Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  But Gail leaned down and into her bag. She brought out a notepad. She sat it in front of her, unopened. Taunting. This was a game of chess. Barbara’s move.

  ‘That for me?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Gail.

  ‘So, what?’ Barbara was getting frustrated.

  ‘Tell me what you know about the Heady Heights Hotel.’

  ‘Erm, not much,’ said Barbara. ‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers. An initiative to reduce homelessness. The TV personality Heady Hendricks is behind it, I understand.’

  Gail looked around. The rattling noises from the kitchen and the counters were loud but she leaned in to whisper anyway.

  ‘What if … I told you that it’s all just a cover?’ Gail was edgy. She looked over at the counter. At a man. He’d turned and was looking at them. ‘Let’s go.’

  They paid and left. The man wasn’t a threat. Just staring at the two women while waiting for his roll and chips. Barbara and Gail walked through the rain. The summer’s prolonged heatwave was a very distant memory.

  ‘Look, the Great Eastern is a front. It’s a scam for rich, privileged men taking advantage of vulnerable young people, mainly boys. They get them off the streets, offer them a bed, some food … warmth, but in return for all sorts of deviant, fucked-up behaviour. They’re taken across to The Balgarth Inn,’ said Gail.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I just do. You asked for trust … well you need to trust me.’

  ‘OK, let’s say I do, what do you expect me to do with this information? Do you have any evidence?’ Gail looked away.

  ‘I’ve spoken to someone. Seen things myself.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where did you witness this?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course, it matters. Gail, I can’t help you unless you give me something to work with.’

  They stepped into a tenement close recess. The rain was lashing down. Bouncing off the street. A van drenched a group of pensioners stood stooped at a bus stop across the road. Their clamour was distracting.

  ‘I paid a man. A hundred pounds. His wife worked at The Balgarth Inn. He got me some information.’ Gail looked away. Her face reddened. ‘I had to fuck him once on top of that. Jamesie Campbell…’ she trailed off.

  Barbara didn’t know what to make of this girl. Her anxious, awkward demeanour. There was nothing on microfiche. No record. She’d never been in trouble. Then again, as Barbara knew only too well, the new Strathclyde police filing system made about as much sense to her as the offside rule. Was Gail Proctor a fantasist?

  ‘The MP?’

  ‘Yeah. Do you know him?’

  ‘No. Not really. I had to drive his wife around recently. He’s friendly with our super. That’s the kinda shit jobs a WPC gets.’

  ‘Jamesie Campbell takes people – famous people – to The Balgarth. Entertains them. Then, after a lock-in, they abuse young men there.’

  ‘Under-eighteens?’ said Barbara.

  Gail ignored the question although she knew the answer. ‘You know he’s a fucking crook, then?’

  ‘Well, he’s a politician. Aren’t they all?’ said Barbara. Was this merely a grudge? A personal grievance? Perhaps Gail had had sex with a man who hadn’t respected her, or paid her.

  ‘Jamesie Campbell is part of a secret organisation in London. A private club. Many well-known VIPs are part of it. They pay massive sums to be allowed to exploit young kids, protected by Scotland Yard and the judiciary. Some of the most well-loved celebrities in Britain are part of it.’

  ‘You said “kids”. That’s hard to believe.’

  ‘And that’s how they fucking well get away with it.’

  There was a rage to Gail Porter. Barbara could tell it was always there. Constantly simmering below the surface.

  ‘But if you’re a journalist, why not run a story?’

  ‘Because…’ Gail took a deep breath ‘…they are protected by Fleet Street too.’

  Barbara could see the frustration rising. Gail Proctor’s head slumped forwards a little.

  Gail was exasperated – she thought Barbara would brand her another conspiracy nutcase. She’d seen it so many times before. No editor wanted this story. Freelance was just an alternate word for unemployable. A story without facts, evidence or people prepared to go on the record was only of use to the News of the World. And they didn’t smear the establishment; only those fallen, or without the means or the mentality to defend themselves.

  ‘Who do you think butchered that poor wee cat? And they almost killed me by forcing me to crash my car.’

