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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
When a young Ayrshire band unexpectedly hits the big time with the smash hit record of 1984, everything looks rosy, despite their delusional young manager and a thwarted plot to kidnap Boy George. What could possibly go wrong? The riotously funny, heartwarming, and deeply poignant second book in the bestselling Disco Days Trilogy. ***Now adapted for the stage by Scotland's Borderline Theatre Co. and the Ayr Gaiety theatre*** 'This band would definitely bring on Stockholm Syndrome' Boy George 'An astonishing tour de force' John Niven 'A great white-knuckle read set in the world of hope, dreams and DIY pop' Stuart Cosgrove –––––––––––––––––––––––– The Rise and Fall of the Miraculous Vespas is the timeless story of the quest for pop immortality. When a young Ayrshire band miraculously hits the big time with the smash hit record of 1984, international stardom beckons. That's despite having a delusional teenage manager propelled by a dark, malign voice in his head… Can Max Mojo's band of talented social misfits repeat the success and pay back the mounting debts accrued from an increasingly agitated cartel of local gangsters? Or will they have to kidnap Boy George and hope for the best? Featuring much-loved characters from the international bestseller, The Last Days of Disco, this is an absurdly funny, riotously ambitious and deeply human story of small-town rivalries, music, confused adolescence and, above all, hope, from one of Scotland's finest new voices. –––––––––––––––––––––––– Praise for David F. Ross 'This is a book that might just make you cry like nobody's watching' Iain MacLeod, Sunday Mail 'Warm, funny and evocative' Chris Brookmyre 'Crucially Ross's novel succeeds in balancing light and dark, in that it can leap smoothly from brutal social realism to laugh-out-loud humour within a few sentences' Press & Journal 'More than just a nostalgic recreation of the author's youth, it's a compassionate, affecting story of a family in crisis at a time of upheaval and transformation, when disco wasn't the only thing whose days were numbered' Herald Scotland 'Ross creates beautifully rounded characters full of humanity and perhaps most of all, hope. It will make you laugh. It will make you cry. It s rude, keenly observed and candidly down to earth' Liam Rudden, Scotsman 'There's a bittersweet poignancy to David F. Ross's debut novel, The Last Days of Disco' Edinburgh Evening News 'Full of comedy, pathos and great tunes' Hardeep Singh Kohli 'Dark, hilarious and heartbreaking' Muriel Gray 'If I saw that in a store I would buy it without even looking at what was inside' Irvine Welsh 'Like the vinyl that crackles off every page … as warm and authentic as Roddy Doyle at his very best' Nick Quantrill 'A solid-gold hit of a book! The closest you'll ever get to being on Top of the Pops' Colin McCredie
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Seitenzahl: 442
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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PRAISE FORTHE LAST DAYS OF DISCO
‘Full of comedy, pathos and great tunes’ Hardeep Singh Kohli
Warm, funny and evocative. If you grew up in the eighties, you’re going to love this’ Chris Brookmyre
‘If you lived through the early eighties this book is essential. If you didn’t it’s simply a brilliant debut novel’ John Niven
‘Dark, hilarious, funny and heart-breaking all at the same time, a book that sums up the spirit of an era and a country in a way that will make you wince and laugh’ Muriel Gray
‘Like the vinyl that crackles off every page, The Last Days of Disco is as warm and authentic as Roddy Doyle at his very best’ Nick Quantrill
‘Took me back to an almost forgotten time when vengeance was still in vogue and young DJs remained wilfully “uncool”. Just brilliant’ Bobby Bluebell
‘More than just a nostalgic recreation of the author’s youth, it’s a compassionate, affecting story of a family in crisis at a time of upheaval and transformation, when disco wasn’t the only thing whose days were numbered’ Herald Scotland
‘The Last Days of Disco is a scream, an early 80s teenage dream of vinyl and violence, where Phoenix Nights meets Begbie – catfights and kickings at the disco, polis, payoffs, Masons, pals and a soundtrack “Kid” Jensen would be proud of … David Ross’s debut novel punches the air and your face, hilarious and raging; a falling glitterball. Thatcher’s Kilmarnock is the coalition’s Kilmarnock, where the politics is bitter but the kids are alright; the last days of disco are the days we still dance in. This is a book that might just make you cry like nobody’s watching’ Iain MacLeod, Sunday Mail
‘Ross perfectly plays the nostalgia card through the music and TV shows of the day, transporting readers back to the decade that, arguably, set the UK on the destructive political path it follows even now … By turn hilarious and heart-breaking, more than anything Ross creates beautifully rounded characters full of humanity and perhaps most of all, hope. It will make you laugh. It will make you cry. It’s rude, keenly observed and candidly down to earth. You should read this, especially if you were 18 as the Falklands Conflict developed and recall the fear those call-up papers might be dispatched at any moment’ Scotsman
‘There’s a bittersweet poignancy to David F. Ross’s debut novel, The Last Days of Disco’ Edinburgh Evening News
‘The author himself grew up in Kilmarnock and his book gives a poignant portrayal of the humour and the horror of growing up in a small town in Scotland in the early 1980s. Crucially Ross’s novel succeeds in balancing light and dark, in that it can leap smoothly from brutal social realism to laugh-out-loud humour within a few sentences. It is a triumphant debut novel, which announces a real new talent on the Scottish literary scene’ Press and Journal
‘Ross has written a great coming-of-age novel that is full of wonderful prose and characters who are instantly likeable. At times the book is reminiscent of Irvine Welsh; Kilmarnock takes the place of Leith and Vinyl, rather than Heroin, is the drug of choice’ Literature for Lads
‘Set against a backdrop of rising unemployment levels and the brewing Falklands War, The Last Days of Disco – with its anger, wit and rebellion – is the novel version of an impassioned punk song. The humour is well-pitched and executed, in places even sublime – but David F. Ross has a talent for social angst, and it’s this I’d love to see more of in the future’ Louise Hutcheson, A Novel Book
‘It’s a strong premise and Ross handles the two threads skilfully, stepping backwards and forwards to follow the disco conflict through the local corridors of power … Rather as Jonathan Coe does with the 70s in The Rotters’ Club, Ross celebrates the music of the early 80s through the commitment and passion of Bobby and Joey to their favoured bands’ Blue Book Balloon
