6
Friday
‘Ragazzo’s’ pokey hat, perched atop the roof of the Bar-L, has a jagged hole in the front, from which a single naked bulb sinks weakly. There is stoned laughter and whoops of delight from the dark as the burglar alarm dies away and the light bulb goes out. In the street below the white BMW turns the corner and moves along towards the bar. Tamara MacAskill sits in the back seat as far away from Tonto as she can get, her face buried in her hands. The Deadwood Playboys’ version of ‘Hello, Mary Lou’ plays on the car radio. Tonto leans forward, taps Henderson on the shoulder, and points through the windscreen. Henderson looks, and sees a man swaying on the street corner ahead, a brown paper-wrapped parcel in his hand dribbling its contents on to the pavement.
TAMARA: Ralph, will you please tell me what’s going on … who are these people?
* * *
(In the car park of the Ponderosa a circle of concerned and curious cowboys and cowgirls huddle around the radio car.
In the middle of the circle are the Tall Cowpoke, Roxanne and Drew. The Tall Cowpoke holds his hand to his ear and blood trickles between his fingers)
ROXANNE: Chuck pullin’ faces, it’s only a crease.
TALL COWPOKE: Crease? A hauf-inch closer an’ that wis me … brains blootered aw err the tarmac.
ROXANNE: It’s a car park, no’ an erradrome. (To Drew) Away an’ ask the bouncer fur some ointment.
DREW: You no’ be better knottin’ a tourniquet roon his froat, naw?
ROXANNE: Jist get us the ointment, Drew.
TALL COWPOKE: It’s a bullet wound, no’ a midgie bite. (To Drew) Ask him furra big gless a firewatter, it’s goupin’ somethin’ chronic, tell him.
(Drew slopes off. A voice rises behind the onlookers)
BOYLE: ’Scuse me, pal … out ma road … ’scuse me …
(Fraser Boyle forces his way through the crowd)
BOYLE: … boy made his escape in a motor … y’awright?
ROXANNE: Efter they vol-a-vongs? Yur jokin’.
BOYLE: I’m talkin’ to Timberwolf.
ROXANNE: He didnae huv any vol-a-vongs. Scram.
(She pushes Boyle aside and applies a ’kerchief to the Tall Cowpoke’s injured ear)
TALL COWPOKE: Watch ma herr.
BOYLE: (to Roxanne) I wouldnae go buyin’ him too many stereo albums for his Christmas, sweetheart.
* * *
(Frank is at the wheel of the radio car speeding away from the Ponderosa. Cissie is sitting next to him peeling the shirt off him as he drives)
CISSIE: (over shoulder) I’m goin’ to murder you … what’d you go an’ take a pot-shot at that guy for?
DORWOOD: It wasnae meant to be a pot-shot …
(Dorwood is lying on the back seat pulling up his Wranglers)
DORWOOD: … it was meant to even up the score for aw they hammer hold-ups.
CISSIE: I thought you’d killed yourself!
FRANK: No such joy.
DORWOOD: (to Cissie) You’ve got a lotta explainin’ to do …
CISSIE: Like what?
(She thrusts the top half of Dorwood’s prison pyjamas at Frank. The carphone starts ringing)
DORWOOD: … like, who is this idiot, an’ how come he’s wearin’ aw ma stuff!
FRANK: Somebody better answer that.
* * *
(Also speeding away from the Ponderosa, Jim Bob’s Winnebago has taken the Aberdeen road. A taxi appears a little way behind them, with Billie and Jolene inside)
JOLENE: Did you get a load of the beanpole? Bang! She was out that door like her tail was on fire … nosey big get.
(Jolene is changing in the back seat)
JOLENE: I havenae seen anybody shift that quick since our Jinty got a call-back for the Coatbridge88 panto.
BILLIE: She wasnae too bad a singer, mind you.
JOLENE: Yeh, I know, but she was a good head an’ shoulders bigger than all the other six dwarfs … the boy MacIndoo’s sister was playin’ Snow White … you ever seen a Snow White wi’ a stookie leg an’ a poncho?
BILLIE: I’m not talkin ‘about your Jinty, I’m talkin’ about Cissie what’s-her-name.
BILLIE: Eh?
JOLENE: Crouch … her name’s Crouch. Don’t tell me you didnae tumble?
BILLIE: Tumble? You don’t mean …?
JOLENE: They’ve got a four-year-old kid, for God’s sake …
BILLIE: … the bastard.
JOLENE: … what’d I do wi’ that coat hanger?
(Suddenly the taxi comes to a juddering halt)
JOLENE: Woh!
* * *
(In the hotel suite at the Holiday Inn Libo Ragazzo is pacing to and fro with a telephone in his hand and the receiver clamped to his ear. He is wearing a bathrobe, and his hair is still wet. The bedside radio is playing Billie and Jolene’s version of ‘Quicksilver’)
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Naw, person to person … an’ make it snappy, it’s nearly six o’clock.
(He crosses to the window and peeks out. He glances at his wristwatch)
RAGAZZO: (into phone, angrily) Detroit time, I’m talkin’ … hurry up.
(He gives his wrist a shake, and holds his watch to his free ear)
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Hullo?
(Billie and Jolene’s singing fades over the radio)
RADIO DJ: The McFabulous McPhail Sisters there with yet another track from our Radio Kelvin Country Comes to Calton compilation CD … six and a half minutes to eke out before the Midnight News on Kelvinly casual 289.
(With the phone still clamped to his ear Ragazzo crosses to the TV set, he prods the ‘on’ button with his big toe, and flicks through the channels. He pauses to stare fixedly at the mute re-run of a Deadwood Playboys ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ video extract which is followed by a newsreader mouthing to the camera. He checks his watch again)
RADIO DJ: … let me just confirm that time check for you … it’s coming up to seven … no, eight … eight and a half minutes past twelve …
RAGAZZO: (agitated) C’mon, for God’s sake … (Into phone) … hullo!
