The Last Days of Disco (13 page)

‘Whit the fuck are we doin’ here?’ moaned Joey, for the umpteenth time that day.

Even Jimmy Stevenson was getting fed up with the constant complaining.

‘Christ’s sake, son. You’re like ma missus. On an’ on an’ on, til ye end up sayin’, “Fuck it. Ah’m awa’ tae the pub”.’

‘C’mon Joey. A coupla hours an’ we’ll be out ae here,’ said Bobby. He patted Joey on the back as he got out of the van. Hamish May, who’d been sitting in the front with Jimmy, came out and put an arm round Joey. Jimmy reached over and shook Joey’s hand.

‘For fuck’s sake ye’d think ye were goin’ in for an operation, the way we’re goin’ on.’ Bobby was laughing as he said this.

Hamish and Jimmy laughed as well. Joey could only offer a crooked smile through gritted teeth.

‘Hello. You boys must be
Heatwaves
.’

‘And you must be … Andy?’ Margaret McIntyre laughed nervously at Bobby’s attempt to defuse the tension a bit.

‘Oh, I’m Margaret. Andy’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘You’re a little bit late. I’d hoped you’d have been here earlier, before most of the people got here.’ Her tone was polite, but her exasperation was detectable, even if it was mostly concealed beneath her veneered surface. ‘But please just go quickly, right on up and to the left and you’ll see the space at the end of the hall. You can set up there.’

‘Right-o, Margo,’ said Jimmy. He had heard what she’d said, but he had decided that her remarkable resemblance to Penelope Keith called for a different reference. He stopped himself from patting her tweed-skirted backside on the way past.
Maybe later
, he thought.

Andy – whose birthday was being celebrated – looked every inch the
true blue
. He was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit with a pale-blue shirt and a bright-yellow tie. He looked almost identical to every other male at the party. Only the ties seemed to offer any colourful contrasts.

‘Bloody hell, everybody looks like they’re at a political convention.’ Joey’s earlier annoyance had given way to bemusement and – Bobby could detect – disdainful pity.

‘They aw look about fifty-five,’ remarked Hamish.

No-one had paid the DJs and their crew any attention since they had walked into the upper-floor function room. But Hamish had spoken a bit too loudly and several men looked round sharply. They continued staring as the four made their way back out to the van for the remainder of the equipment.

‘This is gonnae be shite.’ Joey had convinced himself that the night would have no redeeming features.

Bobby sighed deeply, but said nothing. They’d arrived almost
forty-five minutes late and were still a good twenty minutes away from sounds that entertained punters.

The function room was set up all wrong, with most of the buffet tables sitting across the small rectangle of dancefloor. There were already too many people there for the room and many were already demonstrating the
loudness
and bravado that are a frequent consequence of alcohol. In the two months that Heatwave had been in existence they’d had a few bad nights. Normally, Joey would just play out the boring chart music, the novelty songs that everybody hates but dances to anyway and the inevitable requests for ’60s medleys of groups like Edison Lighthouse and Middle of the Road – who were actually from the ’70s. Bobby spoke infrequently on these nights. He had assumed the persona of a performer and felt that such audiences didn’t deserve his best work. Picking up the money at the end of the night was the sole stimulus for such evenings and so far – and with the exception of that traumatic first – they had been paid by generally contented customers. This night was different though.

‘See they two weird lookin’ stewards, watchin’ us when we came in?’ Hamish’s agitation had been apparent on the final lift of the record boxes from the van. Nobody questioned why ‘bouncers’ had suddenly become ‘stewards’; it just seemed appropriate in this context.

‘Cannae say ah really noticed, mate,’ replied Bobby.

‘Aye, ah did,’ said Joey. ‘Looked kinda familiar, but not sure fae where.’

‘Christ, will you two stop fuckin’ lookin’ for problems? “
There’s
too many Tories! Their suits are too blue! The bouncers are shifty! The stairs are too steep!
” Fuckin’ hell, let’s just get on wi’ it an’ get paid, eh?’ The Heatwave leader had spoken, although Hamish felt it important to make one final observation.

‘
You
were the one complainin’ about the stairs, ya cunt!’

When Bobby, Joey and Hamish finally assembled the sound and light experience that was now known as Heatwave Disco, Margaret came over. She wasn’t happy.

