The Last Days of Disco

by David F. Ross

  Harry,

  I’m truly sorry about today, but I need to speak to you. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at one o’clock at the Cochrane out near Gatehead. Please come. We need to sort some things out.

  D.M.

  Harry screwed up the paper and threw it at the bin.

  22ND JUNE 1982: 11:48AM

  Harry buttoned his sports jacket, looked at the bags under his eyes in the mirror at the front door, and shouted up the stairs. ‘Hettie, ah need tae go. Ah’ll be back in a coupla hours.’ There was no response from the teenager’s room. Harry felt bad about leaving her in charge of Ethel yet again. He resolved to sit Bobby down and make him appreciate that he had to pull his weight a bit more in terms of looking after his mum and taking some of the pressure off Harry, and especially Hettie.

  ‘Hettie? Did ye hear me? There was still no response. Harry sighed deeply and started to climb the stairs. He first looked into his own room and saw Ethel still sleeping the sleep of one whose senses have been medically numbed. Harry then passed Bobby’s empty room to the smallest bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was only slightly open but by looking at the reflection in the small Coca-Cola mirror at eye level on the wall next to the door, Harry could see that his daughter was lying slumped across the bed, still fully clothed.

  ‘Aw My GOD! HETTIE!’ Harry burst into the room as soon as he saw the brown pill bottle lying discarded on the floor at the side of her bed. ‘NAW! No ma Het …’ Harry’s heart was pounding as if it was going to vault straight out of the cavity in his chest.

  ‘Wha … Whit izzit? DAD! Dad, whit’s wrong?’ Hettie jumped up, make-up stained down one side of her face, and all over her bed covers. Harry began sobbing as he threw his arms around his daughter and pulled her close to him. ‘Dad? Is it Mum? What’s wrong?’ Hettie was also now crying.

  ‘It’s just … ah saw the bottle there. Ah thought ye’d taken the pills.’ Harry wiped his eyes and turned to look at her. ‘Ah couldnae cope if anythin’ happened tae you tae.’

  ‘Aw Dad, ah took them out of your room cos’ ah was worried about Mum. She was actin’ really strange last night.’

  Harry sat on the edge of Hettie’s bed with his head in his hands. It was Hettie’s turn to comfort him.

  ‘I’d never have done anythin’ like that, Dad. Ah’m strugglin’ to hold it together here but we’ll aw get through this, eventually.’ Hettie got up and looked at the image that presented itself. ‘My God, look at the state ae me! Ah must’ve fell asleep the minute ah lay doon. Ah’m absolutely knackered, Dad. You must be tae.’

  Harry got up and wiped his face. He was embarrassed at his daughter’s maturity in the face of his despair. ‘Hettie, ah need tae go out, just now.’ Harry was breathing heavily, but he had recovered his composure. ‘Ah’ll be away for a wee while.’ Harry turned towards the door.

  ‘Wher’ are ye goin’, Dad?’ said Hettie

  ‘Ah’ve jist got tae go and see somebody. Just a message tae dae,’ replied Harry. He paused and then turned to look back at his youngest child. ‘Ah love ye, Hettie. Ye ken that, don’t ye?’

  ‘Aye Dad. I do, I really do.’ And with that he was gone, down the stairs and out the front door.

  SYNCHRONICITY

  22ND JUNE 1982: 1:32PM

  The two men staggered across the swampy grasslands. In fact, only one of them was staggering, and he was doing so partly through exhaustion, but also because he had the other, smaller man on his back. The smaller man was breathing lightly, but he was still breathing and that, frankly, was a fucking miracle.

  It was amazing how calm everything seemed. The weather was still flexing its considerable muscles. Icy, driving rain ripped into the pair and, with the treacherous conditions underfoot, it made the job of the carrier far more difficult than he had anticipated it would be when he finally decided to leave the shelter of the old stone barn earlier that morning. The terrain was uncannily like that of the Brecon Beacons, where they’d completed their final training exercises. In fact, when Gary Cassidy first regained any kind of consciousness, he initially assumed that he was in Wales. That was days ago.

  EIGHT DAYS EARLIER …

  ‘Gary … GARY! Fuck … GARY!’