RADIO DJ: … a gentle reminder that you’re tuned to the top rated …
(There is an abortive news jingle on the radio)
RADIO DJ: … in the West … Dunky Chisholm standing in for Ward Ferguson in the Midnight Newsroom, and we kick off with a bit of excitement down at the old Rancho Ponderosa tonight, and I don’t just mean Jim Bob O’May’s one and only Central Scotland appearance before … and I’m told that we have made contact with the radio car …
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Hullo?
RADIO DJ: (to radio car) … Hullo, Tamara?
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Is that you, Phil?
FRANK: (into carphone, over radio) Aw naw, it’s that clown off the wireless …
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Naw, it’s me … Libo.
RADIO DJ: (to radio car) Is that you, Brian?
FRANK: (into carphone, over radio) Hullo? You’re through to …
(There is a burst of static over the radio)
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Libo Ragazzo, d’you want me to talk up … hullo?
RADIO DJ: (to radio car, over static) I’m sorry, I can’t hear you …
FRANK: (into carphone, over radio).. but if you’d like to leave a message please speak after the tone.
RAGAZZO: (into phone) I wish I could, but I’m in Glesca …
FRANK: (into carphone, over radio) Thank you. (Frank whistles a tone into the carphone)
RADIO DJ: (to radio car, overlapping whistle) Could you ask Tamara to fill us in about this latest shooting incident down there in Wishaw?
RAGAZZO: (into phone) … naw, Glesca … G-l-a-s-g-o-w.
RADIO DJ: (to radio car) I believe that one of the Wild Bunch may’ve lost an eye, how accurate is that report … hullo?
RAGAZZO: (into phone) … I’m here to pick up that stuff you were inquirin’ about.
FRANK: (into carphone, over radio, distant) Ohyah!
(There is a clunk over the radio as the carphone is hung up)
RADIO DJ: Hullo?
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Naw, naw, absolutely no problems on that score, Phil, just to let you know I’ll be back in Flowerdale Sunday night …
(There is a knock at Ragazzo’s hotel room door)
RADIO DJ: (off-mike) We’ve lost them, Kathy.
(There’s another knock at the door)
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Can you hold on a second, there’s somebody … (Loudly) … who is it? I’m on the phone! (Into phone) You still there, Phil?
RAGAZZO: (into phone) Yeh, I know I promised, but …
(Ragazzo hears a muffled voice from outside the door)
MUFFLED VOICE: Room service, that’s yur sangwidge order.
RAGAZZO: (into phone) … naw, c’mon, hey, listen, I’ve still got most of that dough in Detroit, all you have to do is call ma wife an’ she’ll …
(There is a sudden crash and a splintering noise as the hotel room door comes crashing down into the room. Ragazzo whips round in a fury)
RAGAZZO: … I told you I was on the fff … (breaks off) … wait a minute, you urnae Room Serv … what you doin’?
RADIO DJ: Okay, if there’s anybody still awake down there in Wishaw and you happen to’ve been at tonight’s historic Jim Bob gig …
RAGAZZO: (shouting) What you doin’! Naw, don’t … woyah.
RADIO DJ: … why not give us a call on Freephone, 0800.
(Ragazzo’s body slumps on to the floor, the telephone with it)
TELEPHONE RECEIVER (distant) Ciao, Ragazzo.
(As Tonto stands over Ragazzo’s crumpled body a hypodermic syringe falls from his hand and oozes its vile contents on to the carpet. Ragazzo gurgles weakly)
RADIO DJ: … 775.
* * *
(The radio car sits outside the New Pancake Roadhouse diner in an otherwise deserted parking lot. The radio is playing)
RADIO DJ: … 772. A Country Comes to Calton CD to the first phone-in eyewitness to get through to the Crime Beat studio before we go off the air at 2 o’clock. Seven, sorry, nine minutes after midnight … Ward Ferguson, if we can find him, with the Weather Outlook for ranch-hands in the Glasgow area after this one from …
(Frank reaches forward to snap the radio off before sinking out of sight in the driver’s seat)
* * *
(Inside the Pancake House Cissie squeezes ten pence into the jukebox, while Dorwood perches on a stool at the counter, scanning the large overhead pancake menu. Dorwood is dressed in clothes previously worn by Frank — including boots. On his head he wears an improvised hat fashioned from a Radio Kelvin Country Comes to Calton plastic bag. He has borrowed Frank’s Ray-bans. Cissie presses the ‘select’ button on the jukebox and a Scottish country danceband version of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ comes up. Cissie crosses to the window overlooking the car park)
DORWOOD: (still scanning menu) If that’s supposed to get ma goat, it doesnae. (Loudly) How’s about some service out here … ho!
(He bangs on the counter with a sugar dispenser. Cissie stands at the window, her eyes closed. Shirley, a pac-a-mac over her waitressing outfit, struggles up the road towards the diner, lugging a large pail of pancake mix. She stops under a streetlight, puts the pail down and looks at the front page of the late edition of the Evening Echo. She scans the report about Dorwood’s escape from custody. Accompanying the report are two photographs: one straightforward mug shot, the other a snap showing Dorwood’s head wound. Shirley screws up her face in disgust as she crosses the parking lot. Cissie disappears from the window. Dorwood swings round from the counter to face the door as Shirley enters)
DORWOOD: No’ before time.
(Shirley gives the jukebox a kick in passing. Its volume drops)
DORWOOD: How does yur Three Egg Pancake Special come?
SHIRLEY: Wi’ three eggs an’ a pancake.
(She crosses the room, slings the Echo on the counter-top, dumps the pail, and removes her pac-a-mac)
SHIRLEY: What’s your companion after?
(She nods towards a figure sitting in the corner, the Radio Kelvin ‘hat’ pulled low over her eyes)
DORWOOD: Lemme ask.
(He swivels round to face Cissie)
DORWOOD: D’you want a coffee?
SHIRLEY: Aw, my God, what happened to your …
(She breaks off. Her eyes dart to the Evening Echo on the counter)
DORWOOD: Make that one Special an’ two coffees.
