The Last Days of Disco (6 page)

Hettie had never heard her brother talk like this before. It seemed like he was using words he had learned from an Army training manual; repeated so often that he had brainwashed himself
with them. Gary had never been a respecter of Queen and country before, and Hettie couldn’t understand why he was now.

‘Ye ken, Hets, after ah went doon tae London … once ah’d been there for about six months, ah just wanted tae have somethin’ tae belong tae. There wisnae any work, an’ ah’d been caught sleepin’ rough in the park twice. There’s loadsa guys ah kent for a wee while; aw ended up on the rent at Euston. Ah could see maself goin’ the same way. Last time ah got picked up, it was the polis guy that told me tae go tae the Army recruitment station. Even gave me a few quid tae get cleaned up an’ that. Came back two days later wi’ a shirt and a tie as well. Best thing that coulda happened tae be honest.’

Hettie was still sitting with her knees pulled up, hiding her face – and the fact that she was now gently sobbing – from Gary.

‘The Army’s been really good for me. Ye said so yerself. The barracks are a’right an’ ah’ve got good mates now. Everythin’s goin’ well for me.’ He stood up. ‘Don’t you worry about me. Belfast’ll be a breeze, man.’

Gary wasn’t sure what else to say. He didn’t want his last day for six months to be remembered as one when he had upset Hettie. But he needed to tell her that a tour of duty in Belfast was looking likely. It was one of the main reasons for suggesting they spend the day together. This couldn’t be something that he’d write in a letter from the comparative safety of his cramped London barracks.

‘Come on, H. Ah’ll race ye back tae the Forum Café. The fish suppers are on me, eh?’ He suspected she was crying, but didn’t want to see it. So he burst away up the hill and over the rolling dunes, only looking back when he knew he wouldn’t be able to witness the hurt he’d caused her.
Yer a fuckin’ coward, Cassidy
, he thought to himself. The bombs and bullets of County Fermanagh would surely be easier to cope with than the tears on his sister’s face, but this had just been the rehearsal before the main act. Gary still had Ethel, his hypertensive mum, to face.

5

THERE'S AN OLD PIANO …

‘Well, whit dae ye think? Ah thought that went a'right.'

‘Ah
think
you're fuckin' mental if ye think ah'm doin' that again.'

Two friends sat on a Kilmarnock pavement after their first mobile DJ experience, reflecting on an evening of unexpected surrealism. Two halves of the same coin: Bobby Cassidy – optimistic entrepreneur – relentlessly
heads
up; Joey Miller – pragmatic fixer – obstinately
tails
down.

‘We're out here stood on the fuckin' pavement … it's half-past two in the mornin' … the gear's gettin' soaked fae aw this fuckin' rain … we didnae get paid … an' there's nae van here to pick us up!' Joey stood up for greater effect. ‘Ah'm really not sure how that fits intae the definition ae
a'right
.'

‘But …'

‘An' another thing. If ah hear that fuckin' Shakin' Stevens record one more time, I'm gonnae fuckin' kill somebody … probably you!' Joey sat back down on the big black speaker and folded his arms. He was breathing hard and had turned away from Bobby to look down the length of John Finnie Street.

Bobby decided not to push it further for the moment. He reckoned that Joey's frustration was borne of crushing disappointment. In
the week running up to the gig – even though there only was one, Bobby had continually referred to it as a ‘gig' to seduce Joey into believing that they were a part of the live music industry – Joey's demeanour had changed to one in which his nervous anticipation was palpable. There remained a lingering concern about the number of records required for a night of mobile DJ-ing and it was clear from the outset that neither man would be making any money from this inaugural activity. But both had recognised the excitement of this do-it-yourself venture when rehearsing with the decks in Bobby's bedroom. They had become comfortable with the equipment since picking it up from Hairy Doug's at the beginning of a week-long hire. He'd turned out to be a decent – if unapologetically squalid –
geezer
, patiently demonstrating how the spaghetti of cables all found their various input and output points to provide life for the machine.

‘It's all pretty easy, boys. And if that fat cunt Duncan can do it, well that should tell ya … any fooker can.' And with that send-off, Hairy Doug truly endeared himself to Joey Miller.

The only thing the hirsute rocker couldn't give them was a working microphone; but Bobby called in a favour and borrowed an old one from Dale Wishart – singer with local Mod band, The Vespas. But they didn't rehearse with the microphone. They didn't decide on who would speak, preferring to leave it until they got to the venue. The logic for this was similar to that of the football team awarded a penalty, but electing to let the taker be the player who most felt up to it on the night. It was often heard from professional football players that they couldn't really practise for a vital penalty because the pressured context of a real match was impossible to create. And so Bobby Cassidy assuaged his embarrassment and prevaricated on the one key skill that a DJ needed. It would be a wrong call that would be regretted by more than just the two budding disc jockeys.

