The door closed. Fucken selfish cunts. Archie wondered why he hadn’t simply been dismissed. Given a time to return. But such people of power and influence thought little for those in their charge. Especially the famed champagne socialist himself, Big Jamesie Campbell. Archie was starving. He’d been waiting outside for four hours already. It was dark, and now he would probably be waiting at least that time again.
Two more hours passed. Radio Luxembourg kept him company, David Essex offering stardom and giving him another song idea for the boys. Now he needed a shite. It had been a long, long day. A piss against the car was one thing but hunkering down in the driveway would’ve been much harder to explain if caught. He’d need to take his chances. Pray that the front door was unlocked.
It was. Archie stepped inside the circular entrance hall. A curving white staircase floated away from him, like they were inside a massive, hollowed-out Walnut Whip. The decor was big, bold and brash, with flowery velvet flock wallpaper so rich in colour and texture that it was giving Archie a headache. Archie touched it. The wallpaper’s flock was thicker than the pile on his own carpet.
Archie wandered further into the house, looking for a toilet. He could see or hear no one. Perhaps the ‘staff’ and Maude had all gone to bed.
Opening a door, he found himself in the kitchen. He instantly decided to just help himself, and his annoyance at the thoughtless situation Heady and Vince had left him in gave way to gratitude. He wouldn’t have slept in any case – he had rehearsals with Sledge and the boys in the morning – and with free access to a larder stocked with the best produce Scotland had to offer, the positives now outweighed the negatives. A freezer that could have stored several bodies was overflowing with frozen meat. A door adjacent to it led to a small wine cellar, which was, by some distance, bigger than Archie’s kitchen. There was a cooker and hob combination that could have serviced a modest restaurant. And a rack of shiny utensils that Sweeney Todd would’ve coveted. In the end, Archie settled for a roast-beef sandwich. It saved trying to work out what all the dials on the hob were for. The bread was the softest Archie had ever eaten. His normal starchy fare – the bleached-white pan loaf – could last almost a fortnight if wrapped up properly. But this stuff? This must be what they serve at your first full breakfast in heaven.
Archie returned to the roast-beef joint four times. He had three bottles of Strongbow. He’d still be fine to drive, but he now desperately needed to find a toilet again. The house was so disorientating he couldn’t locate the one he’d used initially. What the fuck did they expect? For him to sit tight for eight fucking hours without food, drink or access to a lavvy?
He edged cautiously out of the kitchen. As he went down the corridor he caught himself in a mirror. He smiled, realising he was on tiptoes. The house was silent. He gently eased open another set of double doors. It was the snooker room. Big Jamesie, Heady, Vince and another man were in there. All spark-out and snoring. The fourth man was lying face down on a rug with a tiger’s head still attached to it. His arms cuddled the head. The tiger looked blankly at Archie. If it could’ve spoken, Archie felt sure it would’ve pleaded to him for salvation from these vulgar, rat-arsed cunts. Vapour trails of white powder covered a glass table, a tightly rolled one-hundred note adjacent. For such slaves to the pretty green, they didn’t half treat it disrespectfully. An LP was still spinning, the needle going blunt on its run-off grooves. Top of The Pops: 1975. Archie had a copy at home.
His gaze fell on a manila folder left on the baize. The words Great Eastern Hotel Plans – Private & Confidential were written across it. FOR THE CIRCLE’S EYES ONLY was written on a separate note, held in place by an elastic band around the folder.
Archie was intrigued and, given the Souness story, magnetised. He was in the Glaswegian Blofeld’s lair and he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
He lifted the folder and gingerly removed the band. Inside was an envelope. He was moving slowly and mechanically like a bomb-disposal expert on the ‘long walk’ in the Ardoyne. If the tiger’s eyes were hidden cameras, he’d be totally fucked when these sleeping conspirators woke. He open the envelope and quietly and quickly scanned documents and photographs.
Fuck me sideways.
Souness had been right.
19
August 1976 – Thursday
Tennyson Drive was deserted. Archie Blunt had been peering out through his net curtains for almost five hours, trying to rid his mind of frightening thoughts.
His knees were now aching, and the tension building up inside his shaking muscles had exhausted him. He moved away from the window and slumped into a worn armchair that he knew to be older than him. It was Betty’s favourite chair. The only thing he had left that was hers.
