The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Read online

  ‘Aye,’ said Des Brick. He’d been pretty quiet for the majority of the day and Wullie had been acutely aware of it. It was understandable, after all, Hobnail had been his brother-in-law, and even though he no longer spoke to Senga, his sister, the funeral had been awkward for all involved. The burial had been a bit less tense, but nonetheless, Wullie had history with Senga, too, and he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her, even if she wasn’t exactly demonstrating any obvious sense of loss. His current job was to try and shake Des Brick out of his morosity, and in turn, add necessary deflection to his own unintentional role in the big man’s demise.

  ‘Fuck talkin’ tae her, or drinkin’ tea wi’ her … ah’d huv slipped her the boaby,’ said Wullie. Des smiled. The ice was cracking. ‘Ah mean, fuck sake, how many ordinary folk wid get tae say they’d knobbed the Queen, eh? He had opportunity, a bed, an’ by all accounts a willin’ gash.’ Des laughed. Job nearly done. ‘Her nightie was up ’roond her neck an’ she’s gaun “Stick one’s boaby right up one’s Blackwall Tunnel”…’ Des Brick was guffawing at this. ‘…an’ whit does yer man Fagan dae? He bleats oan like a wee fuckin’ lassie aboot his missus leavin’ him. Nae bloody wonder she did, if the daft cunt carries oan like that durin’ a hoose-breakin’.’ Wullie the Painter had his arms outstretched, like one of the Queen’s own Counsel appealing for sanity to prevail in a black-and-white case.

  A voice boomed: ‘An’ while ah remember it, where the fuck huv you been these last few days? Everythin’ fuckin’ kickin’ off an’ you disappear fur a whole week, eh?’ Fat Franny had come in through the side door, taking both men by surprise, especially the Painter. ‘Been tryin’ yer hoose constantly, so we huv. Whit the fuck, Wullie!’

  ‘Aye, sorry aboot that, boss. Had tae vanish, sparko. Got word that the polis were efter a chat aboot aw they wee bottles ae Belgian beer an’ aw the fags that ah did the deal oan, ’member?’ Wullie had rehearsed this bit with Charlie Lawson, in case it needed verification. For the moment though, Fat Franny seemed to have other things on his mind. He let the explanation stand.

  Des Brick had realised the awkwardness of his own situation the minute that Hobnail’s death had been confirmed. Hobnail was a miserable cunt, of that there could be no dispute, but Des felt his brother-in-law had been badly treated by the Fatman over the years. Hobnail and Franny had been close friends through school, but when Franny’s influence and control had begun to rise, and as his band of foot-soldiers started to coalesce through the 70s, Des Brick watched Hobnail’s position diminish from equal into that of purely Thug Numero Uno.

  ‘Hey, Mr Benn!’ Wullie’s high-pitched taunt shook Des out of his daydreaming. ‘Away intae that cupboard an’ come oot dressed as Desmond fuckin’ Brick, eh?’

  Des laughed and stood up.

  ‘Right, fuckface. Let’s get oan wi’ it,’ said Des.

  ‘Whit’s Franny goat lined up fur us then?’ asked the Painter.

  ‘We’ve tae pick up Terry Connolly at his hoose,’ Des confirmed, now back in the zone. ‘It’s his initiation, th’night.’

  Wullie the Painter gagged a bit. He recalled his only too well. But given his current situation, a strategic AWOL was out of the question.

  7.58 pm

  Wullie the Painter looked at the Polaroids. His heart sank. He already had a set of similar ones, from his own initiation into the fraternity of Fat Franny. It was a ludicrous and embarrassing thing to have to go through. Terry Connolly came back from the Portman’s narrow bar with a tray of drinks, even though he and Wullie were the only two in the pool room.

  ‘Expectin’ company, pal?’ Wullie was still cagey around Terry, and vice versa. Terry Connolly’s introduction had been limited to This is Terry. He’s a guid yin. Dinnae gie him any fuckin’ grief.’ The Fatman hadn’t explained Terry’s role or responsibilities within the inner circle so, since the previous evening’s events, a degree of paranoia had developed on all sides. At least Terry was trying to make a connection.

  ‘Jist thought ah’d get a few in, save us huvin’ tae go back up while the fitba’s oan.’

  ‘Aye. Ah suppose,’ said Wullie, resigned to a strained evening of teeth-pulling conversation while the World Cup Final deserved his full attention. Wullie lifted two of his four pints of Lager and placed them directly in front of him as if deciding which one to tackle first.

  ‘Hope ye don’t mind me askin’, wee man,’ Wullie suspected what was coming, but let Terry finish in the slim hope that it wasn’t what he thought. ‘Whit the fuck wis aw that shite wi’ us gettin’ our knobs oot?’ Fuckin’ bingo, thought Wullie. There really wasn’t ever any doubt, was there?