(He swivels round to face Shirley)
SHIRLEY: Sure … lemme … er … lemme check out back an’ see if the hens’ve laid any … er …
(She edges away from the counter and gropes for the back door handle)
SHIRLEY: … any pancakes.
(Shirley edges out of the back door of the diner and rushes around the side of the building. She gallops past the radio car in the car park and heads for a telephone box some hundred yards further up the road. Frank hears her footsteps and sits bolt upright in the driver’s seat. He casts around, eyes unfocused. He sees Cissie come bursting through the front door of the diner, Dorwood behind her. She hauls the passenger door open and stuffs Dorwood inside)
FRANK: (groggily) Okay, where’s ma pancake?
CISSIE: Move!
(She chucks the car keys at Frank and jumps in beside him)
DORWOOD: (to Frank) You heard … move.
(The radio car roars into life, reverses out on to the road, and bucks off in the same direction taken by the galloping Shirley)
FRANK: That is a very fetching chapeau … all you need is a pair of polythene pantaloons an’ … hey, is that not what’s-her-features from the Bar-L?
(The car slows down as it comes level with a flagging Shirley)
FRANK: D’you want me to stop an’ give her a …
(There is a smacking noise)
FRANK: … ohyah!
(The car accelerates away, leaving an exhausted Shirley to catch her breath by the roadside)
* * *
(Billie’s taxi is parked at the side of the road in darkness. Billie leans against the taxi wing and scuffs her toe along the ground. Jolene leans out of the passenger door, lights two cigarettes and offers one to Billie)
JOLENE: I still am your best pal, I wouldn’t’ve told you if I didnae think you knew awready … I thought you knew awready … you sure you didnae know awready?
(Jolene puffs on both cigarettes)
JOLENE: Everybody else we know knew awready.
BILLIE: Yeh, thanks.
HENDERSON: Aw, c’mon, it could be an awful lot worse, at least you’re not …
(Billie stops scuffing and looks up)
JOLENE: … aw, naw, don’t tell me.
BILLIE: Don’t you start, it was an accident!
JOLENE: Aw, my God in Heaven, when did this happen?
BILLIE: (interrupting) Mind your own business.
(She stomps off up the road)
JOLENE: It is ma business, I’m your best … where you off to?
(Billie carries on walking)
JOLENE: Come back here.
(Billie gets swallowed up in the darkness)
JOLENE: Billie?
(Jolene steps on to the road and chucks the cigarettes away. An owl hoots)
JOLENE: Billie!
JOLENE: You forgot the can for the diesel.
(She holds up a jerry can)
* * *
(From a deserted approach road there is a distant view of Aberdeen, icily silvered by the dawn creeping up over the sea. The silence is gradually eroded by a low hornet-like hum that grows into a throaty rumble. A line of motorbikes appears over the horizon like so many Indians in a ‘B’ western. Riding at the head of the extended ‘V formation flanking Jim Bob’s Winnebago, is a squat man astride a massive Harley Davidson, in aviators and a peaked cap, the studs embedded in the back of his sawn-off scrotum-hide jacket identifying him as ‘The Toad’. The Toad’s obvious role model is the young Brando of The Wild One fame.89 Behind ‘The Toad’ come the rest of the Loons O’Lucifer (Buchan Chapter) as they ride into the granite city limits. Fraser Boyle’s fish van, coming at the oil capital from a different direction, brakes violently at the crossroads, despite the green light, as the line of bikers cross in front of it. Boyle sits behind the wheel and stares balefully as a seemingly endless procession of bikers passes in front of the van windscreen)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Whit you stoppin’ fur? Yur lights’re at green.
(Boyle stops chewing and turns his head. Cherokee George sits hunched up in the passenger seat. He is wearing Frank’s Burberry and still sports the black eye doled out to him in Glasgow)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Jist plough through the bastarts … Too late, yur lights’ve went tae …
(The fish van takes off across the junction, narrowly avoiding a collision with a newspaper truck travelling in the opposite direction to the convoy and assiduously following traffic-light instructions to proceed. Horns blare)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: … that’s right, get the pairy us kilt!
* * *
(A bundle of newspapers thump down on to the doorstep of an Aberdeen seafront café. There, on the front page of the Aberdeen Press & Journal, is the headline: ‘MAFIA BAGMAN FOUND SLAIN IN SCOTTISH HOTEL’. A large photograph of the dead Libo Ragazzo in his bathrobe accompanies the news item. There is a smaller picture of a hypodermic needle ‘similar to the one found at the scene of the crime’. In the listings box to the right of the page is the info: ‘Former North Sea Diver sought in Grampian Region — see page 4’. Frank, in prison-issue pyjamas, Dorwood’s cowboy boots on his feet, and wearing a hospital blanket poncho, plucks a newspaper from the bundle as the delivery boy reboards his truck heading off along the promenade. Frank flicks through the Press & Journal pages. He looks at a smiling picture of Dorwood in a cowboy hat. The headline above the picture reads:’ PANCAKE WAITRESS shirley: “I WAS PETRIFIED”.’ Frank’s lips move silently as he reads the article. There is a hum as a milk float approaches. Frank’s lips stop moving. He leafs quickly back to the front page)
FRANK: (to himself) Jeesus …
(On the front page the dead Ragazzo wears a curiously peaceful expression on his bloated face. The milkman crosses the pavement with a crate of yoghurts and deposits it on the café doorstep. He picks up the empty crate and re-crosses to his float. He dumps the empty crate in the back of the float, picks up a crate of milkshakes, and repeats the journey, pausing on the way back to peer over Frank’s shoulder at the front page of the newspaper)
MILKMAN: Quine next door till us has the perfect double o ‘that dressin’ gown, onnly in reid.
