‘Did we fuck!’ says a genuinely startled Bobby Cassidy.
‘Yes, ye did. The Councillor has admitted it. Too late to prevent the licence getting withdrawn, mind you,’ says the detective. ‘Are you still pleading innocence?’
‘Too fuckin’ right,’ says Bobby. ‘Where’s the evidence beyond some dodgy official sayin’ it happened?’
‘Well…’ The detective smiles and look at his colleague, who also smiles knowingly. ‘Ye wrote him a cheque!’
‘Whit? Don’t talk pish. We don’t even have a chequeboo– … Haud on, whose name’s on the cheque?’ Bobby asks, a realisation of sorts beginning to dawn.
‘The cheque was signed by a Hamish May, one of the three designated directors of your company.’
‘Holy fuck!’ says Bobby. ‘That fuckin’ devious, connivin’ cunt!’
Hamish May is behind the Heatwave Disco decks. He will not be touching any microphones. Painful memories are the ones that take longest to fade. But, despite the unforeseen circumstances, he seems relaxed playing the records. He has watched Bobby Cassidy doing it enough times to appreciate the relative simplicity of it all. It’s all about knowing your audience. He starts with a Clash song, which brings cheers from the beach. He follows it with well-known songs by The Happy Mondays, The Charlatans and Oasis: safe choices for a nostalgic demographic. The sound quality is fantastic. He might be a rustic old fucker, thinks Hammy, but fair play to Hairy Doug … the crusty old bastard knows his stuff. Hammy experiments. He takes a calculated risk. He picks out a record solely on the basis of its title: ‘North American Scum’ by a band called LCD Soundsystem. The crowd on the shingle goes collectively mad. People are dancing. It has started to rain lightly but no one seems to be caring. A string of well-received records is played before the allocated stage time for Linden. Their guitars have been checked one last time, the lights are illuminating the stage. The film crew from Canal+ have given their own thumbs-up … and Joe McAlinden follows his young band onto the stage. Joe is dressed in a heavy green parka with a furry hood. He lives up the coast in Argyll and knows how quickly the weather on this exposed coastline can change.
‘Hi, we’re Linden,’ says Joe to hooting and hollering from the five hundred. ‘This is a bit mental, eh?’ he admits. ‘We’re gonna do a few songs for ye, but first, can ah point out the fire exits? One to the left of the beach – into the sea – and the other, up there tae the right an’ into the scary woods.’ Joe strums. ‘This is a new song, called “Rest and Be Thankful”.’
Linden’s set is polished and well received. The blond-haired frontman looks genuinely pleased to be on this unusual floating stage, although by the time he leaves the front of it, the waves around it are swelling. Hammy wonders how much attention Joey paid to the rising tide, never mind the impact of any developing waves. He looks across at the Teenage Fanclub consortium and imagines that few of them will have Patrick Swayze or Keanu Reeves-level surfing skills. They are wearing rollneck sweaters, for fuck’s sake; they just don’t look the type.
It’s 9 pm, on the mainland and on the island. Despite an outrageous claim in Max Mojo’s impromptu independence manifesto, Ailsa Craig hasn’t reverted to the non-GMT time zone that Max had suggested it once occupied; not yet anyway. Bobby Cassidy and Joseph Miller are being released from Ayr Police Station. A car has been called for them but they aren’t entirely sure where it should take them. They can’t get to the gig now. Even if they find a boat owner willing to take them in the darkness, the weather is worsening, and the gig will be over before they get there. After some anticipated paparazzi pursuits, with flashbulbs blinding the occupants, Bobby explains the complex position to his close friend and business colleague, Joseph Miller.
‘Max has fuckin’ fucked us, the fuckin’ cunt! He’s always been a shifty bastard. He probably sneaked out the womb usin’ the umbilical cord as a rope tae climb down.’ He spits the words like a venomous cobra.
‘Eh? How?’ It’s clear that Joseph’s interview has been far less illuminating than Bobby’s.
