Max and Grant walked along the elevated pedestrian walkway that connected the Albany Hotel with the building that housed the Radio Clyde studios. It was mid-afternoon. Billy Sloan wouldn’t be there, but they were now convinced that he’d listen to the record and, if impressed by it, he’d play it for Boy George to comment on. They entered the small reception. A black pinboard sign near the front door had small, white cut letters plugged into it, spelling out the words:
RADIO CLYDE WELCOMES: CULTURE CLUB AND HAYSI FANTAYZEE.
‘Jeezo, the whole band’s gonnae be oan it!’ said an animated Max.
‘Aye, but along wi’ they “Big Leggy” bampots, anaw though,’ said a less enthusiastic Grant.
‘Big deal, the more the merrier, eh?’ said Max, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Didnae, mean that … ah meant that we coulda been oan the show alang wi’ Boy George. That John Wayne song wis fuckin’ pish!’
Max laughed until he realised Grant was being serious.
‘You need tae start workin’ harder tae get us intae gigs like this, Max.’
‘Hey, fuckin’ haud oan a minute, pal. Ah’m constantly oan the bastart phone these days. Who dae ye think’s gettin’ ye’se aw the gigs? Who’s payin’ the wages noo, man? Whit the fuck’s the matter wi’ ye?’
‘Nothin’,’ said Grant sullenly. ‘Let’s jist drap these off an’ get back doon the road.’
‘Yer a miserable cunt, these days, so ye are,’ said Max.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Naw, you fuck off!’
‘Ah’ve got an idea,’ said the woman behind the desk. ‘Why don’t ye’se both fuck off, before ah phone the polis!’
Max and Grant stopped pushing each other, and looked at Grace, Radio Clyde’s front line of defence against opportunistic pricks without an appointment.
‘Could ye gie these tae Billy Sloan an’ Tiger Tim?’ said Max.
‘Ah seriously doubt it,’ said Grace.
‘Ah’ll go an’ get ye somethin’ if ye dae,’ said Max.
‘Whit like?’ asked Grace.
‘Dunno. A lamb bhoona or somethin’.’
‘Make it a biryani an’ ah’ll think aboot it,’ said Grace.
‘Awa’ an’ get a chicken biryani, Grant. Get me yin tae,’ said Max.
‘That’ll be shinin’ bright,’ said an angry Grant. ‘Fuckin’ go yerself.’
‘Excuse me a minute,’ Max said to Grace, pulling Grant back through the main door and out into the corridor. ‘Whit the fuck’s got your goat, mate?’ said Max. He was annoyed at Grant for this out of character behaviour.
‘Fuck all. Jist shut it, right!’
‘Is this aw ’cos the Biscuit’ll no’ move in wi’ ye? Fuckin’ get ower yersel, an’ stop gie’in everybody the jaggy bunnet. It’s gettin’ borin’.’
Max pushed Grant, but this time Grant didn’t react. He simply turned around and walked backwards towards the Anderston Bus Station. Max let him go without any further comments. It took him over an hour to find an Indian takeaway restaurant. When he went back to the radio station, ‘Grace’ had been replaced by ‘Suzie’. Fortunately for Max, she also liked an Indian.
Later that evening, Grant sat in the front room of the flat. He’d had four cans of pale ale. The radio was on, as it usually was. Billy Sloan had played some great new records, most notably a brilliant one from The Blue Nile. There seemed to be some real tension between the guests and everything Boy George and Jon Moss liked was disliked by Jeremy Healy and Kate Garner, and vice versa. And then, suddenly:
‘Here’s a new record from a little-known Ayrshire band, The Miraculous Vespas,’ said Billy Sloan.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of them,’ said Boy George. ‘Can’t recall from where though,’ he added.
‘Maybe they stole your look,’ said Jeremy Healy.
Billy Sloan played the record. Grant Delgado had tears in his eyes. When it had finished, Billy Sloan lifted the needle and played the song on the other side.
‘That’s an absolutely brilliant record,’ said Billy. For the only time during the show, his guests were in agreement. Boy George said he’d met the singer in London. He’d given him advice, although on the basis of this record, Grant Delgado definitely wouldn’t need it.
