The Last Days of Disco (15 page)

‘Why canth
you
no go’th an thee Nobby Quinnth?’ Hobnail shocked himself by saying these words out loud. All three of his fellow war-cabinet members turned to look at him with the same bemused look on their faces.

‘Cos’ it’s your fuckin’ job, ya cunt,’ barked Des Brick. An opportunity to curry favour
and
boot the boss’s number two squarely in the balls rarely presented itself, and he was quick to grab it.

Fat Franny put his hand calmly on Des’s forearm. ‘If yer losin’ the bottle fur it, just say, Boab,’ said Fat Franny. ‘There’s plenty linin’
up for yer job … an’ no just the two in here.’ This took not only Hobnail, but also Des and Wullie by surprise. Fat Franny was a sharp guy and he’d noted the increasingly distant attitude his
consiglieri
had demonstrated over the last month or so. In fact, Fat Franny had put it at the top of the list of reasons why the business was currently suffering. Michael Corleone would have had him clipped weeks ago, but the Don’s handling of a delicate situation would’ve been more subtle.

‘How’s that boy ae yours gettin’ on?’

This enquiry caught Hobnail off guard.

‘Heth’s fine,’ he responded, slightly fazed. ‘Came tae see me last Friday. No aw that happy at home, is he? Wants tae mibbe dae a wee bit ae work for me, y’ken? Pick up a bit more cash, an’ that.’

‘Franny, ah fuckin’ swearth …’ Hobnail was on his feet, fists clenched.

‘Sit doon, fur fuck’s sake. How long have ye kent me? Ah’m no gonnae go behind yer back wi’ Grant. Ah ken the trouble it’d cause wi’ you an’ Senga.’

Des saw the game unfolding and he had to hand it to Fat Franny. He had defused Hobnail’s anger – for now at least – and reminded him that there are other ways to get what you wanted than brute force. Hobnail would go and see the Quinns. He would be unhappy about it, but he’d do it because of the ease with which his old ‘friend’ could manipulate the position with Senga. If Grant got anywhere near Fat Franny’s business, it would be all over with Senga and that would cost him more than just money.

‘Right. Let’s get a fuckin’ shift on an’ get organised for The Anchorage the night.’ Fat Franny stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. No papers had been presented and no minutes had been taken, but as far as Franny was concerned, the outcome was more conclusive than a United Nations resolution.

‘Aw fuck. Fat Franny’s the bastardin’ DJ!’

It had looked like a promising night for Bobby Cassidy up to this point. Lizzie had been invited to a party at The Anchorage in Troon. It had come as a bit of a surprise, since Janice Fallon had been a friend of both Lizzie
and
Theresa. The three of them had been close until relatively recently. With the invite Lizzie had assumed that Janice had taken her side. She never thought for a minute the stupid cow would have invited
both
of them. But there she was. Theresa Morgan. Standing next to the DJ booth, all blond, layered feather cut and New Romantic make-up. The four of them – Lizzie had allowed Joey and Hamish to come as well – walked in to the small pub hall. Janice came over quickly, oblivious to the hard, driven stares coming from the DJ zone. The Heatwave contingent moved instinctively towards the bar, leaving Lizzie to fawn dramatically over Janice, her new earrings, her gold horn-a-plenty chain and other large pieces of brash jewellery which Joey felt certain must have come from the Jimmy Savile Collection, or the Mr T
House of Crap.

The music was mundane and Bobby felt pleased with how far they’d come in such a short period of time, when compared with Fat Franny’s hopeless vocal interruptions. After his first pint, Hamish went to the toilets. They’d been here for about twenty minutes and Lizzie hadn’t yet returned to their table. Joey and Bobby sat together, looked over at Fat Franny – whose gaze had barely been away from them since they came in – and laughed. They weren’t actually laughing
at
Fat Franny, but he assumed they were. Des and Wullie were despatched. Bobby was reminiscing about the time the eight-year-old Gary had played crazy golf with Harry on the esplanade across the road from the pub they were in. Gary had swung the club like Jack Nicklaus and had broken Harry’s nose with the club head on the first hole.

