The Last Days of Disco (21 page)

‘Ah dunno, Joey. Ah canny think aboot anythin’ tae dae wi’ the disco at the minute. We’re supposed tae be doin’ Doc Martin’s anniversary thing next week. Ah’d dae it but ah think ma Dad would go daft.’

‘D’ye no think Gary would want everybody tae be gettin’ on wi’ their life?’

‘Aye mibbe. But it’s nothin’ tae dae wi’ whit ah want tae dae. At the minute it’s aw aboot no upsettin’ ma mam, or our Hettie. Ah can’t cope wi’ it aw though. Ah just want tae get out and get fuckin’ miroculous, aw the time.’

‘Let’s dae the Doc Martin gig then! Dae it properly … in Gary’s honour.’ Joey was trying to be as upbeat as possible. ‘Remember that time he got us fired fae the job at the Tennis Club?’

Bobby sat up and leaned back against Leon Trotsky. ‘Aye.’ Bobby smiled at the memory. ‘Stupid bastard.’

At the beginning of June, more than twelve months ago, an interesting – if short-term – opportunity presented itself for both Bobby and Joey. They had each been offered the position of ‘temporary groundsman’ at the Kilmarnock Municipal Tennis Club, which was buried in the cleft behind the Henderson Church. The club had four clay courts and they ran parallel to the gently flowing Kilmarnock Water. The datum of the courts was around ten metres higher than that of the river’s normal surface level. The courts themselves had a coating of red
blaes
on top. A chain-link fence surrounded them, creating a safe internal oasis that Joey remarked would be forever middle-class. The fence was damaged only at its southern edge; an edge it shared with the far more working-class pie-and-a-pint outdoor bowls club. The damage was due to overuse as a route onto the flat, asphalt bowling club roof when stray tennis balls had to be recovered. A small, red-brick, single-storey tennis clubhouse was under construction at the northern end. It was moving forward at the slow-motion pace of a brick course a week. This clubhouse was partly functional, but some people still made use of an old tongue-and-groove timber-slatted garage that sat just outside the fenced enclosure, on the upper edge of the riverbank.

The job was offered due to the enforced absence of the existing incumbent. His name was Jeffery. He’d been there since leaving school three years earlier but had to give up on this particular
summer as a result of recuperation from an eye operation. His recovery from this procedure would rule out his usefulness to the club for the absolutely mental period leading up to and just beyond Wimbledon in early July. This three- to four-week stretch traditionally saw hundreds of kids, who had evidently never lifted a tennis racquet for anything other than pretending to be Jimmy Page, throw on a headband and a FILA polo shirt and head for the courts.

Temporary memberships almost doubled in this period, and consequently someone prepared to be there at the crack of dawn to open the gates was essential. This was to be one of Bobby’s tasks. Joey would take other responsibilities, such as locking up at night. Sweeping the courts and lines, repairing the damaged fence, and operating the tuck shop would be shared equally between both. The recovery of countless yellowish-green Wilson tennis balls with a tadpole net – which all the
would-be
Borgs had skied into the river – was an expectation that hadn’t been made clear to them at the beginning, though.

Bobby was good at tennis and took on the additional unpaid role of coaching several useless and unenthusiastic kids. The weather that summer was glorious and most of the girls who came to play were dressed like Tracy Austin.

Admittedly, there were a few growlers who resembled Betty Stove, but, as Bobby and Joey now reminisced, these were good times. The only blot on this sylvan landscape was the assumption made by the committee that they were doing this work for the unremitted enjoyment of it. To be fair, they held this view because Bobby’s geography teacher, who had approached him in the first instance, hadn’t cleared the position or agreed any payment for it with anyone. Two events brought those halcyon days to an end. Gary was involved in both and they occurred during the same week.

A middle-aged female lawyer had been due to play a competitive singles match against a young student. After a number of abortive attempts to arrange the game, it was suggested that they try to
play at eight on a Tuesday morning. The remainder of the tennis tournament was being held up by this tie and a great deal of pressure was being brought to bear by the all-powerful committee members. Bobby had been out with a girl the night before and, having come home late, had offered his brother two pounds to take the key and open the courts for him. Since Gary was still asleep in the same room at ten, when Bobby finally woke, the furious Ayrshire legal eagle was forced to forfeit the match due to her inability to find an alternative date, or anyone else with a key for the padlock.

