Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 15
In typical fashion, Inky had cultivated a better relationship with my former bandmates than I now enjoyed. I saw Bingo here and there, but she had moved on without a backwards look. Chic and Reef, on the other hand, retained the bitterness forged in Phoenix two years earlier. Both believed I had robbed them of their future. Both now tolerated me solely because I was Inky’s brother, and his best man. The organiser of his stag do.
The front door to Inky’s flat was open. I should’ve been there at 1.00pm. I was over an hour late. I can’t recall why. It’s unimportant except that it led to me hearing Chic, typically louder than he needed to be.
Where is that annoying cunt? he said. Jeez, fucken best man, tae.
I now stood at the end of the hall, eavesdropping on the conversation coming from Inky’s living room. It was the day of Live Aid. I didn’t share the nation’s anticipation. I thought it tasteless. The richest people in the world exhorting members of the public to dig deep into already strained domestic budgets to excuse long-term inaction from governments. Meanwhile, the rich people on stage had their profiles raised. Wonder how many artists would’ve battered down Bob Geldof’s door for a slot if they’d had to donate all profits from their rocketing record sales for the year following their performance. Live Aid was certainly momentous, and yet still seemed to stir up some resentments among my former bandmates.
Fucken pish, this. That could’ve been us oan there, instead ae Nick bastart Kershaw.
I heard Reef’s voice but couldn’t see him through the crack in the open door.
Aye, an’ if ma auntie had baws she’d be ma uncle, said Inky.
Just sayin’, said Reef.
Well don’t. If it hudnae been for Jamie, none ae you balloons would’ve been tae America, never mind on Top ae the Pops, so shut the fuck up.
Inky always stuck up for me when my so-called mates revisited what they had lost and who they considered was to blame for depriving them of their future.
Cannae help it sometimes, said Chic.
I glimpsed on Inky’s glass-topped table the powdery trails that must be emboldening the redundant drummer.
We were aw set back then … a deal wi’ yon Seymour Stein lined up an’ everythin’. Then that daft cunt gets his arm cut open an’ the game’s a fucken bogey.
Christ Almighty, that wis hardly his fault, wis it? said Inky.
Ye get one chance in life – an’ that wis oors. Jamie refusin’ tae leave an’ fly back hame immediately an’ deal with the media. That’s what fucked us, said Reef.
Auld news, son, said my brother. Move on wi’ yer life, for Christ’s sake.
Ye watch somethin’ like this, an’ it really hits ye hard, Inky.
Well, he might be a miserable bastart, but he’s still ma brother – and ma best man, so lay off it th’ day, right?
Aye. S’pose, said Reef.
Qué será, eh, lads? No’ many other cunts in ma Job Centre queue have done a line wi’ the wee Madonna, like.
Now this was a surprise. Kenny McFadden. Where the fuck had he sprung from? And more importantly, why had Inky allowed him to come on the stag? Kenny had disappeared like snow off a baker’s roof when the American dream was dead.
Right, said Inky. Knock the greetin’ oan the heid. Talkin’ ae which, get these doon ye’se. Ah’ve got a stag night tae get tae. Ah’ll leave Jamie a note on the front door. Tell him we’ll get him an’ the other yins at Tennents.
I moved swiftly backwards. Before slinking down the tenement’s stairs and heading for the comparative safety of the betting shop, I heard my brother shout:
Hey, which one ae you lazy bastarts left the front door open? Were ye’se aw born in Tollcross Park?
Took yer time, eh? Inky said, spotting me.
Sneaking in late, fifty quid down on the Shawfield dogs, and hoping for both failures to go unnoticed despite it being my responsibility for organising the day. He was at the bar completing an order.
He’ll get these, he informed the barman, before winking at me.
Ten poun’ fifty, son, said the barman.
Can ye add another pint ae lager on, mate, I said.
Aye. That’ll be eleven pounds an’ fifty-five pence.
I watched him pour as men lined the busy bar two deep, jostling for position and his attention.
Looks like Charlie Nicholas, him, said the barman.
