook produced the keys –
Terry and Mike set to work; Clive Cook watched them –
Tear up plans. Budgets. Rewrite reports. Minutes –
Then Terry sent Mike out on another paper-chase and called Clive Cook closer. Terry ran his hands over Clive’s chest. Across his back. Up and down his legs –
Terry pulled him closer still and said, ‘I hope you’re being a good boy, Clive.’
Clive put his arms around Terry. Clive put his head against Terry’s chest –
Clive held on to Terry until he heard the footsteps –
The footsteps in the dark corridor.
Terry Winters got back to the office first. There would be no one here today. They’d still all be up at Gascoigne Wood. The Denims too. There to greet Brian Green –
The first Yorkshire scab –
The Home Front had opened up.
Terry had a long list of phone-calls to return. His old friend Jimmy at NACODS. The Daily bloody Mirror. Nearly every finance officer in the whole fucking Union. Terry took another three aspirins. He sat down under the large portrait of the President. He waited for the phone to ring. For her to call –
Please, please, please –
At five o’clock it rang.
Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’
‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Hope you missed me.’
Terry dropped the phone –
He did the stairs and the streets in five minutes. The drive in ten –
He ran through the hotel. Up the stairs. Through her door –
Terry dropped his pants –
Beds creaked. Headboards banged. Walls shook. Mouths cursed –
‘My best was not good enough,’ shouted Terry. ‘Not fucking good enough!’
Diane reached over to touch him. To hold him –
Terry turned away. Terry said, ‘I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him!’