‘Hey! Whit the fuck?’ The sack went straight over Hamish’s head, causing him to pee all over his jeans and the shoes of one of his assailants.

‘Ya fuckin’ hoor, ye,’ shouted Wullie the Painter, in violation of the no-sound edict from the Fatman. Des puts his forefinger to his lips and made a
shush
-ing noise. At the same time, he dropped the struggling Hamish to his knees with a kick to the balls. The restrained teenager was easier to man-handle when on his knees, and the Gaffa tape went round his body quickly. After only a few minutes – and despite looking like a Christmas present wrapped by Stevie Wonder – he was suppressed. In the adjacent female toilets, things were also starting to kick-off. Lizzie had been explaining the origin of the argument with Theresa to an uninterested Janice, who was more intent on reapplying another layer of deep scarlet lipstick.

‘Well, ah’m no hiding in the bogs aw night. This was a daft idea. Her an’ I have fell oot big style,’ said Lizzie.

‘Ah suppose apologisin’ would be oot the question.’

‘Ah’ve nuhin’ tae apologise fur, Jan. It wis aw her dain’. She started it.’

‘An’ ah suppose, if ah asked her, she’d say the same? Best pals fae nursery and noo look at ye’se. No speakin’ because ae a stupid argument.’ Janice had started to warm to the role of potential peacemaker.

‘Might seem stupid tae you. You’ve no got blonde hair … so you widnae understand,’ said Lizzie. Janice would clearly have a job on her hands with these two.

‘Whit difference does it make who got the
Princess
Di
feather cut first?’ Janice stood, arms outstretched, as if she was addressing the League of Nations.

‘Well, it wisnae
that
fuckin’ fat cow, anyway,’ Lizzie said, laughing.

Theresa had been listening to all this from inside one of the Formica toilet cubicles and, on hearing Lizzie’s laughter, she burst through the door.

‘Aw aye … is that right, ya skanky hoor?’

If Lizzie was surprised at her nemesis having heard the invective, she hid it well and retaliated in surprisingly brutal terms. ‘Ther’s only wan skanky faced midden in here, an’ we’re baith staring at it … an’ smellin’ its manky fanny.’

‘Ya gadgie cow,’ screamed Theresa.

‘Lassies, lassies … there’s nae need f …’ Janice tried to get between them, but was pushed to the side by both.

‘Awa’ an’ get back tae blawing that fat dick that’s attached tae yer sumo wrestler boyfriend,’ laughed Lizzie, as she turned and walked out of the toilet to the hall. As she did so, Theresa ran at her, jumping on Lizzie’s back and grabbing her around the neck. This momentum propelled both of them onto the dancefloor, where Lizzie eventually staggered and fell with Theresa landing on top of her. In one move, Lizzie righted herself and swung a punch of which Ali himself would have been proud. Perhaps fortunately, it didn’t connect, but a subsequent, softer left hook did. It knocked Theresa onto her back. Quick as a flash, Lizzie was on top of her. Joey could instantly see that this wasn’t Lizzie’s first bout. She was moving like an alley cat, avoiding Theresa’s wild kicks and clawing at her clothes. Buttons popped, as Theresa’s cream blouse opened and a pale blue bra was on view, supporting heavy, hanging breasts.

‘Quick, throw some fuckin’ jelly on them!’ shouted one onlooker, as others whooped and hollered. Bobby looked at Joey in amazement. Neither had any clear idea of what to do next. Intervene? Disappear? Applaud?

‘She certainly disnae need hauners anyway,’ said Joey.

Eventually, and only after both protaganists were reduced to similar levels of ripped undress, two doormen from The Anchorage pulled them apart. Due to Theresa’s relationship with the DJ, it was Lizzie who was cast out into the balmy night air of Troon’s Templehill. Bobby and Joey followed shortly after.

‘Where the fuck were you’se two?’ screamed an angry Lizzie, as they strode towards the taxi rank.

‘Didnae seem like ye needed any help,’ exclaimed Joey. ‘Plus, whit the fuck did ye expect the three ae us tae dae? Jump in like an all-in wrestlin’ tag team?’

