The Last Days of Disco Read online

  ‘Dae you ken it, like?’ said Fat Franny.

  ‘Eh, naw … naw, of course no! How the fuck would ah ken it?’ Des wished he’d just kept quiet now.

  ‘Well some cunt did, an’ there wurny that many folk in the Inner Circle.’

  ‘Yer mam no able tae tell ye anything yet?’ Des was just tryin’ tae be helpful, but failing miserably.

  ‘Aye. She can fuckin’ tell me plenty. She can tell me the six wives ae Henry the Eighth, Napoleon had a wee walloper, an’ that you’re a prick. That any use tae us?’

  ‘Fuck sake, Franny. Ah’m jist askin’ seein’ as she was here.’

  ‘Well, she told me the guy’s first name, that he was wearin’ a kilt an’ he wis singin’ ‘Donald, Wher’s Yer Troosers’?’ So dae ye really think we should fuck off up tae the Highlands an’ gie Andy Stewart a right good kickin?’ Des said nothing. ‘Naw, didnae think so. Right let’s get goin’. We’ve got Grant tae pick up. We’re gonny put a right fuckin’ spanner in the works ae that cunt Martin. Let’s go fur a quick pint wi’ Terry Connolly.’

  4TH JULY 1982: 3.52PM

  The interior had been ablaze for about four hours before any traces of smoke had been detected. It had been a local baker heading down the Foregate, to begin work at five a.m., who smelled the smoke, although at that point he couldn’t see it. The concrete structure of the car park and the lack of any openings into the vaulted basements had kept the fire contained, but the alcohol in the stores had fuelled it. When the Fire Brigade finally penetrated the spaces, the backdraft caused a powerful blast, which – if it had happened during conventional working hours – would’ve resulted in multiple casualties. As it was, The Metropolis was totally destroyed. The fire took three hours to put out. It had all the hallmarks of an insurance job.

  Wullie the Painter knew nothing of the fire, despite being only forty feet above it. He expected to be well rewarded by Mickey Martin for his work at The Metropolis, and if the one condition of that was to keep out of sight, then he’d simply park his van in the car park and head up there to sleep every night. The car park was still accessible by its stairs, but the operator’s booth was closed between six p.m. and six a.m., so it was always quiet at night. There was a stair down to the rear metal basement doors that led through the smaller vaults to the club. This was where the alcohol deliveries would come in for the new club and where Wullie let himself in and out every day. The third of July was Wullie’s birthday and, although it wasn’t the most memorable way to spend it, he’d helped himself to a half-bottle of vodka on the way out and demolished it while listening to some arty-farty rubbish on Radio 2. He’d been deeply out of it the whole time that the fire had raged on and had even slept through the sirens. His shock at seeing the carnage in the morning was threefold. Firstly, his materials were all still in the club, and therefore destroyed. Secondly, he hadn’t actually been paid anything yet by Mickey Martin and would be unlikely to be remunerated now. And thirdly, he could see from his vantage point that there was an ambulance in the yard and someone was being loaded into it on a stretcher. One minute past six, Wullie the Painter drove his van out of the car park and away from the scene; his rear registration plate captured on video as the barrier went down.

  ‘Don, ah thought ye should ken first, mate. The guy’s jist died in the hospital. Ah ken you’ve got links wi’ Doc Martin.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie, ah’ll no forget this. Ah appreciate it. Who else kens about it?’

  ‘Only me and Dennis. He’ll keep quiet. He’s a good lad. Auchinleck Masons he is!’

  Don McAllister’s detective team had done their job well. In fact, the whole Masonic network had kicked into gear, just as it should. The fire chief knew Charlie and had called him first, even before they realised someone had been in the building. The fireman knew an insurance fire when he saw one and later reckoned that, if the guy in the cupboard was the unfortunate arsonist, there was a fair chance that someone in the police department would want to manage that information.

  ‘There’s also this, Don,’ said Charlie, handing his boss a boxed cassette. Mickey had just installed a new camera-recording system in the pub. He had been testing it in the run-up to the opening. It was state-of-the-art technology, but Don had something similar at his home and he knew how to view it.

