The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  ‘Aye. A bit. No’ bought it yet though. Jist waitin’ for the aul’ fella tae come back wi’ a case for it,’ said Grant.

  ‘Go oan, then … gie’s a wee tune. Can ye pick up the vibe?’ said Max. He appeared to be struggling with an internal twitch. Either that or he was holding in a massive fart, thought Grant. English Dave was still through in the back shop. So Grant pulled it up and strummed along in tune with the Sound of Young Scotland that was coming from the shop’s sound system.

  ‘Fuck, cunt looks good holdin’ that.’

  ‘Whit?’ said Grant.

  ‘Cocksucker.’

  ‘Whit d’ye call me?’ Grant put the guitar down and squared up.

  ‘Nothin’ man, ah’m sorry. Involuntary spasms. Cannae control them sometimes.’ Max had suppressed the Voice again. His left eyelid was fluttering madly, like a bedsheet drying on a Girvan washing line. ‘Can ye sing? Ah’m gettin’ a band th’gither, like. Fancy it?’ asked Max.

  ‘Dunno. Mibbe,’ said Grant. It had already occurred to him that sitting in his bedroom plucking away at this new toy was probably a bit sad. What was the point of the investment if he didn’t play it in public? And since busking was totally out of the question, a band was a distinct interest. The bizarre individual facing him was unusual to say the least, but when you considered the likes of Adam Ant, Grant reckoned that unusual could be a definite advantage in the music business. This opportunity had emerged much quicker than he’d been ready for but fuck it, what was to be lost?

  ‘Who else is in it?’ Grant enquired.

  ‘Well, her … probably,’ said Max, indicating the barely clothed, blonde-haired female sitting at the drum kit. The driving blues-glam sound of Bryan Ferry’s ‘Let’s Stick Together’ oozed out of English Dave’s sound system. Grant picked up the rhythm, and so did Maggie Abernethy, sitting at the shop’s drum kit. A light bulb was instantly lit above Max’s orange head by the Voice. It took until the end of the song for its significance to be fully acknowledged by Max, the Voice’s host. English Dave’s mix tape ploughed straight into ‘Where Were You?’ by the Mekons. The two players got it instantly; slow, monotone rhythmic strumming gradually giving way to an accelerating drum beat. Max watched mesmerised at the intuitive synchronisation between the pair, and when Grant sang ‘Could you ever be my wife … do you love me?’ at the end of the song, Max Mojo’s dark heart leapt. He’d been watching the eye contact between the two, especially the salacious wink thrown back by the funky female drummer in response. If he could keep the Voice in check and avoid calling Maggie a darkie, he might just have half a group identified on the first day. Max went back over to speak to her. Grant returned to the business of wrapping up his new axe.

  Max shouted over to Grant. ‘Hey mate … she’s up fur it. Whit aboot you … ya fuckwit.’ Max anticipated the inevitable insult and stamped his feet to obscure it. Maggie winked at Grant again. On that basis alone, Grant was in. He walked across, shook Max’s hand, wrote the phone number on his own, and headed out of RGM Music with his guitar case over his shoulder. Max Mojo looked like he was about to have an epileptic fit.

  ‘See ye … YA FUCKIN’ MANKY ONTHANK CUNT, YE!’ Thankfully, a passing Fire Brigade siren meant that Max Mojo’s part of the farewell went unheard by Grant Dale; newly installed guitarist and potential singer with a new Kilmarnock-based band destined – according to the Voice of their Lithium-addled, delusional teenage manager – for the very very, motherfuckin’ top.

  02: THE NAME OF THIS BAND IS…

  Ah ken ye’ll be thinkin’ it wis aw fuckin’ plain sailin’ efter they two hooked up, but wis it fuck. Months went by an’ nuthin’ happened. Ah’m puttin’ that doon tae they doctor cunts upping the dose ae the medication. Ah wis like a fuckin’ zombie for weeks. Ken like Nicholson at the end ae ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’? Well, that, but withoot some big fuckin’ Indian squaw tae pit us ootae ma misery. An’ ah wis absolutely fuckin’ miserable, man. Like Morrissey oot for a walk an’ findin’ that some cunt’s locked the Cemetery Gates. Aye, that bad!

  Anyway, eventually it passed. Ah got the vibe back. It wis aboot this time that ah started wearin’ the patch. Couldnae concentrate on talkin’ tae folk wi’ the eye actin’ like a drunk uncle at a weddin’. So ah fuckin’ covered it up, Captain Hook-like. Ah got back in touch wi’ Grant an’ the darkie lassie. They were still intae it … the band, an’ that, ken? We aw met regular like, at Washer’s church but tae tell ye the truth, they two just pissed aboot like a coupla weans, ken?