  ‘Look, it’s fuckin’ Franny. He’s ay suspicious that wan ae the inner circle is a plank, know? The fuckin’ knobs oot business is wan ae his ways ae tryin’ tae make sure nae cunt goes rogue.’ Wullie was embarrassed at having to say this. He was even more affronted at having had to rub the exposed end of his cock against Terry Connolly’s – a man to whom he’d only properly been introduced two hours earlier.

  ‘Is he a fuckin’ bent shot, then, the Fatman like?’ Terry instinctively lowered his voice. He was a hardman, but not one without tact.

  ‘Naw. He’s ridin’ that Theresa Morgan yin … that blondie yin wi’ the magic tits, ken?’

  ‘Can she make stuff disappear wi’ them, like?’ laughed Terry.

  ‘In a manner ae speakin’,’ said Wullie. Terry looked puzzled.

  ‘If she catches ye gawpin’ … one word, and a flash ae them tae Fatboy Franny an’ they could make you fuckin’ disappear.’ Terry laughed at Wullie’s joke, without appreciating he wasn’t joking. Wullie drained his pint and then belched loudly.

  ‘Fat Franny makes us aw drap oor troosers, pull back the foreskin and touch knob-ends wi’ any new inner circle member.’ Wullie sipped from pint number two then continued. ‘He takes photies ae it aw an’ makes copies for every cunt. If anybody drifts aff the plan, copies ae them are sent to every fucker he kens. Nae boaby … nae wedge, the following month. It’s a bit like being blood brothers … only … no’.’ Wullie looked up at the screen willing Paolo Rossi to kick off and get him off this subject.

  ‘Mair like … boaby brothers,’ said Terry. Wullie smiled.

  ‘Aye … boaby brothers. Ah like that.’ Wullie lifted his glass, and Terry Connolly reciprocated with a clink. Maybe this cunt isnae aw bad, he figured.

  ‘So,’ Wullie the Painter ventured, ‘whit’s your gig gonnae be in the FF Universe?’

  ‘The vans mainly. Ice-cream yins aroon’ Onthank. Got five lined up … aw sellin’ jellies an’ blues an’ that oot the back,’ said Terry, matter-of-factly. ‘Yer ma’s wee helpers. Oot they come in their slippers fur a pack ae fags, a ’99 an’ a bag ae Temazapam. Ye could write the fuckin’ script. In fact, if their doctors wrote the script, we’d be ootae business.’ Terry sipped his pint. ‘They vans are like travelling junkie shops. Customer comes tae you. Fuckin’ piss easy.’

  ‘Where are ye’ gettin’ the stock?’ asked Wullie.

  ‘Cannae tell ye, brother,’ said Terry, smiling. ‘Ah’d have tae kill ye!’ Wullie the Painter frowned. Terry relented, but only a bit. ‘It’s a big source. Ah cannae reveal the name, honestly, ah cannae. They’re expandin’ their gig intae Ayrshire. It’ll be good for us in Onthank, though … for aw ae us.’ Terry supped his pint and then continued, unsolicited. ‘Ah could cut ye a slice, wee man … if ye were intae it, ken? The Fatman disnae need tae ken anythin’ aboot it.’ Wullie the Painter sensed that Terry Connolly’s understanding of discretion might not be the strongest. ‘Ah mean, ah coulda done this maself. Fat Franny’s oan the way oot … but he still casts a big shadow ower Onthank. Best tae pay the dues at the start, ken?’ Terry laughed. ‘An’ if that means rubbin’ ma baws against other guys’ baws, then fuck it. Ah had tae dae much worse in Polmont Young Offenders!’

  Wullie was relieved. Terry wouldn’t be a threat, he’d concluded. He was too open with information which, given
Wullie’s new covert initiative, would certainly come in handy. Wullie had never liked the ice-cream vans anyway. Despite Terry’s over-confidence, Wullie felt there were far too many personal risks in dealing with desperate addicts needing a score. You were trapped in a metal box for one. It only took one out-of-their-head moron with a perceived grievance and a can of petrol and you were toast. Literally. Plus, Don McAllister’s squad might’ve turned a blind eye to some of the activities but they still dropped the odd unpredictable raid on all of the organisations. The vans were the easiest and most public targets. And Terry Connolly was already in the crosshairs of the likes of Charlie Lawson over this new Metropolis nightclub business. Wullie the Painter figured Terry Connolly might not actually be around long enough even to become a threat. Unless, of course, he was on the same restrictive deal with McAllister that Wullie was. In the world of the small-time hood, suspicion was the default setting.

  ‘Who’ve ye got here?’ Wullie asked, turning to look at Terry for the first time in the conversation.

  ‘Italy … 3–1,’ said Terry. ‘Got a tonne oan wi’ Wullie Hills.’

