The Last Days of Disco (25 page)

‘Have ye spoken tae Debbie yet?' asked Hettie quietly, as Elton John's ‘Rocket Man' played quietly in the background. It was strange that the first thing Gary had done upon coming home was to put on the record player.

‘Naw, no yet,' replied Gary. ‘Ah wrote a few times but ah don't think she got them.'

‘No, ah don't think she would have,' said Hettie. ‘When they came tae tell us you were … y'know,
missing in action
, they brought a load ae letters wi' them. Ah've got them upstairs for ye.'

‘Probably too late now. Plus ah'm no great company. Canny sleep. Too many nightmares.' Gary put his head in his hands. There was a long silence following the needle lifting away from the record's run-off grooves. Eventually, he said, ‘Ah don't ken whit ah'm gonnae dae, Hettie. Ah thought that if ah could get through the tae the end of it, an' get back an' sort things out wi' Dad, everythin' would be fine after that. Y'know, I could go back tae London, pick up wi' Debs an' have a fuckin' purpose in life for once.' Another long pause passed by. Talking was difficult. They were essentially strangers now – two people who would have to slowly rebuild the close relationship they once had. Hettie felt paralysed by exhaustion.

‘Did he say much about me when ah was away?'

‘Who, Dad?'

‘Aye.'

‘He did, Gary. He might no have said it often but he was really, really proud. He sat up watchin' aw the news programmes and even listening tae the World Service radio.'

Gary pondered the comforting thought of he and his father tuning in to the same radio broadcasts each night. He had spent much of the last few years searching for things that they had in common. To have found it in such a tenuous way seemed heartening, but also now incredibly sad.

‘D'ye ken one of the most shocking things ah saw?' Hettie's eyes were closed, but Gary wasn't really talking to her. ‘On the first day
after we landed at San Carlos, ah saw a deid horse – a big fuckin' beautiful stallion, lyin' deid in the middle ae a road. Its eyes were open an' there wis nae visible wounds. It wis jist deid. Ah'd never seen a deid thing before an' ah jist burst oot in tears'. Ah couldnae stop fur ages. Ah thought whit fuckin' chance huv ah got if this big, strong beast cannae make it? The horse had been killed by artillery fire an' it was lyin' on its wounded side. Ah don't ken whether it was Argentine or British fire that killed it, an' for a while it seemed to be really important for me to find out. Ah kept askin' and askin' about the big black horse on the road, but naebody answered. Everybody was just dealin' wi' their
ain
issues.

‘Later on, we had marched up a track in the pissing rain an' we heard the first sounds ae battle away in the distance. Ah flicked oan ma Walkman tae block it aw oot. Further on, we passed a coupla guys fae another company. Ah switched off the music. One ae them was hysterical, shouting, “Gerry's deid, Gerry's fuckin' deid”, an' the first thing ah thought was,
That's a strange name for a horse
! Then a shell went off about the length ae a fitba pitch away. We aw dived for whit cover there was. Then another yin closer, an' then one about fifty feet behind us. Ah was lying there, in the dark and the wet starin' up the sky, and thinkin' aboot Dad. Ah thought the next fuckin' shell would land right on top ae us, an' that'd be it … an' aw a wanted was ma dad.' Gary wiped away a tear. ‘The one thing that kept me goin' aw that week in the sheep shed was the thought ae gettin' home an' tellin' him that.'

Hettie was asleep. Gary got up and pulled a cover from the back of the sofa and laid it gently over her. He then went and put the needle back to the start of the Honky Château LP.

By the time early-morning light emerged, blinking through the edges of the horizontal metal blinds, Gary had listened to the record seven times. It had been the one cassette he'd taken with him at San Carlos. He didn't think he'd really get the chance to listen to many more once he'd left the ship. Gary didn't even particularly like Elton John, but ‘Rocket Man' was truly great. When Gary lay in
the mud and the blood and the gore, staring up the sky and waiting for death, it was Bernie Taupin's words that were going round in his fevered brain. Mixed feelings about an astronaut leaving his family in order to do a job tens of thousands of miles away: Gary could definitely relate.

