The Last Days of Disco

by David F. Ross

  ‘Thanks for movin’ the van, mate.’ It was one of the stewards. The smaller one.

  ‘Eh, aye. Nae bother, wee man.’ The joint was still in Jimmy’s hand below the sightline of the door. He was reluctant to let it go though for fear of losing it down the side of his seat.

  ‘Ah think yer brake light’s out,’ said the steward. ‘Is his brake light out, Des?’

  ‘His brake light’s out, Wullie.’ A deeper voice from the rear of the van responded. Jimmy glanced furtively at rear and side mirrors but it was too dark to make anyone out.

  ‘Need tae get that fixed, pal,’ said the smaller steward, the one who’d just been referred to as Wullie.

  Jimmy dropped the joint to the footwell as carefully as he could. He opened the door and slid out, pushing past Wullie and moving quickly to the rear of the van where the torch held by Des confirmed that there was indeed a smashed brake light. He left the driver-side door slightly open.

  ‘Must’ve hit the wa’ there, mate. Nae luck, eh?’ said Des, shaking his head at this unfortunate mishap.

  ‘Aye. Ye think ah’m a fuckin’ eejit? Ah hit nae fuckin’ wa’. That was you’se two that smashed it!’

  ‘Hey, haud on there, Humpty Dumpty! We asked ye tae move yer van. Ye moved it an’ hit the wa’,’ said Des calmly.

  Jimmy was getting angry, but sensed that it might be better to accept bouncer’s version. He also wanted to know where Wullie had gone, but Des had moved closer, towering over him and blocking both view and access to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  ‘Ah’m no sure there’s any point in takin’ this further, pal.’ Des poked his finger in Jimmy’s chest. ‘Awa’ back and join Curly, Larry and Moe up there. Just mind and get that fixed now, eh?’ With that he stepped back, allowing Jimmy to ease past him and catch Wullie leaning against the front of the van, smiling.

  Upstairs in the flamboyant function room, things were getting worse.

  ‘Where’s ma pint?’ said Joey, just as ‘Alternative Ulster’ faded out and the start of ‘Eton Rifles’ reverberated off the walls.

  ‘Will you fuckin’ gie it up wi’ that music? Fuck me, every cunt’s glowerin’ at us. Ah cannae speak ower this. Get out the Lionel Richie and Phil Collins stuff.’

  ‘Did ye hear me? Where’s ma drink?’ repeated Joey. He was secretly pleased that his choices of music were irritating the partygoers and Bobby. He’ll fuckin’ think twice about bookings like this in future, he was certain.

  ‘Fuckin’ cunty barman widnae serve us for being under-age.’ Bobby was raging. Technically the barman was correct. Joey was still seventeen. But it worsened Bobby’s deteriorating mood that he had broken the unwritten law of gigging: the band/performer/entertainer/DJ always got served.

  Jimmy didn’t return. He’d decided to stand outside, watching his vehicle. Wullie and Des had gone back up and no further threats had been issued. It was a pretty cold, late-spring evening, but at least Jimmy could see any approaches to the van from where he was standing. Upstairs, tempers flared when a request from one woman for ‘Twist and Shout’ went a-begging. She looked like Krystle Carrington and sounded like the Queen. Joey mocked her accent. Margaret McIntyre came over to intervene in the contretemps, threatening non-payment; birthday boy Andy followed, issuing threats of violence. Hamish May – assuming the role of minder – retaliated with a few of his own.

  Bobby sensed a serious problem developing: they were at the opposite side of the hall – and up a floor – from the principal means of exit. The priority was becoming more about damage limitation than fee recovery. Hamish was prone to the great gesture without thinking of the consequences. He had achieved some local notoriety as the kid who had climbed out of a first-floor window onto the roof of an adjacent lorry for yet another common-room bet. The bet was for a fiver, and actually only required him to stand on top of the vehicle for thirty seconds. In the event, he was out there for so long, the vehicle eventually drove away with him clinging onto its top rails.