The television above the gantry showed Bono from U2 dancing with a young woman he’d plucked out of the crowd. You had to hand it to the cunt, he was an entertainer. That night at Tiffany’s – the last time I saw Brian Mason – the Irish singer was clambering all over the speaker stacks, just one misplaced footing away from breaking his fucking neck. It was exhilarating to watch.
’Member ah told ye they’d be bigger than the Beatles? A familiar voice from behind me. It was Reef.
Aye, ah remember, I said.
Wish that’d been us up there, he said.
It was the theme of the day.
How ye been, Jamie?
Ah’m fine. You?
No’ too bad, pal.
We both stared at the screen. Seconds became minutes, and the minutes felt like hours.
Thinkin’ ae gettin’ another band goin’, he said.
Aye. Ah thought ye might. I said this with an edge I hadn’t intended.
Whit’s that meant tae mean? He was suddenly aggrieved. I knew it wouldn’t take much.
Eh? He’d caught me cold. What d’ye mean? I asked him.
Two anxious amateur boxers shadowing each other. Reluctant to land the first punch.
Ye bloody expect me tae hang about waitin’ for you tae come tae yer senses then?
Mate, that’s the last fucken thing ah expect, I said.
Silence. Staring.
Here’s yer change, son. The barman’s bell interrupted us. Back to our respective corners. We had nowhere else to go with this. So, he brushed past me. Off to the toilets. And if it hadn’t already been, the tone was set for the rest of a tortuous and traumatic day.
We drifted from bar to pub, away from the West End. Knocked back from Henry Afrikas and Cardinal Follies, drawn further back east and closer to where we’re from. To where we’ll end up. It took three times as long for us to flow from Byres Road to Duke Street than for Phil Collins to appear at Wembley and then across the Atlantic at the John F. Kennedy stadium. Then again, the Genesis singer had more purpose. The original eleven comprised those I’ve noted, plus Inky’s firefighting colleagues and Suzy’s brothers, both of whom were paralytic by mid-evening and had either peeled away on their own or were left behind in the drunken debris.
This is a fucken shite stag, said Chic to the others, but loud enough for me to hear.
The boy deserves better, the accusation being levelled. Tequila slammers – and the added pickled mezcal worms for the stag – comprised the evening menu. I held the kitty. I was on the bell. Drinks passed around one at a time since I still couldn’t trust my right hand’s grip with the weight of a tray. I was able to pace my own consumption; one to every three of theirs. The performances from London, and then later Philadelphia, were the talk of the town. Tattooed, muscular arms held aloft and around broad Glaswegian shoulders, prompted by the intoxicated spirit of benevolent aid for others less fortunate. There must be an answer, Let It Be.
Remember that time Reef fucked Madonna? said Chic as we staggered through the maze of Dennistoun streets, spilling kebab meat – and Inky spilling his stomach contents at regular intervals. Kenny McFadden muttered something unintelligible, and the drunken firemen laughed.
An’ just before Jamie fucked all ae us, if memory serves, Reef added, slurring the words.
Fuck off, I said tamely.
The drunken firemen laughed again.
Aye, that wis oor time, said Chic.
He and I less incapacitated than the others.
The time ye fucken snorted Brian, thinkin’ it was Charlie? That time, ye mean? I countered. Aye, fucken time ae oor lives, pal, right enough.
We were headed somewhere serious.
Is it no’ time for you tae be hame wi yer Horlicks an’ yer slippers, an’ tuckin’ in yer snobby missus? asked Chic. Ya borin’ cunt, ye!
A fight burst out from the Variety Bar just ahead. It grabbed the attention. The pub was known locally as Shotgun Central. Passers-by could easily get caught in the crossfire. The tension between Chic and I simmered, and we took a strategic right on the corner. We strolled on beyond the packed boozer, down derelict, deserted industrial streets and back towards Inky’s place across the river. But I couldn’t let the former drummer’s slight go.
Borin’? I said.
Whit? he answered.
Ye called me a borin’ cunt.
Aye. So? Ye always have been. Her tae.
On the basis ae what?
