The Last Days of Disco

by David F. Ross

  Hobnail was astonished at the cost of sending a recorded-delivery parcel. He’d never really posted anything before – apart from a severed big toe – but still, £10.98 was daylight fucking robbery, in his opinion. Just as well Fat Franny was paying for it from the £46,763 of which Hobnail had relieved him. Hobnail had kept a small amount for himself, but the vast bulk of this sum was now in the heavily wrapped parcel that sat on the counter of the small post office in the back of the corner shop in Crosshouse. Hobnail had got up early – mainly to avoid detection – but also to walk out to this remote village where there would be far less chance of anyone knowing who he was and therefore of him drawing attention to such a large parcel. He was still amazed that he’d been able to walk around on the night he’d taken it, with all of the money in two double-wrapped Safeway bags that he’d found in Fat Franny’s house. The memory brought a smile to his lips and it reminded him of how little he’d smiled in recent years. The thought of that fat tosser trying to interrogate his poor old mum about the identity of ‘Andy’, whom she was trying to get back into bed, made him go one step further and burst out laughing.

  Hobnail couldn’t make up for all that Senga thought she had lost by staying with him. He didn’t have the vocabulary. He also couldn’t connect with Grant in a way that would positively address the dilemma of accepting Hobnail for the person he was, while at the same time persuading the boy that there was a different, better future if he avoided his father’s mistakes. Hobnail shared Senga’s fears about Grant. He just couldn’t articulate them to either. But maybe this pack of twenty-, fifty- and hundred-pound notes could say it for him. It was too late for Senga and him, but perhaps not for Grant and the other kids. Senga would get the money. She’d know what to do with it to avoid suspicion. She’d be savvy enough to know where it came from and would have no scruples at all about utilising this found money for the benefit of her family. But she would also get Hobnail’s crudely written note, and, although he’d tried to disguise his child-like handwriting, the expressed wishes contained within it that Senga enjoy Vienna would casually betray the identity of the sender. Hobnail took some comfort in hoping that it might also prove to his wife that he had been listening after all.

  2ND JULY 1982: 9:55PM

  By the time Guardsman Gary Cassidy’s four-leg plane journey home from the Falklands had ended, his father, Harry Cassidy, was dead. Somewhere around the equator – as his son slept lightly on a Hercules whose principal purpose was that of repatriation – Harry Cassidy suffered a second attack, which was massive and fatal. His wife was in a ward two floors above, unaware of this or anything else that was going on around her.

  Her daughter Hettie had fallen asleep briefly in her room, exhausted from a general lack of sleep and also from the emotional trauma of having both parents in a serious condition in the same hospital. Her brother Bobby was in the hospital café at the time of his father’s death. Bobby’s Aunt Mary – his mother’s sister, to whom he had never spoken, and wouldn’t have recognised if she had served him his tea – was on her way to the hospital. Her intention was to come clean with her niece and nephew, and suggest that Ethel come out of hospital to live with her and her husband until Harry was back on his feet. She could afford professional help for her catatonic sister, as her husband had a good job. Meanwhile, her husband – feeling remorse at the stress under which he’d unwittingly put Harry – was dropping off another note at the house in Almond Avenue. This one was a formal card with a single blue flower on the front. On the inside was one word: ‘Sorry’ in black Monotype Corvisa script. Below this, the initials D and M were written in blue ink. The envelope contained nothing other than the designation ‘Mr Cassidy’.

  Gary suspected that something was wrong when only Bobby met him at Prestwick Airport, on yet another unusually balmy summer’s evening. For weeks it had seemed that the weather was due to break, yet it had held in a way that made Bobby recall the long hot summer of 1976. And there were potentially still a couple of months of it to go.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, Gary. He’s dead! Dad’s dead!’ Bobby’s legs buckled and Gary instinctively caught him. Bobby cried in a way that Gary had never seen him do before. Somehow, it wasn’t a shock to Gary to hear of his father’s passing. When he’d been ordered to gather his pack and belongings together, ready for moving out on the flight from Port Stanley’s small airstrip, the unique circumstances had been explained to him. He had been dismissed for a four-week break at home before reporting to Wellington Barracks. The return home at the beginning of this period was being accelerated even further because his father had suffered a heart attack. He said little to Bobby in the car on the way to the hospital. He had no words. He couldn’t cry. He had none of those tears left. Bobby just sat in the car, staring out the window into the dark of the moors at Symington, sobbing quietly.

