Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  ‘Aye. Aw’right then.’ Sledge valued time away from this hell on earth more than anything else. He was just about to turn seventeen and had worked here since expulsion from St Kentigern’s more than a year before. ‘What dae ah have tae sing? If it’s some fucken soppy bollocks, ah’m no doin’ it.’ Sledge seemed quite firm about this. Archie would have to tread carefully.

  ‘Well, ye’se might dae a Showwaddywad—‘

  ‘Haud oan … “ye’se”? Who’s the “ye’se”?’ Sledge stood up.

  He was over six foot; unusually tall for teenage boys from this part of the world. A future centre half, or a potential goalkeeper, maybe. Shettleston teenagers were invariably small and emaciated. They also looked like they had just gone three rounds with the school nit nurse, losing by a bruising knockout. Sledge bucked that trend. His hair was dark and wavy. His frame was wiry, admittedly, but he looked older than his years. He had a darkness to his skin that indicated a more continental lineage. And although Archie felt awkward looking at him in such a manner, he was undoubtedly a good-looking kid. Just what Heady Hendricks seemed to prefer. He also had a foot-long wrench in his hand. Archie took a big step backwards, out of the swing zone.

  ‘Ah need a group. Five ae ye’se. Ah was thinkin’ that you could maybe rope in that crowd you hang about wi’.’

  Archie had a good ear for a voice that could hold a tune. He could hear it anywhere. There had been times – in the Jungle at Parkhead – when a cultured voice close to him had risen from the generally abusive throng of supporters. If you could recognise talent in that heaving, drunken context, you could do it anywhere. Archie had heard Sledge Strachan and his mates a few weeks earlier at the start of July. They were engaged in taunting a passing Orange Walk, singing ‘you’re gonna get your fucken heads kicked in’ repeatedly from the safety of a second-floor Bridgeton tenement window. Archie had been caught coming out of the bookies on the ground floor, and – as convention dictated – had been made to wait for more than twenty minutes by the police before he could even cross the road. Nothing, it seemed, ever got in the way of the Walk. To Archie, the five voices above him sounded like a foul-mouthed celestial choir of angels with pasty faces. He could hear the potential. He could identify the harmony. When Heady had indicated the shift towards young male-vocal harmony groups that The Heady Heights was taking, these voices were the first thing Archie had thought of. He simply had to work out the safest way to broach it with them.

  ‘How ah’m ah meant tae persuade the rest. They’ll aw think it’s for fucken poofs.’

  ‘They’ll listen tae you son, you’re their leader,’ said Archie hopefully, opening his wallet. Another lightbulb illuminated over Archie’s head. ‘What about a harder number then? Somethin’ by The Faces, or The Stones?’ Archie didn’t think Sledge would know the back catalogue of these groups. The suggestion was more to do with him seeming relevant and on the ball as a potential impresario.

  ‘Aye. Mibbe. Ah prefer the Sensational Alex Harvey Band though … or The Stooges.’

  Archie could detect his developing interest. If the young man was musically informed, so much the better.

  ‘Is there money in it?’ asked Sledge, staring at the wallet.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Archie, although there wasn’t.

  ‘How much?’ asked Sledge.

  ‘A hundred … maybe more if ye’se win,’ Archie lied.

  ‘Whit’s the cut ae the dosh?’ asked Sledge.

  ‘Sixty/forty tae me,’ said Archie.

  ‘Seventy-five/twenty-five us,’ replied Sledge immediately.

  ‘Fuck sake!’ Archie drew air in sharply through his remaining teeth, as if recovering from a straight-armed dig at his solar plexus. ‘Aye … aw’right. Daylight fucken robbery, mind you.’ Archie quickly reminded himself that seventy-five percent of fuck all was still fuck all. ‘Fine then. Ye drive a hard bargain here, son … but aye, fine, ah suppose.’

  ‘Will there be burds there?’ asked Sledge.

  ‘Aye, loads,’ replied Archie, although he knew there wouldn’t be.

  A dirty hand with fresh spit on it was offered. Archie shook it. A small price worth paying. It would wash off.

