Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  More time passed. He had rolled the windows down to allow some fresh air in, and some less than fresh personal air out. He reclined. Stars blinked brightly in the velvet sky framed by the edges of a fur-lined sun roof.

  A sound startled him. Over the road to his right, a tree shivered and a bush shook. It didn’t seem to do so naturally. There was no breeze. Archie was disorientated. He wiped his eyes, struggling to keep them open.

  A full bladder woke him. He had fallen asleep. He’d been having a surreal dream wherein he had been publicly unmasked as the Boston Strangler, but despite this, had still been elected by a landslide as the new leader of the Liberal Party. He shook his head, got out of the car and slowly stretched arms and legs, like a bear emerging from hibernation.

  ‘Ach, for fuck sake!’ he whispered. In taking cover for a piss at the rear of the building, Archie had stepped in something big and soft. The rising stench confirmed his fears. In the far distance, a dog barked; a chain reaction that set others off, presumably the countless stray ones that roamed the East End like it was an urban safari park.

  Having wiped his foot against the kerbstone, he came around the side of The Balgarth to see movement ahead, beside his car. He remained in the shadows cast by its gable, like an anxious mugger waiting for an easy mark. Someone was bent over, peering in through the windows. It was a woman. She turned when she heard Archie’s footsteps on the gravel.

  ‘Archie Blunt?’ This startled Archie. From around forty feet away, the woman was only a silhouette in the darkness, her outline distinguished by the distant sodium glow from the other end of the street.

  ‘Who wants tae know?’

  ‘Well, if yer gonnae be like that, ah’ll just go back intae the Big House!’

  Archie was flummoxed. It wasn’t Susie Mackintosh. This one had a voice like the rusty boiler on the Vital Spark.

  ‘Sorry, but dae ah know you, hen?’ he said.

  ‘Your American pal off the telly sent me out here tae gie ye a blow-job. Free gratis.’

  Jesus Christ! Archie panicked. Wasn’t this exactly how Geordie McCartney had been snared? Archie couldn’t contend with another blackmail payment on top of the one he was still helping Geordie deal with. The Wigwam hadn’t stipulated the length of his driving contract. He might still be on probation. Then again, Heady Hendricks had offered him an audition if he could get a young group together, hadn’t he? Maybe this was a test? If he declined the gift, the offer might be rescinded. It was a dilemma. His opinion swung back. He’d examined the car like a forensics expert poring over a crime scene. If there were cameras, he’d surely have found them by now. Plus, it was Hank ‘Heady’ Hendricks for God’s sake! Who wouldn’t trust the very bones of their children – if they had any – with such a universally loved man?

  ‘Christ, pal, hurry up, eh? Let me in the back, an’ get a move on wi’ it, eh? Time’s money, by the way.’ She sniffed the air.

  ‘Look, ah’m really sorry … ah stood in a shite just there. It was pitch-black an’ ah couldnae see where ah wis goin’.’ The world’s worst chat-up line, but Archie figured an explanation was required otherwise the woman might suspect he had shat himself.

  A few moments later, Archie was watching the woman’s head bouncing up and down as she sucked furiously at his cock. His trousers and his pants were at his ankles and they were preventing his legs from opening as widely as he’d wanted. He thought of touching her bleached-blonde hair, running his fingers through the black roots of it as she worked away. He decided against it. He thought instead of those wee plastic long-necked bird things he’d bought a few years ago at the seaside. You dipped their beaks in a glass of water and – with the counter-balance of a ball of red liquid at their arse – they continuously bobbed up and down as if taking a drink. He tried to think of the scientific explanation for this … of the quantum mecha— … of Mecca Bingo … of Mary Whitehouse. Shitehouse. Mary getting fucked. By a bird. By Big Bird. Off Sesame Street. By …… bye. Bye Bye Birdy …. by …. aaaaahhhh … FUUUUCK! He opened his eyes. Briefly thought he saw someone staring in through the windscreen. Wiped them sharply. Opened them again. No one there. His overstretched imagination.

  Archie mumbled an apology. He started to tell her how long it had been, the sudden guilt making him feel that he had just cheated on his dead wife. The woman lifted her head sharply. It made little difference to her, she was on a fixed rate. The timid light from the car’s drinks cabinet illuminated her glistening face.