‘The Last Days of Disco strikes the perfect balance between weighty socio-political commentary and witty observation. I laughed out loud a great many times and shrunk in sadness during the harder moments. A tragic comedy of deep family difficulties and the comedic coping mechanisms, it makes for a strikingly authentic and enjoyable read’ Publish Things
‘David Ross captures the mood and spirit of the time impeccably, with a wonderful cast of characters and a fabulous soundtrack … there are definite echoes of the late, great, much missed Iain Banks here – there are plenty of comparisons to be drawn, with a sprawling Scottish small-town cast, delicately intertwined plotlines, social commentary and a deft turn of often quite black humour’ Espresso Coco
The Last Days of Disco captures the decade in all its harsh monochromatic glory … Filled with characters that will make you want to laugh and cry, often in the space of a single page, Ross has written a tragi-comedic novel that might topple Trainspotting’s crown and become Scotland’s favourite book of the last fifty years’ Andy Lawrence, Eurodrama
‘From about halfway through the novel, the Eastenders-esque drum bash moments, revelations where your mouth will drop, come thick and fast. That said, Ross is the master of bad taste comedy. Fancy a children’s entertainer who makes phallic balloon animals? Or sex in a shed involving a dry ice machine? Honestly, they say you couldn’t make it up, but Ross really can … Outstanding’ Amy Pirt, This Little Bag of Dreams
‘The Last Days of Disco is a thoroughly enjoyable, uplifting and bloody hilarious book that’s shot through with a clear and knowledgeable devotion to music … In his first novel, David F. Ross has given us a heady blend of social realism, tragedy, humour and Paul Weller. There’s not a dull moment in these pages and I wholeheartedly recommend getting your hands on a copy’ Mumbling About Music
‘I defy anyone not to be humming “Shaking Stevens” when reading this. You will … This is a funny, charming, slightly crazy and intelligent tale … retro comic magic’ Northern Lass
‘… completely exceeded expectations. I laughed out loud, I was moved to tears and I couldn’t put the book down. The Last Days of Disco is a brilliantly written reminder of times past, good and bad, and I would highly recommend it’ Segnalibro Blog
‘It is a tale of consequences, with heart and soul, a coming-of-age tale set in difficult times. David Ross has written a terrific terrific story that will have you laughing out loud one moment and sobbing into your pillow the next. The heart of it is emotionally resonant and absolutely unforgettable. Highly Recommended. Get your dancing shoes on!’ Liz Loves Books
‘The Last Days of Disco is a nostalgic, heart-warming tale of music and gritty real-life set in Scotland in the 1980s … David F. Ross excels in his weaving of humour and sadness into a novel which will have you feeling a range of emotions but ultimately marvelling at the signs of a great new author to follow’ Reviewed the Book
‘Ross uses the reader’s benefit of 30 years of hindsight to set up some fabulous gags. However, there are some very emotive moments to share too. I was reminded of Trainspotting … but with disco rather than drugs! I loved everything about this book and have to award it 5/5’ Grab this Book
‘The turf war with Fat Franny who fancies himself as the Disco King of Kilmarnock provides the Scottish banter and laugh out loud moments. And it’s the language – the Scottish vernacular – that really cements the book in the Scottish landscape. If you don’t speak Scottish dialect then you’ll have learned a few choice words by the end! When the tears flow, it’s because of the Falklands war and what that means for the young men who are forced to go out there and fight. And the tears do flow for there are some sad moments, poignant moments and a realisation via the political reminders at the start of chapters of what the situation was like for so many’ The Book Trail
‘Last Days of Disco is the new Trainspotting, brilliant writing! Irvine Welsh you have a new jock on the block! Thank you David F. Ross for a fantastic read and music set to go with it’ Atticus Finch
‘This is David Ross’s first novel but he demonstrates a gift for expressing life that surely has more to give. There is a real empathy for people of all kinds in the pages, there are “good” people doing bad things and “bad” people doing good things, because people are not good or bad they are just people dealing with what is in front of them, imperfectly. This book is worth reading for that truth alone, but it also takes you on an emotional journey that reminds you what it is to be human, a fabulous debut’ Live Many Lives
‘This is a high quality, extremely well drawn, and assured debut from this new author. Highly recommended’ Books and Pals Blog
‘Ross levers the various plot-twists and turns effectively. He also knows his music and the numerous references give the book authenticity. You will be thumbing through old records (or the modern day equivalent) as a result of reading this novel’ Danny Rhodes
‘Their adventures are hilarious, but life is not straightforward for most of the characters as it wasn’t for most people at that time. With Thatcher constantly buzzing in the background, like an unwanted wasp, for one reason or another: unemployment, the Falklands; it takes you right back to that era with an authenticity that is rare to find’ Sandra Foy, For Reading Addicts
The Rise and Fallof the Miraculous Vespas
DAVID F. ROSS
Contents
For Bobby, who inadvertently planted the seed.
Author’s Note
The Rise and Fall of the Miraculous Vespas is a parallel story to The Last Days of Disco. Although not directly related, both books share certain characters and locations. The story that you are about to read may seem unbelievable. I doubt I would have believed it myself, had I not witnessed most of it with my own eyes. All I would ask is that you suspend your natural cynicism and justifiable disbelief, and acknowledge that even in the cultural backwater of Thatcher-ravaged, 1980s Ayrshire, teenage dreams (so hard to beat) can, and did, come true.
Beyond our prologue, the first person you will encounter is Max Mojo who, at the beginning of this remarkable odyssey, is named Dale Wishart. As our story begins, he lies in hospital, the apparent victim of a re-emerging war between three Ayrshire gangland firms.
A myriad of colourful characters will weave their way across your pages and into the deep recesses of your imagination as this tale unfolds. It falls to me, your storyteller and guide, to introduce them to you. In order, dear reader, that you can follow this snakes-and-ladders epistle with the clarity of thought necessary, I will briefly explain their various relationships and their place on Police Superintendent Don McAllister’s ‘Ayrshire’s Most Wanted Bampot’ list. In Ayrshire, in 1982 – when our tale is set –there are three dominant ‘families’, all working very hard to make a dishonest living.
