by Owen Mullen
He pointed to a tall redhead who had three middle-aged men in suits eating out of her hand. Marie waved. Rafferty waved back.
‘She’s dying to meet you.’
‘Tell her I’ll catch her later.’
Through the crowd, someone Rafferty wanted to meet even more than Marie was sitting in an armchair by the fire. Sandy Rutherford wasn’t drinking; this wasn’t social. Rafferty eased past his guests and made his way towards him. The councillor stood and pulled himself to his full six feet.
Rutherford’s reputation as a straight talker made him the obvious choice to bring the East End gangster to heel. That reputation was well-founded. In a public career spanning three decades, opponents had discovered he was capable of being more ruthless than they had ever imagined.
He played the part of a rough diamond – a down-to-earth hard man who could be trusted – and used it to his advantage. Like many convincing deceptions, it was based on a fragment of truth; he had been a welder, and during the Upper Clyde Shipbuilders work-in in 1971, spent lunch-hours listening to Jimmy Airlie’s coarse rhetoric. Its potency had mesmerised the young apprentice and inspired him to join the Communist Party. At twenty-eight, he became a shop steward. Ten years on, he was a Labour Party fire-brand and elected to the city council. Sandy Rutherford was politically savvy but chose to hide his sophistication behind the joined-up shouting style which had so impressed him as a youth, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his workmates at union meetings on the banks of the Clyde, with the ghosts of the Queens in the cold winter air.
He adopted the style and the language though not the principles. His real commitment was to himself. In fact, Rutherford and Rafferty were the same animal.
Neither man offered to shake hands. Rutherford came straight to the point. ‘They won’t go for it.’
‘Who, exactly?
The councillor avoided answering.
‘Who won’t go for it?’
‘Cards on the table, Sean. It’s not the project, per se; it’s who’s behind it. People remember what doing business with Jimmy was like.’
‘Jimmy’s dead.’
Rutherford sighed; this was always going to be a difficult conversation. ‘Even so.’
‘Even so... what?’
‘Jimmy. Kevin. You. It’s still the family. Understandably, they aren’t keen.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Lachie Thompson isn’t a fan. Tony Daly. Between them, they control half the votes. These men are public figures. They don’t want to wake up and find their picture next to yours on the front of the Herald. Need to keep your name out of the papers for a while.’
On the other side of the room, Marie was watching; she was interested. Rafferty turned his attention back to the councillor. He had despised his father but he’d learned something valuable from him.
Never take a no from somebody who can give you a yes.
Violence had worked for the old man. With some people it was the only thing that did. Jimmy hadn’t taken no. Ever. Neither would his son.
‘I’m disappointed, Sandy. Very disappointed.’
Rutherford held his ground. ‘It’s early days, Sean. We’re still feeling each other out. You have to appreciate what you’re asking takes time.’
‘We haven’t got time.’
The councillor shook his head. ‘You know, when you took over, I was hoping for progress. A new era if you will. But…’ Did this idiot realise who he was talking to?
‘…face facts. You’re famous. These people don’t do famous.’
Rafferty toyed with his water glass. ‘So I’m the problem? But for more money, they’ll take a chance, am I right?’
The councillor considered the question. ‘They might.’
He put an avuncular hand on Rafferty’s arm, as if he was schooling a boy in an important lesson he would do well to learn. ‘You need to understand the value of patience.’
Rafferty pushed the hand away. ‘And here’s what you need to understand. What you did in the past didn’t end with Jimmy. You worked for him. Now you work for me. You’ve got seven days to show me we’re going in the right direction. Seven days.’
Never take a no from somebody who can give you a yes.
He looked at his watch. ‘Starting in sixty minutes. Now get out of my house.’