  ‘Fuck is this … a hearse or somethin’?’

  ‘Naw. At least ah dinnae think so.’ Archie poured her a whisky from the decanter. He felt he should.

  ‘Just a quick yin, then,’ she said. ‘Better head back in. Ah’ll be gettin’ ma jotters.’ She drained the glass in one gulp, said thanks in response to Archie saying it first, and got out. Archie watched her sashay back towards The Balgarth.

  ‘Fucken show business.’ Archie reclined, zipped himself up and laughed loudly. The sky was undoubtedly the limit.

  14

  August 1976 – Monday

  ‘Right, whit’s the score, Parker? Lady Penelope still happy?’

  ‘Day off. Ah’ve tae pick him up tomorrow. Nae idea where we’re goin’ though. He says it’s a secret, although tae be fair, he says everythin’s a fucken secret.’

  ‘When did ye get back last night?’

  ‘About five in the mornin’. He was pished an’ ah had tae help him get in tae the back. He never said anythin’ at aw oan the way back tae the hotel. Ah think he was out cold.’

  Wullie Wigwam acknowledged the overtime. He also appreciated Archie’s unquestioning acceptance of an additional passenger, even though he wasn’t strictly required to make the return journey to Big Jamesie Campbell’s Mount Vernon home. The driver assured Wullie that he was aware the Dunne Driving company motto extended to everyone that stepped over the running boards. To Archie himself, however, that understanding cut both ways. He didn’t feel that Wullie Wigwam needed to know about the Havanas left in the car by Big Jamesie Campbell, nor the free blow job. That was a gift, an obligement. Like the multi-pack cartons of fags and the forty-ouncers The Wigwam brought back from his regular trips to Benidorm, it didn’t need to be declared.

  ‘Any tips?’

  ‘Nup. None,’ said Archie, determinedly. He’d decided to hand over the first fifty Heady had given him, rather than keep it. Wullie Wigwam would no doubt find out about it anyway, and besides, Archie was enjoying the cachet of being a chauffeur to the stars.

  Wullie disappeared into the small room at the end of the portacabin. He came back out five minutes later. He was holding a faded photograph and a wad of cash held together by elastic bands. The image on the still-glossy paper was of Bobby Souness’s young son. A name – Joseph – had been scrawled in blue biro on the back.

  ‘Archie, there’s a wee job on the Southside that ah want ye tae dae. Extra bunce in it for ye.’

  ‘Aye, Boss. Anythin’ ye say, Wullie.’ Archie knew he had to keep his options open. He was already beginning to suspect that celebrities had very selective short-term memories when it suited them. So there was a possibility that the auditions might go badly. It wouldn’t harm to have this to fall back on. Chib Charnley was an arsehole, but Wullie Dunne was a decent sort … on the evidence to date at least.

  Archie headed over the Clyde via the Kingston Bridge. It had been there for nearly six years now, but this was only the second time he’d crossed it. He remembered watching them constructing it. He’d come down to Anderson in the late sixties, when he was on regular late shifts, just to watch its steady but impressive progress. But, despite having seen its formidable structural skeleton, he still didn’t trust it. He expected it to fall crashing into the murky brown river under the substantial weight of the tens of thousands of vehicles that now crossed it daily. Additionally, Archie considered it to be the Huns’ bridge; built purely to accommodate the vociferous council cohorts who dragged their knuckles to Ibrox once a fortn
ight. They already had a new tunnel under the Clyde, he reasoned, and a fucking underground system. Nothing like that was offered to the East End, which – in Archie’s opinion – was more deserving and in more need.

  The traffic was slow. The temperature gauge was recording twenty-six degrees. The heatwave had lasted more than a month. Archie was boiling. His earlier exuberance had evaporated in the haze. His overheated brain was calculating the odds of finding a young vocal-harmony group capable of passing an audition for a national television show in only three days’ time. It wasn’t looking good.

  The car had moved only fifty yards in the last twenty minutes; the road ahead blocked by broken-down vehicles, steam bursting from old, overworked engines. He’d passed the first ten minutes in a rational debate with Jim Rockford about the best groups on which to model his new puppets. Jim – clearly hearing ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ playing on the car radio – reckoned The Monkees. A good shout, thought Archie, but that would rely on them being about to play their own instruments, which might be a step too far given the time constraints. Jim left, and Archie drifted into a frustrated daydream. And as he did so, the car he was driving ran into the back of a bus.

