The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  ‘So what’s yer plans then?’ Lizzie asks.

  ‘Don’t really know,’ he replies. He stares into the distance, across the Firth of Clyde.

  ‘Ye should do somethin’ really memorable; somethin’ big that would have made him proud,’ she says.

  ‘Aye,’ he says, but he still stares, transfixed.

  The doorbell rings, breaking the spell.

  ‘Look, ah should go,’ he says. ‘It wis good tae see ye again, Lizzie. Can ah see ye again, sometime?’

  ‘Let’s see, eh,’ she says. ‘Couldnae take too many emotional breakfasts like that yin every week!’ She smiles.

  ‘Aye, a bit intense, eh? We should just take it slow … be a bit like the Nescafe Gold Blend couple.’ He heads to the door, shimmying past a plumber who has arrived to fix Lizzie’s temperamental boiler.

  Bobby says goodbye and kisses her on either cheek; he’s a continental, she remembers. He emerges from the shared-entry front door. Ailsa Craig is right in front of him. It seems closer than it did from the third floor. An optical illusion, no doubt, but it reinforces a new idea that flashed into his head just as Lizzie spoke to him. He fishes his mobile out of his inside jacket pocket. He punches a speed-dial number.

  ‘Joey? Aye, it’s me. We need tae meet. Ah’ve got it … the big idea, ah mean!’

  Bobby makes another call; a very overdue one. It’s to his sister Hettie. It isn’t a long conversation. Despite the more intense emotional history with Lizzie, Bobby found it easier to converse openly with her than with the youngest member of his immediate family. He puts this down to the inescapable notion that he wronged Hettie. His guilt over this has had him believe that she has never forgiven him. But now he needs her to. And, over the course of the tenminute phone call – the first time they have spoken in years – she does just that. It is the catalyst they need to move on and start repairing their fractured relationship.

  Like many things in his life, he can’t fathom why he didn’t reach this cathartic point sooner.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  February 2015. Crosshouse, Scotland

  Max Mojo wanders around the church hall of the Manse in Crosshouse, where he grew up and where The Miraculous Vespas were born. When he looks up at the ceiling, as he does often, he puts his monocle in.

  ‘Dae you actually need that daft fuckin’ piece ae glass, or is it a Chris Eubank thing?’ says Bobby Cassidy.

  Max ignores him.

  ‘Whit the hell are ye lookin’ at, Max? Ah cannae see anythin’ up there.’

  ‘The future, Bobcat … ah’m lookin’ at the future.’ Max has a look. It’s one that many past associates took cover from. It usually meant trouble of some description. ‘Ah’m gonnae turn this place intae a museum, man.’

  ‘A museum? Are they no’ aw aboot the past?’

  But Max isn’t listening. ‘A museum celebratin’ the greatest an’ most influential rock an’ roll band there’s ever been.’

  ‘Whit … the Goombay Dance Band?’ jokes Bobby.

  Again, this floats way past Max Mojo. He’s in the zone and outwith the reach of west of Scotland bampottery. ‘When’s that cunt Joey turnin’ up?’ he barks,

  ‘He’s just comin’,’ says Bobby. ‘Ah’ve also got a meetin’ wi’ him about this gig we’re thinkin’ about, so he better be here soon.’

  ‘Gig? Whit gig? Who’s playin’?’ Max is suddenly interested.

  ‘Ach just a wee thing tae honour ma brother, Gary. We’re gettin’ the Heatwave Disco Show back th’gither,’ says Bobby proudly. ‘Maybe in a wee school hall on Arran or our auld school in Killie, just for a laugh, ken?’

  ‘Fifty-one-year-old DJs in a tiny school dinner hall that’s aulder than them?’ says Max dismissively. ‘An’ on a bloody island, tae! Aye, fuckin’ sign me up for that yin! Hope Emmerdale’s no’ on at the same bastard time.’

  ‘Fuck off, ya sarcastic prick,’ says Bobby.

  ‘Where’s yer ambition? Dae a “gig”, aye … but for fuck’s sake dae it right. Yer brother’ll be up there in heaven tellin’ aw his deid mates “Look at whit ma wee bro’s gonnae dae for me”,’ says Max theatrically. ‘He’s gie’n it “Wembley Stadium this, an’ the Hollywood Bowl that”, an’ then you go an’ book the hall at the Arran YMCA? Ye’ll make the poor cunt a fuckin’ laughin’ stock up there! He’ll never be able tae walk doon the Paradise Promenade wi’ Hendrix an’ Cobain again.’

