The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  Max and Grant’s trip back into the city centre was surprisingly muted. Trains full of drunken Scots bemoaning another defeat at the hands of the auld enemy didn’t auger well for the London Underground staff on duty that night. However, the teenagers didn’t see any real trouble. Grant was convinced he saw two older guys pointing at them as they came out of the stadium and trudged down Wembley Way. It was of note because he was sure he’d seen them at Trafalgar Square earlier in the day as well. He became more suspicious when he saw them in the same subway carriage. Max and Grant got off at Piccadilly and immediately the two older guys got off too. Attack being the best form of defence, Max approached them with a ‘whit’s yer fuckin’ problem, ya cunts? We’re no’ rent boys, ya fuckin’ arsebandits, ye’se!’

  The older of the two men laughed and informed them that he was Gregor, from Irvine, and that he knew Max, albeit when he was known as Dale Wishart. They were initially confused by his dismissal that he had ever been called by that name, but eventually they simply shrugged, uninterested. Nevertheless, they offered to buy the boys a drink, provided yer baith ower age, they joked. Grant wasn’t enamoured with the idea but Max persuaded him and they all went to Soho for a pint in an exclusive-looking basement pub next to the Raymond Revue Bar. The two elder men had stuck a fifty in the doorman’s top pocket in order to get their two younger, kilted compatriots in.

  Inside, Max could barely see his hand in front of his face, everything was so dark. Grant was sure two guys were kissing each other in an adjacent booth. The noise from the sound system was booming. It helped conceal Max’s uncontrolled smalltalk wherein he eventually suggested Gregor’s mother was ‘a hoormaister’. Gregor agreed, and said ‘Thora Hird’s’. He’d thought Max had asked if she needed help with the stairs. A topless waitress came over and took a shouted order for four pints. When she returned, it was with a bill for forty pounds. Max choked. The two older men weren’t fazed at all by the ludicrous cost.

  ‘So, Dal … sorry, Max … whit’s yer da up tae these days? Still dain’ the washin’?’

  ‘Dunno whit ye mean, man,’ said Max. Instinct kicked in that he should tell strangers nothing about Washer.

  ‘C’mon son, dinnae be so fuckin’ coy.’ The older, fatter man, who said his name was Gregor, wasn’t going to be easily put off. ‘Ah’ve got a big deal comin’ up. Ah need some dirty shit hidden, ken? We spotted ye’se oan the train earlier, an’ ah says tae Ged here “ah ken him … that’s Washer Wishart’s boy”. Ah did, didn’t ah, Ged?’

  ‘He did,’ said Ged.

  Grant considered that there was something odd about the two men. He couldn’t put his finger on what though. Gregor was bald, with manicured nails and he was casually – but soberly – dressed, while Ged looked like a jakey, biker busker. Gregor was assured, Ged was obviously agitated. They were different ages, but not sufficiently different to be father and son.

  ‘You two jist doon for the game then?’ asked Max, trying to shift the focus.

  ‘Aye an’ naw,’ said Gregor.

  Max waited for elaboration but there was none. ‘Whit did ye think ae it then?’ he asked.

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘The match, like. It wisnae the best, eh? Stein should’ve taken Nicholas aff even earlier. He wis absolutely pish,’ said Max.

  ‘Who the fuck are you, aw ae a sudden? Archie McPherson?’ Ged hadn’t looked interested, but all of a sudden his intervention shifted the dynamic.

  ‘Lighten up, pal,’ said Grant. ‘We’re jist havin’ a pint wi’ ye’se.’ Grant already knew that they didn’t have the money on them to get the next round, but he sensed a bigger problem emerging. It might have seemed like the ultimate in opportunistic meetings but Gregor and his buddy Ged were obviously keen to take advantage of bumping into a close relative of Washer Wishart.

  Gregor put a hand on Ged’s forearm. ‘It’s aw calm, boys. We’re aw pals here, right? Scotsmen abroad … the famous Tartan Army, ken?’ Gregor smiled broadly. ‘Ne’er mind Ged, here. He’s oan a separate mission. Been looking for an Ayrshire cunt that’s absconded doon here.’

  Max and Grant looked at each other across the booth’s table.

