The Last Days of Disco

by David F. Ross

  Harry stared around the room. There were flickers of things that prompted him to think of the time he’d first met Don McAllister: a Kilmarnock Order Masonic Lodge pennant on the wall; a British Rail ticket stub next to the bin on the floor; the photographs of the copper and his wife on the desk.

  It’s 1960. Hogmanay. Twenty-year-old Ethel Fleming is going to a New Year Dance organised by three of her new friends from work. She doesn’t know them that well and this is making her dad, James, uncomfortable. Ayr is a dangerous place at night, he warns his youngest child. He knows from bitter personal experience that there are plenty of greasy corner-boys wandering about the town centre, blades at the ready – especially at this time of year, when exuberance can so quickly turn to aggression. Anne, his wife, is more willing to let Ethel go. It’s been a hard year for everyone in the family and she feels that her youngest daughter should be encouraged to go out and enjoy herself.

  Robert – Ethel’s eldest brother – contracted polio as a child and the condition had deteriorated dramatically over the last year. Anne feels that Ethel has sacrificed a lot for her brother and deserves a bit of time to have fun. Ethel’s other brother – also James – is currently serving his National Service and was never close to Robert, mocking him constantly for the metal calipers he had to wear when they were boys. Mary – Ethel’s older sister – was already something of a party girl and an almost constant cause of concern for her father as a consequence.

  So, reluctantly, James lets his daughter go to the dance at the Station, Hotel on the corner of Burns Statue Square. It’s an obvious choice for a British Rail staff dance, as the hotel is part of Ayr’s railway station, where many of them are employed. Ethel has just started working in the typing pool immediately above the function room where the party will be held. The condition that James accompanies Ethel on the 45-minute bus journey in from Kilmarnock where they live doesn’t please her, but since it seems to be non-negotiable, she agrees. Robert’s various ailments mean that no-one is allowed to smoke in the house, so both Ethel and her father welcome the sanctuary of the upper deck of the red-and-orange number 33; Ethel with her favourite Embassy Regal and James with his pipe.

  ‘Ach, ah’ll catch up wi’ a coupla auld mates in the Pot Still,’ says James to his daughter. She says nothing but turns to look out the window, mainly to conceal a sigh. God, the Pot Still’s just across the road from the station. That’ll mean he’ll be staying to take me home as well, she’s thinking. James also works for the Region’s Transport Department as a conductor on the local buses, but the friends he’s talking about aren’t workmates. They are fellow Masonic Lodge members of whom Anne, Ethel’s mother, doesn’t approve, so James is glad of the diversion.

  Ethel has bought a new frock for the evening. It is pale-blue sleeveless dress with a fitted bodice and a plain round neck. She loves the dress. It was bought with her first pay cheque and she feels it is the first thing that is truly hers. She would keep it forever, due to the significance she would later attach to it. A string of pearls given to her by her gran is the only accessory. It is a freezing, foggy Ayrshire night and Anne has made her wear a heavy coat – which doesn’t really go with the dress or the shoes – but, again, Ethel conceded. Earlier, Anne said she looked pretty; like Shirley MacLaine. Ethel took this to be a compliment because she knew her mum loved Shirley MacLaine. Although Ethel wished she’d said Doris Day. Shirley was unconventionally attractive, but Doris was beautiful.

  The dance begins at seven o’clock and is due to finish at ten. This would give the revellers time to catch the last buses from Fullarton Street and be home well before the Bells. James walks his embarrassed daughter right into the hotel’s reception, where her friends Betty and Eileen are patiently waiting. He leaves her with a reminder to be outside the front door of the hotel at exactly ten. He does have the tact to whisper this to her, knowing her older friends may make fun of her later if they hear him. A third friend, Sadie, is late. She has told Betty earlier in the day that she might be coming with her new man and just to go in. She’d catch up with them later.

  The three girls enjoy the night, dancing with different lads and sipping from their gin and tonics. The conversation is relaxed and easy and Ethel begins to feel that she will grow close to Betty and Eileen. She is less sure of Sadie, and is quietly glad that it appears she isn’t coming.

  At around nine-thirty, Sadie finally arrives. The dance hall is busy but Ethel catches sight of her immediately. Her blue-and-white spotted dress is one that Ethel has considered for herself, but she decided that it was a bit outlandish. She also vaguely recognises the man with Sadie, but can’t remember from where. Sadie comes over, but it is clear she isn’t going to stay. Her man has headed in the opposite direction, towards the bar and presumably some people he knows.