Bobby wasn’t sure which way to go with this discussion. Should he defend a girlfriend whom he liked, but hadn’t even had sex with
yet? Or side with his friend of almost six years? The Laurel to his Hardy; the Millican to his Nesbitt; the Bernie to his Mike …
Hold on a minute
, thought Bobby.
Where the fuck was Schnorbitz?

‘That yin there’ll dae,’ whispered Des. ‘The wee yin wae the oars in it.’

Wullie the Painter reached into the cold, black water and grabbed at the rope that was connected to the small rowing boat.

‘Stroke ae fuckin’ luck, eh? That fight kickin’ off like that,’ said Des. ‘
And
a Brucie fuckin’ bonus that they diddies were even there, eh? We’d ae struggled tae get out without aw that commotion.’

‘Aye, although ah wish we could’ve stayed to see it aw.’ Wullie stopped wrestling with the top half of the parcel and looked up. Des urged him to be quiet. Wullie swung a leg at the end of the struggling body. His boot connected with a dull thud. The body stopped moving. ‘That should make it easier to shift the cunt,’ he said.

‘Fuck sake, Wullie. Ye mighta killed him.’

‘Naw ah huvnae. Just knocked the prick out a wee bit. Anyway, like ah was sayin’, Theresa’s tits are fuckin’ magic … an’ we’d have seen them if we’d hung on a wee bit longer. Many’s the time ah’ve had a rerr auld soapy-tit wank in the bath thinkin’ about them.’

Des couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Well, let’s get this yin in the boat an’ run back up. Mibbe we’ll catch the last round.’

Hamish’s taped-up body was rolled into the small vessel. Wullie pushed it gently away from the wooden boardwalk and watched it drift with the outgoing tide into the calm night beyond the stone breakwater.

‘Ach, fuck it,’ exclaimed Wullie. Des looked back suddenly.

‘Whit is it?’

‘Ah forgot tae take the oars out.’

10

HIGH NOON

‘How’s things, Harry?’

‘They’re fine.’

‘Ah got told that yer boy Gary’s away tae the Falklands.’

‘Aye that’s right. Sailed on the
QE2
last Tuesday.’

‘Did ye go doon tae see him off? Southampton, wis it?’

‘Naw. We didnae. He didnae want us tae come doon. He kent Eth– … he kent it wid be too much for his mam.’ Harry was uncomfortable with this conversation, and not just because he was deep inside Kilmarnock’s Eastern Bloc-style police station. Don McAllister sat, hands clasped, on the other side of the laminated desk. There was a manila folder sitting in front of him. When Harry had been shown into the room – just after he’d ignored Don’s outstretched hand – he’d noticed four surnames written in black ink on a notepad. One of them was his.

Harry stared around the room. There were flickers of things that prompted him to think of the time he’d first met Don McAllister: a Kilmarnock Order Masonic Lodge pennant on the wall; a British Rail ticket stub next to the bin on the floor; the photographs of the copper and his wife on the desk.

It’s 1960. Hogmanay. Twenty-year-old Ethel Fleming is going to a New Year Dance organised by three of her new friends from work. She doesn’t know them that well and this is making her dad, James, uncomfortable. Ayr is a dangerous place at night, he warns his youngest child. He knows from bitter personal experience that there are plenty of greasy corner-boys wandering about the town centre, blades at the ready – especially at this time of year, when exuberance can so quickly turn to aggression. Anne, his wife, is more willing to let Ethel go. It’s been a hard year for everyone in the family and she feels that her youngest daughter should be encouraged to go out and enjoy herself.

Robert – Ethel’s eldest brother – contracted polio as a child and the condition had deteriorated dramatically over the last year. Anne feels that Ethel has sacrificed a lot for her brother and deserves a bit of time to have fun. Ethel’s other brother – also James – is currently serving his National Service and was never close to Robert, mocking him constantly for the metal calipers he had to wear when they were boys. Mary – Ethel’s older sister – was already something of a party girl and an almost constant cause of concern for her father as a consequence.

