The Last Days of Disco (3 page)

‘Will ah get ye the number then?’ said Harry, jumping ahead.

‘Eh, em, aye. Ah think so …’ Bobby had moved onto rehearsing the conversation he would have with Joey later that afternoon. The
Brain Trust techies had also started formulating some pertinent questions of their own:
Where are you getting the equipment? Do you have enough records? What about lights? A van? A driver?

The wee bastards were asking too many questions now. They were supposed to be coming up with the fucking answers. That was their job. Bobby got up and headed for the stairs. He was shivering a fair bit, having just realised how long he’d been outside in the January air of a Scottish morning. He was planning to go and run a hot bath then get ready to go and get Joey. Probably contact Hamish May as well. Although he did think it might be better to have something more concrete to tell them. He should call this
Lizzie
and get the details. Make sure the job was actually still available. There was a lot to be done, but he had to acknowledge feeling a lot more vibrant than he had half an hour ago. Even Lemmy’s mob had fucked off.

‘Hullo, Bobby, son.’ Mrs Flanagan’s voice was as deep as a Cumnock coal mine and twice as dangerous. ‘Ah see ye hud yersel a wee time last night, spray paintin’ yer name oan the side ae Viviani’s shop wa.’

Ethel turned to look at Bobby, her mouth partly open.

‘Oh, ah’m sorry. Huv ah said too much?’ Mrs Flanagan put her hand over her mouth theatrically.

Auld fucking cow
, thought Bobby as he edged past his
tut-tutting
mother and headed for the comparative safety of the bathroom.

‘There was something else ah wanted tae talk to you about, Bobby. But ah can’t remember whit though.’ Bobby and his dad were often concerned about Ethel’s increasing forgetfulness, but, today, and with the blood not yet starting to steep through Gary’s white T-shirt, he was grateful for it.

When Bobby got to the top of the stairs, he could hear the Sunday morning sound of the Human League coming from the small transistor radio; a sure sign that his sister had taken up residence in the bathroom. He’d be going nowhere soon. Bobby stealthily moved back down the stairs past his glowering mum and
auld bag Flanagan who – just to rub it in – said a second cheery ‘Oh hullo, Bobby, son.’

Rot in Hell, you piss-stained auld cunt,
he thought. Bobby hunted for the telephone. They had recently bought a new ‘mobile’ handset, which was absolutely fucking brilliant. It didn’t have much of a range and, at the size of a brick, it was bigger than the Bakelite one it had replaced, but with the aerial fully extended, you didn’t have to sit out in the hall – or in the same room as everybody else – when phoning your pals.

He inclined his foot forward far enough to see the slightly faded number. After five rings, a voice hoarser than auld ‘smelly cunt’ responded.

‘Hullo? Hullo?’ The voice said this with such timing that it was all Bobby could do to avoid replying ‘
We are the Billy Boys …
’ He didn’t, and the sandpaper sound snapped back at him.

‘Hullo! Who the fuck is this?’

‘Em, ah’m Bobby Cassidy. Who’s this?’

‘You phoned
me
ya cunt!’

‘Aye, but ah think ah might’ve been given the wrong number.’

‘Ah’m Franny fuckin’ Duncan. Noo whit dae ye want. Ah’m in ma fuckin’ scratcher.’

Franny Duncan. Jesus Christ. What was he doing with Fat Franny Duncan’s number written on his foot? Bobby’s brainiacs were running about in a panic. Words like ‘gangster’, ‘dealer’, ‘doings’, ‘big’, ‘fat’ and ‘bastard’ all ricocheted around like the steel balls in a multi-play pinball game.

‘Ah’m thinking of becomin’ a DJ.’ Bobby stumbled over the words, all too aware that he’d already volunteered his name.

‘For fuck’s sake. Phone back later on, at about four. Ask fur Hobnail. He’ll sort ye oot.’
Click.
The phone flatlined, with a constant droning sound.

Bobby stared at it for a few seconds.
Hobnail? Was that a fucking
code word?
Along with all those words that sprang to mind when thinking of Fat Franny Duncan came another two: ‘mobile’ and ‘DJ’.
It was a big risk, but at least Franny Duncan would know where to get equipment, and might even have some for hire. Bobby Cassidy had taken one wee step back from the edge.

