The Last Days of Disco Page 21

  Bobby felt his knees buckle. He slumped backwards into his dad’s chair. ‘My God, Dad. Ah cannae believe this. It’s just … fucking unbelievable!’

  Harry laughed. ‘Right, ah’ll let that wan go, but mind yer language fae now on, eh?’

  ‘Where’s Mum … an’ Hettie?’

  ‘Yer mum’s no copin’ well, son. She stayed wi’ Sadie Flanagan last night, mainly tae gie us a break. The chaplain thinks we should wait a coupla days before tellin’ her about Gary. Hettie’s in wi’ her just now, but she couldnae believe it either.’

  Harry moved over to the window and opened curtains that had been constantly closed for days. Bobby saw the multitude of deep cuts on his dad’s face.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Dad, whit happened tae yer face?’

  ‘Ach, it’s nothin’. Ah went out for a walk tae clear ma head an’ ah tripped an’ fell. Ah scraped it down a brick wall. It’s fine. It looks worse than it is.’

  Bobby slumped into Harry’s armchair. He felt totally drained. ‘By Christ, it’s been some fortnight, Dad, eh?’

  ‘Aye, son. In more ways than one!’

  ONE SINGER, ONE SONG

  28TH JUNE 1982: 6:52PM

  ‘Ye heard anythin’ else fae Gary? Any idea when he’s gettin’ back home?’

  ‘Aye, he phoned again this mornin’. He isnae good, though. Loadsa nightmares an’ that, ken?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Joey wasn’t a supporter of the war – of any war, in fact – and found it hard not to jump in and lecture on the futility of it all. Bobby had already pulled him up about it twice in the days since they had realised Gary had actually survived. The euphoria of his Lazarus-style resurrection was now being tempered by the concern that Gary’s mental state was never going to be the same again. Bobby hadn’t known what to say when Gary had admitted to an initial feeling that he wished he’d died on the battlefield along with Kevin Kavanagh. His happiness at Benny Lewis’s stabilisation in a field hospital was now tempered by deep-rooted doubts that it might feasibily have been Gary’s action – or inaction – that caused him to get injured in the first place.

  Bobby had confided in Joey that, as the days had gone on, he was becoming more anxious about Gary’s homecoming. It was the same voice that spoke to Bobby from the other side of the world, but there was a resigned weariness that he couldn’t equate with his brother’s personality. Bobby also couldn’t comprehend Gary’s guilt about emerging physically unharmed. His was a little dehydrated, perhaps, but his physique had managed to withstand the ferocity of the bitingly cold Falklands environment much better than his medics could’ve expected. He was also rightly lauded for his courage in protecting and ultimately saving his comrade.

  Gary couldn’t see any of this though. Ten of his fellow Guardsmen had died in the battle for Mount Tumbledown. Three of them had been to his left in the darkness as the advance across the wet, jagged rocks began. After Lieutenant Lawrence had been shot in the head by a sniper, confusion reigned, and then the final Argentine shelling splintered the platoon. This much had come back to Gary in the forty-eight hours after he’d been driven to Port Stanley by an elderly couple out in their 4x4 for the first time since the Argentine surrender. The rest of his recollections were viewed through the haunted prism of his dreams. In them, he saw the crudely shaped limbs of what appeared to be tailors’ dummies sticking out of the marshes and the mud as he advanced – bayonet out – towards them.

  As he got to them, they weren’t mannequins but real people; kids barely out of their teens, just like him, crying for their mums. It was Gary’s job to silence them. As he stabbed at them, they didn’t just fall and die like they did in The Longest Day. They grabbed desperately at the blade. They wriggled and rolled to avoid its rough action. It got one in the face, another in the chest; it took ten thrusts to silence the desperate screams of the third. All of them were so close to Gary he could feel their hot breath on his face. Every time Gary had closed his eyes and slept in the last five days, these terrifying images had invaded his subconscious.

  Rehabilitation was going to take a substantial amount of time. He had informed Harry – in a long and emotional phone call – that he’d be home soon. He had been debriefed almost immediately and, due to the nature and misreporting of his ‘death’, the Army had relaxed its rigid protocol and would be flying him home to Prestwick Airport well in advance of his unit, who would return in the same manner by which they’d gone.

