Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  She accelerated, hoping that her knowledge of the twists and turns of this narrow road was better than her pursuer’s. She took a corner at nearly seventy miles per hour. The Mini’s engine spluttered loudly, like a Corporation bus. And still he kept close behind her. Twenty yards between them now. Lights still on full beam, blinding her when she glanced up.

  The heat haze made the road ahead disappear at the crests of the hills. Gail was crying. Trying to grip the wheel and wipe away the tears. Ten yards now. Five. She could see his face. He was smiling broadly. The Mini couldn’t go any faster. Steam was coming from the bonnet. She was going to die. A coach was approaching on the other side of the road. A distance away but she would almost certainly hit it at this speed. She looked up and saw the driver behind her pulling back.

  She watched him, and in watching him, failed to see the sharp bend just beyond the hidden dip in the road.

  11

  August 1976 – Friday

  ‘Yer late.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Fucken late, ya prick! Yer meant tae be here at half eight.’

  ‘Ye sure? The Wigw— … erm, Wullie said nine would dae just fine.’ Archie Blunt looked at his new watch. He’d picked it up at the Barras market. New stock, just in fae Switzerland, he’d been informed. Its digital numbers were hard to decipher in the blazing sunlight. But he was sure it read 08:53.

  ‘Naw, he fucken didnae. He widnae have telt me tae get up an’ get in this early for yer inducation, wid he?’

  ‘Indu-cation?’

  ‘Ach, the fucken … the showin’ ye where everythin’ is. The motor, an’ that. Don’t fuck me aboot, son. Ah’ll rattle yer jaw!’ Chib Charnley was growing more annoyed by the minute. He would gladly have given Archie a good dull jab, especially after all that carry-on with the bus. The enquiry might’ve been weeks ago, but, like the elephant, whose muscular bulk he resembled, Chib Charnley never forgot appointments. Archie had requested reimbursement of the payment Geordie had made to Chib to turn up to the Corporation hearing. But that had been like poking a wasps’ nest with a stick. Chib’s furious post-match conviction that Geordie was a total fuckwit who had given him the wrong date, had Archie doubting his shop steward’s account.

  ‘Just tae be clear,’ Chib said now, ‘ah widnae have gie’d ye this job, but the boss said ye were the only man for it.’

  ‘Look Chib, ah’m sorry, pal. Ah wis, em … Wullie said it wis a slow week, an’ that kickin’ off at nine wis gonnae be fine. Honest, he did.’ Archie tried sounding placatory. He didn’t want to be getting off on the wrong foot.

  ‘Well, it’s anythin’ but quiet.’ Chib stood up, huge in his black suit. He lifted his brass-handled stick above his head. Archie flinched, but Chib was just using it to point.

  ‘The motor’s round the back. The big black yin wi’ the DUNNE 2 reggie.’

  ‘Aye … righto, Chib. Ah’ll be back in a minute then.’

  The car that had been sleeping underneath an unusual, camouflaged tarpaulin blanket was, when unveiled, hugely impressive. There were no identifying marks or insignia of any kind. It had blacked-out rear and side windows, and a thick pane of internal glass, so the driver and the distinguished occupant wouldn’t share the same airspace. Archie knelt and looked at himself in a hub cap’s polished convex reflection. An angry gargoyle stared back. He opened the wide, heavy passenger door. He assumed the weight indicated concealed armour-plating. That was comforting. There was substantial space inside. Just behind the driver’s seat, a built-in compartment concealed several bottles of malt whisky and six cut crystal glasses. A side door to the same compartment slid back to reveal cigars longer than sticks of Edinburgh rock. This was a vehicle built for some serious pleasure, thought Archie. His new employment was to drive it. He flicked a switch. Radio 2. Pre-set. ‘Mama Mia, Mama Mia, Mama Mia let me go … Be-el-zebub has a devil put aside for me…’

  ‘Aw, Jesus fucken Christ.’ Archie sighed. That bloody song! Number one for months about a year ago, and it was still everywhere. Archie hated it. He could’ve done better, he was certain. If only someone would give him the chance to prove it. Archie fiddled with the knobs. 10CC’s breathy, dreamy ‘I’m Not in Love’ came on. Much better. Archie relaxed into the driver’s seat as the quadrophonic sound lapped around him. He shuffled his arse cheeks, creating a profile in the velour until a more threatening but less progressive sound cut through the music:

  ‘Haw, fucken daydream believer?’ A darker, deeper voice. ‘Want yer first day tae be yer last? Ye’ve got a job tae dae. The hire flew in late last night. It’s a pick-up at eleven … so get the fucken tin flute, an’ get a fucken shift on.’