In Crosshouse, to the west of Kilmarnock, the Wisharts hold sway. The Wisharts are money-launderers; a level of ‘white-collar’ organised criminality that places them lower down the local Police HQ totem pole than their immediate rivals. They are led by James Wishart, universally known as ‘Washer’. Washer is Dale Wishart’s father although Dale – who fronts an amateur band called The Vespas – takes no active part in the family business. Washer’s right-hand man, Gerry Ghee, is also his nephew. Benny Donald is notionally third in command, but his recent forays into Glasgow’s dangerous drug scene are causing Washer concern. Frankie Fusi – known as Flatpack Frankie – is Washer’s closest friend. They have a brotherlike bond that goes back to their time serving in the Army together in Malaya. Frankie Fusi acts exclusively as a fixer for Washer, but is not a full-time member of the ‘family’.
In Galston, over on the eastern side of Kilmarnock, the roost is run by the Quinns, a Romany family whose modus operandi is security and protection rackets. The Quinns are incomers … gypsies from Birmingham who took over the Galston rackets from the previous incumbents – the McLartys from Glasgow’s East End – by force. Nobby Quinn is kingpin, but his fearsome wife, Magdalena is the brains behind the operation. The muscle is provided by their sons, of which there are almost too many to count. Fear not though, the only one you need look out for is Rocco, for reasons that will become apparent.
Which brings us to Fat Franny Duncan, of whom some of you may have heard. Fat Franny’s patch is Onthank, in the North West of Kilmarnock. His crew are involved in everything from loan-sharking to entertainment contracts, although his once unassailable position as Don McAllister’s Public Enemy Number One may be under challenge. Fat Franny’s principal henchman, Robert ‘Hobnail’ Dale, is beginning to question his commitment to the Fat Franny cause. Des Brick, Fat Franny’s advisor, and Hobnail’s brother-in-law, has his mind elsewhere and Wullie Blair – also known as Wullie the Painter – is moonlighting as a decorator for Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin, one of Fat Franny’s lone wolf rivals. To halt the slide, Fat Franny has brought in Terry Connolly to run the ice-cream vans. Terry is another with McLarty connections, as will become only too apparent to you.
So these are the three legs of a criminal cartel that, through an uneasy form of Mutually Assured Destruction, have maintained a peaceful equilibrium ever since the McLartys headed back north. Dear reader … for your entertainment, that peace is about to be shattered as the McLarty influence resurfaces … and the glam-racket of an amateur band rehearsing in a nearby Church Hall stirs a sleepwalking community with their deluded hopes and dreams. But we’ll get to their rise and fall in due course.
In the meantime, as Wullie (the Shakespeare, not the painter) might say … all that’s past is prologue.
DFR
The principal players
The Wisharts of Crosshouse
Dale Wishart (Max Mojo): teenage frontman of the amateur band, The Vespas
James ‘ Washer’ Wishart:Dale’s gangster father
Molly Wishart:Washer’s wife
‘Flatpack’ Frankie Fusi:Washer’s closest friend and ‘fixer’
Gerry Ghee:Washer’s right hand man, and also his nephew
Benny Donald:a young, opportunistic Wishart family lieutenant
The Quinns of Galston
Nobby Quinn:Birmingham-born Romany gypsy patriarch
Magdalena Quinn:his domineering wife
Rocco Quinn:eldest and most vocal of their five volatile sons
Maggie Abernethy:his mixed-race girlfriend
Ged McClure:friend of Rocco and also connected to the McLarty crime family
Fat Franny Duncan’s North West Kilmarnock Crew
Fat Franny Duncan:Onthank crime kingpin
Robert ‘Hobnail’ Dale:his friend since school, and principal ‘muscle’
Senga Dale:his wife
Grant Dale (Grant Delgado): their son
Des Brick:Fat Franny’s associate
Wullie Blair (The Painter): Fat Franny’s associate
Terry Connolly:Fat Franny’s newest associate, and still connected to the McLarty crime family.
The McLarty Family of Glasgow
Malachy McLarty:the most feared gangland leader in Scotland.
Gregor Gidney:the McLarty’s number-one enforcer, and a known associate of Terry Connolly and Ged McClure
The Police ‘family’
Don McAllister:Kilmarnock’s Detective Chief Superintendent
Charlie Lawson:his colleague
Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin:an Ayrshire impresario who often acts on instruction for Don McAllister
The Miraculous Vespas
Max Mojo (formerly known as Dale Wishart): their manager
Grant Delgado (formerly known as Grant Dale): the singer, and songwriter
Maggie Abernethy:the drummer
Eddie Sylvester (The Motorcycle Boy): the guitarist
Simon Sylvester: the bass guitarist, and Eddie’s twin brother
Clifford ‘X-Ray’ Raymonde:their producer
Jimmy Stevenson:their driver
Hairy Doug:their roadie and sound man
Rock ‘n’ Roll doesn’t necessarily mean a band. It doesn’t mean a singer, and it doesn’t mean a lyric, really. It’s that question of trying to be immortal.’
Malcolm McLaren
24th September 2014
On Christmas Day, 1995, The Miraculous Vespas appeared on the live festive edition of Top of the Pops. After more than ten years in the musical wilderness, the band’s re-released, remixed debut single ‘It’s a Miracle (Thank You)’, was back in the UK Top Five, and their long lost LP, ‘The Rise of the Miraculous Vespas’ was being hailed as one of the best British debut albums of all time. But their performance that day has gone down in musical history. As shocking as the Sex Pistols ‘Bill Grundy’ television interview and as iconic as Nirvana’s famous appearance on Channel 4 programme The Word. Instead of playing their hit song live to a TV audience of 26 million people, lead singer Grant Delgado unplugged his guitar, took off his shirt and gaffa-taped firstly his mouth, and then that of his fellow bandmates. The act has been simultaneously hailed as the ultimate act of career suicide, and the greatest piece of confrontational performance art ever staged. Now, on the 30th anniversary of the band’s legendary single reaching Number One, a new film written by the band’s controversial manager, Max Mojo, charts the incredible story of the Rise and Fall of The Miraculous Vespas. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Mojo …
Max, Norma … ye can call me Max, hen.
Ah, okay. Thank you, Max … for agreeing to this interview. I feel very priveliged to be the only person you’ve decided to speak to.
