The Last Days of Disco (11 page)

Overall, the night itself was a bit of a stroll for Heatwave. There were no women present, which made the choice of a disco seem a bit odd; these middle-aged, working-class Ayrshire guys would rather face a firing squad than get up and dance, particularly if the only available partners were other guys. Halfway through the night, Harry came over and reassured them that it was all going well. They had just wanted a bit of music, and the opportunity to request records by Frank Sinatra, Perry Como or Dean Martin, which the boys had with them thanks to Harry giving them access to much of his
own
record collection. Plus, Bobby had already detected the pride in his father’s voice as he bragged to his mates that he was their manager and, more importantly, their financial backer.

So it had been an easy night. At almost exactly ten p.m., Harry approached the decks and asked for the microphone. He stood in front of the lightboxes and, with the lights flashing in sync with the sound of his voice, he addressed his fellow Masons.

‘Lads, it’s a big night for Chick McKenzie, an’ on his behalf, cheers for turnin’ out. Chick’s been a lodge member for nigh on forty year … longer than he’s been in his job, an’ while he’s leavin’ the hospital, he’ll always be a Mason.’ Cheers and applause came back to Harry through the thick fog of cigarette smoke. ‘Ah’m goin’ tae let the boys go now, while we get sorted for the final ceremony, but while they’re packin’ up, Chick asked me tae say that there’s a drink for aw ae ye’se at the bar.’

More cheers and louder than before, followed by a chorus of ‘Wan Chick McKenzie, there’s only wan Chick McKenzie … Wan Chick McKeeeennnzzziie …’

‘Whit’s goin’ on, Dad?’ asked a bemused Bobby.

‘That’s it. You’se can go up the road now. Did ah no tell ye we’d be by at ten?’

‘Naw. Ye didnae. Jimmy’s no due fur another two hours yet.’ Bobby’s tone was one of real annoyance. It was one thing to be playing the music of easy-listening crooners for three hours; it was another thing entirely to be hanging about in a cold back hall for another two – especially since Joey had already decided to leave him to it. Joey was going to head home since he wasn’t getting paid for this one anyway.

By twenty past ten, Bobby was alone. The gear was packed and ready at the rear fire exits and he had been told to observe the rules of the club and stay in a back storage cupboard, out of the way of the ‘ceremony’. There had been no point in using the club’s phone to call Jimmy’s house, as he’d already said he’d possibly be a bit late. He’d been hired to run a group of kids up to the Thin Lizzy gig at the Apollo in Glasgow and would pick Bobby up on the way back.

So Bobby hunkered down and prepared for a long and boring wait – which he’d make absolutely certain his Dad knew all about. He’d been in the cupboard for perhaps twenty-five minutes when a bizarre, repetitive sound made its way down the long winding corridor. Bobby listened intently; he couldn’t identify its origin or discern its content, but it did appear to be a low, rumbling, monotonous
chant.
What the fuck are these auld pricks on?
he thought. He waited and listened for another five minutes before tentatively edging his way closer to the source. The chant seemed to be ‘One of us … one of us …’ but delivered with such a lack of expression that it could have come from the cast of
Night of the Living Dead.
Bobby hesitated and then laughed to himself. There was absolutely no way Gary could’ve been right about this …
could he
?

He opened the door to the backstage area quietly, and climbed carefully over three drums, gingerly squeezing behind an upright piano. There was a glint of light coming from the tiny gap between the two drawn red-velvet stage curtains.

‘One of us … one of us … one of us …’

Bobby couldn’t make out what was going on. He’d have to get closer. He wished Joey had stayed.
They’d be pishin’ themselves laughin’ about this for years,
he thought.

‘One of us … one of us …’

He got to the edge of the curtain and peered through the gap. Around thirty people, heads and upper bodies covered by white sheets – presumably Chick McKenzie’s guests … and
Bobby’s dad! –
were lined up in a circle.
This was too fuckin’ much.
He was struggling to stop the laughter. They all had their left trouser-leg rolled up.
Joey’ll never fuckin’ believe this.