  Gary had left to go to war as a boy and come back as a man. The reality of this cliché of warfare was more complex, though. His appearance shocked Hettie, whose numbness about the last three weeks was closer to Gary’s than to Bobby’s. It had seemed to her that Bobby’s head had been completely in the sand during this last month. He had appeared to have the childish expectation that bad things would go just away if you avoided recognising or confronting them. He had run away to Lizzie’s or Joey’s when dealing with Ethel had got too difficult. It was an uncharacteristically selfish – and sexist – response, but it had made Hettie resent him. It appeared that she was simply expected to care for her mother because that’s what daughters did. Hettie had had no outlet to release her feelings of pain, fear, resentment, loss and subsequent joy for Gary. Now he was finally back, she fully expected to feel far more comfortable and safe with her elder brother – the one who had only weeks ago stood trembling next to a friend who was searching in shock for his foot that had been blown off, and another friend whose life he had saved.

  Hettie was in her mother’s single bedroom – as she had been almost constantly for four days. Ethel was asleep, an induced sleep that she had been in since earlier that day when a doctor had broken the news of her husband’s death to her. Her two children had been in the room with her, but her lack of response to the news contrasted sharply with Bobby’s reaction; his emotional collapse was as unexpected as it was distressing. Hettie tried to hold it together – tried to listen to the doctor as he spoke directly to her – while it hit home hard how small their family circle actually was. The only current benefit of this was that they had found it easy to conceal Gary’s homecoming. They would now have to hide their father’s death, to give them time to act appropriately before the press descended on them yet again. Hettie had been suspicious of everyone in the last few weeks and hadn’t even spoken to her own small group of close friends since their exams had started.

  She looked at Bobby, distraught in the chair in his mum’s hospital bedroom, and realised that he was someone who had never given a minute’s thought to the passing of his parents. His closeted teenage life revolved around having fun and avoiding anything that might cause him distress. She had once envied such an existence – things that went wrong for Bobby were generally fixed by the opening of his father’s wallet, or a girlfriend’s sudden change of heart. Now it made her feel more adult and superior, but also a little sorry for him. It was a strange brew of emotions.

  3RD JULY 1982: 00:15AM

  The three of them returned home, but Bobby changed and headed straight back out to see Lizzie, murmuring that he couldn’t stay in the house that night. It was just after midnight. Gary picked up an envelope at the front door and brought it into the living room, sitting it on the mantelpiece. He’d told Bobby to go if he had to, and then eventually calmed his angry sister. It was amazing how mature Gary had become – old before his years. He was only twenty, but he wore the haunted, wrinkled face of a man twice his age. Hettie wanted to talk to him. To soothe him and let him know that he was safe now. At fifteen, she wanted to protect him.

  ‘Have ye spoken tae Debbie yet?’ ask
ed Hettie quietly, as Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’ played quietly in the background. It was strange that the first thing Gary had done upon coming home was to put on the record player.

  ‘Naw, no yet,’ replied Gary. ‘Ah wrote a few times but ah don’t think she got them.’

  ‘No, ah don’t think she would have,’ said Hettie. ‘When they came tae tell us you were … y’know, missing in action, they brought a load ae letters wi’ them. Ah’ve got them upstairs for ye.’

  ‘Probably too late now. Plus ah’m no great company. Canny sleep. Too many nightmares.’ Gary put his head in his hands. There was a long silence following the needle lifting away from the record’s run-off grooves. Eventually, he said, ‘Ah don’t ken whit ah’m gonnae dae, Hettie. Ah thought that if ah could get through the tae the end of it, an’ get back an’ sort things out wi’ Dad, everythin’ would be fine after that. Y’know, I could go back tae London, pick up wi’ Debs an’ have a fuckin’ purpose in life for once.’ Another long pause passed by. Talking was difficult. They were essentially strangers now – two people who would have to slowly rebuild the close relationship they once had. Hettie felt paralysed by exhaustion.

  ‘Did he say much about me when ah was away?’

  ‘Who, Dad?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He did, Gary. He might no have said it often but he was really, really proud. He sat up watchin’ aw the news programmes and even listening tae the World Service radio.’