Ah like yer stuff. Ah’ve mind ae ye fae The Tube. That programme wis fuckin’ pish, by the way, but you were great oan it.
That’s very kind of you to say.
Ah bet ye didnae know that The Miraculous Vespas were booked tae dae that bastart show. First episode, third series.
Really? No, I didn’t know that.
Fifth ae October, nineteen eighty fuckin’ four. That date’s engrained oan ma memory like it wis fuckin’ tattoo’ed there by Inkstain Ingram.
Who? That was a couple of years before I joined the show.
Disnae matter. He’s deid noo, just like most ae them fae back in the day, ken? The Tube cancellin’ us wis probably the point ah knew ah’d fucked it aw up. But lookin’ back at that noo, ye’ve got tae laugh. They replaced us oan the bill wi’ fuckin’ Culture Club! The bloody irony, eh? They’re oan dain’ that ‘War Song’ pile ae absolute shite, an’ efter that, the Boy George yin gets asked aboot gettin’ fuckin’ kidnapped. An’ the cunt disnae deny it either. That caused us a load ae extra soapy bubble, the bastart.
Because of the trial, you mean?
Naw, no’ really. The arrests an’ the trials aw came later but lookin’ back noo, it wis probably the point that ah knew there wis nae way back wi’ Grant. Aw that crap in the papers meant The Miraculous Vespas had turned intae a joke. A one-hit wonder novelty record fae a band funded by gangsters an’ fuckin’ wallopers. Sad thing wis, the band would’ve been magic … ye’se aw ken that noo. Too fuckin’ late though, eh?
Let’s take our time, Max, if you don’t mind. Can we go back to the very beginning of the story? The film starts with a strange psychedelic sequence. Was it a vision that you had … or a hallucination? Can you talk about Dale Wishart? Could you begin by explaining that transformation?
(pauses) So, ah’m strugglin’ up this fuckin’ hill … the Mount in Onthank, ken? Nae fuckin’ idea how ah ended up in this shitehole, by the way. But ah’m carryin’ a couple ae bastart four by twos nailed th’gither. Fuckin’ skelfs aw over ma body. Agony, it wis. An’ there’s aw kinds ae bampots chuckin’ stuff at us aw the way doon Onthank Drive. An’ ma heid’s gowpin’ tae … worst fuckin’ headache ah’ve ever hud, to be honest.
Anyways, the crowd parts like an Orange Walk’s comin’, an’ through the gap, there’s an auld cunt comes gallopin’ towards us … but he’s ridin’ oan the back ae the biggest fuckin’ Alsatian dug ye’ve ever seen. He’s even got a fuckin’ saddle oan the cunt, as if it wis the 3/1 favourite at fuckin’ Aintree, or somethin’.
Ah starts shitin’ it, but ah canny put the bits ae wid doon. Ken why? ‘Cos some cunt’s nailed them tae ma hands. Whit the fuck’s aw that aboot? The auld boy leaps aff the dug, then says, ‘Down Sheba.’ Ah originally thought he says ‘drown’ Sheba, which is exactly whit ah’m wishin’ some cunt wid dae tae it, by the by. Anyway, he speaks … Methuselah, ken … no’ the dug:
‘Yer wastin’ yer talent,’ says this auld tosser. Tells me his name’s Manny … Manny Wise.
‘Fuck dae you ken?’ ah says back … aw gallus an’ that.
‘Ah ken mair than ye think, boy. Ah ken yer faither … an’ ah can see the future, tae. Your future.’
Ah laughs at this, ‘cos every cunt in Ayrshire kens Washer Wishart. A lot ae them probably wishin’ they didnae. Ah tells him this, just as his massive fuckin’ beast pisses up ma bare leg.
‘Aw for fuck’s sake,’ ah shouts, then the dug growls at us an’ ah wish ah hudnae. But, anyway, ‘Look, auld yin, ah’ve been telt tae get this timber up tae the Mount. There’s another big crowd up there waitin’ for it … an’ it’s just aboot tae start pishin’ it doon. So unless ye want tae grab an’ end, fuck off an’ let me dae ma job, eh?’
And then he says somethin’ that bolts me … puts a shiver right through me, ken?
‘Ye were born fur greatness, son. Remember yer Primary 7 essay? The yin where ye were a superhero … Max Mojo? The wan ye got that prize for?
‘How the fuck dae you ken aboot that?’ ah says, suddenly ah’ve went aw Elvis … aw shook up. Ah’m regardin’ him close noo, right in his face, tryin’ tae work oot where ah’ve seen him before. An’ then it dawns … it’s the Dale cunt’s fuckin’ grampa – Washer’s faither. Ah’ve only ever seen him in photies, cos’, get this … his auld fella died the same year the Dale yin wis’ born … in the fuckin’ 60s!
So, ah’m properly fuckin’ puggled, here … hands absolutely bastart achin’ fae they nails, an’ then he hits me wi’ it …
‘Yer a leader ae men, son. So lead. Dae it right. Get fuckin’ rid ae the auld you. Dale Wishart? Whit kinda arsehole name is that, son? Ye sound like a fuckin’ carpet factory. Take control. Nane ae this fuckin’ aboot at the front, tryin’ tae look like a bloody lassie. Nae wonder the rest ae the band banjo’ed ye. Lead, ya wee prick … an’ there will be untold riches.’
An’ suddenly it aw makes sense. Ah’m Max. Ah need tae wake this fuckin’ Dale wanker up. Take control, jist like the aul’ geezer says tae me. Ah’ve been dormant too long. Need tae shake it up! Lead … like this auld boy says. If ah dae … well …
‘It’ll be …’
01:I HOPE TO GOD YOU’RE NOT AS DUMB AS YOU MAKE OUT
1
7th June 1982
‘Miraculous.’
‘Eh? … whit is?’ The unexpected whispered sound being made by the bandaged figure in the bed was so faint that Bobby Cassidy wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it at all. He leaned in, carefully though, to avoid dislodging one of a number of tubes that might’ve stopped Dale Wishart from ever speaking again if he had. ‘Dale. Whit did ye say there, pal?’ But there was no response. He had been sitting at the side of the unconscious young man’s hospital bed for almost fifteen minutes. Bobby assumed his bored imagination had simply made more of the unusual rhythm of the various bleeps and breathing interludes.
