Free The Last Days of Disco by David F. Ross Page A

Joey Miller – pragmatic fixer – obstinately
tails
down.
    â€˜We’re out here stood on the fuckin’ pavement … it’s half-past two in the mornin’ … the gear’s gettin’ soaked fae aw this fuckin’ rain … we didnae get paid … an’ there’s nae van here to pick us up!’ Joey stood up for greater effect. ‘Ah’m really not sure how that fits intae the definition ae
a’right
.’
    â€˜But …’
    â€˜An’ another thing. If ah hear that fuckin’ Shakin’ Stevens record one more time, I’m gonnae fuckin’ kill somebody … probably you!’ Joey sat back down on the big black speaker and folded his arms. He was breathing hard and had turned away from Bobby to look down the length of John Finnie Street.
    Bobby decided not to push it further for the moment. He reckoned that Joey’s frustration was borne of crushing disappointment. Inthe week running up to the gig – even though there only was one, Bobby had continually referred to it as a ‘gig’ to seduce Joey into believing that they were a part of the live music industry – Joey’s demeanour had changed to one in which his nervous anticipation was palpable. There remained a lingering concern about the number of records required for a night of mobile DJ-ing and it was clear from the outset that neither man would be making any money from this inaugural activity. But both had recognised the excitement of this do-it-yourself venture when rehearsing with the decks in Bobby’s bedroom. They had become comfortable with the equipment since picking it up from Hairy Doug’s at the beginning of a week-long hire. He’d turned out to be a decent – if unapologetically squalid –
geezer
, patiently demonstrating how the spaghetti of cables all found their various input and output points to provide life for the machine.
    â€˜It’s all pretty easy, boys. And if that fat cunt Duncan can do it, well that should tell ya … any fooker can.’ And with that send-off, Hairy Doug truly endeared himself to Joey Miller.
    The only thing the hirsute rocker couldn’t give them was a working microphone; but Bobby called in a favour and borrowed an old one from Dale Wishart – singer with local Mod band, The Vespas. But they didn’t rehearse with the microphone. They didn’t decide on who would speak, preferring to leave it until they got to the venue. The logic for this was similar to that of the football team awarded a penalty, but electing to let the taker be the player who most felt up to it on the night. It was often heard from professional football players that they couldn’t really practise for a vital penalty because the pressured context of a real match was impossible to create. And so Bobby Cassidy assuaged his embarrassment and prevaricated on the one key skill that a DJ needed. It would be a wrong call that would be regretted by more than just the two budding disc jockeys.
17 TH FEBRUARY 1982: 6:48PM
    â€˜Whaur’s ma new rid lippy, ya wee gadgie!’ Audrey King knew what was coming, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid it.
    â€˜
Maaaaammmmm
!’ she howled as her elder sister yanked her back into the room they both shared by her long bleached hair. ‘Ah …
sob
huvnae …
sob
even seen it …
sob
… ya big
fat cow
!’
    Lizzie King instinctively let go just as their step-mother strode in.
    â€˜Whit? Ah ne’er even touched ‘er,’ exclaimed Lizzie, arms outstretched. ‘She’s ay fuckin’ whinin’ aboot suhin’, her.’
    Lizzie was the second eldest of five children, all living in a three-bedroomed, mid-block council flat in Shortlees, with their Dad, Frank King – an Elvis Presley fanatic – and his third wife, Anne. The Kings’ was the only flat in a block of six that didn’t have its windows boarded up.
    Back in the