The Last Days of Disco Page 4

  Joey was sitting on a three-foot-high, red-facing-brick wall. It had been around twenty minutes since his best friend had started speaking, and he’d taken advantage of the first available pause in Bobby’s pitch to try and change the subject. Bobby’s constant pacing back and forth had almost created a curved groove in the black tarmac in front of him. They had been friends for more than five years and this current scenario was a familiar one: Joseph Miller, the logical ponderous Hutch to Robert Cassidy’s hyperactive and relentlessly optimistic Starsky. But it was a good combination. Bobby was the ‘ideas’ man and Joey the pragmatist, the one who was left with the task of turning Bobby’s various dreams into some form of reality. A sort of Butch Cassidy and … Jeeves!

  There had been the money-making scam from a year ago that had almost resulted in a school expulsion for the pair of them. Bobby had envisaged an alternative tuck-shop where crisps and chocolate could be sold at a discounted rate. Joey had access to the goods through his part-time shelf-stacking job at the local Safeway. It operated successfully for three weeks before various interfering prefects detected a strange downturn in the revenue from the school’s four official outlets. Another piece of entrepreneurial hustling had the fifteen-year-old Joey searching for a ten-foot ladder as a key part of the new Cassidy & Miller window-cleaning company. Having established a client list and a local rota, which would bring in £23.50 a week, Bobby established the rules of engagement. They would work solidly through the glorious summer of 1980, pay off mental Mogga McManus for getting the ladder and nobbling main competitor, Tam Cooper’s van, and then save their cash for a week on Arran in September. Bobby’s latent vertigo meant Joey being constantly lodged at the stupid end of the ladder, from where he fell five days into the venture, breaking an arm and killing the dream in the process.

  But on this miserably wet February morning, Bobby seemed to have a far greater sense of purpose than before. He had barely come up for air in the rollercoaster tale about an eighteenth birthday party, the Sandriane Bar, Paul Weller and mobile discos, Lizzie King and, most significantly of all, Fat Franny Duncan. It had been a promising venture up until his name had been associated with it. Joey Miller knew all about Fat Franny. Both he and the Fatman lived in Onthank on the other side of town. Onthank was Fat Franny’s personal fiefdom. The repetitious sprawl of semi-detached, two-storey grey boxes grouped in actual – and metaphorical – cul-de-sacs was where he earned a living. There wouldn’t be many who would testify to the fact, but Joey was convinced that drug-dealing and money-lending would be as much a part of Fat Franny’s empire as the ice-cream vans and this new mobile-DJ scam about which Bobby was currently so energised.

  ‘Don’t worry about Fat Franny,’ said Bobby, right after Joey had said he was worried about anything that involved Fat Franny. ‘We’re only hiring the gear off him,’ reasoned Bobby. ‘It’ll be just for one night.’

  Joey’s expression hadn’t changed since the start of the story, but secretly he was just as enthusiastic about its infinite potential as his friend. Joey really loved music; in fact, probably more than Bobby did. Joey immediately pictured himself running Mod nights at the Henderson Church Hall; The Jam, Secret Affair, The Who – all blasting out at such volume it could be heard at the Cross. Fat Franny Duncan, though. That was a major spanner.

  ‘He’s a fuckin’ mental case, Boab. Is there naebody else tae get gear from? Like a band or something?’

  ‘Listen, it’ll be a’right. One night. In and out. Nae need to go back tae him once we’re up and runnin’,’ reasoned Bobby, in trademark bottle-half-full mode. ‘Ah must’ve been speakin’ tae somebody that kent him, that night of ma birthday. Ah got hame and his fuckin’ hoose phone number was written on ma foot.’

  ‘Lemme go an’ speak tae Jeff McGarry,’ said Joey, using his frozen hands to lever himself off the wall. ‘Ah’m sure he kens a guy that gets lights and stuff for heavy-metal bands. They both work out at a farm near Hurlford.’

  Bobby looked puzzled. ‘Izzat no that cunt that’s got the thing aboot cows’? Did he no get put away fur it anaw?’

  ‘Aye, but he’s a decent lad, Jeff. Get ye whatever ye want for nae mair than twenty quid. You name it, he’ll get ye it. A toaster, a fridge, second-hand motor …!’

  ‘Whit, aw for twenty quid?’ asked a disbelieving Bobby.

  ‘Naw, twenty quid’s his mark-up,’ replied Joey.

  ‘So if his mate at the farm … y’know, Bon Scott’s roadie … can get us the gear, we’re payin’ Jeff twenty quid jist for the introduction …? Fuckin’ hell, Joe, she’s only payin’ us forty!’

