With Geordie away, Archie revealed the hand they were holding.
He laid the pictures down – carefully and one by one.
Nobody spoke.
It was Jim Rockford who broke the silence:
Ah think you can trust these two fellas, Arch. Ah can tell from their eyes. They’re not too far apart.
Ten more silent minutes passed.
‘Where the fuck did you get these?’ said Wullie finally. He’d looked at the pictures from every possible angle. He couldn’t believe they were real. But they must be. They were on proper Kodak paper.
‘Jesus!’ Bobby Souness tried to pick up one of the photos. He gave up and pointed.
‘What?’
‘That’s the boy ah dropped at the Royal. I recognise him now.’
Bobby Souness recounted the tale of woe he’d told Archie. Four simple minds struggled to work out what it all meant. How it was connected. And how any human’s arse cavity could take a dildo the size and shape of a small elephant’s trunk.
Half an hour after he left, Geordie McCartney returned.
‘Who was for the ashit pie supper again?’ He choked. ‘Holy fuck!’ Geordie had seen the photo. The one they had all been focusing on. ‘That’s the kid fae The Balgarth!’
Archie hadn’t shown Geordie the pictures. Had tried to keep him out of it, given his friend’s own domestic troubles. Too late for that now.
There was nothing left in Archie’s larder. Even the Advocaat was finished. Wullie Wigwam had gone, but only to move the Range Rover out of the street. Now he’d come back to outline a plan. The lucrative one that had been assembling in his brain for more than an hour. Wullie Dunne lit cigars. He offered one to Chib, who took it, but to no one else.
‘Right, what dae ye’se aw want tae get out ae this?’
It was a pretty straight question but one that they hadn’t considered until The Wigwam had asked it of them.
After a long pause during which gormless looks were exchanged, the three answered simultaneously.
Archie: ‘A shot at The Palladium.’
Geordie: ‘Ma missus back.’
Bobby: ‘Ma thumbs.’
Wullie looked at Chib, who shrugged contemptuously.
‘Well, let’s aim for one out ae three then, eh?’ said Wullie.
The material that Archie had acquired was dynamite, there was no doubt about that. Wullie had suspected Heady Hendricks was into the sexually bizarre for well over a decade. A magistrate from Edinburgh had told him as much during a pro-am charity golf day that The Wigwam had partly sponsored. For Wullie, the opportunity of one last big pay day was what the contents of the envelope represented. He could get out of the game, and Chib could finally retire. It was just a pity the success of the embryonic plan rested on the shoulders of the three balloons in front of him.
‘So, we’ve got these pictures, right?’ Wullie began, Archie, Geordie and Bobby nodding in sync. ‘They’re worth a bundle tae the folk pictured in them.’
‘Definitely,’ added Archie, trying to calm his quavering voice.
‘We’ve got them – they want them!’ Wullie felt it was important to take this one slow step at a time, but not just for the benefit of the hard-of-thinking panel facing him; he was rehearsing it aloud for himself. ‘We let them know we’ve got them, and that we want something in return.’ So far, so obvious. ‘When are ye meant tae be oan the show?’ Wullie looked straight at Archie.
‘December.’
‘Ye sure? What date?’ asked Wullie.
‘Em…aye. Cannae remember the date but it’s the first … naw, wait. It’s the last week in November.’ Archie blushed.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ said Chib.
‘Ah’m sorry. This is just aw a wee bit…’ Archie farted. ‘Ah get nervous when ah’m gettin’ questioned like this.’
‘Well, that’s reassurin’, int’it?’ said Wullie. He drew deeply on his cigar then blew out a large cloud of smoke. Bobby Souness coughed. The Wigwam stood, scratched his chin and continued. ‘We need tae go an’ pay Hendricks a visit. We’re gonnae blackmail the cunt, but no’ for money. Which’ll confuse the bastard. We’ll do it way before the show. Let him know we’ve got pictures and that we know about him an’ that daft fucken Heady Heights Hotel idea. That him an’ Jamesie Campbell an’ aw these other knobs are beastin’ weans, an’ that.’ More smoke. He was on a roll now. ‘Our demand is that your boys get through tae the Christmas final ae his show, or else we’re goin’ tae the papers wi’ aw the stuff.’
