The Last Days of Disco Read online

‘Aye, probably right. Ah’ll snap oot of it once ah’ve hud a wee voddy,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Yer first legal drink, eh! Ye excited?’

  There was a pause after Anne said this, and then both women laughed loudly. They would need to leave soon and, although Lizzie had selfishly insisted that none of her brothers and sisters be allowed to attend – especially the hated Audrey – Anne was looking forward to a night out with Frank. It was important that Lizzie was in a good mood or they would be on edge all evening.

  ‘Are ye still upset about Theresa?’ enquired Anne softly.

  Lizzie sighed. ‘Naw. It was aw her fault. She shouldnae have said that stuff about me. She said it was a joke, but it wisnae. It was vindictive.’ Lizzie had now regained her cocksure composure. ‘An’ anyway, the baw was on the slates when ah gave the DJ job tae that Cassidy boy. Efter whit she said but, there was nae way that fat man ae’ hers was gettin’ it. Ah’m fine. C’mon, let’s go. Is Dad ready?’

  ‘Whit about yer lipstick?’

  ‘Ah had it in ma handbag all along.’

  ‘Awa’ an apologise tae yer sister, then.’ But both women knew there was more chance of Tony Hadley climbing down off the wall and coming to the party with them, than of that happening.

  ‘Whit was it ye wanted to tell me?’ asked Lizzie.

  Anne breathed deeply. ‘Ach … it’ll keep.’

  17TH FEBRUARY 1982: 7:11PM

  About five miles across Kilmarnock – in a similarly sized bedroom – a young man nervously stared at his reflection in a full-length mirror.

  ‘Are you lookin’ at me? Are you lookin’ at … cos ah’m the only wan here. Well, who are ye lookin’ at then … if no me?’ Bobby leaned over and kissed his reflection.

  ‘It’s you … you … ah’ jist want you … ma coo-gah-choo … ma-coo-gah-CHOOOO.’ Bobby turned to the left. He was now side-on to the mirror. He adopted a cod-American accent, as he interviewed himself.

  ‘Alvin, what’s been the secret of your incredible success?’ Bobby now turned to the right and looked straight into the mirror.

  ‘Well, Kid, I’d have to put it down to the size of my enormous knob!’ Bobby looked down. He picked up a folded pair of socks and shoved them down the front of his pants.

  ‘Ah … I can certainly see what you mean, Alvin.’ Bobby picked out a record and put it on the turntable. He began prancing around and singing to ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy’ by Rod Stewart.

  ‘Hoi, Rodney.’ Bobby looked round, startled.

  It was Joey. ‘You’re a fanny.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Joe. Ye nearly gied me a heart attack there.’

  ‘Whit are you oan, Boab?’

  ‘Well, obviously ah’ didnae ken ye were there. Jesus Christ, ah’ don’t make a habit ae jigglin’ aboot in ma pants in front ae folk.’

  ‘Whit … even though you’ve got an enormous knob?’ asked Joey.

  ‘Christ … how long had ye been stood there?’ Bobby sheepishly extracted the socks from inside his Y-fronts

  ‘Well, ah watched Taxi Driver … then ah saw ye snoggin’ yersel’, ya bender … then ye were Alvin Stardust, and Kid Jensen, oan Top ae the Pops … an’ then finally …’

  ‘Aye, aye … ah get it, ya prick,’ said Bobby, slightly annoyed.

  ‘Whit’s the score, then?’ asked Joey, rubbing his cold hands together.

  ‘Ah’m jist gauny get ready … splash a wee bit ae the auld Brut 55 oan, then we’re ready for the off, eh? Ah’m a bit nervous, but cannae fuckin’ wait, man.’ Bobby was extremely apprehensive, but he didn’t want it to show too much. This was a dream in the making and he wished he could enjoy it a bit more than the tension was allowing.

  ‘Ye sure we’ve got enough records, Boab? An’ did ye get a mic? Cos’ ah don’t think ye’ll get much sound oota that hairbrush.’

  ‘Ah got an auld yin earlier fae Dale, the singer oot the Vespas. Huvnae tried it oot yet. We’ll wait til’ we get there, eh? An’ ah’m sure we’ve got enough records. Christ, these kinda pairties don’t get goin’ until aboot half-nine anyway. We’ll only need aboot an hour and a half’s worth for the bits that folk’ll actually be listenin’ tae.’ Bobby looked out of his bedroom window again.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ asked Bobby. Even though he had still to conclude his own final preparations, his mounting anxiety was now being directed towards the driver of the van hired to pick up the gear.