  Archie stiffened, like the devil himself had commanded attention.

  Archie emerged, a few minutes later, suited and laundered, from the tiny toilet next to the office. ‘Whit dae ye think, then?’ He looked up at his new employer; at the tee-pee shaped space left on the large, flat forehead by the exuberant centre parting that had spawned his nickname all those years ago.

  ‘Ah think you should be at the fucken Central by now, know whit ah mean?’ Wullie Wigwam was agitated. Archie had no idea what was causing it; fortunately, in this instance it didn’t seem to be him.

  ‘Is this the job, boss?’ said Archie.

  ‘Aye … ah’m the boss, that’s right,’ Wullie Wigwam replied, not quite hearing the question properly. ‘Mind ae that an’ ye’ll dae aw’right here.’

  The Wigwam had lit up an Embassy Regal. It sat awkwardly between third finger and fourth, allowing him to dexterously pick at a nostril with his forefinger while drawing on it. It was an impressive sight. With his other hand, he’d written some details on a sheet of lined paper. He’d followed that by gulping a mug of tea and inhaling a Tunnocks Tea Cake. It had all been done so quickly and mechanically that Archie wasn’t exactly sure how he’d managed it all with only two hands. Regardless, the process seemed to have calmed the Dunne Driving head honcho down a little.

  ‘Big important client. This is the one we talked about, the one that ah hired ye specifically for,’ he began. ‘Up to see some mates, an’ dain’ a bit ae business tae, so he is. Needs a driver tae move him about the city. Naebody can know he’s here though, right?’ Wullie tapped his nose and winked. ‘Remember our motto…’

  ‘Done driving,’ proclaimed Archie proudly.

  ‘Naw, ya fucken moron. That’s the name ae the company. It’s “discretion guaranteed”.’

  ‘Aye. Sorry boss. Discretion. Guaranteed. Nae worries. Ah’ll no’ let ye down.’

  ‘Don’t,’ squeaked Chib, ‘…or ah’ll be lettin’ you down … an opencast mineshaft.’

  ‘Ye’ve tae pick him up at eleven at the Central Hotel. He’s here tae the end ae the week, an’ you’re his driver. Take the cunt wherever he wants tae go, but fucken stay wi’ him, right? Make sure there’s nae trouble, know what ah mean?’

  Like a plastic dog on a dashboard Archie nodded vigorously, but, since Wullie didn’t elaborate on what type of trouble might be anticipated, Archie actually didn’t know what he meant.

  ‘An’ another thing.’

  Archie looked up sharply.

  ‘He’s a big noise in showbusiness. Very big in fact, so don’t go aw fucken Vegas an’ glassy-eyed ower him. Yer there tae dae the job we talked aboot, no’ tae get bastart autographs, right?’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  But Archie’s fickle and impressionable heart was already leaping higher than a Russian pole vaulter. Showbusiness; the business that there’s no business like. And his client was the biggest, according to The Wigwam. The biggest … Aye, that’s exactly what he’d said, wasn’t it? The capo di tutti capi. Fucken hell, thought Archie, his imagination racing and swelling. What if it was Sinatra? Archie had read that his Hoboken hero was currently in the UK. It had to be him. His dad had been right. His heart was thudding. Ole Blue Eyes gave massive tips; it was a well-known fact. Plus, Archie was a decent singer in his own right. They’d have that
in common. Just five minutes in his company, and Archie would be able to demonstrate he was different from other starstruck sycophants encountering their idols.

