The Last Days of Disco (10 page)

Hamish May still had the grubby bandage on his blackened and burnt hand. He didn’t really need it now, but had enjoyed telling the story; and elaborating on its re-telling.

Joey had actually spent a lot of the time practising with the decks on his own in Bobby’s room. He wasn’t going to look like an idiot again and had uncharacteristically taken the bull by the horns regarding the microphone responsibility. That was going to be Bobby’s job, Joey had decided. After all, it was Bobby’s idea and Harry’s money that was funding it. Joey had decided he would be happy just getting paid enough cash to buy records and a few pints each night they were out. That was enough for him.

Amazingly, Heatwave Disco had secured four new bookings. They’d also successfully navigated another gig. At the beginning of February, Heatwave was hired by one of the leading lights of the local Mod scene, Stevie Devlin. The circumstances were unusual, but the purpose of the party was a joint celebration of Stevie’s twentieth birthday and him leaving his job. Although he didn’t so much
leave it
as have it taken away from him.

A new single from The Jam was an event for the Kilmarnock Mods. Bobby, Joey and Stevie were waiting outside a shop in Kilmarnock to buy the record on the last day of January, with around 200 fellow loyalists. On the same day the tickets were released for a gig just up the road at Irvine’s Magnum Centre. They had all been queueing since before five a.m. on that particular late-winter’s morning and they weren’t anywhere near the front of the line. Joey knew Stevie, not especially well, but enough to strike up a conversation. Stevie was going straight to work, which explained his smart suit. Bobby – having been introduced to a potential new customer – talked about his developing plans for a mobile disco unit. Stevie noted his name and phone number and said he’d think about it for a party he was considering.

As the snaking line for the tickets and the new ‘Town Called Malice’ record began to grow down past the Cross, someone near the front noticed large plumes of acrid, dark-grey smoke coming from behind the roofs of the buildings opposite. Bambers, the retail establishment where Joey – and most of the other Mods – purchased Fred Perrys, Harrington jackets and sta-press trousers, was on fire. Stevie Devlin was faced with the terrible dilemma of staying put and holding his place midway up the line, or leaving and running down to the public telephones at the Cross to alert the Fire Brigade in the hope that they might save his new place of employment. Understandably – to Joey at least – he stayed and held. Bambers perished. For Stevie, the decision was validated by the flawed logic that there would always be other jobs. Two days before the Sandriane, Stevie Devlin stayed true to his word and called Bobby Cassidy’s number, leaving a message with his dad. It took four days for Bobby to call him back; the financial pain of the Sandriane gig meant lessons had to be learned, but it was actually Lizzie who persuaded him to call back and accept – just a few nights after her party.

Lizzie had been invited to a house party not far from where she lived. She had phoned the morning after her party to make sure Bobby had made it home, having suffered a pang of guilt at seeing him and Joey out in the street. The phone call lasted an hour, due in the main to Lizzie’s lamenting over her father’s latest error of judgement. But Lizzie’s domestic chaos hadn’t put Bobby off and arrangements had been made to meet later in the week. When they arrived, sixty or so teenage kids were crammed into Lorraine Wales’s mum’s semi-detached, three-bedroom council house, where music was blaring to a level that could’ve been heard on the moon. Records were strewn around an impressive hi-fi system, but Bobby immediately noted that no-one was
piloting
the equipment. He assumed control.

Most of the people were either drunk or stoned, and Lorraine was nowhere to be seen. Bobby was downstairs and it didn’t take
long for him to appreciate that parties might just be the perfect occasion to nick other people’s records. During the course of the evening, he slowly but carefully stashed a clutch of 45s under a rhododendron bush in the back garden. He covered this by telling Lizzie that he had an embarrassing urine infection; since the upstairs toilet seemed to be permanently occupied, he figured it would be understandable to go out and regularly utilise the cover of the bushes. He walked Lizzie home before midnight, and then returned to recover the stash. Rare Joy Division singles, Lambrettas picture discs, Wire’s
154
LP, a signed Secret Affair ‘My World’ single and ‘Maybe Tomorrow’ by The Chords were notables in an impressive haul.

These records were highlights of the Stevie Devlin evening. Heatwave was, to a large extent, preaching to the converted that night, and it was much more in line with what Joey believed they should be doing. A few of Stevie’s mates had brought their own Stax and Northern Soul singles and the Foxbar Hotel’s acoustics made them sound fantastic. The vibe had even prompted Bobby to pick up the microphone for the first time, and, although his pronouncements weren’t revolutionary or profound – or even especially regular – he was at least making them.