Bobby had dropped in to the Intensive Care Unit at Crosshouse Hospital, on the western fringes of Kilmarnock, to see Dale Wishart. He’d first checked that none of Dale’s extended lunatic fringe family members were there but that became immaterial as he was no longer in critical care. He’d been moved earlier that morning when tests had determined he had suffered no lasting brain damage. His list of injuries was impressively extensive, mind you: broken ribs, damaged eye socket, fractured clavicle and an eye-wateringly painful-sounding twisted testicle. Two nights prior, the local amateur band Dale fronted had been bottled off stage at the start of a mass brawl that virtually destroyed the Henderson Church Hall. Bobby wasn’t a close friend of Dale’s, but the two eighteen-year-olds had shared some recent experiences, and they had had a love for the same musical influences.
Dale expressed these inspirations directly through The Vespas, his mod-influenced group; Bobby did so via the medium of mobile disco. His own fledgling DJ-ing vehicle, Heatwave Disco, had supported The Vespas on a few occasions. Last night was one of those occasions, although Bobby had – luckily for him, as it turned out – left the DJ-ing duties to his best friend and disco partner, Joey Miller. But he was here now because he felt a sense of obligation to check in on the battered singer. Dale Wishart had contacted Bobby to ask him to aid the band on what was ostensibly a money-making venture for Dale’s gangster father, Washer Wishart. The gig had been dressed up as a charity enterprise and as a result Bobby wasn’t going to be getting paid.
Bobby was shocked when he saw Dale, after being redirected and shown into the six-bed general ward on the third floor. The still-unconscious Vespas singer was hooked up to drips and wires as if he was the Six Million Dollar Man getting recharged. Bobby had just visited his own pal, Hamish May, who was suffering from hypothermia on a ward one floor above. Hamish had also been the victim of some mobile disco-related violence, although his fevered story that he had been abducted by smugglers, bundled into a rowing boat and despatched into the sea for Russian sailors to pick up, seemed delusional. That had been bad enough but at least Hamish was on the road to physical – if not mental – recovery.
Dale, on the other hand, looked like he had been run over by one of those daft new American monster trucks with the wheels the size of an Altonhill prefab. He was bare-chested, and the map of cuts, welts and developing yellow bruises that had been forcibly applied to their skin canvas made Bobby wince. Apart from the two perfectly formed black eyes – which were already turning deep purple – Dale’s face was pale, but relatively unmarked. With the cream-coloured bandage obscuring his hair, Bobby sniggered at the thought of him looking a bit like Telly Savalas in Kojak; all FBI sunglasses and ‘Who loves ya, Boaby?’
Dale Wishart was a decent guy. He was one of life’s eternal optimists. Too nice at times, Bobby thought. He had none of that ‘dae you know who ah am?’ bullshit that usually went hand-in-hand with being a local bruiser’s son. He actually seemed acutely embarrassed about his family business and despite the many understandable reasons for not doing so, nearly everybody liked him. Apart, it transpired, from his fellow bandmates in The Vespas. It was Dale’s group, no doubt, but lately Steven Dent – his pal from early childhood – had been making a play for leadership. It was causing rifts between the two friends, and forcing the two other members into taking sides. Jamie and Andy Ferguson were brothers so they inevitably block-voted in times of dispute. Dale had previously avoided having siblings in the band. It didn’t work for The Kinks or The Everly Brothers, he reasoned, and it wasn’t really working for The Vespas. The Henderson Church gig had actually been a farewell of sorts and – as a result of the numerous arguments – a split had been acrimoniously agreed prior to the event. The Ferguson brothers were both naturally shy and normally shunned confrontation, so recent band arguments always became a question of which of the two more dominant personalities to side with. On the night of the Henderson Church gig, it was clear to Joey Miller just whose side they were on. Although he hadn’t seen it personally, Malky Mackay – Heatwave’s minder for the evening – had informed Joey, with some authority, that Dale hadn’t been hospitalised as a result of the volatile crowd taking action, but as a direct consequence of his fellow band members taking it. Once Steven Dent’s swinging bass had felled Dale, the three of them had battered the fuck out of him, and set his synthesiser on fire. They had then bolted off stage and out of the rear fire door of the church hall before the police had arrived and started ‘lifting’ everyone left in the hall.
‘Musical differences,’ said the taciturn Malky of the split, with no detectable sense of irony.
‘Their fuckin’ arms an’ legs will be havin’ differences of direction fae their heids once Washer gets a haud ae them,’ being Joey’s prosaic summary.
‘Whit ye got ther’, son?’ Bobby turned his head round to see an old toothless man, gurning broadly back at him from the adjacent bed and pointing a shaky finger at Bobby’s plastic Safeway bag.
‘Lucozade,’ said Bobby. ‘It aids recovery, apparently … although it’s gonnae have its work cut oot wi’ this yin.’
‘Gie it tae me then.’ Bobby looked at the old man. The jaundiced skin visible on his body was virtually transparent, but his face had the telltale spidery blood vessels radiating out from a bulbous red nose. He had a thin tube coming across both sides of his fragile face, with an outlet going up each nostril. He had another, thicker one leading from under the thin pale-blue bedspread. Bobby watched the cloudy golden fluid it was now carrying work its way down the tube and into the bag that was taped to the metal sides of the hospital bed. The bag looked like it contained about a pint of Newcastle Brown Ale. The old fellow looked like he regularly contained about ten times that amount. Bobby figured he would be about fifty years old, but looked twenty more.
‘It’s no’ booze, ye know?’ Bobby told him.
‘Ah ken that, son, ah’m no’ a bloody eejit,’ the old man whispered. Bobby stood up and went to the bottom of Manny’s bed. He scanned the clipboard as if looking for a prognosis. He peered at the top of the chart.
‘Manny, is it?’ he asked.
‘Aye, son. Manfred … but naebody ever calls me that. Stupid bloody name.’ Bobby laughed. ‘They don’t gie me anythin’ tae drink in here … ’cept bloody watter. Ye’d think ah wis a flamin’ pot plant.’ Manny sighed as much as his shallow breathing would permit. ‘Nil by mouth … whit use is that tae an alkie, eh?’