He pondered this, and then said:
It’s yer brother’s stag an’ ye’ve done fuck all that yer supposed tae. You’re his best man, are ye no’?
Like what? Strip him bollock naked an’ superglue his baws tae a lamppost? Somethin’ like that … like what you’d dae? I said.
Aye. Somethin’ that he’ll remember an’ have a fucken laugh about for the rest ae his life. Spewin’ the fucken worm’s a bit tame, mate. Every cunt does that.
Chic had been winding me up all day and it had become impossible to ignore. I glanced at Inky, suspended between his drunken colleagues. Like exhausted soldiers carting a wounded, unconscious comrade off the battlefield. He wouldn’t even remember anything we did to him. But with the booze clouding my perspective, Chic’s goading made me feel like I’d let my brother down badly. That the night hadn’t been special enough. The stag stories the other firefighters had told during the journey east wouldn’t be getting a new chapter following this mediocre failure. I’d been a bad choice as best man and, once sober, Inky would realise it too.
Well? Chic said, finger in my chest.
Well whit? Get tae fuck, I said.
Fucken telt ye. Borin’. An’ a bastardin’ chicken, tae, he said.
Swinging a punch would’ve been pointless. Plus, that wasn’t the way I’d have wanted Inky’s stag night to be remembered. I breathed in. Looked down at my shoes. And then up towards the other side of the street. Desperate to fight back.
See that wee truck ower there? I said to Chic.
Whit about it? he answered.
We’re gonnae tie Inky tae the back ae it, I said.
An’ leave him in it overnight?
Aye.
Christ, ye took yer time, but finally … the fucken best man has turned up, he said.
It took us almost half an hour. Inky was now strapped with our belts to the metal bar behind the cab. Shirt off, head down, arms stretched out like a crucified Jesus. My heart pounded. The firemen clapped. The former Hyptones drummer baited.
Why don’t ye park it doon the street tae? said Chic. Away fae the streetlights where nae cunt can see it. That’d be funnier.
Steal a fucken truck … without the keys? Aye, aw’right, ya dopey bastard.
Nae fucken trouble tae me, said Chic.
Five minutes later, Chic had broken into it and had wired the engine.
Oan ye go then, he taunted. Dae it, dae it, dae it, dae it, he sang.
The drunken firemen had wandered away. The entertainment was over for them.
I looked over, and Reef shook his head. Kenny McFadden mouthed don’t. But I did. I climbed into the cab. I rolled down the window. I crunched the gears putting it in first. Handbrake off. I moved it a few feet, arm out of the window. My twisted fingers formed a V-sign.
Dae it, dae it, dae it, dae it.
Jamie, said Reef. Quietly, but I heard him. And I ignored him.
The road ahead was clear. No-one was around. Just a few feet would be enough. Into the darkness.
Dae it, dae it, dae it, dae it … ya fucken pussy.
Anything to shut that aggravating cunt up.
The vehicle shunted. It moved more. It jerked. I accelerated. My head spun. My heart pounded in my chest. My hand struggled with the grip. I panicked. I couldn’t see the road ahead. I couldn’t remember which pedal was the brake and which one made it go faster.
Dae it, dae it, dae it, dae it, growing faint.
Careering. Accelerating. And then we were out of road. Sharply down and to the left. Down. And to the left.
There was shouting from behind me. And then nothing. The icy coldness of dirty water rushed into the cab through the open window. And then all went black, and all sound was extinguished.
7
Humility? It may yet become my only virtue.
The worst thing about the aftermath wasn’t seeing Inky once he was well enough to leave hospital. It wasn’t even watching Suzy as she rolled his wheelchair down a temporary wooden ramp at my parents’ house. And it certainly wasn’t the inevitable assault from my da, which left me with a depressed eye socket. It was appreciating just how much my momentary recklessness had altered the course of their entire lives. The terrible acknowledgement that I’d destroyed Suzy’s chance of a family with the person she’d loved since they were both fourteen. People change so much during that formative decade from their mid-teens to mid-twenties. But the bond between Inky and Suzy had only strengthened. By contrast, Anna and I were merely a sticking plaster for each other’s physical and psychological wounds. Arguably still are. My brother and his fiancée were the real thing. A love that endures; that survives. And it now had to survive the loss of his career; of him doing the one job that he’d always dreamed of. And it had to survive them finding a new home, now that his inaccessible first-floor flat was up for sale, before Suzy had even moved in.
