22rd November 1982
‘Des?’ Fat Franny was surprised to see his colleague standing inside the front door of the Ponderosie. ‘Fuck ae you doin’ here? We’re no’ due a meet until Friday. It’s only Monday, Des.’
‘It’s yer mam, Franny.’ Des looked pale.
Fat Franny instantly dropped the bottle of milk in his left hand. It smashed on the top step. He pushed past Des Brick.
‘Mam!’ he shouted. He ran to the living room. Her slippers were on the floor, and Neighbours was on, but his mum wasn’t in that room. She wasn’t in the kitchen either, although there was a strange, smoky smell in there. With Des Brick pursuing him up the stairs, Fat Franny eventually found Rose lying asleep in her bedroom, where Des Brick had taken her after calming her down.
‘Whit the fuck’s been goin’ oan?’ Fat Franny demanded.
‘Boss, ah jist came roon tae pass oan a wee message an’ yer front door wis’ open so ah jist came in.’
‘Aye, and? Get tae the fuckin’ point, will ye!’
‘Well, Fran … yer mam wis in the kitchen. Ah came in looking for ye, an’…’
‘An’ whit? So fuckin’ help me, Des…’
‘Yer mam wis tryin’ tae fry lettuce an’ yoghurt in a pan … an’…’ Des had thought twice about the next bit, but with Fat Franny Duncan glaring at him there was no holding back now. ‘… she turns roon an’ says it’s a dinner she’s cookin’ … for JFK an’ Jackie O.’ Des Brick sat on the stairs, halfway down, the pressure of that reveal taking its toll.
Fat Franny turned and went back into his mum’s room. She had stirred.
‘Mum? Are ye okay? Ah wis jist oot at the shop for two minutes. Ah told ye tae stay in yer armchair, remember?’
‘Ach, ah’m sorry, son. But we were havin’ guests round. Somebody had tae go an’ see tae them.’ Rose Duncan smiled at her son and reached a tiny hand from under the covers to touch his cheek. ‘Yer such a good boy, Francis. Yer dad would be so proud ae ye, son.’
Tears welled in both of Fat Franny’s eyes. He rubbed them away quickly.
‘Go an’ see tae the Kennedys, son. Ah don’t want them thinking ah keep a tardy hoose.’
‘Aye, ah’m jist goin’, Mam. You get a wee rest, noo.’ Fat Franny pulled up the covers and tucked his mum in under them. Just like she used to do for him.
Des Brick was sitting at the kitchen table when Fat Franny came back down. His eyes were red and moist, but Des knew better than to draw attention to them.
‘She okay, Franny?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Fat Franny.
‘Ah’m sorry. Ah didnae mean tae startle ye when ye came back earlier.’
‘Aye, ah ken. Thanks.’
‘Ah got a bit ae a fright myself, like. Ah mean the place was aw smokin’, ken?’
‘Aye. Look Des, ah get it. Thanks for comin’ roon. Ah appreciate it. Away and see tae Effie,’ said Fat Franny. He was genuinely thankful, but he was also ashamed that he’d left his old mum in the house by herself, even if it was only for the fifteen minutes or so that it had taken to go and get the milk.
‘Okay, mate. Look, ah’ll see ye after. Later in the week, like,’ said Des. He got up and walked to the front door. He looked back briefly to see the Onthank main man stare blankly out of his rear kitchen window to the open green fields beyond. Des Brick let himself out into the descending gloom of the brisk November evening.
Fat Franny sat upstairs in the darkness of his mother’s bedroom. He watched the covers around her small body gently rise and fall. When he was a wee boy, she seemed so strong, so protective. So immortal. Especially the night she put herself in the way of a beating from Fat Franny’s drunken waster of a father. She’d taken the punches and kicks that were meant for her son. Later that evening, a quarter of a century ago, Abie Duncan had come at the boy again, this time with a broom handle. Again, his mother had shielded him, and only the intervention of a neighbour stopped Franny’s dad from putting his mum in intensive care. There were other times in the four years that followed, but none left their mark on Franny like that night; his eleventh birthday. On the 5th September 1961 – Franny’s fifteenth birthday – he and his best friend, the six-foot, four-inch teenager, Bob Dale, battered Abie Duncan to a pulp. After it, an out-of-breath Franny took a ten-bob note that he’d received earlier in the day from his granny, and put it in his father’s top pocket. He told him that if he ever saw him again he’d kill him. It was his birthday present to himself. Rose Duncan never asked her son about where her husband was, and they had never mentioned his name from that day to this.
Fat Franny now felt totally alone. He had made bad calls in the last year and now felt stranded on an island of his own making. Des Brick had his own, all-consuming problems. Wullie the Painter was only as loyal as the next big job that would pay better. And he wouldn’t trust Terry Connolly as far as he could throw him. Only Theresa, his young girlfriend, could really be trusted now. His business had virtually evaporated in the short time since Bob Dale’s death. That’s why this new tape business had to work. Fat Franny knew he’d taken his childhood friend for granted. He’d abused him, and selfishly assumed he’d always just be there; that he’d always just take the increasingly mean-spirited abuse.
Paradoxically, it had been Hobnail who had the power all along. People were afraid of him, not Fat Franny. With him gone, the regular payments stopped and the threats went largely unheeded. Everyone’s takings were down. Only Terry Connolly seemed to be making progress. But Fat Franny had made his deal deliberately different to the others, allowing Terry to keep a far greater percentage of the ice-cream van business because he accepted there were higher risks. That was Fat Franny’s necessary cover. Connolly wouldn’t have trusted him otherwise.
Fat Franny couldn’t believe how quickly it had all deteriorated, although time was a strangely fluid concept in such circumstances. It seemed to him only a few months ago that his mum had started getting confused about the identities of visitors to the house. In actual fact it had begun five years ago. At first the deterioration had been slow, and they’d both laughed, putting it down to normal absent-mindedness. She put clean dishes in the fridge. She went out and left the doors wide open. She began to forget the bus routes into the town centre. She also got lost on the way back to the Ponderosie and Fat Franny had to grovel with gratitude to a young police sergeant who had brought her home. That was two years ago now. Since then, there had been a few other sporadic incidents culminating with the break-in to the house and the theft from the safe of Fat Franny’s money. Fat Franny had been saving that sizeable sum to pay for his mum to be looked after properly, but he couldn’t stop all the bampots turning up at their house, silently judging him for not putting his mum in an old folks’ home years earlier. Now, the money was gone, his income was dramatically reduced – and reducing – and his mum’s decline was accelerating.
‘Ah’m sorry, Mam. Ah’ve let ye doon. Everythin’s turnin’ tae shit. Ah dinnae want tae be doin’ this anymore.’ Fat Franny Duncan was in tears. He hadn’t cried since that night in 1957. Now he felt he wouldn’t be able to stop. His mum couldn’t hear him. He sat in the darkness running his hands through thinning hair and down to the tied-up, greying pony tail. Empires crumbled, and just like Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now he now faced the heart of his particular darkness.