‘Sorry,’ said Bobby.
‘Dinnae be … just gie’s yer juice!’
‘Aye. Aw’right. Here. Ye’ll need tae hide it, mind. Or they nurses’ll find it.’
‘No’ worried aboot that, son,’ said Manny. ‘Ah’ll huv that tanked the night.’ Bobby laughed again. ‘Yer pal’ll be fine. Ah heard they doctors aw talkin’. Somebody gie’d him a batterin’, and he’s no gonnae look like Montgomery Clift ever again…’ Old Manny paused, wheezing at the effort a few sentences had required, ‘…but ye dinnae need tae worry.’ Bobby didn’t have the heart to say that Dale was neither a pal, nor that he was particularly worried about his longer-term health. ‘Ah’ve been talkin’ tae him since this mornin’ … y’know, tae help him oot the big sleep.’
‘Cheers. Ah’m sure he’ll huv appreciated that when he comes ’roond,’ said Bobby. He looked at his watch.
‘They three aul’ wummin dinnae say nothin’. It’s like they’re affrontit tae speak tae a drunk. They shut the centre curtain ower and ah’m left masel. Aul’ cows.’
‘Ah need tae go, mate,’ said Bobby. Hospitals freaked him out and he’d already been in this one about three times as long as he’d intended. ‘Hope yir back oan yer feet soon, sir.’
‘No’ happenin’, son. Ah’m no’ gettin’ oot ae here,’ said Manny, with a wry, gumsy smile. ‘End ae the line fur me, boy. But you make sure yer pal stays ootae trouble … just like ah’ve been tellin’ him.’
‘See ye, Manny,’ said Bobby as he walked away from Dale’s bed.
‘Naw ye’ll no’,’ replied Manny, lifting a quivering left hand to wave as he did so.
Bobby needed air. He couldn’t understand why the wards always had to be so hot. Did bacteria not fucking shag each other daft and multiply in warm conditions, like Scottish gadgies on holiday in Benidorm? Everybody seemed to be sweating, especially him. Bobby walked down the corridor, under blinking fluorescent lights, alongside flaking paintwork and looking up at numerous gaps in the suspended ceiling tiles where cables and wires hung down. Christ, why the fuck do hospitals have to be so depressing? he wondered.
Noo, at this point in the story, Norma, ah’m only a Voice in the cunt’s battered heid. Ah know he can hear me, but he’s too fucked up tae really ken whit’s goin’ on, y’know? He’s lyin’ there, comatose, an’ ah’m bawlin’ away inside the wee bastart:
‘Wake up, ya fuckin’ moron!
Ah’m no’ lyin’ here any longer. Ah’ve got a fuckin’ destiny tae fulfil … an’ unfortunately for me, ah need your useless cunt ae a body. Immortality’s waitin’ just doon the next Bruce Springsteen motorway…
So, move yer fat arse, ya lazy bastart … or ah’ll gie ye another fuckin’ kickin’ fae the inside.’
Musta worked, though. The daft wee ginger walloper wakes up, ken?
2
20th June 1982
Grant Dale turned up the radio. He still made a regular appointment with the Chart rundown and tried to listen to the whole Top 40 on a Sunday, culminating with the Number One at five minutes to seven. It had been a while since any of his favourite records had actually reached the top of the charts, mind you. The year had started promisingly with the Human League dominating British music with Don’t You Want Me. Grant had regularly considered the prospect of a New Romantic threesome with Joanne and Suzanne, while that prick with the lopsided haircut watched. That was the only downside of New Romantic music … all the guys involved in it looked like posh London fannies. It was a sure-fire route to a direct kicking up around Onthank, if anybody caught you buying the Rimmel out of Boots, that’s for sure.
Grant had loved the Kraftwerk record, The Model. He had the 7-inch and 12-inch versions of the song, although at £3.99, the LP was a bit steep. Kraftwerk looked cool, if a bit too cool. Their look – Burton shop dummies meets Special Branch – might also result in a battering, although for totally different reasons.
Another favourite was Japan, although Grant was knowledgeable enough to know that they – like so many of the current crop – were just wannabe David Bowie impersonators. At least Japan’s main man was a good-looking bastard, and occasionally played guitar as opposed to being totally synthetic. Grant had been growing his hair and had bleached and shaped it into a David Sylvian-type feather cut. Grant’s dad, Bob Dale – known universally as Hobnail – had predictably hated it, but since he’d vanished off the reservation of late, that aggravation had gone at least.
In fact, Hobnail’s incessant hounding of his son had initially persuaded the boy to move out and start doing some strong-arm work of his own for Fat Franny Duncan, the local loan shark heidcase, and also his father’s boss. If there was one way to completely fuck over his old man, it would be joining the Fat Franny fraternity. But in truth, Grant had neither the motivation for it, nor the necessary menace. Threatening to scald pensioners for late payments of a tenner seemed a bit over the top, even for an arsehole like Fat Franny Duncan. Grant was never going to win Mastermind, but he was sharp enough to know where the path followed by his father at the same age would lead, and astute enough to want to take a different one. So, to his worried mother’s delight, he had come home. He’d been gone for two weeks – only a day less, in fact, than his father – nevertheless, his prodigal return had seen Senga Dale bring out the best china and nip to the shops for a bit of Silverside while Grant returned to routine, taking a Sunday soak on bath night and listening to the radio.
‘…and now, a new Number One, it’s the UK’s top-selling song … it’s Captain Sensible, with “Happy Talk”.’
Fuck it, couldae been worse, thought Grant. Irene Cara was hovering around the top three like the Childcatcher, waiting to brainwash more Kids into joining her sinister cult. That irritating song from Fame was a new entry at Number Four. Grant Dale was convinced he could have done better, given half a chance.
23rd June 1982
‘Aye, ah hear whit yer sayin’ … ye’re right fuckin’ there. How could ah avoid it!’
‘Ah’m no’ sayin’ that. That’s no’ whit ah meant, man.’
‘Stop puttin’ fuckin’ words in ma mooth. Ye don’t ken whit yer askin’ here. It’s no’ gonnae be as easy as you’re makin’ oot.’
‘Naw … it fuckin’ isnae!’
