Neil Fontaine picks up the other phone. The Hot Line. Neil Fontaine dials –
These good days, these days the Jew was never meant to see, have just got better.
*
Terry Winters dreamed Arabian dreams of sword swallowers and the hand of Fatima. Veiled brides for seven brothers. Black and hairy cunts in hearts of bleeding swastikas. Mint tea and Persian tulips. Minarets and muezzins –
Mohammed was calling him. Mohammed was banging on his door.
Terry opened his eyes. The room was dark. Terry got up and opened the door.
Mohammed said, ‘Are you ready, Comrade?’
‘Ready for what?’ asked Terry.
‘The dinner with the Libyan trade unions,’ said Mohammed. ‘Why you’re here.’
Terry nodded. Terry remembered. Terry washed. Terry dressed.
Mohammed and Terry took a taxi to a large hotel on the seafront.
Terry Winters was the guest of honour. Mohammed Divan was his translator.
Terry and Mohammed were shown into the Banqueting Hall. Terry was welcomed with a white spotlight and loud applause. Terry blinked. Terry bowed. Terry waved. Terry was led through the tables. Terry was seated in the top chair on the top table –
Under the painted eyes of an elevated portrait of the Colonel.
Terry was served grilled seafood and olive salads. Terry asked for extra kouskesy.
The various members of various unions made various speeches as Terry dined. The speeches had been translated into English and typed out for Terry to follow as he feasted. The speeches spoke of solidarity. Shoulder to shoulder. Arab and European. Then it was Terry’s turn. Terry stood up. Terry spoke without notes –
Terry spoke of the strike. The eighteen months since the overtime ban had begun. He spoke of their reasons. The threat to their jobs, their pits and their communities. He spoke of the government. The use of the police and the law. He spoke of the brutality. The arrests. The beatings. The kidnap. The torture. The sieges. He spoke of the suffering. The poverty of his people. The hunger of their children. He asked the trade unions of Libya to support their struggle by any means necessary; by banning the recently increased exports of oil to Britain for use in oil-fired power stations; by boycotting the renewed attempts by a hypocritical British government to better trade links with Libya; by blacking all trade and training with the National Coal Board; by giving the National Union of Mineworkers as much money as they could spare –
‘— so that the Fascism of the present governments of the United States and the United Kingdom may soon be replaced by revolutionary Socialism. That Internationalism may replace Imperialism. That the paradise you have built here may one day be the paradise that all nations may build and hold as dear as you hold this –
‘Friends. Comrades. Brother Arabs. I salute you,’ said Terry. ‘And I thank you.’
There was loud applause again. There was the white spotlight. Terry blinked. Terry bowed. Terry waved goodbye as he was led through the tables to the front door.
Terry and Mohammed stepped out of the hotel. Terry and Mohammed stopped –
Dozens of military vehicles had encircled the front grounds of the seafront hotel. Soldiers stared at Terry and Mohammed. Helicopters flew overhead in the night sky –
Salem jumped down from a jeep. Salem said, ‘You wanted to meet the Leader?’
Terry looked at the jeeps. The personnel carriers. The guns. Terry nodded.
‘Well, the Leader of the Revolution wants to meet you too,’ said Salem. ‘Get in.’
*
Dixon pulls up opposite the pig shop. He opens the passenger door –
The Mechanic crosses the road. He gets into the Montego.
‘Not very fucking smart that, David,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘Not very smart at all.’
‘Put a fucking leash on them, then,’ the Mechanic says. ‘What I do with my dogs.’
‘You’re supposed to do me a favour,’ says Dixon. ‘Then I do you one.’
‘Exactly,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘So you owe me a favour.’
Dixon turns. He grabs the Mechanic’s face. He pushes it against the side window and says, ‘Fuck you, Johnson. Fuck you. I could nick you like that —’
Dixon clicks his fingers in the Mechanic’s face –
‘Waltz you through the fucking courts. Watch them throw away the key.’
The Mechanic closes his eyes. He nods –
Dixon lets go of him. He sits back behind the wheel and says, ‘Now fuck off.’
‘You what?’ the Mechanic says. ‘You said —’
‘Them shotguns made you fucking deaf, have they?’ says Dixon. ‘Fuck off.’
‘You’ve got a name and address,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want it. I need it.’ ‘Fuck off,’ repeats Dixon. ‘We’re through. You’re a fucking liability, you are.’
‘You promised me her name and address,’ the Mechanic says.
Dixon turns to the Mechanic. He points a.38 up at him. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
The Mechanic stares down at the gun. The Mechanic nods –
He hates the police. Pigs. Fucking hates them. Cunts –
The Mechanic opens the passenger door. The Mechanic gets out —
The Mechanic slams the door on Paul Dixon, Special Branch.
Terry and Mohammed flew through the Libyan night in the back of Salem’s military jeep. The convoy of vehicles had long left behind the narrow alleys and the wide boulevards of Tripoli for the desert and the dark. Terry had watched Tripoli disappear in the dust and noise of the caravan. Now Terry stared up at the bright stars in the black sky. Terry Winters had never seen so many stars in his whole life. It was incredible. He had never seen any stars in the sky above Sheffield –
‘If people back home saw me here now,’ said Terry. ‘They’d never believe it.’
Mohammed leant forward and spoke first with Salem, then he sat back. Mohammed said, ‘Comrade, Libyan TV would like to film your meeting with the Leader, but Salem thinks it might cause embarrassment for your Union and yourself, if for any reason it was to be shown in the West.’
Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘Embarrassment? I don’t see why.’
‘Then they can film the meeting?’ asked Mohammed. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I am not ashamed to be here,’ exclaimed Terry Winters. ‘I am honoured.’
Mohammed smiled. Mohammed leant forward and spoke with Salem again. Salem turned round to speak to Terry. Salem said, ‘If that is what you wish, Comrade.’
‘One thing,’ said Terry. ‘Please teach me the correct way to greet the Leader.’
Salem looked at Mohammed. Mohammed grabbed Terry by each shoulder. Mohammed whirled Terry round to face him –
Mohammed kissed Terry once on each cheek. Hard –
‘Now you try,’ said Mohammed.
Terry held Mohammed by his shoulders. Terry kissed Mohammed hard.
Salem clapped. Salem pointed out of the windscreen. Salem said, ‘Almost there.’
Terry strained to see ahead. Terry could see nothing. Nothing but desert and dark. Then the escort of jeeps and personnel carriers swept out of the desert and the dark and through the gates of a hidden fortress cloaked in walls of shadow –
Through the gates past rows of black tents and through another set of gates in another wall of shadows past more rows of black tents and through another set of gates in yet another wall of shadows to the biggest, blackest of the Bedouin tents –