The Last Days of Disco (14 page)

Hamish had been escorted outside by Des Brick and Wullie the Painter. As they did so, it had briefly registered with him that they were there on the night he had electrocuted himself. He said nothing to them about it, though, his guts in agony from an earlier kick that had caught him in the abdomen. Jimmy hadn’t been aware of the chaos playing out upstairs, but he had heard the commotion
of the first group of people heading down. Jimmy ducked behind a large solid-stone column that was helping to support a heavily indented portico. Jimmy had looked up at it earlier and had been impressed.
A lovely building … for a shower ae’ absolute cunts,
he’d thought.

A ceasefire had emerged up in the function room. No payment, but at least no further trouble or damage to the gear. Bobby reckoned that there was something of a result in this. Joey went down to let Jimmy know the story and tell him that they would be leaving early. Big Hamish was outside, vomiting over a wall into the river below. They assembled their gear in a neat pile at the unlit rear of the building and waited for Jimmy. Nobody spoke. Joey nipped back in to go to the toilet and – on the way back down the stairs, when he was sure no-one was looking – drew a small rectangular Hitler moustache and black side-shed on a new portrait of the current Prime Minister.

She was staring down, watching dictatorially over all who climbed the stairs from her exalted position inside a baroque frame – painted to reinforce the image of the contemporary Boadicea that her supporters believed her to be. When he got back outside Joey was stunned to see four policemen there, sniffing around the van and asking questions of the van driver and the equipment owner. Hamish May was being forcibly held against the wall he’d just vomited over by two of them. Joey was amazed that they had appeared before the ink was dry on the picture. Maybe Thatcher’s boastful claims that the Tories had put more bobbies on the beat were actually true after all. One young policeman emerged from the darker side of the van with half a dozen large bottles of spirits. Jimmy’s heart visibly sank.

‘How did these get in the van, lads?’

‘You’re fuckin’ jokin’!’ said Bobby.

Joey burst out laughing. Des Brick and Wullie the Painter came out. Ally Sneddon, manager of the Conservative Club was standing between them.

‘That booze got nicked during the night,’ said the manager. ‘There was a ruckus … which
they
started … an’ while it was aw happening, they forty-ouncers went fuckin’ walkin’.’

‘Yer a fuckin’
liar
!’ screamed Bobby. ‘They fuckin’ assaulted us!’

‘… and they never fuckin’ paid us either,’ added Joey.

‘Whit about you, fanny-baws?’ The older copper who was holding Hamish addressed him directly.

‘The two ae them fuckin’ battered us, an’ then pushed us doon the fuckin’ stairs.’

Joey and Bobby looked at each other. Was he making this up? Had they really done such a thing? Des and Wullie looked impassive, eyes neither confirming nor denying. The bottles were placed in one of the three police cars in the car park. It did seem to Jimmy like a bit of
Regan and Carter-
type overkill, but he was determined not to speak. Nobody had so far referred to him and he remained partially hidden by the column.

‘Intae the motors, boys,’ said the most senior copper.

‘Ah don’t fuckin’
think
so!’ replied Joey. About a minute later the three young Heatwave operatives were in the back of the cars.

‘Hey, you … Buster Bloodvessel! You tae. Yer gaunnae need a much bigger pillar if yer hidin’ fae
us
. Ah’m assumin’ you’re the van driver?’

Half an hour later, and all four of them were each sitting in a small, bare cell at Kilmarnock police station; Police Detective Chief Superintendant Donald McAllister’s police station. It was just after midnight.

For the following two hours, statements were taken during a series of individual interviews. What had seemed like a bad joke to start with was rapidly becoming serious for Bobby, and, more specifically, for Jimmy. It looked like they were all in a corner they couldn’t escape from. Numerous people had come forward at the end of the evening to offer testimony that the DJs provoked everyone at the party and had actually started the fighting. The manager confirmed that a considerable quantity of alcohol had then been stolen and – in perhaps the worst crime of all – an extremely valuable portrait with sentimental attachment had been damaged beyond repair.

These were the charges facing Heatwave Disco’s management and staff. At seven-thirty the following morning, they were all released, having been cautioned but not fed. Bobby was notified that formal proceedings might follow in due course. Jimmy was informed that he’d be requested to attend a separate interview the following Monday. He could have a solicitor present. Joey was in a state of shock. He elected not to tell his mother, lying to her that, as the party had gone on longer than expected, he’d gone back to Bobby’s to sleep rather than run the risk of waking her and his young sisters. She suspected nothing. It was an excuse he’d used many times before – although this time it was covering up something potentially serious.

Having had his cigarettes returned to him, Hamish May offered everybody one. All accepted and lit up while still in the shadow of the imposing police-station building.

As they walked home, Bobby tried in vain to lighten the mood. ‘At least we’ll no be gettin’ conscripted to go an’ fight against Ardiles an’ Kempes.’

‘At the minute, ah think ah’d rather fuckin’ huv
that
!
’
observed a pale Jimmy Stevenson.

