Another simple mind seemingly being controlled was that of guitarist Eddie Sylvester. He was now being bundled by the rest of The Miraculous Vespas back into the same cleaner’s cupboard that had earlier doubled as The Heid’s un-dressing room.
‘Whit the fuck’s up wi’ him?’ shouted Max Mojo.
‘He wants tae be oot oan the dancefloor,’ said Grant. ‘That auld prick’s hypnotised him.’
‘Has he fuck! That’s aw a load ae shite, man,’ said Max.
‘His eyes are spinnin’ like a bloody kaleidoscope,’ said Maggie.
‘Has he been oan the mushrooms?’ Max demanded.
‘How should ah know?’ said Simon, before theatrically adding, arms outstretched, ‘I am not my brother’s fucking keeper.’
Grant and Maggie both laughed.
‘Gie it up, you’se two … an’ get him fuckin’ sorted oot, eh?’ said Max. ‘Ye’se are back oan in twenty minutes!’
The Heid’s act was indeed predictable. After warming up the crowd by having the four believe they were the new ABBA, with unsurprisingly awful voices, it progressed to the four ‘volunteers’ acting out a scene in a hotel restaurant. Each man was dining with the other’s wife. At the click of The Heid’s nicotine-stained fingers, that became suddenly apparent to all four. Hilarity was supposed to ensue. This running theme of swapped partners led to the subsequent ‘adjoining bedrooms’ scene, in which each ‘couple’ was challenged by The Heid to out-vocalise the other during role-playing sex. In one corner of the dancefloor an older woman was yodelling like Johnny Weissmuller while her much younger ‘partner’ barked during an energetically simulated doggy-style. In the other corner, the blonde Max thought he’d seen earlier shouted ‘Yee-Haw’ as she sat astride a bearded, dark-skinned boy, riding him to what seemed to her to be Grand National triumph. Only when the women were down to their underwear did The Heid step in and touch their heads, saying ‘Sleeeeep’ as he did so. All four instantaneously capitulated to The Heid’s will.
As a reward for their efforts the two males were given juicy ‘apples’, and the smell of raw onion filled the Metropolis. For his finale, the two women were running free, through the flower-filled meadows of Austria, singing ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’ at the tops of their voices. Until The Heid suddenly intervened and reminded them that they had a profound fear of open spaces.
Both women shuddered and dived into the corners and crevices of the dancefloor. Max saw them both look genuinely fearful. He thought about this gig, and now reckoned on why Bobby Cassidy was so keen to get out of it. Fuckin’ walloper, he thought as he imagined Bobby’s smiling face. He went back behind the bar to gee up the band for their final four numbers. The Heid had just brought the two women back into the room, so to speak, and was bringing the ‘performance’ to a close. Max annoyingly heard more applause proffered for The Heid’s clapped-out, tired act than for the band. Still, it was a start. He’d get to work on the local pubs in the morning and get a proper, wee Ayrshire tour of their own going. He might try and approach Billy Sloan from the radio to come down in the hope of a bit of coverage. He even considered banging on Simple Minds’ manager, Bruce Findlay’s door. A future support slot with them would be fantastic, once the singer had written a few more original songs. Into the bargain, Findlay owned a few independent record stores around Scotland.
‘We’ll need tae just dae a few acoustic versions, Max.’
All four of them stared at Eddie Sylvester. He had wedged himself under the Belfast sink. He was shaking and sweating profusely.
‘Whit?’ said Max.
‘He thinks he’s … aggra-phobic,’ said Simon.
‘Fuck does that even mean? Is he jist angry?’ shouted Max.
‘Naw. Cannae go ootside intae open spaces,’ said Grant.
‘So how did he fuckin’ get here th’night then? Beamed straight doon fae the bastart Enterprise?’
‘Look, leave him in there. Let’s go, eh?’ said Maggie impatiently.
‘Get up ya stupid cunt!’ shouted Max, aiming a kick at Eddie’s coiled body.
‘Hey, fuckin’ leave him alone!’ Simon jumped in to defend his brother, qualifying the action with, ‘he might be an arsehole, but he’s ma arsehole tae batter, no’ yours.’
‘Fuck off. Get him oot oan that stage noo or yer both history,’ screamed Max Mojo. Grant and Maggie had already headed down the narrow corridor.
‘That auld wanker’s fuckin’ done the voodoo shite oan him. That’s your fault, Mojo! He’s never gonnae get ootae this cupboard.’
‘Don’t talk shite!’ Max could hear Grant and Maggie tuning up. ‘Ah’ll be back,’ said Max. As he turned away, Simon gave him the fingers.