On the instruction of Ronnie’s solicitor, I stayed clear of my family, and all connected with them, for fear of making his job harder. My defence was a drunken prank gone tragically wrong. No provable mens rea – no intent, and therefore no crime, at least in relation to Inky. The lawyer dropped any reference to me acting on the encouragement of others at the scene.
It’s of no consequence to the prosecution, he’d said. Plus, it’ll play better with the court if you accept sole responsibility.
So I did. A guilty plea to the theft of the vehicle and the accompanying charges of driving with no insurance, no licence, and – obviously – driving while well over the limit. The punishment? A substantial fine, making me even more indebted to Ronnie Mason. A year of cleaning up Dennistoun as part of a community-service chain gang. And a seven-year ban from driving. I received a second battering. This time, a fully anticipated one from Annabelle’s da. Punishment for the case drawing the interest of the newspapers and an unwanted media spotlight shining briefly on the Mason empire. It resulted in a spell on a Royal Infirmary ward. But it felt like a more appropriate sanction than the one the judge imposed.
On top of everything else, I was accumulating a significant personal deficit at the bookies I was supposed to be managing for Ronnie. My options were running out.
You’re gonnae disappear, son, Ronnie said to me.
It was 1986. My twelve-month community payback order had just been completed. We were out in his car, with two of his associates in the back. Ronnie Mason’s business, such as it was, couldn’t afford the tabloid spotlight I was drawing. Sat there in the passenger seat, high up on Cathkin Braes, looking north over the city like it was the beginning of a Taggart episode, I was briefly reminded of Michael Corleone. His imminent sojourn to Sicily after murdering Sollozzo and the bent police captain, McCluskey, was tactical. A heroic return would be possible for him, but only after the years had passed and the memories had faded. I wouldn’t be returning. I knew it was only his daughter’s pleading – and my connection with Brian – that saved me from a more permanent disappearance deep down in the surrounding wetlands.
I departed Glasgow with the hundred pounds Ronnie gave me, the clothes I was standing in, and the case containing my Fender Villager twelve-string, the return of which was the only positive to emerge from the ashes of The Hyptones’ implosion.
Ronnie Mason played fair by his daughter. Or so it had seemed to me at the time. He reached out. His contacts in London got me employment there. Low-level stuff. Filing and administrative duties for a Bermondsey-based used-car dealership. Followed by more dogsbody duties. But it paid for a room and about enough food to survive. I picked up some things cheaply. A mattress, a standard lamp, the odd chair from a local IKEA. Of course, anything I had – or added to – I subsequently sold to fund the low-volatility slot machines at The Trocadero.
Gambling is the ultimate high. That moment when your number comes up, your unfancied horse noses out in front, a lowly third-division team comes from behind to complete the unlikeliest of seven-game accumulators. There’s nothing compares to surfing that dopamine rush. During those initial years away from Glasgow, I was the happiest I’d ever been. The weird paradox of my situation had given me a modicum of independence, without being constantly reminded of the weight of responsibility for the band’s break-up. I was out of my father’s firing line. And without the painful reminders of what I’d done to my brother. But then – as it always did – my luck turned. The numbers mocked me. Horses as non-starters. Tabs grew into inescapable debts. Gentle reminders given on first-name terms became regular visits to A&E.
My addiction had always been in me. The joy my father experienced in money won more than money earned was unlike any other he demonstrated. His conviviality extended to everyone on these occasions. Where other men’s lives were dull and boring, his appeared vital. Exhilarating. Gambling’s capacity to change men, to make them become somehow better than they were following a win, excited me. It was intoxicating. It was the only time I recall wanting to be like him. To experience what gave him that pleasure, what made him everybody’s pal.