  Three weeks ago, the night after his dad had restored and reinforced his confidence, Archie had come second in the club’s summer talent night. Archie sang ‘All the Young Dudes’ first, followed by a more obscure Kenny Rogers song. Many said he was the best act of the night. But a young guy from Springboig with long hair and a flashy keyboard won. He had written his own song, the showy bastard. Another so near, yet so far brush with fame for Archie. But getting sacked from the buses, picking up a pity job from The Wigwam, and now driving Frank Sinatra around town on his first day … well, that was all surely written in the stars. There was a Hollywood movie screening in his brain; A Star Is Born. Archie Blunt, talented but down-and-out Weegie hobo, discovered by the Chairman of the Board and whisked off to become the newest member of the Rat Pack. He’d be screwing cocktail waitresses four at a time before the turn of the year. He was an unrequited dreamer, he acknowledged that, but what were dreams for, if not pursuing? He’d be risking going off The Wigwam’s script a wee bit, but the whole thing seemed so straightforward that he was sure he could cope with some personal latitude.

  Archie parked the car in a basement delivery space under the Central Hotel. It was the only one big enough to take the vehicle’s length without blocking anyone else in. The labyrinthine vaults under the Victorian station concourse of which the hotel was a part and where he was now parked had once been a makeshift morgue. The broken repatriated bodies of many of Scotland’s young First World War dead had lain there until their relatives, mainly the women, dragged them above ground and onto various improvised wooden hearses. The place reeked of morbidity, and despite the amount of British Rail staff milling around its dark corners, it still felt threatening. The heat blistered the roads above ground, but down here it was strangely cold. Archie Blunt normally dismissed such things, but the tales that it was haunted by the spirits of those who’d perished in the Somme suddenly seemed plausible. Breathing heavily, he headed up the fire-exit stairs towards the third floor, and room 392; the number written on the piece of paper given to him by The Wigwam. His instructions would come a day at a time. There was a specific plan, but Archie Blunt hadn’t been trusted with the full details of it.

  The Central Hotel was a massive structure. It was one of the most famous buildings in the city. A point of orientation for many arriving in Glasgow for the first time via the public railway station it enveloped. Archie’s skin bristled as he walked along the faded Victorian corridors. This was his first time inside the hotel. As he’d anticipated, the room numbers increased the further they were from the dramatic main staircase, which looked like it had been salvaged from the Titanic. The corridor must have been close to the length of Hampden Park. Looking along its heavily patterned floor and flock-wallpapered walls was akin to peering into a massive kaleidoscope. Archie was dizzy by the time he reached the last four doors. He brushed it off as anticipatory nerves. He looked again at the paper in his hand:

  11 o’clock. Room 392. Central Hotel. 4 days. Don’t fuck it up.

  He looked at his watch: 08:53

  ‘Fuck sake! Piece ae Swiss shite.’ He shook his wrist, then looked hopefully at the face. 08: 3. The ‘5’ had vanished. He sighed deeply. He’d purchased three of them from Ally Devlin at the market, and all three were likely to be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. Archie leaned in to listen at the room’s door. He briefly sensed someone moving sharply some way down the corridor behind him but when he turned no one was there. He listened again. There were sounds but they weren’t clear. Then, the sound of a woman giggling. He could hold back no longer. He lightly knocked on the door.

  ‘Yeah, what do ya want?’ A gruff, mid-Atlantic accent. Not at all redolent of the Sultan of Swoon, but nevertheless, strangely recognisable.

  ‘Eh, ah’m yer driver, Mr Sina— … em, sir.’ Archie paused. It might not be the ‘New York, New York’ superstar. Reality stepped in and gripped his shoulders, shaking them. Neither Wullie Wigwam nor Chib Charnley had said it was. His beating heart beat a little bit slower.

  ‘Just a minute, man,’ the voice said. The door opened just wide enough for Archie to see the surprisingly dishevelled, unshaven form of Hank ‘Heady’ Hendricks looking back at him.

  ‘You my driver, boy?’

  Archie nodded and nervously whispered, ‘Discretion, em … guaranteed.’

  ‘Give us a few minutes then son, will ya?’

  12

  August 1976 – Friday

  Hank Hendricks was the pre-eminent light entertainment star in the British television firmament. He had been for nearly twenty years. He had created an original and fast-moving talent show for radio in the late fifties called The Heady Heights, successfully transferring it to BBC television as the swinging-sixties obsession with pop music mushroomed. A bidding war between the broadcasting companies, skilfully plotted and manipulated by Hendricks, resulted in the show moving to the commercial ITV network. It was now a staple of Saturday night television, and ‘Heady’ – as he was now affectionately and universally known – was its executive producer and presenter.