  Don’t get me wrang, Norma, ah’d’ve fucked her tae, back then … in the back door, like. Obviously. She had yer typical darkie’s erse. John Brown’s coulda launched a ship doon the middle ae it.

  I ken whit yer probably thinkin’, but hey, ah’m no’ ootae order here, it wis different times back then. Nane ae this fuckin PC shite ye get noo …an’ ah’m no’ a hypocrite either, ya cunt. Ah telt her tae her face, but we’ll fuckin’ get back tae that later.

  Problem wis, Grant thought he wis in love, but she’d been knobbin’ one ae they Quinn pikeys. Don’t think it wid ae stopped her, mind, dirty fuckin’ hoor that she wis … But Washer didnae need the additional aggro fae they blacko cunts, ken? Plus, ah needed Washer’s money, so Grant hud tae be telt tae stop sniffin’ roon her crack.

  Anyway, we’re sittin’ in the Manse, practisin’, meant tae be, but actually gettin’ naewhere fast.

  They last few months ae 82 … fuck me, wis ah glad tae see them go.

  Weller chucks it wi’ The Jam, every cunt’s oan the dole an’ ye cannae walk doon the street for fear ae a fuckin’ car explodin’ aff ae aw they Irish bastarts. So … wi’ the drummer an’ the singer actin’ more like the fuckin’ Carpenters than they two fae the noo … whit are they called again? They White Stripes? Aye, them! … well, we needed a bit ae focus. Ah jist didnae fuckin’ expect it tae come fae where it did, ken?

  9

  18th November 1982

  ‘So where are ye fae?’

  ‘Ah’m fae Shortlees, for Christ’s sake, ye’ve been to the hoose.’ Maggie laughed. She knew what Grant meant, but even though they had been officially going out with each other for three weeks, he was still a bit awkward when they were alone. She found it endearing though.

  ‘Ye ken whit ah mean … originally.’

  ‘Ma dad was from Jamaica originally. He was a fitba player. He played a few times for Celtic tae, in the early 50s. Met ma mam at a dance up in Glesga. She wis only twenty. They went oot a few times, up the dancin’ an’ that, then he signed for an English team. They stayed in touch though an’ she went doon tae see him quite often. He went back tae America in the mid 50s.’

  ‘Did she go wi’ him then?’ asked Grant. She could see him doing the arithmetic in his head.

  ‘Naw, he came back at the start ae the season in 1958. Tae see some pals. He wrote her a letter. Loads ae letters, actually. She saw him … ended up the duff. Ah burst oot in July 1959,’ she said, ‘so, tae answer yer question, ah wis born at Irvine Central … jist like you.’ Maggie smiled, as if she had concluded a children’s story on Jackanory.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell. Dae ye still see him?’ said Grant.

  Maggie drew in the breath through her teeth. ‘No … no no no no no.’

  Grant looked perplexed.

  ‘No’ interested,’ said Maggie. ‘An’ he disnae ken aboot us, anyway.’

  Grant was surprised at this story. It was definitely not what he had expected when he casually asked about it. He felt a bit sad for her, but she definitely didn’t feel sorry for herself. It probably explained her mustang-spirited independence and confidence. Although he didn’t dare say it, Grant also thought it explained her impeccable rhythm and timing – both on the drums and in the back seat of his mum’s new car where they had shagged each other for the first time three days ago.

  He really liked her, and he was sure she liked him. But there remained rough, unpredictable edges to her. The relationship with Rocco, son of Galston gypsy cr
ime boss Nobby Quinn, had ended, according to Maggie. But Grant had recently been advised by his dad’s former colleague, Wullie the Painter, to stay out of Rocco’s way. But Maggie was a uniquely wild proposition. For Grant, who wasn’t massively experienced with girls, it was both a challenge and a source of constant excitement.

  Kid Creole & The Coconuts were singing ‘I’m a Wonderful Thing, Baby’ on the radio at the side of the church hall stage.

  Maggie got to her feet.

  ‘C’mon, lets dance!’

  ‘Ah’m pish at dancin’… just like God, both ae us move in mysterious fuckin’ ways,’ he laughed.

  ‘We’ll need tae fix that then,’ she said, pulling him closer. ‘Cannae have the wee lassies wettin’ their pants ’cos the lead singer moves like a three-legged dug!’

  Maggie moved effortlessly; Grant like he was a puppet whose strings were being operated by Stevie Wonder. At least he was enthusiastic and keen to learn. In fact, she could feel the full extent of his growing enthusiasm as he pressed against her.