Out in the club, Grant was introducing Maggie as the best drummer in Scotland. Some people had drifted away, but around thirty remained. It was now one am on a Wednesday morning. That in itself was worthy of celebration. Tuesday night was the worst for any type of event. It was just beyond consideration as part of a previous extended weekend hangover, and too early to be regarded as part of the run-up to the next one. The most miserable of all days, Tuesdays.
‘We’re gonna soothe you into Wednesday with a few wee classics,’ whispered Grant Delgado. Shorn of the uncontrolled amplification, Grant’s voice, light guitar strumming and Maggie’s brushed strokes made ‘Here Comes the Sun’ sound fantastic to Max Mojo. It was the best they had ever performed it, in his opinion. They followed that with a glistening ‘Life’s a Gas’, and then a slowed down ‘Touch Me’, with Grant channelling Bolan and Morrison in a way that gave Max Mojo his second hard-on of the evening. The duo’s newly adopted theme song, ‘Thirteen’ rounded off the covers.
‘We’d like to leave you wi’ this. It might end up being our first single. It’s somethin’ called “The First Picture”.’
Max Mojo was astonished. He didn’t even know such a song existed, far less that they would be revealing it tonight. It was a fragile, delicate number full of soaring melodies and unexpected chord changes. Max could hear it in his head, with the full band in flow, and with some decent production. For Max, it stood comparison with the four stonewallers that had preceded it. It was an instant classic. Grant Delgado was a fucking superstar in waiting. Max’s cock was now bulging out of his tight, pin-striped jeans. As soon as the song finished – and the best cheers of the night were its reward – Max Mojo dived into the gents and relieved the pressure.
19
17th February 1983
2.18 am
When Max Mojo came out of the toilet, Grant and Simon were carrying the stricken guitarist out to Jimmy Stevenson’s parked vehicle.
‘Whit happened tae him?’
‘Ah thought aboot whit ye said, Max,’ replied Simon, ‘…an’ ah want tae be in the band, ken? So ah jist leathered the cunt a dull yin. Knocked him oot, like.’
Max looked down at the unconscious Eddie.
‘It wis’ either that or break the big sink aff the wa’!’ said Simon, logically.
‘Aye … ah suppose.’ Max scratched his head and went to look for The Heid, and payment. He was to be disappointed on the second count. There had been a bit of a scuffle earlier in the cupboard between The Heid and Simon Sylvester, and now The Heid entourage was already outside in the small service yard at the rear of the Metropolis.
‘Whit d’ye fuckin’ mean “No payin”?’
‘Ah’m no’ payin’ ye,’ said the angry Heid. ‘Ye’se fucked up ma intro, an’ then didnae turn up for the ending.’
‘Aye we did. That wis the best bit, ya dick!’ argued Max. ‘Plus, ye fuckin’ hypnotised ma guitarist. Daft cunt’s feart fae his ain shadow noo. We want compensation for that!’ Max pushed the old man backwards against his small van. Immediately, two men got out the back of it.
‘Everythin’ aw’right Da?’ said one … the same one who had earlier slithered his way to Red Rum-like victory across the Metropolis dancefloor.
Max moved slowly to one side and peaked in t
he back of the van. The other two ‘suggestible’ audience members were in the back of The Heid’s small van. It was a travelling show in every sense. The Heid’s look and shoulder-shrug to Max said it all. The older woman stuck her head out.
‘Hey, Long John Silver, beat it … or ye’ll end up like a fish supper fae Ferri’s … battered an’ boggin’.’ Max took a step backwards.
‘So, as ah think we can aw agree … ah didnae hypnotise yer man, did ah?’ said The Heid, a look of aged resignation on his face. ‘A wee bit ae advice, pal. In future, get the dosh up front. It’s much harder for folk tae get it aff ye efter a bad gig, then for them tae gie ye it efter wan, ken? Jist sayin’, like.’
The Family Heid got in the van and it spluttered off, leaving Max to ponder who the blow-job artist was. The older woman might have been Mrs Heid. The boys were probably both sons. Which left a ‘daughter-in-law’… or maybe even a daughter!
‘Dirty aul’ bastart!’ Max Mojo shuddered. It had been that kind of night.
‘Look everybody, it’s bad fuckin’ biscuits. That auld cunt fucked off without payin’ us,’ said Max. ‘Jimmy, ah’ll need tae owe ye, man.’
‘For Christ’s sake, son. Ah don’t dae ’tic. Ah trusted ye earlier.’ Jimmy’s van screeched to a halt, throwing the band in the back forward and into the partition dividing the driver’s cabin and the rear of the van.
‘Did ah hear that right?’ shouted Grant through the small open window. ‘Nae money? For fuck sake, Max. That wis your one job, man!’
