Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

‘Have you been told to kill me, Vince?’

  ‘What? What the fuck are you talking about, Heady. You’re the closest thing to a father I have.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘All those little side chats with Circle members recently…’

  ‘The Surgeon?’

  ‘They were about me, weren’t they?’

  ‘No … God’s honest, Heady. That vile fucking Scots prick wanted some stupid, inconsequential female journalist dealt with. She’s been asking questions about him for months. I’ve been asked to fix it. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  Vince was convincing, Heady had to acknowledge that, but since the slimy bastard was a professional liar, the jury was still out.

  ‘So, what are you calling me here for?’ asked Heady.

  ‘It’s Operation DWS … just as a precaution.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, you promised me this wouldn’t happen. Mother-fucker!’

  ‘The tall kid broke out of the holding store. He’d fucking shit all over it and smeared it on the door handle! Someone thought he was ill. Thought they should check on him … an’, well … you can guess the rest.’

  ‘Jesus Christ … is it only fucking halfwits that you hire?’ Heady sighed. ‘What about the rest of them?’

  ‘Well … that’s the thing…’

  ‘Oh, for the love of Christ, don’t tell me…’

  ‘They got away. They’re loose … but we’re on their tail, Heady, don’t—’

  ‘Don’t what? Worry? Panic? Shoot my fucking load? Tell me, what in the name of sweet suffering fucksticks don’t you want me to do, eh?’

  ‘Don’t answer anything by your own name. From now on, you must be Daryl W. Seberg. Any time there’s a call … the door rings … even in front of Albert.’

  ‘You little prick!’

  ‘It might not come to it, but it’s only for a few months, max … until the papers lose interest.’

  ‘They won’t lose interest in me goin’ to fucking Wormwood Scrubs, you bloody clown!’

  ‘It won’t reach that point. I promise you.’

  ‘Well, that’s about as comforting as Mick McGahey being put in charge of my personal fucking taxation! We’d be better off dead!’

  Heady Hendricks was certain that the whole pack of cards was going to collapse. His career, his reputation, his freedom. The Circle would survive though. Too many invested interests.

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ said Vince.

  He was putting out fires all over the place. Tracking the movements of Glaswegian wasters and young female journalists – crooks and opportunists – and all because of a handful of overprivileged, preening wankers who considered themselves above and beyond the law. He hated these disgusting, deviant cunts, but their money was plentiful. His growing business was built on its foundations. He had long since learned to sup with a very long spoon.

  ‘Get some rest, Heady. I need to go to Manchester for a week or so. But you keep your head down … and remember … it’s Daryl W. Seberg.’

  38

  December 1976 – Tuesday

  He saw shapes in the shadows. Snakes in the grass. Threats around every corner. The subconscious was a powerful foe when it chose to take arms against its host. He had no respite. He hadn’t properly slept since … well, that night at Eddie’s place in London. Archie Blunt was running on empty. The cool release of the bampot’s blade might even have been welcome.

  The rain battered down. That damp, stale smell of clothes only washed by smog-infused water stuck to him. Hung around him like a stench of decay. He had no money for food, never mind the steamie.

  He turned the corner. A line of men stretched out from the Dunne Driving compound. Bets being squared, or debts recovered? It was hard to tell from this distance. Archie joined the end of the queue.

  ‘What’s the score, pal?’ he asked the man in front of him.

  ‘You work wi’ The Wigwam?’

  ‘Aye. Well … an associate, more like,’ said Archie. It sounded better.

  ‘He’s emigrated,’ the man said. ‘Sold up, an’ fucked off. Sunny Spain, ah heard. Lucky bastart.’

  Archie’s mouth gaped open. He felt the little colour there was drain out of him. It was like the atomic bomb strike on Nagasaki. All that would be left of him after this shocking truth hit home was a shadow.

  ‘Gone? But … but how?’

  ‘Dunno. Just had enough probably. Chib dyin’ hit him hard. Chib was like a son tae him, y’know?’

  Archie stood motionless. Nothingness.

  ‘Know him, did ye? Chib, ah mean?’

  Archie didn’t answer. The man shrugged to his colleagues and the queue edged closer to the cabin door. He didn’t feel his feet moving. Didn’t feel anything. But somehow, eventually, Archie was inside the cabin.

