The Last Days of Disco Read Online Free

ticker paper would have come out of his mouth with the words ‘Get number please’ written on it.
    ‘Will ah get ye the number then?’ said Harry, jumping ahead.
    ‘Eh, em, aye. Ah think so …’ Bobby had moved onto rehearsing the conversation he would have with Joey later that afternoon. TheBrain Trust techies had also started formulating some pertinent questions of their own:
Where are you getting the equipment? Do you have enough records? What about lights? A van? A driver?
    The wee bastards were asking too many questions now. They were supposed to be coming up with the fucking answers. That was their job. Bobby got up and headed for the stairs. He was shivering a fair bit, having just realised how long he’d been outside in the January air of a Scottish morning. He was planning to go and run a hot bath then get ready to go and get Joey. Probably contact Hamish May as well. Although he did think it might be better to have something more concrete to tell them. He should call this
Lizzie
and get the details. Make sure the job was actually still available. There was a lot to be done, but he had to acknowledge feeling a lot more vibrant than he had half an hour ago. Even Lemmy’s mob had fucked off.
    ‘Hullo, Bobby, son.’ Mrs Flanagan’s voice was as deep as a Cumnock coal mine and twice as dangerous. ‘Ah see ye hud yersel a wee time last night, spray paintin’ yer name oan the side ae Viviani’s shop wa.’
    Ethel turned to look at Bobby, her mouth partly open.
    ‘Oh, ah’m sorry. Huv ah said too much?’ Mrs Flanagan put her hand over her mouth theatrically.
    Auld fucking cow
, thought Bobby as he edged past his
tut-tutting
mother and headed for the comparative safety of the bathroom.
    ‘There was something else ah wanted tae talk to you about, Bobby. But ah can’t remember whit though.’ Bobby and his dad were often concerned about Ethel’s increasing forgetfulness, but, today, and with the blood not yet starting to steep through Gary’s white T-shirt, he was grateful for it.
    When Bobby got to the top of the stairs, he could hear the Sunday morning sound of the Human League coming from the small transistor radio; a sure sign that his sister had taken up residence in the bathroom. He’d be going nowhere soon. Bobby stealthily moved back down the stairs past his glowering mum andauld bag Flanagan who – just to rub it in – said a second cheery ‘Oh hullo, Bobby, son.’
    Rot in Hell, you piss-stained auld cunt,
he thought. Bobby hunted for the telephone. They had recently bought a new ‘mobile’ handset, which was absolutely fucking brilliant. It didn’t have much of a range and, at the size of a brick, it was bigger than the Bakelite one it had replaced, but with the aerial fully extended, you didn’t have to sit out in the hall – or in the same room as everybody else – when phoning your pals.
    He inclined his foot forward far enough to see the slightly faded number. After five rings, a voice hoarser than auld ‘smelly cunt’ responded.
    ‘Hullo? Hullo?’ The voice said this with such timing that it was all Bobby could do to avoid replying ‘
We are the Billy Boys …
’ He didn’t, and the sandpaper sound snapped back at him.
    ‘Hullo! Who the fuck is this?’
    ‘Em, ah’m Bobby Cassidy. Who’s this?’
    ‘You phoned
me
ya cunt!’
    ‘Aye, but ah think ah might’ve been given the wrong number.’
    ‘Ah’m Franny fuckin’ Duncan. Noo whit dae ye want. Ah’m in ma fuckin’ scratcher.’
    Franny Duncan. Jesus Christ. What was he doing with Fat Franny Duncan’s number written on his foot? Bobby’s brainiacs were running about in a panic. Words like ‘gangster’, ‘dealer’, ‘doings’, ‘big’, ‘fat’ and ‘bastard’ all ricocheted around like the steel balls in a multi-play pinball game.
    ‘Ah’m thinking of becomin’ a DJ.’ Bobby stumbled over the words, all too aware that he’d already volunteered his name.
    ‘For fuck’s sake. Phone back later