  The night ends with a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and everyone links arms under the dance hall’s sparkly glitter ball. Some coloured balloons are still defiantly circling the dancefloor – their end-of-evening impact lessened by the netting that was holding them having fallen during the early part of the night. As she looks round the circle of drunk but jovial British Rail workers, Anne notices that the man who was on Sadie’s arm is no longer there. Sadie is gazing into the eyes of Don McAllister, a young police sergeant and Sadie’s married boss.

  Before leaving, Ethel goes to the toilet on the upper floor. When she comes out five minutes later, an argument involving a few people has broken out on the stairs. A spotted dress is clearly visible at the centre of it all. Ethel manages to squeeze past the commotion and, although it doesn’t look too threatening, and mindful of her dad’s finger wagging, she makes her way quickly out into the sharp, cold air of the street.

  Most of the revellers leave while she waits impatiently for her dad. She is annoyed because he stressed how important it was that she didn’t hang about on street corners at night in the city, and here she is kept waiting by him and his cronies in the old pub over the cobbles. She has been waiting for around fifteen minutes when Sadie’s man – the one she came with, not the one she left with – comes out of the hotel’s revolving door. He is clearly in pain, holding a left wrist that doesn’t look like it is set at the same angle as his right. Ethel asks him if he is all right. He says, No, he doesn’t think so. He’s taken a swing at Don McAllister, missed badly and fallen down the stairs, landing awkwardly on his arm. He thinks his wrist might be broken.

  Ethel says that he should maybe go the hospital. It is New Year’s Eve, he reminds her. If you’ve broken your wrist, you’ll need to get it looked at tonight, she tells him. The man says he has no money to get to hospital and, slightly ashamed, admits that Sadie has his wallet in her pocket book.

  James Fleming is decidedly less than happy to be sharing a black cab to the town’s Seafield Hospital on Hogmanay – far less paying for it – with a man that his daughter barely knew, but he’s lost a bit of the moral high ground, since it is his fault that Ethel has got into a detailed conversation with him in the first place.

  This was how Ethel Fleming met her future husband, Harry Cassidy; and also how Harry Cassidy first met Don McAllister – a man whom he would see again two years later, when Don turned up on the arm of Mary, Ethel’s elder sister, for a strained Christmas Day dinner at James and Anne’s house. Strained, principally because Ethel had just suffered a miscarriage, which she was trying to conceal for fear of it spoiling everyone else’s day. Only months after this, Don was a man who’d had a brief but devastating affair with Ethel. He was a man to whom Harry hadn’t spoken for nearly eighteen years. Ethel had not spoken to Don’s wife Mary for even longer.

  ‘It’s been a while, eh?’ said Don, snapping Harry out of his temporary paralysis.

  ‘Mmm,’ mumbled Harry. The names on the notepad were holding his temper in check. Plus, a scene now – after all these years – did seem a bit pointless. He’d resolved to keep out of Don’s way since the day Gary was born. Harry’s only condition for the reconciliation of his
marriage was that there be no contact between Ethel and Mary, or, more obviously, Don. Ethel acceded to this harsh demand more willingly than Harry had expected. Burying the memory seemed marginally less painful for her than acknowledging and addressing her debilitating shame. For his part, Don had moved to the Masonic Club in Hurlford, although this was mainly at the insistence of James Fleming, who was secretary at the Kilmarnock Order when his son-in-law was introduced into the membership.

  ‘Look, ah ken things have been rough in the past between you and me …’

  ‘Aye,’ said Harry.

  ‘… but ah felt ah owed ye this at least.’ Don waited a moment for another interruption, but none was forthcoming. ‘Bobby and three other yins got lifted a coupla’ weeks back. Ah’ve got the report.’ Don tapped the manila file.

  Harry looked down at it but still sat impassively. Don was a good detective but he couldn’t read Harry. In fact, he’d never been able to read him.

  ‘They were at the Tory Club. A fight broke out. Some booze got nicked and ma boys found it in their van.’ Don straightened in his seat and delivered a summary quickly and professionally. ‘CPS are pushing for a conviction an’ there’s a lotta top Tories in there.’

  Harry still remained silent. He was unsure if Don was angling for some sort of a deal here.

  ‘Ah can make it go away for Bobby and his two mates, but the van driver’s gonnae get fucked unfortunately.’ Don saw Harry’s eyebrows rise at this. ‘Stevenson. D’you ken him tae?’

