Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  ‘Right, whit’s the script?’ Chib said, irritated.

  Archie knew he’d have to answer these questions twice. First, to Chib, the pit bull, and then to Wullie. The boss saved him the trouble.

  ‘Is that Archie Blunt out there?’ The Wigwam’s voice reverberated around the portable office.

  ‘Aye,’ chirruped Chib, like an obedient overfed budgie.

  ‘Tell him his tea’s oot!’

  Chib drew an imaginary line across his throat. Archie gulped, got up, brushed his work suit down and strolled into the long room as confidently as his tremulous knees allowed. When he got there, he saw two cups; one on either side of the table. The palpitations slowed. Wullie was on the phone. He put a finger to his lips. Archie took that as a sign to sit down, which he did. He took in the paraphernalia strewn around The Wigwam’s office. He had never really looked closely at it all before; never had to look for clues. Photographs of Wullie pressing the flesh with various sports stars, mostly football players from both sides of the Old Firm; but there was also one taken with the golfer Tony Jacklin and another with Diana Dors. And over his left shoulder, partially hidden by a metal-headed sledgehammer, there was a more recent one taken with Big Jamesie Campbell.

  Whatever – and whoever – the subject of the phone call was, Wullie Wigwam hadn’t spoken while Archie was in the room. The phone clicked back on its receiver.

  ‘Did you get sorted out last week?’

  ‘Eh, aye. Thanks, boss.’

  ‘There was a wee bit extra in there. Hope ye noticed.’

  ‘Ah did, aye. Much appreciated.’ Archie’s recent hire involved getting four senior management executives through an angry picket line forming outside of the John Brown’s shipyards. Although he agreed with the principles of the strike, he’d broken the picket on instruction. He didn’t want to put himself in The Wigwam’s spotlight because of something as redundant in Shettleston as principled integrity. The High Five were scheduled to be on the final shows of The Heady Heights in late November. Archie needed the wages to keep coming until then, regardless of how objectionable the means of earning them were.

  Weeks had passed since the night he’d stolen the photographs, and still nothing had been mentioned. It was important for Archie to try and keep calm. To project monotonous normality.

  ‘Right, what is it? Why ye here?’

  ‘Boss, can ah get a few days off this week? Ah need tae sort out arrangements wi’ the boys.’

  ‘Chib,’ Wullie yelled through the open door. Chib ambled in. ‘Ye got the driver rota there?’

  Chib nodded and left.

  ‘Ah should be on a cut ae the winnings, ye know that, don’t ye?’ said Wullie.

  ‘Ah’m no’ sure there’s a cash prize, Wullie,’ said Archie.

  ‘Ye did secure this gig on my time, though.’

  ‘Ah know. An’ ah’ve apologised for that. We’re aw really grateful.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Archie, ah’m rowin’ yer tail, son.’ The Wigwam smiled broadly. Archie wondered if sharks smiled similarly before devouring a doe-eyed sea lion.

  ‘Quiet week, boss,’ said Chib.

  ‘Chib says it’s aw’right, then it’s aw’right.’ Wullie smiled again, tea-stained dentures showing this time. ‘Three days, then back here on Thursday, right?’

  ‘Thanks boss,’ said Archie. ‘By the way, any luck wi’ the Souness boy?’ It was like an involuntary spasm. Had just come out. Unprompted and apropos of absolutely nothing.

  ‘Eh?’ It had taken The Wigwam by surprise too.

  It was difficult for Archie to back down now. Why hadn’t he kept his fucking mouth shut? A time and a place, and this was neither. The incriminating material stolen from the files was concealed and it was beginning to look like no recriminations were being directed his way via the Dunne Driving organisation. Also, the only prior discussion about Souness’s boy was a month ago. He’d told his employer that a potential sighting of the boy at a school on the Southside was a false alarm. The Wigwam hadn’t seemed too fussed by this. Eventually, the poor wee boy would be found but, with Lady Luck kissing his dice, Archie would be in London by that time, and leading a high life well away from these dangerously myopic bampots. And now he’d just scored an own goal.

  ‘What’s wi’ aw the Souness questions?’ Chib now, from behind Archie’s head.

  While Chib may have asked the question; Archie directed his response to Wullie. ‘Ah don’t know anythin’, Wullie, really ah don’t. Ah was just enquirin’,’ Archie lied.