  But as Bobby drained the remainder of his pint, sitting in the corner of the Fenwick Hotel’s Snug Bar, he wanted to put the last two weeks to one side, just for tonight. Although Joey had – bizarrely, given his initial reservations – wanted them to agree unreservedly to work for Mickey Martin at The Metropolis, Bobby still intended this to be the final night for Heatwave Disco. He’d worry about breaking that to Mickey Martin after what would hopefully be a decent night.

  ‘Right. C’mon mate. Let’s get through and get sorted out, eh?’ said Bobby, standing up. He’d made sure they were at the hotel two hours earlier than usual. He was treating it like a proper gig, making sure a full sound check and lighting tests were carried out. Joey had been really impressed. Even Jimmy Stevenson – with his court date pending – had been persuaded to come back for this swansong. Only Hamish May had declined. Perhaps this was understandable. The law of probability had decreed that there was more chance of him suffering some form of painful mishap when out with Heatwave Disco than not. He had rejoiced when Bobby had decided to call it a day.

  The Fenwick Hotel was a great venue. The shape of the room – a well-proportioned rectangle – was perfect for a function. The long bar was at the opposite end of the room from the slightly raised stage; the step up itself providing a defensible space, which kept the punters and their drinks on the right side of the electrics when asking for a record. One entire side wall was fully concealed by a rich velvet curtain that, when working in tandem with the deep-pile carpet, absorbed a lot of the reverberation that the high-volume speakers generated.

  ‘It’s gonnae be good, Boab,’ muttered Joey. He’d already mentally compiled a playlist in his head. There would still be room for the spontaneity necessary for a great gig. The ebb and flow of people’s responses to the music; that building of atmosphere in a series of mini-crescendoes; the brilliant vibe associated with that haven’t-heard-that-song-for-ages moment; and the unmatched satisfaction of introducing new records that people haven’t heard before but keep them on the dance floor. All of these eventualities seemed not only possible, but likely on this particular evening.

  As the first guests started to appear around seven – greeted by Mickey, his wife and their two daughters – Joey noticed another encouraging sign.

  ‘Good mix of ages, Boab. And everybody looks up for a good night anaw.’ He didn’t mean they were all drunk, but there was definitely something in the air. It might’ve been the extended period of great weather that Ayrshire had been experiencing of late. It was probably also a result of the impending Kilmarnock Fair holiday, which started next week and would no doubt see the vast majority of the hall’s inhabitants heading off to exotic places like Magaluf or Playa de las Americas for a well-earned break from either work or (equally likely) manipulating the benefits system.

  The party was due to finish at one. Under normal circumstances, Heatwave would’ve strung out the pre-gig background music routine until around nine-thirty. But Bobby was determined to milk every last drop out of tonight. At precisely seven-fifty, he indicated to Joey to start their rehearsed introduction. The main hall lights went down and a small steady stream of smoke began to flood the dancehall. As it did so, a recording of ‘Ride of The Valkyries’ filled the air. People stopped their conversations, turning around in their seats to look. A strobe light kicked in, illuminating the previously ridiculed spaghetti-light Heatwave sign. Weller’s rasping guitar riff bludgeoned its way through the fog and out of the urban townscape of Marshall Amps, and, simultaneously, a pin spot shone directly o
nto the hotel’s own mirror ball, casting snowflakes of dappled light onto everyone in the room.

  ‘Fuck me!’ whispered Joey. ‘That was fuckin’ brilliant!’

  As the Heatwave signature tune ended, Bobby put his hand on Joey’s arm. ‘Wait,’ he said.

  This unnerved Joey as he knew that the run-off from the Heatwave record was immediate rather than gradual. Still Bobby held, and the sound disappeared. There was briefly dead air and everyone was watching the stage, waiting to see what would happen next, especially a slightly anxious Mickey Martin.

  ‘The twenty-fifth anniversary is called the silver anniversary an’ it’s celebrated wi’ gifts of silver. The reason twenty-five years ae marriage is celebrated wi’ silver is cos’ it’s a precious metal. Nowadays, few couples make it twenty-five years th’gither, an’ for them that do, they deserve a celebration of their love and commitment to each other and their family.’