  Archie Blunt was exhilarated when he finally drove away from Mad Max’s place. The car’s number plate had been fixed, although it had cost him twenty simply to keep it quiet from The Wigwam. And another fifty to seal the deal to secure Sledge’s release. But at least now he had a plan. He was a contender. Opportunity was still knocking stubbornly at his door. The drive back was a celebratory one, Jim Rockford reclining, cowboy-boot clad feet up on the dashboard.

  What did ah tell ya, Arch? The sky’s the limit for us now, man!

  15

  August 1976 – Tuesday

  ‘Archie, come over and meet my main man, Vince.’

  Archie wasn’t quite sure what to do next, so he extended a hand and bowed, as if the man he was being introduced to was next in line for the throne. Vince Hillcock was showbiz royalty after all. Younger and smaller in real life than Archie expected him to be, Vince flashed a smile so bright it almost gave Archie a glare headache. Archie looked at the dripping gold around Vince’s wrist. He was part of the establishment and he had almost single-handedly created a vocation: the celebrity publicist. He now represented Heady Hendricks, and strangely enough, Big Jamesie Campbell.

  They sat down at a table in the Blue Lagoon Cafe. It was dark, smoke-filled and very noisy. The cafe was right in the centre of the covered piece of Argyle Street known widely as Heilanman’s Umbrella, after the influx of Highlanders who had come down to Glasgow to work as navvies on the new station and its rapidly growing tentacles. The reverberating sound of trains passing only a few feet overhead, and the vehicles stopping and starting right outside made it difficult to hear anything that was said. When Archie nervously blurted out that he was a singer and had just written an original song called ‘Sammy and the Radio Man’, he was subsequently relieved that the two men hadn’t heard him. Vince Hillcock’s introduction into the most bizarre week of Archie’s life so far was another indication that his future was destined to change. But he’d have to learn to bide his time, to wait for the appropriate opening.

  ‘Archie’s my driver. He’s the best in the business, Vince. You’re up here all the time. You should hire him for all your Scottish initiatives.’

  ‘Does he know the landscape well, then?’

  ‘He surely does. Had me up at the Loch of Lomond just past. Smoothest ride ever.’ Heady winked. Vince Hillcock brayed. Archie wasn’t sure what was going on.

  ‘I love the fucking Jocks, me,’ said Vince. ‘And it’s my favourite of all of our colonies.’ Archie sniggered, then realised the brash young Londoner wasn’t joking.

  ‘Archie here wants to get into the business.’ Heady patted Archie on the shoulder.

  ‘What business is that then?’ asked Vince. He may have been feigning interest. Either that or he was just indulging his client. No matter, thought Archie.

  ‘The inter-tainment yin,’ said Archie Blunt proudly.

  ‘Jesus Christ, bud, who doesn’t?’ sighed Vince.

  ‘I love the way he says that, don’t you Vince?’ Heady laughed. ‘Like it was an Italian football team he was talking about. Say it again.’

  ‘What? Inter-tainment?’ Archie said.

  The two men laughed loudly. Archie immediately felt foolish.

  ‘Good man. Well played there,’ said Vince.

  Archie couldn’t see why it was so funny. He repeated the words over and over in his head. Nope, still about as funny as a tent peg up the bellend.

  ‘Archie here manoeuvred me out of a potentially difficult and embarrassing lady situation th’other night.’

  ‘You mean a difficult husband situation?’ It was Vince’s turn to wink. He did so. Twice. He looked straight at Archie and leaned forwards on his elbows. ‘That right? You that good, m’friend?’ said Vince. He lit three cigarettes and then passed one to each man, keeping the fir
st for himself.

  ‘Ah’m good, aye. Anywhere ye want tae go … Discretion guaranteed, by the way.’ Archie tapped his nose, anticipating a laugh. None came his way though.

  Instead, Vince Hillcock’s jocular manner vanished like snow off a hot metal roof. ‘Does he know?’

  Heady shot Archie a strange look. Archie acted quickly. He took out a card and handed it to Vince while maintaining eye contact.

  ‘Jimmy Johnstone?’

  Archie had given Vince Hillcock a prized football card. He quickly took it back and replaced it with another.

  ‘Dunne Driving: Discretion Guaranteed.’ Vince read, looking relieved; Heady looked even more so.