‘Well, put it this way, there’s nae band as of right noo. There’s nae instruments, ’cos they’ve aw went walkin’. There’s nae songs, nae money, an’ frankly, nae inspiration. Ye need aw ae things tae start a band. Ah should ken, ah’ve been fuckin’ tryin’ long enough.’
‘Aye? Like whit?’
‘Max Mojo? Fuck sake, that sounds like that green an’ white gadgie that helps weans cross the bastart road!’
‘But every cunt’ll be pissin’ themselves. Jesus Christ, man.’
‘Aye. Aye, ah said.’
‘Where? That wee office oan John Dickie Street? Where Molly pays the rates?’
‘Right. Fuckin’ fine. Ah’ll dae it after, man. Jist gie us a break, eh? Ma heid’s loupin’.’
Molly Wishart heard her son from the kitchen. She initially assumed that he was speaking to someone on the telephone, but when she leaned in closer to eavesdrop, it was apparent that he wasn’t in the hall where the house phone was. Dale Wishart was in the front room of the manse. Molly peered through the gap between door and frame and saw him pacing back and forth. She hadn’t heard the front door opening and, although she couldn’t see the whole room, she assumed there was no one else in there.
‘For God sake, son, it’s like Blackpool Illuminations in here! Turn the big light off … everybody can see in.’
‘Whit … ’cos ah’ve got wan fuckin’ light oan?’
‘Hey, watch who yer speakin’ tae!’ The doctors had told Molly Wishart to anticipate certain mood changes that were often the consequence of a severe concussion, but in the two weeks since he had returned home from hospital, she’d noticed these episodes increasing in both regularity and intensity. Molly had asked the specialist about this and she had booked him in for further neurological tests, but since he appeared to have made a remarkable physical recovery, the NHS urgency seemed to have shifted down a gear.
With biological tests ruling out other forms of psychosis associated with substance abuse or other mental-health conditions, a Pakistani consultant had eventually diagnosed Schizo-affective disorder. But he was non-commital about the Henderson Church beating being the cause. The consultant’s colleagues casually suggested indulging in the young man’s altered-state fantasy, and recommended acceding to his bizarre demands about his new persona. Molly and Washer were warned about delusions and hallucinations being the classic symptoms of this type of psychosis. Nobody said anything to them about the disorganised and profanity-strewn speech patterns.
In the subsequent days, Dale Wishart officially became Max Mojo via deed poll. When challenged, the individual now known as Max claimed his mum was imagining him talking to himself. He even shamefully hinted that her mental capacity might be called into question in this regard. But his left eye had also started fluttering and twitching uncontrollably when these periods occurred. Molly had convinced herself that with her son’s previously carefree attitude on the decline, he was being slowly but surely overtaken by a darker and more malign force.
‘Don’t talk shite, Mam. That’s the fuckin’ plot ae The Empire Strikes Back,’ he’d said to her. But the swearing in itself was indicative of a significant change. The teenager formerly known as Dale would never have spoken to his mother – or any woman for that matter – in that way. It was a positive trait he’d inherited from his father, who despite faults in other areas had never disrespected women in the manner so stereotypical of the working-class males of his generation.
Max’s eye stopped twitching. He sat down. His demeanour seemed to relax as his mum stood before him.
‘So, when’s yer interview, again?’ she asked him.
‘Friday.’
‘The ’morra, ye mean?’
‘Aye. Christ … lost track ae the days, Mam.’
‘Well, make sure ye get tae yer bed early tonight then, an’ that ye’ve looked oot aw yer certificates, aye? It’s a good wee job, doon at the Garden Centre. Plenty ae fresh air … nice flowers tae look after. It’ll calm ye, son.’
‘Aye, Mam. Ah will. Don’t worry.’ Max wasn’t worried either, but mainly because he had absolutely no intention of going to this particular interview.
3
24th June 1982
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Washer Wishart had stepped out of the back seat of the Volvo and straight into a muddy puddle. This wasn’t a good start to what would surely be a difficult and confrontational situation. ‘Who fuckin’ lives like this, eh?’ he said, scanning the agricultural wasteland of the Quinns’ compound, where this summit meeting was being held. He wiped the brown watery shite from his brogues. He shook his head as he took in a destitute panorama containing scabby ducks, pigs and rabbits roaming free, four static caravans – three of which were on bricks as opposed to wheels – and a graveyard of rusting white goods, all underscored by a thick layer of slurried dung. Chickens moved tentatively, as if they were in the middle of a minefield. It was like an interpretation of Animal Farm painted by Hieronymous Bosch. Washer tiptoed gingerly through the muck, sighing and cursing under his breath.
‘Fuckin’ pikeys!’ said Benny Donald in a sycophantic attempt to surf the mood. Washer didn’t acknowledge him. Benny was still persona non grata for his peripheral role in the reason why Washer Wishart had to be in this god-forsaken Galston gypsy hovel in the first place. Washer aimed for the shed with the open door, where others had congregated. Benny trailed along behind, head down.
Nobby Quinn, the Birmingham-born gypsy patriarch, teased his wispy greying beard through nicotine-stained fingers. Magdalena, his domineering wife, stood right behind him, as if working him from the back. Three of their muscle-bound, tattooed sons sat on hay bales. They all looked like bored versions of David Essex in Stardust. They were the Quinns, ruling Romany crime family of Galston, a few miles to the east of Kilmarnock, and this was their gaff.
Actually, it was their gaffe in other ways that had necessitated this meeting. Ten days earlier, an angry mob acting under instruction from the Quinns had wrecked the Henderson Church Hall in Kilmarnock, during a faux charity fundraising gig by local band The Vespas. The reason for this had been uncertain until Fat Franny Duncan had admitted under some duresse that he had paid the Quinns to carry out this apparently incendiary act. The Fat Franny contingent – Bob ‘Hobnail’ Dale, Des Brick, Wullie the Painter, and the Fatman himself – were situated nearest to the large barn door. It was unintentional but it looked to Washer Wishart like they were bracing themselves for a quick getaway. Washer smirked at the thought of milk turning faster than Fat Franny Duncan.