  It was difficult to pinpoint what kicked it all off, but Joey later recalled seeing the two stewards over at a table of five males, gesticulating and pointing towards him. They all came over. Margaret McIntyre was in the middle of it. Her arms were outstretched, trying to keep order. There was some initial jostling, finger-pointing and a smattering of rebuttals in the form of abusive menace from the defiant figure of Hamish May. He stood tall, silhouetted against the flashing backdrop of Heatwave Disco’s two main lightboxes. As the situation deteriorated and the first slap was issued, his employers for the evening instinctively crouched down behind the table holding up the decks. The main reason for this was to avoid the swinging microphone, which Hamish was whirling like a demented Roger Daltrey whenever anyone came within ten feet of him. Bobby was also trying to figure out a way to get to the one exit door undetected. When violence was in the air, both Bobby and Joey were firmly in the flight camp; Hamish could represent the primal fight instincts of the species if he wanted.

  The microphone stand-off continued for about fifteen minutes, until Wullie the Painter came over, all windmilling arms and timing his advance perfectly to plough into Heatwave’s man between rotations. Through a gap in the cabinets Joey saw Hamish stagger back a few steps on one foot, like Chaplin’s tramp in City Lights. This resemblance was reinforced by the small strobe lightbox that had fallen over, landing on its ‘on’ switch. Its flickering, flashing light gave the action a monochromatic, slow-motion, filmic quality. But instead of boxing-ring ropes propelling him back into the fray, the rest of the lightboxes tumbled under Hamish’s weight. The decks and their wobbly, trestled support followed, with the two trembling DJs underneath. Bobby couldn’t see what was happening, but it was clear that things weren’t progressing well for the disco’s champion. It sounded to Joey like the blue-suited Tories were kicking the shit out of him and, apart from the odd, muffled squeal of ‘Tory cunts!’, it didn’t seem like much resistance was being offered. And then suddenly there was quiet.

  ‘I really think you should leave now,’ screamed Margaret McIntyre, her head bent down to shout under the fallen table. Her eyes were moist and fully formed tears weren’t far away.

  ‘We’re no’ fuckin’ payin’, incidentally … but any trouble and the police are getting called.’ This was the first time birthday boy Andy had spoken to them, and his high-pitched Highlands accent took Bobby and Joey by surprise.

  Hamish had been escorted outside by Des Brick and Wullie the Painter. As they did so, it had briefly registered with him that they were there on the night he had electrocuted himself. He said nothing to them about it, though, his guts in agony from an earlier kick that had caught him in the abdomen. Jimmy hadn’t been aware of the chaos playing out upstairs, but he had heard the commotion of the first group of people heading down. Jimmy ducked behind a large solid-stone column that was helping to support a heavily indented portico. Jimmy had looked up at it earlier and had been impressed. A lovely building … for a shower ae’ absolute cunts, he’d thought.

  A ceasefire had emerged up in the function room. No payment, but at least no further trouble or damage to the gear. Bobby reckoned that there was something of a result in this. Joey went down to let Jimmy know the story and tell him that they would be leaving early. Big Hamish was outside, vomiting over a wall into the river below. They assembled their gear in a neat pile at the unlit rear of the building and waited for Jimmy. Nobody spoke. Joey nipped back in to go to the toilet and – on the way back down the stairs, when he was sure no-one was looking – drew a small rectangular Hitler moustache and black side-shed on a new portrait of the current Prime Minister.

  She was staring down, watching dictatorially over all who climbed the stairs from her exalted position inside a baroque frame – painted to reinforce the image of the contemporary Boadicea that her supporters believed her to be. When he got back outside Joey was stunned to see four policemen there, sniffing around the van and asking questions of the van driver and the equipment owner
. Hamish May was being forcibly held against the wall he’d just vomited over by two of them. Joey was amazed that they had appeared before the ink was dry on the picture. Maybe Thatcher’s boastful claims that the Tories had put more bobbies on the beat were actually true after all. One young policeman emerged from the darker side of the van with half a dozen large bottles of spirits. Jimmy’s heart visibly sank.

  ‘How did these get in the van, lads?’

  ‘You’re fuckin’ jokin’!’ said Bobby.

  Joey burst out laughing. Des Brick and Wullie the Painter came out. Ally Sneddon, manager of the Conservative Club was standing between them.

  ‘That booze got nicked during the night,’ said the manager. ‘There was a ruckus … which they started … an’ while it was aw happening, they forty-ouncers went fuckin’ walkin’.’

