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

Huvnae tried it oot yet. We’ll wait til’ we get there, eh? An’ ah’m sure we’ve got enough records. Christ, these kinda pairties don’t get goin’ until aboot half-nine anyway. We’ll only need aboot an hour and a half’s worth for the bits that folk’ll actually be listenin’ tae.’ Bobby looked out of his bedroom window again.
    â€˜Where the fuck is he?’ asked Bobby. Even though he had still to conclude his own final preparations, his mounting anxiety was now being directed towards the driver of the van hired to pick up the gear.
    â€˜He’ll be here. McGarry promised me.’ Joey was equally annoyed, but began to suspect the blame for the van driver’s no-show would be directed at him. And it would be difficult to avoid since it had been his job to ask Jeff McGarry if he could sort out the transport. But still …
    â€˜Ye did tell him half-six?’ said Bobby, now staring intently out to the street, his head moving from side to side as if he was watching Connors and McEnroe on centre court.
    â€˜Aye, ah did. Told him we had to be there for seven. Even fuckin’ paid him the twenty quid up front.’
    â€˜Haud on,’ said Bobby. ‘That might be him there.’
    A large white transit van had pulled up on the grass verge outside. It was another cold, wet, late-winter night and still dark outside, but the stocky figure who clambered out of the driver’s side, looked at a bit of paper and then peered over at the house could only be Heatwave’s new driver and roadie. Bobby bounded down the stairs to meet him, leaving Joey to start struggling with the gear. A couple of minutes later Bobby was on his way back up the stairs. He wasn’t as jaunty as when he’d descended them.
    â€˜Whit’s up, is it no him?’ said Joey putting down a Marshall Speaker column.
    â€˜Naw … ah mean, aye, it’s him, but …’ Bobby looked round toensure no-one was behind him. ‘It’s Barry fuckin’ Baird!’
    Joey stood bolt upright. Bobby sensed the immediate trepidation at even the mention of the name.
    Barry Baird was a renowned local headcase. A few weeks ago – just before Christmas – he was standing at a street corner with three others, when Joey approached on his own. Joey was aware of him watching as he got closer, but he didn’t want to cross to the other side of the road for fear that Barry Baird would sense his anxiety. So Joey aimed at walking straight past, his pace quickening as he came within kicking distance.
    â€˜Hey you, fuckface! Dae ah ken you?’ said Barry Baird, in a calm, quiet tone
    â€˜Eh, naw … ah don’t think so,’ replied Joey, his own tone as calm as his churning stomach would allow.
    â€˜Dae you ken
me
, then?’ As Joey recounted this story to a laughing Bobby later, he said he knew this was a trick question.
    â€˜No sure!’
    Wrong answer. A right arm shot out from its rigid frame as if it belonged to one of the mechanical pugilists from the Raving Bonkers boxing game. It thumped Joey on the side of the jaw causing him to double over both in pain and in anticipation of further blows and kicks. They didn’t come, though. Joey looked up and saw that Barry Baird’s focus had moved away from him. Something had happened over Joey’s shoulder that now held his attention. Joey didn’t know what it was, but it had Barry Baird as rapt as a little dog, mesmerised by the movements of a stick about to be thrown. Joey sloped away, thanking his good fortune that psychos like Barry Baird had such limited multi-tasking abilities. And no memory, apparently.
    For here he was now, standing in Bobby’s hall, looking straight up at Joey and saying, ‘Right, mate. Aw the fuckin’ gear up the stairs, is it?’
    â€˜Eh, aye. Just come up …’ said Bobby.
    â€˜Ye a’right, mate?’ enquired Barry Baird, as