‘You’ll have to move your van,’ said Margaret McIntyre, tersely and in a way that suggested she’d been reprimanded by someone else. ‘You’re parked in a space reserved for the local party leader.’ She turned and looked towards the two stewards.

‘Is he comin’ like, Margo?’ said Jimmy.

‘Eh! Sorry?’ Margaret had been addressing Bobby and it had surprised her to hear the low, grumbling voice behind her. ‘My name is
Margaret,’
she said and turned to face Jimmy. She breathed in, hands on hips, as if to deliver something profound but then sighed and turned back to Bobby. ‘Could you just move the van?
Please
… and then please get on with the music!’ She turned and strode away.

‘Oooh! Mrs La-Di-Da Gunner Graham
,’
said Hamish, waving his hand theatrically in her direction. It wasn’t witnessed by Margaret, but Andy and four others at his table had seen it.

‘Hey … Larry fuckin’ Grayson! Get a fuckin’ move on.’ Bobby’s patience was being sorely tested. ‘Jimmy, go doon an’ shift the van an’ then come back up.’

Jimmy walked over towards the door and noticed the smaller of the two black-suited stewards watching him intently. Almost an hour and a quarter after the party should have started, Heatwave’s lights illuminated the function hall and were creating unusual effects on the elaborate ceiling cornice of the old Georgian
room. The sound quality was better than expected, but when the distinctive riff of ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ kicked in, everyone froze due to its volume. Exactly the effect DJ Joey had anticipated.

‘Joey, for fuck’s sake! The Clash?
Seriously
?’ Only one song in and Bobby was now regretting having taken this booking. Joey smiled suspiciously as the Angelic Upstarts followed. That new anthem of disaffected youth – The Specials’ ‘Ghost Town’ – was already in his hand. Two songs in and the crowd was growing increasing disgruntled; job almost done.

Down in the car park, the VW campervan reversed slowly back into an alternative space against an adjacent retaining wall. It was dark and sheltered from the intrusive sodium illumination of the main street lights. Jimmy normally hung about and had a sleep in the back for a couple of hours, but tonight the darkness would allow him the joint he’d been coveting since finding it down the back of the rear seats at the start of the week. He’d head back upstairs later. A tap at the passenger side window startled him. He rolled the window down.

‘Thanks for movin’ the van, mate.’ It was one of the stewards. The smaller one.

‘Eh, aye. Nae bother, wee man.’ The joint was still in Jimmy’s hand below the sightline of the door. He was reluctant to let it go though for fear of losing it down the side of his seat.

‘Ah think yer brake light’s out,’ said the steward. ‘Is his brake light out, Des?’

‘His brake light’s out, Wullie.’ A deeper voice from the rear of the van responded. Jimmy glanced furtively at rear and side mirrors but it was too dark to make anyone out.

‘Need tae get that fixed, pal,’ said the smaller steward, the one who’d just been referred to as
Wullie.

Jimmy dropped the joint to the footwell as carefully as he could. He opened the door and slid out, pushing past Wullie and moving quickly to the rear of the van where the torch held by Des confirmed
that there was indeed a smashed brake light. He left the driver-side door slightly open.

‘Must’ve hit the wa’ there, mate. Nae luck, eh?’ said Des, shaking his head at this unfortunate mishap.

‘Aye. Ye think ah’m a fuckin’ eejit? Ah hit nae fuckin’ wa’. That was you’se two that smashed it!’

‘Hey, haud on there, Humpty Dumpty! We asked ye tae move yer van. Ye moved it an’ hit the wa’,’ said Des calmly.

Jimmy was getting angry, but sensed that it might be better to accept bouncer’s version. He also wanted to know where Wullie had gone, but Des had moved closer, towering over him and blocking both view and access to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

‘Ah’m no sure there’s any point in takin’ this further, pal.’ Des poked his finger in Jimmy’s chest. ‘Awa’ back and join Curly, Larry and Moe up there. Just mind and get that fixed now, eh?’ With that he stepped back, allowing Jimmy to ease past him and catch Wullie leaning against the front of the van, smiling.

Upstairs in the flamboyant function room, things were getting worse.

