The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  ‘Eh … aye. Like ah said, me an’ Max go way back. Ah’m from Crosshouse tae. Him an’ I used tae be in a band th’gither.’

  There is a flicker of recognition as Joseph remembers the Henderson church hall riot. Heatwave Disco, in the form of Joseph Miller and his minder for the night, Malky McKay, were supporting the original Vespas, who were playing a farewell gig. Back then, Max was known by his real name, Dale Wishart, and he was the amateur band’s singer and frontman. The balding, fat man in front of Joseph was also on the stage that night. He played bass. What a strange coincidence.

  Suddenly there’s a crack, and then another two in rapid succession. The Daily Mail journalist hits the gravel as if he’s been shot. It’s dark and the lack of illumination is concealing the colour of his face. Fuck sake, thinks Joseph, two ambulances called in the space ae twenty fuckin’ minutes!

  ‘Whit a fuckin’ shot, eh?’ Joseph turns around to see Max strolling towards him. He is holding a rifle.

  ‘What the fuck, Max? Have you just shot this guy?’ Joseph is stunned.

  Bobby is behind Max but seems surprisingly relaxed. What is going on here? thinks Joseph.

  ‘Calm doon, Joe-boxer. It’s just an air rifle pellet,’ says Max. ‘Get up ya fat cunt,’ he adds, rolling a kick at the stricken journalist’s stomach.

  Steven Dent moans. Another dull Doc Marten is delivered to his face.

  ‘Fuck sake, Max … calm down, man!’ Joseph yells.

  ‘This devious cunt killed The Miraculous Vespas first time around. He’s no’ dain’ it again this time.’ Max cocks his air rifle. ‘Ah used tae shoot big coos on the arse wi’ this wee beauty. So fuckin’ glad ah kept it for one last spree on this fuckin’ shitebag.’

  Steven Dent is dazed and confused. A pellet is embedded in his cheek. It’s unclear yet if the other two hit their target. Helped by Simon Sylvester and Hairy Doug, the three drag Steven Dent into the church hall and proceed to gaffa tape him to a chair.

  Grant, Maggie, the Reverend and his flock have gone to bed in the Manse. Donald the boatmaker left just after Jimmy swan-dived his dinner. The surrealism of the evening was becoming too much for him, plus, he had agreed to head over at dawn on the first of the small flotilla of private-hire boats that have been corralled into service following the recent FaceBook appeals.

  As they huckle the hack into the hall, Hammy watches on, bemused.

  ‘You’re fuckin’ finished this time, ya mad bastard!’ croaks Steven Dent before the tape seals his mouth.

  ‘Remember that scene in Reservoir Dogs?’ says Max calmly. ‘Get me the shears!’

  Steven Dent’s eyes display panic over the top of the battleship-grey tape.

  ‘Ach, fuckin’ behave yerself, ya prick! Think ah’m dain’ a stretch for a waster like you?’ Max turns to Bobby. ‘This dick once called me the most hateful man in Britain. He’ll need tae think ae a better headline this time.’

  Max aims a kick at the chair and in trying to avoid it, Steven Dent overtopples the chair. Man and chair now lie on their side, where they will remain for the whole night.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  29th August 2015. The Big Bang, Ailsa Craig

  When the guests at the Crosshouse Church Manse awake in the morning, they find that one of their number is missing. Max Mojo is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where the fuck’s Max?’ This is becoming the morning’s clarion call. No one knows where he is.

  Bobby assumes he’s headed over to Ailsa Craig at the crack of dawn. Steven Dent is also gone, freed from his chair of taped captivity.

  The official order of travel was to be first Max, along with The Miraculous Vespas and Hammy. With Hairy Doug’s prefabricated setting up work completed, he was scheduled to head over on a later boat, along with the sound technicians and the support bands. But with Max gone, Hammy and Hairy Doug leave to take the next official boat.

  Hammy’s deeply-rooted thalassophobia resurfaces. ‘Ma stomach’s in knots,’ he admits to Hairy Doug, before adding, ‘but ma arse is definitely workin’ in miles per hour!’

