‘You look a bit anxious, son. Don’t be. I don’t bite, ya know.’
Archie laughed into his sleeve like a village idiot freshly released from the stocks.
Heady smiled, endeared. His teeth dazzled Archie. His own full-face, toothless Joe Jordan smile remained hidden for now. The lift arrived and they stepped inside. Archie slid the heavy iron grille across and pressed the ‘B’. The old Victorian lift shuddered slowly into life. But just as the doors had almost closed, a green golf brolly darted through the narrow gap. They parted, and the grille grated back loudly. A small, squat frame with close-set beady eyes stepped in stealthily. There was no apology proffered and no obvious recognition of the celebrity within. Archie was astonished.
A moment after the lift started moving, Beady Eyes pressed the emergency halt switch. The car shuddered. It was between floors. He turned to face Heady Hendricks. He looked angry, and dangerous. Probably not after an autograph, then, thought Archie. Heady remained calm. Beady Eyes withdrew briefly, temporarily overcome by a different smell. Nerves had gotten the better of Archie. He had farted. It resembled malodorous feet. Heady gagged.
‘Ya fucken dirty cunt, ye,’ yelled Beady Eyes, at Heady though, not Archie. ‘Where’s Mag’ret, ma bastart missus, eh?’
‘Aw Christ,’ said Archie, louder than he had meant to.
‘Calm down, sir. I really … really don’t know whatcha talking about.’ Heady remained steady, but Archie noticed the star’s left hand twitching.
Beady Eyes began screaming, forehead thrusting forwards until it just about touched Heady’s perfectly moisturised chin. ‘Ah’ll fucken chib ye, ya Yank bastart! Her sister said she came here wi’ you last night. Now, where the fuck is she, eh?’ Beady Eyes raised his other arm suddenly. There was a shiny blade at the end of it. A brolly and a knife; a confusing combination, unless you were Steed from The Avengers, which this gadgie most certainly wasn’t.
Heady Hendricks gasped. He stepped back. Archie Blunt brought his elbow across instinctively to protect himself, and caught the small, squat bulk right on the temple. Beady Eyes went down, rotating as he did, like Foreman in the eighth round. Shaking, Archie dived for the lift buttons.
Heady Hendricks beat him to it. ‘Not down, buddy. Up.’ He pressed ‘5’. ‘Don’t want the doors opening in the foyer and the world asking awkward questions, ya see?’ Heady winked.
The Glaswegian was impressed by the star’s equanimity. Maybe this wasn’t his first time. Archie’s rattled brain pondered this possibility like a monkey presented with a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. What had just happened?
They got out on the fifth floor, stepping carefully over the unconscious assailant. As Heady had anticipated, there was no one around. He searched for the closest fire exit.
‘This way, young man.’ Heady winked a sparkling eye. It had been a long time since anyone had referred to Archie as young. He’d reached the age when, if he fell over in the street, no one laughed. Heady’s potent odour wafted around Archie, enveloping him like a blanket. It smelt to him like the very elixir of life itself. He resolved to get himself some.
‘Sure … erm, Mr Hendricks.’ It was the first time since arriving at the hotel that Archie had addressed his hire directly. He wasn’t quite sure what else to call him.
‘Son, ya just saved my life. From now on, and forever more, it’s “Heady” to you. I’m in your debt, my fine man.’
Son, ya just saved my life replayed in Archie’s head like a stuck record for the rest of the morning. He knew the truth, but it made him feel fantastic nonetheless.
Archie was instructed to drive Heady Hendricks up to a posh hotel overlooking Loch Lomond, where he was due to be having lunch with a female BBC Scotland producer. Hush Hush he had reminded Archie. Of course, Heady, Archie had assured him, tapping his nose melodramatically.
Archie Blunt sat on the bonnet of the car he now regarded as his. From inside it, a song effortlessly toasted the day he was having: ‘Sky rockets in flight, afternoon delight’. He had no idea what it was about but, looking out over the awesome panoramic beauty that stretched in front of him, it was the perfect soundtrack to Archie’s vibe.
