The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  Maggie’s motivation to return for the Top of the Pops gig was purely in order to support Grant, who had only agreed to it for the money. But he had selfishly tried to cut the Sylvester brothers’ percentages down further from the paltry £1,000 they were both offered by Max Mojo. The already fractious inter-band relationships descended into pure acrimony, and in the various settlements that followed the dissolution of Biscuit Tin Records in 1997, Maggie had had enough. She departed for a new life in America, taking their young son with her.

  Grant Delgado disappeared from view for more than a decade. The early part of those years was characterised by increasing loneliness, depression, anxiety, drug dependence, claustrophobia, and, latterly, agoraphobia. But there were also intermittent periods of creativity. They manifested themselves in Swiftian stories that combined the absurd and the transcendent. These gradually worked themselves into a novel – an allegory for the self faced with an impending and increasingly bleak denouement.

  The First Picture initially reads as a twenty-four-hour, dreamlike meandering odyssey through key places in an unidentified Scottish city in the mid-90s. A recovering addict searches for something very personal and important to him, which he has lost, or has had taken from him (although there are hints, the reader never exactly finds out what it is). His uncoordinated search forces him to confront various challenges and temptations, the decisions he has made, his broken relationships, the places he somehow can’t leave, but also the joy and hope in things he’s previously taken too much for granted. Overall, the journey seems to represent the catharsis the protagonist needs. The book’s time sequence is uncertain and the story could take place over a year, rather than a day. There are four phases – morning, afternoon, evening and night – each with different weather, reflecting the narrator’s changing emotions.

  The First Picture takes place in 1997, a time when Britain is undergoing a substantial cultural and political transformation, and on the surface, the mood is optimistic. The narrator is the middle of three sons. He is thirty-two years old as he begins his story. His older brother is a social worker, and while capable of helping the narrator, he has given up on him. Their youngest brother has been killed in 1991, aged only twenty-three, when a stag-night prank suggested by the main character went tragically wrong.

  To the irritation of his publishers, Grant pored endlessly over the blurb for his novel, insisting it communicated what The First Picture is about: transformation, and seeing things – relationships, the city, his life – with a new clarity, but not always with the positivity the storyteller has assumed that would bring. The storyteller ultimately comes to the conclusion that, although he knows it will soon kill him, he prefers the anaesthetised life of an addict, in which he doesn’t have to deal with or confront the pain he has caused others.

  The First Picture by Grant Dale was published by a small independent publishing house in spring 2011. The critics responded favourably, one describing it as ‘a mesmerising portrait of modern Western civilisation, with claustrophobic cinematography by Cormac McCarthy and a scatological screenplay by Irvine Welsh’. And for its author, it allowed him to emerge on the other side of his personal wilderness. Grant Delgado found he had rediscovered Grant Dale: an optimistic kid brought up in a socially deprived Scottish council estate during the Thatcher Years. He felt the trajectory he’d reclaimed was an authentic one; one that allowed him to be expressive on his own terms, that didn’t ask him to justify himself to anyone, least of all tiresome leeches like Max Mojo. The ‘rock star’ years were alien to him now. They offered little that was positive, save for the relationship with Maggie and the life they both created.

  Grant had moved to Portland, Oregon eighteen months before his book appeared in print. Maggie had never stopped loving him; she just couldn’t live with Grant Delgado. And Grant Dale couldn’t remain in Glasgow. Creativity needs room to breathe, and the hangers-on, dealers, and nosy music journalists interested in an exclusive, suffocated him, denying him the ability to function. Bewilderingly, he had rediscovered it, himself and the love he felt for Maggie and Wolf, in the city that was now widely recognised as having the most vibrant music scene in the United States.

  Grant ends the call with Alexis, having agreed to meet Steve Buscemi. Little does he know that Steve wants to recast the book in New York. The American will argue that all cities undergo the same type of complex transformation as that of Glasgow, against which the protagonist’s dilemma is painted. The UK in 1997 saw the beginning of the Blair era; New York City had a returning, preening Rudy Guliani, who presided over the lowest crime rates in over twenty years just as many lamented the loss of the city’s soul to cosseted exclusivity and urban gentrification.