Of the new bookings, one stood out; mainly for the fact that Bobby and Joey wouldn’t be getting paid for it. It was to be a favour to Harry. The venue was the Masonic Club where Harry was a member, and the function was for one of his friends – to celebrate his retirement from his job as a hospital porter.

‘Yer aye bloody askin’ me about the Masons an’ whit goes on … here’s yer chance tae find out,’ said Harry, noting Bobby’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction. ‘Plus, ye owe me here after the cash ah’ve gied ye.’

Bobby couldn’t argue with that point. Harry had used some of his compensation money from the accident to buy the decks from Hairy Doug. He’d also funded the purchase of speakers from a local Mod band, The Vespas. There was also money for lights. Following a second trip to Hairy Doug’s store, Bobby had returned with some
coils of what could only be described as coloured strips of spaghetti. The spaghetti worked like a ‘blacklight’. When strobing effects were applied to them, they supposedly shone like the Northern Lights. In truth, they were completely ineffectual, but Bobby’s open-mouthed gaping when he informed him for the umpteenth time, ‘Now this
really
is the latest thing from the States’, must’ve convinced Hairy Doug that Bobby was well and truly on the hook. For lighting, the Hairy One’s prices were as hefty as him.

‘Sixty quid for
this
,’ said Harry. ‘I gave you that money for lights. Whit bloody use is
this
tae man or beast? Where did you go? Tam Shepherd’s?’

Harry’s assessment of the cost of ten feet of the absolutely latest thing from the States might have been predicted. Equally so was the return journey to the farm with more of the janitor’s wages, in order to purchase some
real
lights. Hairy Doug had a strict ‘no-returns’ policy so Bobby was stuck with the fluorescent pasta. Joey felt the only thing to do with it was cut it into small bits and staple them to a black backboard to spell out the new name of the enterprise. Given this backdrop – and appreciating the grief Ethel gave Harry for having spent the
double-glazing
money on a ‘big bloody record-player’ – Bobby felt there was no way he could really say no to his dad. He told Joey they’d just have to roll up their trouser-legs and get on with it.

Don McAllister was a Mason. It was pretty much taken for granted that being in the police force in Scotland was synonymous with
membership of the Fraternity. And, to have reached Don McAllister’s exalted level at only forty-nine years of age could only have been possible with the Society’s help. He didn’t owe it
everything
though; after all, he was a Master of the Universe. So, as Detective Chief Superintendent Don McAllister looked out from his prime vantage point on the top floor of the new police station, over Kilmarnock’s High Street and up John Finnie Street – the Procurator’s Office to the right; the Sheriff Court to the left of him – he felt like Solomon and Pontius Pilate combined. He looked back around his enormous corner room; at the certificates and commendations on the wall, and at the numerous framed photographs of himself with various local and national dignitaries. And he smiled at the largest one in the middle; the one with the gilt frame on his desk featuring him – six foot five and pale freckled skin – and Mary, his wife of fifteen years.

Don loved the fact that almost everybody knew who he was. A senior policeman should have status in a town like Kilmarnock. He had cultivated that status like a Mafia boss in a Sicilian village. People who walked past the station looked up and waved in respect. Shopkeepers dropped produce off at his expansive house, built on a hillside near Dundonald. He never paid for drinks in bars and rarely paid for meals at the best Ayrshire restaurants. If there was an interview about local affairs to be given, the
Kilmarnock Standard
phoned Don before the Chief Executive of the Council. In return, Don kept the criminal element unseen and underground. This – according to Don – was exactly as it should be. After all, everybody has to make a living, even the bampots.

Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin was Don’s
bampot-world
equivalent. They were a similar age, had almost the same initials, and he too had connections everywhere. His hand had never gone into his pocket to settle a tab for dinner, either. They were alike in so many ways. There was equilibrium – they each balanced the other. Don had remembered watching episodes of
Batman & Robin
in the ’60s and, in particular, seeing the character of Harvey ‘Two-Face’ Dent
.
When he was faced with any kind of moral dilemma regarding
Mickey – and there had been more than a few over the years – he liked to imagine that they were essentially the same person; both had an angel and a devil on his shoulders, wrestling for his soul.

