by Alan Parks
‘She got you hooked?’ asked McCoy.
Angela shook her head. Smiled. ‘No, I managed to do that all by myself. She kept warning me. Said she was one of the rare people who could take it or leave it and that it wasn’t like that for most people and I should be careful. Went in one ear and out the other.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked McCoy.
She shrugged. ‘She phoned last night. Apparently there’s some place in Upstate New York, a farm with therapists, doctors, gets you off it. She wants me to go.’
‘Are you?’ asked McCoy.
‘Don’t know. It’s expensive. Besides, I’m here. My job is here. That band are here. Might just have to wean myself off.’
‘Not that easy when you’re dealing it,’ said McCoy.
‘Nope. But nothing is, eh, Harry?’ She stubbed out her cigarette in the grass. ‘But you know me,’ she said, ‘not much holds me back.’
‘This might, though. It’s felled better men and women than you.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Always did believe in me, I’ll say that for you.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ he said. ‘I just meant it’ll be difficult.’
She stood up. ‘As is life, Harry, as is life. And just so we’re clear, I really didn’t shoot up Bobby March. I didn’t care that much about him. Once I’d done my hit out his supply, I was out of there. Past it. Rock stars trying to feel me up aren’t my idea of fun. I’ll see you around.’
She walked back towards London Road. He watched her cross the road, disappear into the entrance of the rehearsal place. He lay back in the grass, looked up at the clouds.
Had no reason to disbelieve Angela and that made it all the more puzzling. If she didn’t shoot up Bobby March, then who did? Had the feeling he wasn’t ever going to find out. Wasn’t too sure if he really cared any more either.
FORTY-THREE
Whatever McCoy had been expecting from his night out with Mila, it wasn’t this. Wasn’t even quite sure what this was. They were standing in a large room with windows over Blythswood Square watching a fat man in dungarees sitting on the floor playing the harmonium and singing some songs that sounded to McCoy like he was making them up on the spot. Two guitarists were sat either side, trying to play along, both looking equally puzzled.
He knew it was going to be something arty by the look of the crowd in the Scottish Arts Council building – half young hippies and half rich-looking middle-aged couples – but this was pushing it.
Apparently, the man they were watching was a famous poet, Allen Ginsberg, and they were supposed to be honoured by his presence. McCoy’d never heard of him – tried to look like he had when Mila told them where they were going. Now, to McCoy’s horror, the musicians had been dismissed and he was reciting one of his poems.
Mila turned to him and smiled. He smiled back, tried to look interested.
She leant into his ear. ‘You want to go, I think?’ she said.
He nodded and they wove their way through the crowd and headed for the door. Outside, it was a beautiful summer night, still light at nine o’clock, heat had died down, was pleasant now.
‘Mr Ginsberg not to your taste?’ asked Mila.
‘Not exactly. You like him?’
‘A bit, but it gets too male for me, you know?’ she said.
McCoy nodded, no real idea what she was talking about. Had been a bit off kilter all evening, wasn’t sure if this was a date or just a thank you for Liam. She was hard to read, Mila, didn’t give much away, and her broken English didn’t help that much either.
‘You fancy a drink?’ he asked.
She nodded. Hit her hand off her forehead. ‘I’ve left my bag in the cloakroom,’ she said. ‘Back in a minute.’
McCoy lit up and sat down on the steps, waiting for her to come back. Tried to think about what pub to go to, then inspiration struck. The Electric Garden. Holy Fire. And it was just round the corner. He heard the door opening behind him and stood up, turned to tell Mila they were going to see a band, but it wasn’t Mila. It was Raeburn. And he didn’t look good.
Didn’t think he’d ever seen Raeburn not suited and booted, Brylcreem hair swept back. Not this time, though. He’d a pair of trousers that looked like he’d slept in them, an un-ironed shirt, five o’clock shadow and half his hair was hanging over his forehead. Stank of drink, too.
‘What you doing here, Raeburn?’ McCoy asked, then it struck him. ‘Are you following me?’
