‘This strike is a political strike, make no mistake. Its outcome is not just the concern of the Board, and it never has been. The very future of this country depends on a total defeat of that man and all that he stands for. So there can be no settlement. There can be no agreement. There can be no compromise. Therefore, there must be no further negotiations. There must be no further promises of no more compulsory redundancies. There must be no amnesty and no jobs for any miners convicted of criminal offences.
‘The times have changed and I can tell you when they did –
‘The times changed at exactly six minutes to three last Friday morning.’
*
Terry Winters had a lot of airport time to kill. Terry read Conrad. Terry read Greene. Terry read Fleming. Terry couldn’t concentrate. Terry picked through the newspapers. Bombs. Terrorists. Failed talks. Court fines. The President’s forfeit paid anonymously. Terry was needed there. There. There. There. Not here –
Frankfurt, fucking Germany.
Terry Winters made more calls to Sheffield. Click-click –
To Diane. Click-click. To Theresa –
But no one answered the phone. No one returned his calls. Told him anything. Mohammed brought Terry another cup of coffee. Mohammed sat down next to him. Mohammed talked about Al-Zulfikar. Politics in Pakistan. Vengeance. Doncaster Rovers. The price of bread. Corner shops –
Terry Winters wished he’d fucking shut up.
Salem returned. Salem shook his head. Salem said, ‘Twenty-four hours.’
Terry rolled his eyes. Terry went back to the airport hotel. Terry checked in again. He lay down on the single bed in his single room. He tried to sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He cut up The Secret Agent to make new codes. He used England Made Me as a football. He threw The Spy Who Loved Me at the wall –
He shouldn’t be here. He should be there. There. There. There –
Terry made calls to Sheffield. Click-click. To Diane. Click-click –
But no one answered the phone. No one returned his calls. Told him anything. Mohammed knocked on Terry’s door. Mohammed asked if Terry was hungry for dinner. Terry told Mohammed he was busy. Terry said he had things to do –
Terry washed his underpants in the small sink in the corner of his room –
He dried them with a hairdryer he had borrowed from reception –
Terry’s hands were red raw. Terry wondered what the fuck he was doing.
*
Neil Fontaine serves two large brandies in the suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s.
The Great Financier nods. The Great One is always willing to help –
‘You know that, Stephen,’ he says. ‘Especially in times such as these.’
The Great Financier lost his Carlton tie in the bomb. It has yet to be replaced.
‘Yes, and I appreciate that,’ says the Jew. ‘She knows it, too. She appreciates it.’
‘But, but, but,’ smiles the Great One, ‘does the Chairman?’
The Jew smiles back. The Jew says, ‘He is beginning to see the light.’
‘The City worries about our American friend,’ says the Great Financier.
‘I read my balance sheets,’ says the Jew. ‘I know how the City worries.’
‘Seven billion lost in just one day yesterday,’ shouts the Great One. ‘One day!’
‘I know,’ says the Jew. ‘I know.’
‘I’m losing money hand over fist here, Stephen,’ he says. ‘Hand over fist.’
‘We all are,’ says the Jew. ‘We all are.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ asks the Great Financier. ‘Is it?’
The Jew closes his eyes. The Jew shakes his head.
‘I know bankruptcy would be nothing new to you and yours,’ says the Great One. ‘But it would be to the rest of us. Remember that —’
‘So you’re pulling up the drawbridge, then?’ asks the Jew. ‘Circling the wagons?’
‘Stephen, Stephen, Stephen,’ says the Good and Great One. ‘Did I say that?’
‘Don’t seem awfully keen, though,’ says the Jew. ‘Not your usual helpful self.’
‘I will help,’ says the Great Financier. ‘But there will have to be stipulations.’
‘There is always a catch,’ says the Jew. ‘The strings that must be attached.’
‘I do have reservations about these legal proceedings,’ says the Great One.
‘What kind of reservations?’
‘I worry you’ll make a martyr of the man,’ he whispers. ‘A Marxist martyr.’
‘He’s Aryan,’ says the Jew. ‘He has his own myths. His models. His messiahs.’
‘So let’s not add to them, shall we, Stephen?’ smiles the Great Financier.
‘The wheels have been set in motion,’ says the Jew. ‘It is out of our hands —’
‘Pay the man’s fine for him,’ says the Wise One. ‘Anonymously.’
‘What?’ squeals the Jew. ‘I will do no such thing.’
‘Bloody will, Stephen,’ he says. ‘Or he’ll go to jail and you’ll lose. We all will.’
The Jew slumps back in his chair. The Jew waves his brandy glass at Neil.
‘Do this, Stephen,’ says the Great Financier, ‘and I will do the rest.’
‘Everything?’ asks the Jew. ‘Everything?’
The Great and Benevolent One takes out his chequebook. He says, ‘Everything.’
The Mechanic comes down the A1 towards Doncaster. He turns off onto the Barnsley Road. He drives into the centre of the city. He joins the Bawtry Road bythe racecourse –
He follows it down to Rossington.
There are police all over the place. Everywhere. Not even four in the morning yet. There’s one police car already lying on its roof by the police station. Its wheels in the air.
This is a mistake. The Mechanic knows that. But there are things the Mechanic doesn’t know–
Things he needs to know. Has to know –
Personal things.
He parks away from the pit behind a school He leaves the dogs in the back of the car. He makes his way to where the action is. He has got his hat down and his collar up. His yellow stickers on and his hands in his pockets.
It’s all happening here today. The pickets have trapped the police in the pit yard. The police have called for reinforcements. The convoy of reinforcementsis coming –
Two abreast down the road at ninety miles an hour.
The pickets along the road let fly with the stones from the first vehicle to the last –
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud –
Rock after rock. Brick after brick. Stone after stone –
For each one of the sixty police vehicles.
This one horsebox mounts the pavement. Hits this one lad full on. Bang –
Leaves him for dead in his donkey jacket –
The police laugh. The police cheer. The police beat their shields.
The Mechanic stands outside a pub. He stares into the faces –
Men running in every direction. Police charging about after them.
There are ambulances now. Barricades burning –
Police vans fitted with mesh and grilles driving into the barricades –
The air filled with smoke and screams. The dawn keeping its distance –
Violence. Injuries. Arrests –