  He recalled a story that involved his dad, and three of his mates sitting around a fire. One of those mates was still here, but Gary could only hear him, and not particularly clearly. It was as if he was underwater. Evidently there had been some sort of explosion that had occurred close to them. It must have caused the partial deafness in Gary’s right ear.

  ‘Gary, for fuck’s sake. Can you hear me? I’m hit … I’ve been fucking hit by somethin’.’ Gary pulled himself up onto his haunches. Instinctively, he kept low. He tried to quickly take in the surroundings. There was smoke or was it a low, misty fog? It was hard to be certain. Gary still hadn’t determined the origin of the voice. He stood up, heart pounding, and looked across the mountainous landscape. This wasn’t Wales. Fires were ablaze all across the skyline. But there was no movement other than his. And then suddenly – in the corner of his eye – he saw his stricken colleague. Benny Lewis was face down in a shallow slurry of reddish-brown mud. His head rested on what initially appeared to be a smooth rock. On closer inspection, it was his helmet. Benny’s skin tone and his green-and-brown fatigues made it virtually impossible to see him in the rapidly disappearing light.

  ‘Wha … coughs … whit the fuck’s goin’ on? Where are we?’ whispered Gary. He dropped down to his knees. Instinct still played its part in telling him that whatever had caused this was likely to still be around.

  ‘Gary!’ Benny was struggling for breath. Gary reached him by crawling through the sodden undergrowth and knelt down, trying to establish where his colleague had been injured.

  ‘Benny. Where are ye hit mate? We need tae shift fae here. Whit fuckin’ happened anyway?’ Gary pulled Benny’s backpack off and turned him over. ‘Aw fuck!’

  Benny was shaking. ‘GARY! What? What is it? I don’t wanna fucking die!’

  ‘You’re no gonnae die, mate. I’m here. I’m here, Benny.’ Gary looked at the two most obvious sources of the blood stains on his friend’s jacket. It didn’t look like there were any more, but Gary couldn’t be entirely sure. The light was fading fast and he didn’t want to use his small torch to investigate properly. There was a smallish hole at Benny’s upper left shoulder. It looked like a bullet hole, but there was no evidence of any exit wounds when Benny had been lying on his front. The other larger and more worrying wound was low on Benny’s left-hand side at approximately appendix level. Gary looked all around them and then again at Benny’s wound.

  ‘Fuck, Benny. We need tae move awa’ fae here. We need tae get tae some cover. This is too exposed.’ Gary stood up again and looked around. ‘Dae ye think ye can move?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Gary. I can’t feel my legs.’ Benny began sobbing. ‘Aw fuck, Gary. I’ve got no feelin’ in my legs, man.’

  Gary’s hearing was becoming slowly clearer. As this most vital sense was returning, Gary’s feeling for the need for shelter intensified.

  ‘C’mon. Let’s go.’

  ‘Aaaaghhh!’

  Gary dragged the smaller man up and held him with his right arm. He pulled his rifle over to him with his left foot and, noticing the bloodied bayonet, picked it up. Gary had no sense of the direction in which they should be heading. His compass had smashed and, other than the flickering lights of the various fires on the hillside, there was no indication of movement anywhere. Logic dictated that they head downhill, although at this point, safety seemed no more likely in that direction than in any other. Gary reckoned that they’d haltingly covered about four miles before he spotted the small structure at the base of the hillside below them. Gary had set Benny down and crawled through the soaking undergrowth to reach a post and wire fence. When he was as satisfied as he could be that there was no-one inside the small stone outhouse, he went back for Benny and manhandled him towards the black timber door.


  In the days that followed – Gary figured it had been four but he was having trouble sleeping and couldn’t be entirely sure – Benny drifted in and out of consciousness. Between them, the two Scots Guards worked out that they had become detached from their unit after Lieutenant Lawrence had been hit. Three – Gary, Benny and Kev Kavanagh – had progressed and had taken out the snipers. The remainder must have stayed with their commanding officer. Benny Lewis had taken cover when a surprisingly intense barrage peppered the area around them. He saw Kev going down and then Benny got hit in the chest himself. Benny remained unaware that Gary had survived the bombardment until he moved into the periphery of his vision in its aftermath. By that time, Benny reckoned their colleagues had either advanced and unwittingly left them behind, or the Argentine forces had re-grouped and retaken the original British bases. Since this scenario would’ve effectively placed the two survivors well behind enemy lines, the former seemed more likely. The lack of any kind of personnel supported this conclusion, but Gary still went warily as he explored a little bit further each day in a quest to identify their location and work out a plan to get help for his friend.