  ‘You are?’ The serious man behind the desk that used to be The Wigwam’s was taking names, ticking them off like an administrator shutting down the Parkhead Forge Steelworks. The room was bare, Archie noticed. Celebrity pictures; gone. Sledgehammer; gone. His own future; all gone.

  ‘Erm, Blunt. Archie Blunt.’ Drool was running out of a mouth that seemed to be incapable of closing.

  ‘Here,’ said the man. He handed Archie an envelope. ‘Next!’

  Archie walked away. He felt he might cry. Not from the shock of the betrayal from a wide Glaswegian bookie. No, from the knowledge of what was inside this envelope. He didn’t even need to open the fucking thing.

  It was a discombobulated Archie who met WPC Sherman later that December afternoon. With everywhere on early closing, they walked in the bitter cold towards Celtic Park. Once over the unusual coincidence surrounding their first meeting, Barbara reassured Archie that the fire at his dad’s home had been a complete accident; nothing more suspicious. Had his dad been in one of the old tenements, the spread of it might have been less rapid. The internal walls of his new home were made out combustible timbers and a flammable boarded lining. The kitchen was a burned-out shell and had affected those above and either side too. Barbara only told him of the extent of the blaze to reinforce how lucky his father had been.

  Archie was ashamed as he told the off-duty policewoman of his guilt. They sat on the wet park bench. He wept uncontrollably. She put a comforting arm around him. He was embarrassed. The policewoman could be his daughter, she was so young. A clichéed indication of advancing age. He suddenly felt very old. Distraught and vulnerable too.

  She could see it. She knew there was more to his emotional pain than met the eye. She detected his need to confide. She’d make a proper police officer, one day. One that understood the perspective of others, and didn’t rush to judgement.

  And Archie told her. Far more than he perhaps should have. He told her about Heady Hendricks. About Jimmy Rowntree and the young boys from Bridgeton on the run in a busted fish-and-chip van. About Geordie McCartney, and his descent into darkness at The Balgarth; hopefully he was now out of the direct line of fire. About Wullie Wigwam, the thieving bastard, uprooted and sunning himself on the Costa del Sol. Only Archie was left, still holding photographs and evidence that would shock the telly-watching nation. He dearly wished he’d just thrown the fucking things in the Clyde; or had never taken them in the first place. What had he got out of them? A preposterous shot at being someone famous; someone his dad might be proud of.

  Barbara listened. It was all that she could do at this point. But she was joining the dots. The many, many threads – random when examined individually, but wound together, they began to make sense. The Balgarth, Jamesie Campbell, Heady Hendricks. Lachie Wylie.

  She asked, but Archie wouldn’t give her the material. He said it would only endanger her life.

  Archie didn’t know what to do next. He felt a noose tightening slowly around his neck.

  Barbara had an idea. She left him. She needed time to think it through. To confide in a trusted contact. She told him to stay safe and she’d be back in touch soon. She kissed him gently on the cheek.r />
  He watched her until she was out of sight. Archie was shaking. A sudden fear that they’d been observed from a distance. That this considerate young woman would be found floating face down in the river before the day was out. The thought of his actions having such finite consequences for others was too much for him to bear. He suddenly had a desperate urge to anaesthetise his agony with booze.

  39

  December 1976 – Christmas Eve

  Archie Blunt was home. Alone. The compact flat, which, only three weeks before, was alive with the anxious anticipation of four men, all dreaming of a better life, was now silent. A small artificial Christmas tree, bought and carelessly erected when the collective optimism was at its peak, now just emphasised how irrational and stupid they had been. Its few lights blinked, winked. Taunting him. The pittance left to him by a duplicitous, double-crossing cunt of a man was gone. Blown on a day-long bender. Archie was still drunk; had almost drunk himself sober. Almost, but not quite. His da remained in hospital, delirious and demented. Geordie McCartney had gone too. Implemented a voluntary redundancy option and been accepted for a council flat in Cumbernauld. Agreeing to such a location arguably made him as demented as Archie’s da. But the speed with which that turn of events had occurred meant it had been in the works for some time. Maybe Archie deserved Geordie’s lack of trust.