  ‘Anybody seen this, Charlie?’ enquired Don.

  ‘Naw, Don. No even me,’ replied Charlie. ‘It wasnae burnt cos’ he had it in his office – the wan room in the building wi’ concrete walls and a solid-core metal door. Ah hud tae break in tae get it, mind.’

  Don would have to repay Charlie. A promotion could well be on its way. He was an old-school copper, as loyal as the day was long. It would be important to keep him close. Dennis would also benefit.

  ‘Right mate, cheers. Ah’m away oot tae the hospital. Try and track doon Doc Martin. You’ll need tae dae that interview, but Martin kens the score. You’re in charge though. Ah’ll let ye ken once we’ve goat the identity ae the deid guy.’

  ‘Right, boss. See ye later,’ said Charlie.

  LUCA BRASI SLEEPS WITH THE FISHES

  19TH JULY 1982: 10:27AM

  The headstone was warm to the touch. It faced east and had been basking in the direct sunshine for two hours. It was a beautiful Ayrshire morning; another in a long line that seemed to stretch back until April. There had been miserable days, but since they had been unseasonably outnumbered by days like today, no-one could really remember them. For Guardsman Gary Cassidy, though, days like this still seemed like gifts. The nightmares remained as prolonged and as vivid. Restorative sleep was a distant memory for Gary, but at least the difficult hours of darkness were relatively short. The heat of the sun on his face felt wondrous. The inevitable descent into winter held real fears for him, but for now the sunshine helped him to forget the chaos.

  Gary sat next to the new headstone and drew his fingers across its carved indents. He touched each letter, tracing his fingers over them one-by-one, as if reading Braille. He dwelt over the name ‘HAROLD JAMES CASSIDY’. He ran a forefinger over the words ‘BELOVED HUSBAND TO ETHEL’. His other fingers stroked the letters of ‘MUCH LOVED FATHER TO HEATHER, ROBERT & GARY’. His whole hand underlined the numbers ‘1933–1982’.

  ‘Thought ah’d find ye here.’

  ‘Are ye goin’ tae arrest me, Mr McAllister?’ asked Gary, without turning around.

  ‘Ah’ve told ye son, it’s Don.’ Don looked around. The nearest people were tending the flowers of a grave about a hundred yards away. ‘Why would ah want tae arrest ye, Gary?’

  ‘Thanks for sorting out the funeral, an’ for gettin’ the stone so quickly. Hettie really appreciates it.’

  ‘The least ah could dae, son. Yer dad was a good man.’

  ‘How’s ma mum?’

  ‘She’s no great, son. But yer Aunt Mary’s lookin’ after her an’ the home help’s keeping her stable.’ Don dropped down to his haunches. His knees weren’t great, and he immediately regretted it, but it seemed important to him to be closer to Gary’s eye level. Worse come to it, he’d simply have to kneel. The turfed grass of the grave was dry and full, so at least his favourite Ralph Lauren suit wouldn’t get dirty.

  ‘How come wi’ kent nothin’ about ye till he was deid?’ asked Gary.

  ‘Ach Gary, just stupid fuckin’ family stuff. We aw fell out ower somethin’ daft that happened before you were even born. Seemed important at the time but now ah canny even remember whit. Time went by an’ it got harder an’ harder for each ae us tae back down. An’ ye ken yer dad could be a stubborn bugger. Well, ah was just as bad.’ Gary sighed. Don decided to change tack. ‘How’s Hettie?’ he asked.

  ‘She’ll be a’right. She wants me to go back tae London, but ah canny.’

  ‘Ah think ye should as well. Ye need tae go and see somebody. Get some help, son.’

  ‘You sound like ma dad.’

  ‘Ah’m only tellin’ ye whit he would, if he was here. Yer better back wi’ folk that ken whit yer go
in’ through.’

  ‘Ye ken why ah canny go back.’

  ‘Naw, actually ah don’t. Ye made somethin’ ae yerself in the Army. Ah ken it canny be easy for ye tae confront whit happened at the Falklands but ye did a great thing. Ye saved yer mate’s life. Ye deserve the medals.’

