He takes out a wad of cash from the pocket of his jeans. He holds it up. Counts –
Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety quid –
‘Fuck is that?’ pigs ask him. ‘Your wages for a year?’
‘No,’ the Mechanic says. It’s what you lot paid me to act as a scab for day. That’s what it is.’
Boss pig slams the door shut. He says, ‘Fuck off. Fuck off.’
The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘No. You fuck off and make your call.’
The two scabs stare up at the Mechanic through the slits in their hoods –
The tears in their eyes.
‘Tell you this,’ the Mechanic says to them. ‘I’d rather be a scab than a pig anydayof fucking week.’
The scabs bow their heads in their hoods. Their hoods heavy –
Their tears on the floor.
Terry Winters opened his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling. He remembered where he was. Terry got out of bed. He opened the window on to the balcony. He stepped outside –
It was warm. It was beautiful.
The balcony opened out on to the Green Square. Terry could see the Red Castle. The mosques and their minarets. The Medina and the markets –
Terry could smell the Mediterranean. Terry was amazed. Terry was excited.
Terry went back inside. Terry took his underpants off the window ledge. Terry dressed. Terry opened his door –
His guide was sitting on a chair in the corridor. His guide smiled. His guide said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
Terry smiled back. Terry asked, ‘Good morning?’
His guide nodded. His guide smiled again. His guide said again, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
‘Sabah alkheer,’ repeated Terry.
His guide laughed. His guide shook Terry’s hand. His guide said, ‘Breakfast?’
‘Please,’ said Terry. ‘Lead on.’
‘This way,’ said his guide. ‘Mister Mohammed is waiting.’
Terry followed his guide down the corridor and stairs to an elegant dining room. Mohammed was sitting on the terrace with coffee and an Arabic newspaper.
Terry sat down. Terry said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
Mohammed laughed. Mohammed said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
Terry looked up at the blue sky. The white buildings. The flowers on the terrace. The guides at the next table. Terry said, ‘This is not what I had imagined.’
The waiter brought over fresh coffee. He served Terry orange juice and croissants.
Mohammed smiled. Mohammed said, ‘What had you imagined, Comrade?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Terry. ‘But not this. Not paradise on Earth.’
Mohammed laughed again. Mohammed spoke to the guides on the next table –
The guides laughed. They raised their Pyrex glasses. They said, ‘To paradise.’
‘You have seen nothing yet, my friend,’ said Mohammed. ‘Just wait.’
Terry Winters couldn’t wait. Terry sensed he had found something special here. He wolfed down his orange juice and croissants. He asked for guidebooks and for maps –
Terry Winters wanted to know everything there was to know about Libya.
Mohammed smiled. He called Salem. Salem joined them for their tour –
The Jamahiriya Museum. The Red Castle. The Marcus Aurelius Arch –
The Al-Nagha Mosque. The Ahmed Pash Mosque. The Medina –
‘If people back home could see me now,’ said Terry every five minutes –
‘Terry Winters — our man in Tripoli,’ he laughed. ‘They’d never believe it.’
Mohammed and Salem nodded. Mohammed and Salem smiled.
They took Terry for lunch near Green Square. The restaurant served spaghetti –
Terry wasn’t interested. Terry wanted what the locals wanted.
Mohammed and Salem took Terry for a local lunch near the Medina.
Terry ate fasoulia. Terry ate kouskesy. Terry ate lahm mashouy.
‘Delicious,’ declared Terry Winters. ‘The best meal I’ve ever eaten.’
Mohammed and Salem laughed. Mohammed and Salem put their thumbs up.
Terry pointed at the big portrait of Muammar al-Gadhafi on the restaurant wall. Terry said to Salem, ‘I’d like to shake your leader by his hand. Congratulate him.’
Salem stopped smiling. Salem shook his head –
Mohammed didn’t. Mohammed nodded. Mohammed put his thumb up –
Mohammed said, ‘Why ever not?’
Salem shrugged. Salem dropped Terry and Mohammed back at the Al-Kabir.
Terry went upstairs for a rest. Terry lay on his bed. Terry closed his eyes.
*
NACODS have called off their strike in return for modifications to the colliery review procedure and an agreement to pay deputies. The High Court has ordered the sequestration of NUM assets after their failure to pay the £200,000 contempt fine –
These are fine days for the Jew; these days he was never meant to see.
Neil Fontaine has been picking up Northern men with Southern tastes at pre-arranged times in pre-arranged places. He has driven these Northern men to West London hotels. He has stood guard outside the locked doors of their hotel rooms as the Jew has opened his briefcase and chequebook for these Northern men with their Southern tastes –
‘Everybody has their price,’ the Jew has repeated all week. ‘Everybody.’
The Jew has held long meetings with the Great Financier and some of his friends. He has met with Piers and Tom Ball. Don Colby and his mate Derek. Even Fred Wallace. Their finances are secure. Their strategies remain solid. Their legal actions will continue. There are even new moves afoot. Fresh friendships to form –
‘Everybody needs a friend,’ the Jew has said more than once. ‘Even me.’
These are very good days for the Jew; good days in a bad and ungrateful place –
The knives still out in Hobart House. Knives as dull as the stains on their suits. The suits in which they whine and scheme against the Jew. The suits in which they plot. The suits in which they run and tell their tales to the Minister of the bad things the Jew has said and done. The Jew is not worried. The Jew does not care –
The Jew is immortal –
The events of the past few weeks have taught the Jew that, if nothing else –
‘— in the boardrooms and the lounges. The executive suites and dining rooms. These are where our battles are now, Neil. These are where the dragons must be slain. Upstairs as well as downstairs —’
Neil switches off. He stares at the silent TV screens. Just the teletext on –
‘— these talking-shop tacticians are as dangerous as any flying Red Guard —’
The telephone rings on the Jew’s desk.
‘— no more talks. An end to talks. The time for talking —’
Neil Fontaine picks up the phone. ‘Mr Sweet’s office. How may we help you?’
Neil Fontaine listens. Neil says, ‘One moment, sir.’
Neil Fontaine puts the call on hold. Neil says, ‘The Minister for you, sir.’
The Jew rolls his eyes. The Jew hates the Minister. Loathes the man –
The Jew knows the Prime Minister does too. Hates him. Loathes him –
But one never knows when one might need a goat in the case of an escape –
The Jew picks up the phone. The Jew says, ‘Peter? What a pleasant surprise —’
Neil Fontaine switches back off. He stares at the silent TV screens again.
The Jew stands up. The Jew opens his mouth. The Jew shrieks, ‘Tripoli?’
The Jew looks across the desk at Neil. He shouts, ‘Get me The Times, Neil!’