The Forty-second Week
Monday 17 — Sunday 23 December 1984
The Right Honourable Member of Parliament met Malcolm Morris in the underground carpark —
In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach —
His mouth moved. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm questions —
Malcolm could not answer. Malcolm could not hear —
But Malcolm had the tapes.
In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –
They would find the answers here. They would hear the tapes —
These field recordings of the Dead.
Terry stuck two bitten fingers in his ears. They were playing carols in the corridors again. For morale, said the Denims. Even the Tweeds agreed. Terry took another three aspirins –
Christmas. Christmas. Christmas –
It was all anybody ever talked about. Phoned about. Click-click —
Lorryloads of toys from France. From Poland. From Australia –
Santa suits and plastic trees. Party hats and pantomimes –
Turkeys and all the fucking trimmings —
It was all anyone thought about. Cared about. Almost –
Terry picked up his files. Just his files. He didn’t need his calculator these days.
Terry locked the office. Terry took the stairs up to the Conference Room –
The lift was out of order.
Terry tapped on the door. Terry went inside. Terry took his seat by the exit –
The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had just made their report –
The report which said that efforts to block the supply of oil had had little discernible effect; that there was no likelihood of crucial fuel shortages at the generating stations; that prospects for an early settlement of the dispute were remote –
Remote.
So the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends had been to see the Minister –
Again.
The President looked up with tired eyes at the Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends. The President wasn’t sleeping. Dick wasn’t. Paul. Len. Joan. Alice. Mike –
None of them were –
Always light, never dark.
‘We don’t want the TUC or anybody else to go along and argue a case that effectively undermines the NUM,’ said the President again.
The Fat Man did not blink. Did not bat an eyelid. He said, ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you remember all the promises you gave in September?’ asked the President. ‘The decisions the TUC conference made? The financial support? The physical support? The practical support? The total support?’
The Fat Man did not flinch. Did not move a muscle. He said, ‘I remember.’
‘Good,’ said the President. ‘Because that’s what we bloody want.’
The Fat Man flinched. That Fat Man said, ‘It’s too late now.’
‘It’s late, I’ll give you that,’ said the President. ‘But not too late. Never too late.’
The Fat Man blinked. The Fat Man said, ‘The entire TUC could be bankrupted. The entire movement in the hands of receivers and sequestrators —’
‘Aye,’ shouted the President. ‘And there’d be battles and there’d be bloodshed. And the working class would as one rise like lions after slumber –
‘In unvanquishable number. For we are many and they are few —’
Terry Winters started to cough. Terry Winters couldn’t stop –
Terry made his excuses. His exit. His way back down the stairs.
Terry took more aspirins. His head against the glass. Terry watched the city –
The Christmas lights. The street lights. The shop lights. The office lights –