  ‘In fact, it’s a job for a pal ae yer da’s,’ said Gregor. ‘Nobby Quinn, fae Galston. Ken ae him?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Max, ‘but he’s nae pal ae Washer’s.’

  ‘Ah’m jist rowin’ yer fuckin’ tail, son. Don’t get oot yer pram!’ Gregor refocused. ‘Since we’ve bumped intae ye, aw casual an’ that like … ah’m efter a big favour. We’ve got ye’se in here, got ye a pint ae the maist expensive fuckin’ beer oan the planet, an’ ye’ve had a lassie’s nipples in yer ear while she served ye … so whit ah want…’ Ged snorted. ‘Whit we want … is an opener wi’ yer faither. We’ve moved oan a large quantity ae gear up in Glesga an’ we’re sittin’ oan aw the readies. Ah need it distributed. Yer da’s the fuckin’ top boy.’

  ‘Ah’d like tae help ye, honest ah wid, but ah’m no’ part ae his business. Ah’m in the music business. Band management, an’ that, ken?’ Max was breathing heavily, and then gulping his pint. It seemed to be the only thing preventing him from calling Gregor a cunt, although it had given him the hiccups.

  ‘Even better,’ said Gregor. ‘A demand, supply and cash deal! Everybody’s a fuckin’ winner.’ Gregor sat back and put an arm around Max’s shoulder. ‘You ken it makes sense, son. By the way, where are you boys stayin’ th’night?’

  Grant got up to go to the toilet. Ged watched him intently all the way there. Grant was sweating and he was sure that Ged could sense his growing anxiety. He went into one of the cubicles and sat on the toilet seat. He didn’t actually need to go, although paradoxically, he was now shiting himself.

  Grant heard the door open.

  ‘Wanna go somewhere else, George?’

  ‘Yeah, after this line, sweet. Only here to speak to Kenny but he’s fucked off earlier. I’ll page my driver, man.’

  Grant peered out through a gap in the door. The toilets were lit by an ultravoilet light giving only marginally more clarity in the darkness than the lounge area itself. Grant could see what looked like two long-haired, heavily made-up women kissing. Then the door opened and the curly-haired Ged burst in. He briefly thought he had walked into the wrong toilets.

  ‘Ootae ma fuckin’ way, ya benders,’ he shouted at the two. They separated, and Grant could see it was two men in drag, and he was almost certain one of them was the Culture Club singer, Boy George.

  ‘Not want to join us, pal?’ said the one who probably wasn’t Boy George.

  ‘Fuck off, ya poofy basturts. Ah’ll fuckin’ do ye’se!’ shouted Ged, scanning the small, tiled, L-shaped room, presumably looking for Grant. The one who probably was Boy George laughed and touched Ged’s shoulder. He spun round, fist clenched.

  ‘Aw, do you really wanna hurt me?’ said the one who probably was Boy George.

  The one who probably wasn’t laughed a high-pitched camp laugh. Ged drew his arm back as Grant burst out of the cubicle. Ged spun again, but too late to see Grant bring the ceramic cistern top down on his head. Ged slumped and blood ran, slowly at first but then the pressure from the source burst the cut and it flowed like the sluice gates had been opened at the Hoover Dam.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ said Grant. ‘Sorry aboot that.’

  ‘Happens more often than you’d think, mate.’

  ‘Fuck sake,’ said Grant.

  ‘Yeah, if only we had you to protect us all the time, sweetie,’ smiled Boy George.

  ‘Are you fuckin’ Boy George by the way?’

  ‘Yes. I am. And he’s bloody great in bed, lemme tell ya.’

  The one who wasn’t Boy George sniggered, and then he snorted the line of white powder that both had been protecting when Grant had exploded out of the cubicle. Grant had a beamer.

  ‘Thanks, man. I owe you.’ Boy George put a small packet of the white stuff inside Ged’s denim jacket pocket. They bundled Ged into the furthest cubicle, and lock
ed it from inside. He was still breathing at least. Grant clambered over to the next one and the three of them went quickly back out into the main room.

  ‘He looking for you then?’ said Boy George.

  ‘Aye probably, but no’ for whit ye think?’ Ah’m the singer in a band. He’s jist some fuckin’ ned lookin’ for another geezer fae Scotland.’

  ‘I like your skirt,’ said Boy George. ‘Tartan’s quite big again. Even the Bay City Rollers might make a comeback.’