  Bobby laughs. There is something in Max’s bizarre analogy. The original idea that emerged as he left Lizzie King’s Troon home was to do something on an island. He and Joey Miller spent hours talking about the words Gary had written and why they had meant so much to him. But Bobby had tempered that initial dream, fearing that Joey – Mr Pragmatism – would ridicule him for it, or worse, accuse him of not taking the whole thing seriously. So he took the easy route; the low-budget, low-risk venture. Max Mojo was madder than a box of frogs on LSD, but at least he pursued his ventures with commitment and conviction. Perhaps there was something to be learned from that.

  ‘Aye, finally,’ says Max, looking up. ‘It’s ma high-priced design consultant.’

  ‘High-priced, eh?’ says Joseph Miller. He has worn a suit to reinforce his professionalism. ‘That mean ah’m gettin’ paid then?’

  ‘In kind, brother Joey, in kind,’ says Max, extending a raised hand, high five-style, which Joseph takes awkwardly.

  Joseph spots the two Laphroaig bottles: one empty, one heading that way. ‘Ye can keep yer blowjobs, Max. Ah’m by wi’ aw that now.’

  ‘How ye been, Joey? Whisky?’

  ‘Aye, fair tae pish, generally speaking. You?’

  ‘No bad, buddy. The fuckin’ film’s dain’ well an’ there’s clamour for the band tae, like. Me … ah’m restin’ up ower in the South ae France. Life’s fuckin’ magic.’

  Bobby Cassidy observes this exchange from the edge of the low, wooden stage at one end of the hall, but his mind is elsewhere, preoccupied by other concerns.

  Joseph Miller wasn’t ever close to Max Mojo, or his earlier incarnation, Dale Wishart. But Joseph did once work for Max’s father, Washer Wishart. While Bobby Cassidy and Hamish May spent the mid-80s working in clubs overseas, the young Joey Miller was designing one for Max’s father, in the very building they are all now standing in. As the extensive fallout from Operation Double Nougat diminished, the infamous Glasgow ice-cream gang wars – which almost swallowed this small Ayrshire community, and certainly derailed The Miraculous Vespas’ career – forced change. Washer planned to convert the church hall into a nightclub. Legitimate business was the aim, and it was also a principal part of the posttrial conditions of the family’s involvement in the Malachy McLarty sting. Washer’s lieutenant, Gerry Ghee, knew that a local kid, Joey Miller, was studying architecture. The student was approached with an offer-he-couldn’t-refuse-style deal and appointed to design a new club. For three years, his outrageously expensive creation was lauded. It was named The Biscuit Tin after the record label Max had started from his bedroom. It had a sparse, industrial-style aesthetic, and, as the second summer of love fizzled out in a late-80s dilated, smiley-faced haze, the club became a focus for thrill-seeking kids from all over the west of Scotland. However, as its reputation grew, based on innovative music and edgy, provocative DJs, so too did its attraction to both the local police and assorted drug squads. In 1990, raid after raid eventually forced its closure. Nevertheless, The Biscuit Tin retains a legendary status that persists to the present day. Max Mojo, who held onto the building after his father died in 2007 and his mum moved to be with him in the South of France, is back and looking to invest in a new business.

  ‘So, what’s the script then?’ asks Joseph.

  ‘Ah’m lookin’ at a museum … but one wi’ a stage an’ a bit tae get some fuckin’ food, an’ maybe a couple ae guest bedrooms an’ a massive fuckin’ jukebox an’ memorabilia … oh, an’ a big cunt ae a film screen showin’ cult movies tae.’

  Max Mojo is pointing at vari
ous parts of the hall as he rhymes off the component parts of the brief. It’s clear to Bobby and Joseph that he already sees it all in his head. Even in the wake of suspect financial viability, such a vision is addictive and inspiring. And Joseph thinks he may well have something. Bobby, though is lost in his own daydreams. His eyes are growing wider. Joseph Miller is, therefore, a practical anchor between two drifting dreamers. It is a position he knows well.

  ‘So, whit dae ye’se fuckin’ think boys?’ says Max.

  ‘Ah think we’re gonnae dae the Heatwave Disco gig on the Ailsa Craig,’ proclaims Bobby Cassidy.

  Joseph and Max turn sharply to look at him.

  ‘Ye whit?’ says Joseph.

  ‘Now yer fuckin’ talkin’, ya cunt,’ says Max, simultaneously.

  ‘Aye … the gig for Gary, we’ll dae it on the island. A Heatwave Disco rave on a remote desert island. It’ll be fuckin’ magic!’ says Bobby.

  ‘How much ae that stuff have you had, mate?’ asks Joseph.

