The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  ‘There’s an old piano and they play it hot behind the green door…’

  ‘Remember this yin?’ Bobby Cassidy stands at the jukebox.

  Joseph sighs. ‘Aye,’ he says before slowly turning around. His shoulders relax. ‘Ah fuckin’ hated that song, man.’

  ‘Got us through that first night, mind you, didn’t it?’

  Joseph laughs. ‘Aye, it did that, ah suppose. Good auld Shaky, eh?’

  Bobby sits down at the table. He too turns his chair to face out over the mist forming on the sheen of beautiful azure water. ‘Can ah tell ye somethin’?’ says Bobby.

  Joseph prepares himself for criticism.

  ‘That’s the actual record, Joey.’

  Joseph is speechless. ‘Hammy bought Albert’s aul’ man the jukebox years ago, an’ then we gie’d him a stack ae the auld records fae Heatwave Disco. Hammy comes doon here every noo an’ again just tae listen tae them. It makes him feel happy.’

  Joseph smiles at the thought.

  They have both missed this so much; the close companionship of a friend who has seen you at your worst as well as your best. It is difficult for Bobby to explain why, increasingly, Hammy just isn’t enough. It’s perhaps to do with Hammy’s fiercely independent streak, whereas the younger Bobby and Joey seemed to be somewhat diminished when not in each other’s company. A Wise without the Morecambe, or a Dec without the Ant. A Hardy without the Laurel.

  ‘Whit makes you feel happy, Bobby?’

  ‘Fuck all, these days, man.’ Bobby sighs deeply. ‘Ah’ve made such a cunt ae everythin’.’

  They watch the moon’s reflection rippling.

  Neither speaks for a spell.

  ‘Remember some ae the daft things folk used tae say tae ye?’ Joseph reaches back.

  ‘Aye. Ah remember some absolute poultice demandin’ that ah play a David Bowie song, when ah wis actually fuckin’ playin’ one right at the same time! Ah says, “That is Bowie” … He looks at me as if ah’m mental, an’ then says, “Aye, but no’ that yin!” So then the pished bastard leans in, aw Winalot dug-breath, an’ starts hummin’ the very same Bowie song that’s just been on! Fuckin’ arsehole.’

  Joseph laughs. ‘Ah don’t remember that, but see the night ae the Henderson Church riot? That night where you’d picked up a mysterious last-minute injury…’

  ‘Hmm, ah vaguely recall somethin’ like that.’

  ‘Aye, ah’ll bet ye dae. Anyway, before it aw kicks off, this fuckin’ gypsy sidles up tae us, an’ whispers in, “Play an ABBA yin, an’ play it fuckin’ soon … ’cos we’re gonnae be leavin!” Ah mean, Abba! For fuck’s sake … an’ fae a guy that helped wreck the place, five minutes later.’

  Albert brings a pot of coffee, and two cups.

  ‘On the house,’ he says.

  ‘He’s a nice geezer, eh?’ says Joseph.

  ‘Aye, he is,’ says Bobby. ‘Hammy would rather spend time doon here wi’ him than wi’ me, nowadays.’

  ‘Ye sure it’s wi’ him? Whit about this woman he’s seein’?’ said Joseph.

  Bobby looks confused.

  ‘Whit woman?’

  ‘He’s got a burd on the go, according tae Albert anyway.’

  Shakin’ Stevens finishes and Aneka’s ‘Japanese Boy’ fills the room.

  ‘Fuck me, man. Remember that night … the daft bastard electrocuting himself?’

  ‘Aye, couldnae stop laughin’ at the time. Huvnae thought about they days for years.’

  ‘Ah’ve been spendin’ a lot ae time lately … thinkin’ aboot them. You an’ me. Gary,’ says Joseph.

  And suddenly they’re at it: the nub of it all.

  ‘Look Joey, ah wis a fuckin’ arsehole back then when … y’know … Gary went.’ This is difficult for Bobby but there is a sense of it being cathartic. ‘Ah shouldnae have tried tae stop ye honourin’ him an’ ah’ve felt fuckin’ suicidal … just aboot … every day since.’ Tears are forming in Bobby’s eyes now.

  Stripped of context, Albert briefly thinks he’s put salt in their coffees rather than sugar.