CHAPTER FIVE
11.00 p.m. New York Blue
Byres Road was awash with people on their way to the street party in Ashton Lane. Three girls – no older than sixteen – in short skirts and high-heels came out of Hillhead underground and laughed their way through the crowds. Outside Starbucks, one of them slipped and crashed to the ground. Luck was with her; the wine and the cider and the God knows what else she’d drunk, broke her fall; the bottle in her hand landed upright in the snow without spilling a drop. The girls giggled. Her friends pulled her to her feet and on they went: kids pretending to be adults. These ladies would be lucky to see the bells in. The taxi driver shook his head and spoke to me over his shoulder.
‘Don’t get it, do they?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Could ruin their whole lives and they’re too stupid to realise it.’
Fifteen minutes later, the car drew into the kerb to the whisper of snow crushing under the wheels and came to a stop. In the background, barely loud enough to hear, the radio played hit songs reminding me I wasn’t young anymore. I passed money though the grill to the driver who took it without bothering to check how much was there and pointed to the frozen world I was about to enter.
‘All the best when it comes.’
‘You too, mate.’
In spite of the cold, Alex was waiting for me at the door; he seemed agitated. ‘Beginning to think you’d decided to give it a miss.’
‘A party on Hogmanay? I was always going to be here.’
I followed him downstairs to a table by the side of the stage, where Jackie, the Logues, and Andrew and Sandra had already made inroads on the bar our host had set up for us. Outside, the temperature was below zero; in the club, it was hot: Africa hot.
The DJ kept the music going non-stop. Conversation wouldn’t be easy. I squeezed in between Patrick and Andrew. Alex pushed a bottle of Black Label at me.
‘Got a bit of catching-up to do, Charlie. Get started.’
Patrick had a low-strength lager in his hand.
‘What’s this?’
‘New Year resolution.’
‘You’re joking.’
He whispered. ‘Wish I was. Nearly didn’t make it.’
‘How so?’
‘Gail didn’t want to come. Not after last night.’
‘What happened?’
‘Young Patrick decided to celebrate early. Fell in the door.’
‘Drunk?’
‘Manky. Nine-point-seven on the Mankometer. Came home last week with his eyes double-glazed. Dope. Gail went mental. Really freaked. Said I’d speak to him.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah, gave him a right bollockin’ for upsettin’ his mother. I mean, smokin’ Mara Joanna. Who hasn’t done that? Told him to box clever.’
‘Was he listening?’
‘He’s a teenager, what do you think?’
‘How old is he?’
‘Not old enough. It was sore for Gail to see him like that. Worse than the whacky baccy. Cried her eyes out. Twice in the same week means he isn’t her wee boy anymore. She worries he’ll end up a junkie or maybe have inherited the family problem. Gail’s connection’s knee-deep in alcoholics.’
‘Lucky you came along to save her.’
Straight over his head.
‘Exactly, Charlie. She’s insisting I set a good example.’ He tapped the beer. ‘Picked a great night. Free bar.’
‘And Hogmanay.’
‘Not bothered about that. Never liked it.’
This was a surprise. ‘You don’t like Hogmanay? Thought you’d be well into it.’
He shook his head. ‘For amateurs. Scrap it if it was dow
n to me. Scrap the whole maudlin malarkey.’
I disagreed. Drawing a line and starting over again was an idea that appealed and, looking around, it wasn’t just my opinion.
At eleven-thirty, Big River came on and rocked the house. At a minute to midnight, Alan Sneddon got up from behind the drums and did the countdown. Everybody joined in.
‘…Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!’
“Auld Lang Syne” blasted out, balloons fell from the ceiling, and if it had been loud before, it was deafening now. Strangers hugged each other and shook hands. Pat Logue didn’t move until Gail threw her arms round his neck and kissed him like a teenager. After twenty-odd years together, not bad.
Alan held his hands in the air and called for quiet. I didn’t fancy his chances but I was wrong. ‘We promised you a surprise guest star, and we weren’t exaggerating. The person coming on is both a star and an old friend of Big River. Currently in the middle of a world tour with North Wind. Give it up for NYB’s favourite lady – Kate Calder!’