Scotland was such a beautiful country. Archie visualised driving across it in the leisurely fashion that only real wealth permits. Just him, these wheels and his dad in the back. Great songs like this one blasting out of the motor’s speakers. No one to answer to. No depot shift clock to punch. Those wee remote, twisting B-roads and single-lane dirt tracks. Tractors pulling over, to wave him past. The heather. The gorse. Magnificent stags and hefty, hairy Highland cows. He opened the map and folded it back. Idiomatic place names: Drumnadrochit, Drumochter, Rest and Be Thankful. Imagine someone resting, and being thankful in Shettleston? Not a fucking chance!
Yes, such a fucking beautiful country. His dad had never got the chance to see more of it. That saddened him and inspired him to consider it differently, in equal measure. Archie Blunt wasn’t sure if he had ever felt more alive. Confidence flooded through his veins.
On their return to the city from the edge of the Trossachs, a well-oiled Heady sat up front, next to Archie Blunt. There was no glass screen separating them now. They were brothers in arms. Archie had sunk a couple of single malts while waiting and now saw his chance.
‘Heady, ah’ve got this idea for a gameshow.’ Archie paused. Testing the ground, to see if it could take his weight. He had anticipated yeah, you and five million others, son, but instead he heard, ‘Shoot buddy. I’m all ears.’
Archie Blunt swallowed hard. ‘Well … Heady, ah’ve been thinkin’ a lot about a show like this one. Everyb’dy loves telly stars, right?’
‘You betcha,’ confirmed Heady, before burping.
Archie took a deep breath. ‘It’ll be called Celebrity Arseholes…’
Heady spluttered, then laughed loudly, unsure if Archie was serious.
‘There would be a few sportin’ challenges in a format a bit like … em…’
‘Superstars?’ ventured Heady.
‘Yeah, exactly. Superstars, but wi’ real showbiz stars. Bona-fide celebrities, y’know?’
Heady laughed again. ‘I think I do, son,’ Heady confirmed.
Archie pressed on. ‘But in this version, the first challenge would be a classic hundred-metre sprint.’
‘OK, that might work,’ said Heady, encouragingly.
‘Each celebrity contestant would have a stick ae dynamite stuck up their arses wi’ a different length fuse … dependin’ on the agreed handicaps.’
Heady’s face creased.
‘Hattie Jacques would get an extra few seconds over Twiggy, an’ that. It’s got tae be fair, like, y’know?’
Heady seemed to be visualising such a race.
Archie’s enthusiasm rose. ‘The fuse would burn for about ten tae twenty seconds, an’ it’d be lit on the ‘B’ ae the starter gun’s ‘Bang’.’
Heady was convulsing with laughter now. Archie had hit on an instant ratings-winner.
‘If the stars make it tae the finish line, a big bucket ae water’ll provide the means tae put out the fuse…’
Heady Hendricks snorted a bubble out of his nose.
‘…an’ offer progress tae the next round for them that have put in the proper trainin’.’
Heady regained some composure. He acknowledged that many agents would think this a viable proposition for their more fame-hungry clients, and he mused that some stars already on the slide would seriously consider its profile-raising opportunities as risks worth taking. But, he reasoned, the world maybe wasn’t ready to see much-loved public figures like Larry Grayson, Freddie Starr or Mike Yarwood demean themselves purely for viewing figures. No, it was just too ludicrous.
Encouraged by Heady’s hand, which now rested on his knee, Archie briefly lifted his gaze away from the road, turning to address the UK’s biggest star squarely. ‘Heady, look me straight in the eye an’ tell me ye wouldnae cancel aw yer plans tae watch a programme like that?’
Archie Blunt dropped Heady Hendricks off under the elaborate Gordon Street porte-cochere of the Central Hotel. A sweating busboy dashed to open the door for the star. Heady slipped Archie a rare fifty-pound note, doing so smoothly, as if it had slid down the inside of his jacket sleeve and found its way into Archie’s palm as part of a warm handshake.
‘Boy, I haven’t had as much fun in ages.’ Heady walked away then paused after a few steps. He turned and leaned into the passenger-side window, dropping his head slightly to maintain eye contact. There was a definite glint, Archie noticed. He pondered whether all television personalities had it. Was that what marked them out from the proles?
