The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 4

  ‘Aye … fuckin’ tragic,’ said Senga, sarcastically.

  ‘Do ye have any information relating to this incident that ye want tae tell me?’ enquired Charlie.

  ‘Naw,’ said Senga. ‘Boab an’ me were … separated.’

  ‘Separated?’ said a surprised Grant. He thought his father had just nipped out ‘for a message’. That was universal code in Onthank for a tactical fortnight-long withdrawal from public gaze. He sat down in his father’s armchair.

  ‘Aye. We’d split up,’ said Senga, looking daggers at Grant. He got the message.

  Charlie looked at both of them, back and forth and again. He suspected something was going on, but since there was a higher plan and he had already been informed of his role in carrying it out, he let a potential line of intuitive questioning drop.

  ‘We’ll need ye tae come tae the hospital for a formal identification. But, since this has clearly come as a massive shock tae ye…’ It was now Charlie’s turn to be sarcastic, ‘…we’ll leave that until mornin’. That okay? Ah can send a car up tae get ye.’

  ‘Ah suppose so. Whit time?’ said Senga.

  ‘Aboot nine?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Ah’m sorry for yer loss, Mrs Dale,’ said Charlie, heading for the front door. ‘And you, son. Ah take it he wis yer Dad?’

  ‘Aye. He wis.’ Charlie hadn’t been expecting a grief-stricken display of emotional histrionics but, nevertheless, the reaction of Bob Dale’s wife and son had been pretty callous. Charlie thought about his own wife, and their two teenage children. He’d often considered how they would react upon receiving the terrible news that some young prick with a blade and out of his head on smack, had killed him. Certainly a lot more affected than this, he acknowledged. Fuckin’ Onthank jakeys … nae heart at all.

  ‘Whit the fuck wis that aw aboot, Mam?’ Grant was angry. He had never connected with his father, but he never ever wished him dead. His mother’s apparently calm, laissez-faire attitude shocked him though.

  ‘Look, there’s stuff ah need tae tell ye,’ said Senga. ‘But better waitin’ until the mornin’. Ah threw yer dad oot, a few nights ago. He wis pretty abusive. An’ really doon aboot everythin’. Ah couldnae be livin’ wi’ aw his shite anymore.’ Senga sat down. ‘Ah’m no that surprised he’s topped himself.’ Grant hadn’t made that connection yet.

  ‘Suicide?’ Grant said. ‘For fuck sake! Fuckin’ coward.’

  ‘Let’s talk in the mornin’, eh? There’s somethin’ else, but it can wait,’ said Senga.

  Grant sighed. His mother had got up and it was clear that he wasn’t going to get any more clarity until Senga was ready to offer it. He knew only too well how impenetrably stubborn she could be. Grant sat in the living room with the lights out for an hour or so. As he passed his mother’s bedroom on the way to his own, he could hear her sobbing.

  6th July 1982

  ‘Will there be time tae get the Revels? The pictures are shite without the Revels.’ Rocco Quinn had moaned incessantly since meeting Maggie Abernethy at the bus-stop on the Ayr Road. It usually didn’t bother her, but tonight it was particularly grating. It was her birthday, and she wanted to see An Officer and a Gentleman. Her boyfriend had made his objections clear, loudly and often. Daft fuckin’ lassie’s film or Richard Gere’s a bent shot being his most often repeated observations. Maggie was now wishing she’d gone on her own. She was almost wishing she was on her own again. In the thirty minutes spent waiting for him to turn up on his motorbike, Maggie Abernethy had decided that the effort and commitment required to maintain a relationship with someone like Rocco Quinn wasn’t worth it. This was her birthday, and he hadn’t even acknowledged it. She wasn’t the type of girl to expect diamonds and flowers, but a card would’ve been nice.

  They had first encountered each other six months previously. Rocco had been driving his family’s horse and cart, Steptoe-like, along Shortlees Avenue. The gypsies did the rag-and-bone routes around Shortlees once a week, but Maggie had never noticed the good-looking son of Nobby Quinn before. It was usually toothless, baccy-chewing old men who did the collections. Maggie had taken some of her mum’s old clothes and shoes out to the cart and Rocco had given her a cheap, golden ‘princess’ ring in return. The tiny stone had fallen out of it that same evening but Maggie treasured the gift from the dark-haired, sallow-skinned, handsome young man and wore it still.