‘One of us … one of us … one of us …’

Bobby hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was someone lying under a sheet in the middle of the circle. He scanned the trouser legs quickly. Whoever it was, it wasn’t somebody related to him. He could spot Harry’s antiquated dark-brown cords a mile off.

‘One of us … one of us …’
Boom
! The sound of a heavy bass drum, coming from the hall’s front reception area, stopped everything; including Bobby’s heart for a beat or two. The two heavy, red-panelled doors opened, and the drummer paced in slowly with a massive, marching drum on his chest, beating a slow pace with two large hairy drumsticks, one in each hand. Behind him was the clippety-clop of … yes, a goat.

Fuck
me gently.
Bobby’s earlier mirth had evaporated as he caught sight of the shining machete in the goat-handler’s grip. He couldn’t believe this was all happening. How could they possibly keep this such a secret? Nobody he
knew
could keep secrets. Old Winker Watson had won the bingo jackpot at the Odeon and had given everyone there a twenty to keep schtum about it. He
still
woke up the next morning to find the house had been done over while he slept.

As Bobby deliberated anxiously over whether to declare his presence, the drummer had unhooked himself from the instrument and had gone behind the bar to pick up a cricket bat. Bobby noticed Jocky Wilson throwing a dart,
live
500 miles away, in the box over the drummer’s head.
Christ, they don’t even turn the fuckin’ telly off.

‘One of us … one of us …’ The chanting started again as one by one; the guys lifted the backs of their sheets to reveal bare arses. The drummer worked his way round, thwacking each arse with the cricket bat.

‘Thank you, Grandmaster,’ said each consecutive owner of a reddened, smacked arse. As the drummer reached the arse belonging to Harry, Bobby stretched a bit further to see. In doing so he tripped over a Masonic marching pole and fell forward, grabbing at the edge of the curtain and falling headfirst through it. The batsman stopped in his tracks and all the other
ghosts
turned to look at Bobby. There was an eerie silence, which, for the prostrate interloper, seemed to last for ages. Even the goat was motionless. No one moved or uttered a sound until eventually …

‘Fuck it … sorry about that,’ said Bobby.

The Grandmaster cricketer turned and moved towards him.

‘Ye shouldnae be here. Yer no …
one of us
!’ he said calmly.

‘One of us …’ repeated the circle.

‘Ye need tae become … one of us, now that ye’ve seen
this.
Gie him the machete.’

‘
Eh!
’ Bobby’s heart was now beating a tiny bit faster. He looked over to the right.

‘Dad?’

‘Yer da’ canny help ye now, son. He’s … one of us,’ said the Grandmaster, waving the bat in Harry’s direction.

‘One of us …’ chanted the
still
bare-arsed followers.

‘Get the goat,’ ordered the Grandmaster.

‘Ye can awa’ an’ fuck off,’ said Bobby, as one of the circle handed him the machete and made an opening in the circle for him to go through. ‘Dad!’ he repeated, sounding like a little boy again, pleading for his father’s protection; once more to no effect.

‘It’s the goat sacrifice or …’ the Grandmaster paused for effect, ‘… shagging the virgin,’ he said, nodding towards the concealed figure on the ground. Bobby was pushed in the direction of
the virgin
, and fell on top of whomever it was. He let out an embarrassingly high-pitched squealing noise as the virgin reached up and grabbed him around his middle.

It was a full hour before Bobby was able to laugh at the elaborate April fool’s joke that his dad – and fellow Masons – had played on him, and all for the benefit of Chick McKenzie and his wife Betty; who played the virgin in tonight’s little farce. As well as retiring, Chick and Betty were moving north to Aberdeen to be closer to their daughter and grandchildren. The boys at the Masonic Lodge had known Chick for most of his life and they desperately wanted to give him a good laugh as a send-off.

When Harry had been talking one night about the rubbish Gary used to tell Bobby about the Masons, the plan had started to form. It had worked much better than they’d all thought it would. When Joey left, Harry figured his son was far too much of a nosy bastard not to follow the sound of the chanting.

‘See yer face son, when Betty grabbed ye? Ah swear ah near pished maself,’ laughed Chick. He’d snorted a bubble of snot earlier and part of it was still hanging from his large, bulbous nose.

