Knightsbridge flats and Mayfair clubs. Empty bars and rented rooms –
Room to room. Service to service –
To watch their windows and their doors. Their gardens and their car parks –
Their comings and their goings —
But Jerry and Roger never come. Jerry and Roger nowhere to be seen –
Jerry and Roger have gone –
To ground.
*
‘The dead hand of Number 10,’ the President had said and the President had been right –
The President and the Chairman had been set to meet at one of the coal industry’s many social and benevolent gatherings. Then the Board abruptly cancelled the gathering –
‘Her dirty fingerprints,’ the President had said and bowed his head.
They were handing out more three-and five-year jail sentences to the Kent miners. They were cutting the Pit Police Force by a third. Restarting production at Kellingley. There were now seventy-three thousand men back at work –
They were saying it was all but finished –
All over bar the shouting –
‘Why on earth do they think we are fighting to defend these stinking jobs in the pitch black? There are no lavatories or lunchbreaks, no lights or scenery –
‘We are fighting because our culture and our community depends —’
Terry switched off the radio. He didn’t want to wake them. Terry had work to do –
Back among the cake and biscuit tins. The cereal boxes and the Tupperware.
Dublin had been a success. Diane had been pleased –
Pine Tree Investments was up and running –
Her schemes and his dreams –
Hand in hand.
The corridors were long, the carpets old and wrong. The lights flickered off and on –
The lift door opened and closed and opened again and out they fell –
Diane Morris and Terry Winters were young and drunk.
She had her hands up his neck and in his hair. His up her legs and at her hairs. Theyfumbled with their clothes. Theyfumbled with their key —
The door opened and closed and opened again and in they fell —
The room was small, the carpet crawled. The light flickered on and off —
The bed creaked. The headboard banged. The wall shook —
They were not as young as they used to be. Not as drunk as they used to be.
She had her nails in his arse, then his back. His cock in her mouth, then her cunt—
Malcolm Morris sat in the corner with bloody fingers in his bleeding ears, watching his wifefucking TerryWinters –
Off and on, on and off. On and off, off and on –
‘I hate you. I hate you.I hate you.’
For the next ten bloody, bleeding, fucking years. Her scissors in his hands.
The war in heaven raged on. The Militants and the Moderates tearing their wings off. Nottinghamshire were stripping their president and their secretary of their positions. Exiling them to Sheffield. Determined to declare independence. South Derbyshire set to join them. This was all they talked about in the corridors and the canteen. The pubs and the bars around the Headquarters. Not the strike. Not their members stood out in the snow. Not their families –
They could swing in the wind now.
Just like Terry. They had left Terry on his own to handle the sequestrators and the receiver now. The legal actions. The day-to-day finances. The requests for this and the requests for that. The President had asked only that nothing further be written down. That all their existing files and records be shredded –
The paper trail burnt.
Terry liked that idea. He had actually been the one who’d suggested it –
Or had it been Diane?
But the cash kept on coming in. In briefcases and boxes, in suitcases and sacks. From home and abroad, from near and far. And the cash kept on going out. In briefcases and boxes, in suitcases and sacks. Home and abroad, near and far –
Terry sat in his office under the portrait of the President, surrounded by mountains of money. Len and the Denims brought it up from the cars and the taxis, from the trains and the planes. Terry wrote out receipts in pencil for the donors to burn –
Terry doled out the funds –
Forty-five thousand pounds for Yorkshire. Thirty-five thousand for South Wales. Twenty-five thousand for Durham. For Scotland and for Kent –
For wages. For rent. For food. For kids. For bills. For transport. For picketing –
Twenty thousand. Fifteen thousand. Ten thousand. Five thousand –
The money-go-round never stopped. Len and the Denims brought it up –
The Tweeds took it back down in twos; others came up from the areas personally.
Terry’s fingers smelt of money. Terry’s hands smelt of money –
Diane liked that. The smell of money. The scent of cash –
‘The world is our oyster,’ she liked to say and sniff him like a dog –
Like a dog.
Terry checked the phone was working. Click-click. Terry had an erection again –
Terry locked the door. Terry went back to his desk. Terry opened a box –
Money. Money. Money. Always funny –
Terry filled his briefcase. Terry shut and locked it. Terry erased this figure here. That figure there. Terry went back to the door. Terry listened. Terry unlocked his door. Terry checked the corridor. Terry got his coat. Terry put his briefcase under his arm. Terry took it down to his car. Terry put it in the boot with the suitcases. Terry –
‘That where you keep the bodies then, is it, Comrade?’
Terry shut the boot. Terry turned round. Terry dropped his keys –
Bill Reed picked them up off the floor of the car park. Bill said, ‘Butter fingers.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Terry. ‘Sneaking up like that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘I know how jumpy you must be in your position.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Terry. ‘My position?’
‘Just the responsibility of it all,’ said Bill. ‘The family. The fame—’
‘What do you want?’ asked Terry again.
‘I want to know what you keep locked in the boot of your car, Comrade.’
‘It’s none of your business,’ said Terry.
Bill smiled. Bill nodded. Bill stepped forward. Bill kneed Terry in his balls –
Terry collapsed.
Bill opened the boot. Bill said, ‘Planning a few days away with the wife, were we, Comrade?’
Terry lay on the floor of the car park. Terry held his balls. Terry blinked.
Bill opened up the suitcases. Bill whistled.
Terry stood up. Terry pushed Bill away from the boot. Terry said, ‘Fuck off.’
Bill pushed Terry back. Bill followed him. Bill poked him in the chest and said, ‘You’d better start talking now, Comrade. Tell me what all that fucking money’s for.’
Terry stared at him. Terry took a deep breath. Terry said, ‘It’s for the President.’
‘Fuck off, Winters,’ said Bill. ‘What’s it doing in the boot of your car, then?’
‘The Union is buying the President’s house,’ said Terry. ‘That’s the money.’
Bill Reed shook his head. Bill said again, ‘So what’s it doing in there?’
‘Both the Union and our President are under legal attack, or hadn’t you noticed?’
Bill Reed grabbed Terry again. Bill said, ‘Fuck off, Winters. You’re a liar.’