  ‘Ah wis out ae control at the funeral. Like a true selfish bastart, ah’m firstly thinkin’ it should’ve been held back in Kilmarnock rather than London. Ah had nae thought for young James an’ whit he had just lost. Then ah’m angry for such a wee turnout for a man that wis a national hero, an’ then got his whole life fucked up as a result ae it. An’ none ae they government or services cunts gie’d a flyin’ fuck aboot him. Aw these poor bastarts, returnin’ fae the Falklands, or Iraq, or some other fuckin’ war-torn shitehole that we send them tae … they come back fucked up in the heid because ae whit they’ve been through, an’ rather than treat them, our system puts them in fuckin’ prison when they dae somethin’ stupid ’cos they cannae cope wi’ aw that trauma.’ Bobby says all of this calmly and with no obvious rancour; just a sense of depressed acceptance.

  Joseph’s eyes moisten but he stares ahead intently.

  ‘An’ then the worse bit ae all of it … ah felt fuckin’ ashamed ae myself. After ma da died,’ Bobby choked. ‘After he went, ah fuckin’ blamed Gary for causin’ it. Just yet more Gary stress an’ bullshit for him tae deal wi’, only this time the auld fella couldnae. After ma da’s funeral, ah knew right away that Gary wisnae ma real brother. Rather than fuckin’ help support the poor bastart, ah just vanished.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Bobby, ye were just a wean yearself, more or less. Gie yerself a break man,’ says Joseph. He finally knows it’s time to move on.

  ‘Ah’m findin’ it hard tae cope, man,’ says Bobby. ‘Every year, it gets worse. Ah’d gie anythin’ tae have Gary back, tae turn the clock back … wi’ Hettie as well. Ah totally fucked that up tae.’

  ‘Naw ye haven’t,’ says Joseph. He is blowing his cheeks out and wiping his face with a napkin that he has absent-mindedly doodled on. It has the same sketch that he’s been drawing and dreaming about for months. ‘She’s still there. Back in Glasgow. Go an’ see her.’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Bobby. ‘Ah tried that before … swallowed it aw up, phoned an’ made plans an’ everythin’, an’ ah could tell she was sceptical. Convinced it’s aw just bluster, an’ that it’ll fall through,’ says Bobby.

  ‘So … whit happened? When was this?’

  ‘Fuckin’ April 2010,’ says Bobby. He looks at Joseph as if this should be enough.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And some fuckin’ volcano erupts in bloody Iceland and shuts doon Europe’s entire airspace.’ Bobby holds his hands out pleadingly. ‘Whit can ye dae, eh? Had the fuckin’ tickets booked an’ everythin’. Ye couldnae fuckin’ make it up, man!’

  Joseph laughs. It breaks the tension and Bobby does too.

  ‘So, that’s nae big deal, is it? The flights were aw back oan a month later,’ says Joseph.

  ‘Ah phoned, Hettie. An’ ah wis pished at the time. Another big mistake. Hammy telt me tae leave it, but naw, naw … ah wouldnae listen. Ah knew better. She wis convinced ah wis pleased about the whole Act ae God shite. Telt me tae just forget it. Ah ended up thinkin’ it wis an Act ae God, but the act wis him punishin’ me for bein’ a total fuckin’ prick ma entire life. Ah started thinkin’ it would take nothin’ short ae Cilla fuckin’ Black divin’ in the front door an’ shoutin’ “Surprise Surprise”. So, ah just gave up … more or less.’

  It is hard for Joey to know what to say. Bobby Cassidy slumps in the seat. The confession has taken so much out of him. Terry Hall is singing ‘Too Much Too Young’: the story of their lives, it seems.

  ‘Ah think we should go home,’ says Joseph.

  ‘Aye. Ah think yer right. It’s time,’ says Bobby.

  PART THREE

  LAUREL & HARDY RIDE AGAIN

  ‘Didn’t you once tell me that you had an uncle?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve got an uncle. Why?’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Is he living?’

  ‘No. He fell through a trap door and broke his neck.’

  ‘Was he building a house?
’

  ‘No, they were hanging him.’

  (From The Laurel-Hardy Murder Case)

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  November 2014. Ibiza, Spain

  ‘Christ, tell ye one thing for nothin’,’ says Bobby, ‘the quality ae the grub has dramatically increased this last week.’

  He is wolfing down a healthy pasta dish that Joseph has made for them all. More out of necessity than desire, Joseph has taken over the culinary duties. Hammy’s mind has been elsewhere, and his interest in cooking food has apparently accompanied it. He seems distant and worried. Bobby puts it down to the anxiety of returning to Scotland. But in fact, for Hamish May, it can’t now come quickly enough.

