‘And I know, I know, I know you do,’ said Diane.
‘No, you don’t,’ shouted Terry. ‘You’ve no idea. No one has!’
‘Just tell me what you want,’ she said. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you to do it.’
‘Tell you what I want?’ repeated Terry. ‘You really want to fucking know?’
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I want to know. I want to help you.’
Terry stood up. He held Diane’s face in his right hand. He looked into it. He said, ‘I want this strike to end. I want my marriage to end. I want to run away with you.’
‘But where would we go?’ she asked. ‘How would we live?’
Terry said, ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got money —’
Diane put her finger to his lips. She led him back to the bed. She sat him down. She said, ‘Last week in Doncaster, I met a man who said he wanted to help —’
‘Help who?’ asked Terry. ‘Help you?’
Diane smiled. She said, ‘The Union, silly. I really think you need to meet him.’
*
The Jew has had Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn down to Claridge’s for the night again. The Jew is keeping his options open. The Jew has some big plans for Fred and Jimmy. The Jew introduced Fred and Jimmy to Piers Harris and Tom Ball over breakfast this morning. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew, Fred, Jimmy, Piers and Tom to Hobart House. Don and Derek are waiting for them. The Jew has a conference room reserved and ready. The Jew leaves them to it. The Jew goes upstairs. The Jew knocks on the double-doors –
The Chairman of the Board.
Neil Fontaine closes the doors behind the Jew. He waits in the corridor outside.
The Jew coughs. The Jew says, ‘It is a simple plan.’
The Chairman is listening –
‘The emphasis now needs to be moved towards substantial, prearranged returns to work on the first shift of each Monday,’ argues the Jew. ‘At selected pits known only to ourselves and the police. Each area director agrees then to target just one pit per week, each with a set date for a mass return. This in turn allows us to release an ever-increasing weekly figure of the number of men going back to work. Reach fifty-one per cent and it’s over and they know it.’
The Chairman is still listening –
‘The situation in Yorkshire is quite different,’ continues the Jew. ‘The emphasis here should, for the time being, remain on isolated returnees. Their damage to local Union resources and morale are incalculable. The Union will be unable to picket pits outside Yorkshire, or at docks or power stations. Police resources can, therefore, also be concentrated on the areas we choose —’
The Chairman likes what he’s hearing –
‘The Back to Work campaign will be supported by Tom’s campaign of local and national adverts, as well as our own continued legal campaign. These disparate campaigns and their various finances can now be brought under the single umbrella of the National Working Miners’ Committee, which will be formally launched later this week. This will, at last, herald the birth of our union within a union. However, I’m afraid to say we will have to cut loose our Grey Fox, though Mr Colby and Mr Williams remain firmly on board and on course for a most helpful result.’
The Chairman claps. The Chairman likes what he’s heard –
‘Thank you, Stephen. Thank you,’ says the Chairman. ‘Unlike our adversary in the North, I am not a believer in overstatement. However, I have now a decided feeling that we have crossed a watershed. Until July I always felt as though we were sailing into a quite strong breeze. For the last few days there has been a period of calm. Now, after all these weeks, I can finally feel the wind on my back.’
The Jew leads the applause. The Jew says, ‘Bravo, bravo.’
Neil Fontaine waits in the corridor outside. He watches men in suits storm out –
He watches them scowl and sulk. Them pace and then slam their office doors –
Them clean out their desks. Them write their letters of resignation –
Them screw them up. Them throw them at their bins –
But the men in suits always miss.
Neil Fontaine knows how they feel. The Jew has invited all his new friends and their families down to Colditz this weekend. They are to be awed by the affluence. Astonished by the abundance. The Jew will take them for spins in his private helicopter. Tours of the grounds in his golf buggy. Rides on his electric lawnmower. Punts on the lake. Billiards on his tables. Darts on the boards he has bought especially for their visit. He will let their kids play with his horses and his ponies, his dogs and his hawks, while their mothers and fathers eat and drink as much and as often as they like. Then they will sleep in his four-poster beds, wash in his porcelain sinks, and shit in his porcelain bogs, laughing behind his back at the outfits he wears and the things he says and does –
Neil Fontaine wishes the Jew wouldn’t invite them.
He hates these working miners and their fucking families –
He hates this whole bloody strike and every cunt in it.
Neil Fontaine screws up his own letter of resignation. He throws it at a bin –
He misses by a mile.
It will be the death of him, thinks Neil Fontaine. This bloody strike –
The death of everyone.
*
Terry Winters parked in the Doncaster station car park. Terry locked up and left the car. He stood in front of the main station building. Diane picked him up at two o’clock. Diane drove them over the Don into Bentley and up the York Road. She parked outside a row of old terrace houses. They walked along the street to the little shop on the corner. It was an off-licence and newsagent’s. Diane opened the door. Terry followed her inside. Behind the counter stood an Asian family. Diane pointed towards the middle-aged father of four. Diane said, ‘Terry Winters, meet Mohammed Abdul Divan.’
Malcolm didn’t hear them any more because Malcolm didn’t dream. He didn’t dream because he didn’t sleep –
He lay on the floor between the bed and the door. His head to the left. His ear to the floor. He watched the night march across the carpet and the floorboards. Up the four walls. The sunlight become shadow. He lay on the floor between the bedand the door and wished it was not so –
That light never became shadow.
Malcolm stood up. He took out the double-cassette box of The War of the Worlds. He opened the box. The two cassettes inside –
He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the recorder. Side B –
He pressed fast-forward. Stop. He adjusted the tone. He lowered the volume –
Pressed play and played it all back –
‘— in again, if you don’t fucking tell me where it fucking is —’
‘— please. I can’t breathe —’
‘— just tell us where it is then, you old fucking slag —’
‘— told you, it’s not —’
‘— come on, or you’re going to make me —’
‘— stop it, don’t —’
‘— you fucking like it, I know you —’
‘— no, no —’
‘— fucking love it really, you —’
‘— no —’
‘— put it back in, Granny —’
‘—’
Between the bed and the door. Eyes closed. Head to the floor –
Malcolm listened to night march across the Earth. The world become dark again –
Between the bed and the door. The ears in his head. That bled and that bled –
O, how Malcolm wished it was not so.
He opened his eyes. He sat up. He went to his briefcase. He took out his scissors.