(He goes back to the float, chucks the second empty crate in to the back, and climbs aboard. Frank shivers, folds the newspaper, and crosses to the crates of yoghurt and milk shakes)
* * *
(In a narrow backstreet lane in Aberdeen dockland a young police constable is standing by the now abandoned radio car. He is reeling off the car number plate into his personal radio)
POLICE CONSTABLE: (into radio) Echo, six, one, niner, Tango … Foxtrot … Jitterbug …
(Boyle’s fish van appears at the far end of the narrow lane and drives down it towards the radio car and the policeman. The young constable steps out on to the cobbles to examine the radio car driver’s door. Boyle brakes sharply some twenty yards away and reverses speedily all the way back up the street)
POLICE CONSTABLE: (into radio) … no sign of forced entry, over.
(There is a blurred response from HQ over the radio. Boyle’s van reaches the top of the narrow street, backs round the corner out of sight, and reappears a few seconds later crossing the gap. The carphone inside the radio car starts to ring. The young police constable peers in through the window. Ralph Henderson sits at the wheel of his white BMW, driving through the outskirts of Aberdeen, carphone to his ear)
(He holds the phone out to a white-faced Tamara sitting beside him. Tamara stares straight ahead)
HENDERSON: (replacing carphone) Tell you what, why don’t I take you to that little French place this evening? Chappie hails from Provence … serves up a passable bourride by all …
(Tamara makes a grab for the carphone)
HENDERSON: … uh, uh.
TAMARA: Ooow.
HENDERSON: (sweetly) You don’t imagine I’m going to let you talk to anyone, do you?
* * *
(Frank makes his way along the deserted seafront promenade towards a distant beach shelter. His arms are loaded with milk shake and yoghurt cartons. A growing rumble causes him to turn his head and look behind him. Cissie sits shivering with her back against the beach shelter, the Dobro case on the bench on one side of her and Dorwood stretched out on the other, his head in her lap. The Winnebago and its biker escort pass behind the shelter. First one, then several, empty milk shake cartons come sailing over top of the shelter roof. Dorwood stirs slightly, his stockinged feet rubbing together. The convoy passes along the promenade towards the fairground site. Frank appears round the side of the shelter, two yoghurt cartons in his hand)
FRANK: Hi, how’s the boy?
CISSIE: Still asleep, what kept you!
(Dorwood lets out a moan)
FRANK: Loons O’Lucifer had the milk shakes, I’m afraid.
(He sits down on the bench at Dorwood’s feet and passes a yoghurt carton to Cissie)
FRANK: I’ll’ve the turnip one.
CISSIE: Did you manage to get a newspaper?
(She examines her yoghurt label)
FRANK: Yeh … boy Ragazzo’s dead.
(He peels the top off his carton and dips his tongue into the yoghurt. Dorwood lets out another moan)
FRANK: There’s a bit about hubby on page 4.
(He produces the Press & Journal from under his poncho. Cissie grabs the paper and leafs through it)
FRANK: It’s not really turnip, it’s turnip an’ raisin.
(He upends the yoghurt down his throat)
CISSIE: (reading) The rotten pig, I always knew she was a clipe.
FRANK: You know I love you, don’t you? Who’s a clipe?
CISSIE: Shirley … she phoned the cops right enough … they know we’re here.
FRANK: Naw, they don’t … it says ‘Sought in Grampian Region’, that could be anywhere within a radius of … ho, wake up … (He gives Dorwood a dunt) … how big is ‘Grampian Region’?
(Dorwood comes to with a start)
DORWOOD: (groggily) Wha … ?
CISSIE: (sotto voce, to Frank) What’re you doin’!
DORWOOD: (non compos mentis) Where am I?
FRANK: Grampian Region, cops’re after you.
(He takes the yoghurt carton from Cissie and spoons a dollop into his mouth with his fingers)
CISSIE: (clapping Dorwood on the back) It’s okay, you were asleep.
(She shoots Frank a filthy look)
FRANK: Bleagh!
(He spits a mouthful of yoghurt on to the ground)
DORWOOD: (to Cissie) What you done wi’ ma boots?
FRANK: (to Cissie) You might’ve warned me it was banana!
CISSIE: (to Dorwood) He’s got them.
(She hides the newspaper behind her back)
FRANK: (to Cissie) An’ you’ve got the cheek to talk about Shirley bein’ a clipe? (To Dorwood) I was only wearin’ them to go for … (Pointedly at Cissie) … the newspaper.
(He hands the banana yoghurt to Dorwood)
DORWOOD: What’s this?
(Dorwood peers at the carton)
FRANK: (to Cissie) Gonnae get that for us?
(He holds a leg out)
DORWOOD: Ho, what’s he doin’ wi’ ma boots? (To Cissie) Eh? What’s he doin ‘wi’ ma boots on!
CISSIE: God spare me from all this.
(She buries her face in her hands)
FRANK: (to Cissie) I’m not surprised you want a divorce, does he have to say everythin ‘twice over?
DORWOOD: Divorce? What’s he talkin’ about, divorce! (To Frank) What’re you talkin’ about divorce!
FRANK: Correction … thrice over.
DORWOOD: (to Cissie) I thought you told me this guy was brought in by the Samaritans to keep you off the booze?
(Frank looks up from tugging at Dorwood’s boots)
CISSIE: (through fingers, to Frank) I had to tell him somethin’.
DORWOOD: What’ve you been sayin’ to him?
(He chucks the yoghurt carton away and grabs Cissie)
DORWOOD: What’ve you been tellin’ this geek about our private business!
CISSIE: Chuck that!
FRANK: Ho!
(He prods Dorwood in the back)
DORWOOD: What!
FRANK: There’s no call to add to this mess.
(He points to the litter on the floor)
DORWOOD: Listen, ya …
(He lets go of Cissie and rounds on Frank. Cissie gives him a shove, forcing him to wade through the yoghurt puddle in his bedsocks)
DORWOOD: … aw, naw!
(He stares down at his claggy feet)
FRANK: Here, lemme give you these boots.