2

MEN MAKE PLANS AND GOD SMILES

Fat Franny Duncan loved the
Godfather
movies, but he did not belong to this new band of theorists who reckoned
II
was better than
I
. For Fat Franny, original was most certainly best, although, given the success of the films and the timelessness of the story, he was staggered that there hadn’t been a
III
, like there had been with Rocky. He also couldn’t comprehend why there had been no book spin-off, although, even if there had, he would certainly not be wasting his time reading it. He knew the dialogue from both films pretty much by heart, and used their most famous quotes as a design for life. Particularly the lines of Don Corleone, who Fat Franny felt certain he would resemble later in his life. He was, after all, fat. There was no denying this. Bulk for Brando’s most famous character helped afford him gravitas and – as a consequence – respect; a level of respect that Fat Franny felt was within his grasp. Michael was a skinny
Tally
bastard and, although he undoubtedly commanded reverence, it was driven by fear.

Fat Franny was intent on pursuing a line of legitimacy with his business that would bring him universal veneration. The burgeoning entertainment venture was the vehicle for this. It had started reasonably well. The mobile DJ-ing had begun slowly, but
over the last year and a half had branched into more lucrative gigs such as weddings and anniversary parties. There was money to be made in
functions
, of that there was no doubt. As a consequence, Fat Franny had assembled a
roster
: a collection of acts for every eventuality. From kids’ parties, to coming-of-age celebrations right up to charity do’s – Fat Franny Duncan had it all covered. So, as he surveyed his
talent
– sat at the kitchen table for their twice-weekly meeting in his expansive ex-council house – why did he feel like he wanted to stab a butcher’s knife through each of their hands?

‘Franny.’ A sheepish Bert Bole broke the silence that had engulfed all present for the last fifteen minutes.

Everyone at the table eyed their black-clad leader nervously. He ran chubby fingers through the thinning, greying hair on the top of his head and then tugged at the black hairband that was holding the rest of it in a tight ponytail. Finally, he teased at the slim moustache with his forefinger and thumb. To Bert Bole, it looked like a ritual before a slaughter.

‘
Franny
! Boss …?’ Bert had raised the level of his voice – but only slightly – in an attempt to get a reaction from the fat man with the faraway look in his eyes at the end of the table. Fat Franny often thought of the Don at times like this – and there had been a few too many lately. Surrounded by his subordinates, he imagined what Corleone would have said to Bob Dale – Fat Franny’s
Luca Brasi
– if these morons had told
him
what they’d just announced at the meeting.

Bob Dale responded, barley audible.

‘He hearths ye. He just disthnae
belief
ye!’ Bob Dale didn’t speak often. A hair-lip and ill-fitting teeth gave his speech a very pronounced lisp, which had been ridiculed mercilessly at school. As a consequence, Bob had found it more productive to retaliate with his fists than with his broken voice. His stature grew, along with a reputation that he was
not to be messed with.
But by that time the lasting damage was done. The legacy of those early brutal days
was a nickname – Hobnail, which was the sound he made when trying to tell people who he was.

‘Nae tips? At a fuckin’ Cumnock wedding?’ By contrast, Fat Franny’s vocals were loud and, for the assembled entourage, all too clear. ‘Ye must be fuckin’ jokin’! Even the bastard minister usually comes awa wi’ a fifty spot.’ Don Franny spread his arms wide, then placed them at the ten-to-two position, palms face-down on the table top, before continuing, ‘… and a go on at least two ae the bridesmaids!’

Bob Dale smirked at this but was careful not to let Fat Franny see it. Almost everyone else remained silent with gazes averted. Only Jill Boothby – one half of married DJ duo
Cheezee Choonz
– indicated a wish to contribute, but her raised hand would remain unrecognised by the Chair for the rest of the meeting.

‘It’s like this …’ Fat Franny’s deep growl seemed to come from way down in his gut, reverberating around the bare walls of the cold, twice-extended kitchen. Again there was another long pause as Fat Franny visualised Hobnail clipping Bert Bole and then dumping his weighted body off the pier at Irvine Harbour. He refocused.