  ‘Hi, how’s things?’ says Maggie. She is on a location shoot in Argentina and the line isn’t great. The distance between them is reinforced by the audio quality.

  ‘Aye, fine … ah think,’ he replies.

  ‘What d’ye mean?’ she asks.

  ‘Ach, this film deal thing … the guy wants tae meet me in New York next week.’

  ‘That’s great, Grant, isn’t it?’ Maggie detects his hesitancy. The reason for her calling him might only exacerbate this, she fears.

  ‘Aye, ah suppose so. It’s just that he’s lookin’ for us tae invest. It’s still low budget but in order tae maintain control and get a slot at Sundance, it needs to be financed quickly.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. Grant has been struggling with writer’s block lately, and due to his tempestuous relationship with his publisher, an advance for a new book has not been forthcoming. Maggie’s salary offers them a degree of financial comfort but investing in a film production is another matter altogether. ‘How much?’ she asks.

  ‘Not sure yet, but ah’m guessin’ half a million.’

  ‘Jesus! Pounds or dollars?’

  ‘Might as well be gold fuckin’ nuggets,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘Well, let’s no’ rule it out right away.’

  Grant is surprised by Maggie’s response. Raising this amount of money will be nearly impossible. Maggie has a good job with regular commissions, but Grant’s earnings from his writing are limited. The acquisition of the film rights to the novel is a timely boost, but he won’t promote his work in person and his rate of creative output is laborious. It’s far from the security of a regular and consistent monthly income that a bank might loan against in the new, post-Lehman Brothers era.

  Maggie knows she has to broach her next subject carefully, like a helicopter attempting to land on an oil rig in a force-ten gale. One wrong move and everyone on board is fucked. Nonetheless, she thinks Grant’s unexpected dilemma has given her an opportunity.

  ‘Grant, ah’ve had a few calls earlier today, about the Vespas.’

  ‘Aye, what about them,’ says Grant. His tone has changed.

  ‘Well … Max…’ she pauses. ‘Max has told a journalist that we’re gettin’ back together. Doin’ a tour an’ that,’ she says.

  The reception is getting worse. Maggie is outside and it’s clear to Grant that the wind is rising.

  ‘An’ … so what?’ says Grant. ‘Let him talk aw the shite he wants. Disnae make any difference, does it?’

  ‘But, what if the money’s good? Maybe we should think about it,’ she says.

  ‘Sounds like you aw’ready have,’ says Grant. It sounds just as bitter as he intended.

  ‘It’s a one-off, Grant. One gig, an’ a big payment for everybody. We aw need it, for various reasons.’

  ‘Hey, haud on! You’ve spoken tae him, then?’

  This was the difficult bit for Maggie. Time to just tough it out. ‘Aye. He phoned earlier. He didnae want tae call you ‘cos he was sure ye widnae have spoken tae him.’

  ‘Well, he’d have been fuckin’ right then!’

  ‘Look Grant, this a small gig on a remote wee island. But Max has got sponsorship an’ a load ae interest buildin’. Look at it as the key tae gettin’ the movie goin’.’

  Grant isn
’t really sure what to think. She mentioned a tour to begin with, but now it’s apparently only one gig. He starts to sense that Maggie has known about this for longer than a few hours. His mind races as he contemplates the likelihood that she has spoken with Max Mojo more than once recently, and to the Sylvester Brothers too. But the whole fucking deal depends on him, and whether he is capable of overcoming a number of things: his distrust and hatred of his former friend Max Mojo; his embarrassment over the way he treated Eddie and Simon Sylvester; and, perhaps worst of all, the chronic stage fright he has concealed from everyone for over twenty years.

  He hangs up the phone.

  PART FOUR

  THE BIG BANG (IN THEORY)

  Chapter Thirty

  March 2015. Crosshouse, Scotland

  It is three weeks since Max Mojo has announced to an unsuspecting world that The Miraculous Vespas are reforming. The news has been met with amazement, excitement, apathy and disdain, generally in that order. Max knows they have to act quickly. The downside of twenty-four-hour news media is that everybody’s attention span is shortened. He needs a campaign: a series of stunts that keep the YouTube subscribers interested and active.