  ‘S’a fuckin’ brilliant idea … like somethin’ Bill Drummond wid dae,’ says Max.

  ‘Who?’ says Bobby.

  ‘The dude fae the KLF. Used tae manage the Bunnymen tae, an’ sent them oan that mental tour ae the Western Isles, ’member?’ says Max.

  ‘Aye,’ says Joseph. ‘Lost a fuckin’ fortune. In fact, he burned a fuckin’ fortune at the Brits, did he not?’

  ‘Mental,’ says Max, full of obvious admiration. ‘But in a good way, like.’

  ‘Ah dunno, Bobby,’ says Joseph, pouring another whisky.

  ‘Come on, man,’ says Bobby. ‘Let’s fuckin’ go for it.’

  ‘How dae ye know this is whit he would’ve wanted?’ says Joseph.

  Max gets up and walks through into the main house, leaving the two other men on the stage. Darkness is descending outside, but not in Bobby Cassidy’s heart.

  ‘The words … his story, it’s aw there, man. It wis you that showed me them!’

  ‘But they last sentences … the ones about killin’ somebody. That doesn’t indicate happiness.’

  ‘The Man Who Loved Islands … it’s right there in the title. He’s the man. It’s him! We’ve got tae dae it there!’ says Bobby.

  There’s a pause as both think about the premise: Bobby Cassidy, on the possibilities, Joseph Miller on the complex logistics.

  ‘No’ sure, man’ says Joseph.

  ‘Only one way tae find oot!’ says Max. He has returned with a box under his arm. ‘Ouija board … let’s ask the cunt!’

  Despite Joseph’s scepticism, they set up the board; three men in their fifties in various stages of spirited drunkenness.

  ‘You believe in ghosts, then?’ Joseph asks Bobby as they watch an energetic Max create the right conditions for some of them to visit.

  ‘Naw. The closest I’ve come to seeing a ghost is watching Hammy trying to put on a white duvet cover.’

  Joseph says, ‘Maybe we should just go an’ ask Fat Franny Duncan. That auld cunt knows more about dead folk than a bag ae maggots.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, is he still livin’?’

  ‘Dunno. Let’s ask Mystic Max here tae check.’

  Max has lit candles and brought down his old record player and a few boxes of records – one of the principle attractions in the planned, new Miraculous Vespas / Biscuit Tin Records Museum.

  ‘It’s like a fuckin’ Madonna video in here,’ laughs Joseph.

  ‘…But without the virgins or the Jesus yin!’ observes Bobby.

  ‘Ah’m like the Jesus yin,’ says Max. ‘An’ naebody fucks wi’ the Jesus. In fact, when aw this is by, ah’m gonnae be bigger than that cunt!’

  ‘Aye, aw right Lennon, haud yer pish in, eh?’ says Joseph. Max puts the needle to the record.

  ‘Whit’s this?’ asks Bobby, of the elegiac, ethereal music coming out of the record player’s speaker.

  ‘Cocteau Twins,’ says Joseph before Max can.

  ‘Every cunt kens that Liz Fraser’s voice is the first thing ye hear when ye get tae heaven. Ah’m just tryin’ tae make yer brother feel at hame.’

  Max seems convinced of this course of action. Bobby and Joseph are simply indulging the former Miraculous Vespas svengali. He’s clearly bonkers, but entertainingly so.

  Elizabeth Fraser’s celestial vocals fill the church hall. Max has put on the Treasure LP. It might be the whisky, but Bobby is starting to feel a spiritual vibe.

  ‘Right, get ’roon the table,’ Max commands. He has set up a small tressle table right in the middle of the hall.

  A beautiful acoustic guitar line gives way to Liz singing impenetrable and indecipherable lyrics in praise of Ivo Watts-Russell, the 4AD record label boss. One of these days, Grant Delgado will sing similarly in praise of Max, he’s sure. The whisky bottles now number three. The board is wooden and rectangular in shape. It has black letters of the alphabet in a soft curve, and the words ‘Yes’, ‘No’, ‘Good’ and ‘Bye’ around them. Max uses a guitar plectrum as the planchette. Nice touch, thinks Bobby. Max reaches into his pocket and brings out a bottle. It looks like it’s for perfume. Bobby and Joseph glance quickly at each other before Max suddenly sprays both of them in the face.

  ‘Fuck sake, Max!’ shouts Joseph.

  ‘Aye, whit’s the Hampden?’ Bobby yells.

  ‘Holy water!’ says Max. ‘Calm doon, for fuck’s sake. Ye’se never done this before? Ye cannae summons the spirits without protection!’