So, reluctantly, James lets his daughter go to the dance at the Station, Hotel on the corner of Burns Statue Square. It’s an obvious choice for a British Rail staff dance, as the hotel is part of Ayr’s railway station, where many of them are employed. Ethel has just started working in the typing pool immediately above the function room where the party will be held. The condition that James accompanies Ethel on the 45-minute bus journey in from Kilmarnock where they live doesn’t please her, but since it seems to be non-negotiable, she agrees. Robert’s various ailments mean that no-one is allowed to smoke in the house, so both Ethel and her father welcome the sanctuary of the upper deck of the red-and-orange number 33; Ethel with her favourite Embassy Regal and James with his pipe.

‘Ach, ah’ll catch up wi’ a coupla auld mates in the Pot Still,’ says James to his daughter. She says nothing but turns to look out the window, mainly to conceal a sigh. God, the Pot Still’s just across the road from the station. That’ll mean he’ll be staying to take me home as well, she’s thinking. James also works for the Region’s Transport Department as a conductor on the local buses, but the friends he’s talking about aren’t workmates. They are fellow Masonic Lodge members of whom Anne, Ethel’s mother, doesn’t approve, so James is glad of the diversion.

Ethel has bought a new frock for the evening. It is pale-blue sleeveless dress with a fitted bodice and a plain round neck. She loves the dress. It was bought with her first pay cheque and she feels it is the first thing that is truly hers. She would keep it forever, due to the significance she would later attach to it. A string of pearls given to her by her gran is the only accessory. It is a freezing, foggy Ayrshire night and Anne has made her wear a heavy coat – which doesn’t really go with the dress or the shoes – but, again, Ethel conceded. Earlier, Anne said she looked pretty; like Shirley MacLaine. Ethel took this to be a compliment because she knew her mum loved Shirley MacLaine. Although Ethel wished she’d said Doris Day. Shirley was unconventionally attractive, but Doris was beautiful.

The dance begins at seven o’clock and is due to finish at ten. This would give the revellers time to catch the last buses from Fullarton Street and be home well before the Bells. James walks his embarrassed daughter right into the hotel’s reception, where her friends Betty and Eileen are patiently waiting. He leaves her with a reminder to be outside the front door of the hotel at exactly ten. He does have the tact to whisper this to her, knowing her older friends may make fun of her later if they hear him. A third friend, Sadie, is late. She has told Betty earlier in the day that she might be coming with her new man and just to go in. She’d catch up with them later.

The three girls enjoy the night, dancing with different lads and sipping from their gin and tonics. The conversation is relaxed and easy and Ethel begins to feel that she will grow close to Betty and 
Eileen. She is less sure of Sadie, and is quietly glad that it appears she isn’t coming.

At around nine-thirty, Sadie finally arrives. The dance hall is busy but Ethel catches sight of her immediately. Her blue-and-white spotted dress is one that Ethel has considered for herself, but she decided that it was a bit outlandish. She also vaguely recognises the man with Sadie, but can’t remember from where. Sadie comes over, but it is clear she isn’t going to stay. Her man has headed in the opposite direction, towards the bar and presumably some people he knows.

The night ends with a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and everyone links arms under the dance hall’s sparkly glitter ball. Some coloured balloons are still defiantly circling the dancefloor – their end-of-evening impact lessened by the netting that was holding them having fallen during the early part of the night. As she looks round the circle of drunk but jovial British Rail workers, Anne notices that the man who was on Sadie’s arm is no longer there. Sadie is gazing into the eyes of Don McAllister, a young police sergeant and Sadie’s married boss.

Before leaving, Ethel goes to the toilet on the upper floor. When she comes out five minutes later, an argument involving a few people has broken out on the stairs. A spotted dress is clearly visible at the centre of it all. Ethel manages to squeeze past the commotion and, although it doesn’t look too threatening, and mindful of her dad’s finger wagging, she makes her way quickly out into the sharp, cold air of the street.