  It has been a week since the breakthrough summit meeting at Albert’s. It has astonished all of them how quickly they have shifted into a different groove, as if the perceived grievances of the past thirty years were deep-layered soot and mould stains on a rendered wall that just needed a concentrated power-washing to return it to its original condition. They watch and laugh at old black-and-white comedy movies well into the early morning, quoting remembered lines before the actors do. There have still been occasional raised voices between the three childhood friends, but as the days pass these become less frequent. Much of this is down to Hammy breaking out his hitherto secret stash of cannabis. A different perspective on everything – from their original fall-outs to the current perilous state of Kilmarnock Football Club, on to Thatcher’s legacy and including Simon Cowell – has accrued from such imbibing. They have smoked Hammy’s beefy, hand-rolled joints deep into the night while reclining on Bobby’s deck loungers. All three of them justify this drug-taking by claiming that its therapeutic qualities are the principal reason for their indulging in it; and, for their different reasons, this is actually true. All three have suffered physical or mental pain that getting high combats. Equally, their historically fractured relationships looked totally different when viewed through the prism of the mild, relaxed euphoria that the prime-quality dope provides.

  The personal transformation in Bobby Cassidy during these last few days has been nothing short of miraculous. Having gone through the denial and anger stages during the mid-80s, he extemporised the bargaining stage through his increasingly desperate gambling. Depression – the longest and most recent of his personal grief stages – has now finally morphed into a form of acceptance. The most obvious sign of this can be seen in his appearance. He now sports a decent haircut for a man of his age. The straggling rat’s tails have gone, replaced by a number-two buzzcut to balance out the thinning top, and the white clobber has been superseded by tones and colours more appropriate for a European man of his vintage. Astonishingly, he has risen early for three days in a row, and has shocked his long-term companion by going out running. He now looks years younger, pounds lighter and immeasurably happier. The now-clear fact that Bobby’s deepening depression was merely a pining for Joey Miller – as if the two men were Siamese twins separated at the onset of adulthood – initially irritated Hammy, but the real source of his agitation lies elsewhere. Hammy aside, there are now far more occurrences of nostalgic laughter and juvenile piss-taking as Bobby and Joseph become reacquainted. The house seems less cold and austere as a result, just as they are making plans to leave it.

  ‘So, whit dae ye think ae the idea?’ Bobby says.

  ‘Aye, ah like it. Ah think he’d definitely have appreciated it,’ Joseph replies. ‘Even though ah’m still no’ quite sure what “it” is yet.’

  ‘Ach, we’ll get tae that later. Important thing is that we’re gonnae honour his life in some way. That’ll get Hettie back oan board, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ says Joseph. ‘That should be yer main aim, in my opinion.’

  ‘Well, aye, but let’s keep focused on Gary. We need tae think more about whit he would’ve wanted.’ Bobby stands up and cranes his neck to the side. ‘Haw, Ironside … whit d’ye think?’

  After a pause, a dejected-looking Hammy wheels himself in. ‘Aboot whit?’ he says.

  ‘Aboot a fuckin’ memorial tae Gary, ya tube! Have ye no’ been listenin’ aw week?’ says Bobby.

  ‘Build the cunt a statue … or name a fuckin’ boat after him or somethin’. Fuck should ah ken? He wis your brother!’

  Bobby and Joseph look at each other. Something serious is eating away at Hammy. He hasn’t seemed himself all day, but this latest outburst is another level of uncharacteristic.

  ‘Whit’s up wi’ ye, Hammy? Has Chorlton phoned demandin’ his Wheelies back?’ says Bobby.

  Joseph laughs. Hammy’s face remains stony. Joseph looks at Bobby for an explanation.

  Bobby shrugs. ‘Hammy?’

  Hammy turns his chair and wheels it a few feet away from them. It’s almost as if he can’t face them. ‘Ah’m in a spot ae bother,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Has the island run oot ae WD40?’ says Bobby.

  Without turning around, Hammy says, ‘Aye, it’s aw fuckin’ jokes wi’ you now, eh, ya selfish cunt. Yer pal’s back an’ yer like a fuckin’ wife in the 1940s whose man’s just returned out ae the bastardin’ blue fae the war! For near ten years, ah’ve had tae put up wi’ the other Bobby … the Gamblers Anonymous posterboy, the yin that’s just one Our Tune story away fae a wrist-slashin’.’

  Bobby sighs deeply. He is embarrassed and ashamed.

  ‘An’ now … when ah actually need you, where the fuck are ye? Headlinin’ at the local comedy club. Fuckin’ typical.’

  ‘Aw, look Hammy … ah’m sorry, mate. Ah just thought ye were pissed off aboot us headin’ home, man,’ says Bobby.