Fortunately, Hettie was still asleep. It was almost certainly the first time in weeks that she had slept more than four hours at a stretch. Gary went through to the kitchen. His head hurt and he hunted around for some paracetamol. He found four and took them with whisky. He walked over to the front window and picked up the letter from the mantelpiece. He opened the envelope and read the contents. He then pulled the blinds open, causing Hettie to stir as the sunlight flashed across her face.

‘What time is it?'

‘It's still only half-seven,' said Gary. ‘Ye managed tae sleep for a wee while there, Hets.'

‘Is Bobby back yet?'

‘Naw. Ah don't think he'll be back today. Let him come tae terms wi' it an' ah'll go an' see him tomorrow. We'll need tae sort out the funeral soon anyway.' Hettie started to sob. ‘Hey. Hey, come on. It'll be a'right. Don't cry, Hettie. Ah didnae mean tae upset ye again.' Gary put his arm around his sister.

‘Ah'm fine Gary. It's just … it was a bit ae a shock tae see ye standing there,' said Hettie.

‘Who's DM?' asked Gary, showing her the card.

‘Ah don't really know. A guy called
Doc
or
Don-somethin
' phoned a couple of times a wee while ago.'

‘Whit would he be sayin' sorry about?'

‘Dunno. Hang on, though, there was also a note ah fished out the bin. Ah kept it somewhere. Try that drawer over there.'

Gary recovered the crumpled note.

‘Canny think ae anybody wi' the initials DM,' said Gary. His headache was blinding now. The paracetamol was having no effect. But Gary did go and pour another whisky.

‘A bit early for that Gary, Christ!' said Hettie.

‘Ah need it, Hets. Ah need it to stop aw the shakin'.'

‘I think the guy's second name was Martin. He phoned a few times after we'd heard about you. Ah didnae get a proper message cos' my head was all ower the place that week.'

‘Doc Martin? The
gangster
?' asked a surprised Gary.

‘Ah dunno. Is he?' said Hettie. ‘Ah think Bobby kens him, as well.'

‘So whit happened then, after Dad went tae meet him?' Gary held the crumpled note up for reference. He was aware that it was strange to be interrogating her like this, but he felt that something didn't quite add up. Two notes from a local hood in a week, one asking for a meeting.
His dad was a school janny, for fuck's sake!

‘Anything else happen, Het?'

‘Gary, ah've been up tae here wi' aw this. Ah don't ken whether ah'm comin' or goin' half the time. Ah huvnae slept properly for about a month an' ma mam doesnae even ken who ah am!' She began to sob again.

‘Aw, Hettie look ah'm sorry.' Gary cuddled his sister. ‘Look at the state ae us, eh?' Hettie broke away and got up to get a hankie.

‘Dad came home wi' a cut face the day he went tae see that guy.' Hettie looked ashamed.

‘Why did ye no say that before?' pleaded Gary. ‘That makes a difference.'

‘Dad said he fell. He said he hit his head off a stone wall. Ah never thought more about it until ye showed me that card there.'

‘So why was it no the first thing ye told me?'

‘Cos' ah'm worried about ye, Gary. Yer all over the place
yerself
.'

‘Whit dae ye think ah'm gonnae dae, Hettie. Mickey Martin's a mental case. Ah'm hardly gonnae go an' take him on when ah'm just back.'

‘Right. Well, then, just forget whit ah said tae ye about Dad's face. He died ae a heart attack an' nothin's gonnae bring him back now.'

‘Aye.'

But Gary couldn't put it out of his mind. He left the house to go to the bookies, pick up some cigarettes and just wander around the town. He went out the back door and over the school fields. Gary
normally
left the house this way, but on this particular morning, when he opened the front door to bring in the milk, he felt certain he'd seen a long telescopic lens sticking out of a car window further down Almond Avenue. Walking over the fields a backfiring car engine caused him to throw himself instinctively to the turf. He picked himself up, shaken but grateful that the image wouldn't be on a front page somewhere. He also went into the Clansman, and then the Auld Hoose, and then the Kings Arms. He sat drinking whisky, alone. No matter how much he drank, it had no effect. He couldn't blot out the memories, the screams, the flashing lights, the dead … his dad … Mickey Martin.

In the Kings Arms, a mate from his old football team bought him a drink, and asked to meet up at Mickey Martin's new place when it opened at the weekend. It was called The Metropolis.
Supposed to be brilliant.
Under the multi-storey car park.
See you there, then.