His head was spinning. The envelope he had taken from inside the confidential file hours earlier was lying on the low glass table just a few feet from his trembling left hand. He wished he hadn’t seen the contents, but he couldn’t unsee them. He had had an out-of-body experience in Big Jamesie Campbell’s sumptuous snooker room.
Since dropping an inebriated Heady Hendricks back at the Central Hotel as dawn broke, Archie had been building in his mind the basis for a legal defence that he was certain he’d need after his theft of this inflammatory material. Stress resulting from the combined pressure of losing his job and the resultant intoxication of potential stardust was just too much for an impressionable man still grieving the loss of his wife. That would be his argument. Flushed with the rich meat and the free booze, he had also thought about the bargaining value the pictures in the folder carried with them. But he was just an out-of-work Glaswegian bum; he didn’t know how to bargain. Or with whom. And now the anxiety of holding this unsought knowledge outweighed any advantage he could see.
Wanna go fishin’?
‘Eh?’ Archie looked up, shaken from the dwam.
Jim Rockford was a tall man, but one who carried his height and weight with the grace of an athlete. His face was angular and would have been as stoic as the city itself were it not for the impish grin that seemed to be a permanent feature. In many ways, Jim Rockford was more Glaswegian than Californian.
Let’s go catch some fish, man.
‘Jesus, Jim, there’s nae fish about here!’ Archie was in shock. He watched Jim Rockford lean over and pick up the envelope.
That’s what I mean, Bob. Let’s get outta the city. I’ll set it up with Rocky. He’s always got the cabin all stocked with food and booze. Geez, man, we could really have us a hoot.
‘Ah cannae leave, Jim. Not now, fuck sake!’ said Archie, his strangulated vocals wavering. ‘Ah can’t go!’
Whatta you got here that’s so important you can’t go fishin’ with your buddy? I ain’t been a good enough friend or somethin’?
‘Come on, Jim, don’t get personal. Ah’m fucked here!’
‘That who I think it is? Archie watched the Californian ex-con take the photographs out of the envelope.
‘Well, if it’s who ah think it is, then aye.’
Jim Rockford dropped the pictures back on the table and left Archie’s small Tennyson Drive living room. Archie watched him open the door to the veranda and go outside with a lit Marlboro.
Archie was sweating. This fucken heat! His brain was steaming. He looked at the pictures again. The craving for escape into an alcoholic haze intensified. But, still … the rehearsals. They represented a lifeline. Maybe the photos could be an insurance policy. Jim Rockford must know a few opportunistic tunes, and how to play them on the blackmail banjo.
Archie got up and went to wash his face, shave and estimate the weight of the bags under his eyes. Almost as big as the sacks that Bazooka Joe, the rag and bone man, carried out of the close entry just last week. Betty’s clothes. Finally gone. A new job, a new future. A new him. He needed to pull himself together. He had a sort of a plan and despite – or possibly because of – these late-breaking revelations, he had to focus.
He hid the pictures.
J
im Rockford winked. That’s ma boy!
Archie pulled up his jacket lapels. More now than ever, he needed to fade into the background. He was indeed going fishing, just not the relaxing kind that Jim Rockford had in mind.
Before he could reach the front door, the letter box rapped. Not the gentle knock of a kindly old neighbour, round to borrow sugar. No, this was a determined rap. Police or thieves. The former would have been a blessing.
‘Whit’s the Hampden roar, then?’ Door ajar, Wullie Wigwam’s greeting was suspiciously warm.
Archie panicked. His nerves already as taut as piano wire, the Souness story put a totally different spin on the bookie’s involvement with Heady and Campbell. Did he know about the envelope already?
‘No’ gonnae ask us in then?’ said Wullie.
‘Aye … aye, sorry. Ah was just goin’ out, y’know?’
‘Wi’ the tin flute on?’
‘Ach, ah’ve no’ had time tae take it off, like.’
‘Where’s the motor, Archie?’ This question had a bit of edge. Like Olivier, drill in hand, asking it of Dustin Hoffman.
‘Ye didnae bring it back, son.’ Wullie smiled. It unnerved Archie. ‘We were gettin’ worried about ye.’ This was spoken slowly. A thin façade of concern.