  ‘Right then, my lad, let’s have another quick go at “Thirteen”.’ Maggie walked over to the drum kit that had been a permanent fixture on the stage of Washer Wishart’s church hall for four months. She knew this would please Grant because he had loved the song. And he had long-since perfected the chord structure. It was also the song that, back in early August, had persuaded Max Mojo that the tall, handsome Grant was going to be the band’s singer.

  Now though, he wasn’t on the ball enough to realise that Maggie was talking about sex. Big Star’s ‘No. 1 Record’ was playing in Senga’s car’s tape deck as Maggie sat astride him, grinding into his cock and slapping his face rhythmically with her coffee-coloured tits. Her nipples were like blackberries on large, brown saucers. Grant had only ever seen brown-skinned breasts on BBC reports from Africa about starvation. Maggie wasn’t dark brown but the number of coloured people in Kilmarnock could have been counted on the fingers of one hand, and they all worked at the new hospital. It was a resoundingly white environment until the sun shone and turned most a patchy lobster pink.

  Maggie walked beyond the drum kit and stood against the curtained back wall of the stage. She summoned him with a long-nailed forefinger – the same finger she’d so deftly shoved up his arsehole a few days ago. He got up and glided over to her as if he was metallic and she was magnetic, his heart thumping away furiously. She slid down the velvet as she opened her legs, her knickers now draped around her left ankle. As Grant reached her, she grabbed for his belt and undid it quickly. His jeans slid down. The contrast between his white skin and her rich, butterscotch tone was marked. In the dark shadows of the back stage, he appeared ill; spotty-arsed, and with fading sunburn lines where his shorts stopped. She looked ludicrously healthy in comparison. No wonder human milk bottles like him lay out in the sun until it made their pale skin flake like a giant’s dandruff, thought Grant, catching a glimpse of his arse in a sidestage mirror as it pounded away. He had lifted her up and supported her weight. The biceps on his wiry arms flexed. She wrapped her legs around him. Grant’s arse hammered like a pneumatic road drill until they both came together.

  At the back of the hall, Max Mojo was watching all this through a crack in the door. His own stiff cock was in his hand and he was beating away at it furiously. He had come back early, and with some good news. He had suspected that Grant and Maggie were already an item. And although he feigned indifference in front of them, Max had heard from ‘Audrey wi’ the Big Hoose’ that Maggie was still seeing Rocco Quinn, and that was a potential complication they could all do without. Nevertheless, he finished masturbating into an empty crisp bag, dumped it in a bin, wiped his cock on his shirt, and – when they were also finished – burst into the hall to tell them he’d found a lead guitarist and a bass player.

  10

  22rd November 1982

  ‘Des?’ Fat Franny was surprised to see his colleague standing inside the front door of the Ponderosie. ‘Fuck ae you doin’ here? We’re no’ due a meet until Friday. It’s only Monday, Des.’

  ‘It’s yer mam, Franny.’ Des looked pale.

  Fat Franny instantly dropped the bottle of milk in his left hand. It smashed on the top step. He pushed past Des Brick.

  ‘Mam!’ he shouted. He ran to the living room. Her slippers were on the floor, and Neighbours was on, but his mum wasn’t in that room. She wasn’t in the kitchen either, although there was a strange, smoky smell in there. With Des Brick pursuing him up the stairs, Fat Franny eventually found Rose lying asleep in her bedroom, where Des Brick had taken her after calming her down.

  ‘Whit the fuck’s been goin’ oan?’ Fat Franny demanded.

  ‘Boss, ah jist came roon tae pass oan a wee message an’ yer front door wis’ open so ah jist came in.’

  ‘Aye, and? Get tae the fuckin’ point, will ye!’

  ‘Well, Fran … yer mam wis in the kitchen. Ah came in looking for ye, an’…’

  ‘An’ whit? So fuckin’ help me, Des…’

  ‘Yer mam wis tryin’ tae fry lettuce an’ yoghurt in a pan … an’…’ Des had thought twice about the next bit, but with Fat Franny Duncan glaring at him there was no holding back now. ‘… she turns roon an’ says it’s a dinner she’s cookin’ … for JFK an’ Jackie O.’ Des Brick sat on the stairs, halfway down, the pressure of that reveal taking its toll.

  Fat Franny turned and went back into his mum’s room. She had stirred.

  ‘Mum? Are ye okay? Ah wis jist oot at the shop for two minutes. Ah told ye tae stay in yer armchair, remember?’

  ‘Ach, ah’m sorry, son. But we were havin’ guests round. Somebody had tae go an’ see tae them.’ Rose Duncan smiled at her son and reached a tiny hand from under the covers to touch his cheek. ‘Yer such a good boy, Francis. Yer dad would be so proud ae ye, son.’