  ‘But like ye said, once we’re up and runnin’ we’ll be away … and this way, we’ll still have the use ae wur legs if anythin’ goes wrong.’

  Bobby had to contend that, with this last point, Joey made a compelling case. So they agreed to follow the recommendation of a convicted cattle fetishist and made the call to Hairy Doug, the nomadic biker and Grateful Dead fan, and – according to Jeff McGarry at any rate – owner of the biggest cock in Scotland.

  LAUREL & HARDY MEET THE HAIRY GUY

  9TH FEBRUARY 1982: 11:57AM

  ‘Ye know the only downside tae spending time in here? Listenin’ tae this shite every day.’ Joey stretched his legs out until his body lay flat across three of the softer sixth-year common-room seats.

  ‘Get up an’ switch it off then,’ said Bobby.

  ‘These stories must be aw made up. That fuckin’ depressin’ theme; a tragic story … “We fell in love, then I had to have my leg cut off, then we were separated by a ragin’ storm and never saw each other again” … Whit a loada fuckin’ horse manure. And then ye find out that their tune is fuckin’ “Lady In Red”.’ Even lying down, Joey was capable of a level of animated exasperation that Bobby found impressive.

  ‘When Heatwave gets goin’, ther’ll be nae middle-o-the-road pish gettin’ played. That’s got tae be rule number one.’ Joey folded his arms.

  Bobby laughed. Since Joey had embraced the dream and put the spectre of Fat Franny Duncan to the back of his mind, there had been around twenty-three ‘rule number ones’.

  ‘Right. Got it,’ said Bobby. ‘Nae Christy Burgh. Nae Goombay Dance Band. Nae Flocks o’ Fuckin’ Seagulls.’ Bobby sighed. He feigned irritation, but he secretly loved these exchanges with his best friend.

  ‘Did yer man Jeff say the biker guy would be there all afternoon? Mibbe ah should go tae economics today.’ Bobby looked up at the monochrome clock above the double doors into the common room. It recorded the time as 10:32 p.m. – just as it had for every minute of the last thirty-six days. ‘Whit time is it? Dunno why ma dad can’t get that bloody thing fixed.’ Neither of them wore a watch and therefore relied on the numerous clocks, which were located at department boundaries all around the James Hamilton Academy.

  ‘Dunno. Half-eleven, mibbe,’ said Joey, eyes now closed and giving the impression that only an earthquake with a north-east Kilmarnock postcode as its epicentre would move him.

  ‘Right. Ah’m goin’ tae auld Fowler’s class at ten to twelve an’ then we’ll fuck off tae the farm after dinnertime, eh?’ Bobby really didn’t want to go and listen to Kondratieff’s cyclical theories of economic expansion, stagnation and recession. Although he broadly understood it, and could appreciate why an economist might find it important, it said nothing to him about his own current interest: The Black Economy.

  Bobby actually quite liked school – or rather the freedom its flexible sixth-year structure afforded him. He had to be careful, though. Having a parent working in the same building wasn’t ideal. But he had accumulated a decent level of ‘O’ grades and Highers in the two previous years and – as with Joey – this allowed him the comparative freedom of coasting through his final year on the assumption that he would progress on to university. For this to happen, though, Bobby needed a pass in the subject that had become his tormentor.

  Joey had no intention of going to university. His dad worked for British Rail in Glas
gow and felt that it was a man’s duty to leave school as soon as possible and earn, in order to help pay his keep at home. Joey’s dad left school at fourteen and proudly belonged to an era that considered that to be more than enough education for the essential tasks in life: enough reading to be able to laugh along to John Junor’s rancid, bullying ‘Angry from Auchtermuchty’ columns about ‘poofters’; enough writing to be able to fill in the betting slips at the bookies; and, enough arithmetic to instantaneously add up the exact accumulator payouts. Some – but not all – of that ethos had rubbed off on his son.

  Joey actually was asleep by the time Hamish May came into the common room at twenty-five past twelve. Hamish came in with two others and, on seeing Joey, quickly put a forefinger to his mouth. The ‘shushing’ was to remove background noise to allow him to deliver his trademark farting-in-someone’s-face routine. Hamish May’s farts were the stuff of legend. It wasn’t clear exactly what his daily diet was. but when he recently ate two tins of catfood to win a £1 bet in this very common room, it was apparent to all present that there wasn’t much at which Hamish turned up his nose. In fact, the environment still stank of that very event because one girl – who hadn’t been party to what was going on – caught sight of the big man polishing off the cat food and promptly brought up a few Meaty Chunks of her own.

