The Last Days of Disco Page 10

  Lizzie had been invited to a house party not far from where she lived. She had phoned the morning after her party to make sure Bobby had made it home, having suffered a pang of guilt at seeing him and Joey out in the street. The phone call lasted an hour, due in the main to Lizzie’s lamenting over her father’s latest error of judgement. But Lizzie’s domestic chaos hadn’t put Bobby off and arrangements had been made to meet later in the week. When they arrived, sixty or so teenage kids were crammed into Lorraine Wales’s mum’s semi-detached, three-bedroom council house, where music was blaring to a level that could’ve been heard on the moon. Records were strewn around an impressive hi-fi system, but Bobby immediately noted that no-one was piloting the equipment. He assumed control.

  Most of the people were either drunk or stoned, and Lorraine was nowhere to be seen. Bobby was downstairs and it didn’t take long for him to appreciate that parties might just be the perfect occasion to nick other people’s records. During the course of the evening, he slowly but carefully stashed a clutch of 45s under a rhododendron bush in the back garden. He covered this by telling Lizzie that he had an embarrassing urine infection; since the upstairs toilet seemed to be permanently occupied, he figured it would be understandable to go out and regularly utilise the cover of the bushes. He walked Lizzie home before midnight, and then returned to recover the stash. Rare Joy Division singles, Lambrettas picture discs, Wire’s 154 LP, a signed Secret Affair ‘My World’ single and ‘Maybe Tomorrow’ by The Chords were notables in an impressive haul.

  These records were highlights of the Stevie Devlin evening. Heatwave was, to a large extent, preaching to the converted that night, and it was much more in line with what Joey believed they should be doing. A few of Stevie’s mates had brought their own Stax and Northern Soul singles and the Foxbar Hotel’s acoustics made them sound fantastic. The vibe had even prompted Bobby to pick up the microphone for the first time, and, although his pronouncements weren’t revolutionary or profound – or even especially regular – he was at least making them.

  Of the new bookings, one stood out; mainly for the fact that Bobby and Joey wouldn’t be getting paid for it. It was to be a favour to Harry. The venue was the Masonic Club where Harry was a member, and the function was for one of his friends – to celebrate his retirement from his job as a hospital porter.

  ‘Yer aye bloody askin’ me about the Masons an’ whit goes on … here’s yer chance tae find out,’ said Harry, noting Bobby’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction. ‘Plus, ye owe me here after the cash ah’ve gied ye.’

  Bobby couldn’t argue with that point. Harry had used some of his compensation money from the accident to buy the decks from Hairy Doug. He’d also funded the purchase of speakers from a local Mod band, The Vespas. There was also money for lights. Following a second trip to Hairy Doug’s store, Bobby had returned with some coils of what could only be described as coloured strips of spaghetti. The spaghetti worked like a ‘blacklight’. When strobing effects were applied to them, they supposedly shone like the Northern Lights. In truth, they were completely ineffectual, but Bobby’s open-mouthed gaping when he informed him for the umpteenth time, ‘Now this really is the latest thing from the States’, must’ve convinced Hairy Doug that Bobby was well and truly on the hook. For lighting, the Hairy One’s prices were as hefty as him.

  ‘Sixty quid for this,’ said Harry. ‘I gave you that money for lights. Whit bloody use is this tae man or beast? Where did you go? Tam Shepherd’s?’

  Harry’s assessment of the cost of ten feet of the absolutely latest thing from the States might have been predicted. Equally so was the return journey to the farm with more of the janitor’s wages, in order to purchase some real lights. Hairy Doug had a strict ‘no-returns’ policy so Bobby was stuck with the fluorescent pasta. Joey felt the only thing to do with it was cut it into small bits and staple them to a black backboard to spell out the new name of the enterprise. Given this backdrop – and appreciating the grief Ethel gave Harry for having spent the double-glazing money on a ‘big bloody record-player’ – Bobby felt there was no way he could really say no to his dad. He told Joey they’d just have to roll up their trouser-legs and get on with it.

  ‘A group of Argentines have landed at the British colony of the Falkland Islands in the south Atlantic and planted their nation’s flag.’

  19th March 1982, BBC Six O’Clock News

  22ND MARCH 1982: 3:23PM

  Don McAllister was a Mason. It was pretty much taken for granted that being in the police force in Scotland was synonymous with membership of the Fraternity. And, to have reached Don McAllister’s exalted level at only forty-nine years of age could only have been possible with the Society’s help. He didn’t owe it everything though; after all, he was a Master of the Universe. So, as Detective Chief Superintendent Don McAllister looked out from his prime vantage point on the top floor of the new police station, over Kilmarnock’s High Street and up John Finnie Street – the Procurator’s Office to the right; the Sheriff Court to the left of him – he felt like Solomon and Pontius Pilate combined. He looked back around his enormous corner room; at the certificates and commendations on the wall, and at the numerous framed photographs of himself with various local and national dignitaries. And he smiled at the largest one in the middle; the one with the gilt frame on his desk featuring him – six foot five and pale freckled skin – and Mary, his wife of fifteen years.

