The Last Days of Disco (9 page)

7

THE ROLLED-UP TROUSER-LEG PRESERVATION SOCIETY

‘The food was fuckin’ magic.’

‘Aye. He’s no wrong, boss! Wee cheesy baws, an’ white breid sang-windgies … wi’ the crusts cut off! Real posh, man,’ enthused Des Brick, backing up the more general summary from his smaller colleague, Wullie the Painter.

‘Soft … nothin’ burnt. Ah had loadsae it,’ added Wullie.

‘Flaky pastry on the sausage rolls tae. Magic.’ Des Brick gazed into space momentarily, before catching Fat Franny’s frustrated expression. He turned to face Wullie. ‘Did ye see the way the pastry exploded when it hit that cunt on the face?’

‘Aye. Nearly pished maself laughin’,’ said the painter. ‘Great fuckin’ throw, Des. Brilliant aimin’,’ he added, clapping his hands together. ‘Shame aboot the sausage roll though. That was the last yin.’

‘Ah don’t gie a flyin’ fuck about the grub! Ah’m no the Gallopin’ fuckin’ Gourmet!’

Fat Franny stood up suddenly, knocking over the bar stool that had been holding him. Des and Wullie snapped to attention.

‘Ah want tae ken whit happened! Should ah be worried?’

‘Naw boss,’ said Des. ‘They were fuckin’ hopeless. Nane ae the
pricks spoke a word aw night, an’ wan ae them fuckin’ electrocuted hisself. It was the best laugh ah’ve had since
Jim Davidson
at the Gaiety last year.’

‘Nae need to bother about they clowns again, boss,’ offered Wullie.

‘Aye. We’ll see,’ said Fat Franny, walking behind the bar and through to the office.
His
office.

‘Don’t think he’s pleased,’ said Wullie.

‘Ah ken … though ah don’t fuckin’ ken why.’ Des’s tone was one of resigned annoyance. He and Wullie had done what they were told, yet still the Fatman was irritated. And as for any gratitude, forget it.

Des and Wullie walked through to the front of the Portman Hotel. It was their regular haunt and had become the base for Fat Franny’s operations. He often had his entourage travel up to the ‘Ponderosie’ – his Onthank home, named after Rose, his mum – but since she had become a bit forgetful and embarrassing of late, he’d started spending more time in the Portman. In his eyes he part-owned this establishment with Mickey Martin, who was known as ‘Doc’ to virtually everyone apart from his wife, Ella. Fat Franny had won a poker game against Mickey Martin, who had put up sizeable IOUs and had since avoiding paying them. Normally that would have resulted in a few good kickings, but Mickey Martin was the bigger fish.

Fat Franny was local; Mickey Martin was
regional.
Fat Franny was outranked, so the perception of ownership of this rundown pub on the outskirts of the town would have to do for now. He’d taken over the small cupboard and turned it into his office. He’d also changed its name by adding the word ‘Hotel’, even though there were no bedrooms. Mickey Martin picked up his cut once a month, but otherwise had nothing to do with this loss leader. It was an arrangement that seemed to suit both men just fine.

In the room with the pool table, Wullie the Painter sat at the round table near the door. Des went behind the bar and poured
both of them a pint of lager. When he brought them back, Wullie was shaking his head at a newspaper headline.

‘Fuckin’ unemployment numbers, Jesus Christ,’ he sighed.

‘Difference does it make tae you, anyway?’ Des challenged his colleague. ‘It’s no as if yer National Insurance subs are oan the line, is it? Plus, skint gadgies are good for business. If naebody’s goat a job, it’ll no stop them fae smokin’ or drinkin’ or buyin’ their weans shit they cannae afford. That’s where we come in. We’re providin’ a public service here. Don’t fuckin’ knock it, mate.’

‘Jeezo, you sound like him!’ Wullie gestured over his shoulder then immediately wished he hadn’t said it – Hobnail had just walked into the lounge.

‘Dinnae be growin’ a conscience noo, William. There’s nae room for it in oor line ae work,’ said Des.

‘It’s just that everythin’s that fuckin’ depressin’. That’s why …’ Wullie squinted at the newsprint, ‘… wee Sophie fae Essex should be oan the front page an’ no the third, eh H?’ Wullie winked at Hobnail, who remained stoney-faced. Wullie tutted.