  Grant smiled nervously. He was now desperate to get Max’s attention and get the fuck out of there before someone else discovered Ged.

  ‘Manager’s a friend. I’ll let him know about this angry fuck,’ said Boy George, nodding in Ged’s direction. ‘He’ll sort it. Clear it up.’

  ‘Cheers. Better get aff. Fuckin’ karma, eh?’ said Grant, patting his own top pocket.

  ‘Karma … yeah,’ Boy George laughed. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Darlin’, we’d better hustle,’ said the giggling Not Boy George.

  ‘Yeah, coming.’ Boy George touched Grant’s cheek. ‘Fucking great cheekbones, sweetie. You any good?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Grant.

  ‘Your band … are they any good?’

  ‘Aw, right. Eh, aye. Indie stuff but wi’ a wee bit ae dance in there tae. Ye’d like us.’

  Boy George smiled. The one who wasn’t Boy George told him a driver would be outside.

  Boy George reached into his bag and pulled out a card. ‘Give this geezer a call, sweet. Tell him I recommended you, and tell him you know the bones are buried in San Sebastian. He’ll know you really did meet me.’ Boy George leaned over and kissed Grant on the cheek. ‘Good luck, em….’

  ‘Grant. Grant Delgado,’ said Grant.

  ‘Great name, man,’ said Boy George, and then he was gone.

  Noo, ah never believed aw that shite aboot it bein’ the Boy George back then. The basturt wis oan the front page ae every fuckin’ paper in Britain in they days. Why the fuck wid’ the cunt have been in some scabby Soho shitehole oan a Wednesday night, eh? It made nae fuckin’ sense whatsoever. But throw a fuckin’ stick in the middle ae the London in 1983, an’ ye’d ae hit some daft cunt wi’ a knob wearin’ a bloody lassie’s dress an’ make up, ken? Gender Benders, The Sun called them. Still, Grant wis totally high oan the whole thing, so it wis guid enough for me, like. Ah went alang wi’ it…

  Grant caught Max’s eye through the dense clouds of cigarette smoke and eye-bursting laser light beams. Gregor was being distracted by a waitress into whose G-string he was trying to insert another large note of apparently corrupt currency. Max bolted. They both made it up the stairs and out into the warm June air. It was just before midnight. They ran through the crowds to catch the late tube back to Hammersmith.

  2nd June 1983

  0.51 am

  Tony Viviani was still waiting up and had brought a few of his own mates back from the pub. Still the life and soul, he wanted the two teenagers to sing some songs about Scotland for his English compatriots. There was to be no putting him off. The marital bed – so much the centrepoint of the earlier argument – would lay unused and Max and Grant left the house at around four am, having not slept at all. They left without washing or doing anything that might’ve woken the party. Max’s hair looked like Ken Dodd’s after standing on a live electric cable. More worryingly, Grant’s voice now sounded like the sonic signal used to detect life on other planets. Tony and his mates were sound asleep on either the chairs or the floor in the living room. Tony had figured that, if Ged McClure’s gang was going to turn up he would at least have had some assistance, or more likely someone to take him to hospital. Although he couldn’t be certain, Grant felt sure Ged wouldn’t be troubling the Viviani household for some time.

  Max and Grant made it back to Euston Station on time to catch up with their return journey drivers, who bought them both some breakfast before they were on their way. They did play Max’s mix tape repeatedly on the way back but he slept through most of the nine and a half hours it took to get home.

  ‘Some fuckin’ place, the London, eh boy?’ said Max, as the car drove away from Kilmarnock’s bus station.

  ‘Aye … ye could fuckin’ say.’ Grant laughed, and so did Max.

  For perhaps the first time, it felt to both like a real connection had been made. Like they were in it together, and that the ‘it’ could actually be something really special. Boy George had given Grant the card of Morrison Hardwicke, an A&R man from London Records. Max had called him from Carlisle and, after a few false starts – Max thought A&R stood for Albums & Records – and then the code words, had got through and been given some direct, if unsurprising, advice.

  ‘Get a fackin’ demo made … four songs, yer best songs, good quality studio recordings, mind … no’ fackin’ bullshit. Bring it back down an’ ah’ll see ya. But just as a favour to Georgie, mind. Alright?’ Hardwicke had said. It was more than alright … it was a real fucking breakthrough. They needed to knuckle down and get the twins totally focused. But it was exciting, and before they parted, they hugged. Immortality beckoned.