Wullie sat back down. Chib was slowly shaking his head, as if not quite able to believe his boss was backing these imbeciles.
‘While you an’ the band are doon in London, we’ll be back here making serious wedge on the bets.’
Wullie continued with the threads of the plan but it was important for him to know if they had all understood it sufficiently.
‘Have ye’se aw got it?’ Wullie said at last, looking at them all individually, including Chib Charnley.
‘Aye,’ said Archie nervously, before he too looked at Chib.
‘Sure boss. Sure.’ Chib shot Archie a look that laid blame.
Archie fidgeted anxiously. He let the look waft around him, missing its target. His thoughts swam with various possibilities. He was staggered at how relieved he’d been that The Wigwam was now in control. He felt safer, if not totally secure. Plus, he couldn’t deny the excitement of appearing on The Heady Heights wasn’t a massive adrenaline rush.
‘So, how does it go then?’ Wullie wasn’t even looking up. He appeared to be filling in a medical prescription.
‘Me?’ asked Archie. Chib was the main man here surely? The one with the real threat.
‘Aye. You. Sometime this week, eh?’ Wullie was prescribing for more than one, it seemed. Archie looked closer. Betting slips. Archie had one part to play. And it was a big part.
‘We’re down in London an’ ah go an’ see Hendricks. Before the show, ah hand him a couple ae the pictures in the envelope. A sample. Ah tell him sorry, but the rest ae these are gettin’ circulated unless ye make sure The High Five win the show. He says aye, the show goes on. The bets get laid. The vote gets fixed.
‘An’ whit if he says naw?’
‘Ah get Chib tae phone him at the studio later that night, tae say he’s a Sun reporter an would Heady like tae comment on pictures ae a highly compromisin’ nature which had just been handed in tae him.’
‘An’ plan B?’
‘If he contacts you, accusing you ae blackmailin’ him, you say ye don’t have a clue what he’s on about. He gives you the gen, an’ then you say it’s aw down tae me. Ah only started wi’ ye the week before he was in the city. Ah’m a rogue element. A lonely arsehole. Obsessed wi’ the fame.’
‘And?’ asked Wullie.
‘For seventy-five grand ye’ll have me rubbed out.’ Archie pointed two fingers at his temple.
‘Rubbed out? Ya fanny. It’s no’ the fucken Godfather.’ Wullie smirked.
Archie did too. Although it masked deepening concerns. From Archie’s perspective, this plan seemed to have more holes than one of his dad’s string vests. What if Heady just went straight to the cops? What if he simply denied it all and bluffed it out? How could The Wigwam even guarantee that Archie had been rubbed out or its Weegie equivalent? But when he started to ask these questions Wullie Wigwam dismissed them with the laconic waft of a gloved hand, like he was Alvin Stardust.
In the event, it was agreed that Wullie Dunne would have an anonymous contact connect with Heady immediately, tipping him off that a play was in motion. Wullie figured that an early warning would look far more professional. A threat with a forty-eight-hour expiry date might carry weight in Hollywood but not here, in real life. Chib would be the man to take care of the anonymous drop since he represented the far greater threat. And that way, Archie could feign total ignorance if challenged. He did have to appear on the show, after all, to promote the band. Chib would follow Heady home, remaining incog
nito, but ensuring that Heady was aware he was tailed – that the blackmail gang knew where he lived.
It initially seemed to Archie that Wullie was prepared to play high stakes for a relatively small return. But then it dawned on him. That was the key. Smallish, affordable sums leading to one bigger final sting. The Wigwam was banking on those implicated in the pictures considering themselves bullet-proof when it came to media scrutiny, and since the barons of Fleet Street and the lords of the Old Bailey also frequented many of the same ‘clubs’, protection did exist in the most vital of areas. It all added to a climate of care-free debauchery. Archie appreciated that Heady Hendricks was far from the only recognisable figure in those pictures who Wullie was considering extorting. In the dark perversions and uncontrollable covert urges of the seventies light-entertainment business, Archie wondered if Wullie Dunne had unearthed a growth industry.
Wullie glanced back up at the living room from the street outside as he waited for Chib to reach him.
‘Ye really think this is gonnae work, boss?’ Chib asked him.