Most of the revellers leave while she waits impatiently for her dad. She is annoyed because he stressed how important it was that she didn’t hang about on street corners at night in the city, and here she is kept waiting by him and his cronies in the old pub over the cobbles. She has been waiting for around fifteen minutes when Sadie’s man – the one she came with, not the one she left with – comes out of the hotel’s revolving door. He is clearly in pain, holding a left wrist that doesn’t look like it is set at the same angle as his right. Ethel asks him if he is all right. He says,
No, he doesn’t think so
. He’s taken a swing at Don McAllister, missed badly and fallen down the stairs, landing
awkwardly
on his arm. He thinks his wrist might be broken.

Ethel says that he should maybe go the hospital. It is New Year’s Eve, he reminds her. If you’ve broken your wrist, you’ll need to get it looked at tonight, she tells him. The man says he has no money to get to hospital and, slightly ashamed, admits that Sadie has his wallet in her pocket book.

James Fleming is decidedly less than happy to be sharing a black cab to the town’s Seafield Hospital on Hogmanay – far less paying for it – with a man that his daughter barely knew, but he’s lost a bit of the moral high ground, since it is his fault that Ethel has got into a detailed conversation with him in the first place.

This was how Ethel Fleming met her future husband, Harry Cassidy; and also how Harry Cassidy first met Don McAllister – a man whom he would see again two years later, when Don turned up on the arm of Mary, Ethel’s elder sister, for a strained Christmas Day dinner at James and Anne’s house. Strained, principally because Ethel had just suffered a miscarriage, which she was trying to conceal for fear of it spoiling everyone else’s day. Only months after this, Don was a man who’d had a brief but devastating affair with Ethel. He was a man to whom Harry hadn’t spoken for nearly eighteen years. Ethel had not spoken to Don’s wife Mary for even longer.

‘It’s been a while, eh?’ said Don, snapping Harry out of his temporary paralysis.

‘Mmm,’ mumbled Harry. The names on the notepad were holding his temper in check. Plus, a scene now – after all these years – did seem a bit pointless. He’d resolved to keep out of Don’s way since the day Gary was born. Harry’s only condition for the reconciliation of his marriage was that there be no contact between Ethel and Mary, or, more obviously, Don. Ethel acceded to this harsh demand more willingly than Harry had expected. Burying the memory seemed marginally less painful for her than
acknowledging and addressing her debilitating shame. For his part, Don had moved to the Masonic Club in Hurlford, although this was mainly at the insistence of James Fleming, who was secretary at the Kilmarnock Order when his son-in-law was introduced into the membership.

‘Look, ah ken things have been rough in the past between you and me …’

‘Aye,’ said Harry.

‘… but ah felt ah owed ye this at least.’ Don waited a moment for another interruption, but none was forthcoming. ‘Bobby and three other yins got lifted a coupla’ weeks back. Ah’ve got the report.’ Don tapped the manila file.

Harry looked down at it but still sat impassively. Don was a good detective but he couldn’t read Harry. In fact, he’d
never
been able to read him.

‘They were at the Tory Club. A fight broke out. Some booze got nicked and ma boys found it in their van.’ Don straightened in his seat and delivered a summary quickly and professionally. ‘CPS are pushing for a conviction an’ there’s a lotta top Tories in there.’

Harry still remained silent. He was unsure if Don was angling for some sort of a deal here.

‘Ah can make it go away for Bobby and his two mates, but the van driver’s gonnae get fucked unfortunately.’ Don saw Harry’s eyebrows rise at this. ‘Stevenson. D’you ken him tae?’

‘Aye. Ah dae. He’s a good lad. Ah’m sure he’ll no be involved.’

‘Harry, the stuff was in his fuckin’ van! An’ wi’ his record, he’s the obvious Lee Majors here.’

Harry look bemused.

‘The fuckin’ Fall Guy …’ said Don. ‘Look, ah’m lettin’ Bobby off wi’ this … an’ afore ye say it, ah’m no wantin’ anythin’ back.’ Don sat back in his large leather chair. ‘Ah just wanted the opportunity tae set the record straight wi’ you … an’ wi’ Ethel. Mary forgave her years ago. And me, for that matter. For
everythin
’. No’ comin’ tae the weddin’, an that tae … She still misses her.’ Don could almost see
Harry’s hackles rising. ‘Ye cannae put yer arms around a memory, Harry.’ It was well intentioned, but way wide of the mark.