The Last Days of Disco

by David F. Ross

  5TH MAY 1982

  ‘In the course of its duties within the Total Exclusion Zone around the Falkland Islands, HMS Sheffield, a type-42 destroyer, was attacked and hit late this afternoon by an Argentine missile. The ship caught fire, which spread out of control. When there was no longer any hope of saving the ship, the ship’s company abandoned ship. All who abandoned her were picked up.’

  Ian McDonald, Ministry of Defence Spokesman, Statement at an MOD press conference

  ‘This empire’s fuckin’ crumblin’! D’ye hear me?’ The opening line of Fat Franny’s council of war meeting reverberated off the bare walls of the Ponderosie’s double garage. A bare bulb swung gently like the one in the opening sequence of Callan, but apart from that there was no movement. The four figures sat at each side of the rectangular table were motionless. This was indeed bad news.

  ‘We’ve run this fuckin’ place for ages an’ now these arrogant wee pricks come in an’ just fuckin’ take ower … an’ we’re sittin’ back lettin’ the cunts dae it!’ The door suddenly opened. It was Mrs Duncan.

  ‘Hullo, son. Ah, just wondered if you and yer wee pals wanted a pot ae tea made?’ She was wearing her bra over the top of her cardigan.

  ‘Christ Almighty! Mam, this is really important,’ said Fat Franny. His voice was much lower than it had been only ten seconds ago. ‘We’re fine. Naebody needs anythin’. Thanks, but. Awa’ back in an’ watch yer Crossroads. We’ll no be long.’ They all watched her go and Fat Franny waited a full minute from the point when the door closed behind her. He scanned the three faces for any signs of mirth. Satisfied, he continued.

  ‘If we don’t get a fuckin’ grip here, every cunt in this room’s gonnae suffer.’ Fat Franny leaned back in his chair. ‘Well? Ideas?’

  ‘Why don’t we just kick their cunts in?’ enquired Wullie the Painter.

  ‘Mibbe cos’ the fuckin’ cops have let them off wi’ the Tory Club shambles. That means they’ve assumed some other cunt’s nicked the booze an’ mibbe afore long they’ll be speakin’ tae you two pricks. If the three ae them get a doin’ it’s gonnae look suspicious.’ At least Fat Franny’s volume had reduced, although the tone was still there.

  ‘Why don’t the three ae us just kick your cunt in then?’ The words formed in Hobnail’s head but they didn’t make it out of his mouth. Something – more than just his inarticulacy – always stopped sentiments like these. Maybe someday though.

  ‘It’s got tae be somethin’ that naebody can connect wi’ me,’ shouted Fat Franny before slamming a fist down on the table.

  ‘They’ve got a thing comin’ up wi’ that daft fuckin’ Mod group soon. There’s tickets aw ower the place,’ said Des Brick. He had succeeded in appearing to be the calmest man at the meeting.

  ‘When’s it on?’ Fat Franny’s interest was now totally focused on Des, to the exclusion of the others.

  ‘End ae the month, ah think. Ah canny remember the date but ah’ll find oot,’ said Des, writing a note in ink on the back of his hand.

  ‘There canny be any fuck-ups this time.’ Fat Franny was now back facing – and addressing – all three men. ‘This really is the last chance. We aw need this Doc Martin gig. Aw the other cost centres are losing money hand ower fuckin’ fist. We’re aw gonnae end up lookin’ like that cunt Bobby Sands at this rate, but no through choice.’ Fat Franny smiled at this, allowing the others to appreciate that a part of his rage had now passed. Des Brick smiled at the thought of the fatman ever looking like he’d been on hunger strike.

  ‘Ah’m cuttin’ the talent loose,’ announced the Fatman. ‘Huvnae told them yet, but ah need the Martin contract as a bit ae security first.’

  Hobnail said nothing, but it was hardly surprising. Three weeks ago, Mr Sunshine was reported to the police by three mothers at a nine-year-old’s birthday party for handing out balloon animals to each child that looked more like a cock and balls than the sausage dogs the entertainer proclaimed them to be.

  Cheezee Choonz hadn’t surfaced since the Howard Park Hotel fiasco and Bert Bole hadn’t even been at work. Fat Franny’s own bookings were also drying up in the wake of the seemingly relentless rise of Heatwave. He’d appealed to Mickey Martin for intervention and, despite their history – or perhaps because of it – he’d done nothing. In fact, it was now looking like Mickey was effectively encouraging Heatwave to break up Fat Franny’s business. Well he wasn’t going to stand idly by and watch these young tossers sail in and take away what was rightfully his.