  Tears welled in both of Fat Franny’s eyes. He rubbed them away quickly.

  ‘Go an’ see tae the Kennedys, son. Ah don’t want them thinking ah keep a tardy hoose.’

  ‘Aye, ah’m jist goin’, Mam. You get a wee rest, noo.’ Fat Franny pulled up the covers and tucked his mum in under them. Just like she used to do for him.

  Des Brick was sitting at the kitchen table when Fat Franny came back down. His eyes were red and moist, but Des knew better than to draw attention to them.

  ‘She okay, Franny?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Fat Franny.

  ‘Ah’m sorry. Ah didnae mean tae startle ye when ye came back earlier.’

  ‘Aye, ah ken. Thanks.’

  ‘Ah got a bit ae a fright myself, like. Ah mean the place was aw smokin’, ken?’

  ‘Aye. Look Des, ah get it. Thanks for comin’ roon. Ah appreciate it. Away and see tae Effie,’ said Fat Franny. He was genuinely thankful, but he was also ashamed that he’d left his old mum in the house by herself, even if it was only for the fifteen minutes or so that it had taken to go and get the milk.

  ‘Okay, mate. Look, ah’ll see ye after. Later in the week, like,’ said Des. He got up and walked to the front door. He looked back briefly to see the Onthank main man stare blankly out of his rear kitchen window to the open green fields beyond. Des Brick let himself out into the descending gloom of the brisk November evening.

  Fat Franny sat upstairs in the darkness of his mother’s bedroom. He watched the covers around her small body gently rise and fall. When he was a wee boy, she seemed so strong, so protective. So immortal. Especially the night she put herself in the way of a beating from Fat Franny’s drunken waster of a father. She’d taken the punches and kicks that were meant for her son. Later that evening, a quarter of a century ago, Abie Duncan had come at the boy again, this time with a broom handle. Again, his mother had shielded him, and only the intervention of a neighbour stopped Franny’s dad from putting his mum in intensive care. There were other times in the four years that followed, but none left their mark on Franny like that night; his eleventh birthday. On the 5th September 1961 – Franny’s fifteenth birthday �
� he and his best friend, the six-foot, four-inch teenager, Bob Dale, battered Abie Duncan to a pulp. After it, an out-of-breath Franny took a ten-bob note that he’d received earlier in the day from his granny, and put it in his father’s top pocket. He told him that if he ever saw him again he’d kill him. It was his birthday present to himself. Rose Duncan never asked her son about where her husband was, and they had never mentioned his name from that day to this.

  Fat Franny now felt totally alone. He had made bad calls in the last year and now felt stranded on an island of his own making. Des Brick had his own, all-consuming problems. Wullie the Painter was only as loyal as the next big job that would pay better. And he wouldn’t trust Terry Connolly as far as he could throw him. Only Theresa, his young girlfriend, could really be trusted now. His business had virtually evaporated in the short time since Bob Dale’s death. That’s why this new tape business had to work. Fat Franny knew he’d taken his childhood friend for granted. He’d abused him, and selfishly assumed he’d always just be there; that he’d always just take the increasingly mean-spirited abuse.

  Paradoxically, it had been Hobnail who had the power all along. People were afraid of him, not Fat Franny. With him gone, the regular payments stopped and the threats went largely unheeded. Everyone’s takings were down. Only Terry Connolly seemed to be making progress. But Fat Franny had made his deal deliberately different to the others, allowing Terry to keep a far greater percentage of the ice-cream van business because he accepted there were higher risks. That was Fat Franny’s necessary cover. Connolly wouldn’t have trusted him otherwise.

  Fat Franny couldn’t believe how quickly it had all deteriorated, although time was a strangely fluid concept in such circumstances. It seemed to him only a few months ago that his mum had started getting confused about the identities of visitors to the house. In actual fact it had begun five years ago. At first the deterioration had been slow, and they’d both laughed, putting it down to normal absent-mindedness. She put clean dishes in the fridge. She went out and left the doors wide open. She began to forget the bus routes into the town centre. She also got lost on the way back to the Ponderosie and Fat Franny had to grovel with gratitude to a young police sergeant who had brought her home. That was two years ago now. Since then, there had been a few other sporadic incidents culminating with the break-in to the house and the theft from the safe of Fat Franny’s money. Fat Franny had been saving that sizeable sum to pay for his mum to be looked after properly, but he couldn’t stop all the bampots turning up at their house, silently judging him for not putting his mum in an old folks’ home years earlier. Now, the money was gone, his income was dramatically reduced – and reducing – and his mum’s decline was accelerating.