  ‘He’ll be here. McGarry promised me.’ Joey was equally annoyed, but began to suspect the blame for the van driver’s no-show would be directed at him. And it would be difficult to avoid since it had been his job to ask Jeff McGarry if he could sort out the transport. But still …

  ‘Ye did tell him half-six?’ said Bobby, now staring intently out to the street, his head moving from side to side as if he was watching Connors and McEnroe on centre court.

  ‘Aye, ah did. Told him we had to be there for seven. Even fuckin’ paid him the twenty quid up front.’

  ‘Haud on,’ said Bobby. ‘That might be him there.’

  A large white transit van had pulled up on the grass verge outside. It was another cold, wet, late-winter night and still dark outside, but the stocky figure who clambered out of the driver’s side, looked at a bit of paper and then peered over at the house could only be Heatwave’s new driver and roadie. Bobby bounded down the stairs to meet him, leaving Joey to start struggling with the gear. A couple of minutes later Bobby was on his way back up the stairs. He wasn’t as jaunty as when he’d descended them.

  ‘Whit’s up, is it no him?’ said Joey putting down a Marshall Speaker column.

  ‘Naw … ah mean, aye, it’s him, but …’ Bobby looked round to ensure no-one was behind him. ‘It’s Barry fuckin’ Baird!’

  Joey stood bolt upright. Bobby sensed the immediate trepidation at even the mention of the name.

  Barry Baird was a renowned local headcase. A few weeks ago – just before Christmas – he was standing at a street corner with three others, when Joey approached on his own. Joey was aware of him watching as he got closer, but he didn’t want to cross to the other side of the road for fear that Barry Baird would sense his anxiety. So Joey aimed at walking straight past, his pace quickening as he came within kicking distance.

  ‘Hey you, fuckface! Dae ah ken you?’ said Barry Baird, in a calm, quiet tone

  ‘Eh, naw … ah don’t think so,’ replied Joey, his own tone as calm as his churning stomach would allow.

  ‘Dae you ken me, then?’ As Joey recounted this story to a laughing Bobby later, he said he knew this was a trick question.

  ‘No sure!’

  Wrong answer. A right arm shot out from its rigid frame as if it belonged to one of the mechanical pugilists from the Raving Bonkers boxing game. It thumped Joey on the side of the jaw causing him to double over both in pain and in anticipation of further blows and kicks. They didn’t come, though. Joey looked up and saw that Barry Baird’s focus had moved away from him. Something had happened over Joey’s shoulder that now held his attention. Joey didn’t know what it was, but it had Barry Baird as rapt as a little dog, mesmerised by the movements of a stick about to be thrown. Joey sloped away, thanking his good fortune that psychos like Barry Baird had such limited multi-tasking abilities. And no memory, apparently.

  For here he was now, standing in Bobby’s hall, looking straight up at Joey and saying, ‘Right, mate. Aw the fuckin’ gear up the stairs, is it?’

  ‘Eh, aye. Just come up …’ said Bobby.

  ‘Ye a’right, mate?’ enquired Barry Baird, as he passed Joey on the stairs.

  ‘Aye …’ and under his breath, ‘… Ah will be in a fuckin’ minute, once this heart attack’s by!’

  17TH FEBRUARY 1982: 7:35PM

  ‘The room’s too wee! The room’s too dark! The cake’s no big enough! The bar’s got nae Pernod. The disco husnae turned up!’

  For fuck’s sake, none of these things were his fault. Frank King was getting increasingly annoyed. He didn’t even
want to be here, far less to have to deal with his daughter’s high-pitched carping. Anne had even made him wear a suit and tie. He felt as if he was going to court. The main condition of his agreeing to this party in the first place was that it would be for Lizzie and her pals. He would pay, but he didn’t need to be there in person. Had everyone forgotten this clause?

  ‘Cheer up, Frank, eh?’ said Anne. She was irritated by his attitude on their first night out for months. He hadn’t actually made it clear that he didn’t want to come, or at least not to her, but Anne suspected her revelation earlier in the week was the root cause. ‘Look, this is Lizzie’s big night. Ye’ve no even had to buy a round yet. And whit else would ye have been doin’?’

  Frank lit a cigarette. ‘Shine on Harvey Moon was oan,’ he proclaimed.

  ‘Typical,’ sighed Anne.

  ‘Have ye tried phonin’ his house?’ Frank offered to Lizzie, in an attempt to change the subject.