  Rocco saw Maggie again the following week. He explained that his father had forced him onto the carts for a week as a punishment for losing a car in a poker game, but that this time, he was hoping he’d see her again. He was charming and polite in those early days. Maggie wasn’t used to the close attention of young men. She had spent the majority of her twenty-three years in foster care. There were many boys sniffing around her through her school years. Her mixed-race background and her undoubted beauty guaranteed their attention, but she didn’t court it, preferring her own company. She spent most of her non-curriculum time in the Music Department, battering seven shades of shit out of the school’s only drum kit. Her favourite teacher, Mr Gamble, a hippyish muso, had gifted them to her when she left. He staged a break-in and testified that the drum kit had been stolen. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for Maggie.

  The boys didn’t really feature; they didn’t have the attention span or the long-term commitment needed to break through her suspicious defences. She slept with a few of them, and once with Mr Gamble, but purely on her terms, of course.

  As they walked from John Finnie Street, where Rocco had parked his motorbike, Maggie’s mood was darkening. His humourless jokes, his constant moaning and those stupid fucking Revels. Being with Rocco was tiresome now. He took her for granted. They rarely laughed or joked or carried on anymore. They had sex like a middle-aged, unhappily married couple; sporadically, with repetitive, conventional positions and unsatisfied, bitter arguments afterwards. In only six months, their relationship had started to feel like an extended Youth Opportunities Scheme, only without the £23.50 a week to salve the pointless tedium and the lack of direction. She was going through the motions. It had to stop.

  The reached the front doors of the ABC Cinema in Titchfield Street. A long queue had formed to the right of the narrow Art Deco frontage. The building had a face like a beautiful old Wurlitzer Jukebox and Maggie loved going there. She first experienced the thrill of celluloid by going to the Minors as a child on Saturday mornings. She especially loved The Time Machine. It ran for weeks on end and Maggie was there every time. The dark-skinned women in it had long blonde hair, just like her. There was a curious magic about the ABC Cinema in Titchfield Street. It was like a portal to another world, and on this balmy evening, Maggie would escape to a world of crew-cuts, white-suited Marines and desperately optimistic factory girls looking to escape the humdrum existence that seemed to be their pre-determined destiny.

  Rocco had insisted on getting the tickets. It was her birthday after all, he’d said. She had been despatched to get the Revels. The smaller hall, number two, to the left of the confectionary counter at the front was only a quarter full, with a higher percentage of men than a Richard Gere film might have been expected to attract. The lights dimmed. Rocco Quinn slumped down in his seat, his legs now drapped over the seats in front. There were no flashy Pearl & Dean advertisements, no encouraging message from Kia-Ora. Maggie Abernethy suddenly knew why. The British Board of Film Censors had certified Flesh Gordon as an ‘X’.

  ‘You fuckin’ selfish prick!’ shouted Maggie.

  ‘Whit?’ he pleaded, half-heartedly. Maggie stood up abruptly. She could hear male voices grumbling in the darkness behind her. She pushed past Rocco, knocking his legs to one side and his man-size bag of chocolate-covered surprises all over the cinema floor.

  ‘Fuck off,’ hissed Maggie.

  5

  7th July 1982

  10.11 pm

  ‘Could anybody know where ye are?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Sure?’

 
‘Fuckin’ certain. Look, let’s get this done, right? Whit’s the deal?’ Wullie Blair – the Painter by nickname – had painted himself into a wee corner. He was on an island of his own making, miles from any other island. The sharks were circling. When Don McAllister had reached out to him through a shared secret connection, it was initially like having his own personal message in a bottle picked up by the coastguard. Now though, the realisation that his ‘saving’ would come with onerous conditions was dawning. They were sat in Don’s car on the shale hard-standing at the remote Laigh Milton Mill pub. Don had often wondered how this old renovated Mill building survived as a boozer. It was a beautiful old structure, no doubt, and its location on the very edge of the origin of the River Irvine gave its context a sylvan character that Don had rarely seen elsewhere in East Ayrshire. But you definitely couldn’t walk to it easily and the closest tiny village of Gatehead didn’t have enough regular bums to keep the tills ringing. Needless to say, the Milton Mill had closed early and, although late, it wasn’t yet dark.