  ‘Yer a fuckin’ liar!’ screamed Bobby. ‘They fuckin’ assaulted us!’

  ‘… and they never fuckin’ paid us either,’ added Joey.

  ‘Whit about you, fanny-baws?’ The older copper who was holding Hamish addressed him directly.

  ‘The two ae them fuckin’ battered us, an’ then pushed us doon the fuckin’ stairs.’

  Joey and Bobby looked at each other. Was he making this up? Had they really done such a thing? Des and Wullie looked impassive, eyes neither confirming nor denying. The bottles were placed in one of the three police cars in the car park. It did seem to Jimmy like a bit of Regan and Carter-type overkill, but he was determined not to speak. Nobody had so far referred to him and he remained partially hidden by the column.

  ‘Intae the motors, boys,’ said the most senior copper.

  ‘Ah don’t fuckin’ think so!’ replied Joey. About a minute later the three young Heatwave operatives were in the back of the cars.

  ‘Hey, you … Buster Bloodvessel! You tae. Yer gaunnae need a much bigger pillar if yer hidin’ fae us. Ah’m assumin’ you’re the van driver?’

  Half an hour later, and all four of them were each sitting in a small, bare cell at Kilmarnock police station; Police Detective Chief Superintendant Donald McAllister’s police station. It was just after midnight.

  26TH APRIL 1982

  ‘I should make one point clear. These are not prisoners of war. A state of war does not exist between ourselves and the Argentine. They are prisoners, and they will be returned as soon as possible. We shall, of course, let their names and state of health be known to their relatives as soon as possible. I understand that the commander of the Argentine forces on the island is already grateful for the prompt medical attention that was given to the one Argentine marine who was badly hurt.’

  Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister

  For the following two hours, statements were taken during a series of individual interviews. What had seemed like a bad joke to start with was rapidly becoming serious for Bobby, and, more specifically, for Jimmy. It looked like they were all in a corner they couldn’t escape from. Numerous people had come forward at the end of the evening to offer testimony that the DJs provoked everyone at the party and had actually started the fighting. The manager confirmed that a considerable quantity of alcohol had then been stolen and – in perhaps the worst crime of all – an extremely valuable portrait with sentimental attachment had been damaged beyond repair.

  These were the charges facing Heatwave Disco’s management and staff. At seven-thirty the following morning, they were all released, having been cautioned but not fed. Bobby was notified that formal proceedings might follow in due course. Jimmy was informed that he’d be requested to attend a separate interview the following Monday. He could have a solicitor present. Joey was in a state of shock. He elected not to tell his mother, lying to her that, as the party had gone on longer than expected, he’d gone back to Bobby’s to sleep rather than run the risk of waking her and his young sisters. She suspected nothing. It was an excuse he’d used many times before – although this time it was covering up something potentially serious.

  Having had his cigarettes returned to him, Hamish May offered everybody one. All accepted and lit up while still in the shadow of the imposing police-station building.

  As they walked home, Bobby tried in vain to lighten the mood. ‘At least we’ll no be gettin’ conscripted to go an’ fight against Ardiles an’ Kempes.’

  ‘At the minute, ah think ah’d rather fuckin’ huv that!’ observed a pale Jimmy Stevenson.

  PART III

  ‘What really thrilled me, having spent so much of my lifetime in Parliament, and talking about things like inflation, social security benefits, housing problems, environmental problems and so on, is that when it really came to the test, what’s thrilled people wasn’t those things, what thrilled people was once again being able to serve a great cause, the cause of liberty.’

  Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister Speech to the Scottish Conservative Party Conference, May 1982

  A WEAPON THAT WAS MADE IN BIRMINGHAM

  4TH MAY 1982: 10.15AM.

  Our Lads Sink Gunboat and Hole Cruiser

  The Navy had the Argies on their knees last night after a devastating double punch.

  WALLOP: They torpedoed the 28,000-ton Argentine cruiser General Belgrano and left it a useless wreck.

  WALLOP: Task Force helicopters sank one Argentine patrol boat and severly damaged another.