  ‘Here’s whit tae dae.’ He looked directly at Hobnail. ‘Go an’ see Nobby Quinn. Don’t phone ’um. Take the motor doon.’ Fat Franny was writing in a diary as he spoke, but none of the other three could see what he was writing. ‘Go next Tuesday. That’s his wife’s birthday.’ Fat Franny looked up. ‘Nae Brummie gangster can refuse any request on his wife’s birthday,’ he said with all the certainty of the Don.

  The Quinns were yet another in what seemed like an endless list of Ayrshire families who had criminality as their core ethos. Generally they all stuck to their own distinct areas. Although not a family in the truest sense, Fat Franny Duncan’s group controlled Onthank and the north west of Kilmarnock; Mickey Martin’s extended family had the remainder – and much larger part – of Kilmarnock. The Wisharts ran Crosshouse to the west of the town, and the Quinns held an iron fist over Galston and the wider Cumnock Valley. The Quinns were different, in that they weren’t indiginous. They were incomers from the Midlands. There was a bit of the Romany about them and they had recently become known as the ‘Midnight Runners’ after ‘Come On Eileen’ had gone to number one in the UK charts and Kevin Rowland’s latest gypsy-inspired look had been widely mocked. Needless to say, nobody called the Quinns this in their presence. They had taken the Galston pitch by force and the war with the previous incumbents – the McLartys who had originally moved in from their base in the East End of Glasgow – had been prolonged, extensive and brutal.

  Nobby Quinn was ideal for the sort of action Fat Franny had in mind. He knew from bitter experience that the Romanies were a fucking law unto themselves and up for a fight at the drop of a hat. His plan was for a crowd of them to pitch up early at the Henderson Church gig and wreck the place, destroying the Heatwave gear – and perhaps even the DJs – in the process. The seed would be planted that Heatwave were a liability – that there would be trouble wherever they went – and then he’d work on Mickey Martin for a second chance at The Metropolis. It all fitted, in Fat Franny’s mind, and although it would cost him to engage the Quinns, he knew they’d do it if the price was right.

  ‘Why canth you no go’th an thee Nobby Quinnth?’ Hobnail shocked himself by saying these words out loud. All three of his fellow war-cabinet members turned to look at him with the same bemused look on their faces.

  ‘Cos’ it’s your fuckin’ job, ya cunt,’ barked Des Brick. An opportunity to curry favour and boot the boss’s number two squarely in the balls rarely presented itself, and he was quick to grab it.

  Fat Franny put his hand calmly on Des’s forearm. ‘If yer losin’ the bottle fur it, just say, Boab,’ said Fat Franny. ‘There’s plenty linin’ up for yer job … an’ no just the two in here.’ This took not only Hobnail, but also Des and Wullie by surprise. Fat Franny was a sharp guy and he’d noted the increasingly distant attitude his consiglieri had demonstrated over the last month or so. In fact, Fat Franny had put it at the top of the list of reasons why the business was currently suffering. Michael Corleone would have had him clipped weeks ago, but the Don’s handling of a delicate situation would’ve been more subtle.

  ‘How’s that boy ae yours gettin’ on?’

  This enquiry caught Hobnail off guard.

  ‘Heth’s fine,’ he responded, slightly fazed. ‘Came tae see me last Friday. No aw that happy at home, is he? Wants tae mibbe dae a wee bit ae work for me, y’ken? Pick up a bit more cash, an’ that.’

  ‘Franny, ah fuckin’ swearth …’ Hobnail was on his feet, fists clenched.
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  ‘Sit doon, fur fuck’s sake. How long have ye kent me? Ah’m no gonnae go behind yer back wi’ Grant. Ah ken the trouble it’d cause wi’ you an’ Senga.’

  Des saw the game unfolding and he had to hand it to Fat Franny. He had defused Hobnail’s anger – for now at least – and reminded him that there are other ways to get what you wanted than brute force. Hobnail would go and see the Quinns. He would be unhappy about it, but he’d do it because of the ease with which his old ‘friend’ could manipulate the position with Senga. If Grant got anywhere near Fat Franny’s business, it would be all over with Senga and that would cost him more than just money.