  ‘Aye. The lassie behind the bar’s been ringin’ it for about half an hour. Ah’m away outside. Ah need another smoke. Everybody’s here an’ there’s nae disco. Ah’m black affronted!’ Lizzie stormed through the glass swing doors of the Sandriane pub, already plotting a revenge on Bobby Cassidy and anyone related to him. Just as she lit up her sixth cigarette in less than an hour, Barry Baird’s ramshackle transit van pulled up at the kerb.

  ‘Fuck ae you been?’ shouted Lizzie, almost nose to nose with a bemused Barry Baird.

  ‘No me, hen. Ah’m just the driver,’ said Barry calmly, despite thinking that in different circumstances, he’d have decked someone for that tone, lassie or no’.

  ‘Eh, ah’m really sorry. The van broke doon,’ said Bobby, offering a handshake, which was totally ignored, and shooting a nervous look over at Barry Baird for fear the psycho would expose the lie.

  Lizzie looked at the van and, in particular, at Joey, who’d had to stand in the back holding the broken sliding door shut to stop the contents falling out as the van cornered. She conceded that breakdown was a distinct possibility.

  ‘Fuckin’ hurry up and get started then … an’ ah’m still dockin’ ye for being late.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette Olivia Newton John style, turned and sashayed back into the pub, fully aware that the three lads would have been staring at her arse in her ridiculously tight, pinstriped jeans.

  ‘No quite whit ah pictured,’ said Bobby with a big grin. ‘Ah thought she’d be about twenty stone …’

  ‘Easy tae see where she hides aw the snakes in aw that hair,’ observed Joey. He was the only one actually unloading anything onto the wet pavement.

  ‘Ah thought she looked fuckin’ lovely,’ Bobby enthused. He was already imagining that going home with the hostess might be a regular perk of these nights. After all, somebody always went home with Mick Jagger when he played a gig.

  ‘That’ll be twenty quid, boys,’ said Barry.

  Joey dropped a box of records, shaking Bobby out of his brief daydream.

  ‘Eh!’ exclaimed Joey, with a bit more vigour than he’d intended. ‘Ah’ve already paid Jeff the twenty!’

  ‘Naw, mate. That was his twenty. This is mine.’ Barry Baird was not going to be talked down. ‘Any problems wi’ that?’

  ‘Aw, naw. No!’ said Bobby reaching for his wallet. ‘It’s just that we assumed the twenty was all in.’

  ‘Don’t assume, pal. It makes an ASS of U an’ ME.’ Barry Baird had listened to this statement aimed in his direction by numerous teachers in his short-lived academic life. It was ingrained in him like the writing running through a stick of Blackpool rock. Now it was his turn. With the gear on the pavement and Bobby’s twenty-pound note in his pocket, Barry Baird jumped back in the van.

  ‘Pick us up at half one?’ shouted Bobby, as the van pulled away. A right hand emerged from the driver’s side window. It simply waved, as if the Queen was on the other end of it.

  Bobby and Joey had never been so pleased to see Hamish May. Having decided to come down unannounced and lend some moral support, he’d been inside the pub for the past twenty minutes. Lizzie had presumed him to be a bouncer, knowing that he wasn’t one of her guests.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s the Hamster. Whit ae you doin’ here?’ said Bobby, and then, before Hamish could answer, ‘Fuck it, never mind. Gies a hand wi’ aw this will ye?’

  ‘Ah’m ah gettin’ paid?’ said Hamish, half-jokingly.

  ‘Ye’ll get rewarded in Heaven,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Jist like the rest ae us,’ added Joey.

  ‘… now let’s go afore the fuckin’ pub shuts,’ instructed the Heatwave Disco CEO.

  ‘Is there any grub, at least?’ If he couldn’t get paid in hard cash, Hamish May figured food was the next best currency.

  ‘Spotted a decent spread through the back. Continental stuff an’ a buffett, an’ that,’ said Bobby.

  ‘It’s a boo-fay, ya fanny. Christ, ah’m fae Onthank an’ ah’m mair cultured than you!’ exclaimed Joey.

  ‘Magic. Ah’m sweatin’ like a cunt in this coat, but ah’ thought the big pockets would come in handy for collectin’ scran. Want a pint?’

  Joey and Bobby both nodded and laughed at Hamish’s pre-planning. Hamish headed towards the bar.

  The first hour passed without real incident. It had taken the three of them almost half an hour to put the complicated tangle of cables together but, once achieved, the sound and light worked first time – and to a highly impressive volume. It had somewhat concerned Joey that four plugs were all going into one basic little adaptor, but since everything seemed to be operational, he put that concern to the back of his mind.