  ‘Shoudnae be sleepin’ at the school anyway,’ reasoned Hamish, in justification of a punishment dealt out to a wayward pupil by a prefect. Yes, Hamish May was a sixth-year prefect and, more incredibly, given his involvement in a number of Bobby Cassidy’s money-making schemes, he was Deputy Head Boy.

  ‘Fuck off, you,’ gasped Joey, once he had finally stopped gagging. ‘Help me open aw the windaes. Jesus Christ, mate. Whit the fuck have you been eatin?’

  ‘At break earlier, ah had fourteen boiled eggs. Ah won three quid ower behind the gym block. Boaby Kerr said that bit in that Paul Newman film couldnae be done,’ said Hamish, proudly.

  ‘An’ he’d have been right as well then. Paul Newman ate about fifty,’ said Joey.

  ‘Boaby Kerr’s a prick though. Made a bet without havin’ seen the film. He thought it was fifteen, no fifty … and when he wisnae lookin’ ah drapped one intae ma bag.’

  ‘Just like the one ye drapped in here?’ said Joey.

  ‘That was a fuckin belter, eh?’ The two others who had come in with Hamish laughed their approval.

  ‘So whit ye up tae later then?’ said Hamish. He sat down next to Joey and pulled out a ten-pack of Embassy Regal, from which two were already absent. He turned the pack upside down and two sticks fell onto his palm. Hamish put both in his mouth and lit them before handing one to Joey. Joey didn’t smoke much, but he rarely refused a cigarette when offered.

  ‘Me an’ Boab are headin’ out tae a farm near Hurlford. He’s got this plan tae start up a mobile disco, an’ auld Harry’s gied him some cash tae buy lights and stuff.’

  Joey drew deeply on the cigarette anticipating a barrage of questions about this new information. There was none, though. Hamish blew smoke rings – a skill Joey had never mastered – and then stood up briskly.

  ‘Fair enough’ he said. ‘The two o’ ye buggerin’ off for the day then?’

  ‘Aye. Ah’m no comin’ back here later,’ said Joey.

  ‘Ah’ll turn a blind eye then,’ said Hamish, pointing to the yellow badge on his dark-blue blazer. ‘Ah’ll see ye later. Ah’ve got dinner duty so ah need tae go.’

  ‘Aye, Hammy. See ye.’ Joey felt he’d got off lightly from this encounter. He felt sure Hamish would have been wondering what his place in Bobby’s plans might have been. Joey was also fairly certain that Hamish would have been a bit hurt that he hadn’t been included. Although Hamish had always understood the almost telepathic synergy between Joey and Bobby, he did feel that the three of them were pretty close. But he was always a bit of a maverick, and his status within the school was only one of a number of complex contradictions in his life.

  Hamish’s mum was a cleaner who worked part-time for some of the large house-owners down the expensive end of London Road. His dad was employed within the United Kingdom’s impregnable diplomatic service and spent much of his time overseas in exotic places like Tangier, Marrakech and Tripoli. It was always a bit of an event when Hamish’s dad was back in town, and both Bobby and Joey had a great liking for Stan May. His eccentricity – and the bizarre stories he told about these strange places – was exhilarating. It was easy to see where Hamish got his independent spirit.

  For a working-class Ayrshire family, the May children had unique and unusual names. As well as Hamish, there was Dolly, Glendale, Winston, Elliot, Donovan, Aretha and Tess. Bobby and Joey both loved re-telling the story of the time Hamish’s dad came home after six months away in 1978. Hamish had made it known to everyone who would listen that his dad had made a fantastic deal in getting a new car and he’d be driving it back up from Portsmouth. Stan had been decidedly vague about the make, but Hamish reckoned it might have been one of the new MKIII Capris – a highly impractical selection, as there were eleven members of the immediate May family, including a live-in granny.

  Eventually, during one long afternoon in early June ’78, Stan May drove up to 46 Ellis Avenue in a new-ish – but highly distinctive – vehicle to be greeted by around thirty people who had been waiting in the front garden for almost an hour. No-one was sure what type of car it actually was, but a next-door neighbour asked if Stan had bought it from the Ant Hill Mob, drawing a collective ‘Aaahhhh …’ as if to say ‘That’s where I’ve seen it before.’

  It was an El Camino station wagon of sorts, and it was certainly distinctive. The car looked like it should have been taking a barefoot fourteen-year-old Ohio bride and her toothless cousin to the place where their union would be confirmed.