While Maggie and Grant had been away he’d felt like they had made a massive breakthrough in their relationship, each opening up to the other in ways they couldn’t back home. But as soon as they had got back to Kilmarnock, and were in the company of others Maggie had slipped back into cool and distant mode. Grant was frustrated by this. He wanted her to make a commitment to them … to finally feel confident enough to take off the stabilisers. But it seemed like she couldn’t.
Grant’s front doorbell sounded. When he opened the door, Maggie was on the other side of it. She was carrying a small suitcase. He smiled, and whispered, ‘Ma mam says ah’m no’ allowed tae play wi’ you anymore.’
46
August 1984
‘Two fuckin’ rounds!’ An irritated Malachy McLarty looked up from his newspaper. He’d lost a bundle on the Hearns v Duran fight the night before. The Daily Record was now smugly suggesting insanity for anyone – like Malachy – who, pre-fight, thought that the street-fighting barbarity of Roberto Duran would batter the more refined Thomas Hearns into submission. Malachy had been convinced that brute strength would triumph over crafty finesse. It was a design for life on which he’d built a reputation. You had to watch the crafty fuckers. Give them an inch and they’d take you for everything you had assembled.
The other source of his irritation was the Ayrshire contingent. With the investigative focus now firmly on Ruchazie and Provanmill in the East End of the city, establishment of the McLarty business empire in the less fevered, sleepy towns of the West Coast should’ve been much more straightforward than it had been.
Malachy partly – but only privately – blamed himself. He was in his sixties. He’d trusted others. If you wanted something done properly you had to fucking do it yourself. Crafty fuckers were everywhere. You just couldn’t trust the cunts.
‘Right … let’s fuckin’ hear it, then,’ he said.
Gregor Gidney, the Ayrshire campaign fixer, had just come in to the vast living room. It was a little off-putting. Dickie Davies was mouthing silent words from a vast television set in the corner of the room. Although sunny outside, a roaring log fire was increasing the heat in the room to tropical levels. Gregor’s boss was in his underpants. Three large sovereign rings glinted in the light from the fire. He wore a loose, silky animal-print kimono but it looked too small to be his. Large-rimmed glasses were bridged on the end of a crooked, mis-shapen nose. He sat back in the brown-leather recliner and lit a cigar the size of a small telescope.
Malachy held a finger to his lips before turning up the volume of the televison via remote control. Dickie Davies’s normally soft, comforting voice boomed and reverberated around the tiled floors and bare walls of the room. Gregor watched the large, delicate chandelier above him bounce slightly with the bass levels. Malachy motioned for Gregor to sit closer to him and to whisper.
‘Boss, sorry tae say this, but Marty’s takin’ his eye aff the baw doon there again.’ This was an awkward admission for Gregor. Not only was he highlighting a deficit that he was a part of, he was shifting the emphasis of blame onto the boss’s lackadaisical son.
‘How so?’
‘The mechanism’s in place. TC an’ McClure have taken ower their patches. But the Crosshoose bit’s went rogue.’ Gregor watched for subtle changes in the bigger man’s face. There were none. He continued. ‘The money’s flowin’ fae the regions, mainly Onthank. That Fat Franny gadgie’s oot the game, he’s no’ a factor,’ said Gregor, ‘but Malky an’ his boys should be recoverin’ the proceeds noo … in ma opinion.’
‘Whit’s the problem?’ Malachy McLarty was forcing Gregor to spell it out, albeit in hushed tones.
‘That wee Wishart walloper, Benny Donald’s dippin’ the till, an’ Malky’s let
tin’ him away wi’ it, for some reason,’ said Gregor. He was reasonably certain of this. He would’ve had to have been.
Malachy McLarty blew up a cloud of cigar smoke so large, Gregor briefly lost sight of the old man.
When it he cleared, he spoke. ‘Round them aw up. Get them doon the shed,’ said Malachy. ‘Get a haud ae Marty. Tell him tae get his fuckin’ arse back here, pronto.’ Malachy pulled a betting-shop pen from the kimono pocket, and a postcard from the recliner’s side pocket. It had a picture of a shortbread tin on one side. On the other, Malachy wrote: ‘SON, YER TEA’S OOT!’
‘Christ, ah huvnae heard that song in years.’ The song sounded tinny. It came from a tiny transistor radio over in the corner of the dark agricultural shed.
‘Who is it again?’ asked Ged McClure.
‘Fuck’s sake, mate! Marc Bolan an’ T. Rex.’