‘Aye, aye … ah fuckin’ ken. Gie it a rest, eh? Ah feel as bad as everybody else … well, apart fae him obviously.’ Max pointed through the window at Eddie Sylvester, who was out cold and draped bizarrely over the components of the drum kit on the back shelf. ‘Has anybody got any cash tae sort oot Jimmy?’ There was no response. ‘Ah’ll square ye’se up the morra.’ Simon Sylvester shuffled in his seat. He brought out a thick black wallet.
‘Jesus,’ said Maggie.
‘Ye fuckin’ kept that quiet when ah wis’ at the bar, ya cunt!’ said Max.
‘How much?’ said Simon.
‘Fifty,’ said Jimmy, sticking a sweaty mitt through the hole. Simon opened up the wallet and pulled out a few twenties. Max spotted The Heid’s tiny picture inside the wallet’s inner sleeve.
‘Ya fuckin’ dancer,’ said an excited Max Mojo. ‘How the fuck did ye get that? An’ more tae the point, when were ye gonnae let on?’
Simon tapped his nose. He gave Jimmy Stevenson sixty pounds and told him to keep the change. Simon handed Max Mojo another hundred, telling him to ‘divvy up’. The remainder of the stolen wallet’s contents remained with its new owner.
The van headed off under the railway arches and back up to Onthank to drop Grant and Maggie off.
Max Mojo was experiencing a mix of emotions. Exaltation at realising Grant Delgado’s potential, disappointment at his own inexperience in failing to secure payment, and uncertainty over the various pros and cons of having an untrustworthy kleptomaniac as part of the band. But at least it was a band. The road to Max’s destiny had been charted. The rise of The Miraculous Vespas had surely begun.
03: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, LET ME GET WHAT I WANT…
That shoulda been it … right there. A bit ae fuckin’ shared commitment, ken? Fuckin’ determination? But naw. Every cunt jist sloped back intae being a lazy bastart. None ae them had the fuckin’ imagination, back then … apart fae mibbe Delgado. An’ even then, jist mibbe.
BB fuckin’ disappeared in that daft van ae hers. By the way, we called her Butter Biscuit by then. It drove her fuckin’ mental … which wis an added bonus in ma opinion, ken? The dopey cunt Eddie came up wi’ it. ‘Cos Grant had Delgado as his ither name, heid-the-ba reckons wi’ aw needed tae change. Ah says ‘Ah’m no’ changin’ ma name fae Max Mojo.’ That prick Simon told him tae away an’ fuck himself up an entry. The lassie’s second name wis Abernethy, so wi’ the stupid cunt’s obsession wi’ biscuits, and him thinkin’ her first name wis short for Margarine … Butter Biscuit. Ah telt ye he wis a fuckin’ moron, didn’t ah? Ah wanted tae rename it Chocolate Biscuit, but that wisnae oan the cards, like.
Anyway, where wis’ ah? Oh aye … she shot the craw ‘cos some cunt tried tae set fire tae the van wi’ her in it. Bound tae be they pikey wankers fae Galston, ah tells her.
An’ then she’s aff … as if they daft cunts wi’ the pillows oan their heids were chasin’ her … only, in a smokin’ van, like.
The fuckin’ bass player gets lifted for shopliftin’ jackets ootae DM Hoey’s … an’ his fuckin’ marshmallow ae a brother cannae leave the hoose ‘cos that Heid cunt had mangled whit little brain he had left.
Plus, ah had a wee bit ae trouble maself, truth be telt. Came aff the Lithium. Cauld Christmas Turkey, ah wis’. A week later, ah’m runnin’ doon Dundonald Road, fuckin’ starkers wi’ three wee dugs ah’d nicked affa two pensioners, an’ a gnome ah stole oot the Provost’s garden, aw in a FineFare shopping trolley. Ah’m shoutin’ ‘They’ll be bigger than the bastart Beatles!’ Ah pushes the fuckin’ thing through the Co-op’s windae. So they telt me, anyway. Don’t fuckin’ remember a thing aboot it.
Net result: confined tae fuckin’ barracks, Norma. Aw leave cancelled … an’ back oan an even stronger set ae Jack an’ Jills. Whit a cunt, eh?
20
1st March 1983
3.06 pm
‘Long time, Senga.’
‘Aye, Des. Bob wis still livin’ last time, eh?’ It was a bitter comment, aimed to hurt her brother, who hadn’t even spoken to her on the day of her husband’s – and his colleague’s – funeral.
‘Look, Senga, ah’m no’ efter a fight, right. Too much water under the bridge for aw that noo.’