  04: YOU CAN’T PUT YOUR ARMS AROUND A MEMORY…

  Ma cousin Gerry met some decorater gadgie … Wullie somethin’, cannae remember … aboot a month later at a Kilmarnock fitba match. He’d been telt by a mate that Tony Viviani had been remanded for trial for attempted murder. Deirdre, his missus, had came back efter aw, the next mornin’ but even fuckin’ angrier than when she’d left. The folk next door had heard screamin’… ‘Ah’m gonnae fuckin kill ye…!’, an’ stuff … an’ they phoned the polis. When they turned up, Deirdre wis lyin’ oan the kitchen floor wi’ blood gushin’ fae a heid wound. Tony wis sittin’ in the living room watchin’ Countdown an’ drinkin’ a cup ae tea.

  The weans were still at Brenda’s. Ye couldnae fuckin’ make it up, man!

  What did you take from that?

  That Galston folk are pure mental, eh?

  32

  8th July 1983

  2.04 pm

  The train pulled in to the station. Fat Franny Duncan, his mum and Theresa got off on the platform and walked slowly out to the turning circle outside the ticket office. Des Brick was nowhere to be seen. Fat Franny put his suitcases down and walked over to the railings. He looked down the length of John Finnie Street from his elevated viewpoint. He sighed; still no sign. The traffic was all heading towards him. He remembered the time – he must only have been about four years old – when Abie brought him up here. They watched the cars and buses having brief passing conversations with each other as they moved up and down the street. He was on his dad’s shoulders. He felt like he was higher than anyone else on earth. John Finnie Street was now a one-way system. Vehicles didn’t seem to converse anymore. They just jostled impatiently for room. They prevented people crossing. They were a barrier. Everything changes. Nothing stays the same.

  ‘Francis, ah’ll just get a taxi. It’ll be for the best.’

  ‘Aye. Ah suppose.’

  Fat Franny watched Theresa lift her own suitcase and struggle around the corner into the wind. He couldn’t even go and help her with it. To do so would have meant leaving his mum and it was clear now that he couldn’t do that, even for a few minutes. She would just wander off; into the toilets, or into the traffic, or even off the platform. Theresa Morgan, Fat Franny Duncan’s fiancée of only six months, disappeared from his view. He wasn’t sure when he would see her again. Or even if.

  Three weeks earlier, she had been overjoyed when Fat Franny suggested they go on holiday. It was ludicrously short notice, but Theresa was used to that with Fat Franny. He was impulsive at the best of times, but she wasn’t innocent to the nature of his business. Sometimes being out of the firing line for a brief period was an occupational hazard in his line of work. Theresa anticipated Torremolinos, or maybe Majorca. She already had a one-year passport as a result of a hint Fat Franny had given when they got engaged. Fat Franny had been obstinately cagey about the de
stination and that increased her excitement. But he’d talked about Spain quite a bit lately, although mainly when laughing about Manuel, the waiter in Fawlty Towers. Based on this – and the powers of deduction of her old school pal Alison at AT Mays – she spent good money on new clothes. She bought a beach towel the size of the Rugby Park pitch. She bought Factor 50 sun lotion, even though she was already quite sallow-skinned. She’d even laughed when Fat Franny had said that it was only one factor lower than emulsion paint. That was his opportunity. But he didn’t tell her until the day that they were leaving.

  They were going to Margate. By train. And with old Rose in tow. Fat Franny had also talked previously about a place where English-speaking people would be, and where you could get an English breakfast. Theresa never thought for a minute that the place would actually be in England. She was livid. It wasn’t even Blackpool. She could’ve coped with that. He was taking her to some old folks’ home by the sea. And using her as a de facto nursemaid. She contemplated telling him on the morning of their departure that she wasn’t going. But then she’d have to explain his actions and her disappointment to others. Her pride would get in the way of that. Plus, with everyone else away for the fair, Kilmarnock would be Tumbleweed City. So she sucked in her cheeks, boarded the train south from Kilmarnock railway station and waved bye-bye to the future she’d imagined over the course of the previous six months. Everything changes. Nothing stays the same.