  Bobby nudged Joey. ‘Jesus fuck, Joey. Look at the state o’ that motor.’

  The wooden-panelled side door opened and Hamish’s dad slid out. He had a triumphant look on his face.

  ‘Never mind the motor, get a swatch at the threads! Ah widnae get cremated in that!’ smirked Joey.

  Stan looked as striking as the car, with a beige zoot suit and a massive brown kipper tie complementing the vehicle’s earthy colour palette. The entire May family – and one of their dogs – fit easily into the three rows of seats and, with the windows rolled down to allow mass waving, they set off up the hill. Predictably, they didn’t get far. Unknown to its passengers, the car’s journey from the south of England had been a largely subservient one, having been towed for more than half of its route. Perhaps thirty yards and a bang from the exhaust signalled the end of the adventure, and happy smiling faces turned first to concern and then to dismay as the car’s large antiquated wheels rolled backwards.

  Joey smiled yet again at the memory of that afternoon as he walked the short distance down Ellis Avenue towards Bobby’s house at Almond Avenue. From there, they’d walk to the bus station for the journey to their destiny.

  9TH FEBRUARY 1982: 3:21PM

  ‘Dunno why ah bother readin’ these fuckin’ papers,’ said Joey. ‘Nae cunt’s got a job an’ yet the main story’s about fuckin’ Booga Benson an’ Tucker Jenkins.’

  ‘Heatwave’s a good name though, intit?’ Bobby was distracted and more than a bit nervous.

  ‘There’s nae way the Tories are gonnae get back in after this. Nae cunt our age has got any chance of workin’. Everybody’s either on the broo, or on wan ae these useless fuckin’ YOP schemes.’ Joey was aware that Bobby wasn’t really listening. He was away in another world; a world of shiny lights and massive glitter balls.

  ‘Ah think we should get off here,’ said Bobby. There was no bus stop in sight but Joey got up and followed him to the front of the bus.

  ‘Can ye let us off here, driver? We’re goin’ tae Crosshands Farm an’ ah think it’s roon about here.’

  The driver pulled over to one side and opened the door, letting in the bitingly cold air.

  ‘Cheers, mat
e,’ said Bobby, as Joey shivered behind him.

  Although not entirely certain that it was the correct road, the two friends began the walk up the single-track hill in the hope that a farm would be at the other end of it. It was freezing and a shower had just started to drive into their faces. This had better be worth it, thought Joey. He pulled the hood of his fish-tailed parka up as a defence. Bobby hadn’t had the same foresight and had to make do with zipping up his beige Harrington as far as the zip would go. As they tramped on, the beige got rapidly darker.

  ‘Remember in Sons of the Desert, when the two ae them are strugglin’ tae walk up that sand dune? That’s whit this is like.’ Bobby knew this would lighten Joey’s mood. They were both fans of Laurel and Hardy and often compared something they were doing to a scene from one of the old films. In these analogies, Bobby was always Ollie the organiser, and Joey was always the clumsy, child-like Stan.

  The rain was coming down in angular sheets and Bobby was extremely relieved to see the sign for Crosshands Farm at a junction in the road, just over the brow of the hill. Less pleasing was the figure ‘2’, written in smaller type next to the words.

  ‘Two fuckin’ miles!’ shouted Joey. ‘We’ve already walked about three in the pishin’ rain!’

  ‘You were the one that got the directions fae that McGarry boy.’

  Joey had to reluctantly concede that ‘a big ferm near tae Hurlford’ wasn’t the most precise of Ordnance Survey coordinates. At least the remainder of the journey was basically downhill. It was endured in silence, though. Bobby’s anxiety grew as he rehearsed the negotiations with Hairy Doug, the sound-and-light man. Joey was simply dreaming of getting home and into a hot bath.

  They approached the rustic collection of sheds and outhouses that surrounded the original farmhouse. The driving rain had abated slightly.

  ‘Look at ma’ fuckin’ desi boots!’ moaned Joey. In looking down mournfully at his feet, he didn’t see the enormous black Alsatian dog moving at speed towards him. Bobby saw it and instinctively pushed Joey away. A rope attached to the dog prevented the animal from reaching them, yanking it back at its extremity in cartoon fashion. Bobby laughed, and the restrained, angry dog vented its fury. When he looked round, Joey was getting up from the shallow swamp into which Bobby had just pushed him. His Levi’s were covered in wet, slimy mud; his parka’s Mod insignia almost completely obscured. Only the head of an arrow and the letters T and W from the words ‘The Who’ were still decipherable.