* * *
(Jim Bob’s Winnebago and the attendant Loons O’ Lucifer have come to rest by the Aberdeen beach pavilion. A Loons O’Lucifer motorcycle ‘Guard of Honour’ has been lined up, leading to Jim Bob’s trailer door. The Toad slowly dismounts from his machine and removes his sawn-off scrotum-hide jacket. Standing there in his sleeveless black T-shirt, one cannot help but be struck by the bold tattoo on the Toad’s beefy bicep. Though not exactly alike in every detail, the tattoo is strikingly similar to the one that Frank will carry on his upper arm to the grave. A Lieutenant moves forward with sheets of tissue paper and a bottle of ‘Ferguzade’.90 The Toad folds his colours and places them reverentially between the sheets of tissue paper. The Toad has a slug of ‘Ferguzade’ and he and his Lieutenant move forward between the two rows of bikes. The Loon nearest the Trailer door gives it a respectful tap with the toe of his jackboot. There is a low murmur of expectant Loons. Fraser Boyle’s fish van pulls up unnoticed and parks nearby. The Toad adjusts his aviators and gives his peaked Brando cap a little twitch. Inside the van Boyle lights a half-cigarette and passes it to Cherokee George)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: D’you see wit I see?
(He presses his nose against the windscreen)
BOYLE: I don’t want to see what you see, I havenae been at the meths, ole buddy.
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Naw, oan the boy’s airm … it’s the dead spit of the wan I done fur that pal a Dwane’s the other day there.
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Big glaikit-luckin’ sod, turnt up out the blue in a raincoat no’ aw that dissimilar tae …
(He breaks off and examines the Burberry he’s wearing)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: … haud oan, where’d you say you bought this?
(The Toad reappears at Jim Bob’s trailer door and raises a triumphant forearm)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: … awyah!
(The fish van takes off suddenly and weaves its way past the beach pavilion, just clipping the Toad’s mighty Harley in passing. The big machine teeters on its stand. The Toad stops dead in his tracks. All heads turn and an unearthly hush descends as the Toad’s beloved sickle crashes in slow motion to the concrete. There is a collective gasp of incredulous Loons as the fish van drives unconcernedly off along the promenade)
* * *
(Jolene sits on one of the fold-down seats of the taxi, her back to Billie. She’s strumming Billie’s guitar)
JOLENE: (sings) ‘I cry myself to sleep each night an’ wish that I could hold you tight … ma life’s so empty since you went away …’ (Breaks off, to Billie) You thought up any names yet? (Sings) ‘The pillow that I dream upon …’ (Breaks off) Or there’s Randy? (Sings) ‘An’ it keeps right on a … ‘(Breaks off) Naw, scrub Randy, you don’t want any crass individuals passin’ remarks … (Sings) … hurtin’ since you’ve … ’
(The taxi comes to a juddering stop)
JOLENE: (breaks off) What you stoppin’ for?
* * *
(Later that afternoon Frank and Cissie are seated in a stationary Waltzer bucket on the carnival site. The afternoon light is fading and, except for the occasional Loon passing in the middle distance, the site is deserted)
FRANK: So?
CISSIE: So what?
(Frank removes his prison-issue pyjama top and slips an arm into the sleeve of Cissie’s jacket)
FRANK: So what? I told you I loved you, didn’t I?
(He gropes behind his back without success for the other sleeve)
CISSIE: Look, I’m only lendin’ you a jacket, for God’s sake.
FRANK: (interrupting) Naw, back in that beach bunker, you pretended not to hear me.
(The ‘Eagle of the Apocalypse’ on Frank’s upper arm has healed and lends his otherwise spindly limbs a certain macho credibility)
CISSIE: I was readin’ my yoghurt.
(The Toad makes his way around the Waltzer towards them)
FRANK: Aw, yeh?
THE TOAD: Ho!
CISSIE: I don’t think we should be here.
(She makes to get up. Frank breaks off groping for the other sleeve and takes hold of her arm)
FRANK: Sit where you are.
(The Toad draws level with their bucket)
FRANK: So what’s with the ‘Ho’, Jim?
(He turns to face the Toad)
THE TOAD: ‘Hojim’?
FRANK: You’re just after shoutin’ ‘Ho!’, I trust that wasnae at us? (Aside, to Cissie) You might’ve told me he was built like a bus shelter!
(The Toad peers at Frank’s tattoo, then at his own)
FRANK: We were just goin’, it was her that wanted to sit here.
(He starts getting up)
CISSIE: It was not!
THE TOAD: Nae sweat, min …
(He presses Frank back into his seat)
THE TOAD: … I didna ken ye wur a Loon, ken?
FRANK: Yeh, right. (To Cissie) What’s a ‘Loonken’?
THE TOAD: (leering over Cissie) Fit Chapter ye wi’?
CISSIE: (to Frank) You tell him.
FRANK: Chapter? Aw … er … The Devil-dogs … Carfin.
CISSIE: (to The Toad) Chuck oglin’ us.
THE TOAD: (to Frank) Fit’d she say?
FRANK: (apologetically) I think it’s your after-shave. (Sotto voce, to Cissie) D’you want us to die?
THE TOAD: Ho!
(He leans forward and pokes Frank)
THE TOAD: (close to Frank’s face) S’nae a bad-lookin’ quinie … if I ever loss the errial aff me sickle I’ll ken far tae come till.
(He winks and swings off along the Waltzer)
CISSIE: What’d he say?
FRANK: Biker talk …
(He locates the missing sleeve and sticks his arm down it)
CISSIE: D’you not feel stupit in that?
FRANK: What … this?
CISSIE: Accordin’ to Dorwood it buttons up the wrong side.
FRANK: Accordin’ to Dorwood the entire planet buttons up the wrong side … has he always been that narky?
CISSIE: You’d be that narky if you’d got seven years for somethin’ you didn’t do.
(She gets up to go)
FRANK: You don’t still believe that nonsense, do you?
CISSIE: Of course I believe it, I’m married to him, amn’t I?