Every morning for months I’d passed a poster outside boasting about a Hogmanay “Special Guest,” without giving it a second thought. And now, why Alex had invited me was obvious. If I’d known it was Kate I probably wouldn’t have come. We’d been lovers; for a while, marriage was on the cards. North Wind – one of the biggest stadium bands around – offered her a job; she’d turned it down to be with me. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. A week after we split, Kate left Glasgow and joined North Wind.
Getting over her was still a work in progress, and for a while, I’d spent my nights Googling the band’s web site. Eventually, I gave up. There had been women since, but the relationships were short-lived: they weren’t Kate and never could be.
She picked her way to the front of the stage and waved. The crowd went wild. Kate Calder was one of their own and always would be. She checked the settings on the white Telecaster strapped round her neck, shaking the shoulder-length red hair that reminded me so much of a young Bonnie Raitt. Kate had had a rock-chick thing going on from the beginning; her blue jeans and snake skin boots were a particular favourite of mine. Tonight, I was out of luck; they’d been replaced by leather trousers and black trainers with the Nike swoosh on the side. Cool, though not in the same class as the boots. Not even close.
The first number was a journey back in time for me – to two years ago when this wonderful talented lady had been mine. The guys in Big River lay back and grooved; wherever Kate took it was all right with them. This was a small Glasgow club – a far cry from the venues she was used to – and she played like she’d come home.
I heard a voice in my ear. ‘Sensational, isn’t she?’
It was Alex.
‘She certainly is.’
One of us was talking about the music.
Towards the end of the show, Kate took the guitar off, sat on a stool, and sang the beautiful haunting Richard Thompson tune, “Dimming of the Day.” I would’ve liked to believe she was talking to me. In my dreams. That ship had sailed. Some lucky guy would hear those intimate lyrics and know they were about him.
And Alex Gilby was right: she was sensational. The crowd wouldn’t let her go. A quick discussion produced a shit-kicking jam of “Roll Over Beethoven,” and when the final chord faded, the band held hands and took a bow at the front of the stage to an ovation that threatened to take the roof off.
Pat Logue was beside me, whistling and applauding. His dislike of fake beer and amateur drinkers hadn’t stopped him enjoying himself. He shouted his verdict at me. ‘Two words, Charlie! Su perb!’
‘Thought you disapproved?’
‘This is me disapprovin’’
He finished his lager, twisting his face against the taste, and slipped an arm round his wife. It had been a brave effort from a guy who lived to drink. Gail smiled and kissed him. The Logues’ marriage wasn’t plain sailing – their bouts of domestic disharmony were well known – yet, they were together; even if the rest of the world couldn’t see it, and at times they lost sight of it themselves. They were doing something right.
Patrick winked, and turned to Alex Gilby. NYB’S best customer had seen the old year out and the New Year in on kid-on beer in an uncharacteristic display of moderation; his good example was coming to an end. Normal service was about to be resumed. ‘And now a word from our sponsor. Any chance of one for the road, Alex?’
‘Every chance, Pat. Upstairs.’
We made our way out of the club. I glanced back at the stage, hoping Kate would appear. She didn’t.
The restaurant was in darkness. Alex opened the door, switched on the lights and went behind the bar. ‘So? What’re we after?’
Geddes answered. ‘A wee goldie wouldn’t go amiss.’
It was unusual to see him so relaxed; a lot of that was down to Sandra. His ex-wife, Elspeth, better known as the Wicked Witch of the North, hadn’t been the warmest person I’d ever met. Sandra was light years away from her, and the reason they were here. Left to himself, Geddes would be in bed.
To prove my point, he started dancing with her; waltzing to music nobody else could hear. Very un-Andrew. DS Geddes was a glass-half-empty guy. A stocky, black and white moralist, with little faith in people beyond their ability to hurt each other. Dour was his default position, reenforced by a job he was one hundred and ten percent committed to. The result was a great detective who could be a difficult companion. In a city like Glasgow, he often found himself face-to-face with dark forces which, inevitably, soured his view of the human race, and took him closer to the grumpy old man he was destined to become.