  A separate boat has been hired for the sponsors. Bobby and Joey remain to do local press and media interviews at Troon Harbour before going across on the last of the official boats. The Waverley idea has been aborted. It was a romantic and very photogenic notion, but practicality and cost prohibit it. The paddle steamer Waverley is a Class V craft. The scale of the vessel and the lack of any substantial jetty mean that the closest it could get to the tiny island is almost half a mile offshore. This hadn’t fazed Max Mojo initially. He had assured the bands that launching the Waverley’s two remaining lifeboats to carry the five-hundred-strong audience onto the island would look fantastic and would be captured by the worldwide coverage being planned for the event. The owners of the vessel, Waverley Excursions, disagreed, however, and a plan B was needed. Social media answered the call and now nearly seventy boats of varying sizes and safety classifications are lining up for the trip across the Irish Sea. Max argued that the evacuation of Dunkirk had involved rowing boats and no one now viewed that as anything other than an unqualified maritime success. Why would anyone object to a similar, smaller sailing over a shorter distance? he reasoned. But complain they did. Numerous environmentalists, a small group from Amnesty International, and a splinter protest group claiming Independence for Arran are all attempting to blockade the vessels docked in Troon Harbour; the designated pick-up point for those with golden tickets. Troon Harbour has been selected because the local speedboat club responded to the May-Day Hammy had issued. A sizable donation has been promised. The Coastguard is circling them all, trying to keep the narrow entry to the harbour clear. Speedboats are the order of the day due to the time factor, their general manoeuvrability, and the worry over yacht fins grounding on the rocks. On the mainland shore, the police are in heavy attendance, although they are maintaining something of a watching brief. Helicopters circle out to sea, and a biplane on a repetitive fly-past trails a large ‘John 3:16’ banner from its tail. Bobby figures Eddie Sylvester has been behind this one.

  It’s just after lunch when Bobby Cassidy and Joseph Miller appear at Scott’s restaurant overlooking Troon Harbour. The car park is mobbed and individuals from various security firms are patrolling the gate, checking that people either have guest passes for the gig or for the press conferences, or, more specifically, that they possess a golden ticket. Joseph’s betablockers are working overtime, and although he remains excited, he is nervously anticipating some disasterous, unforeseen drowning event just beyond the next wave. Anxiety is a complete cunt! he thinks.

  Bobby and Joseph are ushered into the restaurant’s glazed conservatory. The weather has been kind to them so far, but it is not expected to hold. Sunlight glistens on the water as the collected boats stock up for their anticipated passengers. Bobby has been here on many occasions recently, almost all with Lizzie, who lives only a few hundred yards away. She has turned down the opportunity to come over for the gig. She feels it is still too soon and that his thoughts should be with Gary and Hettie on this particular day.

  They sit with their backs to the glass. A red cord line is in front of them, separating them from a multitude of flashing cameras and people holding small, shiny tape recorders or smartphones. The questions are conducted by a young girl Bobby recognises. He thinks she works for STV. She introduces herself as Abigail Smart.

  First question:

  ‘Bobby, why is this event so important to you?’

  Bobby pauses, takes a deep breath. ‘It’s tae honour my brother, Gary. He died a few years back but he loved islands, that wee yin over there particularly. He had a hard time after the Falklands, ken? We just wanted tae dae something unique tae remember him.’

  ‘Bobby, how much money did you make as MC Bobcat?’

  ‘Eh,’ Bobby looks at Abigail for help. She steps in.

  ‘That isn’t relevant, I’m sorry.’ She points. ‘Yes … Jenny.’

  ‘Who’s idea was it to reform
The Miraculous Vespas?’

  ‘Em, ah knew Max from way back … ah worked on The Miraculous Vespas remixes in the 90s. Once we had agreed tae try this, he suggested the band. So, ah suppose it was him.’

  ‘…And where is he now?’ journo Jenny continues.

  ‘We’re no’ really sure,’ Bobby says, laughing nervously and looking at Joseph, who instinctively shrugs. ‘No, seriously, ah think he’s over on the island. He’s a perfectionist. Nothin’ left tae chance.’

  ‘It’s the NME here. Have you heard the band, Bobby? Rumours are that they still aren’t speaking to each other.’

  ‘Well, ah can confirm that that isnae true. The rehearsals have sounded brilliant,’ Bobby confirms.

  ‘Any possibility of new material?’