  ‘Ah killed somebody here. Ah took somebody’s life. A complete fuckin’ stranger, an’ for nothin’. A total fuckin’ misunderstanding.’

  ‘Gary, son … ye didnae start that fire.’

  ‘Ah fuckin’ did!’

  ‘Naw, ye didnae … an’ if ye’ll shut up fur a minute, ah’ll tell ye whit happened.’

  ‘The version accordin’ tae Don McAllister?’

  ‘If ye like, aye.’ Don adjusted his posture to shift the weight onto his better left knee. This was his favourite suit after all. ‘Wullie Blair caused the fire. He’d been working doonstairs and he’d left a lit fag next tae a tin of varnish.’ Gary started slowly shaking his head. ‘He left the place unlocked, and went up the car park stairs to his van on level four where he slept through the fire being put out. He’d been drinkin’ heavily. He was totally unaware that there was an individual sleepin’ rough in a back store cupboard of the club. The victim, Robert Dale, was known to Wullie Blair, but had separately broken into the club with keys stolen from Francis Duncan.’

  ‘Aw sounds very official. Well done!’

  ‘That was his statement, son.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘Naw, accident!’

  ‘It was me that set that fire, Mr McAllister.’

  ‘Look, Gary! Listen tae me. Ah don’t ken how ye got it intae yer heid that Martin thumped yer dad, an’ it disnae matter now. Aw that’s in the past. Ah canny turn the clock back, but for yer dad’s sake, ah’m no prepared tae see ye mess up yer life completely.’

  ‘How can ye ignore the evidence? That poor bastard’s lawyer’ll no just accept your version ae events.’

  ‘Ther’s nae evidence. No any more!’

  ‘Fur fuck’s sake …’

  ‘The only evidence left is Wullie Blair bein’ the last guy oot before the place went up. Him leavin’ the scene after fallin’ asleep pished in his van upstairs. Open tins ae paint and varnish, and him admitting he was smokin’. Seems pretty fuckin’ cut and dried tae me.’

  ‘Ah killed a guy …’

  ‘Ah ken ye did. Ye were servin’ yer country when it happened. An’ they gied ye a medal for it. Ye’ve been strugglin’ wi’ aw this since ye came back, ah can vouch for that. Who widnae be a mess after everythin’ you’ve been through? Aw that yompin’!’

  Gary sneered.

  ‘Whit?’ asked Don.

  ‘Everythin’ that happened, aw that carnage … an’ aw any cunt wants tae talk aboot is fuckin’ yompin’!’

  Don allowed himself a smile. ‘Look, apart fae Bob Dale obviously – an’ naebody even kent he was there! – it’s no a total disaster. It did Doc Martin a favour. He had committed tae an opening date he could never have made. He didn’t have any ae the building consents or the licences in place, an’ he would never have got them. His backers will get their money back; he’ll reopen it in about six months an’ it’ll be better.’

  ‘So everybody’s a winner then?’

  ‘Life’s no a case ae winnin’, mate. For folk like us, it’s more about scraping a score draw wi’ the last kick ae the gemme.’ Don stood up. ‘Go down tae London, son. Get help, sort yerself oot an’ get back intae the job. Phone that lassie Hettie was tellin’ me about.’ Gary stood up. ‘On ye go, son. Ye deserve another chance, an’ ah owe it tae yer dad tae help gie ye it. We’ll look after yer mum, an’ ah’ll keep an eye out for Hettie and yer brother as well.’ Don held out his hand. It hung there for a few seconds. Eventually Gary reciprocated and shook it. He noted the power and the unusual grip of Don’s handshake.

  ‘Aw the best, son,’ said Don. ‘See ye sometime.’

  EPILOGUE

  13TH JUNE 2007

  ‘The Falklands War was a great national struggle. The whole country knew it and felt it. It was also mercifully short. But many of our boys – and girls as well, of course – are today stationed in war zones where the issues are more complex, where the outcome is more problematic, and where life is no less dangerous. In these circumstances, they often need a different sort of courage, though the same commitment.

  So, as we recall – and give thanks for – the liberation of our Islands, let us also recall the many battle fronts where British forces are engaged today. There are in a sense no final victories, for the struggle against evil in the world is never ending. Tyranny and violence wear many masks. Yet from victory in the Falklands we can all today draw hope and strength.