‘Sticking the news three-quarters ae the way through the paper … efter the telly an’ fuckin’ Darlinda, would pit smiles oan punters faces again. Page three oan page wan, an’ then eight pages ae fitba. That should be the new order tae keep bampots fae gettin’ oot their pram an’ rioting aboot the auld milk snatcher …’

Wullie’s theory was well thought through, and Des signalled his approval with a nod of his head.

‘Ah should be her special advisor,’ continued the Painter. ‘I’d start by advisin’ her tae dump the blue, an’ wear green an’ white hoops, mind …’

Des and Wullie both laughed at this. Hobnail predictably didn’t. He walked away from both of them and stared blankly through the vertical blinds to the open fields beyond.

Wullie leaned in and whispered, ‘Whit’s his problem? Miserable bastart. Ah’ ken ah’m new tae the
inner
circle but ah’ cannae understand why he’s the number two, an’ no you.’

‘
He
didnae go tae Our Lady of Mount Carmel Primary … ‘nuff said …’ said Des, as Wullie shook his head. ‘Haud up …’ warned Des, as Fat Franny wandered back into the room. ‘Rack ‘em up, Painterman,’ cried Des, as he headed off to the Gents.

Wullie organised the spots and stripes inside the wooden triangle and then selected his cue.

Wullie the Painter – so-called not because of his trade, but because he had once painted an ex-girlfriend’s house bright red in the middle of the night, while she and one of Wullie’s former friends slept inside – and Des had been mates for a long time. They performed ‘security’ roles for Fat Franny and worked as bouncers at a number of diverse local establishments with which the Fatman had connections. They had originally been recruited by Des’s brother-in-law, Bob ‘Hobnail’ Dale. The house-painting had actually been Hobnail’s idea, and at six-foot-five to Wullie’s five-foot-eight, he was useful in getting to those difficult-to-reach bits under the eaves. Wullie had recently been promoted by the Fatman and, although Hobnail was furious about it, he had typically kept his emotions hidden.

Senga – Des’s viperish sister and Hobnail’s wife – had once gone out with Wullie Blair, before he was ‘the Painter’. It still made for uncomfortable encounters when they were together, so Hobnail was under very strict instructions – danger of death, in fact – to keep work and private life totally separate. As a consequence, Des and Senga rarely saw each other nowadays, and had long since given up on the exchange of birthday greetings or Christmas presents. For as long as anyone could remember, Hobnail always had the resigned look of a dead man walking. That his unfortunate vocals sounded as upbeat as the doleful sounding of the Lutine Bell only reinforced the sense of foreboding for anyone in his presence. He wasn’t especially good company as a result, and therefore it wasn’t difficult to keep Senga away from the Fat Franny side of his life. No-one wanted to spend any time with them.

From Senga’s perspective, the principal beneficiary of this stand-off
was Grant, their seventeen-year-old son. She partly understood the pressures her husband would have been under to take Grant into Fat Franny’s empire. With no children of his own, and a paranoia about the involvement – regardless of how peripheral – of ‘outsiders’, Grant would have been an obvious candidate for succession planning for the
strong-arm
wing of the business. The boy was tall, muscular and – even at seventeen – possessed of a self-confidence that Fat Franny could have utilised very effectively. But he knew of the underlying tension between Wullie the Painter and Hobnail, and had always previously backed away from any suggestion of a ‘bring-your-child-to-work-day’ for his
consiglieri.

Grant was a good-looking boy. He was a fan of the burgeoning New Romantic scene and, although his current fad of wearing eyeliner was a frequent source of conflict with his traditionalist father – ‘Realth men don’th wear mek-up, ya poofty wee cunth!’ – no-one could deny his attractiveness. Senga was suitably proud of her eldest child. Hobnail looked like Frankenstein, and she knew she was no oil painting herself. She hoped his looks might lead Grant somewhere different; towards a different type of future than the one she and her husband – and virtually everyone else she knew – had settled for. None of the people with whom she was friends at school had lives that had turned out the way that they’d dreamed, or even hoped, back then. Almost all of her school friends still lived within a two-mile radius of where they were born. Senga considered herself to be a strong, independent woman, but she hadn’t been able to escape the shackles of a stereotypical working-class, Ayrshire environment, with all its small-town mentalities, and actually see something of the world.