FRANK: You could put a tune to that an’ sell it to Tammy Wynette … naw, wait, don’t go, Cissie!
(He grabs her arm)
CISSIE: Leggo ma arm, I’ve got to go an’ hunt for …
(Frank pulls her close)
CISSIE: … what you doin’?
(Frank leans forward and kisses her tenderly on the lips. He breaks away and looks at her for some response. She regards him balefully)
FRANK: Well?
CISSIE: (shaking her head) Nup … sorry.
FRANK: Awright … c’mere.
(He takes her in his arms and presses his lips to hers, and they sink down into the bucket locked in an embrace. Suddenly the lights around them come on as the Waltzer comes to life. A husky steam organ version of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ begins to play as the Waltzer buckets start to move. The volume of the music swells. In the control booth of the Waltzer the Toad, oil-can in hand, is tinkering with the speed and volume controls as Frank and Cissie spin past him. The Waltzer whirls round at breakneck speed and still Frank and Cissie embrace. Cissie’s hair corkscrews behind her as the lights shed a rainbow across her cheek. Slowly, the Waltzer begins to slacken its reckless pace, and the steam organ starts to run out of puff. The bucket begins to rotate at a more leisurely speed, and the lights start going out one by one. The Waltzer finally grinds to a halt where it started. Cissie sits there, eyes shut, knuckles white on the handlebar as the steam organ wheezes out a final grace note. Frank looks at Cissie, then looks away. Cissie slowly opens her eyelids)
CISSIE: (softly) Wow.
* * *
(Dorwood stands on the seashore at the water’s edge, the incoming tide lapping over his one cowboy boot and one bedsock. He stares out to sea and steels himself against the icy spume carried on the evening breeze. A supply vessel battles through the waves on her way out to the far-off rigs. Dorwood looks down at the revolver and checks the chamber. Two slugs left)
* * *
(Cherokee George and Fraser Boyle are sitting in the fish van on the edge of the carnival site eating fish and chips out of newspaper. Cherokee George has a fresh black eye to keep the other one company)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: You want to know somethin’?
(Boyle stares through the windscreen as one or two fathers and small sons wander forlornly between the boarded-up stall and sideshows. The Loons o’ Lucifer, in contrast, cluster around Snowy’s mobile fish, chip and coffee stall which sits in a pool of light on a patch of ground vacated by the showman’s caravan)
BOYLE: Naw, but I can tell from the way you’re munchin’ that you’re gonnae to ad to ma aready bulgin’ catalogue of totally useless information.
(Cherokee George scrunches up his chip paper, smacks his lips, and wipes his hands down the Burberry)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: That hus tae be the worst fish supper I’ve ever hud in ma life.
BOYLE: Didnae deter you from molocatin’ it, I notice.
CHEROKEE GEORGE: It wis me that bought them … d’you want a beverage?
(He opens the van door)
BOYLE: Aye, get us a hot choclit … an’ listen … don’t you go an’ do a bunk, that stuffs up here someplace an’ I’m gonnae need a good buddy to give us a hand to get it off the get that’s got it an’ get it to Jim Bob afore he gets on that boat the morra, get me?
(Cherokee George weighs this up for several seconds)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: What happens if they don’t huv any hot choclit?
* * *
(On another part of the carnival site Frank and Cissie meander between the boarded-up booths, Frank’s arm around Cissie’s shoulder, hers around his waist)
FRANK: If that gets too heavy gimme a shout an’ we’ll dump it.
(Cissie is lugging the Dobro case. She looks at Frank)
FRANK: What?
CISSIE: Nothin’ … I’m just tryin’ to picture what you were like as a toddler.
(She leans her head on his shoulder)
FRANK: Much as I am the now … totally irresist … aw, naw.
(He stops dead)
CISSIE: I think so … why?
FRANK: I forgot to phone in ma copy.
CISSIE: Copy?
FRANK: For the ‘Rab Haw’ column. What time d’you make it?
CISSIE: What you goin’ to phone in? You havenae eaten anythin’ all day.
(She turns her gaze upwards to the sky and Frank joins her in staring upwards. A blanket of twinkling stars covers the heavens)
FRANK: I had a turnip yoghurt at breakfast time.
CISSIE: Turnip an’ raisin.
FRANK: I just need to find myself a telephone …
CISSIE: Look!
(A shooting star traverses the velvet black sky and burns itself out)
FRANK: (looking down and around) Where?
CISSIE: That means you can make a wish.
FRANK: Aw … I thought you’d spotted a phonebox.
(Cissie stands with her head tilted back, and her eyes shut now)
FRANK: Cissie?
(She lowers her gaze and looks at Frank)
FRANK: (swallows) God, see when you look at me like that, you put all thoughts of turnips an’ raisins right out of ma head.
(He leans forward and kisses her. Cissie drops the Dobro case on to Frank’s foot — the one without the cowboy boot on — and puts her arms around him)
FRANK: (softly) Ohyah.
(Cissie leans forward and kisses Frank)
FRANK: ’Know how it slipped ma mind?
(He picks up the Dobro case and puts his arm around Cissie. They walk on)
FRANK: I wasnae wearin’ ma Rab Haw rain …
(He breaks off as he sees Cherokee George stroll between the booths up ahead wearing Frank’s Burberry and looking exactly like Dopey from the Seven Dwarves)
FRANK: … coat.
(He looks at Cissie. Cissie looks at him. They both look at the now-empty gap between the booths. Frank drops the Dobro case and breaks into a lop-sided trot. Up ahead Cherokee George picks his way between the parked motorbikes by Snowy’s stall to get to the counter. He squeezes himself between some lounging Loons and slaps a couple of coins down)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Wan coffee, wan choclit, baith hot.
(Snowy, the lugubrious stallholder, carries on wiping the countertop with a filthy cloth)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: You want tae get a big sign up there … ‘The Worst Fish Suppers in Scotland, Bar None’.