‘Ah’m awfa sorry, Bobby, son,’ said Betty, but she too failed to conceal her mirth. Her hiccups had only just stopped.

‘Aye, Aye … yer a shower ah auld gits,’ said Bobby finally allowing himself a smile.

‘And hat’s aff tae Ian Botham there, although yer beltin’ wi’ the bat wis a bit sore,’ said Harry. Jock had come over with a pint for Bobby. ‘Whaur did ye get the goat, Jock?’ Harry asked him.

‘Paddy McGarry’s boy works up at a farm near Hurlford. He gied us a loan ae it. Cost me twenty quid mind …’ Bobby did allow himself a laugh at
that.

8

AND SHE WILL WATCH OVER YOU, WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

It is said that the Brecon Beacons were named after the ancient practice of lighting signal fires – beacons – on mountains to warn of attacks by the English. On this particular Thursday afternoon, Private Gary Cassidy and his three colleagues were lighting one simply to keep
warm. It was absolutely freezing in the Welsh National Park, which was, because of its characteristic remoteness and harsh weather, used regularly for military training. The Special Air Service held their physically demanding selection exercises here and the fifteen-mile long-distance march known as the Fan Dance had become legendary amongst those new recruits who hadn’t yet completed it. The soldiers had to carry an 18kg Bergen backpack, a rifle – weighing a further 5kg – and a water bottle. Miserable, relentless, horizontal driving rain seemed to be a constant as the young men – and on occasion women – set out to climb the
Pen Y Fan
and navigate their way down the other side in less than four hours.

Gary wasn’t here for that exercise, though. He’d completed it in three hours and forty-seven minutes during basic training almost a year ago. His squadron was here for the far more demanding Long Drag
:
a march of forty miles with a 25kg backpack, to be completed in less than twenty hours, in a fortnight’s time. Over the next two weeks there would be familiarisation techniques: basic survival tasks, like the one they were currently on, and an intense period of marches and runs. This exercise was borrowed from the SAS, and while it was better than domestic duties, initially all of Gary’s squadron were perplexed as to why they had to undergo this most physically demanding of endurance exercises. When they had arrived in Wales a week before, almost all of them thought the Falkland Islands were in the North Sea, a few hundred miles beyond the Shetlands. Only recently had the squaddies been able to see the purpose of the Long Drag.

Gary had never been to the Highlands of his own country, but he imagined the peak of Snowdon – when he saw it – to be similar to that of Ben Nevis. Having understood their possible future deployment could be eight thousand miles away, near South America, it remained hard to imagine the environment being like this barren, inhospitable wasteland; and, furthermore, why it was of interest to Britain. The Scots Guards’ base at the Sennybridge Training Camp reminded Gary of the Glaisnock Outdoor Centre
in South Ayrshire he’d gone to for a school break in primary seven. He’d loved that week away, and had recalled it fondly in the dark times leading up to his decision to visit the Army Recruitment Centre in London last year. So when the four squaddies sitting around the fire, the curling flames licking their way around the pieces of wood, agreed to tell each other tales about their fathers, Gary – the oldest of the group – retold the Glaisnock story.

‘It must’ve been 1975 cos’ that fuckin’ “Bohemian Rhapsody” was number one for about a fuckin’ year,’ said Gary, as if he was presenting an uncensored edition of
Jackanory
.

‘Hey, don’t be havin’ a go at Freddie Mercury, now. Greatest frontman ever!’ Private Kevin Kavanagh saluted as he said this.

‘Fuck off,’ said Gary, pointing at Private Kavanagh. ‘He’s a wanker … of
men!
’

‘No he’s not.’ Kevin stood up for emphasis. ‘That’s just a daft rumour.’

‘Yeah, ah’m with Kev there,’ laughed Private Henry Buxton. ‘Ah mean “Fat-Bottomed Girls”? Hardly the work of a bender, eh?’

‘They’re
aw
fuckin’ bent! Mercury, Elton John … Gary Glitter,’ said an exasperated Gary.

Kevin burst out laughing. ‘What? The
Leader of the Gang
? Don’t talk such shite, man!’

