Richard Clarke nods. The Chairman nods. The press nod. Everyone nods.
The nurses come to clear the room of the guests and the press.
The Jew steps outside to talk to the police about the progress they’re making.
Neil Fontaine makes calls on hospital phones. Neil Fontaine makes calls to arms –
Neil has drawn up a list of potential recruits for the Jew’s private plan –
The Jew’s private army for Pit Land Security.
Neil spies Grey Fox in the corridor. Grey Fox has things to say to the Jew –
How his wife has left him. Taken his kids. How he’s too sick with worry to work.
Neil Fontaine shakes his head. Neil Fontaine says he’s sorry. Really very sorry.
The former Grey Fox sits in the hospital corridor with his head in his hands.
Neil Fontaine goes out to find the Jew. The Jew is standing alone in the car park –
The light is fading. Night forming. The light failing. Night falling –
The Jew asks aloud, ‘How long will it be before these thugs murder someone?’
The Mechanic parks well away. He waits until it’s dark. Night. He goes to the boot. The trunk. He takes out the rucksack. The spade. He walks through the fields. The streams. He comes to the trees. The branches. He hides in the hedgerow. The bushes. He covers his face in mud. Dirt. He digs a hole. A pit. He gathers branches. Leaves. He gets into the hole. The ground. He pulls the branches over the topof him. Inhis hide–
The Mechanic watches. The Mechanic waits –
For the headlights to come and the Rover to stop. The car door to open and close. For the feet to carry the shopping up the path. The cottage door to open and not close.
The Mechanic pushes away the branches. The leaves. He gets out of the hole.Thepit.Hewalks down to the cottage —
Up the path. To the open door of the very last place you’d think to look.
The Mechanic steps inside. He says, ‘Penny for your thoughts, Jen.’
Jennifer drops her shopping. Jennifer whispers Neil’s name —
She calls out Neil’s name. Shouts out Neil’s name. Screams out Neil’s name for —
The very last time.
Part IV. There's a World Outside Your Window and It's a World of Dread and Fear
Peter
Total darkness again — Had its own rhythms, did strike. Life of its own. Peaks and troughs. There’d be storms and there’d be quiet. Quiet and then storms again. Now it was quiet again. Quietest it had ever been. Tense, though. Now some had gone back from village. Rumour. Lot of rumour. Folk would stop us in street to tell us Alan from their road hadn’t picked up his parcel in over two week. That them in 16 had just come back from Canaries and how could they do that if he were still out, like? It was building. I could feel it — Christmas coming. General Winter on horizon. Power cuts not far behind him. Due a harsh winter and all — One last storm. Then home straight — That’s what I told myself. That’s what I said, Home straight — Touch my nose with my finger. Not see my finger — Mary had taken extra shifts up at factory, so I’d make breakfast and wash up before I went down Welfare. First her and our Jackie thought it was a bit of a laugh, me in kitchen. It wasn’t that funny now. Not that I couldn’t fry a couple of eggs. Bit of bacon. But it was just another of them signs. Signs that things weren’t right. Least with them both working I had something to cook — Lot that didn’t. Bloody lot — I put breakfast onto plates and took it through. Mary had scissors and glue out, cutting up bloody paper fore anyone had had a chance to read thing. For her scrapbook. True History of Great Strike for Jobs, that was what she called it. Filled three books now. Most of it were lies, said so herself. Bloody lies, she’d say as she cut stuff out. Tory bloody lies. But what she’d do was, under all lies she cut out, she’d then write truth of matter. Even had two of books signed by King Arthur himself — Just another way to pass time, I suppose. Between news — That was all we seemed to do these days, wait for bloody news to come on. Then it was all about money — Fines, sequestration. Receiver — Like that was only thing that mattered. It was only thing that fucking mattered to them on other side. Money — There were blokes down Welfare who read three papers a day. Then there were them that sat at home, glued to teletext. Not much else to do. Not now — Flying had dropped off since Dinnington last month. Branches just didn’t have brass to keep sending lads out — Only got about five hundred turning out for a mass picket now. Police had that contained, no bother. Didn’t even let lads shout. Heard tales of some blokes being done for glaring at scabs, police making lads stand with their eyes on floor — Nick you for sneezing, some of them. Just to get two days’ paid leave and expenses when you went to court — If they couldn’t charge you, they’d take you for a drive. Throw you out back of their van — Parachuting tests, they called it. Bastards got away with bloody murder — Had our own pit to picket anyway. Everyone did — That and coal picking. That was what most lads did — Picked coal. Picketed pit. Read papers and watched news — That was all there was now. That and worry. That was it — I was down Welfare most of time now. I was writing a lot of letters and making visits — I felt bad about some of them that had gone in. Felt we could have prevented it, like. Not all of them. Because some of them were just like that — Whatever you’d have done, it wouldn’t have been enough. Folk were just born like that. Or their wives — But couple of them had been on their own. There’d been a death in family or wife had left them. Board had taken advantage of their weakness and got them back in. Now we’d set up a sort of monitoring system. Regulars at Welfare would let us know if anything had happened to anyone. Ears to ground. If anyone were having any problems, either with money or family worries. Then I’d go up and see them. Try to help them out if we could. Tell them about loans we could arrange for them through Union. That sort of thing. I’d send a letter first, then follow it up with a visit. Take a parcel out to them. Especially if they weren’t in village and were somewhere further away. I kept writing to them that had already gone back and all. I didn’t advertise it because there were them that wouldn’t have had them back anyway — Oncea scab,always a scab — That lot. That was what scabs thought themselves, though — They’d crossed line. No turning back — I’d talk to some of them on telephone.
The Fortieth Week
Monday 3 — Sunday 9 December 1984
They had lost control. Lost control of their money. Lost control of their membership –
Two of their members in South Wales had dropped a concrete block from a bridge onto a taxi taking a working miner to Merthyr Vale Colliery. The block had gone through the windscreen. The taxi-driver had been killed. He had two children, his wife expecting their third at Christmas. Two young miners from the Oakdale and Taff Merthyr collieries had been arrested and charged with murder –