‘So whit ye here for then? Jist helpin’ me oot tae the motor wi’ ma messages? Got a new job as a supermarket trolley attendant, is it? Lean fuckin’ times wi’ the Fatman?’
‘Gie it up, eh, Senga? Ah’m concerned aboot Grant,’ said Des.
‘Grant?’ said Senga. ‘Grant’s doin’ jist fine away fae aw the pish that happens aroond here.’
‘Fat Franny kens ye took his money aw they months ago,’ said Des.
‘Eh?’ Senga was suddenly flustered. She tried but couldn’t hide it. ‘Dinnae ken whit yer talkin’ aboot, sunshine.’
‘Ye cannae kid a kidder, Seng,’ said Des. ‘If he disnae ken for certain yet, he’s got real suspicions it wis you.’ Senga pulled her shoulders back. She now knew her brother knew.
‘How?’ she said.
‘Yer wee trip tae Venice wi’ the boy … for Hogmanay, an’ that. That didnae go unnoticed.’
‘How did ye ken aboot that? An’ it wis Vienna, no’ Venice, by the way.’
‘Same fuckin’ difference. Point is, it wisnae Ayr Butlins, wis it?’
‘Big bloody deal, Des. Ah could’ve been savin’ up for that for years. Bob coulda been insured for thousands!’
‘Aye,’ said Des. ‘But ye wurnae … an’ he wisnae. An’ Grant’s oan the Broo for Christ’s sake, but he’s buyin’ guitars like they’re goin’ ootae fashion … an’ a fuckin’ Campervan!’
‘Hey, it belongs tae his girlfriend. That’s no’ his. Jesus Christ, Des, ye widnae be much cop as a bloody detective.’ Senga was fuming but trying hard to hide it. They had reached her car. She struggled to unlock it with all the bags she was holding. She dropped her purse. It opened as it fell. Des could see the thickness of notes in there and that there weren’t many green ones. Their eyes locked together but he said nothing.
‘How’s the weans? An’ Effie?’ she asked him, breaking the silence.
‘The weans are fine, but no’ weans anymore,’ he replied curtly. ‘Senga, ah’m no’ here for the small talk. It’s way too late for that noo. But ah don’t want Grant gettin’ drawn intae aw the bullshit. He made the right decision last summer … in ma opinion, any road. But things are goin’ south wi’ Franny. He’s suspicious ae everybody, an’ noo he’s realisin’ j
ist how much Bob protected him. His maw’s oan her last legs but he cannae accept it. He says that money wis hers. An’ he cannae let that go. He’s weaker withoot Bob, but still dangerous.’ Des sighed. ‘Look, tell Grant tae watch hisself. And you tae.’
‘So, why are you still wi’ him, then? Why dae ye no’ jist bugger off an’ dae somethin’ else … somethin’ straight?’ she asked him.
‘Disnae matter. Ah jist don’t want…’ He tailed off. ‘…the blood’s thicker than the water when it aw comes doon tae it, right?’
Senga looked straight at her younger brother. He was trembling. He seemed to be holding something back and, as a consequence, he looked vulnerable. She suddenly felt sorry for him, although she didn’t really know why.
‘Effie’s got cancer,’ he finally said. ‘They’ve gie’d her six months … a year tops.’
‘Aw Des, ah’m sorry.’ She felt she should hug him, but it had been too long. It would have felt like false emotion, and neither of them needed that.
‘Ah’m havin’ to draw back oan the work, dae less, ken. But Franny’s looked efter us. He’s no’ as bad as folk think. Honestly, we’d be fucked withoot him.’
‘Aye. Well, Des … ah better get goin’. Grant’ll be hame for his tea soon.’ Senga touched her brother’s forearm. ‘Tell Effie ah’m thinkin’ aboot her, eh?’
‘Ah will, an’ mind Senga … get Grant tae knock the daft spendin’ oan the heid okay? Keep under the radar for a while. Folk might think he’s an arsehole maist ae the time, but there’s nae benefit in rubbin’ Fat Franny’s nose in it.’ Des turned to walk away.
‘Des.’ He turned round. ‘Who telt ye aboot us bein’ away for the New Year?’ Senga asked.
‘Disnae matter,’ he said.
‘It does tae me.’
Des sighed deeply. Having given her the warning, he felt she deserved to know why. ‘One ae they Quinn boys fae Galston telt the Painter. He telt me,’ said Des. He had hoped to leave it at that, but dots still needed to be joined. ‘Grant’s lassie … the half-caste yin … she went oot wi’ Rocco Quinn. Bad break-up last year, an’ aw kind ae shite went oan. Apparently she wis braggin’ aboot the money Grant had.’
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 11