  He had a feeling that Benny’s wounds weren’t immediately life-threatening, but would become so if he didn’t get attention soon. Gary cleaned and dressed the wounds as best he could every day. The small outhouse had a sink with an intermittently running cold-water source, but Gary used it sparingly. He assumed there was a storage tank somewhere, as opposed to a more natural supply. He had walked for miles and found no signs of any farm or small holding of which their current shelter might be part. Gary astonished himself during a surreal seven days: his intuitive actions that had stabilised his colleague; had made and maintained a fire each night in the small shed when the smoke would be less evident; had hunted, caught and then cooked two hares. There had been a couple of times when Gary felt that he had been looking down at someone else performing these tasks. Like many people who undergo training for a job or a vocation, Gary had an underlying belief that the circumstances of the training were just extreme examples of scenarios that had very little chance of actually happening. Yet here he was – survival instincts to the fore – coping with far more than anything three weeks in the Welsh mountains had been able to throw at him. Only three months ago he had been concerned about the level of boredom in the Army. Fast forward and he had fought in a war and, more significantly, he had killed several young men who were just the same as him. Just as disorientated; just as scared and perhaps just as desperate for their father’s acknowledgement and respect. Maybe it was best not to think about these things too much.

  Eventually, Gary had decided that they should move again. Benny was getting weaker by the day and, although his blood loss had slowed, it was apparent that there was some form of shrapnel still lodged in his stomach. Gary knew his friend would die without proper medical attention. So, seven nights after they had arrived, Gary lifted his friend onto his back and set off, broadly in the direction from which they had originally come. He left all of their equipment, including his rifle. It was his intention to find the nearest encampment and either return to his unit or surrender; whichever the situation required.

  Having staggered for miles in as straight a direction as he could manage, Gary eventually came to a road. After only ten minutes following it, a Range Rover approached. It stopped suddenly about forty yards in from of them. Two elderly civilians got out and shouted towards them.

  ‘Are you English?’

  22ND JUNE 1982: 1:32PM

  Bobby normally hated going to Joey’s house. Onthank was full of arseholes who’d give you a doing just for looking at them the wrong way. Plus, Fat Franny Duncan’s tentacles reached far and wide across north west Kilmarnock, and since it seemed certain Hamish May had been hospitalised as a result of the Fatman, it was fair to assume that he was also a prime target. The other, more pragmatic reason Bobby rarely went to Joey’s house was that he was scared of dogs. Joey didn’t have a dog, but on the principal route to his house along Knockinlaw Road, everyone else seemed to have at least two. They seemed, uniformly, to be big Alsatians – or Al-fuckin-Getyes as Bobby referred to them. And since they were all allowed to roam free like it was a Safari Park, Bobby was convinced he could’ve given Allan Wells a run for his money on the few occasions when he’d had to sprint along Alsatian Road.

  Today though was different. He was simply enjoying the respite of lying on the bed in his best friend’s upstairs room, listening to music and trying to forget the events of the last week. Joey appreciated that his friend was looking for an escape from it all, even from Lizzie. He hadn’t spoken to his friend since before the news of Gary’s death, and he instinctively knew that the last thing he’d want to do was talk about it now.

  ‘Listen tae this, Boab. It’s fuckin’ brilliant.’ Joey sat next to his old record player and pulled the needle across. A two-note riff eventually gave way to crashing drums and shortly afterwards, Ian McCulloch’s distinctive vocals. Bobby didn’t rate Echo and the Bunnymen – or any other of these wierder arty bands like New Order, Wire or U2 that Joey was currently into – but he had to concede their new single, ‘The Back of Love’, was pretty damn good. Bobby lay back on the bed and looked at the mosaic of posters and newspaper clippings that concealed the walls and ceiling. It was an odd mix indeed. A life-sized poster of Debbie Harry was pinned to the zone directly above the bed. As she stared back down at Bobby he wondered how many times his friend had filled his bin with Kleenex while looking upwards. Turning Japanese right enough, eh, Joe?