Senga was a lover of classical music and yearned to visit Austria and see the New Year’s Day concert by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. Hobnail knew nothing of this. In fact, she had admitted it to no-one, for fear of ridicule. It was her own private secret, and had been ever since, late one night, almost ten years ago, she had heard this wondrous sound drifting through the vaulted structures
of the Dick Institute, where she worked as a cleaner. Since that time she had booked out almost all of the classical music cassettes in the library, listening to them with headphones during her breaks. It was her dream. Kilmarnock wouldn’t take it from her, and she was determined its restrictive boundaries wouldn’t kill Grant’s future, either.

‘It’s from Gary,’ shouted Hettie excitedly.

‘Whit does it say, hen? Is he fine? Is he a’right?’ Ethel had called Hettie to come and open a letter she had
hoped
would be from her son, because she couldn’t find her glasses.

‘Mum, they’re hangin’ around your neck!’ said a frustrated Hettie, before ripping the envelope open. Bobby had bought Ethel the string device with its loops for the legs of the frame. His mum’s absent-mindedness was becoming more and more of a concern to all of them, although they all demonstrated that concern in different ways.

‘C’mon, hen. Whit’s he sayin’?’ said Ethel, treating the discovery of the glasses like evidence planted at the scene of a crime – designed to demonstrate her guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt.

‘He’s fine mum. There’s no much here, though. Remember he said the letters would be brief cos’ they might get censored?’ Hettie quickly scanned the brief lines to the bottom of the second page. She figured her
own
censorship might have to be utilised. Happily, there was good news. ‘Gary’s not goin’ tae Belfast, Mum. He thinks they might have to go to Wales.’

‘Wales?’ exclaimed Ethel. ‘Who are
they
at war wi’?’

‘No, mum … it’s a trainin’ exercise. But he’ll be there for a while, he thinks. He’s no very pleased aboot that.’

‘Well
ah’m
happy,’ said Ethel, smiling. ‘Ah’d never have slept if he’d ended up at Belfast wi’ aw they bombs goin’ off.’ Truth was, she barely slept anyway. Her dependence on prescription drugs –
required to help her function
at all
– had sharply increased when Gary initially left home heading south.

‘He says
hello
tae everybody, and passes on his love tae.’ Ethel could see Hettie’s eyes light up as she read on. ‘… An’ he’s wi’ a lassie. He told me about her last time he was up. Debbie’s her name. She seems really nice.’ Hettie looked up, as Ethel dabbed a tear away with her hankie. ‘Hey, c’mon Mum … he seems happy. Probably for the first time in a while, tae.’ Hettie went over and gave her mother a cuddle. ‘Would ye rather he was here, coming in drunk every night an’ fightin’ wi Dad aw the time?’

Ethel murmured, but didn’t really answer. She simply got up from her seat, kissed her daughter on the cheek and went upstairs to lie down.

Hettie listened to her mother climb the stairs. The slow, ponderous creaking made her sad. Hettie’s mum wasn’t an old woman, but she seemed to move as if carrying a massive weight on her back.

Ethel sat on the edge of her bed. She looked mournfully at the three photographs on the dressing table and then at her own face reflected in the three-panelled mirror above them. She had changed so much in the last decade. She seemed to be ageing at a rate twice that of the other members of her family. Ethel was the only Catholic in the house but, unlike many who draw strength from their faith in difficult and troubled times, Ethel knew it was her unassailable guilt over sins past that had turned her into the shell that now looked back at her. She picked up her rosary beads and lay down, as yet more tears formed.

It had been almost three weeks since the Sandriane. Bobby had seen Lizzie King three times since then, and, despite her initial impressions, they were now getting on well. Twice he’d met her coming out of the Johnnie Walker bottling plant gates where she had recently
started working. In Thatcher’s Britain, despite the mind-numbing boredom of this lowly paid job, it was already depressingly apparent to Lizzie that she was one of the lucky ones.