(He looks around at the assembled Loons, failing to notice that they are all happily munching on Snowy’s renowned fish suppers)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: (to Loons) I’ve scoffed a few fish suppers in ma time an’ I don’t mind tellin’ youse people, that wis the worst fish supper I ever hud in ma life.
(The Loons stop munching)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Naw, straight up, it hus tae be the worst fish supper I ever hud in ma life. Seriously.
(He turns back to Snowy)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Bung a coupla broon sugars in the choclit, will you, Chief? S’fur the boy in the fish motor.
(He turns once more to the Loons)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Goat tae keep the bastart sweet, eh?
(Frank is peering round the corner of Snowy’s stall and watching the commotion. Cissie stands behind him)
FRANK: (over shoulder) ’Course I want it back but this may not be the most opportune …
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Waaaaaaaaaagh!
CISSIE: (distressed) Can you not go an’ help him?
(She leans over the top of Frank and tries peering round the corner)
FRANK: (straightening up) Help him? That’s the guy that landed me wi’ this!
(He taps his tattooed arm)
CISSIE: Cherokee George? What’s he doin’ in Aberdeen?
(There is a sudden roar from a mighty Harley Davidson)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaargh!
(The Toad roars through the gap between booths with Cherokee George roped by his ankles to the back of his bike, getting dragged along the ground in Frank’s Burberry)
FRANK: (laughing) There’s your answer. (Stops laughing) Hey, ma good coat!
* * *
(Billie and Jolene are cruising along the Aberdeen promenade in the taxi Jolene is sitting up in the back seat)
JOLENE: Aw, look, Billie, the Shows!
(She presses her nose against the window)
BILLIE: (over shoulder) Yeh, an’ they’re shut.
JOLENE: So they’re shut? Still the Shows, innit? God, you’re that crabbit, gettin’.
(They hear the roar of the Harley as the Toad circles the showground in search of the fish van)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: Waaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaooooooh!
JOLENE: See that? Somebody’s enjoyin’ theirself.
(She sticks her tongue out at the back of Billie’s head)
* * *
(The white BMW is parked discreetly not far away from the beach pavilion and Jim Bob’s Winnebago)
HENDERSON: ’Fraid we’ll have to take a raincheck on that bourride, sweetie … don’t think you’re quite up to it, hmm?
(Tamara is slumped in the back seat. She looks like she’s dead, but her eyes are open and she is still breathing … just. Henderson picks up the carphone)
HENDERSON: Believe me, the people who were eliminated were scum, Tammy …
(He punches in a number)
HENDERSON: … the sort you write about in that little newspaper of yours. (Into phone) Hi, we spoke last night, I’m in a position to deliver.
(He reaches behind him and adjusts Tamara’s collar)
HENDERSON: (into phone) … no, not quite that much … about six, seven kilos … all right … six … listen, I can just as easily … (Listens) … wise fellow.
(He replaces the receiver)
HENDERSON: Back in a jiffy, darling … don’t go ’way, you hear?
(He reaches out and touches Tamara’s cold cheek. He smiles. Henderson gets out of the car and goes around to the boot. He turns the key and throws the boot-lid open. He reaches in, removes a parcel, and reaches up to close the lid. A revolver barrel glints in the moonlight and Henderson freezes as the gun is placed just behind his ear)
DORWOOD: Nice an’ easy does it.
(Henderson closes the boot-lid nice and easily)
DORWOOD: Right, start walkin’.
(Henderson steps away from the car)
DORWOOD: Slow! walk slow, I’ve only got the one boot.
(He brings the gun down and jabs it into Henderson’s back, forcing him forward towards the roadway traversing their path to Jim Bob’s trailer)
DORWOOD: I just hope she’s gonnae be okay in that motor, or that’s three murders that’re gonnae appear on the charge sheet alongside whatever else you’ve been … get that down!
(He knocks Henderson’s upraised right arm down to his side)
DORWOOD: D’you want everybody to know I’ve got a gun at your back?
HENDERSON: (over shoulder) So you tell me … I’ve only got your word for …
DORWOOD: (interrupting) Try me.
(Dorwood cocks the gun. Henderson arrives at the kerb and stops)
DORWOOD: What you waitin’ for, the lollipop man?
(He prods Henderson in the back with the revolver. But Henderson stays put)
HENDERSON: I’ve just wet myself.
DORWOOD: So, you get scurvy legs … walk, I said!
* * *
(Billie’s taxi is approaching the beach pavilion, Jolene scrunches up her fish supper paper)
JOLENE: God, that was scrumptious, how was yours?
(Billie leans forward and peers through the windscreen. Through it she sees Henderson and Dorwood cross the road in front of them)
JOLENE: I don’t recall our Jinty goin’ deaf when she fell pregnant. Hoi, I’m talkin’ to you, McPhail.
(Billie slows down and turns around to Jolene)
BILLIE: You’re never gonnae believe this, Jolene, but guess who I’ve just seen!
(She turns back to look through the windscreen again. The road ahead is now completely deserted)
JOLENE: Wasnae the boy MacIndoo was it?
(The taxi shrieks to a halt and Billie leaps out. She stands looking around her in the headlight beams)
JOLENE: Wee Desmond, naw?
(Jolene makes to get out of the taxi)
BILLIE: I swear to God, Jolene …
JOLENE: Don’t be ridiculous, Billie, what would Dorwood be doin’ up in Aberdeen?
(She rushes up to Billie)
JOLENE: He’s just after fallin’ off a roof in Glas … (Stops)
(Billie turns to face her)
BILLIE: He’s just after what?
* * *
(Dorwood holds the revolver against Henderson’s temple as they press themselves against Jim Bob’s trailer in the dark near the beach pavilion)
(Approaching the cliff-edge Fraser Boyle sees a crumpled coat on the ground. He gathers up the tattered Burberry and inches closer through the moonlight to the cliff edge)
BOYLE: Hullo! Y’err, George?
(Below him, on the rocky beach, Boyle can see his van sitting on its nose, rear doors agape)
BOYLE: (shouting down) George? (Loudly) Ur you down there, ya dozy half-breed!