‘He set up the promotions business wi’ his accountant, an’ we sat back an’ let the cunt get on wi’ it. There wis three designated directors…’
‘Aye, ah know aw that…’
‘…but he wisnae one ae them!’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s you, me and Hammy. Max wis designated as non-exec director but wi’ powers over the expenditure.’
‘How the fuck did he get away wi’ that?’
‘Remember that night where he brought out aw they papers for us aw tae sign?’
‘No’ really,’ says Joseph.
‘It wis a night we were aw pished. We signed the documents agreein’ the shareholders’ terms. The cunt even got Hammy tae sign as a fuckin’ witness. Turns out that wis his shareholding agreement he wis signin’. Hammy’s a fuckin’ director an’ he disnae even fuckin’ know it!’
‘Jesus Christ … whit a bastard!’
‘Aye. He’s fuckin’ landed us right in it, mate.’ Bobby draws in sharp, deep breaths sharply through gritted teeth. ‘But the worst bit is … he’s pushed aw the sponsorship payments for the gig intae a separate company.’
‘Fuck sake,’ says Joseph. ‘How we gonnae settle aw these fuckin’ bills?’
‘Well, he better have an answer for that yin! We’re gonnae have enough tae deal wi’ with this fuckin’ Councillor shite!’
‘What’ll we dae if he’s buggered off?’
The rain is falling steadily and the wind has risen. Small waves are splashing up against the edge of the stage. Teenage Fanclub have been immense, finishing an incredible set of cast-iron guitar classics with Grant’s favourite song of theirs, ‘Star Sign’.
Hammy is back behind the decks, although he nervously notes that he has to apply the wheelchair’s brakes as the structure gently sways in the emerging swell.
He has half an hour to fill before the headliners come on. Grant Delgado is drunk, but to be fair to him, he has told everyone in advance that he would need to be. Eddie Sylvester has been praying backstage. Maggie is in one of the two portaloos. Simon seems the calmest of all. ‘An hour an’ it’ll be aw by,’ he keeps reminding everyone.
The two support bands are waiting by the side of the stage. They have no real option, given the stage’s waterborne location, but they are happy, too, as Grant Delgado has suggested an encore of ‘Maggie May’ featuring all of them. Hammy plays ‘She Cracked’ by Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers, ‘No Fun’ by The Stooges and Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, all at eardrum-bursting volume. The beach bums are in raptures. The lightshow is having a real effect now, strobes rippling and dancing on the water’s crests and troughs. It is supplemented by the helicopters’ searchlights. They have been a constant throughout this weird day. Media ’copters, police surveillance ones and chartered observers, all coming and going, swarming over and around the activities below like insistent massive midgies.
As Grant Delgado ambles onto an increasingly unstable stage, Bobby Cassidy and Joseph Miller are standing on wet, slippy rocks at Troon Beach. They are truly scunnered. The lights at the base of Ailsa Craig are visible and it still seems like a few swift strokes from Michael Phelphs would be all it would take to reach them. So tantalisingly close, but yet still so physically far. They say nothing to each other, both speechless at the turn of events. Joseph imagines Max, over on the island, holding court, and forms the angry words that he’ll say to him. Bobby also imagines Max on an island, but not the one they are looking at. Bobby thinks of Gary, the whole point of this ridiculous idea. He envisages Gary laughing at this monumental fuck-up. It momentarily makes him feel a bit better. A few pieces of bright-yellow paper are washing up on the rocks not far from where they are standing. They are posters designed by Hettie Cassidy, advertising The Big Bang event and containing some words from Gary Cassidy, the man who loved islands.
‘Hi … ah’m Grant. This song’s called ‘The Wind.’ Grant Delgado stands on s
tage on his own. He opens the headline set with a fragile, beautiful solo version of the Cat Stevens song, his mellifluous voice immediately captivating the beach-bound. Hammy is unsure whether this is totally spontaneous given the worsening weather or a planned part of the set that the band haven’t had the chance to rehearse. He certainly hasn’t heard them play it, but Grant’s version is incredible. The rest of the band wander on stage while the five hundred cheer wildly and loudly from the windy, wet beach. The Reverend Doctor Edward Sylvester has agreed to wear the full face helmet, provided it is painted emerald green. He immediately drops to his knees in prayer. The rest of the band wait for him and then tear into ‘It’s a Miracle’. The crowd goes bananas. It’s like they’ve never been away. Very few people have witnessed a live gig by this band, yet their debut LP was rated the eighty-seventh best in history by the same magazine Maggie is photographing the whole happening for. Flashbulbs and flashlights are everywhere; on the beach, in the air and even backstage, as everyone seeks to capture an experience that logic suggests will never ever happen again.