  Grant Delgado, the band’s frontman and the key to the whole venture still hasn’t responded to Max Mojo’s numerous emails and calls. So Max is now focusing solely on Maggie Abernethy as his conduit to Grant.

  For his part, Grant has stopped answering his home phone landline. And, in a fit of anger at the upsurge in ‘Have you been mis-sold PPI insurance?’ calls – which he has put down to his number being widely shared back in Scotland – he has thrown his mobile phone into the Willamette. Any negotiations with him are now being conducted via Maggie Abernethy.

  Maggie wants the band to do the gig, and at least one Sylvester Brother is definitely interested. So everthing now rests on Grant Delgado.

  The unopened letter Max has in his hand may provide the answer.

  Max has called a meeting – the venture’s first formal one – at the new base of Heatwave Promotions Ltd: the church hall adjacent to the former Crosshouse Church Manse. The attendees include the three Directors (and equal shareholders) of the company, Max Mojo, Bobby Cassidy and Joseph Miller. Share certificates and Shareholders’ Agreements are yet to be issued – this has been left with Max, who has set the company up with his regular accountants. Each man has contributed £100,000 of their own money to provide the necessary working capital for the ambitious project, which has become known as The Big Bang, due to the noise made when the sign-bearing white van crashed outside. The Big Bang, as noted on the company papers and witnessed by Max and a slightly detached and uninterested Hamish May, will be a one-off music festival held on the tiny Ailsa Craig on the edge of the Irish Sea, just off the west coast of Ayrshire. The date for the event has been set for Saturday, 29th August 2015, giving approximately six months to organise everything. This doesn’t seem like sufficient time to Joseph Miller, but both he and Bobby are being carried along on Max Mojo’s building wave of inspirational optimism. Also in attendance at the meeting are Hammy, who has been given the job of Project Administrator, and Hairy Doug, fresh out of retirement and back to control sound and light equipment, on the promise of recovering the money still owed to him when he was a small shareholder in Biscuit Tin Records.

  The main business of the day is the allocation of specific tasks and an assessment of progress on the ones that were informally discussed when the new business venture was set up. But first comes the opening of the letter from America, which has just been received. The Teenage Fanclub compilation CD, which has been playing in the background, is muted; fittingly, the track was ‘The Concept’.

  Max scans the letter, his brows going up and then down like a pair of dancing caterpillars as he digests the contents.

  ‘Well?’ says Joseph.

  ‘Hmm,’

  ‘Fuck does ‘hmm’ mean?’ says Bobby. ‘Are they in or out?’

  ‘They’re in,’ says Max.

  ‘Really?’ says Joseph. He previously suggested a Plan B, since all of the available evidence pointed to Grant Delgado telling Max Mojo – through a paid intermediary – to go and fuck himself.

  ‘Aye … but at a fuckin’ price,’ says Max.

  ‘Of?’

  ‘They’ll dae it for a million,’ says Max. ‘Sterling, no’ bucks.’

  Bobby isn’t sure which is worse. The UK’s recent political uncertainty seems to have totally shat on the pound to the extent that it often feels like the economy is heading back to one solely based on barter.

  ‘A million fuckin’ quid!’ Joseph is trying hard to stifle an ironic laugh. ‘He’s havin’ a bastard laugh. Christ almighty, they’ve done one album and one single, and if it hudnae been for that film, nae cunt would even give a shite about them. It’s the Ailsa Craig, for fuck’s sake … no’ Oasis at Knebworth.’

  ‘Well, that’s that idea shafted, then,’ says Bobby. ‘Who wis next on the list ae bands?’

  ‘There’s nae next,’ says Max. ‘It’s The Vespas or nothin’.’

  Joseph senses something doesn’t quite fit. Max seems too calm. ‘Are you behind this, ya devious bastard?’ he asks.

  ‘Meanin’?’ says Max, defensively.

  ‘Have you done a deal wi’ the band on the basis ae yer split loyalty as a partner here, an’ their manager?’ asks Bobby.