The third leg of this Ayrshire crime triumvirate – Washer Wishart’s crew from Crosshouse – were the current victims. There were three of them. Old man Washer, suited and business-respectable as usual. Flat-pack Frankie Fusi, the legendary dark-haired and smouldering fixer. Benny Donald, who was there ostensibly deputising for Washer’s consigliore, his thirty-year-old nephew, Gerry Ghee. Gerry had called in sick that morning. Given the business of the day, it had raised a slight suspicion with Washer, but he hadn’t pressed it. If he had, Gerry would’ve been forced to concede that he was having a vasectomy. It wasn’t something he wanted widely known.
The summit had been called by the Quinns, at Don McAllister’s insistence. A new gang war was the last thing Don McAllister wanted, so he had acted quickly. Regional enforcer, Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin had been cajoled into attending by McAllister, but purely as an independent witness.
So the meeting of the most powerful unelected men in East Ayrshire was taking place in a dung-filled cowshed. Washer wasn’t impressed, but when in Romany territory…
‘Thanks are due tae the Quinns for hostin’ this emergency summit meetin’.’ A muted, half-hearted round of applause broke out as Doc Martin opened proceedings. He wasn’t expected to chair, but it looked like he’d have to. The inscrutability of the Wisharts, the inarticulacy of the Quinns and the apparent determination of the Fat Franny crew not to incriminate themselves had left no option. The meeting should’ve started half an hour ago, but all present danced around the subject with a prolonged discussion about the morning’s breakthrough news. Only Washer Wishart had an understandable interest in the Falklands War being declared over, given his previous army service overseas. None of the others present could’ve given a flying fuck about it, and their determination to drag the stilted introductory smalltalk out for as long as possible was a clear indication that this wasn’t going to be as fruitful and conclusive a discussion as Don McAllister had hoped. So – acknowledging the digressionary tactics – Doc Martin cut to the chase.
‘It’s an emergency ’cos naebody wants a return tae the McLarty era, right?’ Doc waited for a response. He only got head shakes. It was enough. ‘So, Washer’s been wronged, right?’ No response. Doc put that down to the confusing wording. These weren’t the sharpest tools in the box, he reckoned. ‘Whit ah mean is that the Wisharts were the victims ae an unfortunate fuck-up. Is that agreed? Nae maliciousness wis intended towards them.’ The seated leaders eyed each other anxiously. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s no’ the fuckin’ Deer Hunter. Nae cunts gettin’ shot through the heid. Jist admit the fuck-up, apologise an’ we can get tae the compo.’ There was some shuffling of feet and a theatrical cough from Magdalena Quinn. Doc Martin was getting annoyed. ‘Franny, fuck sake, man. You’re up.’
‘Em … ah’m willin’ tae … em, concede that ah only wanted they two Heatwave DJ fannies neutered.’ Fat Franny cleared his throat. ‘Ah asked Nobby here for an … accommodation. But, as Doc says, due tae an unfortunate breakdoon in communications…’ Fat Franny turned to look at Hobnail, ‘…the wrang instructions got passed.’ Fat Franny then turned to look directly at Washer Wishart. ‘An’ fur that, ah’m sorry, Washer. As long as the penalty’s fair, ah’ll be fine in handin’ ower the lion’s share.’ Fat Franny had conserved a tidy stash in his house safe, and while he resented giving it to Washer Wishart, the price of protecting the ongoing calm was worth paying. Within reason, of course. Hobnail would find his monthly cut docked for some time to come.
‘Good,’ said Doc Martin. ‘Nobby? Anythin’ tae add?’ Nobby Quinn shook his head. But his fearsome wife spoke up.
‘Washer, we’re sorry about ye boy, but that wasna us. We didna touch ’im.’ Magdalena’s thick Brummie accent floated through the testosterone in the barn like a fart in a spacesuit. ‘But inna spirit of keepin’ peace here, we’ll pey up too.’
‘Thanks fur that, Mrs Quinn,’ said Doc. ‘Right, if you’re aw’right wi’ this, Washer, ah’ll work oot a package an’ let ye know once they’ve aw accepted it.’ Washer Wishart nodded his acceptance. He’d got through this brief summit meeting without speaking. It would be clear that he’d accept the outturn penalty payments, but that he’d do so grudgingly. That should keep the others on edge until the real story of the Henderson night emerged. And he’d make sure it would. Meanwhile, the payments to him would hopefully sort out the Glasgow drug mess in which Benny Donald had landed the family.
‘Could ye’se aw leave us a minute? Ah’d like a private word wi’ yer bosses.’ Doc Martin’s request left all a bit blindsided. Hadn’t they just worked out a resolution?
The kingpins all motioned to their subordinates to wait outside.
‘There’s rabbit stew in th’ yard fur them’s that want it.’ And with that culinary threat issued by the fearsome Magdalena Quinn, the main part of the summit meeting of the Three East Ayrshire Crime Families concluded, blood unspilled. Des Brick knew Fat Franny had been hoping for a word with Doc Martin about his upcoming Metropolis nightclub residency. The suggestion that Doc was about to award that gig to Bobby Cassidy and his pal, Joey Miller, of Heatwave instead of Fat Franny had been the catalyst for the Henderson Church sanction. But after twenty additional minutes of private chat, Doc Martin had bolted first. He’d far better things to be doing than debating his own plans with subordinates, and nothing short of a red-hot poker up the arsehole from Satan himself would get him anywhere near that steaming oil-can with the boiled skinless rabbits.
‘Whit wis that aw aboot, boss?’ Des asked hopefully.
‘Eh … nothin’ important. Jist aboot the … em, method ae payment. The compo, like.’ Fat Franny seemed distracted, but Des elected not to press the point further. The journey back to Onthank in the brown Rover was conducted in silence.
4
5th July 198212.34 am
DI Charlie Lawson had elected to visit Senga Dale alone. His boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Don McAllister had suggested taking a young female copper, but Charlie figured that she’d just get in the way. The wee lassies at the Kilmarnock Cop Shop were useful at these types of difficult home visits, there was no doubt about that, but since Don McAllister specifically wanted this situation kept tight – and since it was after midnight anyway – Charlie didn’t want this dragged out by a Juliet Bravo offering to make soothing cups of tea.
He rapped at the green door. Try though he always did to conceal or vary it, Charlie Lawson’s door-knocking technique could only be polis