  Gary pondered the comforting thought of he and his father tuning in to the same radio broadcasts each night. He had spent much of the last few years searching for things that they had in common. To have found it in such a tenuous way seemed heartening, but also now incredibly sad.

  ‘D’ye ken one of the most shocking things ah saw?’ Hettie’s eyes were closed, but Gary wasn’t really talking to her. ‘On the first day after we landed at San Carlos, ah saw a deid horse – a big fuckin’ beautiful stallion, lyin’ deid in the middle ae a road. Its eyes were open an’ there wis nae visible wounds. It wis jist deid. Ah’d never seen a deid thing before an’ ah jist burst oot in tears’. Ah couldnae stop fur ages. Ah thought whit fuckin’ chance huv ah got if this big, strong beast cannae make it? The horse had been killed by artillery fire an’ it was lyin’ on its wounded side. Ah don’t ken whether it was Argentine or British fire that killed it, an’ for a while it seemed to be really important for me to find out. Ah kept askin’ and askin’ about the big black horse on the road, but naebody answered. Everybody was just dealin’ wi’ their ain issues.

  ‘Later on, we had marched up a track in the pissing rain an’ we heard the first sounds ae battle away in the distance. Ah flicked oan ma Walkman tae block it aw oot. Further on, we passed a coupla guys fae another company. Ah switched off the music. One ae them was hysterical, shouting, “Gerry’s deid, Gerry’s fuckin’ deid”, an’ the first thing ah thought was, That’s a strange name for a horse! Then a shell went off about the length ae a fitba pitch away. We aw dived for whit cover there was. Then another yin closer, an’ then one about fifty feet behind us. Ah was lying there, in the dark and the wet starin’ up the sky, and thinkin’ aboot Dad. Ah thought the next fuckin’ shell would land right on top ae us, an’ that’d be it … an’ aw a wanted was ma dad.’ Gary wiped away a tear. ‘The one thing that kept me goin’ aw that week in the sheep shed was the thought ae gettin’ home an’ tellin’ him that.’

  Hettie was asleep. Gary got up and pulled a cover from the back of the sofa and laid it gently over her. He then went and put the needle back to the start of the Honky Château LP.

  By the time early-morning light emerged, blinking through the edges of the horizontal metal blinds, Gary had listened to the record seven times. It had been the one cassette he’d taken with him at San Carlos. He didn’t think he’d really get the chance to listen to many more once he’d left the ship. Gary didn’t even particularly like Elton John, but ‘Rocket Man’ was truly great. When Gary lay in the mud and the blood and the gore, staring up the sky and waiting for death, it was Bernie Taupin’s words that were going round in his fevered brain. Mixed feelings about an astronaut leaving his family in order to do a job tens of thousands of miles away: Gary could definitely relate.

  Fortunately, Hettie was still asleep. It was almost certainly the first time in weeks that she had slept more than four hours at a stretch. Gary went through to the kitchen. His head hurt and he hunted around for some paracetamol. He found four and took them with whisky. He walked over to the front window and picked up the letter from the mantelpiece. He opened the envelope and read the contents. He then pulled the blinds open, causing Hettie to stir as the sunlight flashed across her face.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s still only half-seven,’ said Gary. ‘Ye managed tae sleep for a wee while there, Hets.’

  ‘Is Bobby back yet?’

  ‘Naw. Ah don’t think he’ll be back today. Let him come tae terms wi’ it an’ ah’ll go an’ see him tomorrow. We’ll need tae sort out the funeral soon anyway.’ Hettie started to sob. ‘Hey. Hey, come on. It’ll be a’right. Don’t cry, Hettie. Ah didnae mean tae upset ye again.’ Gary put his arm around his sister.

  ‘Ah’m fine Gary. It’s just … it was a bit ae a shock tae see ye standing there,’ said Hettie.

  ‘Who’s DM?’ asked Gary, showing her the card.

  ‘Ah don’t really know. A guy called Doc or Don-somethin’ phoned a couple of times a wee while ago.’

  ‘Whit would he be sayin’ sorry about?’

  ‘Dunno. Hang on, though, there was also a note ah fished out the bin. Ah kept it somewhere. Try that drawer over there.’

  Gary recovered the crumpled note.

  ‘Canny think ae anybody wi’ the initials DM,’ said Gary. His headache was blinding now. The paracetamol was having no effect. But Gary did go and pour another whisky.