  ‘Right. Let’s get a fuckin’ shift on an’ get organised for The Anchorage the night.’ Fat Franny stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. No papers had been presented and no minutes had been taken, but as far as Franny was concerned, the outcome was more conclusive than a United Nations resolution.

  6TH MAY 1982: 8:45PM

  ‘Aw fuck. Fat Franny’s the bastardin’ DJ!’

  It had looked like a promising night for Bobby Cassidy up to this point. Lizzie had been invited to a party at The Anchorage in Troon. It had come as a bit of a surprise, since Janice Fallon had been a friend of both Lizzie and Theresa. The three of them had been close until relatively recently. With the invite Lizzie had assumed that Janice had taken her side. She never thought for a minute the stupid cow would have invited both of them. But there she was. Theresa Morgan. Standing next to the DJ booth, all blond, layered feather cut and New Romantic make-up. The four of them – Lizzie had allowed Joey and Hamish to come as well – walked in to the small pub hall. Janice came over quickly, oblivious to the hard, driven stares coming from the DJ zone. The Heatwave contingent moved instinctively towards the bar, leaving Lizzie to fawn dramatically over Janice, her new earrings, her gold horn-a-plenty chain and other large pieces of brash jewellery which Joey felt certain must have come from the Jimmy Savile Collection, or the Mr T House of Crap.

  The music was mundane and Bobby felt pleased with how far they’d come in such a short period of time, when compared with Fat Franny’s hopeless vocal interruptions. After his first pint, Hamish went to the toilets. They’d been here for about twenty minutes and Lizzie hadn’t yet returned to their table. Joey and Bobby sat together, looked over at Fat Franny – whose gaze had barely been away from them since they came in – and laughed. They weren’t actually laughing at Fat Franny, but he assumed they were. Des and Wullie were despatched. Bobby was reminiscing about the time the eight-year-old Gary had played crazy golf with Harry on the esplanade across the road from the pub they were in. Gary had swung the club like Jack Nicklaus and had broken Harry’s nose with the club head on the first hole.

  ‘Hey! Whit the fuck?’ The sack went straight over Hamish’s head, causing him to pee all over his jeans and the shoes of one of his assailants.

  ‘Ya fuckin’ hoor, ye,’ shouted Wullie the Painter, in violation of the no-sound edict from the Fatman. Des puts his forefinger to his lips and made a shush-ing noise. At the same time, he dropped the struggling Hamish to his knees with a kick to the balls. The restrained teenager was easier to man-handle when on his knees, and the Gaffa tape went round his body quickly. After only a few minutes – and despite looking like a Christmas present wrapped by Stevie Wonder – he was suppressed. In the adjacent female toilets, things were also starting to kick-off. Lizzie had been explaining the origin of the argument with Theresa to an uninterested Janice, who was more intent on reapplying another layer of deep scarlet lipstick.

  ‘Well, ah’m no hiding in the bogs aw night. This was a daft idea. Her an’ I have fell oot big style,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Ah suppose apologisin’ would be oot the question.’

  ‘Ah’ve nuhin’ tae apologise fur, Jan. It wis aw her dain’. She started it.’

  ‘An’ ah suppose, if ah asked her, she’d say the same? Best pals fae nursery and noo look at ye’se. No speakin’ because ae a stupid argument.’ Janice had started to warm to the role of potential peacemaker.

  ‘Might seem stupid tae you. You’ve no got blonde hair … so you widnae understand,’ said Lizzie. Janice would clearly have a job on her hands with these two.

  ‘Whit difference does it make who got the Princess Di feather cut first?’ Janice stood, arms outstretched, as if she was addressing the League of Nations.

  ‘Well, it wisnae that fuckin’ fat cow, anyway,’ Lizzie said, laughing.

  Theresa had been listening to all this from inside one of the Formica toilet cubicles and, on hearing Lizzie’s laughter, she burst through the door.

  ‘Aw aye … is that right, ya skanky hoor?’

  If Lizzie was surprised at her nemesis having heard the invective, she hid it well and retaliated in surprisingly brutal terms. ‘Ther’s only wan skanky faced midden in here, an’ we’re baith staring at it … an’ smellin’ its manky fanny.’

  ‘Ya gadgie cow,’ screamed Theresa.

  ‘Lassies, lassies … there’s nae need f …’ Janice tried to get between them, but was pushed to the side by both.