Archie looked anywhere other than straight in Wullie’s eye. Not a good idea. Attack was the best form of defence, unless you were the Scotland football team at Wembley.
‘Ah’m no’ happy,’ said Archie, edging onto the front foot.
‘Well, let’s see,’ said Wullie. ‘Just which one ae the seven dwarves are ye, then?’
Chib Charnley guffawed. Archie hadn’t even seen him skulking in the darkness of the stairwell.
Wullie pushed past Archie. ‘Nice place ye’ve got here!’ he said sarcastically. ‘So, what’s up wi’ ye?’ he asked, sitting down in Betty’s armchair. The edge had gone. He seemed happy enough to Archie, but not enough to allow for the chauffeur’s blood pressure to return to a normal pre-Heady state.
‘Ah’m just knackered. Mr Hendricks had us out aw night … an’ most ae the day leadin’ up tae it.’
‘So?’ said the Wigwam.
Archie saw him glance briefly at the brown envelope on the table in front of him. If that was the real purpose of their visit, there wouldn’t be anything Archie could do to stop The Wigwam opening it.
‘Ah told ye, the job was tae do anythin’ he asked. Discretion guaranteed, remember?’
‘Aye. Sorry.’ Archie felt his pale cheeks flush. Betrayed by Weegie physiology.
‘Are ye no’ enjoyin’ aw the perks?’ asked Wullie.
Archie looked confused. Wullie glanced at Chib. Chib made a fist and then made a motion towards his open mouth that let Archie understand they knew about the free blow-job.
‘Archie, focus son,’ said Wullie, snapping his fingers. ‘Ah need the motor for a few hours. Where the fuck is it?’
Archie was sure his pounding heart could be seen rippling his shirt. He breathed laboriously. Archie explained that he’d left the car parked in a dark, rarely used back-lane recess with a secure gate. If those on the breadline saw it parked in the middle of Tennyson Drive, every flat in the street would get done over in search of the evident windfall that had caused it to be there.
Archie’s current employers left, taking the keys, but enquiring nothing about an envelope with contents that could bring down a government.
Archie headed for Bridgeton Cross, two hours later than originally intended. He’d ditched the suit and was back in the beige flared slacks. He strode towards the large storage unit he’d rented for a few hours, crossing his fingers that the boys would be there waiting for him. They were; six of them.
‘Fucken hell, mister,’ said one. ‘Been here for hours!’
‘Aye, sorry, son. A few wee messages tae fix.’
‘D’ye bring some ginger?’ another asked hopefully.
Fortunately, he had. He’d anticipated well. Their collective ire doused by American cream soda, Archie unlocked the unit and let them all in. The heat inside it rushed out and slapped them all squarely in the face. The campaign was also now hitting him heavily in the wallet. Archie was getting pummelled from all sides. Getting the car fixed, securing Sledge’s day release and the hire of the rehearsal unit had cost him almost a hundred in total. And he needed outfits for them, although Bazooka Joe would help limit that damage. The pay-off from the Corporation had all but gone. Only his superannuation remained until The Wigwam squared him up. As Archie looked optimistically at his new charges, he shuddered at the sudden realisation of the mountain that they would have to climb.
Against the corrugated backdrop, they stood in a row. Sniggering and carrying on. Like weans, because they are weans! Archie shook his head. If they sang like they looked, he would be more royally fucked than a pissed-up British princess at a Caribbean hideaway. Archie pulled up the only available seat and straddled it, his arms folded on its metal-framed back. He scanned the six, left to right. Despite the lack of introductions, he could’ve picked all of them out of a police line-up – a not unfamiliar experience for them, he speculated – but none as well as Sledge Strachan, and the others only by nickname.
There was Burkie, a quiet and diminutive sixteen-year-old, blond-haired kid with glasses. Not as cute as the Milky Bar Kid but there was some early-teen pant-wetting potential there, Archie felt. Next to him was the slightly shorter Smudge, a ginger-haired seventeen-year-old, and an ugly wee bastart. Despite his age, he looked like a constipated Chic Murray. There was no avoiding the fact that if he couldn’t sing like David Cassidy, he was out before he was in. Sledge was next, the tallest, loudest and best looking. The next two – Rich and Dobber – were identical twins; a quirk Archie was convinced would come in handy.