  ‘Aye. Ah dae. He’s a good lad. Ah’m sure he’ll no be involved.’

  ‘Harry, the stuff was in his fuckin’ van! An’ wi’ his record, he’s the obvious Lee Majors here.’

  Harry look bemused.

  ‘The fuckin’ Fall Guy …’ said Don. ‘Look, ah’m lettin’ Bobby off wi’ this … an’ afore ye say it, ah’m no wantin’ anythin’ back.’ Don sat back in his large leather chair. ‘Ah just wanted the opportunity tae set the record straight wi’ you … an’ wi’ Ethel. Mary forgave her years ago. And me, for that matter. For everythin’. No’ comin’ tae the weddin’, an that tae … She still misses her.’ Don could almost see Harry’s hackles rising. ‘Ye cannae put yer arms around a memory, Harry.’ It was well intentioned, but way wide of the mark.

  Harry stood up abruptly. ‘Don’t you talk about ma wife. Ma wife, ye hear it? No yours … mine!’

  Don also stood up, closing the manila file as he did so.

  ‘Forgiven? Whit you did left Ethel too fuckin’ ashamed tae look her sister in the face.’

  ‘Harry …’

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ Harry me, you!’ Harry’s voice was getting louder. Don’s hands were faced down in a patting, calming motion. It wasn’t working, though.

  ‘Ye fuckin’ took advantage when me and her were at the lowest ebb. She’d just lost the wean, an’ you were goin’ wi’ her fuckin’ sister! Jesus Christ, how dae ye think ah’m gonnae react even after aw this time? Ah’m fuckin’ staggered Mary took ye back ya cunt …’

  ‘Right, Harry that’s en–’

  ‘… ye destroyed our lives, an’ yer ain wife’s. Although she should fuckin’ ken how it feels at least, since she did it tae yer first yin …’

  ‘Too far, Harry … yer goin’ too …’

  ‘It took us the best part ae a year tae get back on track. Tae when he was born … an’ even then, things have never been the same. Ethel will never get ower it, she’s a fuckin’ nervous wreck … an’ ye fuckin’ ruined any chance ae her an’ Mary ever speakin’ again. Forgiven, ya bastart. Ethel cannae forgive herself.’ The rage in Harry’s voice was matched by the reddening of his face. He had waited a long time for all of this to come out and even though he could sense that he would actually go too far, he still wasn’t fully aware of what that boundary constituted.

  ‘Ah kent that Mary couldnae have weans, in fact, ah probably kent that before you did.’ Harry’s voice was calmer now. He’d struck a blow. It was a low one, but he’d definitely scored a hit. He walked over to the door. ‘Look, you dae whit ye have tae dae wi’ Bobby. If he’s done somethin’ wrong, then he deserves tae get punished. If he husnae, then let him off, but don’t bring him intae any situation wi’ you an’ me.’

  Harry paused at the door with his back to Don. His hand was on the door handle.

  ‘Ye ken this … ah still cannae speak tae him … tae Gary, even though he’s a better man than me. Ah cannae find the words or the way tae tell him that … an’ for that more than anything else, ah fuckin’ hate you McAllister.’ Harry opened the door and walked through it, closing it gently behind him.

  Don stared at the door for a few minutes and then stood up slowly and walked over to the window. He watched Harry cross the road and walk up John Finnie Street. Don watched him walk the whole length. Harry never looked back. Don loosened his tie, poured himself a large Scotch and sat down at his desk. He lifted the phone receiver and dialled five numbers.

  ‘Mary, hen? It’s me …’

  OH BONDAGE: UP YOURS!

  3RD JUNE 1982: 3:14PM

  With Hamish May still in hospital, and the threat of some Fat Franny-funded violence now lurking in the shadows of every gig, Bobby figured Heatwave required a new level of security. The last few functions had gone off very quietly – and successfully – but this was due to Joey’s inspired idea of self-promoted, ‘secret’, one-off nights at the Killie Club. The Club was located in the spaces under the terracing at Rugby Park, home of Kilmarnock Football Club, and was promoted by the music-loving manager, whose cut was an acceptable twenty percent. With the nights advertised locally at forty-eight hours’ notice and populated by mates of the DJs and local Mod band The Vespas, there was little chance of trouble. But The Vespas had asked Heatwave to support them at a gig on the fifth of June. It was going to be held at the large Henderson Church Hall in the town centre and, with tickets circulating widely, Bobby was growing increasingly anxious about his own level of personal protection.