‘Need to speak to you,’ he said.
‘Need to be quick then,’ said McCoy. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’
Raeburn nodded. ‘Saw her. A wee blonde bird. Tasty.’
‘Fuck off, Raeburn. What do you want?’
‘I need you to talk to your wee pal,’ he said.
‘Who? Wattie?’ asked McCoy.
He nodded. ‘Need you to persuade him to tell the inquiry that he came down heavy on Elder, knocked him around, got out of control. Him, not me.’
‘Why the fuck would I want to do that?’ asked McCoy.
Raeburn was looking up and down the square. ‘Want to go for a drink?’
‘No,’ said McCoy.
Raeburn sighed, got a half-full bottle of Bell’s out his trouser pocket, unscrewed the cap, slugged down a good mouthful. Held it out to McCoy. He shook his head and another mouthful went down Raeburn’s gullet.
‘I’m twenty-three years in. Wife and three kids. If they do me, I lose everything. The pension’ll go. I’ll be sacked or demoted to bloody traffic duty. I can’t afford for that to happen. Wattie’s young, inexperienced, he made a mistake. He’ll get a warning, a suspension maybe, he’s got nobody to support, he’ll get by.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Raeburn? A boy killed himself because of you. An innocent boy that you scared the shit out of and bullied and took great pleasure in doing it. That’s different from looking the other way when a landlord puts a twenty in your pocket or when you get a few free drinks and fucks at the shebeen because you’re a cop.’
‘McCoy, don’t be a bastard, just tell him to—’
‘I’m no telling him anything but to tell the truth.’
Raeburn stared at him, took another swig of the bottle. Eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t know why I even asked. Should have known better. You always did have it in for me, McCoy. Ever since Eastern, when you used to turn your nose up at the Friday backhanders. Holier than thou, you were. Better than anyone else. Bet you were waiting for this to happen, rubbing your bloody hands together, running back to Murray to tell him what a bad polis I am and try and get your nose as far up his arse as you can.’
‘Finished?’ said McCoy.
‘I’ve just started,’ said Raeburn, stepping forward. ‘This has been coming a long time, McCoy, so you watch yourself. Next time you’re in trouble and look round for a hand it won’t be there. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll make sure that every polis in this city knows what a pair of backstabbing bastards you and Watson are.’
‘You need to fuck off, Raeburn,’ said McCoy. ‘Before I start taking your shite personally.’
‘Too late,’ said Raeburn. ‘I’ve taken your shite personally, really personally. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this mess. You sniping about behind my back while I was trying to run a station, telling tales, watching me, reporting back . . .’
‘You’re wrong, Raeburn. You’re mad if you think I was wasting my time spying on you. I don’t care that much about you, never have, you’re just another shite cop on the take and in over his head. Wasn’t me that stopped you running that station, it was you and the stupid bloody things you did. Leave me out of it.’
Raeburn smiled at him, took another slug from his bottle. ‘Oh, but I can’t leave you out of it, McCoy, because it’s your fault, and you’re going to pay for that. Unless you persuade Watson, I’m going to come after you. Because I’ll have nothing to lose, will I? May as well be hung for a pound than a penny.’
He moved into Mc
Coy, the stink of whisky on his breath. ‘Get Watson to change his mind or watch your back. The choice is yours, McCoy. The choice is yours.’
McCoy watched him walk down the pavement towards West Regent Street. He’d been right. He was a trapped rat. A very dangerous trapped rat indeed.
‘Got it!’
He turned and Mila was standing there, holding up her bag.
‘Where are we off to?’ she asked.
*
McCoy paid for two tickets and they went in. Almost wished they hadn’t bothered. The Electric Garden was pretty much empty. Obviously The Mob’s career was on a downturn. There was something depressing about empty venues, McCoy always thought. Without the people filling them up, you could see what they were really like. The sticky floor, the peeling wallpaper, the mirrorball missing half its tiles. Apart from him and Mila, there were about thirty people there. Most looked like friends and family of The Mob. Ten or so younger glam rock-looking kids who were maybe there for Holy Fire.