(He can hear the waves crashing on the distant beach below)
BOYLE: (to himself) Ach, I give up …
(He turns away and starts walking)
CHEROKEE GEORGE: (distant) I still think that wis the worst fish supper I ever hud in ma life!
(Boyle stops, turns, and heads back to the cliff-edge)
* * *
(Back in town a police patrol car cruises along the seafront promenade. An indecipherable message can be heard over the car radio, the single intelligible word of which is an ‘over’ at the end. As the police car’s tail lights disappear along the promenade, Frank and Cissie emerge from their hiding place)
FRANK: We could always go to the nearest bingo hall an’ get the manager to flash a message up on the screen … ‘Will Dorwood Crouch, last seen wearing one cowboy boot … ’
(They pass the discreetly parked white BMW. Frank stops by the driver’s door)
CISSIE: I wish I could remember what pubs we used to …
(Breaks off) … come away from there!
FRANK: Be with you in a second …
(He tries the handle and the door opens)
FRANK: … I just want to make a quick phonecall to ma Features Editor.
* * *
(Onstage inside the beach pavilion Jim Bob O’May and the Wild Bunch are brewing up a storm)
JIM BOB: (sings) ‘Well, I never felt more like singing the blues …’
(There is the sound of an exultant roar from the assembled Loons o’ Lucifer)
JIM BOB: ‘… ’cos I never thought that I’d ever lose your love, dear … ’
(Loon bops with Loon in the aisles)
JIM BOB: (sings) ‘… why’d you leave me this way … ’
(Jim Bob and the Wild Bunch give the classic early 50s hit big licks from the beach pavilion stage. Few of the bopping Loons pay much heed to the pedal-steel player, who keeps somewhat out of the limelight under his stetson, or to the fact that he is wearing only one cowboy boot under his pedal-steel guitar table)
* * *
(Frank has climbed inside the white BMW and is speaking on the carphone)
FRANK: … aw, an’ listen, could you ask one of the paramedics to bring us somethin’ to eat … anythin’ but yoghurt … we’re starvin’ … thanks.
(He replaces the phone and leans out of the open door)
FRANK: Be here in two minutes, how is she?
(Cissie and Tamara, acting like a bendi-toy are walking to and fro beside the car. They hear a police whoop-whoop nearby)
CISSIE: You can see how she is … if we hadn’t found her she’d’ve snuffed it … (To Tamara) … C’mon, walk, dammit!
(Frank climbs out of the car and goes over to them. He examines an ugly bruise on the inside of Tamara’s forearm with a tiny red puncture mark at its centre)
FRANK: D’you suppose this’s self-inflicted or …
(He breaks off as the police car whoop-whoop approaches)
FRANK: … Oh, oh, that’s me then.
(He raises his arms above his head and walks to meet the oncoming red, white and blue flashing lights)
CISSIE: Where the hell d’you think you’re goin’!
FRANK: (over shoulder) It’s okay, Hank Fonda got off when they found out it was a case of mistaken …
(The patrol car speeds straight past him and on towards Jim Bob’s trailer)
FRANK: … identity.
(A disgruntled Frank lowers his upraised arms, he looks across towards the trailer)
CISSIE: Hoi, quit sulkin’ an’ come an’ help me with her!
* * *
(An Aberdeen matron with a small dog on a lead stands in the beach pavilion parking lot a few yards distant, as two police patrol officers bend over Henderson’s body. One of his officers turns Henderson on to his back. Henderson’s face is a white powdery mask)
FIRST PATROL OFFICER: He’s nae been out for his Hallowe’en, has he?
(The matron’s dog starts yapping)
MATRON: Quiet Monty!
SECOND PATROL OFFICER: (into personal radio) Y’there, HQ, over?
* * *
(Inside the pavilion Jim Bob and Jolene are sharing the vocals, leading the Wild Bunch through a rockin’ Country version of the Bellamy Brothers’ ‘Let Your Love Flow’. Backstage in the dressing room Billie stands staring into the mirror, her face cupped in her hands. Jim Bob and Jolene’s duetting voices are playing over the tannoy)
BILLIE: (in answer to song) Yeh, sure, no problem!
(Her head drops on to the dressing table top. Jim Bob and Jolene combine in joyous harmony over the tannoy. Some flashing blue lights pass the dressing room window as two ambulances speed Tamara and Henderson to hospital)
* * *
(Further down the beach, away from the pavilion, Cissie and Frank sit a few feet apart on a beach shelter bench. Frank runs his fingers over the Dobro strings as a wintery sun claws its way up the beach. He eases awkwardly into a slide-guitar version of ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’. Out in the distant sea, a Norwegian ferryboat forges its way towards the far horizon. The sun has now risen and Cissie’s hair looks burnished by its light. The Dobro lies beside its case on the bench. Frank is gone)
* * *
(Frank is at the wheel of a taxi, speeding out of Aberdeen on the way to Glasgow. Billie and Jolene are asleep in the back amid a pile of clothes, amps, guitars and other clutter. Frank notices a man slumped by the roadside ahead of the taxi. As the car approaches a dishevelled looking Fraser Boyle stands up, holding out a tattered raincoat with the word ‘Glesca’ daubed across the back)
FRANK: (to himself) Yeh, some hope.
(He gives a laugh as the taxi sails past Boyle)
FRANK: (laugh dies) Ho, wait a minute, that was ma Burberry! (He turns to look back, and sees Boyle’s diminishing figure behind him)
* * *
(Cissie stands in front of the beach shelter looking out to sea. Walking behind the shelter, along the promenade, is a woman hand in hand with a small boy about four years old. As the boy and the woman pass along the promenade, Cissie picks up the Dobro case, quits the beach shelter and heads off along the beach in the opposite direction. Beside one of her footprints in the sand there is a brief glimpse of gunmetal as the sun catches on the navy Colt revolver.
Cissie walks on)