by Alan Parks
‘Sneaky,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘Oldest trick in the book, but not many people notice. You must be very observant, Harry McCoy.’
‘Comes with the job,’ he said. ‘Strathmore’s up this way.’
FIVE
From the outside it might have been the same old Strathmore but inside everything had changed. Now it was more like a student union. The whole pub was dim, only illumination was green and red light playing over the walls, lighting up the posters of bands and record sleeves stapled to them. The loudest jukebox McCoy had ever heard was blasting out ‘All Right Now’. Even the smell of the place was different. Patchouli oil and sweat as opposed to the usual spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke. It was stifling too, heat hitting you as you walked in.
Clientele had changed as well. The Strathmore had been a drinkers’ pub, men with pints barely talking to each other, watching the clock so’s not to miss last orders. Only young person in there had been the bookie’s boy, who came in to collect the lines from the regulars. McCoy had thought the general atmosphere of misery would fit in with Mila’s project. Not now.
Now everyone was under twenty-five. Boys with long hair and beards in a uniform of denim flares and T-shirts or vest tops, a gloss of sweat on their faces. Girls all had long straight hair, dungarees or hot pants, platform shoes. Couple of them even had wee stars stuck to their cheeks. And every one of them, boy or girl, seemed to be smoking a roll-up.
He managed to get a wee table as far from the jukebox as possible and Mila sat down, took her jacket off immediately and asked for a vodka and tonic. McCoy took his jacket off too, rolled up his sleeves, took his tie off, scrunched it into his pocket and undid the top buttons of his shirt. Felt a bit less like a cop.
‘You be all right?’ he asked. ‘Be back in a minute.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said a girl sitting at the next table. ‘We’ll look after her. Come and sit with us. Come on, hen!’
Mila tried to say she was okay but the girl wasn’t taking no for an answer. She cleared a space on the bench beside her and patted it.
‘Here. Here’s a space. C’mon!’
Mila gave up, got up, and sat down beside her. Tried to put her bag on the table but couldn’t find any space amongst the empty glasses and ashtrays. The girls at the table looked like they’d been at it for a while, all looked pleasantly stoned or drunk. All of them shouted hello, started to chat. One of them asked her where she got her top. Another one offered her a slug of her pint.
McCoy left them to it, walked up to the bar, taking a good look around as he did so. No Laura or Donny MacRae to be seen anywhere. Stood aside as two girls helping another one to the toilets barged past. The one they were rescuing had obviously taken something that didn’t agree with her: her eyes were wide, she was mumbling about ‘the eyes in the wallpaper’, half crying, half giggling, feet dragging along the floor.
The jukebox whirred again, clunked as the record fell and ‘Drive-In Saturday’ started blasting out. McCoy pushed his way through the crush of sweaty bodies at the bar and got in by the far end. At least some things at the Strathmore hadn’t changed. Tam Dixon was still behind the bar, scars, scowl and buzz-cut intact.
They shook hands. ‘Harry McCoy,’ said Tam. ‘Long time no see, what brings you up here?’
‘What’s going on, Tam?’ asked McCoy, looking round at the crowd of youngsters, some of them even dancing in the space where the dominoes tables used to be. ‘When did all this happen?’
Tam leant forward to make himself heard above the jukebox.
‘Year or so ago. Was Wee Tam that did it. Got the jukebox in, got all the young ones coming. You’re lucky there’s no a band on tonight, the place’d be even busier then.’ A girl along the bar shouted ‘yoo-hoo’ and waved a pound note at him. Tam glowered at her, and the pound note and smile disappeared.
‘Tell you something, Harry, it’s bloody chronic, noise and spewing lassies everywhere, but fuck me do they young ones drink – never made so much bloody money in my life.’
A boy squeezed in beside McCoy at the bar, Mickey Mouse T-shirt, flared cords and sandshoes. Must have been dancing earlier, long hair plastered to his head with sweat. Tam served him, handed over two pints.