They got some drinks and sat down at a table near the back. McCoy could see Angela hurrying about, looking busy, talking to the guy working the lights, ushering two guys with London accents to a table near the front, setting them up with drinks and a wee wrap dropped into one of their jacket pockets.
Mila seemed happy enough, though, was wandering around taking photos, talking to people, getting them to pose or just to let her photograph them. McCoy sipped his pint and thought about Raeburn. Wasn’t much he could do about him. Wattie was going to tell the truth and chances were Raeburn was right, that was him fucked. Wasn’t quite sure why Raeburn was so determined to blame all his troubles on him, supposed it was easier to blame someone else rather than admitting you’d got yourself in the shit by your own doing.
Mila appeared back, sat down. ‘You sure this band is good?’ she asked, grinning.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Years from now you’ll be boasting you were here.’
She looked around the miserable venue. Didn’t look like she believed him. ‘If you say so.’
Angela looked up from the two guys and he waved. She stood up and came over. ‘You came,’ she said. ‘Thanks for making up the numbers, and remember, clap loud when they come on, okay?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Angela, Mila. Mila, Angela.’
Angela nodded at Mila. ‘Nice to meet you.’ A squeal of feedback and she winced. ‘Better go,’ she said and hurried off towards the stage. Turned and came back. ‘Harry, you look after yourself, eh?’
He nodded, slightly puzzled, and she walked back to the stage.
‘You used to sleep with her, I think,’ said Mila.
‘I did,’ said McCoy.
‘I could tell. The way you looked at each other.’
McCoy nodded.
‘And now you want to sleep with me,’ she said.
He almost spat out his pint. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that!’ he said.
She grinned. ‘Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Good. Me too.’
A rumble and the lights went down. Band made their way onstage. Started in darkness, Jake reciting through the distorted mike.
‘And lo, a Holy Fire came upon the land and cleansed it. Burning the unbelievers, leaving them in ashes in its wake. And those that survived came together in a joyous celebration, a dance of joy, a dance of sex, a dance of now.’
And then the spotlight hit him and he grinned. Silver make-up on his eyes. ‘Hit it,’ he said. And they did.
A guitar like a motorbike starting, pounding drums, Jake singing for his life. Mila turned to him and grinned, held her thumb up. Couldn’t do much more over the deafening noise. She edged closer, put her hand on his thigh.
By the end of the third number, it was on his crotch.
McCoy leant into her. ‘We need to go,’ he said. ‘Or I’m not going to be able to stand up in a minute.’
13th July 1973
Room 514, Royal Stuart Hotel
He thought it was the woman coming back – Annie? Angie? – when he heard the knocking. Must have changed her mind. He made his way to the door, still felt a bit woozy. Coke and mandies – not the best combination, but he was in that kind of mood. Hated coming back to Glasgow, just wanted to be somewhere else, to feel nothing.
He walked through to the hall, bumping off the walls, and saw his bag lying on the floor. He picked it up, weight was all wrong. He knew already, but he looked anyway. All that was in it was a blue jotter, a pen, some receipts. No tape. He sank onto the floor. Knew it was pointless but he did it anyway: looked in the bag again, and again, but it still wasn’t there. She must have taken it. Sudden thought. A ray of hope. Maybe that was her back, going to return it.
He got himself up, opened the door. Found himself looking at a teenage boy, one of the group that had been camping outside. He seemed terrified, had a Bobby March T-shirt on, looked like he’d made it himself, half the glitter had fallen off.
‘You’re not her,’ he said.
The boy looked at him blankly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I just wanted to talk to you, sneaked up the fire exit stairs. I think you’re the best—’
Bobby stopped him, walked back through to the living-room area, sat down on the couch. The tape was gone. Day two of the Rolling Stones audition. The only copy. His get out of jail card. The thing that was going to make people realise how great a guitarist he was again. This album was fucked. He knew it. The record company knew it, everyone knew it. Needed something to make up for it.