  ‘We’re in a similar spot, you an’ me,’ said Don. He glanced over at the access road where Charlie Lawson was standing guard. ‘The fire at Mickey Martin’s nightclub was … unfortunate.’ Don turned to the side in the driver’s seat to look directly at Wullie the Painter. ‘Ah need this tae disappear without suspicion, an’ so dae you.’

  ‘Ah had fuck all tae dae wi’ the fire, or Hobnail,’ sighed Wullie. ‘Ye ken that.’

  ‘Ah do, however, the Fatman might no’ see it like that. Ah assume he still knows nothin’ about ye workin’ for Doc Martin.’

  ‘Naw,’ said Wullie anxiously.

  ‘An’ clearly ye’d like tae keep it that way,’ said Don.

  ‘Does the Pope wear a funny hat?’

  ‘Right. So here’s the script. Ah’m gonnae lock this doon. A fire started accidentally, by Bob Dale. Smokin’, draps a lit fag near a tin of varnish … place goes up like a fuckin’ Roman candle.’ Don sounded assured. ‘We’ll dae the rest, right. You wurnae even there.’ Wullie liked the sound of that part. Don’s altered reality continued:

  ‘The Doc’s in. He’s got his ain skeletons here, an’ he needs ma help keepin’ them hidden away. Ah don’t want another turf war developin’ here, so it suits tae get it aw done an’ fuckin’ dusted quick. Ah’ve spoken tae the parlour. The funeral’ll be on Friday.’

  ‘Fuck sake, that’s jist the day after the morra! How the fuck did ye swing that wi’ Senga?’ said Wullie.

  ‘Look son, naebody seems tae be greetin’ many tears here for the fella. Better for this tae be ower wi’ as quick as possible, naw?’

  ‘Aye, ah suppose,’ said Wullie. ‘Is that us done here then?’

  Don laughed. ‘Eh, naw … no’ quite.’ Wullie’s head drooped.

  ‘Ah want regular updates on whit Fat Franny’s up tae. You’re gonnae be ma man on the inside.’

  ‘For fuck sake, Mr McAllister. How am ah meant tae carry that aff?’ said Wullie.

  ‘Ye’ll figure it oot. Fat Franny Duncan’s no’ interested in anythin’ but himself. Let’s be honest here, he never suspected ye were dain’ that decorating work on the side for Doc Martin, did he? That disnae indicate a high level ae close scrutiny does it?’ said Don.

  ‘He’s had a lot oan lately. Ah burst ae cash has jist went walkabout, an’ we’re aw in the spotlight,’ said Wullie.

  ‘Just be sharp then. We’ll no’ put ye in undue danger. That widnae be productive, would it,’ said Don, patting Wullie’s shoulder.

  ‘An’ whit if ah cannae?’ Wullie enquired.

  ‘Or willnae?’ Don added. ‘Well then, the tape ae ye leaving the Foregate multi-storey wi’ the date and time in its wee top right-hand corner might find its way tae the Fatman … an’ maybe even the Procurator Fiscal.’ Don had played his shot well. Wullie the Painter now needed snookers.

  6

  9th July 1982

  Fat Franny Duncan stood tall. He was fully clothed in respectful black, save for a white tie. It was a horrendously hot day and some daft bastard had compounded the effect of this by leaving the St John Church central heating on overnight. Fat Franny also wore a black overcoat but he had draped it over the shoulders, like he imagined Don Corleone would have in similar circumstances. Mopping a sodden brow with a black monogrammed handkerchief, he breathed in deeply then looked up and began his tribute.

  ‘Boab was like a brother tae me. A mair trustworthy man ah’ve yet tae meet. He cared deeply aboot Senga, his missus … his life partner … an’ each of his weans, but ’specially his eldest yin, Grant there.’ Fat Franny nodded in the direction of the front row left and touched his temple with a chubby forefinger. He pointedly avoided catching Senga Dale’s eye. That she had been able to pay for this funeral service without approaching him for financial help had immediately raised his eyebrow. Fat Franny had recently suffered a break-in at the Ponderosie – the converted council house where he stayed with his mum, Rose. Almost forty grand had been taken from his safe while he had been called away suddenly. Anyone with more spending capacity than Fat Franny deemed them capable of having, he saw as a suspect.