‘Where’s ma pint?’ said Joey, just as ‘Alternative Ulster’ faded out and the start of ‘Eton Rifles’ reverberated off the walls.

‘Will you fuckin’ gie it up wi’ that music? Fuck me, every cunt’s glowerin’ at us. Ah cannae speak ower
this
. Get out the Lionel Richie and Phil Collins stuff.’

‘Did ye hear me? Where’s ma drink?’ repeated Joey. He was secretly pleased that his choices of music were irritating the partygoers
and
Bobby.
He’ll fuckin’ think twice about bookings like this in future,
he was certain.

‘Fuckin’ cunty barman widnae serve us for being under-age.’ Bobby was raging. Technically the barman was correct. Joey was still seventeen. But it worsened Bobby’s deteriorating mood that he had broken the unwritten law of gigging: the band/performer/entertainer/DJ
always
got served.

Jimmy didn’t return. He’d decided to stand outside, watching his
vehicle. Wullie and Des had gone back up and no further threats had been issued. It was a pretty cold, late-spring evening, but at least Jimmy could see any approaches to the van from where he was standing. Upstairs, tempers flared when a request from one woman for ‘Twist and Shout’ went a-begging. She looked like Krystle Carrington and sounded like the Queen. Joey mocked her accent. Margaret McIntyre came over to intervene in the
contretemps,
threatening non-payment; birthday boy Andy followed, issuing threats of violence. Hamish May – assuming the role of minder – retaliated with a few of his own.

Bobby sensed a serious problem developing: they were at the opposite side of the hall –
and
up a floor – from the principal means of exit. The priority was becoming more about damage limitation than fee recovery. Hamish was prone to the great gesture without thinking of the consequences. He had achieved some local notoriety as the kid who had climbed out of a first-floor window onto the roof of an adjacent lorry for yet another common-room bet. The bet was for a fiver, and actually only required him to stand on top of the vehicle for thirty seconds. In the event, he was out there for so long, the vehicle eventually drove away with him clinging onto its top rails.

It was difficult to pinpoint what kicked it all off, but Joey later recalled seeing the two stewards over at a table of five males, gesticulating and pointing towards him. They all came over. Margaret McIntyre was in the middle of it. Her arms were outstretched, trying to keep order. There was some initial jostling, finger-pointing and a smattering of rebuttals in the form of abusive menace from the defiant figure of Hamish May. He stood tall, silhouetted against the flashing backdrop of Heatwave Disco’s two main lightboxes. As the situation deteriorated and the first slap was issued, his
employers
for the evening instinctively crouched down behind the table holding up the decks. The main reason for this was to avoid the swinging microphone, which Hamish was whirling like a demented Roger Daltrey whenever anyone came within ten feet
of him. Bobby was also trying to figure out a way to get to the one exit door undetected. When violence was in the air, both Bobby and Joey were firmly in the
flight
camp; Hamish could represent the primal
fight
instincts of the species if he wanted.

The microphone stand-off continued for about fifteen minutes, until Wullie the Painter came over, all windmilling arms and timing his advance perfectly to plough into Heatwave’s man between rotations. Through a gap in the cabinets Joey saw Hamish stagger back a few steps on one foot, like Chaplin’s tramp in
City Lights
. This resemblance was reinforced by the small strobe lightbox that had fallen over, landing on its ‘on’ switch. Its flickering, flashing light gave the action a monochromatic, slow-motion, filmic quality. But instead of boxing-ring ropes propelling him back into the fray, the rest of the lightboxes tumbled under Hamish’s weight. The decks and their wobbly, trestled support followed, with the two trembling DJs underneath. Bobby couldn’t see what was happening, but it was clear that things weren’t progressing well for the disco’s champion. It sounded to Joey like the blue-suited Tories were kicking the shit out of him and, apart from the odd, muffled squeal of ‘Tory cunts!’, it didn’t seem like much resistance was being offered. And then suddenly there was quiet.

‘I really think you should leave now,’ screamed Margaret McIntyre, her head bent down to shout under the fallen table. Her eyes were moist and fully formed tears weren’t far away.

‘We’re no’ fuckin’ payin’, incidentally … but any trouble and the police are getting called.’ This was the first time birthday boy Andy had spoken to them, and his high-pitched Highlands accent took Bobby and Joey by surprise.