  Wullie breathed in, regarding Archie intently. It felt like the thoughts in Archie’s head were appearing above it for everyone to read, like he was a character in The Broons cartoon strip. The prolonged silence was killing him. A bead of sweat formed on his top lip. Wullie stared at him, not blinking, for what felt like five full minutes.

  ‘Well, ears tae the ground, eh? He needs found, an’ quick.’

  ‘Aye. Right, Wullie.’ Archie felt like he was teetering at the edge of a hundred-foot drop and had compounded the danger by closing his eyes and standing on one leg. Time to go.

  He left, unaware of The Wigwam’s instructive nod to his right-hand man.

  Rehearsals were going well. The boys seemed to enjoy them. Manky Marvin had procured some more instruments, and, to Archie’s shock, they all picked up rhythm and melody amazingly quickly.

  He had their dates. The confirmation letter clarified the position regarding minors. None of those appearing were yet eighteen so he needed to ensure parental permissions were all in order. There was only one outstanding. Although technically, since it was for the twins, it was two. A sad and disheartening ambivalence had greeted his requests for the rest. Once payment had been ruled out, the parents had lost interest. None of the boys were in school. Only Sledge and Burkie had a job of any description. Smudge had an upcoming court date, but it was likely to be in the New Year. His father didn’t care if he went to London or not. They had no television, so it seemed pointless for Archie to explain the concept of the show. A depressing scattering of vodka bottles indicated where his interest really lay. No wonder so many youngsters ended up on the streets.

  Rich and Dobber lived in the Red Road flats – the brutalist point blocks up near Barmulloch. The family had been rehoused from the Tollcross tenements after complaints about their father’s behaviour. Living on the twenty-seventh floor of Glasgow’s tallest structures didn’t calm him down, though. It isolated and insulated him from other people. Fed his anxieties. Prompted the voices in his head to torment him further. Previously, people had only seen – or experienced – the violence. Hadn’t understood the mental torment behind it. Dobber experienced it most. He was most like his dad. It was a relief to the boy when his tortured father jumped from the balcony.

  Archie had to climb the stairs. The lifts were out. Yellow tape crisscrossed the steel doors. The smell of urine was overpowering. The utopian dream of a steel-framed Manhattan skyline freeing up the Glaswegian landscape below for its community failed on the most pragmatic of levels. The pricks that designed them didnae have tae live in them, Archie was informed by a postman, setting off on the same intimidating ascent to the summit as him. If there hadn’t been two band members involved, Archie might’ve ducked this and gone as a four-piece. It hadn’t done The Four Tops any harm.

  Out of breath, and about forty-five minutes after starting the climb, Archie had reached the door. His calf muscles were on fire. He knocked. He had paper and a pencil in case no one was home. Jim Rockford’s idea.

  ‘Hullo.’ An old woman’s voice.

  ‘Aye, hullo yerself, missus,’ replied Archie. The letterbox had been pushed back. Archie bent automatically to speak through its gap. ‘Ah’m here about the boys.’

  ‘Whit yins?’

  ‘Eh … Richie an’…’ He hesitated. He didn’t know Dobber’s real name. Seemed a bit off using a nickname when the boy wasn’t an adult and then ostensibly asking if they were coming out to play. ‘The twins.’
/>   ‘Ach, what’ve they done now? Ah’m gettin’ too auld for this shite, son.’

  It seemed unlikely. But Archie asked it anyway. ‘Are you their ma? Or is she in just now?’

  ‘Ah’m their granny. She’s no’ here. Don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Ah right.’ Those stairs, Jesus. ‘Should ah come back later … when she’s in?’

  ‘She’ll no’ be in.’

  ‘Ah … OK.’ Archie’s back was becoming as painful as his knees. ‘Listen, ah need tae speak tae somebody about the boys.’

  ‘Are ye polis? Ah cannae afford any more fines, so dae whit ye like this time.’

  ‘Naw, naw … they’ve no’ done anythin’ wrong. It’s a good thing,’ said Archie.

  ‘Ah’ve got a big dug in here, y’know!’

  This poor old woman was obviously living in constant fear of the door being chapped. This high up in the air, and with lifts regularly broken, Archie couldn’t imagine that it happened often. The sound of a chain. The door edged open no more than an inch.