  ‘Awa’ an’ get back tae blawing that fat dick that’s attached tae yer sumo wrestler boyfriend,’ laughed Lizzie, as she turned and walked out of the toilet to the hall. As she did so, Theresa ran at her, jumping on Lizzie’s back and grabbing her around the neck. This momentum propelled both of them onto the dancefloor, where Lizzie eventually staggered and fell with Theresa landing on top of her. In one move, Lizzie righted herself and swung a punch of which Ali himself would have been proud. Perhaps fortunately, it didn’t connect, but a subsequent, softer left hook did. It knocked Theresa onto her back. Quick as a flash, Lizzie was on top of her. Joey could instantly see that this wasn’t Lizzie’s first bout. She was moving like an alley cat, avoiding Theresa’s wild kicks and clawing at her clothes. Buttons popped, as Theresa’s cream blouse opened and a pale blue bra was on view, supporting heavy, hanging breasts.

  ‘Quick, throw some fuckin’ jelly on them!’ shouted one onlooker, as others whooped and hollered. Bobby looked at Joey in amazement. Neither had any clear idea of what to do next. Intervene? Disappear? Applaud?

  ‘She certainly disnae need hauners anyway,’ said Joey.

  Eventually, and only after both protaganists were reduced to similar levels of ripped undress, two doormen from The Anchorage pulled them apart. Due to Theresa’s relationship with the DJ, it was Lizzie who was cast out into the balmy night air of Troon’s Templehill. Bobby and Joey followed shortly after.

  ‘Where the fuck were you’se two?’ screamed an angry Lizzie, as they strode towards the taxi rank.

  ‘Didnae seem like ye needed any help,’ exclaimed Joey. ‘Plus, whit the fuck did ye expect the three ae us tae dae? Jump in like an all-in wrestlin’ tag team?’

  Bobby wasn’t sure which way to go with this discussion. Should he defend a girlfriend whom he liked, but hadn’t even had sex with yet? Or side with his friend of almost six years? The Laurel to his Hardy; the Millican to his Nesbitt; the Bernie to his Mike … Hold on a minute, thought Bobby. Where the fuck was Schnorbitz?

  ‘That yin there’ll dae,’ whispered Des. ‘The wee yin wae the oars in it.’

  Wullie the Painter reached into the cold, black water and grabbed at the rope that was connected to the small rowing boat.

  ‘Stroke ae fuckin’ luck, eh? That fight kickin’ off like that,’ said Des. ‘And a Brucie fuckin’ bonus that they diddies were even there, eh? We’d ae struggled tae get out without aw that commotion.’

  ‘Aye, although ah wish we could’ve stayed to see it aw.’ Wullie stopped wrestling with the top half of the parcel and looked up. Des urged him to be quiet. Wullie swung a leg at the end of the struggling body. His boot connected with a dull thud. The body stopped moving. ‘That should make it easier to shift the cunt,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck sake, Wullie. Ye mighta killed him.’

  ‘Naw ah huvnae. Just knocked the prick out a wee bit. Anyway, like ah was sayin�
��, Theresa’s tits are fuckin’ magic … an’ we’d have seen them if we’d hung on a wee bit longer. Many’s the time ah’ve had a rerr auld soapy-tit wank in the bath thinkin’ about them.’

  Des couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Well, let’s get this yin in the boat an’ run back up. Mibbe we’ll catch the last round.’

  Hamish’s taped-up body was rolled into the small vessel. Wullie pushed it gently away from the wooden boardwalk and watched it drift with the outgoing tide into the calm night beyond the stone breakwater.

  ‘Ach, fuck it,’ exclaimed Wullie. Des looked back suddenly.

  ‘Whit is it?’

  ‘Ah forgot tae take the oars out.’

  HIGH NOON

  15TH MAY 1982: 11:58AM

  ‘How’s things, Harry?’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Ah got told that yer boy Gary’s away tae the Falklands.’

  ‘Aye that’s right. Sailed on the QE2 last Tuesday.’

  ‘Did ye go doon tae see him off? Southampton, wis it?’

  ‘Naw. We didnae. He didnae want us tae come doon. He kent Eth– … he kent it wid be too much for his mam.’ Harry was uncomfortable with this conversation, and not just because he was deep inside Kilmarnock’s Eastern Bloc-style police station. Don McAllister sat, hands clasped, on the other side of the laminated desk. There was a manila folder sitting in front of him. When Harry had been shown into the room – just after he’d ignored Don’s outstretched hand – he’d noticed four surnames written in black ink on a notepad. One of them was his.