  Most of the parties that Bobby had been to started slowly. People progressively drifted in up to about half-past nine, and the pattern held true for Lizzie King’s eighteenth-birthday party. It allowed the novice DJs time to get to grips with the fading of one record into another; to master the co-ordination of the music’s syncopation with the rope light and – although there were a few false starts – to get the cueing of each record lined up with the help of the headphones. Musically, Heatwave Disco’s inaugural night on the wheels of steel was fairly mid tempo. Some middle-of-the-road soul via Luther Vandross, George Benson, Shalamar and the like, mixed with a few older records from Rod Stewart and Elton John. Nothing too challenging; simply background music to allow people to come in, say hello to the family, find a seat, get a drink and have a chat. No dancing. Not yet. Not usually until the cake’s been cut and the vol-au-vents distributed.

  The plan to wait until the night of the disco to establish who was best suited to be the vocalist for Lizzie King’s party hadn’t been a good one. Cometh the hour, goeth the man. Both Bobby and Joey passed the microphone to each other as if it was possessed.

  ‘Scuse’ me mate! Ye got anythin’ fae the charts?’ It was almost ten o’clock and Heatwave Disco had received it’s first-ever request.

  ‘Aye, mate. Nae bother,’ said Joey, as Bobby bent down to look through the small black box of seven-inch singles that held the most up-to-date material. He picked up a black vinyl disc and put it straight onto the deck, lifting the needle over and cueing it up for its beginning. As the previous record faded, he pressed the button and faded up the volume control. Immediately Joey turned round and shot him a glance.

  ‘Well … it’s in the fuckin’ charts, intit?’ proclaimed Bobby.

  ‘Aye, but fuckin’ Shakin Stevens!’ Joey was about to remind Bobby of the rules they’d made about playing rubbish, when Bobby grabbed his hand and turned him round to see the majority of the guests bouncing towards the wooden dancefloor.

  ‘Nae accountin’ for taste, eh Joey?’ said Hamish, before draining another pint.

  Over at the hostess’s table on the other side of the dancefloor, Frank King’s aggravation was escalating.

  ‘Ah can take so much, but this …’ Frank was complaining, but no-one seated around him was quite sure about what.

  ‘Whit’s he moanin’ aboot noo, Mam?’ groaned
Lizzie.

  ‘Ach … never mind him, Lizzie. He’s had the jaggy bunnett since he got here. It’s nice tae see auld Betty here, intit? Ah never thought she’d get oot wi’ her legs,’ said Anne. Deflecting attention away from the aggravating Frank was feeling like her sole function of the evening.

  ‘Aye. She’s milkin’ it fur aw it’s worth though. “Get us a wee brandy, love … yer Aunty Betty’s no as mobile as she used tae be.” The only thing mair static than her is her purse.’

  Anne laughed. She was desperate for Lizzie to enjoy her night, but Anne had other news she needed to break to Lizzie, before she heard it from a less-sensitive source. Anne was now angry at herself for not getting it over with before they left the house.

  ‘Ah’m gauny have tae get up. Go an’ say somethin’.’ Frank still seemed to be talking to himself.

  ‘Dad, whit are ye talkin’ aboot?’ Lizzie’s irritation at her father was becoming substantial.

  Frank stood up. ‘He’s only been deid five year. Aw these bloody charlatans … it’s a disgrace, so it is.’ With that, Frank strode away in the direction of the Heatwave decks. Anne looked at Lizzie and both shrugged their shoulders.

  ‘So, ye havin’ a good time? Ye’ve got some decent presents here.’ Anne picked up a bumper sachet of hair dye. ‘… And some pretty shite yins.’

  ‘Ah’m a bit mair settled noo the DJ’s turned up. Ah’m no gie’in him the full money though.’ Lizzie folded her arms.

  ‘No bad-lookin’ though … the wan wi’ the tie, ah mean,’ said Anne.

  ‘If ye like that type … then, ah suppose … mibbe.’ Lizzie looked over. ‘The other yin looks like a moron, though.’ Lizzie paused. ‘Whit’s ma dad sayin’ tae him?’

  ’Christ, who kens. He’s got a bee up his arse aboot somethin’ the night.’ Anne breathed in deeply. She needed to tell Lizzie. On balance it was better coming from her now than from her erratic father. Anne looked down at the table. ‘Mibbe ah shouldnae have telt him ah’m pregnant …’ Anne couldn’t look at Lizzie.

  It seemed to take a while for the news to sink in, but Lizzie responded in typically feisty fashion.