‘Aw aye … ah wis thinkin’ Mott the Hoople or somethin’,’ said Ged quietly.
‘Whit d’ye think, son? Ye like this yin? Are ye able tae … Get It Oan?’ Gregor Gidney laughed. He was addressing Benny Donald. Benny didn’t respond. He couldn’t. It would be the last song he would ever hear.
Benny Donald had been fixed to the wooden railway sleeper by two shiny six-inch nails driven through his palms. The excrutiating pain of this had caused him to lose consciouness. A mixture of smelling salts and buckets of water had brought him round again. Initial terror had given way to shock and he was shaking uncontrollably. He had also soiled himself and was lying flat out on his back, literally and metaphorically in shit of his own making. He had already admitted siphoning off some of the Onthank money, but it was to pay back historical debts owed to Marty McLarty. Benny couldn’t understand why this alone was worthy of such interrogation. When he was brought, hooded and bound, to this agricultural shed, apparently in the middle of nowhere, he’d appreciated a bigger problem.
‘Where the fuck’s the money, son?’ said Gregor Gidney, impassionately.
‘Fuck sake, man … ah telt ye, Malky’s got it aw. Ah jist … ah jist borrowed a wee bit ae it. Tae pay it back, man … ah mean, fuck sake … ma … AAAAAAAAAHHH!’ The first nail was driven in.
‘The money. Where is it?’ said Gregor. ‘Ah’ll no’ be askin’ again, pal.’
‘Aaaah, ah fuckin’ … fuck, telt … ah dunno, maaaaa!’
Gregor nodded to Ged McClure. ‘AAAAAAHHHHH! Bastaaaaa.’
‘Christ, the cunt’s jist shat himself,’ said Ged, disgusted. ‘Right, get him up, you two.’ Ged watched as his two young cohorts lifted the sleeper with Benny now nailed to it into an upright position. Benny had lost consciouness. Ged, Gregor and their side-kicks left him where he was.
‘Whit d’ye think, son?’ Gregor Gidney said, when they returned an hour later. ‘Ye like this yin? Are ye able tae … Get It Oan?’ Gregor laughed. ‘Wan last go, son. Then we’ll cut ye doon. Drap ye at A&E. It’s jist a lesson yer bein’ taught here. Disnae mean yer oot the business. Ye can recover fae this. Look … if ye don’t believe me!’
Benny Donald was struggling to move his head. But he opened a swollen eye. He saw the circular scar in the middle of Gregor Gidney’s massive hand. Benny sobbed. He whimpered. It sounded like he wanted his mum.
‘Where’s the money, son?’ asked Gregor. He was tenderly holding Benny’s head and had put his ear closer to Benny’s mouth. Ged McClure was also anxious. He couldn’t hear what Benny had just mumbled. Gregor seemed content, though, whatever it was. He rubbed Benny’s chin softly and then patted the back of his head, shaking his own, much as Pontius Pilate might’ve done.
‘Finish it. Get rid,’ he instructed.
The first bolt from Ged McClure’s crossbow hit Benny on the side. It went through his skin. Despite exhaustion he howled in pain. His terrified eyes bulged.
‘Fuck sake, finish it, ah said. We’re no’ the fuckin’ Viet Cong, son,’ said Gregor.
‘Sorry, big man. First time ah’ve used this yin. Takes time to work oot the sightin’, ken?’ said Ged. He loaded another bolt, and took aim at the postcard of Glasgow’s coat of arms that had just been taped over Benny’s heart. He aimed again at the target. ‘Feel like ah’m oan the Golden Shot, here.’
Ged’s two younger colleagues laughed. This was their first proper mission. Only a year or so earlier, both had been bred to anticipate a life underground; lungs filling with inhaled black coal dust. This was much more exciting. And lucrative.
The second bolt hit its target on the chest area, and Benny Donald’s life ended. Minutes later, a third bolt ripped into his groin. Ged’s men winced and then laughed. Benny Donald’s body didn’t flinch.
‘For fuck’s sake, Ged,’ said Gregor. ‘Show the poor bastart some respect, eh?’
‘Aye, sorry. Cut him doon, boys,’ said Ged.
‘Get proper rid, okay?’ instructed Gregor. ‘Nae bits resurfacin’ or washin’ up oan Irvine Beach for some wean tae find, like it wis a remake ae fuckin’ Jaws, right?’