  ‘A bit early for that Gary, Christ!’ said Hettie.

  ‘Ah need it, Hets. Ah need it to stop aw the shakin’.’

  ‘I think the guy’s second name was Martin. He phoned a few times after we’d heard about you. Ah didnae get a proper message cos’ my head was all ower the place that week.’

  ‘Doc Martin? The gangster?’ asked a surprised Gary.

  ‘Ah dunno. Is he?’ said Hettie. ‘Ah think Bobby kens him, as well.’

  ‘So whit happened then, after Dad went tae meet him?’ Gary held the crumpled note up for reference. He was aware that it was strange to be interrogating her like this, but he felt that something didn’t quite add up. Two notes from a local hood in a week, one asking for a meeting. His dad was a school janny, for fuck’s sake!

  ‘Anything else happen, Het?’

  ‘Gary, ah’ve been up tae here wi’ aw this. Ah don’t ken whether ah’m comin’ or goin’ half the time. Ah huvnae slept properly for about a month an’ ma mam doesnae even ken who ah am!’ She began to sob again.

  ‘Aw, Hettie look ah’m sorry.’ Gary cuddled his sister. ‘Look at the state ae us, eh?’ Hettie broke away and got up to get a hankie.

  ‘Dad came home wi’ a cut face the day he went tae see that guy.’ Hettie looked ashamed.

  ‘Why did ye no say that before?’ pleaded Gary. ‘That makes a difference.’

  ‘Dad said he fell. He said he hit his head off a stone wall. Ah never thought more about it until ye showed me that card there.’

  ‘So why was it no the first thing ye told me?’

  ‘Cos’ ah’m worried about ye, Gary. Yer all over the place yerself.’

  ‘Whit dae ye think ah’m gonnae dae, Hettie. Mickey Martin’s a mental case. Ah’m hardly gonnae go an’ take him on when ah’m just back.’

  ‘Right. Well, then, just forget whit ah said tae ye about Dad’s face. He died ae a heart attack an’ nothin’s gonnae bring him back now.’

  ‘Aye.’

  But Gary couldn’t put it out of his mind. He left the house to go to the bookies, pick up some cigarettes and just wander around the
town. He went out the back door and over the school fields. Gary normally left the house this way, but on this particular morning, when he opened the front door to bring in the milk, he felt certain he’d seen a long telescopic lens sticking out of a car window further down Almond Avenue. Walking over the fields a backfiring car engine caused him to throw himself instinctively to the turf. He picked himself up, shaken but grateful that the image wouldn’t be on a front page somewhere. He also went into the Clansman, and then the Auld Hoose, and then the Kings Arms. He sat drinking whisky, alone. No matter how much he drank, it had no effect. He couldn’t blot out the memories, the screams, the flashing lights, the dead … his dad … Mickey Martin.

  In the Kings Arms, a mate from his old football team bought him a drink, and asked to meet up at Mickey Martin’s new place when it opened at the weekend. It was called The Metropolis. Supposed to be brilliant. Under the multi-storey car park. See you there, then.

  Aye.

  3RD JULY 1982: 6:15PM

  ‘Look, ah’m just lettin’ ye ken. There might be a real problem wi’ the opening. Aye, ah ken … look, listen … Will ye fuckin’ listen tae me a minute? The work’ll get done, ah’ve sorted that, but it’s the permissions. We’ve got a big problem wi’ the fire certificates … Aye … It’s because the thing’s in a fuckin’ concrete bunker, basically … Naw, naw there’s nothin’ ah can dae about that now, but ah will sort it. I’m goin’ away the night for a coupla days up tae St Andrews. It’ll be fixed when ah get back … Aye, aye, look, just don’t panic, right! Aye, see ye.’

  ‘Who was that on the phone, Mickey?’

  ‘Naebody, Ella, just a bit ae business. Are ye ready tae go?’

  ‘Aye, Mickey. Car’s packed. Ye’ve just tae set the alarm.’

  3RD JULY 1982: 8:25PM

  ‘Nae sign, Des?’

  ‘Naw, Boss. Naebody’s seen him for days. He’s no been goin’ intae the Metro an’ he’s no been home either.’ This latest turn of events had flabbergasted Des Brick. ‘Ah canny believe Wullie took the cash, Franny. How would he ken the combination?’