  ‘Think you’ve summoned too many spirits aw’ready, ya daft bastard!’ says Joseph looking at yet another empty glass at Max’s wrist.

  Max has turned the music down but its otherwordly ambience is still detectable.

  Max begins:‘If there’s any evil or harmful spirits here wi’ us, get oot now an’ never return,’ says Max, as serious as either Bobby or Joseph has ever heard him before.

  Joseph sniggers.

  Max digs his nails into Joseph’s palm. ‘You are no’ welcome … ye’ve never been welcome … an’ will never be welcome here!’

  Joseph thinks Max is speaking to him until he realises he isn’t.

  ‘Now … if there’s any good spirits in here, especially yins called Gary … if ye want tae talk tae us, we’re here, an’ we’re aw ears!’

  ‘What if we get Gary Glitter?’ whispers Bobby. ‘Ah dinnae want tae talk tae that dirty bastard. Should ye no’ have been more specific?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, there’s somebody about!’ whispers Max.

  ‘Gary Glitter isnae fuckin’ deid anyway,’ says Joseph.

  ‘Ach, ye know what ah mean,’ says Bobby.

  ‘Gie it a fuckin’ rest, eh? The spirits are assemblin’,’ whispers Max.

  Suddenly the planchette moves. All three have their hands on it. Joseph is convinced Max is moving it. Bobby isn’t so sure.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ asks Max. The plectrum seems to be vibrating. The door to Max’s spirit world seems to be opening. The plectrum with fingers from the three men touching it moves to ‘Yes’. Joseph remains sceptical. Bobby is mesmerised.

  ‘Do ye ken anybody here?’ asks Max.

  The plectrum moves closer to ‘No’ before swiftly and smoothly gliding back to ‘Yes’.

  ‘Are you happy, spirit?’ asks Max.

  The plectrum moves to ‘No’, and stays there.

  Max looks worried.

  ‘Maybe we’ve got the cunt up out ae his bed,’ says Joseph. ‘Maybe he was oan the night shift!’

  The plectrum moves sharply to ‘Good Bye’.

  ‘Fuck sake, man. Ye’ve upset that yin. Ye need tae fuckin’ take this seriously or else there’s nae point.’

  Joseph reluctantly accepts this rebuke from Max Mojo. It is approaching midnight and they’ll now need to stay the night in the Manse. It would be counterproductive to provoke a fight. More whisky is poured. Varying the theme, but only slightly, This Mortal Coil’s LP is now playing. They begin again.

  After the preliminaries, a new spirit is asked: ‘Are you Ga
ry … of the Ayrshire Cassidys?’ Max has asked this in a way that makes the Ayrshire Cassidys sound like a family dynasty from Game of Thrones rather than McPhail Drive. But Joseph manages to stifle the laughter.

  ‘Yes’ indicates the plectrum.

  Joseph can detect Bobby’s deeper breathing.

  ‘Do you know anybody here?’ asks Max. Slowly, but again surprisingly smoothly, the plectrum spells out the words ‘B-O-B-B-Y’ and ‘J-O-E-Y’.

  ‘Do ye have a message for us, Gary?’ asks Bobby, his voice trembling slightly. Max looks at him sharply as if he has spoken out of turn.

  Bobby looks back and shrugs his shoulders.

  The plectrum says ‘Yes’.

  ‘We want tae dae a memorial in yer honour, Gary … somethin’ ye would be proud ae, an’ ah’ve had this idea tae hold it oan the Ails—’

  ‘Haw,’ Max interrupts. ‘Too much, man! Short questions or the spirits cannae answer them,’ he scolds.

  ‘How no’?’ asks Joseph.

  ‘Fuck should ah ken!’ says Max. ‘Ah just ken. Somethin’ tae dae wi’ the narrowness ae the communication lines,’ says Max.

  ‘Nae superfast broadband in heaven then?’ Joseph jokes. Max glowers at him.

  ‘Spirit, are ye still there?’ asks Max.

  ‘Yes’, indicates the plectrum.

  ‘School Hall or Island?’ asks Max, cutting to the chase.

  Joseph wonders if the spirit has been fully aware of the context of the question, but says nothing.

  The plectrum spells out ‘I-S-L-A-N-D’. They all glance at each other as if a breakthrough has just been made.

  ‘Do you want a memorial on the Ailsa Craig?’ asks Max with the formality of a High Court Judge.

  A wind whistles through the cracks. The candles blow out. And an almighty thudding bang is heard outside the church hall.

  ‘Jesus Christ, man!’ says Joseph. ‘Nearly had a fuckin’ heart attack there.’