This is not what the Mechanic is looking for. Not why he is here.
The Mechanic turns and walks away –
Jen is not here. Jen. His Jen –
The rumours all wrong. The whispers well wide –
Thank. Fucking. Christ.
The Mechanic walks back to the car. The dogs are barking. The Mechanic puts the key in the door –
‘Hello. Hello. Hello’, says the voice behind him. ‘And what have we here?’
The Mechanic doesn’t turn round. There’s no point. He knows who it is.
‘Didn’t realize armed robbers had a union,’ says the voice. ‘TUC affiliated, are you?’
The Mechanic doesn’t move. No point. He keeps his eyes on the dogs in the back.
‘Put your hands on your head,’ says the voice. ‘Do it slowly.’
The Mechanic puts his hands on the top of his hat. He does it slowly.
Handcuffs go on his wrists and the voice says, ‘Now turn around. Slowly.’
The Mechanic puts his hands down. He turns around. Slowly.
‘Hello, Dave,’ says Paul Dixon of the Special Branch. ‘Miss me, did you?’
*
Neil Fontaine helps the Jew dress for the dinner. Neil Fontaine drives him to the dinner –
The AIMS of Industry’s 1984 National Free Enterprise Awards.
The winners are Mr Eddie Shah, Mr Walter Goldsmith and the Prime Minister –
Her speech is also a winner. The theme of her speech –
No Surrender.
It is perfectly timed. Perfectly. For the times have truly changed –
NACODS have called a national strike from Thursday 25 October.
The Cabinet is nervous. The City is nervous. The country is nervous –
The Jew is not. The Jew knows the times have changed –
It is a dangerous game. Expensive, too. But the Jew will win –
The Jew will not drop the ball. The Jew will not sell the pass.
The Jew whispers in the Prime Minister’s ear. The Jew squeezes her arm. The Jew kisses the Prime Minister on both cheeks. The Jew congratulates her –
He congratulates her many, many times on her many, many victories –
Past, present and future.
Martin
Bywater. Yorkshire Main. Woolley. Brodsworth. Denby Grange. Rossington — But it works against them. Works in our favour — Folk can see them for what they are now. Folk can see through media lies — Smile — Makes many more folk support us now. Older blokes. Pensioners — Lot of them that hadn’t had a good word to say about King Arthur and Red Guard two week back. They’ve all changed their bloody minds sharp enough now — Now they’ve seen what police and government are like with their own eyes. Now it’s in front of their faces. Here on their own bloody doorstep — People want to picket now. Pete sets up a roster. Twenty-four-hour cover in six shifts. Both gates. Front and back — Least half of village turn out for afternoon pickets. People like that picket — Scabs can see us all stood there. See our faces proud and plain as day. Theirs hidden in their hoods — Let them see us see them. Let them know we know them — Like it says on wall, We will not always be poor,but they will always be scabs — Day 232. This is worst day yet. By a fucking mile. Everyone just stood there in front of TV. Fucking shell-shocked. Whole of bloody Welfare. It started out bad enough this week. First so-called power-men had voted against supporting us. Them that could even be arsed to bloody vote. Exact fucking opposite of what was said at TUC Rest of week we’ve stood out as usual in all bloody weathers, at all bloody hours. Here and at Brodsworth. Kiveton Park. Rossington. Yorkshire Main. News is full of them two fucking scabs from Manton again. Back at bloody court after our brass. Our fucking brass from our fucking pockets which we’ve given to our bloody Union. Not to two fucking narks like them and some High Court fucking puppet of a judge. Lot of lads don’t think much of it — It’s only brass, let them have it. Render unto Caesar. No bloody strike pay anyway. That’s attitude — But I saw look in Pete’s eye when it first come on news. Told me it was more serious than most folk thought. Pete’s got a good head on him. Knows what’s what. He warned us not to get our hopes up about NACODS. He was fucking right and all. Thing is, no one honestly believed they’d come out for us — Not in their heart of hearts. Not that lot — But you can’t stop yourself bloody dreaming, can you? Hoping against hope — Knowing it would have helped us all. Both them and us — But in end they just want brass without any hassle. Like a fucking holiday for them, this is — Just show your face every morning. Tell manager you’ve been intimidated. Then fuck off back to bed or whatever — They had a golden opportunity to do something fucking decent. But they took their thirty pieces of bloody silver. Left us worse off than before — Mick McGahey spoke for everyone on news. Mick said, I regret very much the atttude taken by NACODS. First in compromising themselves before the NCB. Second in making things much more difficult for the NUM, who are seeking a principled solution to this dispute — Arthur was next. He just said, There’ll be no compromise. It will be a long, hard, bitter battle — Then this morning, just when you think it can get no fucking worse, Board make their big bribe — Four weeks’ holiday money if you’re back in before 19 November — Fuckme. Bribing us back with our own brass now — Know there’ll be some daft enough to take it and all. Been eight month of this now — Eight month. Thirty-four week. Two hundred and thirty-odd fucking days — Pete opens another envelope. Pete reads it. Pete says, Kiveton again. Here we bloody go, someone says — Here we go, I shout back. Here we go — Then whole bloody room joins in, Here we go, here we go, here we go — Here we go, here we go, here we go — Here! We! Go! Day 236. I got no bloody choice. Way I see it — I have to survive. To survive I need brass. To get brass I pick coal. Pick coal to sell — Either that or go back down to Southampton or somewhere. Find another labouring job. Then I’d not be able to picket. Not be able to do anything for strike. Not pull me weight. Don’t fancy that again. Fucking lonely enough as it is — Hate bloody Saturday and Sundays. Hate them. Worst days of week — Least when they came for furniture they left shed alone. Left my barrow and my shovel. Thing I need
The Thirty-fourth Week
Monday 22 — Sunday 28 October 1984
Salem said, ‘Your visas are ready.’
Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan went to the Libyan People’s Bureau in Frankfurt. Terry and Mohammed presented their passports. The Libyan diplomats of the People’s Bureau gave them their visas. There was no Libyan People’s Bureau in London. Not since the death of WPC Yvonne Fletcher in April. Not since she was shot outside the Libyan People’s Bureau in St James’s Square by Libyan diplomats. Next door to ACAS. Salem had worked at the People’s Bureau in London. Until he’d been deported.
Salem said, ‘Your flights are booked.’
Salem gave Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan their tickets to Tripoli. Terry and Mohammed flew Lufthansa from Frankfurt to Tripoli. The plane left in the evening. The flight took four hours. There was no alcohol on the flight. There was no Coca-Cola. There were no direct flights from London. Not since the death of WPC Fletcher in April. Not since she was shot by Libyan diplomats.