Aye.

‘Look, ah'm just lettin' ye ken. There might be a real problem wi' the opening. Aye, ah ken … look, listen … Will ye fuckin'
listen
tae me a minute? The work'll get done, ah've sorted that, but it's the permissions. We've got a big problem wi' the fire certificates … Aye … It's because the thing's in a fuckin' concrete bunker, basically … Naw, naw there's nothin' ah can dae about that now, but ah will sort it. I'm goin' away the night for a coupla days up tae St Andrews. It'll be fixed when ah get back … Aye, aye, look, just don't panic, right! Aye, see ye.'

‘Who was that on the phone, Mickey?'

‘Naebody, Ella, just a bit ae business. Are ye ready tae go?'

‘Aye, Mickey. Car's packed. Ye've just tae set the alarm.'

‘Nae sign, Des?'

‘Naw, Boss. Naebody's seen him for days. He's no been goin' intae the Metro an' he's no been home either.' This latest turn of events had flabbergasted Des Brick. ‘Ah canny believe Wullie took the cash, Franny. How would he ken the combination?'

‘Dae
you
ken it, like?' said Fat Franny.

‘Eh, naw … naw, of course no! How the fuck would ah ken it?' Des wished he'd just kept quiet now.

‘Well some cunt did, an' there wurny that many folk in the
Inner Circle.'

‘Yer mam no able tae tell ye anything yet?' Des was just tryin' tae be helpful, but failing miserably.

‘Aye. She can fuckin' tell me plenty. She can tell me the six wives ae Henry the Eighth, Napoleon had a wee walloper, an' that you're a prick. That any use tae us?'

‘Fuck sake, Franny. Ah'm jist askin' seein' as she was here.'

‘Well, she told me the guy's first name, that he was wearin' a kilt an' he wis singin' ‘Donald, Wher's Yer Troosers'?' So dae ye really think we should fuck off up tae the Highlands an' gie Andy Stewart a right good kickin?' Des said nothing. ‘Naw, didnae think so. Right let's get goin'. We've got Grant tae pick up. We're gonny put a right fuckin' spanner in the works ae that cunt Martin. Let's go fur a quick pint wi' Terry Connolly.'

The interior had been ablaze for about four hours before any traces of smoke had been detected. It had been a local baker heading down the Foregate, to begin work at five a.m., who smelled the smoke, although at that point he couldn't see it. The concrete structure of the car park and the lack of any openings into the vaulted basements had kept the fire contained, but the alcohol in the stores had fuelled it. When the Fire Brigade finally penetrated the spaces, the backdraft caused a powerful blast, which – if it had happened during conventional working hours – would've resulted in multiple casualties. As it was, The Metropolis was totally destroyed. The fire took three hours to put out. It had all the hallmarks of an insurance job.

Wullie the Painter knew nothing of the fire, despite being only forty feet above it. He expected to be well rewarded by Mickey Martin for his work at The Metropolis, and if the one condition of that was to keep out of sight, then he'd simply park his van in the car park and head up there to sleep every night. The car park was still accessible by its stairs, but the operator's booth was closed between six p.m. and six a.m., so it was always quiet at night. There was a stair down to the rear metal basement doors that led through the smaller vaults to the club. This was where the alcohol deliveries would come in for the new club and where Wullie let himself in and out every day. The third of July was Wullie's birthday and, although it wasn't the most memorable way to spend it, he'd helped himself to a half-bottle of vodka on the way out and demolished it while listening to some arty-farty rubbish on Radio 2. He'd been deeply out of it the whole time that the fire had raged on and had even slept through the sirens. His shock at seeing the carnage in the morning was threefold. Firstly, his materials were all still in the club, and therefore destroyed. Secondly, he hadn't actually been paid anything yet by Mickey Martin and would be unlikely to be remunerated now. And thirdly, he could see from his vantage point that there was an ambulance in the yard and someone was being
loaded into it on a stretcher. One minute past six, Wullie the Painter drove his van out of the car park and away from the scene; his rear registration plate captured on video as the barrier went down.

‘Don, ah thought ye should ken first, mate. The guy's jist died in the hospital. Ah ken you've got links wi' Doc Martin.'

‘Thanks, Charlie, ah'll no forget this. Ah appreciate it. Who else kens about it?'