He searched amongst the mess on the coffee table for a cigarette, found a packet with a couple in it. Lit up.
He was going to ride this album out, then get the tape released. Get a new deal. Start again. Not any more. He put his head in his hands. Wished he’d never come back to Glasgow. Was still his father’s city. Still the place he had to escape from. The man he had to escape from.
He looked up and the boy was standing there. He had almost forgotten him.
‘What’s your name, son?’ he asked.
‘Jake,’ said the boy.
‘Well, Jake, now that you’re here, maybe you can make yourself useful. I’m too fucked to do it myself. Be a good story to tell your pals.’
The boy nodded. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Bobby smiled to himself, remembered him and Kit Lambert. So naive, he’d asked the same question. Different answer this time.
‘What I want you to do is find a blue washing bag in the toilet somewhere. I’ve probably tried to hide it.’
The boy nodded, disappeared.
Kit Lambert. Hadn’t thought of him for ages. Despite it all, he’d liked him. Had life about him, an energy. He dropped the cigarette on the floor, cursed, picked it up. Was more out of it than he thought.
‘This it?’
March looked up, nodded. ‘Now, Jake, you need to listen to me carefully, eh? Do exactly what I say. That okay?’
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
He talked him through it.
Put the powder in the spoon.
Put a teaspoon of water in with it.
Hold the lighter under it until it bubbles.
Put half a cigarette filter in it.
Put the needle in, suck it up into the syringe.
Tie the rubber tube round the top of my arm.
Wait for a vein.
‘You sure you can do this?’ he asked.
The boy nodded, syringe in hand. Looked like there was a lot in it, wasn’t sure, vision was a bit fuzzy. Didn’t care. All he wanted was to be somewhere else, somewhere safe with no Glasgow, no Dad, no lost tape.
‘Okay.’ He held out his arm. ‘Stick it into a vein.’
The boy nodded, leant over him, pushed the needle in.
‘Not too hard! Jesus!’
‘Sorry,’ said the boy, looking mortified.
‘It’s okay, we’re okay now. Okay, now push the plunger down, slowly!’
The boy nodded, slowly pushed the plastic
stopper down.
Felt it hit almost immediately, smiled to himself, decent stuff. Not what you’d expect in Glasgow. Heard the boy say ‘That okay?’ He tried to nod but his head felt too heavy. He lay back on the couch as the warmth spread through his body. Thought about that day in Sunset Sound, ‘Sunday Morning Symphony’, how he’d nailed it in one. Those were good days, days when he thought everything was going to go his way. That it would alw—
21st July 1973
FORTY-FOUR
He woke up, stretched his arm out to the other side of the bed, but she wasn’t there. He sat up, blinking at the morning light coming through the gap in the bedroom curtains.
‘Morning,’ said Mila. She was sitting on the chair at the end of the bed, camera pointed at him. She clicked the shutter a few times.
‘You’re dressed,’ he said.
‘I am. I said I’d meet Liam at ten in town.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘You’re telling me you’d rather wander around the shiteholes of Glasgow with that big waster than come back to bed with me?’
‘Yep,’ she said. ‘And I’m late.’
She came over, kissed him.
‘McCoy, I don’t want you to think that this is more than it is.’
‘What? You’re telling me that I’m just another notch in your bedpost?’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Precisely.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get over it.’
She kissed him again. ‘Ciao!’
He lay back in the bed, listened to her footsteps, then the door slamming. That was him told.
McCoy spent the rest of the morning doing all the stuff he never did. The laundry, tidying up, buying lightbulbs at Woolworths. Had quite enjoyed it, pottering about, not worrying about work for a change. He was coming back from Galbraith’s, two bags of messages in his hands, when he noticed it. The weather was changing. Had been stuffy all morning – still, heavy air – and now there were black clouds gathering in the distance over the hills. Looked like the heatwave might be about to break.