  Archie had defused a potentially suspect device without fully understanding why it had been so threatening. He decided it wise to focus exclusively on the tattie scone and beans that the waitress had brought him. He sat back, hoping to offer the impression to his hosts that he was now keeping his head firmly down, and that the motto of his employer would be his bond, regardless of what he subsequently overheard. He drowned the food in HP sauce and turned his seat to the side to press the point home.

  The ensuing and almost whispered discussion between the two other men revealed Vince Hillcock to be unlike his tabloid-newspaper persona. His vibrant, effervescent charm had disappeared. Archie caught murmured accusations about the apparently scurrilous behaviour of top stars like Jimmy Savile and Gary Glitter that couldn’t possibly be true. A roster of other famous and well-loved personalities was also mentioned – it was evident that Heady knew all of them. There were also multiple references to something called The Circle.

  Archie concluded that Vince was a prick; a view confirmed when he used a twenty-pound note to wipe away a food stain from the table. Having done this, he tore the note in half. If it was clearly a deliberate act, intended to irritate Archie and the young waitress; and it worked.

  But Archie also detected an emerging air of tension between the two men. Both were careful not to talk in direct terms. They seemed to be referring to a series of events in the third person and using the future tense; it was bizarre. Archie had no clue how to decipher it. He zoned out. His mind ambled back to yesterday afternoon, and more promising preoccupations.

  ‘Hey … Earth to Blunt, come in Blunt, your country needs you.’ Heady’s good-natured tone dragged Archie back into the present. ‘You’re a real dreamer, son. No mistaking.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Hendricks. Sorry about that.’ Archie looked around the cafe. Vince Hillcock had gone but perhaps just to the tiny downstairs toilet. ‘Talkin’ ae dreams, you know how ye said about the boy groups … for the auditions an’ that?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Well … ah’ve got one.’ It was a big statement; a revelatory moment for Archie. He had picked the right time. No one around, just two showbiz colleagues … friends.

  Seconds passed. Became minutes. No response. Heady’s beak was deeply immersed in the racing pages of the Daily Record.

  Fucken celebrities, thought Archie; so immersed in their own insulated worlds of arse-kissing bullshit and self-indulgent hedonism, they couldn’t lend a helping hand to a punter who was simply trying to secure a foothold on the same ladder. Archie felt like he was traversing a minefield; a wrong step and the alternative future he and Jim Rockford had carefully constructed could be blown to smithereens.

  Archie Blunt breathed in deeply. ‘So … any chance, Heady … er, Mr Hendricks?’

  Stony-faced.

  Archie knew it was time for the ace card. Perhaps the only one he had left to play. ‘After all, ah did save yer life … remember?’

  Heady looked up sharply, his face a mask of solemn impenetrability. He was harder to read than the shipping forecast. It was a bust or a flush.

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. Alright.’

  Ding, ding, ding … fucken jackpot! Archie Blunt’s heart leapt.

  ‘But we’re totally clear after this, you understand me?’ Heady’s irritation was evident. He’d been called on for a favour and he didn’t like it.

  But Archie didn’t care. He was in. This was his chance. All he had to do now was make sure the Bash Street Kids didn’t fuck it up.

  16

  August 1976 – Wednesday

  It was the best day any of the men could remember. Those with deep-rooted addictions chose not to recall much anyway, but they were all agreed that this was a very special day at the Great Eastern. The residents partook wholeheartedly in the free drink and food provided as if they were commemorating the end of Prohibition. In fact they were marking the new Scottish Free Labour Party leader’s visit to this famous haven for the homeless and destitute; Big Jamesie Campbell was in the Great Eastern to announce his vision of a new future for the building.

  Bobby Souness was warier than his colleagues, though. Bobby was a new resident, still coming to terms with the tumultuous events that had brought him to this point in his life. He took Big Jamesie Campbell’s socialist proclamations with a big pinch of salt. In his experience, few such initiatives were truly altruistic. Everyone was playing an angle, especially those in positions of power.