‘Is this a story about bent singers, or your da?’ Private Benny Lewis’ deep growl made the other three turn round abruptly. He rarely spoke but when he did, the baritone sound that came from such a small person was remarkable. They all laughed and then settled down to listen. The lanky Scotsman’s stories were usually good value.

‘Aye, so we aw went tae Glaisnock; ma primary seven class … about sixty weans; the yins that’s parents could afford it, ken? Glaisnock Hoose was a scary auld mansion in the woods near Cumnock, like out ae one ae they Hammer Horror films …’ For the next twenty minutes, Gary created the setting, described the principal characters, and set up the premise for a hilarious reveal. He told how Glaisnock
House was absolutely bang in the middle of nowhere; hence, its resemblance to where they were currently billeted.

Rumour had it that the house was haunted, but kids’ stories being what they were, there didn’t appear to be any real foundation for such hearsay. The three classes in Gary’s year were accompanied by four teachers – three women of varying age and attractiveness, and one man. The females were Miss Hardy, a well-liked and, at the time, heavily pregnant primary six teacher in her early twenties; Miss Peters, a middle-aged deputy head, prone to prolonged bouts of screeching at the boys, stoically using only their surnames. The third was a quiet woman of indeterminate age. Accepting that for a primary school child anyone over the age of thirty was ancient, Mrs Wallace was definitely a fossil, but from what prehistoric era was uncertain. The male teacher was a bastard. Gary was clear about that. And a Yorkshire one to boot, stressed Gary, much to Benny Lewis’s annoyance. He was a throwback to the days when physical punishment was practically encouraged.

He thought nothing of reducing a child to tears in class by a hard slap to the head with the back of his hand. Not surprisingly, he was universally hated, even by those who didn’t have to sit all day in his primary seven class, awaiting the latest outburst of unpredictable violence. He had a brutal, post-war, short back and sides, topped off with what looked like three Shredded Wheat sitting in a row from fringe to crown. The three Privates rocked with mirth as Gary described the old teacher, concluding that he wore a constant look of nervous anticipation that the State would eventually catch up with him; a
peely-wally
demeanour that suggested he lived in a subterranean cave when not occupied by the business of torturing eleven- and twelve-year-olds.

Gary got up to illustrate old Mr Copthorne’s very pronounced limp – and confirmed that any attempts by pupils to enquire about its provenance were likely to be met with a projectile blackboard duster aimed at the inquisitor’s head. Gary’s classmates were all certain that he had a wooden leg. An awkward gait sustained the suspicion.
His baggy, tweed trousers, held up by antiquated comedy braces concealed any indications of the point where wood met flesh but common consent amongst Gary’s classmates had it just below the knee.

‘Can ah just check, boy?’ said Kevin. ‘But what’s this all got to do with yore fatha?’

Gary put his forefinger to his mouth.

‘Glaisnock was fuckin’ magic. It was excitin’. Most ae the weans had never been away fae home afore. But the instructors were a great laugh, ken?’ Gary continued for another five minutes, describing a context that his three colleagues all knew well. He told of those who worked there being used to groups of boisterous, unruly and occasionally homesick kids – and demonstrating a great deal of patience. The five days there were filled with outdoor activities that, at first, resembled what Gary imagined National Service to have been like for Harry. He’d once heard Harry telling Hettie that he’d served in the catering division and, having spilled some suet pudding onto a higher-ranking officer’s shoe, was told by that officer to run two miles, ladle still in hand, back to base. Once there, he was to say to a Sergeant: ‘Permission to speak, Sir?’ And upon the granting of said permission, ‘I’ve come from the camp to inform you that I am indeed an idiot, Sir.’ Then Harry was to salute, about-turn and march quickly out of the office, before running the two miles back to the kitchen. After Glaisnock, the young Gary figured he might have some similar stories with which to connect with his Dad.