  Jimmy Rowntree was still on the run in an antiquated van; fuck knows where. His planned business venture had about as much hope and viability as a spaceship launched from Sauchiehall Street.

  And Archie still had these fucking photographs. The only thing currently saving him, he assumed, was the erroneous belief that The Wigwam had them, and that, in the Heady Heights scam, Archie Blunt was merely an ignorant foot soldier.

  Archie fiddled with the bent coat-hanger. The TV picture stabilised sufficiently for him to see Jimmy fixing it for a buck-toothed brat from Hull to meet Freddie Mercury. He looked thin, did Mercury. Archie had given up hating him and his pretentious pomposity. That song, the bismallah bollocks one, was still everywhere over a year after it first came out. Too late for jealousy now. Freddie Mercury would never have given his only taped copy of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ to the local gangsters with no collateral. But, ostensibly, that’s exactly what Archie had done three months ago. He had trusted Wullie Wigwam, who had first employed him, then took advantage of him, and had now ground his dreams into the Glasgow whindust.

  Archie got up slowly. The alcohol in his system limited his pace. He flicked the switch; telly off, radio on. Better for drowning the sorrows … and there were many sorrows. He poured a Chivas, and for old time’s sake, paired it with a Vat 69. Archie was drunk and depressed, travelling through a three-day tunnel of blackness with no light in sight. Music drifted in and out through the jaggy maze of his tangled brain.

  Gazin’ at yer navel through the bottom of a glass wi’ yer head up yer arse is quite a scatological feat, Archie the cunt!

  Archie registered the voice; a high-pitched one. It sounded familiar. He picked up the radio and shook it.

  ‘Wireless pickin’ up the fucken taxis again,’ he muttered to himself.

  Even Jim Rockford had deserted him. The gaudy tinsel shivered as he aimed a wayward kick at one of the tree’s low-hanging baubles.

  Naw, ya clown, behind ye. That high-pitched squeak. Ye fucked it up, Blunt, just like you always dae. Nearly feel sorry for ye. Couldnae just drop it, could ye? No point greetin’ about it now, son… Chib Charnley leaned against the narrow fireplace. He was in front of the mirror hanging above it, but the mirror wasn’t doing its job. Don’t beat yerself up … there’s a queue here waitin’ tae dae that for ye! And with a lopsided, gumsy grin, Chib – the Carntyne Cat – was gone.

  Cold sweat rolled down Archie’s neck. He stared at the wall, its damp, peeling, flowered brown wallpaper. The Green Lady, frowning, not smiling. The pitch to The Wigwam was a ludicrous dream, he could see that now. But it had been one conceived with his da in mind. He couldn’t find the words to explain that. And now, he was alone. In a purgatory of his own construction.

  Archie flopped onto the couch, exhausted. He dozed. His eyes opened, and he was uneasy; he could smell Chanel No 5. Bet’s. But some other lass in a Mary Quant dress appeared and smiled lovingly at him. He didn’t recognise her. At first.

  Hello. That familiar voice.

  ‘Bet, is that you?’

  Oh, aye darlin’… an’ we’re goin’ dancin’. She took his hand and they whirled. When they stopped, they were in the Barrowland Ballroom. It was Christmas Eve 1960, and Jimmy Rowntree was on the bell. Archie saw his young self and Betty dancing. She wasn’t Betty Blunt back then. Not yet. He’d cut in and taken her back from some other, older walloper whose hands were wandering. Proud of himself for taking the initiative, for plucking up the courage in the face of potential aggro, and that she’d allowed him to escort her home afterwards. Weeks after they’d first met. They’d circled around each other. Courted. But that was the night he knew she was the one. She was the prize.

  ‘Can we stay here awhile?’ he asked.

  No!

  Archie turned to see Bet changing. She was beautiful and wearing her mother’s wedding dress. Grasping Archie’s sweaty hand, they revisited scene after scene of Archie letting her down, him always ending with the broken-record plea: ‘It’ll be different, next time, Bet … ah promise ye!’

  Archie Blunt, distressed and teary. He howled like a starving baby deprived of the tit.

  ‘Jeez, Bet, what dae ah need tae do, hen? Gie’s a fucken clue!’