  Joey caught on quickly to Bobby’s speech and, with great timing, started the long, gospel-inspired introduction to the first song of the night.

  ‘Please raise yer glasses to this amazing couple who’ve made it through twenty-five years ae happiness an’ joy, sorrows and losses, an’ remained committed tae each other and in love through it all. Their marriage is an example tae us all of what true love really is and that, if you’re dedicated, you can realise a marriage until death do you part.’

  Cheers and applause rang out throughout the hall. Mickey pulled Ella to him and kissed her. But Bobby wasn’t finished yet. There were still about fifteen seconds to go before George Williams started singing about Ms Grace.

  ‘Doc … eh, sorry, Mickey and Ella, thanks for allowin’ us aw to celebrate this beautiful occasion with you tonight as ye celebrate twenty-five years of togetherness. Here’s hopin’ we’ll aw meet back in another twenty-five years for yer golden anniversary!’

  Again, loud cheers met the raising of Bobby’s glass, and as the song’s mellow groove got into its stride, almost all of the guests followed their hosts onto the large central dancefloor, filling it completely. Joey looked at his watch. Its digital display read 7:58 p.m. ‘Holy fuck, Boab! Where did that come fae?’

  Bobby looked like he was in a trance. ‘Eh, ah dunno. Whit did ye think tho? Too much?’

  ‘Naw,’ replied Joey enthusiastically. ‘It was absolute fuckin’ genius, mate. Look at it!’ At the end of the song, the dancers actually stopped and applauded in the direction of the stage. Bobby didn’t speak for the next three songs, allowing momentum to build and for the impact of his introductory valediction to last as long as possible. The Tymes were followed by Van McCoy’s ‘The Hustle’, The Emotions’ ‘Best of My Love’ and Chic with ‘Good Times’. All songs with an immediacy that makes people want to dance; sometimes despite themselves and their rhythmic shortcomings. Even this early, it was evident that a memorable night was in front of them.

  By ten o’clock, everything Bobby and Joey attempted had worked perfectly. Even Joey’s determination to add some abstract music into the mix had paid off. After ‘Once in a Lifetime’ by Talking Heads – a notoriously difficult song to move to, which Bobby had dedicated to his brother, drawing yet more applause from the guests – two young black-clad girls made a request for ‘Song from under the Floorboards’ by Magazine, and something by The Birthday Party. Delighted though he was to play the former, even Joey had to admit Nick Cave’s demented vocals had no place here.

  ‘It’s goin’ well, boys. The wife’s lovin’ it,’ said Mickey on the stroke of ten. ‘Mibbe, cool it for half an’ hour or that. Just tae gie everybody a break an’ let the auld yins get a sandwich and a bit ae cake.’

  ‘Nae bother, Doc,’ said Bobby. ‘We’ll jist stick on an LP or somethin’.’

  ‘Aye, fine. Awa’ an’ get yerselves a drink anaw, on me.’

  ‘Cheers, man.’ Bobby put the main hall lights up slightly and headed off to the snug, where he was very pleasantly surprised to see Lizzie waiting for him. Concerned about the growing rift between Lizzie and Joey – and his developing role as umpire when they were in the same room – he suggested a plan to his girlfriend with which she seemed to have gone along. The pretty blonde-haired girl next to her was intended for Joey. It was a risky strategy; his friend would surely see through the set-up, and his disdain for Lizzie might surface in front of them all. But there was some form of weird magic in the air that night.

  Lizzie stood up and kissed a shocked Joey on the cheek as he came in. ‘Joey, this is ma pal, Katie.’

  ‘Hi Joey,’ said the sweet-voiced Katie. ‘You guys were great in there. We were watchin’ through the doors.’

  Bobby could see that Joey was instantly hooked. He was beginning to think that anything was possible on this exceptional summer evening. Perhaps if Thatcher had called him rather than Perez de Cuellar, or that fuckin’ idiot, Reagan? Bobby smiled at the thought.

  ‘Hullo, son. You’re Harry Cassidy’s boy, aren’t ye?’ Bobby turned round from the bar to see Bert Bole standing behind him with his hand outstretched.

  Bobby shook it, noticing the strange grip. ‘Aye, mate. D’ye ken ma dad?’

  ‘Ah do, son. Ah used tae work wi’ him at the school.’