  Heady Hendricks was ‘represented’ by a brash Canadian known as Daryl W. Seberg. It was the stuff of legend that Seberg was an alias used by Heady Hendricks when negotiating his contracts. Heady had allegedly been witnessed by an industry insider answering the phone as Heady, responding that the subject of the call was something his associate would deal with, pausing, then continuing the call in a totally different voice … as Daryl W. Seberg. He reinforced this complex fabrication by ensuring Daryl’s severe agoraphobia was widely acknowledged. The Seberg Agency had one client and did not prospect for others. Daryl did all the tough negotiating; Heady – the talent – signed the deals. So Heady Hendricks had no agent and managed all his own contracts and legal affairs. This eccentric autonomy made him one of the richest and most powerful personalities in Britain. Even though he had no apparent influence over the programme’s guest judging panel, or the famous studio-applause rating mechanism, the clap-o-meter, when he uttered his catchphrase ‘My word, I think you’re heading for the Heady Heights’, no one ignored it.

  In the early seventies the show had suffered a marked dip in ratings. Acts were felt to be either too insipid, too dull, or frankly too talentless. They were either cardigan-clad country-and-western crooners reclining in rocking chairs, or magicians sawing beaming, large-breasted female assistants in half. Additionally, damaging rumours of Heady’s voracious sexual appetite began to surface. A friendship with the newspaper magnate Robert Maxwell guaranteed tabloid media protection but only to a certain level. The star’s shining public profile made him a target of those wanting to see his polish tarnished. Heady Hendricks’ response was to get out of the big city spotlight to take the show on the road. He would fly his panel of judges around the country in his small Cessna 172. With their help, Heady handpicked the contestants personally. These new auditions had given the show a more regional flavour, resulting in its renaissance. Earlier in the year the show had made a victorious return to the London Palladium, as a segment on the Royal Variety Performance, with four previous series winners on stage in front of the Queen. And with Heady himself presenting the whole extravaganza, he was back on the very top of the showbiz pile. Rumours of a different kind now circulated – an honorary knighthood, perhaps – helped by his highly publicised donations to various homeless charities.

  Archie Blunt was hyperventilating as he took in his charge’s identity. The only person equivalent to Sinatra in his fantasies was Heady Hendricks. He hadn’t dared imagine that it could possibly be him – The Dreammaker – in room 392. Yet, it was. And Archie Blunt was to be his Glaswegian chaperone.

  Fifteen minutes after that first tentative knock on his hotel-room door, Heady Hendricks was on the other side of it, ready to take on the world. The dragged-through-a-hedge backwards look had dis
appeared and in its place was the very definition of showbiz sheen. His skin seemed several shades darker to Archie than it had only minutes earlier. Now it was the colour of teak. He wore a fawn three-piece suit with a large-collared shirt open at the neck. It revealed a large coruscating disc of silver, nestled comfortably into a nest of dark hair, like an alien spacecraft that had landed in a dense forest clearing. Shiny black hair was slicked back from a widow’s peak, giving Heady the air of a seductively tanned Ray Reardon. A pencil-thin black moustache hinted at charismatic menace. His flattened boxer’s nose made him look like a bank robber sheathed in American tan. Unlike many in the showbiz firmament, Heady Hendricks looked like he could handle himself in a pub brawl. The knuckle ridges and callouses on his thick-fingered hands, which could’ve built ships on the Clyde, hinted that he might’ve started a few fistfights as well. Heady Hendricks looked like a million dollars … and he smelled like he had just bathed in Hai Karate. This was surely Archie’s big chance.

  ‘Right kid, let’s hit the road. Whaddaya say?’ Heady’s earlier course dialect had morphed into the smooth mid-American twang that Max Bygraves and Des O’Connor employed, despite being from Rotherhithe and Stepney, respectively.

  They wasted little time in the corridor back towards the lifts, Heady striding, Archie gambolling. Archie was still praying no one he knew would see them and take this most special of all moments away from him. He pressed the lift button.