9

A WEAPON THAT WAS MADE IN BIRMINGHAM

Our Lads Sink Gunboat and Hole Cruiser

Harry folded his newspaper calmly, but inside he was raging. This jingoistic propaganda was obscuring the deficits of one of the most extreme and immoral governments in Harry’s memory. Why couldn’t others see it?

That morning he realised things would never be the same. He would never buy
The Sun
again. Harry knew this was an act unlikely to bring down Rupert Murdoch’s media empire; he doubted anything ever would. But it was a personal stand at least, and for a middle-aged man in the early eighties, set in his traditional working-class ways, deep-rooted habits were extremely hard to break. Harry also knew that these headlines – and simply hiding the paper wouldn’t avoid it – would exacerbate Ethel’s fears for Gary when she turned on the television. An act as brutal, and as recklessly reported around the world as this, would force retaliation; of that there would be no doubt. And after that, the sabre-rattling would be over, and the country would be propelled down a route to war over a collection of virtually uninhabited islands that the vast majority of
Sun
readers couldn’t have found on a map before the start of the month. He also knew he’d be seeing a lot more of the ridiculously cartoonish John Nott on the evening news programmes.

There were numerous Tories that Harry now hated with a passion – Francis Pym, that prick Lord Carrington, Norman fuckin’ Tebbit (how he’d love to get on a bike and park it right up the crack of
his
arse), the Milk-Snatcher herself – but John Nott was rapidly rising to the top of the list. He recalled the hypocrisy of a Defence Secretary cutting back – correctly in Harry’s view – on naval defence expenditure, then arguing for the launching of the most significant British Task Force expedition since the D-Day landings. But not before offering to resign following the Argentine Invasion. A series of decisive actions from a Minister of State? Hardly. Harry considered John Nott to be the lowest and most embarrassing component of a desperate government that was latching onto an unexpected event in a contemptibly opportunistic
way, regardless of the inevitable human cost. They would propel a hitherto disgruntled population, still suffering from the severe economic recession only two years ago, towards a xenophobic culture of triumphalist aggression. And all aided by a ruthless media caught up in the Tory hype and hoodwinked by the false promotion of a Churchillian Bulldog spirit. Harry reached down and picked up the neatly folded newspaper. He tore it in half and walked towards the bin in the kitchen.

‘Cunts!’ he muttered under his breath as the swing lid spun.

Gary had also been troubled by the newspaper’s front cover, but not for the same reasons as his dad. Benny had annoyed him by pinning it onto the wall next to his bunk at Wellington. He wasn’t fully supportive of Thatcher’s desire to ‘Stick It up the Junta!’ Gary’s acceptance of his duty – and of the Battalion’s likely deployment, now that mass deaths were being incurred – was one thing, but he couldn’t fathom the media’s bloody-minded desire for the whole thing to escalate. As it happened, both Gary and Benny didn’t have long to wait to find out that their destiny lay on the other side of the world. Before British soldiers are committed to operations, they are briefed and prepared assiduously. At 19:00 hours, as Brian Hanrahan reported the events of the previous day live from the deck of the
Invincible
in an extended BBC News programme – and as Ethel paced the floor of her Kilmarnock home watching him – the Commanding Officers of the 2
^nd
Battalion Scots Guards received notification by signal that the Battalion was to be on seventy-two hours ‘Notice to Move’, with effect from midnight.

The signal had kicked off an impressive chain reaction of British Army largesse. It had been almost six weeks since the first British death in the conflict, and the preparation for deployment was becoming well practised. All the standard peacetime restrictions were lifted and even Gary Cassidy was becoming aware of how quickly and dramatically the Army’s routine bureaucracy dissipated. As a consequence, Gary and his closest colleagues experienced a tangible buzz and recognised the powerful sense of purpose that now
flowed throughout the ranks. It was different from the occupations in Ulster, simply because those were essentially containments of an existing historical situation. This conflict – and he was well aware that war had not so far
actually
been declared – was much more in line with what Gary had believed Army life to be about. He still hated Thatcher and everything for which her vile and corrupt party stood; but his duty was first and foremost to his comrades. It was a feeling of belonging to – and participating in – something vital that he had been looking for all of his life. It finally became real to all of them in the following days, when the images of a stricken British Navy ship were broadcast around the world.

‘This empire’s fuckin’ crumblin’! D’ye
hear
me?’ The opening line of Fat Franny’s council of war meeting reverberated off the bare walls of the Ponderosie’s double garage. A bare bulb swung gently like the one in the opening sequence of
Callan
, but apart from that there was no movement. The four figures sat at each side of the rectangular table were motionless. This was indeed bad news.

‘We’ve run this fuckin’ place for ages an’ now these arrogant wee pricks come in an’ just fuckin’ take ower … an’ we’re sittin’ back lettin’ the cunts dae it!’ The door suddenly opened. It was Mrs Duncan.

‘Hullo, son. Ah, just wondered if you and yer wee pals wanted a pot ae tea made?’ She was wearing her bra over the top of her cardigan.

‘Christ Almighty! Mam, this is really important,’ said Fat Franny. His voice was much lower than it had been only ten seconds ago. ‘We’re fine. Naebody needs anythin’. Thanks, but. Awa’ back in an’ watch yer
Crossroads
. We’ll no be long.’ They all watched her go and Fat Franny waited a full minute from the point when the door closed behind her. He scanned the three faces for any signs of mirth. Satisfied, he continued.