  He quickly looked right, to where his own team were yawning and looking bored. He pressed on.

  ‘He wis a good man at heart, wis Boab Dale. Dae anythin’ for ye … if ye asked him tae.’ Fat Franny heard a sarcastic snigger, probably from Senga, but let it pass without comment, apart from: ‘He might’ve fu … might’ve messed up his marriage, but mibbe that wisnae aw his fault, eh?’ Senga Dale stood up calmly and walked over to the large wooden box that contained her husband’s body. She leaned over and touched it tenderly, and then turned and walked steadily back up the same aisle that eighteen years earlier she’d walked down towards a new life as Mrs Robert Dale. And also as a new mother to the child who was already growing inside her.

  Andrew and Sophie, her two other younger children, followed her out of their father’s funeral service as if they were all connected by an invisible climbing rope.

  ‘Ah … thank you, em, Mr Duncan. Thank you for that, em, touching tribute.’ Reverend McKenzie had known this would be a tough appointment. As well as accusing virtually everyone – including the Church of Scotland – of taking his money, Fat Franny had turned up the heat on a large number of the minister’s dwindling congregation. Henry McKenzie had hoped for … that new American term … a bit of closure with the burial of Bob Dale. But that now seemed highly unlikely. Fat Franny Duncan returned to his seat. With today’s job almost done, a thin-lipped smile concealed an anger that had grown steadily since he had been robbed ten days ago.

  Rev. Henry McKenzie wrapped things up sharpish. With Senga having left the building, it seemed pointless recounting the tale of how they met. Little point in telling of the few happy memories the minister had been made aware of in the days following Bob Dale’s identification as the victim in the fire that burned down the Metropolis nightclub before it had even opened.

  Senga had waited for Grant, her eldest, out in the Church car park. Her heels were making indentations in the soft steaming tarmac. It was a ludicrous offer, but Fat Franny made it anyway. ‘Senga, we’re huvin’ a wee do for Boab doon the Portman. A coupla bottles ae Pomagne … some sausage rolls an’ that, nothin’ else but. Ah’m no’ fuckin’ made ae money, ken?’ Senga’s expression remained impassive. She was determined she would give nothing away about the package she’d received from her late husband. She knew the money was Fat Franny’s, and she also knew that it was Hobnail’s way of ensuring she understood that he too wanted Grant to find a life far from the Fatman’s clutches. Senga turned away without reply. ‘Well, dinnae say ah didnae ask,’ and then when she was beyond earshot, ‘ya fuckin’ midden.’ He called out to Grant Dale. ‘Whit aboot you, son? A wee dram tae yer faither’s memory efter the graveyard?’

  ‘Naw Franny. Thanks, but. Ah’m just gonnae head up the road wi’ ma mam. She’s in a bit ae shock wi’ aw this,’ said Grant.

  ‘Aye,’ said the Fat
man, softly. ‘Ah’ll bet she is.’ Grant turned and started to walk after his mother. ‘Ho, Grant,’ shouted Fat Franny. ‘A couple mair days ae compassionate leave, then it’s back tae work, right?’ Grant stopped. He paused. He turned to face Fat Franny Duncan from twenty paces away.

  ‘Ah’m no’ comin’ back, Franny.’

  ‘Oh … izzat right, son?’

  ‘Aye. It’s no’ for me, man. The life an’ that.’

  ‘Mibbe ah’ll decide … like yer faither wanted me tae.’

  ‘Ah’m thinkin’ ae goin’ tae College. Mibbe tae dae music.’

  ‘Aye, aw’right Elvis,’ said Fat Franny before heading towards his own orange Ford Capri. ‘We’ll see.’

  That morning, as he was putting on his father’s black tie, to go to his father’s funeral, Grant’s mother told him about the money that his father had sent her. She also told him where it had come from. She explained what she intended to do with it, and – with regard to Grant – the strict conditions that came attached with those plans. Distance placed between the Dales, and Fat Franny Duncan was the constant in all of them.

  7.48 pm

  ‘The nick ae that cunt, Fagan, eh?’ Wullie the Painter was obviously impressed.