  Bobby took the drink that was offered, but a look down the corridor as the party arrived made him shudder. Through the phalanx of dignitaries, he glimpsed Wullie Dunne, bringing up the rear of the Campbell entourage. Wullie Dunne was the nouveau riche of Glaswegian businessmen. He had muscle and could control and organise it to his own ends. And Bobby Souness was here, in this freezing stone-clad Victorian penury, as a direct result of The Wigwam’s temper. Newspaper and television cameras were circling like vultures. Lights and trailing cables performed an uncoordinated dance around the feet of the volunteers, tripping up staff and visitors alike. Big Jamesie Campbell, his manatee bulk central to the whole event, seemed to revel in the chaos and celebration going on around him.

  In addition to ensuring that the bookie didn’t see him, Bobby Souness also studiously avoided the cameras; no one knew that he was even here, and he’d prefer it to stay that way for a while.

  The flesh around Campbell was now being pressed. It seemed clear, though, that water was being trod. A very special guest was on the way, and he was currently running half an hour late.

  The Great Eastern had been constructed in 1849 as the Duke Street Cotton Mill, but at the dawn of the twentieth century the imposing structure, stained industry-black, had been converted into a shelter for homeless men. Latterly, however, concerns had been widely expressed over the integrity of the mill’s original construction. The building had been built using a very early example of mass concrete and, following an investigation into a recent fire, fears had grown that the shell might be prone to progressive collapse. A mystery still surrounded the fire itself. It was apparently started by a tormented young resident, whose dead body had subsequently been discovered floating on the surface of the Clyde. The building was briefly and controversially closed. But now, riding in from the East End on his white charger, was Big Jamesie Campbell. The future was immediately bright. The resilience of this – and other decrepit parts of the formerly industrial east of the city – were being salvaged by a consortium of moneyed men.

  ‘Hullo folks,’ boomed the man of the hour.

  From his narrow viewpoint at the back of the pack of the unwashed, Bobby Souness could see a flurry of activity on the pavement outside. Through a gap in the net curtain, Bobby saw a man in a black suit and a cap who he vaguely recognised. Out of context he couldn’t quite place him though. The man opened the rear door of a stunning black car, and another recognisable man, equally shorn of normal context, stepped out. It was the television star, Heady Hendricks. Bobby might not have had regular access to a television in the last decade, but he’d slept rough under enough copies of the News of the World in that time. Another man with an artificial skin tone also stepped out of the car. He must have had a recent haircut though, as the brown stopped about half an inch from the hairline. ‘What a fucken diddy,’ Bobby muttered.

  ‘Ju
st a few wee words from a shy and humble man before everybody can get back tae the free booze an’ the scran,’ began Big Jamesie.

  The men of the Great Eastern Hotel cheered, as if cue cards had been raised.

  Big Jamesie reaffirmed his commitment to this great city, concluding with: ‘We’re gonnae rid the Glasgow streets ae the stain ae homelessness for once an’ for all! An’ now…’ he turned and urged his guest, who had now officially arrived, forwards ‘…ah’d like tae introduce a man who, em, needs nae introduction.’ Heady Hendricks winced. ‘He’s a good friend ae mine, and of our great city. Please welcome Mr Hank “Heady” Hendricks!’

  Cheers and applause broke out instantly. There were a few ‘fuck-sake’s and ‘is that really him?’s and even a ‘wunner how much wedge he’s got in his pockets’. Big Jamesie allowed them all to be heard. His indulgence, the extent of the coup he’d carried off, made clear to the watching media.

  ‘A few words fae this great, humble man in a minute, but first … ah’d just like tae acknowledge that this magnificent institution has been lookin’ after unfortunates like yersels for nigh’ on a century.’ Campbell turned to face the cameras, pointing back at the gathering guests. ‘Ah’ve seen men urinatin’ on these poor sods that’ve, through no fault ae their own, slipped intae the doldrums. We’re a carin’ city an’ that reputation has slipped with the last administration…’

  A chorus of boos rang out, as if Big Jamesie was delivering this from the stage of the Pavilion in the middle of panto season. He paused, allowing it to make its point and then settle.

  ‘But under Big Jamesie’s direction, that’s all about tae change. Who knows what’s just around the corner for any ae us, eh? You’se aw go where ye go purely by the grace of God.’