  ‘Any idea how fuckin’ mental that is, ya cunt? They’re suin’ me for usin’ material in the film that Grant hudnae agreed tae.’

  This is new information to Bobby and Joseph.

  ‘Eh? So how the hell are ye gonnae get them tae play while a fuckin’ law suit’s ongoing?’ Joseph is perplexed. Max’s buoyant optimism suddenly seems holed below the waterline.

  ‘By payin’ the cunts a million, evidently,’ says Max, as if explaining simple arithmetic to a toddler. ‘The rest ae it is just business, man. Fuck sake, cunts sue each other aw the time in this business. Most ae it’s just tae maintain profile. They always settle oot ae court. calm doon, the two ae ye’se … ah ken whit ah’m dain’ here.’

  Max Mojo is mad, Joseph is convinced of it now, but since everyone in the wider Mad Max world seems to be equally so, perhaps his conviction is enough for now.

  ‘So, we raise the million an’ agree, right? Ah wis anticipatin’ this, so we need tae make it seem like a fuckin’ bargain. A campaign strategy that makes this the music event ae the bastart century. If ye miss oot’, ye’d regret it for the rest ae yer life. Like the Sex Pistols at the Manchester Free Trade Hall in ’76 … or Oasis at King Tut’s in Glesga in ’93 … or, even better, The Stone Roses at Spike Island in 1990.’

  ‘Ah was at Spike Island,’ Joseph announces. ‘It wis fuckin’ pish!’

  Bobby is staring at him with a bemused look on his face.

  ‘Jesus, ah fuckin’ though that wis you!’ he says. ‘Ah saw ye, but ah didnae…’ he tails off.

  ‘Aye, ah fuckin’ know ye did. We were aw soakin’ an’ then had tae get held back in a massive crush just tae let a bunch ae arsehole VIPs out.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bobby smiles and looks into the long distance. ‘What a great night that wis!’

  ‘Look, the point is, it’s an event,’ says Max while Joseph glowers. ‘There wis only aboot thirty fuckin’ folk at the Pistols gig, an’ wi aw his mental dancin’ they probably counted Ian Curtis twice!’ Max took a deep breath. ‘But if ye believe the fuckin’ internet, there wis about fuckin’ forty thousand there. Folk are lyin’ cunts when it comes tae this kind ae shite. Ah ken whit ah’m talkin’ aboot.’

  ‘So, if we can only get about five hundred at it, how much are we gonnae have tae charge for a ticket?’ Joseph asks. He can see Hammy trying to work something out on his notebook, in the hope of making a contribution.

  ‘Let’s come back tae that. There’s other stuff we need tae talk aboot first,’ says Max.

  Hammy continues scribbling.

  ‘So if we’ve got the band … at a price, whit aboot the
venue?’

  This is Joseph’s allotted responsibility. While ruminating over their future plans back in Ibiza, a hallucinating Hammy proclaimed that the ‘eyelid’ sketch Joseph had been scribbling resembled a stage, similar to the outdoor one at the Hollywood Bowl. It had lodged in Joseph’s subconscious until just a few weeks ago, when the prospect of actually needing a stage recalled it from the vaults. Joseph has proposed turning the sketch into a lightweight-timber, floating stage, securely moored to prevent the bands getting seasick. It is an interesting if unlikely idea and it will mean that the audience can be retained on the beach, so to speak, and as a result, no additional accommodation will be needed. Of all the tasks, Joseph’s seems to be the most straightforward. And as it is a temporary construction, it falls outside of conventional Building Regulations. In fact, the local council has been totally unsure of how to even categorise the project. Joseph is pressing on with design drawings and detailed discussions with potential builders, while the council searches for some guidance on how to evaluate the structure’s general suitability. Development on the island itself is very strictly controlled, due to sensitivities related to the neighbouring seabird colonies. However, Joseph’s structure floats, it isn’t really a building; in fact it might be more appropriately subject to maritime design regulations. But no one seems quite sure. Max Mojo has covertly contacted local councillor, Cramond Crockett to check.