  ‘Aye. Every chance. Deal’s already been signed wi’ Island Records for a new LP.’ Bobby says this and then wishes he hadn’t. He isn’t sure if Max has made this known to anyone, least of all the band themselves. The audible gasps as he reveals this suggest the exclusive nature of his news; he feels worse.

  ‘How difficult has this event been to put on? It’s the Daily Record, and can I direct this one to Joseph Miller?’

  This startles Joseph. He hasn’t wanted to be in the forefront of any of the publicity. His role, as it was for Heatwave Disco back in their day, was by preference a supporting one. But now, with numerous cameras trained on him, he has no option.

  ‘Eh … it’s been pretty tough.’

  Joseph appreciates that elaboration is needed, but he isn’t sure where to start. Should he talk about the multi-million-pound costs being incurred? Should he focus on the complex interpersonal relationships between all of the participants and how their fragile egos have threatened the whole thing right up until last night? Should he highlight his worries about the impending weather change and the safety implications of that? For the last three nights in succession, Joseph has dreamed of a returning Hurricane Bawbag suddenly sweeping in across the Irish Sea and submerging the island and all of its temporary population. The storm-force winds that battered Scotland in late 2011 and were colloquially named after the Scottish slang for an annoying or irritating person, reached more than 100 mph on the west coast. Anything similar and his timber-lined eyelid stage and all aboard it will be heading to Oz faster than Judy fucking Garland. Max Mojo and The Miraculous Vespas are one thing, but imagine being implicated in the whole of Teenage Fanclub being lost at sea? It doesn’t bear thinking about. So, given all of this, and that it is the Daily Record asking, he keeps his words short and his tone upbeat.

  ‘…but we have a great team. No challenge is too much for them.’

  The lights are strong and Bobby is finding it difficult to focus closely.

  ‘Yes,’ says Abigail, acknowledging a tall man in a dark suit whose hand has been raised.

  ‘Are you Bobby Cassidy and Joseph Miller, directors of Heatwave Promotions Ltd?’ The question seems unusually formal and the other members of the media pack turn to look to the rear, where the voice has come from.

  ‘Eh, aye. Ye know that … it’s on the board outside,’ says Bobby.

  The suited man and three colleagues step forward.

  ‘I’m arresting you in connection with an ongoing enquiry into fraud and the bribery of a Council official. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  There are stunned faces everywhere. Someone shouts, ‘Fuck me, are you getting this? Hector … tell me you’re getting this?’

  ‘Do you understand,’ says the suit.

  ‘Whit the fuck’s goin’ on?’ Bobby pleads. ‘We huvnae done anythin’!’

  ‘Ye’ve nothin’ tae worry about, then, sir,’ says the suit.

  Handcuffs seem unnecessary but they are deployed anyway. Bobby yelps as his fragile hands suffer from their steely grip. Joseph Miller’s mind is swimming with the likelihood that Lucinda must be behind this. An unacceptable irritation at him having had the gall to contact their daughter to explain his absence from much of her life.

  As they progress down the wooden stairs of Scott’s Restaurant, they are mobbed. No one is quite sure what is happening. Over to the left, at the gated entrance to the marina, gig-goers are beginning to assemble. It’s an ordely queue, Joseph notes; not what he has anticpated. He foresaw five hundred drunken, hallucinating, rabble-rousing youngsters fresh from their first T in the Park, abusing the boat owners and falling into the water. But they all look like male or female versions of him. Middle-aged, respectable, respectful. Out for a good time, but not at any cost. As he is led to the waiting unmarked police cars, he reflects on how the gig-going audience has changed over the years. Fifty-year-olds go to see bands on stage. Teenagers go to see DJs in an aircraft hanger or a field; DJs who play other people’s records and get paid about fifty grand a night for it. On their first night out, Heatwave Disco was paid thirty pounds, which, due to a variety of unforeseen circumstances, turned into a loss of about a hundred pounds.

  ‘Mind your head, sir.’ Joseph can’t help but feel the irony that these thoughts invade as he is being arrested for alleged fraud and bribery. It is only a cry from behind the car which snaps him out of it.

  ‘Dad!’

  He turns sharply.

  A young, blonde girl is trying to push her way through the throng. She waves. He shouts her name from inside the car as it edges away.

  ‘They should fuckin’ be here by now!’ says Hammy to Hairy Doug.