Bobby and Joey were reported to the committee and dismissed days later. The other issue, which no doubt had a bearing on this decision, was the abuse of the position of tuck-shop manager. Gary had come down a few times and, with Bobby’s knowledge, had been robbing the tuck shop for weeks. Texans, Wispas, Spangles and a wide selection of other confectionary, had steadily been going missing from the timber garage since the two of them had started the job. The takings weren’t accounting for it. Bobby’s theory was that good old Angus, the timid geography teacher, had been making up the difference on a weekly basis to avoid any suspicion falling on the two working-class teenagers from the council estates whom he’d appointed. On the particular Tuesday night of the locked courts, Gary went home with three full boxes of twenty-four Cadbury’s milk-chocolate bars and a full box of cheese-and-onion crisps. These were smuggled covertly out of the garage, through the tree cover of the Kay Park and up into the Cassidy boys’ bedroom for onward sale to the wee lads around Almond Avenue. At a price that undercut the numerous ice-cream vans prowling around the scheme at night, of course.

Sometimes opportunity for a seventeen-year-old outweighs judgment or conscience. Old Angus was devastated. He’d privately trusted his pupil and publicly suspected others. A parting of the ways was inevitable and only his intervention with the committee prevented it becoming a police matter. Unsurprisingly, no payment was proffered for three months of genuinely hard work. They
did
sweep the courts, they
did
repair the fence and they
did
recover
an incredible number of previously disregarded tennis balls. Unfortunately, Bobby did open the courts every day, but rarely at the required time and, with Gary’s help, they did manage the tuck shop, but not in the way the committee had envisioned.

Despite the possibility of criminal action, Joey still felt extremely hard done by with the lack of any payment. On the last night there, Bobby and Joey sat outside the courts, defiantly attempting to justify their perspective. In their self-righteous, selfish teenage minds, the work they’d done equalled freedom to help themselves. The positives outweighed the negatives. They were due remuneration. As they made their arguments, Gary appeared. Prompted by the eldest, anger and annoyance built, and the three took their frustration and revenge out on the timber garage against which they had been sitting. After a fair bit of shoving, they dislodge it from its concrete base. To Gary’s astonishment and utter delight, it came away from the base in one piece. The weight of the carcass gave it a momentum all of its own and it tipped up onto one side of its pitched-tar roof. It then slid slowly but gracefully down the bank and into the river. Like one of the massive ships moving down the slipway at John Brown’s Dockyard on the Clyde, it was an impressive sight, despite suffering by comparison of scale.

‘Ah still canny believe it came awa’ in wan bit.’ Tears of laughter were rolling down Bobby’s cheeks. ‘The look on his face, man … fuckin’ brilliant!’ Bobby looked over at his friend. ‘Fuck it. Let’s dae the Martin thing. For Gary. Then we’re finished, eh?’

‘Aye … fur Gary,’ said Joey.

‘Ye be watchin’ the gemme the night, pal?’

‘Eh, ah’m no sure.’

‘Whit! Biggest gemme in history, an’ yer no sure! Ye no intae the fitba, then?’

‘Just had a lot on, mate.’ Harry had intended to watch the match, but he just didn’t want to discuss tactics – or the likelihood of Scotland beating the Soviet Union – with a taxi driver. ‘Mate, just let me off up here, on the left.’

‘The pub ye wanted is still about half a mile up the road.’

‘It’s fine. Ah’m a bit early anyway,’ Harry lied. ‘I’ll walk the rest.’

‘Well, a’right mate.’ The car pulled over to the kerb. ‘That’s two twenty-five, pal.’

Harry paid the driver three pounds and closed the door before the change was offered. He was almost forty-five minutes late. He’d walked around the bus station, deliberating on whether to go and meet Don McAllister for so long that he missed the hourly bus service. When he finally convinced himself that not showing up would only lead to more
approaches
, the only option was a cab from the stance behind the bus station.