  ‘Fuck sake, by the way!’ The conductor was rightly perplexed. Then, ‘Archie, is that you? Archie Blunt – rhymes wi’ cunt?’

  Archie burst out of the car. ‘Eddie Foley … rhymes wi’ toley?’

  The former colleagues embraced and then simultaneously remembered they were men; Glaswegian ones. They jumped back until two feet of manly Glaswegian air was between them.

  ‘Fuck me, you’ve landed on yer feet,’ said Eddie, examining the big black car.

  Archie was also examining it, but for other reasons.

  ‘Ah saw that, so ah did. He ran right intae the back ae ye … aw deliberate like.’ Both men turned sharply. A pensioner stood on the rear platform, writing in a notepad like he was Dixon of Dock Green.

  ‘Fuck off ya nosy auld prick, or ah’ll charge ye full fare.’

  Good old Eddie, thought Archie Blunt. A man ye don’t meet every day.

  They both reviewed the damage. A big dent in the rear panel of the bus; a broken number plate and a scuffed front bumper on the big black motor. It could’ve been much worse, Archie figured. Eddie caught up rapidly with Archie’s recent story, then realised they were holding up not only the bus, but the mounting queue of traffic all the way down Paisley Road West. They said their goodbyes with promises to meet up for a drink in a week or two. The bus pulled away. Eddie wouldn’t even report it. The busybody pensioner would get a free hurl. And even Archie now began to perceive this as some form of positive karmic sign. A plasterer-rough idea that had been fermenting during the nocturnal hours was now maturing into a creative visionary concept.

  That kid Sledge Strachan was working at Mad Max’s body shop. Archie knew that much. He would take the car in and casually offer the boy and his mates a deal. He’d been looking for a way in, and the car and its busted number plate was it. Sledge Strachan was a big, spiky gadgie and approaching him out of the blue to ask him to enter a singing competition could still result in a double date with Accident, and her scarier big sister Emergency. That was a task for later though. First, he had to head over to Pollokshaws, to hunt for the missing Souness lad.

  Archie Blunt parked the car near to the stained concrete of the Pollok Shopping Centre. The cut letters O, P and P were missing from the middle word, replaced by a spray-painted A, G and G.

  The car immediately drew a crowd of gallus delinquents.

  ‘Cool motor. Watch it for ten bob, mister?’

  ‘Ah’ll give ye a quid,’ said Archie, fully rehearsed in the way of the young bam.

  Bemused looks were returned. Archie took the note out of his pocket. The tallest of the five foremost kids leaned forwards to take it from him. Archie pulled it back. He tore the note in half. There was a gasp from the smallest child. Archie looked down at him. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

  Archie handed their leader half of the pound note. ‘Ye’ll get the other bit if ah get back an’ there’s nae scratches. Deal?’

  ‘Fucken good is that tae us? Ye’ve ripped it up!’ said the tall boy, on the verge of rage.

  ‘Tape it back th’gither then. Shops’ll still take it,’ said Archie calmly.

  As he walked away towards the school he heard: ‘Aye, but the fucken sellytape’ll be more than the note itself. Arsehole!’

  Archie laughed. He briefly wondered why these kids weren’t in the school he was heading for and then remembered the infrequency of his own school attendance. He was in no position to judge.

  He stood at the school gates. The playground was a mass of unimpeded movement. Swarms of wee people running wildly in different directions, like clockwork toys set free on springs that had been overwound. Kids as aeroplanes. Kids as boxers. Kids as playground footballers, thirty-a-side, with an Irn-Bru can for a ball. Archie Blunt had little chance of identifying wee Joseph Souness among this throng.

  ‘Lookin’ for someb’dy, bud?’

  Archie turned to face a wiry, hard-looking youth who was staring directly at him. A new gang of variously aged kids stood behind him. Back-up; essential in every confrontational Glaswegian exchange.

  ‘Ah’m trying tae find a kid, goes by the name ae Souness.’ Archie wasn’t hopeful that they’d give him up even if they knew the boy.

  ‘Naebody about here wi’ that name, like. Whit’s he done?’