‘You not bothering about age any more, Tam?’ asked McCoy, watching the boy weave his way back to the dancers and hand one of the pints over to a girl that looked like Marianne Faithfull’s younger sister. ‘He can’t have been more than sixteen, it’s like a bloody youth club in here.’
‘That what you’re here for, Harry?’ Tam said, defensively. ‘Check up on my customers?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Nope. Habit. Can’t help myself.’
He took the picture of Laura Murray out his pocket and handed it over. ‘You see her in here the past couple of nights?’
Tam dug a pair of black-framed specs out his trouser pocket, put them on and looked hard at the picture, moving it closer in to focus. He shook his head. ‘Naw, never seen her before.’
‘You been going to acting classes, Tam?’ asked McCoy. ‘That what the specs are for? Trying to look convincing? She was in here the other night, Donny MacRae’s hands all over her arse. She’s fifteen. I’m a big polis now. A detective. I could have this place shut down in twenty minutes, so stop taking the piss.’
Tam sighed. He nodded at a young barman with frizzy ginger hair and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt to take over, lifted up the counter hatch and beckoned McCoy through. McCoy followed him past the payphone on the wall, the crates of empty bottles, the big metal barrels, into the living room.
He pulled the door shut behind him and the shouts and David Bowie cut off immediately. McCoy looked around. Swirly blue carpet, black-and-white telly with the sound down, Robin Day mouthing away, painting of a Highland glen above the mantelpiece. Home Sweet Home.
Tam poured him a whisky from the bottle on the sideboard, the good stuff, not the stuff he served at the bar, and lowered his bulk onto the couch.
‘You’re right enough. She was in here the other night, pissed she was, making an arse of herself. She left with him, Donny MacRae.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘You know him, do you?’
McCoy nodded. ‘One of Alec Page’s boys, isn’t he?’
Tam whistled through his teeth. ‘Not any more, he’s not. Alec Page’s in the hospital. No be getting out for a long while.’
‘He’s what?’ asked McCoy. ‘What happened?’
Tam wound the gold tape off a new packet of Kensitas and lit up.
‘Happened a couple of weeks ago, they found him in a flat in Barlornock. Two big slashes across his face, nose was damn near off. Top of his ears cut off too.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘And that’s no even the worst of it. Somebody told me they’d broken each of his fingers as well, bones all shattered.’
‘Did they get someone for it?’ McCoy asked.
Tam snorted a laugh. ‘What you asking me for? You’re the bloody polis!’
‘Aye well, Balornock’s no my patch. Would have been through Northern. They get anyone? Mind you, it’d be a first for those clowns if they did.’
Tam shook his head, took a swallow of his whisky. ‘Naw, and I don’t think they ever will. Nobody’s talking, but let’s just say it’s Donny MacRae that runs Page’s boys now. Take from that what you will.’
‘Is the girl with him?’ asked McCoy.
Tam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She was the other night. Hope it’s no permanent, for her sake as well as yours. Don’t get to be a top boy like MacRae without being a right bastard.’
McCoy swallowed over the rest of his whisky and put the glass down on the tile-topped coffee table. ‘I need to find her, Tam.’
Tam looked reluctant, fiddled with the butts in the ashtray on the arm of his chair. Finally decided to speak. Sounded serious, scared even. ‘I never told you this, Harry, I mean it. I don’t want MacRae coming anywhere near me. Don’t even want him to know my name. Promise?’
<
br /> McCoy nodded.
‘He’s a bad bastard right enough, stories I could tell—’
McCoy held his hands up. ‘Okay, okay! I get the picture, Tam. You’re shiteing yourself. Nobody’ll hear anything from me. Deal?’
Tam went to nod and started coughing instead. Proper deep smoker’s cough. Spat some phlegm into a cloth hanky, had a look, then folded it away.
‘MacRae’s got a flat over in Dennistoun. Whitehill Street. Last close before the factory. If he’s no in here or in the Lamplight with his boys, he’ll be there.’
McCoy left Tam sitting in the wee sitting room and made his way back to the bar. Got the vodka and tonic for Mila and a pint for himself. Weaved his way back to the table. Was about to say sorry for taking so long when he realised the table was empty. Mila and the girls had gone.