Harry was sweating profusely as he walked up the hill towards the small, village pub. He wasn’t a fit man, and the weather – for the umpteenth day in a row – was ridiculously hot. A multitude of thoughts bounced around the inside of his overheated brain. All involved Don McAllister – Harry’s nemesis for more than half of his life. Despite his anger at Don’s phone calls, which Hettie had intercepted, Harry was determined to keep his temper in check. He was equally determined to say as little as possible. As he advanced towards Don McAllister’s outstretched hand in the deserted car park of the Cochrane Inn, both of these objectives were quickly abandoned.

‘Why are ye hasslin’ ma family, ya bastard?’ shouted Harry.

‘Whit?’ Don seemed genuinely confused.

‘You fuckin’ heard me, ya cunt! Phonin’ the house an’ leavin’ messages wi’ Hettie. Of aw’ weeks, for Jesus sake!’

‘Hey, whit the fuck are ye
talkin
’ aboot?’

‘Ye just canny fuckin’ leave us alone, can ye? The boy’s fuckin’ deid. He’s no comin’ back. Whit possible fuckin’ difference does twenty years ago make now? Why can ye no just fuckin’ let it go?’

‘Whit the fuck are ye on about? I tried to fuckin’ help ye out wi’ Bobby. You were the yin that told
me
about Gary. If ye’d kept yer mooth shut ah’d never of kent … an’ besides, it’s no me that’s pushin’ here. Mary needs tae see Ethel again. She’s worried about her.’

‘Aye, that’ll be right. She didnae gie a fuck about Ethel twenty years ago. She kent Gary was yours an’
still
fuckin’ took ye back. How wis Ethel meant tae act after that, eh? Wi’ her sister obviously takin’ your side.’ Harry’s face was becoming drained of its colour.

Although Don was sure no-one was watching them – that was the main reason he’d picked the location – he felt the need to defuse the situation.

Harry continued ranting. ‘Mary’s no seeing Ethel. Ah told ye aw they years ago that ye were tae stay awa’ fae us. An’ ah fuckin’ mean it even more now. Don’t phone. Don’t come round. Just fuck off.
Get it
?’

‘Harry, ah canny promise that. Mary …’

‘
Fuck Mary
!’ Harry lurched forward to punch Don with his full-fingered hand, but Don was too quick, and, stumbling, Harry hit only fresh air, and then, with his head, the dry-stane dyke wall.

The toast popped up. Hettie walked over to it with the butter in one hand and a knife in the other. She hadn’t eaten much in days, and her mum had eaten even less, but she felt that perhaps a bit of toast and a cup of tea would help them both. She picked out one slice, buttered it and promptly dropped it face down on the floor.
Shite
, she muttered under her breath. The swing bin in the kitchen was full so she took the hairy toast into the living room and dropped it into the smaller bin in there, bending down to pick up the screwed-up ball of paper that was lying behind it.

She read the note.

‘Aw
Dad
. Whit are ye
doin
’?’

15

ASHES TO ASHES

‘Jesus fuck, yer a hard man tae get a hold ae.’

‘Well, it’s no been the easiest of weeks, ken?’

‘Aye. Aye, sorry about yer brer an’ that. But life goes on, y’ken? Time tae get back on the horse an’ aw that shite.’ Mickey Martin didn’t really
do
condolences. That was what Hallmark was for. But he felt he should say
something
profound. That done, it was back to business. ‘So. Fenwick Hotel, Saturday night. It better be fuckin’ good. The wife’s shitin’ herself that it’ll be like the wean’s twenty-first. A great night though, an’ ye’ll be in The Metropolis in a coupla weeks.’

‘Aye, about that Doc. Everythin’s fine for Friday, but ah think we’re gonnae call it quits after that,’ said Bobby, moving to one side to avoid Mickey’s cigar smoke. ‘It’s been good wi’ the disco an’ that but there’s been far too much hassle. The fuckin’ polis are phonin’ ma auld man now, an’ wi’ everythin’ else that’s happened, it’s no fair on him an’ ma mam.’