  Gail was angry. She’d tried to walk away from Big Jamesie Campbell’s world, but after Annie the cat had been killed, she knew proving his complicity was the only way for her to leave it all behind.

  Her breathing grew heavy. ‘Jamesie Campbell killed my uncle.’

  Barbara leaned in. Gail had whispered it. It was barely audible in the clatter of diesel engines and barking dogs and loud Glaswegian patter. But she’d said it.

  ‘What? Your uncle was murdered? How long ago was this? The police will be investigating—’

  ‘The police don’t care.’

  ‘About a murder? What are you talking about?’ It was Barbara’s turn now to be exasperated.

  ‘He was a journalist … a real journalist. Working in England. He did undercover stories. Political ones. His name didn’t appear on these pieces. He investigated government activity. A couple of years ago, he got a tip-off that MI5 were planning a military takeover of the Wilson government…’

  ‘Wait … aren’t we heading off the subject a bit?’ Gail looked at Barbara contemptuously.

  ‘Three years ago, the army occupied Heathrow Airport. It was claimed that it was a training preparation for possible IRA action. But it was a dry run for a coup. Jamesie Campbell was behind it. My uncle knew this.’

  ‘But in that case, the Met would be all over it.’

  Gail laughed sarcastically.

  Barbara was annoyed. ‘How did your uncle die?’

  ‘An old woman out walking her dog found him dead in a public park. The official verdict was suicide.’

  Barbara recalled something of this story.

  ‘The newspapers reported that he had money problems, addiction issues and a secret affair he was having. All of it was fabricated bullshit, smearing his name. And Campbell’s secret organisation was behind it all. I’ve been pursuing this for two years. And I stumbled on his plans for Glasgow. I was at the Great Eastern to speak to a source … someone I thought would maybe go on the record. A former driver of Campbell’s. Those clowns at the door wouldn’t tell me if he was there or not.’

  ‘What happened at The Balgarth?’

  ‘Men, mostly … famous men. Big Jamesie Campbell and his cronies. Wearing masks. Acting obnoxiously. Throwing money around.’

  ‘None of that sounds illegal though. And you had sex with the source of this information … willingly, I assume?’

  ‘His wife told him that one night, after midnight, some went to an upper floor. Although the music was loud, she heard shouts and then some screams. A young guy wrapped in a towel ran along the corridor past her. His skin was blue. He jumped out of a window.’

  Barbara’s eyebrows rose at this. ‘His skin was blue? What do you mean?’

  ‘It had a blue tinge to it, she said. But he’d been hurt. She could see it in his eyes. And there was blood on the towel.’ Gail paused. ‘That same night, I saw him running up the road, being chased by three gangsters. He made it to a car at the end of the street and it drove off.’

  ‘Were you there too?’

  ‘I had followed Campbell to The Balgarth. I was watching from across the street.’

  Barbara drew in breath and sat back in the seat. ‘What happened to him … the young guy?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out. The man I paid … the one I had s
ex with, – he won’t say anything more about what happened. The last time I saw him he told me his wife had been threatened, and that they were finished with The Balgarth. But he did say that the “boys” all came from the Great Eastern.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do next?’ said Barbara. It was an incredible story. She could understand why it would be hard for a paper to run it, unverified.

  ‘I need to find this driver … the Great Eastern guy. I was told he’d been involved. He was the guy in the car the ginger-haired boy ran to. And he’d know what happened to him.’

  Everything was hearsay, Barbara thought. Even if it had substance, it would be like completing a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle without any clue about the picture the pieces formed. And Barbara was sure Gail didn’t even have all the pieces. But now two of them were potentially significant. Barbara shuddered at the possibility it was Lachie Wylie they were discussing.

  ‘You never mentioned he had ginger hair before. What was the name of the man you paid?’

  ‘No chance. We’re not that close, you an’ me…’

  ‘How can I help you then, if you won’t give me something else to go on?’

  ‘That kid, the ginger one, I heard him shout a few words. He had a strange accent, like he was a Highlander.’

  The colour drained from Barbara’s face. Gail could see it happening. ‘Do you know anything about this? If you do, fucking tell me!’

  ‘I might,’ Barbara said.