‘Pick me up here tonight at ten. We’ll head out. Have some high jinks.’
‘Aye, sure thing, Heady.’
The start ae a beautiful friendship, Archie was certain. He had broken the ice.
13
August 1976 – Saturday
‘Ye know how ye said ah could ask ye anythin’ … after the, y’know … the wee bam wi’ the blade?’ This wasn’t sounding as polished as it had when Archie rehearsed it in front of his tiny, cracked bathroom mirror.
‘I’m not sure I actually meant anything, Archie,’ said Heady, brushing a dusting of dandruff flakes from the left shoulder of Archie’s black jacket.
‘Well … it’s, em … a big personal favour that ah wanted tae ask, y’know?’ Archie was making an unqualified arse of this, his big chance. He should’ve waited until they were in the car, but his excitement had got the better of him and he was now blurting it out incoherently as they strode through reception, Heady waving and air-kissing complete fucking strangers all the way to the revolving door. Archie had hoped to press his afternoon advantage, but Heady said nothing. Heady Hendricks the performer was back. No more sitting up in the front seat with the driver, it appeared. He sprung deftly into the back through the door Archie opened for him.
Archie sighed. He felt deflated. He started up the car and rolled down his window. He extended an arm with flat palm down as if he was transporting royalty and pulled carefully out into Gordon Street as the light, and the seemingly relentless heat, slowly diminished. It took another ten minutes for him to pick up the thread again. Archie flicked a dashboard switch. The glass screen that had separated them like a desperate bank customer from an impatient teller disappeared into the bulkhead slot behind Archie’s seat.
‘So … like ah wis sayin’ just back there…’
‘Hmmm.’
Archie wondered if Heady was feigning lack of interest because he knew what was coming. Archie decided to come straight out with it. ‘Can ah get an audition at the King’s oan Friday? Ah’m a fucken great singer an’ ah can play the piano, the moothie, an’ ah write ma ain songs … an’—’
‘Sorry buddy. Let me stop you right there. We’re done with the singer-songwriters for this series of shows,’ said Heady politely, but firmly, and in a manner that refused further discussion. He now regretted having told the driver about the local auditions on the way back from Loch Lomond.
Archie was devastated. And Heady knew it. Despite himself, he felt bad. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to. This man had saved him from an irate, knife-wielding Glaswegian husband; the least rational kind there was, in Heady’s experience. Heady decided to let his driver down more gently. He felt he owed him that, at least.
‘It’s just that the audiences at home don’t want any more Val Doonicans, they want another Little Jimmy Osmond or a teenage Showaddywaddy. It’s not my opinion, but we’re a slave to the ratings, you understand. The viewers are always right, son.’
Archie Blunt didn’t respond. Heady was sure the chauffeur’s shoulders had slumped by a few inches. Heady was experiencing new sensations. Christ, what the fuck was this – guilt? The star exhaled dramatically. He tried to throw Archie a bone.
‘Now … if you had a young gang of fit kids … boys, I mean, with a bit of swagger, then it might be different. Just might, mind you. They’d still have to be able to sing.’
Heady Hendricks relaxed and sat back in the seat. He drained the large Macallan he’d just poured himself and considered the exchange over. But were those shoulders now being held higher? He looked again at the back of Archie’s head, at the slightly askew chauffeur’s cap that rested on it, unaware of the beaming smile that was bursting out of Archie’s face.
An embryonic notion was subdividing into multiple cells in Archie’s head, all seemingly capable of sustaining the life Archie Blunt now had in mind for them. He knew he’d be running the risk of a severe battering from Chib Charnley, or worse from The Wigwam, but such a deviation from the prescribed instructions would be worth the gamble.
‘Can ah get a picture of ye … an’ ah couple ae autographs for the boys at the club?’ Having confirmed the audition offer and verified that the date of it was now firmly fixed in Heady’s mind, Archie played to the star’s ego.
‘Em, course you can. Just not here, OK. Later, son. All the pictures you like back at the hotel, right?’