  ‘Nothin’. He’s been doggin’ it an’ ah just need a wee word.’ Archie knew he didn’t look like a dogger man, but he was hoping this crew would buy it anyway.

  ‘Ye sure ye’re no’ just an auld poofter?’ The other kids laughed.

  Archie faced it up. ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Think ah’ll gonnae fucken tell you? Beat it!’ The boy hadn’t blinked once.

  ‘Too feart?’

  ‘Feart fae you? A fucken kiddy-fiddlin’ nonce? Gie’s peace.’ The boy looked around at his subordinates, then back at Archie. Bluster took over, as Archie suspected it would.

  Archie turned away from them without responding. He headed for the car. The kids laughed. A stick hurtled past his head. After about fifty feet, he turned to look back. Most of the gang had become distracted by the ice-cream van at the school gates, but one of them was slowly following him. Archie stopped. The kid momentarily stopped too. Then he continued slowly in Archie’s direction. About ten yards remained between them.

  The kid looked around. Satisfied no one else could hear, he spoke: ‘Ah used tae be called Souness.’

  Archie took the crumpled photo out of his pocket. The hair was longer, a bit darker and he was now wearing National Health Service glasses, like Joe 90. But it was him. Archie was sure of it.

  ‘Are you lookin’ for ma da?’ said the kid, softly and sadly.

  ‘Yeah … maybe, son.’

  There was a pause, and then on the verge of tears, the kid said: ‘So am ah, mister.’

  Poor wee cunt, thought Archie. He’s got Bobby Souness for a dad, and he’s been shipped out to the deep Southside, like a worn sofa in a midnight flit. Archie felt certain that some bampot would find wee Joseph Souness, or whatever his name was now, and he would be used to force his father to repay his mounting debts. But Archie decided that bampot wasn’t going to be him. Souness Senior was climbing steadily to the top of The Wigwam’s most-wanted chart. Soon, he’d be number one. Archie had no cares for Bobby Souness, far from it; but threatening what was left of his family was a step too far, in his opinion. He wanted no part of that. Archie checked that no one was looking, then gave the kid a pound note to himself and told him not to worry about anything. To work hard and stick in at school.

  Archie got back to the car. Another five kids had joined the first five. They guarded all sides of it.

  ‘Gie’s the poun’ then, mister!’ one demanded.

  ‘Will ah fuck,’ said Archie. ‘Look at the front ae it … it’s aw
dented, son.’

  ‘Haw, fuck off. That wis’ aw’ready there when ye drove up, ya big cheatin’ bastart, ye,’ another spluttered.

  Archie laughed. He handed over the other half of the note and then scrambled a handful of change, watching as they swooped on it like vultures.

  He smiled, seeing them fight over the money in the big mirror, as the car pulled away, heading for the comfortingly familiar landscape of the East End, and Mad Max’s Body Shop.

  ‘So … fancy it then?’

  ‘Singing? In front ae folk? Oan a stage?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Whit aboot ah just gie you a boot in the baws?’

  ‘Eh?’ The flip in the direction of the exchange caught Archie Blunt off guard.

  ‘Are you rippin’ the pish, big man?’ said Sledge Strachan, calmly and without looking up from inspecting the front of the damaged car.

  ‘Naw. It’s a talent contest thing, gen up,’ replied Archie.

  ‘Whit’s in it for you then?’ asked Sledge.

  ‘Well, ah’d guide you, like … a manager, like, y’know?’

  ‘Like Stein or Waddell?’

  ‘Eh … aye, sorta.’

  ‘What yin?’

  ‘Stein. Definitely Stein.’

  There was a long pause. Archie wasn’t sure he’d scored with this last response or whether he’d just blootered it miles over the bar from six feet out.

  ‘Ah’ll have a word wi’ Max. See if ah can get ye the day off for it?’

  This was a direct hit. The young man looked up, wiped a running nose on an oil-stained sleeve and pursed big chapped lips. ‘Make it the rest ae the week.’

  ‘Well … ah can ask. Maybe ah can offer him a favour. A wee bit ae mutual back scratchin’.’ Archie was drifting into territory he had no control over. Quite how permitting an apprentice mechanic a few days off could result in a reciprocated favour from Archie was far from clear. But Archie was moving in elevated circles and that was greasing the cogs of his imagination.