‘Mibbe. Mibbe naw, though,’ Wullie Dunne replied. ‘Thing is, there’s nae fucken way five wee gadgies fae Bridgeton are gonnae get tae the London Palladium.’ Chib was bemused. Wullie continued with his thesis. ‘But if they can get through one round, an’ we can score on the bets, then the following week’s a different issue, know what ah mean, son?’ The Wigwam winked.
Chib Charnley nodded. The three in the flat were probably too stupid to suspect The Wigwam’s endgame. The lure of fame and financial security had blinded them, in any case. And, if, as was perhaps more likely, it all turned to shit down in London, The Wigwam and his faithful minder could remain at a distance, sauntering off into the midwinter sunset with their investment covered. Where was the risk, really?
Wullie glanced back up at the flat. The three faces stared back before hands reached around from the curtain and waved.
‘Fucken morons,’ muttered Chib.
‘So … what dae ye’se think?’ Three Shettleston stooges deliberated. There were risks a-plenty, but the promised rewards also enticed them. The first hour of the evening following Wullie and Chib’s departure consisted of the older man scribbling pros and cons for the benefit of the younger two, who largely didn’t respond. The second hour saw a three-way discussion about the events of the last six months in between mouthfuls of the cold fish suppers. Bobby Souness – finding some surprising acceptance in his temporary lodgings – elaborated on the story of his last night in Wullie Wigwam’s employ. All three were certain the ginger-haired boy was now dead.
By the third hour, they were back to some semblance of normality. Talking about football; about the state of Rangers. About whether Dalglish would go south or not; about whether he was even worth the half a million pounds the Daily Record was talking about. Reminiscing and telling jokes about workmates, about close – and not so close – friends. About Betty.
Over the course of three hours and seventeen cans of McEwan’s lager between them, Archie explained the whole Heady Hendricks story. It remained astonishing to three working-class Glaswegians that they could be the principal players in a game that could ultimately bring the great showman down. Their thoughts returned to the plan.
Geordie and Bobby’s jobs would be to stay in Glasgow. To help spread the bets far and wide across the city. Small amounts, initially, building to a final killing. The Wigwam would treat the direct blackmail opportunity separately. That might permit Hendricks to feel that he wasn’t being specifically targeted. Following the initial tip-off, Chib was going to London alone, to lay the sting. As Archie lacked the necessary menace for such a task, his job was to play it straight. To get The High Five to the studios on time and to ensure they performed well.
‘We’ll need transport. Ah’m no’ goin’ tae London on the bus with they six dipsticks,’ said Archie.
‘Got any ideas, then?’ asked Geordie.
‘Ah dae, aye,’ replied Archie. It might not have been the serving the community in the way that a probation order had envisaged, but Archie knew the very driver for the journey to London. And it would conveniently address another nagging scunner his conscience wouldn’t let him ignore. His bladder needed emptying. He welcomed the calming reflection in the corner of his bathroom mirror.
You’ll be fine, kid. You’ve dealt with bigger threats than this Hendricks cat. You’re cool. You’re made of ice. You’re Jimmy Dean. You’re Steve McQueen, man. I’ve got every faith in ya. Just keep to the plan we rehearsed and don’t get drawn into anything that’s not related, OK Archie? We need to be prepared, baby.
‘Aye, Jim,’ mumbled a sozzled Archie. ‘Ah’m ready.’
23
October 1976
‘Eh?’
‘The Bar-L.’
‘Aye? Ye got one gettin’ out?’
‘Aye. Somethin’ like that.’ The cab crawled through the developing football congestion. The driver said no more. He sensed a distracted man. Archie looked up at the imposing Barlinnie Prison gates and smiled ruefully. Archie was late. Fortunately for him, ineffectual administration at the prison held up the day’s release schedule. He paid the driver and waited alongside a group of women of varying ages. The foreboding iron door slid open slowly. A familiar feeling returned to him. Guilt.
Archie Blunt had spilled a pint over another man. It was a routine bumping in a packed boozer. It happened all the time. He had quickly apologised, but something was being made of it. Some pushing, pulling; a pie in a face. Some spitting. Had it stopped there – with only the instigators getting thrown out – they’d have laughed at it for years. But Jimmy Rowntree was drunk, and insisted he had Archie’s back. In an unnecessary demonstration of loyalty, Jimmy had taken his glass outside. Jimmy had waited. He stuck the glass in the face of Archie’s aggressor. Five seconds of madness. Three years in jail. Reduced on good behaviour.