‘Like it or no, you fuckin’ clowns are part ae a business. Ah’m funding aw yer fuckin’ gigs here. Ah’m providin’ the equipment. Ah provide aw the security tae stop ye gettin’ a kickin’ at shiteholes like the Auchinleck Bowling Club.’ Fat Franny looked around the table at them all, one at a time, in a clockwise direction. ‘You lot – an’ ah can’t believe ah’m fuckin’ sayin’ this – are the fuckin’ talent.’

The Cheezees were motionless. Bert Bole had his hands outstretched, as if appealing for permission to speak. Mr Sunshine, the former children’s entertainer, appeared to be asleep.

‘Hoi … Sunshine!’ Fat Franny threw a cream doughnut, hitting the older man on the side of his face and dislodging his Dr Crippen-style spectacles. ‘Fuckin’ wake up, ya auld prick! This is for your benefit as well.’

Hobnail could tell Fat Franny’s mood was worsening and thought better of indicating the dollop of cream that was still attached to Mr Sunshine’s bizarre ginger beard.

‘You lot are just no bringin’ in enough, an’ it better fuckin’ change, a’right?’ Fat Franny pointed to Hobnail. ‘He tells me yir aw holdin’ oot on the tips.’ The talent all turned as one to look at the standing Bob Dale, who calmly folded his arms, shut his eyes and nodded.

‘So here’s whit’s gauny happen. Each ae ye needs to come up wi’ a gig of yer ain in the next month or yer out an’ ah’m gauny get other acts in.’ Fat Franny stood up quickly, causing his chair to fall dramatically behind him. ‘Ah’m away for a shite. Huv a good think about whit ah’ve just said.’

‘For God’s sake, put yer haun’ doon, he’s away,’ said Bert to Jill, once both Fat Franny and Bob Dale were well out of earshot. Although not the oldest of the four, Bert was generally their mouthpiece on the odd occasion when they felt a collective need to raise an issue with the fat man. Bert had been involved with Fat Franny’s crew for nearly three years. Back when they were both in their late thirties, Bert’s wife, Doris, had developed a serious gambling addiction. It had started pretty casually. A few nights at the bingo with friends from the BMK had progressed to include daytime visits to William Hill’s after she lost her job at the carpet factory.

Bert had ended up working extended shifts as a janitor at the James Hamilton Academy. He was well regarded by teachers and pupils alike, mainly due to an unshakeably optimistic outlook. He had a belief in human nature, which led him to attempt to do things for others even if it involved disadvantaging himself. His good nature helped Harry Cassidy to get a job as a fellow janitor, when a more selfish man – and especially one in his financial situation – might have been tempted to keep the additional shifts for himself. In the early part of 1979, things had started to become markedly worse for Bert and Doris Bole. Even though they both knew Doris had a significant problem, it wasn’t easy for them to talk about, and they dealt with it by effectively ignoring it. When they got into serious arrears with the rent and their growing utility bills, Bert took some well-intended advice and went to see Fat Franny Duncan over in Onthank. Nearly
three years later, Bert was still working as a pub singer under an alias – Tony Palomino – paying off what had originally been a manageable £150 loan to clear a three-month rent backlog. A month after Bert had made this arrangement, Doris was dead.

A favour called in by Bert’s doctor to a fellow Mason in the Fiscal’s department ensured a verdict of ‘death by misadventure’. It was a convenient way of avoiding a verdict of suicide, by claiming that the overdose of anti-depressants that had
actually
killed her was accidental. It didn’t ultimately make a great deal of financial difference to Bert, but it did at least secure the pitiful insurance policy payout to cater for a decent cremation. His mates at the Hurlford Masonic Club paid for the wake. Fat Franny’s weekly compound interest calculations made sure the closure of the debt was always out of reach, so while Bert was somewhat imprisoned by history, he never quite understood the motivation of the others.