He mused about this now, simply because such a dilemma was lying on his desk in front of him.

Terry Connolly had been apprehended by Don’s officers on the fourth level of the multi-storey car park, allegedly selling heroin from the boot of his car. Don suspected that there was no absolutely
conclusive
evidence for this, but the report in front of him did contain a confession statement that Connolly had signed. This was of current interest to Don, as Connolly owned the vaulted spaces under the car park; spaces in which the copper knew Mickey Martin had an interest. Connolly had previous convictions for assault and drug offences – and had served time in Barlinnie. This latest accusation, providing a conviction was secured, could potentially send Connolly back to jail for five years.

He had previously resisted offers to sell the undercroft space at the Foregate multi-storey. He didn’t like Mickey Martin and there was bad blood between the two businessmen. Don McAllister couldn’t understand why Connolly didn’t take the money. After all, he wasn’t using the space for anything productive. But now an opportunity had presented itself for Don to do what he did best – broker a deal that made everybody happy. In truth, Terry Connolly wouldn’t be happy; just
happier
that the charge against him had been dropped. But Mickey Martin would get the space for a mega-nightclub complex at less than he’d originally offered and, having been instrumental in securing it for him, Police Detective Chief Superintendent Donald McAllister would get his usual ten per cent cut.

Everyone’s a winner.

So, a phone call to the Fiscal’s office and a wee walk round to the Planning Department and the Licensing Board, and this would turn into yet another successful day in the life of the local Sheriff.

‘There’s nae chance. She’s out on her fuckin’ erse after aw this.’ Harry was standing at the bar of the Kilmarnock branch of the Masonic Club. He was talking to Jock Newton, barman and all-round club good-guy. Jock booked the parties, took the money and organised most of the events; rumour was that Mason was actually his middle name. In fact, like many of his fellow Masons, you wouldn’t need to go to the trouble of dissecting him to find
I’m a Mason
written through him. His identity was writ large on his arms in permanent blood-blue ink along with the words ‘God Save The Queen,’ giving no doubt about who might ultimately defend Queen and Country.

‘Aye, so everbody seems tae be sayin’. But this fuckin’ Falklands thing might gie her a way oot,’ sighed Jock.

‘Ach ah’m no sure it’ll even come tae anything, Jock,’ said Harry. ‘Ah mean, naebody even kens whit it’s aw about anyway.’

‘Ah widnae put it past her tae fuckin’ turn this intae a war just tae deflect attention awa fae aw the shite that’s goin’ on here, mate.’ Jock pulled the last of the five pints that Harry had ordered. ‘Is your boy no thinkin’ he might be sent?’

‘Whit, Bobby? Him ower
there
?’ Harry glanced over towards the stage where Bobby was helping Joey manhandle a Marshall speaker column into place.

‘Naw … the other yin. The Guardsman.’

‘Ah dunno, Jock. Tells me nothin’ that yin.’ Harry put down a fiver, told Jock to have a dram with the change and lifted the tray of drinks. His lack of digits on one hand meant using his forearm to support the tray and his full-fingered hand to steady it. As he did so, the crashing sounds of The Jam’s ‘Heatwave’ – the disco’s newly adopted theme tune – nearly caused him to drop the lot. He looked over and glared at Bobby, who turned it down and continued with a sound check of whispered one-two, one-twos.

The Masonic Hall was a strange venue, but the acoustics were surprisingly good. A small stage area was set at the one end and
the general layout and proportions were amenable to creating a good atmosphere. The baffling array of representations of the Queen, members of her family, and the
Great Architect of the Universe
– whom Bobby referred to a few times during the evening as Grandmaster Flash – allied to the multitude of stonemasonry symbols and insignia from other lodges made the hall seem cluttered. Joey, who didn’t know much about the secretive codes and was suspicious of the Order as a result, had to admit that there was a fascinating heraldic order to it all. Harry had always resisted his son’s questions about the Masons – never answering them directly; obliquely saying that when he was old enough to join, he could find out if he chose to. This had always irritated Bobby. Gary fed this irritation by telling his brother that they were all old perverts who drank goat’s blood because they figured it gave their droopy old penises a much-needed boost. And, furthermore, they were mainly coppers, so they could
fit up
anyone who blabbed to outsiders. Harry had heard the two of them talking on a few occasions and knew of Gary’s tall tales.