  The Belgrano, which survived the Pearl Harbour attack when it belonged to the US Navy, had been asking for trouble all day …’

  Tony Snow, news reporter for The Sun, aboard HMS Invincible

  Harry folded his newspaper calmly, but inside he was raging. This jingoistic propaganda was obscuring the deficits of one of the most extreme and immoral governments in Harry’s memory. Why couldn’t others see it?

  That morning he realised things would never be the same. He would never buy The Sun again. Harry knew this was an act unlikely to bring down Rupert Murdoch’s media empire; he doubted anything ever would. But it was a personal stand at least, and for a middle-aged man in the early eighties, set in his traditional working-class ways, deep-rooted habits were extremely hard to break. Harry also knew that these headlines – and simply hiding the paper wouldn’t avoid it – would exacerbate Ethel’s fears for Gary when she turned on the television. An act as brutal, and as recklessly reported around the world as this, would force retaliation; of that there would be no doubt. And after that, the sabre-rattling would be over, and the country would be propelled down a route to war over a collection of virtually uninhabited islands that the vast majority of Sun readers couldn’t have found on a map before the start of the month. He also knew he’d be seeing a lot more of the ridiculously cartoonish John Nott on the evening news programmes.

  There were numerous Tories that Harry now hated with a passion – Francis Pym, that prick Lord Carrington, Norman fuckin’ Tebbit (how he’d love to get on a bike and park it right up the crack of his arse), the Milk-Snatcher herself – but John Nott was rapidly rising to the top of the list. He recalled the hypocrisy of a Defence Secretary cutting back – correctly in Harry’s view – on naval defence expenditure, then arguing for the launching of the most significant British Task Force expedition since the D-Day landings. But not before offering to resign following the Argentine Invasion. A series of decisive actions from a Minister of State? Hardly. Harry considered John Nott to be the lowest and most embarrassing component of a desperate government that was latching onto an unexpected event in a contemptibly opportunistic way, regardless of the inevitable human cost. They would propel a hitherto disgruntled population, still suffering from the severe economic recession only two years ago, towards a xenophobic culture of triumphalist aggression. And all aided by a ruthless media caught up in the Tory hype and hoodwinked by the false promotion of a Churchillian Bulldog spirit. Harry reached down and picked up the neatly folded newspaper. He tore it in half and walked towards the bin in the kitchen.

  ‘Cunts!’ he muttered under his breath as the swing lid spun.

  Gary had al
so been troubled by the newspaper’s front cover, but not for the same reasons as his dad. Benny had annoyed him by pinning it onto the wall next to his bunk at Wellington. He wasn’t fully supportive of Thatcher’s desire to ‘Stick It up the Junta!’ Gary’s acceptance of his duty – and of the Battalion’s likely deployment, now that mass deaths were being incurred – was one thing, but he couldn’t fathom the media’s bloody-minded desire for the whole thing to escalate. As it happened, both Gary and Benny didn’t have long to wait to find out that their destiny lay on the other side of the world. Before British soldiers are committed to operations, they are briefed and prepared assiduously. At 19:00 hours, as Brian Hanrahan reported the events of the previous day live from the deck of the Invincible in an extended BBC News programme – and as Ethel paced the floor of her Kilmarnock home watching him – the Commanding Officers of the 2nd Battalion Scots Guards received notification by signal that the Battalion was to be on seventy-two hours ‘Notice to Move’, with effect from midnight.

  The signal had kicked off an impressive chain reaction of British Army largesse. It had been almost six weeks since the first British death in the conflict, and the preparation for deployment was becoming well practised. All the standard peacetime restrictions were lifted and even Gary Cassidy was becoming aware of how quickly and dramatically the Army’s routine bureaucracy dissipated. As a consequence, Gary and his closest colleagues experienced a tangible buzz and recognised the powerful sense of purpose that now flowed throughout the ranks. It was different from the occupations in Ulster, simply because those were essentially containments of an existing historical situation. This conflict – and he was well aware that war had not so far actually been declared – was much more in line with what Gary had believed Army life to be about. He still hated Thatcher and everything for which her vile and corrupt party stood; but his duty was first and foremost to his comrades. It was a feeling of belonging to – and participating in – something vital that he had been looking for all of his life. It finally became real to all of them in the following days, when the images of a stricken British Navy ship were broadcast around the world.