‘Whaur's ma new rid lippy, ya wee gadgie!' Audrey King knew what was coming, but wasn't quick enough to avoid it.

‘
Maaaaammmmm
!' she howled as her elder sister yanked her back into the room they both shared by her long bleached hair. ‘Ah …
sob
huvnae …
sob
even seen it …
sob
… ya big
fat cow
!'

Lizzie King instinctively let go just as their step-mother strode in.

‘Whit? Ah ne'er even touched ‘er,' exclaimed Lizzie, arms outstretched. ‘She's ay fuckin' whinin' aboot suhin', her.'

Lizzie was the second eldest of five children, all living in a three-bedroomed, mid-block council flat in Shortlees, with their Dad, Frank King – an Elvis Presley fanatic – and his third wife, Anne. The Kings' was the only flat in a block of six that didn't have its windows boarded up.

Back in the small, square bedroom, Tony Hadley gazed down impassively from the wall at the familiar scene.

‘Hey you. Language. Audrey, huv you been at her stuff again?' Anne had her hands on her hips like a contemporary
Maw Broon.

‘Niver touched it,' bubbled Audrey, feeling her scalp and repeatedly investigating her hand for incriminating evidence of her own blood.

‘
Liar
!' Lizzie screeched. She made a grab for Audrey again, but Anne had positioned herself between the girls.

‘You, awa' intae the livin' room.' Audrey didn't need a second invitation. Anne turned to Lizzie, pushing the door closed behind her. ‘Whit's up wi' ye? It's yer party tonight an' ye look bloody miserable. Everybody's been on flamin' eggshells wi' ye aw week. Whit's goin' on?'

‘It's nothin' a'right. Just leave it, Mam,' said Lizzie.

Anne smiled.

‘Whit?' asked Lizzie.

‘Ah just like it when ye call me
Mam
.' It hadn't always been like this, but after a difficult couple of years, this last twelve months had
seen them become more familiar with each other.

‘Ye've earnt
that
, ah suppose.' Lizzie smiled briefly, then turned away to conceal it. She was still angry with Audrey.

‘Thanks … ah think,' said Anne.

‘Well, it's no like ye've had tae compete wi' the auld yin,' said Lizzie.

Frank's previous wife, Isa, had up and left. If she had died, Anne might have had some memory to contend with. As it was, while Lizzie and her siblings hadn't exactly made life easy for her at the beginning, it was obvious their father couldn't look after them all by himself. As Lizzie saw it, without Anne, they'd have been on the phone to Esther Rantzen every week.

For her part, Anne had known taking on a man like Frank – set in his ways and with four headstrong kids – wasn't going to be a walk in the park. She smiled at Lizzie. ‘It would've been a lot harder if you … well, ye ken whit ah mean.'

‘Just keep him oot the bookies an' we'll aw be happy,' said Lizzie.

‘He's just goin' through a bad patch. He's got too much time on his hands, an' nothin' tae dae. Ken, he says tae me the other night, aw serious tae … “Whit age dae ye have to be tae get oan a Youth Opportunities Scheme?” Ye shouldnae laugh, but Christ, he's nearly forty!'

‘Naw, yer right, Mam … ye
shouldnae
laugh. He's fritterin' away and jist dyin' ae apathy. Three million folk … Jesus, whit a waste of life. If only they aw realised that ye could start a revolution wi' they numbers. But then, the three-thirty at Cheltenham always gets in the way an' diverts their attention.' Lizzie looked she was going to cry. Anne moved closer and touched Lizzie's arm. ‘Ah'm fine,' said Lizzie.

‘Listen, Lizzie, there was somethin' ah wanted tae tell …'

‘
Shit
!' Lizzie interrupted.

‘Whit …? Whit've ye done?'

‘Ach, ah've just broken a bloody nail. Been ages paintin' them anaw. Shit!' Lizzie was annoyed again.

‘Ye sure you're a'right? Time ae the month?' enquired Anne.

‘Aye, but it's no that. It's just gettin' a bit claustrophobic in here
… sharin' a room wi'
her
an' Linda,' sighed Lizzie.

Anne gulped. ‘Are ye worried it's no' gonnae go well tonight? You've got loadsa folk comin'. This'll just be nerves, eh?' Anne had her arm around Lizzie.

‘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.'

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.'