  ‘Ye’ve nae chance,’ said Wullie.

  ‘Ye reckon?’

  ‘Aye. Italy huv had their peak wi’ the Brazil game. Nae way they can raise it again.’

  ‘Ach, shite. The fuckin’ Gerries shouldnae even be in the Final efter whit Schumacher did tae that French boy.’ Terry folded his arms as if the defence had rested. But it was the German defence that ultimately rested, and two hours later Terry Connolly whooped and hollered as Dino Zoff lifted the golden trophy. Goals from – predictably – player of the tournament, Rossi, followed by Tardelli and Altobelli had Italy home and dry. Terry Connolly shifted his allegiance and prayed for a German consolation, and with seven minutes to go, Paul Breitner provided it. Fuckin’ lucky bastart, thought Wullie the Painter. He put the Polaroids back in the brown envelope and stuffed them deep into his inside jacket pocket. Maybe some of Terry Connolly’s good fortune would shine on him too.

  Tae gie ye a wee insight intae the … dynamic, at this point, the cunt wis tryin’ his best tae ignore me, ken. Like a wee wean that yer shoutin’ at … gie’in intae trouble for some fuckin’ shite. Ye know … stickin’ its fingers in its ears an’ singin’ ‘La La La … ah’m no listenin’’.

  There wis’ resistance … nae fuckin’ doubt. But ah had the scent ae ma destiny in ma nostrils, an’ nae wee poofy bawbag host wis getting’ in the way, ken?

  Molly an’ Washer – the Ma and Da – they didnae get whit wis goin’ oan. This transformation ae their wean fae a wee cunt that widnae say ‘BOO’ tae a goose intae a musical Master ae the Universe … they couldnae cope wi’ it aw tae start wi’.

  No’ really their fault, tae be honest. Aw that initial resistance … it musta looked like the cunt wis goin’ aff his heid, y’know? Aw that ‘inner turmoil’ that his specialists went oan aboot. It did me a favour while ah moulded the wee bastart intae a leader tae be reckoned wi’ … jist like Washer, actually, but wi’ a better line ae patter, ken?

  Anyway, it started spillin’ intae the music around aboot this time tae. The cunt’s still clingin’ oan tae the notion that the New Romantic’s the thing. So ah booted his baws aboot that yin, so tae speak. We went the full twelve rounds oan it, ah have tae admit, but gradually it wis back listenin’ tae the Ramones, Bowie, Curtis Mayfield … even The Jam. Stuff that it had grown up oan but had disowned for aw that Visage an’ Spandau Ballet bollocks. A couple ae hunner listens tae ‘Blitzkreig Bop’ though, an’ we were back oan track. Meanwhile, Molly made another doctor’s appointment for the two ae us tae go tae. Ah wis as happy as fuckin’ Larry tae go tae that … as ye can imagine.

  7

  15th July 1982

  ‘Are ye ready, son?’ Molly Wishart called up the stairs. She knew that this doctor’s appointment for her increasingly erratic son was essential, but also that he would endeavour to avoid it at all costs. Surprisingly, he responded in the affirmative, and said that he would be there in a minute. As he came into view at the top of the stairs, her heart sank.

  ‘Yer no’ goin’ oot wi’ me, lookin’ like that!’ she sighed.

  ‘Whit’s up wi’ it?’ he said. Max Mojo was dressed in a pair of striped pyjamas. One of the legs was rolled up to just under the knee. Underneath the top, he wore a cream-coloured chunky knit sweater. He wore black DM boots with white laces. His hair had been dyed emerald green, which obviously accounted for the strange smell that had been wafting around the upper hall all morning, Molly reasoned. He had glasses with different-coloured lenses on, and he had drawn a CND logo on his forehead in blue ink. A ‘Fuck EVERYTHING’ button badge was pinned to the pyjama jacket’s lapel. He looked like Rupert the Bear as an acid casualty. It was a test, Molly acknowledged. Despite all her instincts telling her not to, she called his bluff.

  ‘Right, then. Let’s go. We’ve only got half an hour to get there,’ she said. He looked deflated.

  Most people on the bus from Crosshouse to the surgery in Dundonald Road just stared. A couple laughed. One old woman fixed her gaze on Molly and seemed to shake her head indignantly for the whole journey. Once in the doctors’ waiting room, the response of others was virtually identical.

  They waited an uncomfortable twenty minutes. The buzzer went off. Dr McManus’s room. Max had been summoned. He got up slowly, slouched towards the door and headed dramatically down the hall as if being asked to walk the green mile. The number of ‘headshakers’ trebled. Molly wanted the ground to open up and swallow her, but at least she had got her son here: a task that looked like being beyond her without the assistance of a straightjacket only two days earlier.