But he had a good heart and was a friend who had helped me many times.
The wee goldies he’d already had were doing their work.
Alex gave everyone a drink and handed him a whisky. He hid his gratitude with a question showing it would take more than booze to eradicate the pessimist in him. ‘Think you’ll be able to drive? Coming in, it didn’t look good.’
Alex held up his hands. ‘Andrew. It’s snow. Even if we have to spend the next couple of days here, so what?’
Alan Sneddon appeared to a round of applause from Sandra and Gail. He made an exaggerated bow – obviously pleased with himself – then shook their hands. Jackie got more than a handshake. With me he just nodded. Now the identity of the special guest star was out, I guessed he was uncomfortable.
Alex Gilby took me aside. ‘Hope you aren’t angry, Charlie. I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘It was certainly that.’
‘Been advertising for months but we only knew for sure two weeks ago. North Wind’s American tour broke for the holiday on the twentieth of December and picks up again on the fourth of January. Kate called me two weeks ago, just before she went on stage in Tulsa, to say she would definitely be here. Guessed you wouldn’t want to miss it, given the history.’
Unfortunately, tonight reminded me history was all that was left.
‘A good thought, Alex. Appreciate it.’
I made smalltalk with Alan Sneddon about the difficulties of putting a set together in such a short time. He was pleased with himself and keen to discuss it. We were still talking when Kate came in. She hugged Gail and Jackie. I was last. Although our break-up had been friendly we hadn’t seen each other in two years. She shook my hand – a strange experience.
I said, ‘You look great.’
‘So do you.’
‘What’s it like being a big star?’
She laughed. ‘No idea.’
‘How long are you here?’
‘Just a couple of days. We kick-off again in Chicago on the fourth. I’m going back on the second.’
Someone with a blunt knife could’ve cut a slice out of the awkwardness and taken it home in a cake-box. Jackie and Alan chose that moment to interrupt and I caught Jackie glance anxiously to see my reaction. I hung around for a while on the edge of the conversation and eventually drifted away to speak to Patrick and Gail.
Gail pointed to Kate.
‘Looking great, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Hard to believe not so long ago she was playing here every week.’
Not for me it wasn’t
‘Still fancies you, you know.’
Patrick tried to save me. ‘Gail, don’t start your women’s intuition stuff. Please.’
His wife ignored him. ‘Telling you.’
I borrowed from Alex Gilby. ‘Ancient history, Gail. Water under the bridge.’
She allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. ‘Want to bet on it, Charlie? You’ll lose.’
I would be more than happy to lose.
Alan Sneddon held up his hands. ‘Just want to thank Alex for getting Kate back, even if it is only for tonight. Great to see her again and an honour to be on stage with her.’
Alex and Kate looked suitably modest as everybody cheered.
I moved across to the Rock-Ola and pretended to study the playlist. I sensed someone beside me. It was Kate. She ran a finger down the chrome edge of the jukebox and took us on a stroll down memory lane.
‘This was where we spoke the very first time.’
I didn’t need her to remind me.
‘Robbie Ward had left the band. I was the new kid in town.’
‘And you were nervous.’
‘Terrified. You told me it was going to be great and not to worry.’
‘I got that right.’
Kate laughed. ‘I thought Robbie couldn’t be replaced. You said…’
‘…Robbie who? I remember.’
She turned to face me and took my hands in hers. ‘Happy New Year, Charlie.’
‘When did you get here?’ was all I managed to get out.
‘Late this afternoon. Alex was ready to smuggle me in but you’d just left with Pat.’
And ended up chasing Dougie Bell round Glasgow.
I studied her face; nothing had changed. She realised what I was doing and smiled. ‘The road takes its toll. Too many late nights and not enough sleep. In a couple of years. I’ll look a hundred and ten.’
That wouldn’t happen.
‘Which hotel are you in?’
Kate pursed her lips. ‘Don’t have one. Was kind of hoping I might stay with you.’