  ‘Pissed off? Pfft.’

  ‘What’s goin’ on, Hammy?’ asks Joseph.

  Hammy breathes in deeply.

  ‘Is it about this woman yer seein’?’ says Joseph.

  Hammy stares away. There is no clue from the back of his head as to how he took that question. Then suddenly, his chin drops down onto his chest.

  ‘Whit’s the script, man?’ presses Bobby.

  Hammy sighs. ‘Fuck!’ he mutters. ‘Aye. It’s true,’ he adds, confusing the two as regards what he is actually verifying. ‘Ah’ve been seein’ this woman for aboot six years, on and off.’

  ‘Fuckin’ dark horse, Hammy,’ says Bobby. ‘Kept that yin quiet. Aw they times ye buggered off, ah just assumed ye were at a bingo club or ye were doin’ the early-bird dinners.’

  ‘Aye. Well. There’s … em, a reason … em, ah huvnae telt anybody,’ he stutters. There’s a pause, punctuated only by Hammy’s shallow breathing.

  ‘Well?’ says Bobby, trying to conceal his impatience, and the increasing thought that Hammy might’ve murdered her.

  ‘She’s a Blood Orange,’ says Hammy.

  ‘A what?’ asks Joseph.

  Hammy remains focused on the view outside. They can’t see his face. His confession, painfully slow that it is, seems to require this condition.

  ‘She … cough … she’s part of a secret, em … middle-age sex club,’ says Hammy.

  ‘What, like a swinger?’ asks Joseph.

  ‘Fuck sake, pal. Ye’ve landed on yer … em … wheels there, Hammy,’ says Bobby.

  ‘Ah’m fuckin’ warnin’ you, Bob!’ growls Hammy.

  ‘Whit?’ Bobby pleads. ‘Yer gettin’ yer fuckin’ Nat King Cole regular, like, wi’ a Spanish swinger. Stop greetin’ ’cos we’re goin’ home. Christ, bring her wi’ ye. Ah’ll pay for it.’

  ‘She’s married…’ says Hammy.

  ‘Oh,’ says Bobby. ‘That changes the game a bit.’

  ‘…tae the local polis chief in San Antonio.’ Hammy’s head sinks a bit lower.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ says Bobby. ‘Ya stupid cunt. Ye’ll need tae go … em … on the run, then.’

  Hammy turns sharply, picks up a coconut from the fruit basket next to him and throws it at Bobby. It hits him square on the forehead.

  ‘AAARGH! Jesus fuck … that wis sore!’

  ‘Hammy, how do ye know?’ says Joseph, intervening as Bob
by hunts for a mirror.

  ‘She told me this mornin’,’ says Hammy. It’s clear now he has been crying.

  ‘Ya fuckin’ daft bastard. That’s gonnae leave a big mark!’ shouts Bobby.

  ‘So how did he find out? Did she tell him?’ asks Joseph.

  ‘Naw,’ says Hammy. ‘One ae the other women in the group had her man round earlier in the week. He’s intae aw this autoasphyxiation bollocks. She’s prancin’ aboot in the scud in front ae him while he’s got one ae her stockings on his heid, and another yin tied round his neck an’ ontae a door knob.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Hammy. Did they get caught?’ asks Joseph.

  ‘No’ exactly. She’d put one ae they wee clementine oranges in his mouth as an extra touch, ken?’

  ‘Aye,’ says Bobby. ‘Ah think so,’ he adds, struggling to hold in a laugh.

  ‘But the cunt tipples ower tae the one side. He’s making aw these weird groaning noises, an’ she’s wearing a mask an’ she cannae see him, so she just fuckin’ keeps on gyratin’, thinkin’ that he’s just aboot to shoot his load.’ Hammy puts his hands up to his head. ‘But the poor bastard wisnae cumin’ … he’d swallowed the wee fuckin’ orange an’ he wis chokin’. By the time she’s finished the Dance ae the Seven Veils, the guy’s fuckin’ deid!’

  ‘Fuck me,’ says Joseph. He shoots a dagger at Bobby, who is silently wetting himself.

  ‘Ah’m fucked,’ says Hammy. ‘The woman panics, calls the polis an’ it’s Esta’s man, Juan, that turns up. The aul’ bitch fuckin’ dobs everybody in … names, addresses, favourite fuckin’ positions … the whole lot. Esta’s warned me that Juan Soler’s a total cunt. Mental mad wi’ the jealousy.’

  ‘…an’ she couldnae have told you that before ye started bangin’ her?’ says Bobby.