Bobby takes Joseph’s arm and drags him off in the direction of Lizzie King’s flat. He has texted her and asked if they can come round. It is now raining heavily and at least the island can be seen from her window. There is some form of visual connection in that, although for both of them, the spirit of the moment has gone.
The Miraculous Vespas have played their entire LP to a rapturous ovation. Only Hammy seems concerned about the emerging gale that has developed to such an extent that the lighting rig above Grant’s head is now visibly swinging backwards and forwards. Grant decides that going off backstage to prompt the crowd to call for an encore in this context is pointless and he summons the other musicians on. Grant dedicates ‘Maggie May’ to the girl who loved him, and the woman who saved his life. Hammy pictures Bert Bole’s bony blue-cheese-veined arse going slowly up and down as the opening chords come through the amps. He can’t shake the image.
Halfway through their collective cover of the popular Rod Stewart classic, a sudden unexpected gust hits the stage structure. There is an audible roar from the beach as the lights go out. Although nowhere close to the apocalyptic tsunami Eddie Sylvester has been predicting for the last month, larger waves are now hitting the curved shell and the floating structure is straining against its tethers. Unlike the one on the Titanic, this particular band don’t play on. Hairy Doug is already in the water. He has his emergency life jacket on, though. Eddie Sylvester yells, ‘It’s time … Hallelujah Lord!’ Grant grabs Maggie and the life jackets and they inflate. Simon Sylvester follows, attempting but failing to drag his rampant, ecstatic brother behind him. Teenage Fanclub dive impressively into the water headfirst, like a synchronised five-man Olympic swimming team. Joe McAlinden dithers, but his delay is purely about saving his fur-lined parka. Eventually he rips it off and leaves it on the sodden stage, bombing into the cold, dark sea just after his band. Hammy realises that he is alone, behind the decks, and out of the sight of the others, who have forgotten him. He hears loudspeakers informing the crowd to stay on the beach but some have heroically headed in to assist the flailing performers. Canal+ are filming it all as live action.
‘Fuck sake,’ cries Joseph Miller. ‘C’mere an’ see this!’ Bobby and Lizzie run through to the front room. The Big Bang is being shown live on the evening televison news as a current breaking story. The three watch open-mouthed as the stage Joseph designed breaks free of its mooring and begins lolloping out to sea. A spotlight scans the stage. Thankfully, it appears to be empty.
‘Aw fuck … naw!’ shouts Bobby. ‘That’s Hammy. He’s still on the bloody thing!’ The spotlight has caught a panicking Hamish May. He has wheeled his chair to the edge of the stage and is waving furiously. A camera closes in. Hammy looks petrified. Bobby has his hands over his mouth as if knowing exactly what is coming next.
‘Naw, Hammy don’t dae it. Jesus, stay there … YA DAFT BASTARD!’
But it’s too late. Hammy obviously can’t hear him, nor anyone else in much closer vicinity, yelling similar instructions through loudspeakers. Despite the level of the rescue helicopter that has been circling intermittingtly during the course of the day being almost close enough for the man on the end of the winch cable to reach the stage, Hammy rolls his wheels off the edge. He flops out of the chair with arms forward, like he is stage-diving at the Barrowland Ballroom. He disappears.
‘Fuck me, he’s just committed fuckin’ suicide live on telly!’
‘He’ll be aw’right, Bobby,’ says Lizzie, trying to calm her former boyfriend. ‘Look at aw the folk there!’
But the rescue copter has to pull up suddenly. The stage has reared up and its edge catches the suspended rescue man. It’s not clear if it has knocked him out, but he isn’t moving. He is dangling lifelessly.