Mickey Martin scratched at his stubble. He looked unconvinced. Bobby continued, ‘Plus, ma mate Hammy’s had a doin’ offa Franny Duncan’s crew, he’s ended up in hospital wi’ hypothermia, and he got electrocuted tae!’ Bobby sniggered. ‘Although that was his ain
fault, tae be honest.’ Mickey Martin didn’t laugh, though. Bobby looked nervously around the portacabin that Mickey’s lackeys had brought him to after tracking him down to Joey Miller’s house in Onthank.

‘Ah’ve picked
you
fur this Metropolis gig. Could’ve gied it tae that fat cunt but ah don’t want tae. Needs brought doon a peg. Ah’m no used tae takin’ no for an answer, ye should ken that, Bobby.’

‘Aye, Doc. Ah dae, but ah’m in a tough spot here. Ma dad paid for aw’ the gear an ….’

‘Dae the fuckin’ job then, an’ pay him back!’ Mickey was losing patience with this conversation. ‘Look, leave Fat Franny tae me. Ah’ll deal wi’ him an’ make sure he disnae bother ye again.’ Mickey reclined in a big leather seat that looked totally out of place in a builder’s hut. ‘I’ll make a phone call, an’ afore ye can say
Tommy Cooper’s a cunt
, it’ll be sorted. Just like that.’

‘Aye,’ said Bobby falteringly. ‘A’right, then. I’ll speak tae Joey.’

‘Dae that.’ Mickey stood up, signalling the discussion was over. ‘Get there early on Friday, an’ don’t fuck it up, cos’ ah ken where ye live.’ Bobby turned back at this to see a wicked Dick Dastardly smile beaming back at him. ‘Ah’m fuckin’ jokin’, fur Christ’s sake. Whit dae ye think ah am?’

‘Des?
Des
!’

‘Whit is it, boss?’ Des Brick rolled his eyes. He was in the Ponderosie’s kitchen and had just submerged the teabag into the sugary, boiled water.

‘Get in here.’ Fat Franny’s tone had all the excitement of a child who had just been informed that Santa Claus was a lazy bastard who left all the presents at the first house he got to, and this year it would be
his
.

‘Where’s the joy, big man?’

‘The Doc’s just off the phone, Desi Boy! The Metro gig’s back on. Fuckin’
yes
!’ Fat Franny punched the air three times. ‘At last, mate. At fuckin’ last!’

‘That
is
guid news. Whit changed his mind then?’

‘Ah made him an offer he couldnae refuse,’ said Fat Franny with the smuggest of smug looks all over his face, which only slipped when Des Brick eventually said:

‘Naw
really
… whit changed his mind?’

Fat Franny glowered.

‘We’re finishin’ off the work at the Metro, an’ cos’ we’re doin’ that we’re gettin’ a long-term contract.’ Fat Franny was a bit irked at having to explain this to a subordinate, especially since it wasn’t entirely true. Mickey Martin
had
indeed phoned Fat Franny about fifteen minutes ago. He
had
indeed asked for some help in finishing off the joiner work, some electrical installation and all of the painting at his new club. He
had
indeed dangled a carrot of ‘help me out wi’ this wee problem an’ ah’ll gie ye the first weekend.’ However, Fat Franny was unaware that Mickey Martin had no intention of using the Duncan crew for his new venture beyond getting the place finished for free.

‘Thought he wis fur usin’ the Cassidy boy?’ asked Des innocently.

Another one who might be sleeping with the fishes if his attitude don’t fuckin’ sharpen up
. ‘Ah told ye. He changed his mind. Now dae ye want tae be workin’ wi’ me or no? Fuck sake, Des, yer gettin’ as fuckin’ negative as that brother-in-law ae yours!’

‘Sorry, Franny. Nae sweat man. It’s just a wee bit ae a surprise, ken?’ Des recognised Fat Franny’s irritation and moved quickly to defuse it. ‘So whit’s the plan, boss?’