  Archie directed his attention towards the new gap. ‘Ah’m sorry. Ah need their ma or da’s permission tae take them down tae London in a couple ae months’ time.’

  ‘Are you fae the army?’

  Archie now visualised a three-piece. No twins involved; the male Three Degrees. That might go down well at the Royal Variety Performance. Charles was a big fan, after all.

  Suddenly, the door opened. ‘Their da’s dead. He jumped off the balcony. Their ma couldnae cope. She left them wi’ me.’ A wizened old woman stood in front of him. There wasn’t going to be an easy explanation.

  ‘The boys are part ae a singin’ group. Ah’m their manager. We got through tae the London shows ae The Heady Heights. Ah just need permission for them tae go.’ He was almost pleading now. Pleading not to have to climb back to the top of this concrete and steel Meccano set.

  ‘The Heady Heights? Get awa’ wi’ ye. Yer pullin’ my leg, son. That’s my favourite programme.’

  Archie laughed. The old woman didn’t crack a light.

  ‘We’re on in November. Ye’ll see yer boys on telly.’

  She seemed to be calculating this. ‘Wait there.’

  He did. She didn’t seem to have a dog. But it might’ve been sleeping. She came back. Handed him paper. He looked at it. A list of messages:

  –– Three tins of beans

  –– A pan loaf

  –– A pack of Old Holborn

  –– Rizla papers

  –– A People’s Friend

  –– A bottle of Vat 69

  –– Some Aspirin

  ‘Get these for us, then.’

  Archie took the list. It’d mean having to come back, and it was clear this opportunistic old druid wasn’t proffering any payment. But, if it was one-off, and if it secured the release of Rich and Dobber, Archie reckoned it was worth wearing away a little bit more cartilage.

  When he reached ground level it was almost dark. He hobbled away, knees and hamstrings now burning too.

  When he was almost out of sight, a small car’s engine started up. Moving at this pace, Archie Blunt wouldn’t be difficult to follow.

  22

  October 1976

  ‘Aw’right, it’s me,’ Archie shouted into the flat.

  There was no response. Had they gone out? He’d warned them not to, and, since the curtains didn’t close fully, to stay clear of the windows. Jim Rockford had prompted that instruction. Archie wouldn’t have thought of it on his own. He didn’t think that there would be hired Jackals up trees, looking through crosshairs for movement inside a council flat in the East End of Glasgow, but you couldn’t be certain. He’d just told them there were some right nosy bastards in Tennyson Drive.

  ‘Ah got us chips!’

  ‘Who ye talkin’ tae, dopey?’

  Archie almost had a heart attack on the spot. He turned. Chib Charnley was behind him. He must’ve been on the hidden side of the centre stairwell wall. Waiting. No way he could’ve scaled the steps that quickly.

  ‘Fuck sake, Chib!’ Archie said the name loudly.

  ‘Been gettin’ about, eh, Archie?’

  ‘What d’ye mean?’

  ‘Up the towers, over in Robroyston … back tae the Great Eastern. A moonlit evening up the Necropolis.’

  ‘Have you been followin’ me, Chib?’

  ‘Of course ah’ve been fucken followin’ ye, ya daft cunt. How do ye think ah know where you’ve been?’

  Chib strolled into the small living space. He flicked his cane around. Lifted two orange bed covers. Empty beer cans littered the floor underneath them. ‘What a fucken midden!’

  ‘What is this, man … The Wigwam doin’ home inspections?’

  ‘Don’t be fucken funny, son. I’ll ram my fist intae yer neb.’ Chib hunted on. Looking for something. He concluded his search.

  ‘Fucken surprised this isnae cut off!’ He said as he picked up the phone. He dialled some numbers, barely waiting for the metal ring to rotate back to its original position. ‘Boss. Aye, it’s me. He’s here. Right. Ah’ll wait then.’ He replaced the receiver.

  It took no more than half an hour for the distinctive rumbling sound of Wullie Dunne’s Range Rover to pull up in the street outside. But it felt like a week to Archie. He’d bought three fish suppers. Chib had eaten two and a half of them.

  Wullie tapped at the door. Chib had left it open for him but it was nice to be nice, nonetheless.

  ‘Well, Archie … here we are again, son.’ Wullie waved a hand. Chib vacated the seat. Wullie occupied it.