  Fortune does, in the end, favour the brave. And it is Britain’s good fortune that none are braver than our Armed Forces. Thank you all.’

  Radio message from Lady Thatcher broadcast on British Forces Broadcasting Service to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the liberation of the Falkland Islands

  SONGS THAT BROUGHT ABOUT

  THE LAST DAYS OF DISCO

  ‘Heat Wave’

  The Jam

  (Written by Holland-Dozier-Holland)

  Available on Polydor Records, 1979

  ‘Ghost Town’

  The Specials

  (Written by Jerry Dammers)

  Available on 2-Tone Records, 1981

  ‘The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash on the Wheels of Steel’

  Grandmaster Flash

  (Produced by Sylvia Robinson and Joey Robinson, Jr)

  Available on Sugarhill Records, 1981

  ‘Heart of Glass’

  Blondie

  (Written by Debbie Harry and Chris Stein)

  Available on Chrysalis Records, 1981

  ‘Don’t You Want Me’

  The Human League

  (Written by Phil Oakey, Jo Callis and Philip Adrian Wright)

  Available on Virgin Records, 1981

  ‘Up the Junction’

  Squeeze

  (Written by Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook)

  Available on A&M Records, 1979

  ‘Maybe Tomorrow’

  The Chords

  (Written by Chris Pope)

  Available on Polydor Records, 1980

  ‘Plan B’

  Dexy’s Midnight Runners

  (Written by Kevin Rowland and James Paterson)

  Available on EMI Records, 1981

  ‘Party Fears Two’

  The Associates

  (Written by Billy MacKenzie and Alan Rankine)

  Available on WEA Records, 1982

  ‘Big Bird’

  Eddie Floyd

  (Written by Eddie Floyd)

  Available on Stax Records, 1967

  ‘Get Out My Life, Woman’

  Lee Dorsey

  (Written by Allen Toussaint)

  Available on Bell Records, 1965

  ‘Picture Me Gone’

  Madeline Bell

  (Written by Taylor and Gorgoni)

  Available on Philips Records, 1968

  ‘The Magnificent Seven’

  The Clash

  (Written by The Clash)

  Available on CBS Records, 1981

  ‘Good Times’

  Chic

  (Written by Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers)

  Available on Atlantic Records, 1979

  ‘Inside Out’

  Odyssey

  (Written by Jesse Rae)

  Available on RCA Records, 1982

  ‘Best of My Love’

  The Emotions

  (Written by Maurice White and Al McKay)

  Available on Columbia Records, 1977

  ‘Rocket Man’

  Elton John

  (Written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin)

  Available on DJM Records, 1972

  ‘Shipbuilding’

  Robert Wyatt

  (Written by Elvis Costello and Clive Langer)

  Available on Rough Trade Re
cords, 1982

  ‘The Story of the Blues’

  The Mighty Wah!

  (Written by Pete Wylie)

  Available on Warner Brothers Records, 1982

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing this book began as a personal dream, the day after my fortieth birthday, along with running the New York Marathon and playing for Glasgow Rangers.

  I’ve all but given up on the other two. They just seem to require far too much training and personal dedication – or a time machine. Maybe someday, who knows?

  I’m grateful to my family and friends for encouragement, but especially to Elaine, for her love and support.

  Also thanks to Mark Stanton (Stan) for advice and assistance. I’m indebted to Kevin Toner for his countless re-reads. I also thank my lucky stars that I had the very good fortune to meet the effervescent Karen Sullivan, who gave me belief and kept me on track.

  Finally, and although he’ll probably never be aware of it, I’m grateful to Paul Weller for continuing inspiration. Anyone who reads this book, and then listens to the Setting Sons LP will be immediately aware of the place it has in my heart.

  Joey Miller will return in The Man Who Loved Islands.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David F. Ross was born in Glasgow in 1964, and lived in various parts of the city until the late ’70s. He subsequently moved to Kilmarnock, where he has lived ever since. He was educated at James Hamilton Academy until being politely asked to leave. (Expulsion is such a harsh word, isn’t it?)