Mr Sunshine was a fifty-two-year-old bachelor, whose real name was Angus Archibald. He used to be a children’s entertainer, performing magic tricks and doing puppet shows. Despite a few criminal investigations relating to ‘improper activities’ in his past, he now worked under Fat Franny’s banner as a DJ for children’s parties. Two of Fat Franny’s minders – Des Brick and Wullie the Painter – constantly persecuted Mr Sunshine, calling him a ‘kiddy-fiddlin’ paedo’, amongst many other lurid things. The erstwhile Angus Archibald rarely got flustered by this, simply drawing on his pipe, tapping his nose and saying quietly, ‘Not proven.’ Mr Sunshine’s bizarre appearance also caused many a second look from parents who’d hired him. He was a heavy, but small man, and he didn’t carry the weight well. He looked a bit like the television magician, the Great Soprendo, but with a wispy ginger, partly combed-over hairpiece, pallid freckled face and trademark
Wishee-Washee
-style beard. It was a resemblance Mr Sunshine traded on, appropriating the ‘Piff, Paff, Poof’ catchphrase for his own performances. Given his ‘look’ and a suspect past, perhaps operating under Fat Franny’s wing was the only place he
could
get hired.

Cheezee Choonz were far harder to fathom. They were a married couple in their early thirties who only worked at weddings. Jay Boothby was reasonably talented. Unlike Bert Bole, he could actually sing, although, strangely, the Cheezees worked for Fat Franny as mobile DJs. Bert couldn’t really understand why, when there was an opportunity to earn more money by having a DJ-plus-singer offer for weddings, he was sent along with the Cheezees. Bert began to wonder if Fat Franny even knew Jay was a decent singer. He only became aware of it himself when he heard Jay testing out the microphones in an empty hall, a few months ago.

Jay was from Cumbria and Jill was from Cumnock. They ‘met’ through CB radio in the summer of 1980 and married six months later, moving to Kilmarnock in the hope of pursuing Jay’s dreams of becoming a club entertainer. Jill could take it or leave it frankly, but she had no real circle of friends and, as Fat Franny’s most prolific earners, being out with Jay almost every weekend left her with little time to spend with anyone else. Bert was equally uncertain how they had come to be part of Fat Franny’s Union, but, if he was honest, he had never really bothered to find out.

‘Have any of you three got any leads here?’ asked Bert.

‘Yer jokin’, aren’t ya?’ replied Jay Boothby. ‘Where are we gonna find the time to look for gigs? I hardly know anyone up here.’

‘Whit about you, Sunshine?’ Bert wasn’t hopeful, but felt that he should be inclusive.

‘Oh aye … the Cub Scouts have lined up a jamboree and the Crosshouse Mothers ‘n’ Toddlers Group have called for a bookin’ … and … and … whit the fuck dae you think? If ah could get gigs of ma own, d’you think I’d be here in this fat cunt’s freezin’ hoose?’

Bert sighed deeply. At least he’d asked.

‘Well, ah’ve got one. At least it’s somethin’. It’s a note on the school noticeboard. Some wee lassie’s looking for a DJ for her eighteenth. If we can tell Franny we’ve got that wan, it’ll maybe dae for noo. Ah’ll let him ken that I’ll phone an’ get it sorted the night.’

‘Hullo, can ah speak tae Lizzie … eh, please?’

‘Aye, son. Wait an’ ah’ll get her. Whit’s yer name, pal?’

‘Eh, it’s Rob …
Boaby
Cassidy. Ah’m phonin’ about the disco she’s havin’ …’

He was only kept waiting for perhaps a minute, but, for an anxious Bobby, it seemed like half an hour. He imagined Lizzie’s house; the man who answered as a butler who had to make a journey to the east wing to alert the demure Miss King that a gentlemen caller was holding for her.

‘Ah’m Lizzie King. Whit ye efter …?’ Illusion shattered.

‘Eh, hullo … hi. Sorry tae bother ye, but ah was phonin’ about the party. Ken? Yer eighteenth?’

There was no immediate response, but the heavy breathing from the other end indicated to Bobby that she had indeed run from a remote part of the house or – more likely – that she was a fat lassie.

‘Ye put a notice up at the Jimmy Hamilton, lookin’ for a mobile DJ,’ Bobby continued, hoping to make a connection.

‘Aye, that was me. Are you wan ae Duncan’s mob?’ rasped Lizzie King, sounding like a seventeen-year-old Ayrshire Bonnie Tyler.
Aye, fat
and
a smoker,
thought Bobby.

‘No, well, not really. Ah’m borrowin’ some gear, but that’s all.’ Bobby wasn’t quite certain of the relevance of the question, but there seemed to be an edge to it nonetheless.