The Thirty-fifth Week
Monday 29 October — Sunday 4 November 1984
The Board dropped the ball. The President’s man caught in flagrante on film in the arms of the Tyrant of Tripoli. The Union’s begging bowl outstretched to the Terrorist’s Friend. The sponsors of the Irish Republican Army. The assassins of WPC Yvonne Fletcher. Their president with his pants down. His monstrous political agenda finally exposed. National news. International news. Hold-the-front-page fucking news –
But the Suits of the Board had dropped the ball.
The Chairman had been back in Boston for a weekend with his grandchildren. The Jew left here to hold the fort. The Jew issued instructions in the Chairman’s name. The Suits ignored his instructions. The Suits squabbled –
Say this. Don’t say that. Push this agenda. Not that –
The Suits had dropped the ball between them. Dropped it for the last time –
Heads would now roll. Heads for tall poles.
These are the nights of the long knives, and the Jew has the sharpest blade of all –
No more distraction. No more conciliation. No more negotiation –
Much more litigation. Much more retaliation. Much, much more determination –
To win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win and win again.
But the Jew knows they need a better public face. No more plastic bags on heads –
Neil Fontaine carries videotape after videotape up from the office to the Boardroom. The Jew and Tom Ball watch videotape after videotape. The Jew and Tom Ball are searching for Mr Right. A public face. A Mr Fixit to make things right. The Jew and Tom Ball finally find their Mr Fixit –
The parrot who blinked the least. The parrot who smiled the most –
The Jew will dispatch Neil to the North. To fetch their Mr Fixit –
Neil Fontaine jumps at the chance. The chance of a ghost.
*
Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan had changed planes in Frankfurt. Terry and Mohammed had sat in the lounge. The British papers full of reports on the sequestration. The collapse of the latest talks. The intransigence of the President. The persistence of the Chairman. Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan had both agreed the strike was set to run and run. That the Union would need all the cash they could get. Terry Winters and Mohammed Divan had congratulated each other on a job well done. They had boarded their flight to Manchester and home. Shared a taxi from the airport to Victoria Station. Then Mohammed Divan had gone one way and Terry Winters the other. Terry had sat on the train to Sheffield and studied Libyan. Terry would surprise them all with his stories and secrets from Tarabulus al-Gharb. Terry had even thought of going straight to the office. But Terry wanted to see Theresa and the children. Terry had missed Theresa and the children. Terry had wished they had been there with him. Had seen what he had seen. Done what he had done. Terry had taken a taxi direct to his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. The house had been dark. The curtains not drawn. Terry had paid the driver. Terry had walked up the drive. Had put his key into the lock. His foot in the door, when the two men had stepped out of the shadows of South Yorkshire and said, ‘Care to comment on reports that you have just returned from a meeting with Colonel Gadhafi himself in Libya? That you were sent there on behalf of the President of the National Union of Mineworkers? That you were there to obtain money and guns for your war against the government? Care to comment on such reports, would you, Mr Winters? Care to comment, Mr Winters? Care to comment, Comrade?’
*
Neil Fontaine sits in the pew. He bows his head. He says a prayer –
Just the one –
Bring her back. But back to stay.
Neil Fontaine leaves St Pancras. He drives into the North again –
Unscheduled diversions in the long, dark Northern night –
But no one speaks since the bomb. No one answers their phone.
Now Neil Fontaine must hunt alone in the long, dark Northern night –
The usual haunts. The usual ghosts.
Neil Fontaine listens to them play on Police Radio 1, these orchestras of ghosts –
Waltzes for the wounded. Laments for lost loves. Sad songs of sin.
Neil Fontaine comes off the M18. Neil Fontaine joins the A630 to Armthorpe –
This is where the strike is today. This is where they’ll be today –
Markham Main Colliery. All Saints Day, 1984.
Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes in the shadows, out of the lights of the strike –
Five hundred pickets. Possibly less. Three hundred police. Possibly more.
Neil Fontaine watches the paperboy ride his bicycle in and out of them –
The milkman make his rounds. The local people walk their dogs.
Neil Fontaine watches the police clear the road of the paperboy and milkman –
Neil Fontaine hears the convoy approach. The shouting and the shoving start.
Neil Fontaine spies the man he wants. His prey for the day. Neil Fontaine smiles –
He moves away from the front line with the milk float as his shield.
He spots the Montego up a side-street. He hides near by. He stakes out the street –
His prey watches pickets disperse. His prey walks backwards up the pavement –
Neil Fontaine pounces. Neil Fontaine pulls his prey over the privet hedge –
Neil Fontaine punches his prey. Punches him twice. Punches his prey hard.
He drags him down the side of the house. He puts Paul Dixon up against the wall.
‘Talk to me‚’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Tell me the things I don’t know.’
*
‘What the fuck were you doing kissing Colonel bloody Gadhafi on TV?’ shouted Paul.
The Conference Room table was covered with newspapers and their headlines –
Outrageous! Obscene! Odious! Own Goal!
Newspapers and their headlines. Headlines and their photographs –
Terry and Mohammed talking. Terry and Salem eating. Terry and the Colonel –
The Colonel and the Judas. The Judas Kiss. The Kiss of Death.
Terry Winters had his hand up the sleeve of his shirt. Terry scratched his arm. Terry screwed up his face. Terry bit his tongue. Terry closed his eyes –
‘You fucking knew about all this, did you?’ Paul asked the President.
Terry opened his eyes. Terry looked at the President. Terry smiled –
The President stared at Terry. The President shook his head.
Terry dug his fingers into the tops of his legs. Terry tried not to screeeeeeeeeeam –
Paul looked at Terry. Paul shook his head. Dick shook his. They all did –
‘You’re either Special Branch’, said Paul, ‘or the stupidest bloke I’ve ever met.’
Terry had his hands under his thighs now. Terry scratched the backs of his legs.