  35

  December 1976 – Saturday

  ‘Wullie, this is gettin’ totally fucked up.’ Archie Blunt was highly stressed. A pulsing vein in his forehead was only the latest tell. ‘Folk at the club are gonnae think ah’m some kind ae bloody paedophile, wi’ aw this newspaper shite that’s flyin’ about!’

  ‘Just a few days, an’ then we’re aw in the clear, son. Ye’ve done nothin’ wrong, so ye cannae be guilty ae anythin’. Calm it, eh? For your own health if nothin’ else.’

  ‘Easier fucken said than done. Ah come crashin’ back up here, thinkin’ these bastards have torched my da’s place … an’ then ah find my mate’s bein’ held tae fucken ransom, aw in the space ae a few hours.’ Archie was pacing. If he continued Wullie Wigwam’s rug would need replacing before the day was out.

  Archie looked up. He’d never been in Wullie’s house before. It was a nice place. Nowhere near as ostentatiously garish as Jamesie Campbell’s, but a more comfortable living environment as a result. He spotted the picture on the wall; of the Green Lady. This was a few steps up from Archie’s flat, but it reassured him to know that someone considerably better off than him shared his taste in art. She smiled, still beguiling.

  ‘Look, son. Sit down an’ let’s watch the fucken show, eh?’ The Wigwam poured Archie a whisky. Three fat fingers’ worth.

  Archie couldn’t sit.

  ‘Ah phoned Chib earlier at the hostel. Everythin’s fine down there, an’ he’s on his way back tae sort out your mate’s domestic situation.’

  It was noticeable that The Wigwam was distancing himself from the Mackintosh kidnapping. Archie had hoped the money being scammed from countless small registered bookies via The Heady Heights show results fix would accommodate the necessary ransom. But Wullie Wigwam had other ideas; a Chibbing primarily.

  Archie finally sat down. But he fidgeted. There was so much to be apprehensive about right now. He still couldn’t visualise an outcome that didn’t involve all of them at the bottom of the Clyde, ankle-deep in concrete. He downed the whisky in one, and then coughed. The show began.

  Heady Hendricks appeared from the side of the stage as he always did. But there was a marked difference this week. The star was dressed head to toe in black. As if going to – or presiding over – a mass.

  ‘Ladeez an’ gennulmen, we have something happening which has never occurred in nearly thirty years of my time with this show…’

  Archie’s heart pounded like an undercover cop in a prison shower block. What was happening?

  ‘Last week, the resounding winners in the studio were those singing Artful Dodgers, The High Five. Now, folks … you may be aware of an ongoing police operation to trace the boys’ manager, Mr Blunt. He appeared on the show last week, an’ has now disappeared along with one of the boys…’

  ‘Jesus fucken Christ!’ Archie protested. ‘Naw, ah didnae!’ It was bad enough to be falsely accused in the newspapers, but Archie had been unprepared for Heady Hendricks to elaborate on the lie on national prime-time television.

  ‘We’ve taken some legal advice, m’friends … an’ despite this, I don’t wanna let the situation stand in the way of these boys’ dreams. It’s not their fault they were duped by this ruthless Scottish Fagin.’

  ‘What the fuck is this, now?’ Archie was shaking. ‘Ah still don’t even know if any ae them are actually missin’!’

  ‘Calm doon, fuck sake. It’s no’ even one ae the important yins, accordin’ tae Chib. It’s that heidcase, Marvin Mountjoy.’ Wullie made it sound like losing track of Marvin was an unexpected bonus. ‘Look, it’s probably just a tactic, son. Another safety net in case they don’t get the files back,’ said Wullie.

  ‘That’s fine for you tae say. It’s no’ your name being branded about as a bloody criminal on the telly, or your picture on the front page ae the papers.’

  They stared at the television set. A series of lorries passed the front of The Wigwam’s house and the horizontal hold went. When it, and the sound returned, Heady Hendricks was standing with a tiny girl dressed in a short, sequined, pale-blue dress. Heavily applied make-up concealed her age. She looked like a disproportionately sized hooker, next to Heady’s slicked-back, stuffed-suited Dracula. It was little Amy, last week’s beaten act. The sound from the TV set remained intermittent, but Wullie and Archie understood that the week-long public vote had produced – melodramatic drum roll, courtesy of Bogart Bridlington – a dead heat between the precocious child star, and the unruly East End High Fivers.