  ‘Aw … ah kent ah’d seen ye before.’

  ‘But ah was also there the night ae yer … the night ye shagged the virgin.’ Bert winked, and eventually Bobby dissolved into fits of laughter. ‘Tell yer dad ah’m askin’ for him. Canny have been easy for him and yer mam, this last wee while, eh?’

  ‘Naw. Thanks, though. Whit ye drinkin, mate?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘Yer fine, son. Ah couldnae get ye wan back, the now, so … it’s a’right.’

  ‘Listen, don’t be daft. Ah’m a bit flush the now. Pint ae lager, is it?’

  During the following five minutes of animated chat between his friend and the older man at the bar, Joey could see a familiar look developing on Bobby’s face. It was one he knew so well and, predictably, it was followed by the words I’ve just had an idea when he came back to the table.

  Bobby and Joey left the girls sat in the snug bar, and went back to the hall, where a snaking queue had formed for the buffet.

  ‘Have ye got it, Joey?’ said an excited Bobby.

  ‘Aye, it’s here!’

  ‘Whit about the other two?’

  ‘Eh, aye … one ae them, an’ ah’ve definitely got the other yin as well here somewhere.’

  ‘Right, let’s go then. Put the lights down but just a wee bit an’ get the first yin lined up.’

  Joey did as requested, prompting some turned heads from the assembled guests.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, while you enjoy yer food and a wee break from the disco, Heatwave is proud to present – singing a couple of well-known classics – Kilmarnock’s ain, Mr Bert Bole!’

  There was only a ripple of applause this time, and Mickey glanced over with a worrying What the fuck is this? look on his face. When the instrumental version of ‘You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling’ started up, Bert emerged from the back of the stage and began singing, right on cue. It was a hesitant beginning for Bert but, by the end of the song, virtually everyone else in the hall was singing along. This was followed by a more confident version of Patsy Cline’s ‘Crazy’ and a triumphant rendition of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes off You’. By the final refrain of this last song, people were again out on the floor and turned as one to cheer for Bert when he had finished. Again, it had worked brilliantly.

  Shorn of his curly Tom Jones wig, Ronseal-toned stage make-up and open-necked frilly shirt, Mickey hadn’t initially recognised Bert as the same Tony Palomino who had disgraced his daughter’s recent party. But Bobby’s alchemy seemingly knew no bounds. Mickey paid Bert £50, mainly because his old mum had told him to.

  ‘Aye, nice idea, Bobby,’ said Mickey. ‘Cost me a fifty spot, mind.’

  ‘Sorry about that, man. Ah didnae mean tae …’

  ‘It’s a’right. Other folk have come up tae me an’ asked if they can sin
g anaw. It’s fuckin’ bizarre!’ said Mickey Martin, shaking his head in disbelief that people would even want to sing along to an instrumental backing track in front of a hall full of strangers. ‘If we could get them tae pay for doin’ it, then we’d really be ontae somethin’.’ Mickey winked at Joey. ‘We’ll keep it in mind for The Metropolis, eh?’ An arm was put round Bobby’s shoulders and its significance wasn’t lost on him.

  ‘Aye, Doc. A’right. We’re in.’

  ‘Ye ken it makes sense, son.’ And with that, he was gone. Back to join guests and relatives who were undoubtedly having one of the best nights they could remember.

  In the very early hours of the morning that followed, Bobby looked up and winked at the poster of Rod that was looking back at him. He reflected on a truly memorable day. His girlfriend was lying beside him, looking beautiful. His best friend had gone home with a girl with whom he seemed besotted, and more crucially, she didn’t appear likely to alert the relevant authorities as a result. They’d just delivered a truly brilliant night and had decided to continue in the less stressful context of a nightclub residency. Hettie had been granted a dispensation to retake her exams during the summer, and Harry – after some rollercoaster emotions – was back on an even keel again. Most significantly, Gary was coming home, back from the dead. Only fears about his mother’s health and mental state remained, but, as his dad had recently acknowledged, the seeds for that concern had been sown well before Gary had even set sail.

  As Bobby lifted the covers of his single bed to cop yet another sly look at Lizzie’s deliciously full breasts, he conceded that – at that precise moment – life was pretty fucking good.