  The radio was now playing ‘Sammy and the Radio Man’. His song. What kind of fucked-up practical joke was this? It was like a concrete boot to Archie’s aching balls. He flicked the switch, back to the telly. Val Doonican was there, rocking back and forth … back and forth. Back and forth. Archie, alone again. Just him and the drink. The drink and him. And this fucking Doonican joker murdering his song. All canines and cardigan, soft light and sincerity. Killing him softly. Val’s rendition of Archie Blunt’s song. How was that even possible?

  Archie, remember the best Christmas? Archie knew immediately. 1969. Beautiful. Perfect. The woman on the tiny TV screen was speaking directly to Archie. It was Val Doonican’s special guest, Brenda Lee. She dedicated her song to him; ‘Sweet Nothings’.

  That’s all we’ll ever have, Archie, sweet nothings.

  ‘But Bet, ah always loved ye. Always.’

  Mibbes aye, mibbes naw. Sweet nothings.

  Archie stood on shaking legs. The Vat 69 took a fall. Betty was gone, forever. It was still only half past ten. His song suddenly played on the radio. That fucking radio! Archie heaved it, shot-putt style. It smashed against the fireplace. But still, the song played on; like the catalyst of all his pain. Archie vomited. What the fuck was happening to him? Mental breakdown? Only an excuse. He looked at the clock. Ten minutes to midnight. Maybe there was still time.

  40

  December 1976 – Hogmanay

  The clarity of purpose that followed the weirdest night of his previous fifty-odd years evaporated gradually over the subsequent days. Archie Blunt spent Christmas Day alone. It hadn’t been the first time, but it was certainly the worst time. The loneliness of his life was now more painful than anything he had previously encountered. He was in a holding pattern where the bottle temporarily assuaged his remorse before the brutal hangovers brought it all back, and more viscerally with every passing day. Archie considered himself to be a fundamentally decent man, but the bad things he’d either been responsible for – or had been easily led towards – were returning to haunt him. In his more lucid moments, he was grateful that his conscience forced him to remember them. Rank evil bastards like Wullie Wigwam evidently had no such remorse. If any consolation was to be had now, it’s that he had never veered down the road that those types had ultimately chosen.

  Archie sat in The Horseshoe Bar staring at his glass, as the bells tolled in another time zone on a television set above the ba
r. He wanted to be out of the East End and away from the need to lie. There was exaggerated happiness in the air. For auld lang syne, my friend. It would most likely dissipate into violence once the bampots that frequented the city centre’s cobbled lanes and sheltered doorways got to work. A&E would see visitor numbers soar to levels only normally experienced in the aftermath of an Old Firm match. It’d be a two-day shift since there was another Glasgow derby the following day. Revellers, prostitutes and innocent bystanders were the typical post-Hogmanay casualties. Archie was determined not to be one of them. It had felt like he’d been under self-imposed house arrest this last week and he was now glad of the temporary freedom of a day release into the city. But when the sounds of Big Ben rang, it would only remind him of how lost he was without Bet to kiss and make daft, irrational resolutions for the year ahead with. And even his da, to reminisce about the good old days of the music halls.

  ‘Excuse me … can I buy you a drink, mister?’ Archie heard the voice but didn’t turn; naturally assuming it was addressing someone else. ‘Happy New Year, when it comes, by the way.’ A fragile hand with bony fingers reached around from behind Archie. He turned to face the person it was attached to.

  ‘Eh … aye, you tae, hen.’ Archie shook the young woman’s hand. She looked familiar, but Archie couldn’t place her.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Archie was confused. He’d almost forgotten the anxiety of being approached in a Glasgow pub by a stranger who appeared to know him.

  ‘Eh … aye, aw’right. Whisky.’

  Archie watched the young woman order. He quickly scanned the heaving bar for signs of any interested associates. It was unheard of for a young woman to be in a city-centre bar alone. Most of the East End pubs still didn’t admit women at all, not unless they were going to be behind the bar. She must be with someone else. The Horseshoe had the longest bar of any pub in Europe but on Hogmanay, there was barely room to stand, let alone sit. The woman seemed – like Archie – to be on her own. She bought two drinks; one for each of them.