  Don loved the fact that almost everybody knew who he was. A senior policeman should have status in a town like Kilmarnock. He had cultivated that status like a Mafia boss in a Sicilian village. People who walked past the station looked up and waved in respect. Shopkeepers dropped produce off at his expansive house, built on a hillside near Dundonald. He never paid for drinks in bars and rarely paid for meals at the best Ayrshire restaurants. If there was an interview about local affairs to be given, the Kilmarnock Standard phoned Don before the Chief Executive of the Council. In return, Don kept the criminal element unseen and underground. This – according to Don – was exactly as it should be. After all, everybody has to make a living, even the bampots.

  Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin was Don’s bampot-world equivalent. They were a similar age, had almost the same initials, and he too had connections everywhere. His hand had never gone into his pocket to settle a tab for dinner, either. They were alike in so many ways. There was equilibrium – they each balanced the other. Don had remembered watching episodes of Batman & Robin in the ’60s and, in particular, seeing the character of Harvey ‘Two-Face’ Dent. When he was faced with any kind of moral dilemma regarding Mickey – and there had been more than a few over the years – he liked to imagine that they were essentially the same person; both had an angel and a devil on his shoulders, wrestling for his soul.

  He mused about this now, simply because such a dilemma was lying on his desk in front of him.

  Terry Connolly had been apprehended by Don’s officers on the fourth level of the multi-storey car park, allegedly selling heroin from the boot of his car. Don suspected that there was no absolutely conclusive evidence for this, but the report in front of him did contain a confession statement that Connolly had signed. This was of current interest to Don, as Connolly owned the vaulted spaces under the car park; spaces in which the copper knew Mickey Martin had an interest. Connolly had previous convictions for assault and drug offences – and had served time in Barlinnie. This latest accusation, providing a conviction was secured, could potentially send Connolly back to jail for five years.

  He had previously resisted offers to sell the undercroft space at the Foregate multi-storey. He didn’t like Mickey Martin and there was bad blood between the two businessmen. Don McAllister couldn’t understand why Connolly didn’t take the money. After all, he wasn’t using the space for anything productive. But now an opportunity had presented itself for Don to do what he did best – broker a deal that made everybody happy. In truth, Terry Connolly wouldn’t be happy; just happier that the charge against him had been
dropped. But Mickey Martin would get the space for a mega-nightclub complex at less than he’d originally offered and, having been instrumental in securing it for him, Police Detective Chief Superintendent Donald McAllister would get his usual ten per cent cut.

  Everyone’s a winner.

  So, a phone call to the Fiscal’s office and a wee walk round to the Planning Department and the Licensing Board, and this would turn into yet another successful day in the life of the local Sheriff.

  1ST APRIL 1982: 7:30PM

  ‘There’s nae chance. She’s out on her fuckin’ erse after aw this.’ Harry was standing at the bar of the Kilmarnock branch of the Masonic Club. He was talking to Jock Newton, barman and all-round club good-guy. Jock booked the parties, took the money and organised most of the events; rumour was that Mason was actually his middle name. In fact, like many of his fellow Masons, you wouldn’t need to go to the trouble of dissecting him to find I’m a Mason written through him. His identity was writ large on his arms in permanent blood-blue ink along with the words ‘God Save The Queen,’ giving no doubt about who might ultimately defend Queen and Country.

  ‘Aye, so everbody seems tae be sayin’. But this fuckin’ Falklands thing might gie her a way oot,’ sighed Jock.

  ‘Ach ah’m no sure it’ll even come tae anything, Jock,’ said Harry. ‘Ah mean, naebody even kens whit it’s aw about anyway.’

  ‘Ah widnae put it past her tae fuckin’ turn this intae a war just tae deflect attention awa fae aw the shite that’s goin’ on here, mate.’ Jock pulled the last of the five pints that Harry had ordered. ‘Is your boy no thinkin’ he might be sent?’

  ‘Whit, Bobby? Him ower there?’ Harry glanced over towards the stage where Bobby was helping Joey manhandle a Marshall speaker column into place.

  ‘Naw … the other yin. The Guardsman.’

  ‘Ah dunno, Jock. Tells me nothin’ that yin.’ Harry put down a fiver, told Jock to have a dram with the change and lifted the tray of drinks. His lack of digits on one hand meant using his forearm to support the tray and his full-fingered hand to steady it. As he did so, the crashing sounds of The Jam’s ‘Heatwave’ – the disco’s newly adopted theme tune – nearly caused him to drop the lot. He looked over and glared at Bobby, who turned it down and continued with a sound check of whispered one-two, one-twos.

  The Masonic Hall was a strange venue, but the acoustics were surprisingly good. A small stage area was set at the one end and the general layout and proportions were amenable to creating a good atmosphere. The baffling array of representations of the Queen, members of her family, and the Great Architect of the Universe – whom Bobby referred to a few times during the evening as Grandmaster Flash – allied to the multitude of stonemasonry symbols and insignia from other lodges made the hall seem cluttered. Joey, who didn’t know much about the secretive codes and was suspicious of the Order as a result, had to admit that there was a fascinating heraldic order to it all. Harry had always resisted his son’s questions about the Masons – never answering them directly; obliquely saying that when he was old enough to join, he could find out if he chose to. This had always irritated Bobby. Gary fed this irritation by telling his brother that they were all old perverts who drank goat’s blood because they figured it gave their droopy old penises a much-needed boost. And, furthermore, they were mainly coppers, so they could fit up anyone who blabbed to outsiders. Harry had heard the two of them talking on a few occasions and knew of Gary’s tall tales.

  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 antiqu
ated 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 …