Terry’s stomach tightened. Turned and emptied. Terry nodded.
‘They’ll look for scapegoats,’ she said. ‘They’ll look to you.’
Terry nodded again. Empty and turning. Terry felt sick.
‘You need an escape plan,’ said Diane. ‘Funds.’
Terry got out of bed. Terry opened his briefcase. Terry put the money on the bed –
‘Will you help me?’ said Terry. ‘Help me escape? Disappear? The two of us?’
‘If that’s what you want,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you really want.’
Peter
land in World War One — In end there were quite a few at hut for countdown. Everyone was upbeat and positive. Difficult to tell how they really felt, though. Lot of us stopped on right through until sun came up. Took it in turns to get warm in hut or go across road to one of houses. They kept an open door for us, did some of pensioners who lived up there. Not just on New Year’s Eve. There were two who’d been in last big one. Back in ’26. They’d soon get going. Tell you who’d scabbed and who’d stayed out. Folk had long bloody memories and when sun did come up there was a bit of emotion. I know I felt it. I got off home pretty sharp after that. Mary and our Jackie were asleep. I sat on settee downstairs for a bit. Just me and tree and all cards. I’d be glad when tree came down and it got put away for another year. Just didn’t seem same this year. Ironic really, because I’d never been to so many bloody Christmas parties in my life. I didn’t usually bother about it much. I couldn’t remember what I’d done last New Year. I went up to bed. Tried not to wake Mary. But it was too light to sleep now and she’d be up to make dinner soon — I start running. Running and running — I pushed chicken round my plate. Every family had been given a free chicken — That’s all I’d done this bloody Christmas, give out free fucking chickens. Make sure no one got two and someone got none. I shouldn’t have taken off that Father Christmas hat — Mary had made a big effort today, though. Made us put on paper party hats — I wanted to enjoy it. But one look at this bloody room said it all — Lights were all on in kitchen and dining room. Bloody tree in corner flashing away. Heating on full. Cooker on all morning. Radio. TV–It were all bloody on. Everything that could be and there still wasn’t so much as a flicker — Not a single fucking flicker after ten bloody months. Not one power cut — Just more fucking bills we couldn’t pay. Fuck— How much was it fucking costing them to do this to us? How bloody much? They’d sit on their fucking hands and watch this country crash before they’d break and give us even an inch. Fuck me. I pushed that chicken round through gravy and knew I should have been more grateful. Tried to smile for Mary and our Jackie. Brave face and all that bollocks — There were them that would have no special dinner this New Year, I knew that. Not just them in fucking Ethiopia or Sudan, either — Here in South bloody Yorkshire. Then there were them lads starting five-year prison sentences down in Kent — It was then that it dawned on me. Hit me for first time — That it was over. All over now. Finished. Bar shouting — Just a matter of time. Be like waiting for end of bloody world — I looked up from chicken. From trimmings — Mary and Jackie were watching me. Our Jackie holding a cracker out for me — I didn’t want to let her see what I was thinking. I closed my eyes — Deeper and deeper — I lay on bed after lunch. Listened to match on Radio Sheffield. Wednesday bloody beat Man United two-one. Two-fucking-one! Put us up to fifth. Final scores were coming in, Mary sticks her head round bedroom door. Big smile on her face, scrapbook in her hand. Never know, she said. Might be an omen. I laughed. I gave her a big kiss as I went down stairs. I loved her. I really loved her. Her and our Jackie. Didn’t know what I’d have done without them — Not this. I couldn’t do this without them, I knew that — I was a lucky man. I knew that — Faster and faster. I turn corner — There were six front gate pickets up by hut on Pit Lane. There were also a fair few out today down road and all. Police had got hundred lads surrounded at junction by post office. Krk-krk. Not as many police as usual, either. Bit of snowballing going on, which was pissing them off. They got on their radios for cavalry. Krk-krk— Transits appeared full of riot squad. Then scab bus came up road at usual eighty mile an hour and into yard — Got welcome it deserved and all. I had a good look to see how many they had this morning — It didn’t look any more than before. Just usual wankers — Big two-fingered salute from two of them. One lad drawing his finger across his neck — I had a meeting with Panel over in Silverwood, so I walked back down to Welfare with some of lads. Most of
The Forty-fourth Week
Monday 31 December 1984 — Sunday 6 January 1985
The Jew hates even New Year. The Jew hates holidays. Full stop. The Jew hates all rest. Neil Fontaine hates New Year too. Holidays and all the rest now. But Neil needs time –
Time to make things right. Time to pay it all back.
The Jew asks Neil to drive him to Nottingham for New Year’s Eve. The Jew has organized a countdown party for the Board and his new toy, his embryonic new union. The Jew asks Neil to take this time to review the home security of the working miners. The Jew fears there might yet be one last wave of attacks and retribution to come –
For the Jew understands that scores are there to be settled –
Crimes punished. Justice exacted. Vengeance wrought —
Neil Fontaine jumps at the chance. The chances and the ghosts.
Neil leaves the Jew to his plots and his plans. His speeches and schemes.
Neil drives further North. There are speed restrictions on the M1 –
Snow and sleet. Fog and frost. Rain and ruin.
Neil Fontaine visits Wood Street police station, Wakefield, and Millgarth, Leeds. There are people who know him here. There are people who owe him here –
People consumed by this bloody strike. People consumed by this fucking war.
He chooses his questions carefully. He asks his questions ambiguously.
He hears horror stories about dead coppers. Hears rumours about missing men –
Philip Taylor. Adam Young. Detective Sergeant Paul Dixon –
David Johnson, a.k.a. the Mechanic.
Neil Fontaine drives further North again. He parks, watches and he waits again –
Parks, watches and he waits outside the home of Paul Dixon, Special Branch.
But Paul Dixon’s not coming home for New Year’s Eve. Not this New Year’s Eve. His daughter stands on her tiptoes at the window and looks out over the tops of the Christmas cards at the man in the Mercedes who is not her daddy –
Her mother pulls her away from the glass by her sleeve and she shouts and scolds.
Paul Dixon is not coming home.
There was no one on the desk when Malcolm walked out of the County. He rang the bell but no one came. He left his key with the long wooden handle on the register. He cut through Endsleigh Square onto Gower Street. He took a taxi to the station and the train to Birmingham New Street. No one on the gate when he came out of the station.
He walked down to the Rotunda. He looked for the pubs he had known –
The Mulberry Bush. The Tavern in the Town —
They were gone.
He called a private hire cab from a card in a phone box. The cab drove him out to Handsworth. It dropped him off and left him on the street. He walked among the blacks and the whites, the yellows and the browns, and he remembereddifferent times in different colours –