Gary then told the story of Sean Tobin. He’d come to Gary’s primary school a year earlier, in what seemed to be a bizarre free transfer from the Catholic school directly across the road. There were constant battles between the small soldiers from each school. To exacerbate the issues, the Catholic kids had to come to Gary’s school at dinner time, because their building didn’t have a kitchen. Every day, they were all marched single-file across the road and past the
Proddy
school’s ground-floor classrooms. Forty-five minutes later, they were all marched back again, before the next session
began, monitored closely by at least five teachers. Gary explained that Sean was known as ‘Toblerone’, after those bars of jaggy Swiss chocolate that were virtually impossible to eat without breaking a tooth or bruising a gum. Despite having been one of ‘them’, Sean adapted quickly and was quite a likeable kid, but one for whom trouble and chaos were magnets. Mr Copthorne, the one-legged Yorkshireman, was his nemesis. Gary had witnessed the man routinely abuse the boy, physically and verbally, particularly after finding out – through an essay Sean had written at the start of the year entitled ‘How My family Spent the Summer Holidays’ – that Sean’s father had left his mum for another woman.

Sean Tobin appeared to take Copthorne’s grief in his stride, but in the run-up to the Glaisnock trip, the voracity of the attacks seemed to intensify. Gary recalled being astonished that Sean was allowed to go at all as barely a day went by without some new outrage that had the playground gossips reeling. But he couldn’t recall Sean ever being threatened with the no-Glaisnock sanction.

‘So, on the last night afore we left, the teachers let us have a party,’ said Gary. His three friends sensed the long digressionary set-up was finally coming to a point, although Benny was clearly still unsure of its relevance.

‘Aw the supervisors had gone home, but the curfew was extended tae ten o’clock. There was loadsa jelly ‘n’ ice cream ‘n’ ginger …’ Gary sensed clarity was needed on this final point. ‘Lemonade, Cream Soda, Dandelion & Burdock, ken? Fae the Curries factory up the road.’ The three squaddies understood. ‘Everyboday was havin’ a good time. Even that old prick Copthorne was laughin’ an’ jokin’. But then he starts fuckin’ sloshin’ about. It’s obvious he’s either pished or he’s taken somethin’. He falls ower an’ knocks the wee record player doon. Thank fuck for that, cos “Bohemian Rhapsody” was the only record they had wi’ them.’ Gary stopped and winked at Kevin, letting him know that he was joking about this last line.

‘So the three other teachers have tae lift him an’ help him out. Every cunt was pissin’ themselves at this. Wee Toblerone rushes
ower tae open the door for them aw’ an’ when they went out, he keeks back in an’ gies us aw the thumbs-up.’

Gary took a drink from his water bottle. ‘Ah fuckin’ kent Sean had somethin’ tae dae wi’ it at that point there. Pit somethin’ in the auld bastard’s drink, most likely. Sean was in a dorm room wi’ me an’ four others. We’d aw been sent back to the rooms by Miss Peters. She kent somethin’ wisnae right. She was angry but we didnae ken who with. We sat in our room wonderin’ whit the fuck was goin’ on. Sean had been awa’ for almost half an hour, then there was a loud knock on the door, an’ a gruff voice saying “
Right, lights out you little fuckers!
” Toblerone came in and ma heart almost missed a fuckin’ beat. He had a widden leg in his hand.’

Gary was good at telling stories. He wasn’t bad at lying either. He appreciated that sometimes they went hand in hand. The key to telling good stories was the pacing; the building of tension in order to accentuate the dramatic arc. He looked at the expectant faces of his audience and knew he still had it. Their
look
was one of:
Well what the fuck happened next?
Gary smiled, and then continued.

‘Toblerone got a chair, lifted it on tae one ae the beds an’ stuck the leg up through a suspended ceilin’ tile. Ah was excited … an’ shittin’ it, aw at the same time. We
aw
were. Naebody could sleep. But we aw agreed,
Naebody was shoppin’.
So, next mornin’, everybody’s doon for breakfast an’ the cops are there. Auld Copthorne’s sittin’ on a chair, wi’ his left trooser leg flappin’ away wildly in the breeze. The polis are tellin’ everybody that naebody’s leavin’, an’ there’ll be nae breakfast until the leg’s back. Naebody spoke a fuckin’ word. Eventually, we aw went home. A week later there’s a letter sent out tae aw the weans fae the school. It told aw the parents about whit went on. An’ as a result ae the
leg business,
that was the end ae the trips.’