These were the five who so melodically had encouraged an entire diddley-dee flute band to get it right fucken up them. The last in the line was the nineteen-year-old Manky Marvin Mountjoy. He hadn’t been invited by Archie, but he knew him as one of the many sons of Borstal Barry Mountjoy – a bona fide headcase who’d acquired his moniker because he’d burned the borstal he’d been raised in to the ground.
‘There can only be five ae ye’se in the band,’ said Archie eventually.
‘Why no’ six, eh?’
‘Was it The Jackson Six? Naw, so stop bein’ awkward.’
‘Marvin’s comin’ wi’ us. He came up wi’ the name,’ countered Sledge.
‘Eh? Whit name?’ Archie was blindsided. ‘Ah’ve got ye’se a name.’
‘We’re … the Fuckwits!’ Sledge announced proudly.
‘Aye, well, there’s nae denyin’ that.’ Archie sighed. ‘Ye cannae have a name like that, Jesus Christ. Ye’ll no’ get on the telly or the trannie wi’ the word “fuck” in yer name.’
‘Satan’s Bagpipes!’ screamed Manky Marvin.
‘Right, you … fucken out!’ Archie pointed to the door. The young Mountjoy was most definitely his father’s son.
‘Naw.’ Sledge stepped forwards. ‘That wis his second choice.’
‘Fuck me!’ Archie threw his arms up in exasperation. ‘Ye cannae have any swears in the name, right? An’ the public aren’t gonnae phone in an’ vote for anythin’ belongin’ tae the Devil.’ He sighed again, louder this time, so they would sense the tone. ‘Ah’d thought ae either The Hopefuls, or mibbe Sweet Soul … but spelt differently.’ He wrote the words Suite Sole on a piece of card and held it up for them to see. ‘Like a play oan words, naw?’
They looked flummoxed and then uninterested. Dobber sneezed, Rich picked his nose and Marvin sloped further to the left. Archie interpreted that as recognition that Marvin’s input – and interest – had come to an end.
‘He still gets a fucken cut though … an’ he comes wi’ us, right?’ Sledge knew the name wasn’t a deal-breaker. He just wanted to mess with Archie’s head.
‘Aye. Christ Almighty! Can we get on? The thing’s tomorrow!’
Archie plugged his large new p
ortable cassette player into the wall socket. He brought out a tape. Manky Marvin had never seen one before and looked astonished when sound started coming out of it. Archie made a mental note to keep one eye fixed on it. He was certain Marvin would already be three steps ahead in terms of anticipating who he’d sell it to, once stolen.
The three songs on the tape were known by most of those now lined up to sing them. Only Dobber claimed not to have heard them before. He explained that since he was deaf in his left ear following a battering from his drunken da when he was eight, he didn’t bother with the radio or Top of the Pops.
First up was Showaddywaddy’s ‘Three Steps to Heaven’, quickly ruled out by the twins because ‘they cunts aw wear brothel creepers!’ Next was ‘Sugar Baby Love’, by the Rubettes. Generally liked by all but disregarded because none of them were willing to attempt the high notes at the end. Finally, they all settled on ‘Hot Love’, by T. Rex, mainly because Archie’s Shadows-influenced dance steps were easy to master. And Sledge persuaded Archie that they could play it live, with instruments. Just like a proper group. The song was a couple of years old, but it had been a massive smash hit, and everybody knew it immediately the opening groove kicked in.
It took around four hours – and at times it felt like herding cats in the brutal heatwave – but by the end of it, Archie believed they had a slim shot of success. For the most part, they could sing; and broadly in tune. And unbelievably they did possess a degree of rhythm. He was sick to the back teeth of the song by the time he left to source some stage clothes for his charges, and although he could’ve cooked eggs in his sweat-sodden Y-fronts, Archie Blunt had been able to consign the stolen photographs to the periphery. For now, he had a vibrant sparkle in his eye that could’ve warned ships away from the rocks of the Western Isles on the stormiest of nights. These five degenerates, now known collectively as The High Five, might just be his passport out of the dangerous East End and into the London high life.
Welcome to the Heady Heights Page 12