Archie wasn’t sure what would come out of the prison gates. Regret, or retribution? He felt guilty, but only for being the catalyst. For his clumsiness. Geordie convinced him that if it hadn’t been that pub, it would’ve been another one. It was Jimmy’s hair-trigger temper that put him on a conveyor belt from school expulsion to courtroom sentencing. It could’ve easily been a murder. They both hoped prison would eventually sort Jimmy out. Time to find out.
He emerged fifth in line. The smallest, naturally. He looked like Jesus. Long, straggly ginger hair. Unkempt beard. Cherubic pale face. Like it hadn’t experienced sunlight for all the time he’d been locked up.
With the first words spoken between them in six months Jimmy Rowntree informed Archie that he was now ‘a fucking artist.’
‘Conceptual, like,’ he said proudly. As opposed to ‘piss’, Archie thought.
‘Aye, OK dude.’ Archie winced at his own use of the word. He sounded like a hippy.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Celtic won the local derby. Tension was in the air. So they steered clear of the city centre, and of the East End. They caught the shoogly Underground way up to Hillhead and headed towards Byres Road. It was Jimmy’s suggestion. He’d never been there, but the inspirational art teacher who had become his guide and mentor in the earlier part of his sentence talked about it often.
It was bitterly cold. But the rain had abated substantially, and Jimmy suggested sitting outside a pub. Archie expected Jimmy to be gagging for a pint; he certainly was. But Jimmy ordered a coffee with a name that sounded like it belonged to a defender in the Italian World Cup squad. Fuck me, thought Archie, and then thought it again more forcibly when he saw the price. Forty-two pence … you could get a pint and a short at the club for that! A fish completely out of water. It unnerved him that a man who’d spent the best part of two years in relative isolation could be more at home in these surroundings than he was. Archie carried the cup and his pint back to the outside table. He felt he owed Jimmy a future and now considered himself capable of providing it. He watched Jimmy expertly roll a fag, having turned down
the offer of a ready-made one.
‘So, any plans?’ asked Archie. It was as good a place to start as any.
‘Naw, no’ really. Ah want tae catch up wi’ Professor Gray. Just tae thank him for the help an’ advice an’ aw that. But beyond that, naw. Nothin’ special.’
‘Well, you can stay with me till ye get sorted out, like.’ Archie heard the words differently in his head. He imagined how Jimmy might have interpreted them. ‘What ah mean is, ah want ye tae come an’ stay wi’ me, Jim. No pressure.’
‘Aye, thanks. Ah appreciate that, ah really dae.’
‘Nae problem.’
‘Cheers, Arch.’ The awkwardness of the situation and the strangeness of the context exacerbated the significance of the offer. Both men felt it and didn’t speak again for nearly an hour.
‘Ye still got the van?’ asked Archie.
‘Aye. Thinkin’ ae turnin’ it into a mobile art studio. Maybe get involved with a few community groups an’ that. Try an’ put somethin’ back into society.’ Jimmy sounded like a different person altogether. Not necessarily an improved one; just unrecognisable.
‘So, where’s aw yer stuff. The art an’ that?’ asked Archie when they were in another taxi, heading back to Tennyson Drive.
‘Ah flogged it aw, inside, about a year ago. The screws took stuff for birthdays an’ Christmas presents an’ that. It bought me fags … an’ peace. Ah wisnae allowed tae get any money.’ Jimmy seemed remarkably calm about this. ‘Ah’m no that bothered tae tell the truth. It got me through the sentence, an’ ah can always dae more. Ah’m happy that somebody thought they were worth takin’.’
Archie admired Jimmy’s sanguine attitude. There was none of the hardness Archie had witnessed on his occasional visits. None of the resentment that he’d anticipated. There were plenty of people Jimmy could feel bitterness towards – including, and perhaps especially, his friend – but he seemed uninterested in looking backwards. Over the course of the hours they had spent together since his release, Archie Blunt was forced to re-evaluate his initial perception of Jimmy Rowntree. Bolstered by this, Archie dived in head first.
Welcome to the Heady Heights Page 15