  By Christ, Heady Hendricks was good, thought Archie. He had manipulated this whole fucked-up and ill-considered scam to his own ends. Archie experienced a palpable mix of admiration and fear.

  ‘So, now folks … let’s hear it for this outstanding young talent … an’ lemme say this most sincerely, I think she’s headed for the Heady Heights. It’s Little Amy!’

  The studio audience went crazy. Given his recent experience of it though, he doubted the rapturous applause was genuine.

  Little Amy was a consummate professional. Archie had to admit she deserved to go forward to the following week’s Christmas all-winners special. And, although he still yearned for a life lit by the arc lights, its appeal had gone forever. Even if The High Five pulled off a miracle and won tonight’s show, he had decided he was finished. With the tabloids now on his case, he may be forced to vanish, but regardless, he was done with showbusiness.

  ‘Archie. Archie? Fuck sake, son!’ Wullie Wigwam’s insistent voice. ‘You’re a fucken dreamer, pal. A right Billy Liar. Wake up … that’s them on.’

  Archie had been staring at the Green Lady. For half an hour, according to the bookie. He’d missed the five acts between the opening act and The High Five, who were on last. Wullie dismissed the other five as ‘shite.’ Heady gave no elaborate introduction to The High Five, and they ambled on stage lackadaisically, as if part of a staged counter-culture protest.

  Archie was stunned. They were dressed like tramps. Unrecognisable from last week. The white suits were gone, replaced by ripped T-shirts and what looked like shiny, skin-tight latex trousers. The garish colours of The Wigwam’s TV couldn’t hide the brutal orange and yellow dyed hair and scalps. And, in the biggest shock of all, they were set like a proper band. With instruments plugged in, wires trailing, drums, guitars and a keyboard. And there were five of them. But Archie knew the next day’s papers wouldn’t retract the planted story. The damage had been done.

  Dobber used his drumsticks to count them in. And then Sledge’s guitar line soun
ded like he was sawing the instrument in half. Smudge’s bass made Wullie Wigwam’s set vibrate from more than five hundred miles away. Archie watched open-mouthed, while a slight but noticeable smile manifested itself on Wullie Wigwam’s face.

  ‘You know anythin’ about this?’ said Archie, stunned at the violence and the volume.

  ‘Just watch them, fuck sake. They’re your boys.’

  ‘No fun to be alone, walking by myself

  No fun to be alone, in love with nobody else.’

  Archie didn’t know the song, beyond these lines, which Sledge had been singing periodically in the van on the journey to London. Despite this, it was a riveting performance. Not suitable for primetime, Saturday-night family television, certainly, especially when Sledge shifted the final refrain, over a dirty groove, to:

  ‘This is no fun … no fucking fun … at all!

  Get it right up ye … English cu—’

  The screen went black. The test card appeared after a few seconds. A young girl, not unlike an unmade-up Little Amy, surrounded by confusing graphics and playing noughts and crosses with a boss-eyed doll, stared back at the two Glaswegians.

  As surreal experiences went, Archie knew this one topped the lot. Five minutes passed. Archie sat staring at the technicolour test card. Wullie Wigwam was at the phone table in the hall, speaking quietly. Arranging collections. After a well-spoken continuity announcer made an apology for a technical fault, The Heady Heights was back.

  Six acts were lined up on stage in anticipation of the clap-o-meter. The High Five were, unsurprisingly, absent from the scene. Archie visualised Mary Whitehouse writing apoplectic letters to the head of the BBC and the Queen, demanding they be beheaded. The Daily Mirror reprising their recent ‘The Filth and the Fury’ headline for the second time in three days.

  Heady Hendricks made no reference to the performance when calling for the audience responses. All six remaining acts scored in the seventies, apart from Little Amy, who was way out in front with a staggering ninety-two percent.

  ‘An’ now, m’friends, let’s hear it for the final act … The High Five!’