  ‘What’s the script, Wullie? You gave me time off.’

  ‘Ah did, son. That ah did.’ Wullie leaned over and lifted a couple of yellowed, crunchy chips from the greasy paper of last night’s Evening Times. ‘But it appears you weren’t entirely honest with me … an’ ah want tae know why.’

  ‘Ye’ve lost me, boss. Ah don’t know what ye mean.’

  ‘Souness, son. Bobby fucken Souness. Ye’ve seen him, no?’

  Archie didn’t know how to respond. His thumbs tingled as if they knew their fate depended on his answer.

  ‘There’s a bounty out on the cunt … an’ ah’m a wee bit curious about that, y’know?’

  Archie’s imagination kicked in. ‘Ah heard somebody talkin’ in the bookies last week.’

  ‘Aye. And?’

  ‘Didnae know them, like. Ears just pricked up cos ae the name.’ Archie gulped. ‘They said he’d been battered.’ The Wigwam’s eyebrows raised. It seemed to be new information. It was also lies.

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Naw … said that he’d had his thumbs cut off … an’ that…’ Archie was sweating. They were playing chess. Archie needed to know if The Wigwam had been responsible for the attack on Bobby Souness, or if, once again, his imagination had been busy drawing a picture. He gulped once more. ‘And that it was you that done it tae him.’

  There was a silence. It lasted a long time. Archie was only too aware of its significance. A new life beckoned. He loved his city, and especially the East End, but it was fast losing its appeal. He was now looking forward to waving at it fondly from almost five hundred miles away.

  The Wigwam nodded to Chib. Chib left. Archie’s mind raced to visions of Chib Charnley burning down Tennyson Drive. Hammering his cane into Geordie McCartney’s ear using a mallet. Torturing Archie’s dad. But Chib only went through to the back room.

  ‘Look, Wullie … ah dinnae ca—’

  The Wigwam cut him off. ‘How fucken long have you known me?’ He wasn’t angry. Wullie Dunne seemed genuinely hurt. ‘Ah don’t know what you think we dae here, but this is a respectable business ah’ve built. Souness ran up debts wi’ me. And wi’ other folk. He’s a fucken mug punter. But ah offered him an opportunity. A way out … for the sake ae his fucken kid!’ Archie was confused. ‘He was drivin’ for me. Payin’ it aw off. The same bloody job you’ve got now.’ Wullie took another chip. And, surprisingly given the circumstances, o
ffered Archie one too. ‘One night, he’s on a hire. Ah get a call … middle ae the night. He’s fucked off wi’ the car an’ left these big noises there. Up at The Balgarth. Senior polis, and some politicians. Next day, ah cannae get hold ae the cunt. The motor’s been dumped an’ he’s disappeared. Don’t know what the fuck happened, but the word’s been out for him for months. An’ now ah’m in the frame.’

  It was plausibly delivered but Archie knew the next line before it was even uttered.

  ‘So, ah’m tellin’ ye, Archie. If you know anythin’ about where he is, fucken tell me, right.’

  ‘Look what ah found,’ said Chib. He yanked Bobby Souness into the living room. Archie stumbled backwards.

  ‘An’ this baldy cunt was lying in the bath underneath him.’ Geordie McCartney edged in, shame-faced.

  ‘Who’s this plank?’ asked Wullie.

  ‘Ah’m Geordie. Geordie McCartney, sir. Pleased tae meet you!’ Geordie held out a hand.

  Wullie looked at it as if it was a shitty stick. ‘Ah don’t give a fuck who you are, pal. It was rhetorical.’ Puzzled faces. He looked at Chib and tutted. ‘Dealin’ with complete wallopers here!’

  An hour passed, at the end of which Bobby Souness understood and accepted that his thumbs weren’t packed in ice in the Dunne Driving HQ freezers.

  Wullie Wigwam had a theory. But he was keeping it to himself for now.

  Archie spent the hour deliberating over the envelope that was taped to the back of the Green Lady’s frame. It was valuable, no doubt. But only if you knew how to trade. He didn’t. But Wullie Wigwam did. Was there really that much left to lose?

  Archie took the plunge and trailed his find.

  It intrigued the bookie. Geordie McCartney was sent for more chips, the Wigwam giving him money.