‘Aye, G … we’ll sort it. The Gadgie Vanishes!’ said Ged.
‘We should mibbe have taken the cunt affa the wid,’ said Ged McClure. ‘Ach, fuck it, we’re here, noo.’
It had been extremely difficult to get Benny Donald’s body loaded into the back of the small van. They had to fold his legs up and over his chest to put him in sideways. Ged was now certain they had actually broken one of the legs in the process. The shinbone hadn’t punctured the skin, but it was clearly fractured within its bloodied skin envelope. They had travelled to a remote valley near New Cumnock. It took two hours for them to reach this point. A waterfall flowed over the edge of a perilous, sheer drop into a former quarry that had filled with water after decades of disregard. They had wrapped Benny Donald’s lower body in a white towel to avoid getting his shite on their hands. It now looked like a nappy. They pushed the cruciform over the edge and watched it gracefully glide down the waterfall. It hit the rocks at the bottom and its previously smooth trajectory ended with it cartwheeling into the murky-brown quarry water. They watched until the weight of the wooden sleeper dragged the body attached to it way down below the surface.
‘Fuck’s sake, see that? That wis mental, man,’ said one of Ged’s men.
‘Aye. No’ half,’ said the other. All three clambered back through the trees to where they had left the van. ‘Listen, Ah need a bit ae advice fae ye’se. See if some wee hoor fuckin’ cheated on ye, it’s aw’right tae fuck her maw, intit?’
Benny Donald’s lifeless broken shell slowly sank to sixty feet below the surface, coming to rest beside an old truck, several cookers and two other weighted bodies. Simultaneously, Gregor Gidney was heading back to Glasgow. He had the information his boss was seeking. Like many generals before him, Malachy McLarty was now fighting a war on several fronts. The south-west frontiersmen had apparently defied him. Gregor Gidney informed him that Washer Wishart hadn’t put the Onthank money through the normal illegitimate routes. He’d used it to start a record label and, furthermore, he’d ploughed vast amounts into some daft, fuckin’ band managed by his equally daft, fuckin’ son. Benny Donald had found this out by snooping around his uncle’s office. Amounts on the band’s bank statements correlated with Benny’s drop dates.
Malachy McLarty couldn’t decide if this was a genius move on Washer Wishart’s part, or whether he was being craftily shafted. Instinct suggested the latter. He needed some insurance. Postcards were written. Gregor Gidney was to be their distributor. All instructed the securing of ‘THE BOY’ to be held for negotiation and likely ransom.
Ah blame that jug-eared Prince walloper, maself. Well, actually since the wean’s always looked fuck-all like him, mibbe it’s wisnae his fault after aw.
47
September 1984
The telephone wouldn’t stop ringing. Molly Wishart was becoming demented by it. Newspapers, music journalists, A&R men from countless London-based record labels; all desperate to speak to Max. All thanks to Boy George’s endorsement, ‘It’s a Miracle (Thank Y
ou)’ had made it into the lower reaches of the national charts. X-Ray Raymonde had pressed it as a double A-side, with ‘Beautiful Mess’ on the flip-side, so convinced was he of the equal strengths of both. At Max’s insistence, every copy of the single had the paradox ‘We are nothing, and yet we are everything!’ scrawled onto the run-off grooves. X-Ray had mixed Grant’s vocals high up and had used the version on which the singer had sung in a high key. When Max first heard it, he’d wrongly assumed it was Maggie who was singing.
The Rough Trade Cartel of record shops was placing large orders that Biscuit Tin Records was struggling to keep up with. X-Ray Raymonde was given the job of dealing with record-pressing orders, as well as being given an October deadline to have the LP fully mixed and ready to go. For the sleeve design, Max had even approached the celebrated artist Peter Blake, who’d created the legendary Sergeant Pepper cover art. Peter Blake was ‘considering it’, Max had reported at the most recent shareholders’ meeting.
Despite the positivity, tensions had recently surfaced between Max and Grant. An inebriated X-Ray Raymonde had let slip to Max the details of the publishing contract he’d signed with Grant. Max hadn’t raised it with the songwriter, but had countered by signing a recording deal with his own Biscuit Tin Records on behalf of the band. Although the percentages of royalties were fair and reasonable, Grant had used it as a further example of decisions that affected everyone being taken by the band’s manager alone. However, under pressure from the band members, both had been coerced into putting these differences to one side.
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 25