The car had pulled up on a quiet road in Mount Vernon, as instructed by Heady Hendricks, who seemed to know these suburban Glaswegian streets better than his driver for the evening. Heady studied his watch, holding it close to his ear and tapping its face. Archie offered to flick the lights on in the back to let him see it clearly but Heady sharply closed that down. He appeared unusually anxious.
And then, just as suddenly, the unruffled Heady was back, polished and completely in control. ‘Let’s go. About a hundred yards up on the left. The one with the big gates, got it?’
‘Yes, Mr Hendricks.’ Archie deployed formality once more. He figured deference would assist his ambitions.
‘There. The big house at the top of the hill,’ said Heady. ‘Wait for the gates, then drive on up. We’re just picking up a pal.’
‘OK. Ye got a big night on?’
‘Hmm. Somethin’ like that.’
Archie judged he should stay silent. Once again, his rear-view mirror contained an image of a surprisingly edgy and apprehensive man. Further small talk would be pointless.
The gates opened electronically, giving Archie a fright. He had no idea such a device even existed. Old castles had drawbridges, admittedly, but the thought of someone flicking a switch instead of three hundred serfs winding a wooden wheel boggled his mind. How the other half fucken live. The car crawled slowly through the leafy margins of this substantial Mount Vernon residence. As they rolled between the verdant trees and up a long gravel driveway, the house seemed to expand exponentially. Archie gulped at its scale. It was the sort of house that Errol Flynn would’ve held decadent Hollywood orgies in. A light was on in every window. The electric bills must’ve been more than Kenny Dalglish earned in a year. It looked totally out of place in this normally grim, grey, Glaswegian context. He couldn’t even imagine who would live in such a place, and he hadn’t been told.
Archie stopped the car, taking care not to graze it against the edge of a circular stone fountain that propelled coloured streams of water upwards in a choreographed dance. They waited. Archie watched for movement from the heavy wooden doors that could’ve belonged to Count Dracula. He was transfixed by the thick metal rings threaded through lions’ mouths.
‘Wait here.’ Heady Hendricks opened the car door and jumped out.
Archie watched a door open. An animated conversation took place with someone on the other side of it. Archie couldn’t see who it was, and he didn’t want to be so obvious as to lean over and stare. But it did appear that they were discussing him. Eventually, Heady’s compatriot came out. He was a big man, tall and bulky, dressed in dinner suit and with a cummerbund so substantial it could’ve been tailored from a hammock. As they approached the car, and the uplighters of the fountain crossed the faces, Archie recognised the man. It was Big Jamesie Campbell, the former Labour politician and newly self-appointed social guardian of the c
ity’s poor and destitute. The ignorant man who had barged into Archie on the day he lost his job.
Archie Blunt was stunned to learn that their destination was The Balgarth Inn. He learned nothing else, as, at the insistence of the new passenger, the glass partition was kept raised. But his mind was racing. Could these be the very same personalities that Geordie McCartney had witnessed at The Balgarth during his dark night of the soul? Was that just a coincidence? Either way, it did lend his friend’s story a credence Archie had hitherto been struggling to find.
It appeared that Heady Hendricks was guest of honour at this very late-evening soiree at The Balgarth. The new leader of the Scottish Free Labour Party ushered one of the most famous and well-loved showbiz entertainers in the country through those fearful doors, and – even more strangely – on the way in they both shook the hands of the two bruising doormen, and then hugged them.
Archie anticipated a long night ahead, having been specifically instructed by Heady to wait in a concealed parking bay and not out in the street. He had located the car’s cooling system, although he’d yet to figure out how it functioned. Wearing the black suit in this oppressive heat was playing havoc with his personal hygiene. Despite official drought warnings having been in place for the last fortnight, he was being forced to wash his oxters twice a day.
Half an hour passed. Half an hour of Johnny Cash live at Folsom Prison, on eight-track, with fucking amazing sound quality. The first thing Archie would buy in his future showbiz life would be a motor with an eight-track sound system.
By the fourth listen, though, his boredom threshold had been breached. He got out of the driver’s seat, jumped in the back, and slowly reached for the door housing the spirits. He briefly considered that such a vehicle might have hidden cameras, but then dismissed the idea – something so ludicrous would only feature on Tomorrow’s World.
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