‘Right. Well, first of all, ah’m firing they cunts the Cheezees, Bert Bole and that fuckin’ paedo Sunshine. Ah want ye tell get Wullie tae go round an’ tell them aw later, an’ while yer at it, ye can gie the fuckin’ magician a good pastin’. Ah got huckled in by the polis after that fuckin’
balloon
shambles.’

‘Nae problem. It’s done.’

‘Then you, Wullie and a couple of his boys need tae go down tae the Foregate and get on wi’ The Metropolis work. The Doc’s lads will meet ye there later on the night tae sort ye oot wi’ keys an’ let ye ken whit’s needing done.’

‘Whit about Hobnail, Franny?’

‘He’s out, Des. Finito.’ Fat Franny knew this would shock Des. ‘He’s been on the take, mate. Ah ken he’s family … fuck, he’s been like family tae me
tae
. But ah canny have that in the ranks.’

Des was even more shocked.

Franny felt the need to keep talking. ‘Senga’s been on his back about Grant comin’ tae work for me …’

‘Is he? Ah didnae ken that!’

‘Aye, he is. In fact, pick him up later as well. He’s gonnae be useful. Ah’m gettin’ him on tae the money collections round the streets here.’

‘Does Hobnail ken aw this?’

‘Naw,’ said Fat Franny. ‘But ah’ll deal wi’ that later, eh. Phone the boy at this number.’ Fat Franny handed Des a small square of paper with some numbers written on it. ‘His maw’s thrown a fuckin’ fit, so he walked out. Ye’ll get him there.’ Fat Franny reached for his jacket. ‘So are ye clear on everythin’?’

‘Eh, aye. Ah think so,’ said Des.

It was a lot of information so Fat Franny let Des’s hesitation pass this time. ‘Phone me later at the Portman, when yer headin’ down tae the Metro. Ah’m awa tae get Theresa. Let yerself out, an’ wash that cup.’

And with that the Fatman walked out the front door and down the gravel drive away from the Ponderosie, considerably happier than he had been when he’d got up that morning. He’d lost a
ton
last night because of those two
fannies
– Miller and Hansen.

‘Jesus Christ, Bobby, son … where have ye been? We’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ye.’

Bobby was perplexed. Normally nobody bothered much about his comings and goings, yet here he was, having heard virtually the same phrase twice in just over an hour.

‘Gary’s no deid!’ proclaimed Harry.

Bobby sighed. ‘Dad, ah ken this is tough for ye but …’

‘Naw. Naw Bobby. It’s the truth. He’s turned up. He’d went missing in the fightin’ an’ …’

‘Whit d’ ye mean! We had a bloody funeral thing for him an’ a … an’ a wake!’

Harry put his arms around his youngest son. ‘Ah ken, son. It’s hard tae believe. But it’s the truth. The officers are just away. Gary’s gonnae phone in a wee while. They had tae come first an’ tell us face tae face, cos’ ae the shock an’ that.’ Harry wiped a tear from Bobby’s face. ‘They’re tryin’ tae keep the story quiet because aw the papers will be back, but they think there’ll be loads more ae them now.’

Bobby felt his knees buckle. He slumped backwards into his dad’s chair. ‘My God, Dad. Ah cannae believe this. It’s just … fucking unbelievable!’

Harry laughed. ‘Right, ah’ll let that wan go, but mind yer language fae now on, eh?’

‘Where’s Mum … an’ Hettie?’

‘Yer mum’s no copin’ well, son. She stayed wi’ Sadie Flanagan last night, mainly tae gie us a break. The chaplain thinks we should wait a coupla days before tellin’ her about Gary. Hettie’s in wi’ her just now, but
she
couldnae believe it either.’

Harry moved over to the window and opened curtains that had been constantly closed for days. Bobby saw the multitude of deep cuts on his dad’s face.

‘Jesus Christ, Dad, whit happened tae yer face?’

‘Ach, it’s nothin’. Ah went out for a walk tae clear ma head an’ ah
tripped an’ fell. Ah scraped it down a brick wall. It’s fine. It looks worse than it is.’

Bobby slumped into Harry’s armchair. He felt totally drained. ‘By Christ, it’s been some fortnight, Dad, eh?’

‘Aye, son. In more ways than one!’