  Max looked for the door with Dr McManus’s name on it. He went straight in without knocking, surprising the young male doctor who was sitting at his desk writing notes. ‘Ah, hello … Dale, is it?’ asked Dr McManus, doing a distinct comedy double-take. Max was also blindsided. The young doctor was either Indian, or Pakistani, or something other than an obvious ‘McManus’.

  ‘Naw … it’s no’. It’s Max. Max Mojo. Fuck’s sake, man … keep up!’ The young doctor looked down at his notes, and then at the front cover of the file.

  ‘Em, could you wait here a moment? I’ll just be a second,’ he said, before leaving. Max looked around the small, windowless office. A doctor’s examination table took up most of the room. A tiny desk sat at the end of it. Projecting cabinets on the wall meant the doctor had to watch his head as he stood up. It was almost certain that this was once a store cupboard. Fucking NHS cuts, thought Max. The door opened. Dr McManus came back in. The puzzled look had gone.

  ‘Hi Max,’ he said, all bedside-mannerly. ‘How are things, son?’ The ‘son’ grated with Max. This doctor didn’t look much older than him.

  ‘Fine,’ said Max. ‘Jist fine.’

  ‘You’ve come through quite a trauma. Can you jump up on the bed and we’ll just take a quick look at how you’re healing?’ The doctor’s English was really good, Max had to concede.

  ‘Aye. Aw’right,’ said Max. Sooner be out and getting on with more important plotting. Max lay back.

  ‘Okay, let’s just have a look at this testicle,’ said Dr McManus as he eased back Max’s pyjama trousers and put his hand down the front, cupping his balls briefly. Max sprung up and head-butted him.

  ‘Hey … ya fuckin’ poofter!’ he yelled. ‘Get yer fuckin’ hands aff ma baws, ya cunt!’ The stunned young clinician slumped to his knees holding his head. Max briefly thought about swinging a boot, but held back.

  ‘Ah’m gettin’ the polis onto you! Ye’ll be fuckin’ shipped back tae Bombay oan the next boat, ya bastart … touchin’ me up!’ He stormed out of the consultant’s cupboard-sized room. ‘C’mon Mam,’ he shouted into the waiting room. ‘We’re fuckin’ ootae here! Some bent cunt masqueradin’ as a doctor’s jist felt us up. We’re gaun tae the polis. Ah’m gettin’ this place shut doon.’

  Later that evening, deep within the bowels
of Kilmarnock Police Station in the centre of the town, Max Mojo accepted that Dr Ranesh was not a ‘Paki molester’, who had broken into the doctor’s surgery, stolen a white coat and posed as a Dr McManus in order simply to feel up innocent, law-abiding people like him. In turn, Dr Ranesh – who was merely filling in for his older Scottish colleague while he was on sabattical – accepted that Max Mojo’s complex medical condition had contributed to his unreasonable behaviour. Although Max still maintained he was the victim, a potential assault charge against him was dropped. With Washer and Molly nodding furiously in agreement, Max was instructed to take the medication he had been prescribed. If he didn’t, and a repeat of any similar behaviour ensued, it was made clear he wouldn’t be let off with a warning next time.

  17th July 1982

  ‘Get me Flat-pack Frankie.’

  ‘Aye, righto Uncle Washer. Whit’ll ah tell um it’s for?’

  ‘Just tell him he’s wanted. That’ll dae it.’ Benny Donald nodded and exited stage left. Jimmy ‘Washer’ Wishart was ‘donating’ some money to have the Crosshouse Church Hall roof fixed. Washer lived in the old Manse immediately adjacent to the church itself and – since he rented the hall back to the church for their occasional use – had finally acknowledged the landlord’s obligation to provide a wind-and-watertight envelope. Benny Donald had entered through the back door as instructed, and had burst onto the low platform like a triumphant vaudevillian, returning for one more encore.

  ‘When’s the boy gettin’ oot?’ asked Gerry Ghee.

  ‘He’s been hame for a wee while. Thought he wis gonnae be eatin’ through a fuckin’ straw for a bit at the beginning. Ah’d never ae heard the end ae it fae his maw, if that had transpired, ken?’ Gerry Ghee looked surprised. ‘Sorry, Gerry. Ah huvnae telt folk ’cos he’s been acting a bit mental, ken? Some fuckin’ schizophrenic thing. The daft cunt’s been holed up in his room listenin’ tae music tae slash yer wrists tae. Plays it fuckin’ non-stop, tae. Bangin’ oan constantly aboot bein’ immortal. It’s gettin’ embarrassin’, tae be honest wi’ ye. He’s painted the whole fuckin’ room black. Ye’d think Dracula slept in there durin’ the day, manky wee bastart.’ Gerry nodded, and then shook his head immediately afterwards. It was intended to demonstrate empathy, to reinforce that he too didn’t know what to make of it.