‘You the polis?’
He turned and a boy with long brown hair and a beard was standing there holding a pint.
McCoy nodded.
‘Mila said to tell you she’s gone to a party, not to worry about her.’ He held out McCoy’s jacket. ‘Said she’ll see you another time.’
McCoy stood there, drink in one hand, suit jacket in the other, feeling like a right arse – an old right arse at that. Red wine at dinner must have got to him, making him think he was all that, impressing Mila. Seemed obvious now. Why would a girl like Mila, ten years younger, beautiful, talented, be interested in him? A thirty-year-old polis in a John Collier suit, hair starting to go grey, sweat stains on his shirt.
He knocked back the vodka and tonic, left the pint on the table. If he was quick he could make the lock-in at the Victoria. Sit there setting the world to rights along with all the other sad lonely bastards looking for one more drink on a Friday night.
Jukebox started again. T. Rex. Definitely time to go. He took one last look round for Laura Murray, but she was nowhere to be seen. There were lots of girls like her, though. Too young to be here, too much make-up, too drunk to look after themselves. The only difference was they didn’t come from Bearsden or have fathers that were councillors or uncles that were police chiefs. Didn’t have people like him looking for them.
McCoy squeezed past a winching couple, pushed the door open and stepped out onto Maryhill Road. Breathed in the fresh air, then lit up. Threw his match into the gutter and started walking.
Someone else would have to worry about them.
8th August 1965
Richmond
The Beatkickers were over before they began. Single didn’t get played on the radio, didn’t get in the charts, and Parlophone suddenly didn’t want to know. That was that. Everyone went home except him. No way was he going back to Arden, to his dad telling him he was right and he should have been an apprentice joiner after all.
So he stayed in London, pawned his suit, got a room in some house in Kensal Rise. Him and a crowd of Irish navvies. They saw his guitar, told him he could make money playing in the pubs around Kilburn, so he did. Ended up playing with a band that had a residency at the Galtymore. They played whatever was in the charts that week, Irish ballads for the older guys, ‘Happy Birthday’. He didn’t mind it, made some money, started buying dope from the West Indian guys on Bonchurch Road. Had a good time. But he knew he was just treading water.
Started looking in Melody Maker, found out where the good bands were playing. Eel Pie Island, the Marquee. Started taking a night a week off from the Irish pubs, going to see people, trying to make friends. Trying to get closer to what he wanted. A real band.
Was at the Marquee one night watching The Who and got talking to some guy who said he was their manager, funny-looking posh guy with wavy hair, said his name was Kit. Bobby told him he was a guitarist and the guy told him Long John Baldry was starting a new group and was looking for someone. Then he told him if he played his cards right he’d get him an audition. So he did.
*
Sun was up, getting hot. Bobby finished the last of the joint, flicked it in the river and started walking back towards the Athletic Grounds. Had to weave his way through all the people sitting on the grass. All of them stoned or pretending to be, passing bottles of cheap red wine. Finally made it to where the stage had been set up and wandered round the back. Saw John, couldn’t miss him really, all six foot seven of him. He started to walk towards him and realised he was surrounded by Eric Burdon, Julie Driscoll, young Stevie Winwood. He turned and started walking the other way.
Just what he needed for his first gig. He was nervous enough with knowing all those guys would be there. John had told him there might be a few guests, he seemed to know everyone, but he wasn’t expecting that. He sat down near a couple with a puppy and the girl leant over, offered him a drink from their bottle of wine. He took a deep slug, said thank you. He knew he could play, he never worried about that. Finding something to say to those kinds of guys, that was the bit he worried about.
‘Oi! Wanker!’ A cockney voice from across the way.
He looked up and Rod was walking towards him. He smiled. Rod the Mod. Hair backcombed and pushed forward, white jeans, black turtleneck, striped blazer. Only one of them that paid attention to him, that he could talk to, liked the fact he was from Glasgow.
‘What you sitting here for?’ asked Rod, eyeing the girl with the puppy.
Bobby shook his head. ‘Just having a think.’
