‘You want business, do you, love?’ she asked —
She was not so young. Not so black —
Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Yes.’
‘Hand, French or full?’ she asked. ‘Five, ten or thirty?’
Malcolm nodded again. Malcolm said, ‘Full.’
‘You got a car, have you, love?’ she asked.
Malcolm shook his head. Malcolm said, ‘No.’
‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘Back to mine it is, then.’
Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Thank you.’
‘Just round the corner,’ she said. ‘This way —’
Malcolm followed her round the back to the steps above a launderette.
‘Give us the thirty quid, then,’ she said by the door.
Malcolm gave her the money and she opened the door –
‘Age before beauty,’ she said.
The flat was dark. The electricity off.
‘Go through to the front,’ she said. ‘There’s light from the street.’
Malcolm went through to the front. To the light from the street —
Day and light. Light and shadow. Shadow and night –
‘Put this on,’ she said and handed him a condom.
Malcolm unbuttoned his coat and trousers. Pulled down his pants. Put it on.
‘Which way do you want it?’ she asked. ‘Religious or heathen?’
Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Heathen.’
‘Thought you would,’ she said and took down her panties. Bent right over –
The wounds still weeping.
Malcolm walked with the dawn out to the old coke depot at Saltley Gate –
The Winter Palace, 1972.
Malcolm climbed up onto the roof of the municipal lavatory —
Close the Gates! Close the Gates! Close the Gates!
He listened as he looked to the horizon. The lost and empty horizon —
It was cold and almost time.
Malcolm climbed down from the roof. He stepped inside the toilets —
He removed his bandages. His dressings. He made the call.
Neil Fontaine makes his excuses. He leaves the Jew hungover in his Nottingham hotel. Neil Fontaine drives North again. First to Leeds. Then onto the York Road. Neil Fontaine turns off before Tadcaster. Neil Fontaine comes to the village of Towton –
Neil Fontaine knows this might be a set-up –
That is what they do. Set things up. This is what he does –
He parks at the end of the road. He watches the unlit bungalow –
He waits in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac. This is what Neil Fontaine does –
In the middle of the night he parks in the dark at the end of all roads –
The noises in his head. The holes in his heart. The pits in his belly —
This is what he has always done. Park, watch and wait –
But tonight the traps are empty. Tonight the bait just rotting on their teeth.
Neil Fontaine gets out of the car. Neil Fontaine makes his way over the fields. Neil Fontaine watches the back of the bungalow. Neil Fontaine waits for night again –
For the bungalow to fall dark. The bungalow to fall silent.
He climbs the fence. He drops into the garden. He watches and he waits –
The two dead crows lie upon the lawn, untouched –
The bungalow dark. The bungalow silent.
He crosses the lawn. He works on the French windows. He opens them –
Neil Fontaine enters the bungalow –
The place dark. The place silent.
He goes from room to room. Empty room to empty room –
The place stripped bare but for curtains and carpets, a sofa and a table.
David Johnson is not coming home either –
The trail cold. Dark and silent. The end dead –
Here in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac.
Neil Fontaine sits in the dark and the silence on David Johnson’s sofa –
He lights a cigarette. He inhales. He exhales –
Two steel knives on the glass table –
The severed head of their former wife between them.
*
The President had come out from behind his desk. The President had come out fighting. The President had spent his New Year on the picket lines. The President had spent New Year’s Day itself on the picket line outside Thorpe Marsh power station, near Doncaster. The President had smiled for the solitary camera crew from Germany –
‘The only difference between now and March 1984’, the President had told them, ‘is that we are more convinced and more confident of winning now than we were then.’
Then the Germans had gone home and left the President and Len alone –
Just the President and Len with their flasks and their mugs out in the cold.
No massed guard of pickets beside them. No halting the power supply –
No champagne breakfast in bed in Room 308 of the Hallam Towers Hotel
Terry made Diane keep the TV off; there was always something or someone on. The Leader or the Fat Man. A Militant or a Moderate. A Denim or a Tweed. A Minister or a Suit from the Board. From studio to studio, they went. From TV-AM to Newsnight —
In circles, they went. In circles, they talked.
It was distracting and Terry Winters needed to stay focused on the job at hand –
There were meetings planned for all this week, in preparation for next week; everyone knew next Monday would bring the end of the Christmas truce –
Hostilities would be resumed.
Terry left Diane in bed. For now. Terry got dressed. For now –
Terry travelled down to Birmingham. Terry took his seat at the table –
The Knights of the Hard-Left Table.
‘This coming Monday will mark the beginning of a new phase,’ declared Paul. ‘The Board will concentrate all their energies on stepping up the back-to-work movement. Upon gaining their magical fifty per cent —’
Fifty per cent. Fifty per cent. Fifty per cent –
The mantra for the remaining months, maybe weeks or possibly only days ahead –
Fifty per cent spelt death for the Union and glory for the Board.
‘These scabs and their NWMC have succeeded in cutting off our arms and legs,’ continued Paul. ‘Their legal actions together with our own—’
‘Incompetence?’ suggested Dick.
Paul looked over at Terry. Paul shook his head. Paul said, ‘Or intrigue —’
‘That’s a very serious accusation, Comrade,’ shouted Bill Reed. ‘Very serious.’
Paul nodded. Paul said, ‘These are very serious times —’
‘Depressing times, too,’ said Terry. ‘Our members and their families are starving. Our members and their families are freezing. Our members and their families are crying out for new initiatives and leadership. But here we all sit, with our toasted sandwiches and our central heating, and squabble among ourselves, debating rule changes to a rulebook that won’t have a bloody union to rule over, if we don’t all face up to the reality of the situation, and fast —’