  Less easy to fathom were numerous, large pictures of Govan socialist, Jimmy Reid, and father of the welfare state, Nye Bevan. Photos of Weller, Costello, Che Guevara, Jimi Hendrix, Ian Curtis and a whole host of headlines about the death of John Lennon were all grouped together in one space. Bobby remembered Joey being really upset about the former Beatle dying. He’d gone on and on about them having the same birthday and also about that fucking book The Catcher in the Rye – which Bobby had absolutely detested – being involved in the murder.

  ‘And whit about this yin?’ said Joey, as Simple Minds’ ‘Love Song’ emanated from the tinny speakers.

  Joey’s large wooden, coffin-like box of a record player sat on its four sturdy, foot-long legs at the side of his bed. It was designed to hold long-playing records in horizontal storage to the left-hand side of a centrally placed turntable with an automatic arm mechanism. The final third of the box was given over to the controls for sound, radio-station selection and waveband frequency. The records had to sit in a stacked, holding formation, like Harrier Jump Jets waiting for the signal to descend to their circular, black landing target. Sometimes two would drop at a time. When this happened Joey’s impatience would often cause him to force the next record down by manually moving the arm across. More often than not, a low persistent grumble from the speakers would follow this action. To Bobby, it sounded like Max – the elderly butler from Hart to Hart – recorded backwards.

  ‘Stoapfuckin’dain’that , Stoapfuckin’dain’that’, over and over again. Bobby laughed out loud. This bizarre sound was the result of Joey attempting to play a record by The Fall, one by Killing Joke and ‘Is Vic There?’ by Department S. Joey eventually laughed as well. He was irritated at that stupid fucking box but also pleased to see his friend happy again, even if it was only briefly – and at his own expense.

  ‘Listen, ah ken ye might no want tae think about this yet but whit’s the plans wi’ the disco?’

  Bobby stopped laughing and covered his head with Joey’s pillow.

  ‘Ah’m only bringin’ it up cos’ ah’ve got an idea. Ah could dae aw the alternative yins. Y’ken, just tae keep it going.’

  ‘Ah dunno, Joey. Ah canny think aboot anythin’ tae dae wi’ the disco at the minute. We’re supposed tae be doin’ Doc Martin’s anniversary thing next week. Ah’d dae it but ah think ma Dad would go daft.’

  ‘D’ye no think Gary would want everybody tae be gettin
’ on wi’ their life?’

  ‘Aye mibbe. But it’s nothin’ tae dae wi’ whit ah want tae dae. At the minute it’s aw aboot no upsettin’ ma mam, or our Hettie. Ah can’t cope wi’ it aw though. Ah just want tae get out and get fuckin’ miroculous, aw the time.’

  ‘Let’s dae the Doc Martin gig then! Dae it properly … in Gary’s honour.’ Joey was trying to be as upbeat as possible. ‘Remember that time he got us fired fae the job at the Tennis Club?’

  Bobby sat up and leaned back against Leon Trotsky. ‘Aye.’ Bobby smiled at the memory. ‘Stupid bastard.’

  At the beginning of June, more than twelve months ago, an interesting – if short-term – opportunity presented itself for both Bobby and Joey. They had each been offered the position of ‘temporary groundsman’ at the Kilmarnock Municipal Tennis Club, which was buried in the cleft behind the Henderson Church. The club had four clay courts and they ran parallel to the gently flowing Kilmarnock Water. The datum of the courts was around ten metres higher than that of the river’s normal surface level. The courts themselves had a coating of red blaes on top. A chain-link fence surrounded them, creating a safe internal oasis that Joey remarked would be forever middle-class. The fence was damaged only at its southern edge; an edge it shared with the far more working-class pie-and-a-pint outdoor bowls club. The damage was due to overuse as a route onto the flat, asphalt bowling club roof when stray tennis balls had to be recovered. A small, red-brick, single-storey tennis clubhouse was under construction at the northern end. It was moving forward at the slow-motion pace of a brick course a week. This clubhouse was partly functional, but some people still made use of an old tongue-and-groove timber-slatted garage that sat just outside the fenced enclosure, on the upper edge of the riverbank.