  ‘Whit about havin’ a word wi’ Malky MacKay? See if he’d dae it?’ suggested Bobby.

  ‘Aye. That’s no a bad call, mate,’ replied Joey. ‘He’s no a bad lad, once ye get tae know him a bit more.’

  ‘Right. Let me ken later how ye get on, eh?’

  ‘Whit? Awa’ an’ fuck yersel’.’ Joey nearly choked on his Cabana bar. ‘Ah’m no fuckin’ askin’ him. He’s mental!’

  ‘Ye just said he was a good lad! And ye ken ‘im better than me.’ Bobby’s palms were outstretched. Joey intuitively knew what was coming. ‘C’mon, get in there.’

  It was true that Joey knew Malky more than Bobby, but the basis of this knowledge was now almost three years old. In the early part of his fourth year, Joey had been going through a phase of picking up regular detention punishments at school. These were mostly for ridiculous things, like passing notes in class, or laughing out loud at an old female teacher’s ridiculous attempts to administer the belt to a boy almost two feet taller than her and her ultimately having to stand on a box to do it. During this period Joey had even copped a detention slot for ‘repeatedly sneezing’. He wouldn’t have needed Perry Mason to get him off on that one, had he attempted to make an issue of it, but the truth was, Joey actually enjoyed detention. It was marshalled by a groovy English-teaching hippy who evidently considered the short straw of detention duty to be as much a punishment for him as for the detainees. Given that it was generally the same miscreants populating the detention chamber night after night, something of a shared group mentality kicked in and they all passed the time talking about football or, more significantly, music. The hippy brought in a Dansette record player and forced his captive audience to listen to stuff like ‘Bug-Eyed Beans from Venus’, ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ or ‘The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway’. Joey emerged from this phase with a love for the first, a respect for the second but nothing other than outright, lasting contempt for Genesis.

  Back then, detention for Joey began to feel more like an after-school record club a
nd, although the class was populated by the misbehaved, the boisterous or, on occasion, the downright violent, short-term friendships inevitably prospered. One of these unlikely pairings was between Joey and Malky Mackay. As early as second year, it was accepted wisdom that Malky was the best fighter in the school. How this had happened was unclear. As far as Joey was aware, there had been no qualifying bouts before a shot at the title. No mandatory defences against leading contenders of the day. Malky was just assumed to be the heavyweight champion. That he’d achieved this while still only fourteen didn’t say much for the youths in the upper school, but it did give him an undeniable air of invincibility. If, indeed, heavy was the head that wore the crown, Malky certainly didn’t show it.

  Their main connection was through Subbuteo. Malky invited Joey back to his house to see his set-up. Poorer kids were obsessed by the game. Slightly better-off ones had moved onto Scalextric. Malky had amassed an impressive collection of accessories, from the dugouts and touchline fencing to the much-envied stadium, complete with politely seated supporters. It looked great, and when he switched on the battery-operated floodlights, Joey was suitably awed and initially a little envious. Impressive though the stadium was, Malky only had one battery-operated pylon and the empty seats outnumbered the static punters by around twenty to one.

  Joey only had the basic components. He did, however, have some glamorous teams. He had River Plate from Argentina, Cagliari from Italy and the Brazilian national team. Malky, on the other hand had only ever needed two: Glasgow Rangers and Glasgow Rangers in away strip. His house was a temple to all things bluenose. A smiling portrait of the Queen greeted everyone upon entry. Framed pictures of famous goals lined the route upstairs to the bedrooms. Posters of the team and individual players fought with pennants for space on Malky’s bedroom walls. A Rangers alarm clock, bedspread and lightshade kept up the theme. Curtains, carpet and a dressing gown completed the ensemble. Although he’d apparently taken enough of a liking to Joey to invite him back, there was an undeniable tension when Malky wasn’t happy. To Joey’s relief, their game was going well. Naturally, he was Rangers reserves, and he was getting hammered. It was a price worth paying. When Malky’s mother shouted up the stairs that his dinner was ready and that Joey needed to go home, he stood up abruptly, tripped over the black elastic strips of his home-made bondage trousers and collapsed onto the field like some stumbling, drunken Gulliver, crushing half of the Rangers first team, and destroying the mini-terracing, sending the shocked and motionless fans flying across the room. Joey was a punk-like tsunami.