‘If we don’t get a fuckin’ grip here, every cunt in this room’s gonnae suffer.’ Fat Franny leaned back in his chair. ‘Well? Ideas?’

‘Why don’t we just kick their cunts in?’ enquired Wullie the Painter.

‘Mibbe cos’ the fuckin’ cops have let them off wi’ the Tory Club shambles. That means they’ve assumed some
other
cunt’s nicked the booze an’ mibbe afore long they’ll be speakin’ tae you two pricks. If the three ae them get a doin’ it’s gonnae look suspicious.’ At least Fat Franny’s volume had reduced, although the tone was still there.

‘Why don’t the three ae
us
just kick
your
cunt in then?’ The words formed in Hobnail’s head but they didn’t make it out of his mouth. Something – more than just his inarticulacy – always stopped sentiments like these. Maybe someday though.

‘It’s got tae be somethin’ that naebody can connect wi’ me,’ shouted Fat Franny before slamming a fist down on the table.

‘They’ve got a thing comin’ up wi’ that daft fuckin’ Mod group soon. There’s tickets aw ower the place,’ said Des Brick. He had succeeded in appearing to be the calmest man at the meeting.

‘When’s it on?’ Fat Franny’s interest was now totally focused on Des, to the exclusion of the others.

‘End ae the month, ah think. Ah canny remember the date but ah’ll find oot,’ said Des, writing a note in ink on the back of his hand.

‘There canny be any fuck-ups this time.’ Fat Franny was now back facing – and addressing – all three men. ‘This really is the last
chance. We aw need this Doc Martin gig. Aw the other cost centres are losing money hand ower fuckin’ fist. We’re aw gonnae end up lookin’ like that cunt Bobby Sands at this rate, but no through choice.’ Fat Franny smiled at this, allowing the others to appreciate that a part of his rage had now passed. Des Brick smiled at the thought of the fatman
ever
looking like he’d been on hunger strike.

‘Ah’m cuttin’ the talent loose,’ announced the Fatman. ‘Huvnae told them yet, but ah need the Martin contract as a bit ae security first.’

Hobnail said nothing, but it was hardly surprising. Three weeks ago, Mr Sunshine was reported to the police by three mothers at a nine-year-old’s birthday party for handing out balloon animals to each child that looked more like a cock and balls than the sausage dogs the entertainer proclaimed them to be.

Cheezee Choonz hadn’t surfaced since the Howard Park Hotel fiasco and Bert Bole hadn’t even been at work. Fat Franny’s own bookings were also drying up in the wake of the seemingly relentless rise of Heatwave. He’d appealed to Mickey Martin for intervention and, despite their history – or perhaps
because
of it – he’d done nothing. In fact, it was now looking like Mickey was effectively encouraging Heatwave to break up Fat Franny’s business. Well he wasn’t going to stand idly by and watch these young
tossers
sail in and take away what was rightfully his.

‘Here’s whit tae dae.’ He looked directly at Hobnail. ‘Go an’ see Nobby Quinn. Don’t phone ’um. Take the motor doon.’ Fat Franny was writing in a diary as he spoke, but none of the other three could see what he was writing. ‘Go next Tuesday. That’s his wife’s birthday.’ Fat Franny looked up. ‘Nae Brummie gangster can refuse any request on his wife’s birthday,’ he said with all the certainty of the Don.

The Quinns were yet another in what seemed like an endless list of Ayrshire families who had criminality as their core ethos. Generally they all stuck to their own distinct areas. Although not a family in the truest sense, Fat Franny Duncan’s group controlled
Onthank and the north west of Kilmarnock; Mickey Martin’s extended family had the remainder – and much larger part – of Kilmarnock. The Wisharts ran Crosshouse to the west of the town, and the Quinns held an iron fist over Galston and the wider Cumnock Valley. The Quinns were different, in that they weren’t indiginous. They were incomers from the Midlands. There was a bit of the Romany about them and they had recently become known as the ‘Midnight Runners’ after ‘Come On Eileen’ had gone to number one in the UK charts and Kevin Rowland’s latest gypsy-inspired look had been widely mocked. Needless to say, nobody called the Quinns this in their presence. They had taken the Galston pitch by force and the war with the previous incumbents – the McLartys who had originally moved in from their base in the East End of Glasgow – had been prolonged, extensive and brutal.

Nobby Quinn was ideal for the sort of action Fat Franny had in mind. He knew from bitter experience that the Romanies were a fucking law unto themselves and up for a fight at the drop of a hat. His plan was for a crowd of them to pitch up early at the Henderson Church gig and wreck the place, destroying the Heatwave gear – and perhaps even the DJs – in the process. The seed would be planted that Heatwave were a liability – that there would be trouble wherever they went – and then he’d work on Mickey Martin for a second chance at The Metropolis. It all fitted, in Fat Franny’s mind, and although it would cost him to engage the Quinns, he knew they’d do it if the price was right.