  The weather has shifted ominously from bright sunshine to threateningly overcast. Behind his helmet, Eddie Sylvester is grinning. Hammy is watching anxiously from the stage deck where he has been deposited earlier. The beach is no place for a wheelchair, and Hairy Doug has suggested he’s better out on the floating stage.

  All three bands are now backstage in the tiny, makeshift compartment that is doubling as a green room. Beer is being consumed, and perhaps because no one has a viable phone signal, they all seem to be getting along famously. Grant Delgado has relaxed as Raymond McGinley declares his love not only for The Miraculous Vespas LP and its influence on the Fanclub Grand Prix album, but for Grant’s novel, too. Joe McAlinden is deep in conversation with Eddie Sylvester, who has lifted the visor and is trying to convert him. Maggie is showing Norman Blake a camera that she has brought along with her. She has secured her own personal assignment with Rolling Stone magazine to record the event from her perspective.

  Hammy watches the boats hustle and harry around the buoys at the end of the tiny jetty like they are frantic America’s Cup competitors elbowing for room. He finds it absolutely astonishing that there have been no collisions so far. The helicopters continue to circle the island and, although it’s still early evening, arc lights are now detectable.

  ‘Maybe you should start the DJ-ing?’ says Hairy Doug. It’s only an hour until Joe McAlinden’s band is due to open the show. Hammy can’t believe that Bobby and Joey – and also Max fucking Mojo – aren’t here. But the majority of those who have secured golden tickets are. They have pitched tents to the rear of the beach. No one is entirely sure about the tidelines, so the stewards hired by Max have been urging caution. The catering stalls are no more than covered, branded trellises, but their sponsors’ logos are illuminating the shaded beach with their vibrant dayglo livery. It isn’t as Hammy pictured it: it’s way better and much more impressive, in his opinion. Max might be a mental cunt – and an AWOL one at that – but he has put on a show that few in the inner circle thought possible. He seems to have considered everything, from the food to the transportation to the acquisition of the necessary permits.

  ‘Do you know a man called Cramond Crockett?’

  ‘No, I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?’ asks Joseph naively. The left side of his neck is throbbing. He feels the tension rising. He has been on double-doses these last few weeks. His answers are being recorded.

&
nbsp; In an adjacent, windowless room, a question in a similar vein is asked: ‘Did Councillor Cramond Crockett solicit payments from your company in return for licences being granted?’

  ‘Eh?’ says Bobby ‘Ah really don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mate.’

  The questioning of the two men continues in a small police station in Ayr while reporters and televison cameramen amass in the car park outside. None of the waiting hacks are quite sure why they are there, but something unusual seems to be occurring.

  Joseph assumes last night’s air-rifle incident is somehow connected, but that hasn’t been raised and he isn’t intending to assist. Bobby’s mind flashes back to Max’s phone and the ignored calls from a ‘CC’. Likewise, he keeps that concealed until clarity on the wider issue dawns. Following another series of questions about the mysterious Councillor, Bobby stares up at what he assumes is a CCTV camera.

  ‘Ah’d like tae speak tae a lawyer please.’

  The detective laughs at this.

  ‘Appealing to a smoke detector won’t do ye much good, pal.’

  Bobby feels foolish.

  ‘Look, yer under caution but this isn’t CSI Ayrshire! Just help us with the enquiries and then ye can be on yer way.’

  ‘Ah don’t know whit we’re supposed tae have done, so how the fuck can ah help ye?’ Bobby tries not to sound aggressive but he is rattled. God knows how the gig is going, if it hasn’t actually been abandoned already amid the chaos of its organisers detainment.

  The detective sighs. ‘Okay,’ he says. He sits down, legs over the chair and leaning on the front as if auditioning for the CIA. ‘Councillor Cramond Crockett has been arrested. He is accused of accepting bribes to facilitate clean licences for pubs, nightclubs and numerous events over the course of five years. In tandem with others on the Licensing Board, they have accepted in excess of two hundred thousand pounds in illegal payments.’ The detective pauses. He scans Bobby’s face for cognitive signs but all he sees is the confused face of a toddler trying to work out how to solve a Rubik’s Cube by eating it. ‘Heatwave Promotions Ltd – the company that you are a director of – paid Cramond Crockett fifteen grand to secure a licence for this occurence on the Ailsa Craig.’