‘We’re staying with these dramatic breaking pictures from Scotland,’ says ITN’s Tom Bradby, with a little too much glee for Joseph’s liking. It looks like Hammy is doomed. He was once hospitalised with hypothermia after being bundled into a rowing boat and cast into these very same waters. He has regularly told of how he had actually briefly died that night in 1982. Now it seems that the Irish Sea is back for him. It hasn’t forgotten or forgiven his escaping its depths all those years ago. Bobby Cassidy is heartbroken, and in that moment, Joseph Miller fully understands that the bond between him and Hammy is even stronger than theirs once was.
The flashlight catches something in the dark, murky water. It is shiny and colourful. It looks like an emerald-green mermaid. Joseph thinks he is seeing things: the legend of the Ailsa Craig selkie perhaps … Daryll Hannah in Splash, all flowing hair and bare flesh. Bobby shakes him from the dwam.
‘Look … it’s Eddie! That daft, dopey cunt Eddie Sylvester is savin’ him.’
The Revered Doctor Edward Sylvester has Hammy and is pulling him slowly backwards towards the shore, swimming strongly, one-armed like Hasselhof on Baywatch through the rough waves as the eyelid stage drifts out and into the distance. The winchman is over them; he has recovered his bearings. He manages to hook the rope around Hammy’s torso and up they go, his spindly legs rotating uselessly, like a damp puppet on a single string. Eddie Sylvester is still in the water, fifty yards from shore. Two flashlights follow the ascending winch, before one dips back down to hold vision on Eddie. But he has gone. He is nowhere to be seen. The acquatic brilliance of his colourful shell-suit has vanished under the waves.
Chapter Thirty-Six
September 2015
‘Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.’
(Mark Twain)
It has been a beautiful service, all present are agreed. They have learned funny and unusual things about his life, his background and the closeness of his relationship with his family, especially his mother. As a celebration of a life lived fulsomely if unconventionally, it is warm and comforting. Following an extended period of early autumn rainfall – virtually every day, in fact, since the calamitous night of the Big Bang – the sun has shone and it somehow eases the pain of the funeral for everyone. The words of Mark Twain on the order of service resonate with everyone. They are appropriate for the life being celebrated, but they ring true for many others in the congregation, too. The chapel doors open and the melancholic words of his favourite song ring out:
‘Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving,
Ah, but then you know it’s time for them to go.’
Two remarkable arcs of rainbow colours signal the way for the slow procession, away and up the steep hill and into their centres of gravity, led by a formal black vanguard. The rolling hills of the picturesque little cemetery are within walking distance, but Bobby and Joseph take the car for Hammy’s benefit. They park and get out slowly, soberly; Bobby helps Hammy into his chair. The chair is awkward, its newness and stiffness of operation not quite having been bedded in yet. The
awkward topography requires Bobby to push Hammy. Hammy, for once, is happy to be dependant.
‘Aye, who knows where the time goes, right enough, eh?’ says Joseph softly.
‘Hmm.’ The burial plot is at the crest of the hill.
‘A fine spot,’ Hammy suggests, although he doesn’t elaborate and clarify for whom the spot is ‘fine’.
They all secretly acknowledge that respectful formality and soft cliché are the order of the day for funerals. They are amongst the first to arrive, but they hold back. Bobby doesn’t want to be at the front, near the grave. It is nothing to do with the shameful memories of the last time he was in such a position, and more with avoiding any additional stress that his prominence might put Hettie under.
Pete died the night after Hettie’s showcase gallery exhibition of their work was finished. It was like he sensed his extended time was finally up; like the work and the emotional support Hettie needed was the only thing sustaining him. His condition had actually seemed to improve slightly near the end, but they both knew he had already survived much longer than all available medical expertise had predicted. His borrowed time was deep into extra time and everyone on the sidelines was checking their watches in disbelief. It was perhaps a relief, perhaps even to Pete himself, Hettie was being assured, when the final whistle was finally blown.
The Man Who Loved Islands Page 29