‘Yeah, well, forget that. We’re on in twenty minutes. Just enough time to get pissed.’
Bobby nodded, stood up. ‘Tell me why it is you’re Scottish again?’ he asked, as they walked towards the backstage area.
‘Because I say I am, you prick!’ shouted Rod.
Then he clattered him on the back of the head and started running. Turned and shouted, ‘Hurry up! Nineteen minutes now!’
14th July 1973
SIX
If McCoy needed reminding what a big deal the Glasgow Fair was, he got it as soon as the cab turned into Killermont Street. Thirty or so special buses were lined up outside the bus station, paper destination signs pasted to their front windows. Dunoon, Fairlie, Troon. The drivers all standing outside them, caps on the back of their heads, sleeves rolled up, having a last fag, passing round a bottle of Irn-Bru.
The taxi stopped at the lights and McCoy watched the long line of families waiting to board. Mums and dads, the occasional granny, all of them laden down with bags and cases, trying and failing to calm down excited weans dressed up for the trip. Must have been a couple of hundred of them. All looking forward to a fortnight in some boarding house with cruet extra and nylon sheets. They were welcome to it.
He leant forward in the seat and took his jacket off, rolled up his shirt sleeves. Was only half eight and must have been sixty odds already. The heatwave was showing no signs of ending. McCoy liked a nice day as much as the next man, but it was starting to get too much. Glasgow wasn’t used to this kind of weather either, didn’t suit it somehow. The harsh sunlight showed up the reality of the city – no cloudy weather or drizzly rain to soften the picture. The sunlight picked out the decay, the rubbish on the streets, the ruined faces on the group of shaky men outside the off-licence waiting for it to open.
The city had become dusty, dry; it even smelt different, of hot asphalt and drains and bins gone over in the heat. This was the kind of weather that made people edgy, do stupid things, drink too much, start fights. The kind of stuff Glasgow needed more of like a hole in the head.
He started yawning as they drove towards the centre of town, found it hard to stop. He wasn’t used to being up this early on a Saturday morning, but needs must. Fact he’d been in the Victoria until after twelve probably wasn’t helping much either. Could still picture himself standing in the Strathmore with a pint in one hand, a vodka in the other. Not a pretty picture. Still felt like an arse. He’d called into the shop as soon as he’d woken up. Still no news, according to Billy. Everyone was at it full tilt but they were still working in the dark.
The reason he was up so early was because guys like D
onny MacRae normally weren’t and he wanted to catch him still half asleep, unawares. And if Laura Murray had stayed the night with him all the better. Would have her home before lunchtime. Might even get a chance to spend the afternoon in the park with the paper and some sandwiches and a few cans.
Ten minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the Wills Factory on Alexandra Parade. He’d always liked the factory for some reason, looked like a thirties palace, big signs saying ‘Capstan’ on one wing, ‘Golden Virginia’ on the other. This was the first time he’d seen it shut up, though, chains on the gates, doors locked. The Glasgow Fair: the two weeks when the factories closed and you took your holidays, whether you liked it or not.
He paid the driver, crossed the road and started down Whitehill Street. The line of soot-stained tenements stretched up one side, chemical works the other. One lonely Austin Morris parked half up on the pavement. He found the close Tam had told him about, number 286. ‘SPUR YA BASS’ in white paint on the wall and a broken window with brown tape over the cracks next to the entrance.
He dropped his fag, stood on it and stepped into the darkness of the close. Had to admit a part of him thought Murray and the girl’s parents were going about this the wrong way. Seemed to him the easiest way to get someone like Laura back was to just let her go. Was pretty sure the glamour of staying in a single end in a shite close like this with a boyfriend that could hardly string two words together, no matter how good-looking he was, would wear off pretty soon. No money, no family, just someone like Donny MacRae asking her why she hadn’t done his washing and giving her a slap to make sure he did. Still, wasn’t up to him, he was just doing what he was told. Better get on with it.
He made it to the top floor, picking his way through the empty beer bottles and newspapers that littered the top landing, stood in front of MacRae’s front door and listened.