The Ossians Read online

  ‘Sound,’ said Danny in a low Belfast rumble. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Me and Kate have just been seeing the sights, getting in the mood and all that.’ Connor sat down and the girls brought the drinks over. ‘We should probably have a toast,’ he said, scraping his stool forwards and leaning in over the table. ‘To The Ossians, a successful third EP and a cracking fortnight of adventure on the open road.’

  They clinked glasses and started discussing how they’d each wangled time off work for the tour. As a teacher Hannah had the most trouble, resorting to two weeks’ unpaid leave from Marchmont High. Kate was using up valuable holiday days from her engineering job at an avionics company, while Danny had just jacked in his crappy temp programming job, hoping to pick up something else when they got back.

  Connor was drumming on the table absent-mindedly. His homemade bottle of gin mix had loosened his headache, eased the pressure and created a warm glow in his chest, but the drink in front of him wasn’t nearly strong enough.

  He looked at the other three round the table. His sister, girlfriend and best friend – the perfect set-up for a band. He wondered how they’d get along, being on the road together for the next fourteen days. The other three had been dubious when he said they were touring the north of the country, but he’d insisted. They’d played Edinburgh, Glasgow and London to death, and he was sick of it. He wanted to see what else was out there. He’d only ever lived in the dead-end fishing town of Arbroath and here in the capital. The trip ahead would be a real life experience, Scotland was out there to be discovered. How many people think they know their country, when nine-tenths of it lie outside their experience? He’d had twenty-four years of pampered, middle-class living, with scarcely a story to tell down the pub. No wonder he got depressed. A year studying maths at Edinburgh University had ended in disillusion, and since then there had been a bunch of useless jobs. Pubs, a library, a museum and now he worked in a poxy little record shop, dealing all day with skinny indie kids in tight tank tops until he felt like ramming Belle and Sebastian CDs down their annoying throats. He sure as shit wasn’t going to miss that place for the next two weeks.

  He’d been in plenty bands before, of varying incompetence, but things seemed different with The Ossians. In the last two years they’d steadily built up a following around the toilet circuit of central Scotland, and they’d worked the MySpace thing cleverly, too. Their first two EPs received critical acclaim – journalists liked them but they sold squat.

  This third record would be the breakthrough. The St Andrew’s Day EP was a leap forward. The band were finally beginning to sound like he always imagined they could. Record companies from down south were showing interest, requesting meetings and details of forthcoming gigs. But Connor wasn’t going to bite at the first hook. Let those London bastards come up here, see what we’re about. If they want us to move south, they can get to fuck. This is a band with character and independence, not some bunch of Scottish, kowtowing London-industry arse-lickers, the likes of which were ten a penny in the fucking charts. They would succeed or fail on their own terms. Let the A&R guys come, waving chequebooks and buying dinner, and let’s see who ends up getting their own way.

  At the table, Danny was asking him a question.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When’s soundcheck?’

  ‘Not till six,’ said Connor, downing his drink and standing up. ‘Still time for a wee snifter. Same again?’

  Feedback squalled around the Liquid Room until Hannah stamped on her scuffy yellow Boss overdrive pedal. A faint electric hum continued to buzz around the room. Connor approached his microphone, shielding his eyes as each bank of lights flashed in turn.

  ‘Sounds fine up here,’ he said to the loose-limbed, afro-haired kid in a Mogwai T-shirt behind the mixing desk. ‘Can I get a bit more of Kate’s vocal through the monitor, and that’s it.’

  ‘OK,’ said the engineer. ‘You wanna try another one?’

  ‘Not arsed,’ said Connor. ‘Anyone else?’

  The rest of the band shook their heads, and the four of them downed their instruments and wandered off as the support band lugged their amps and guitars onstage. Doors opened in an hour. Hannah checked her watch and followed the rest as they walked out the back door to the Portakabin that served as their dressing room. That was a pretty slick soundcheck, she thought, compared to some of the shambolic efforts they’d had in the past. Her AC30 might be a beast to lug about, and it was a pain in the arse buying new valves every time one blew, but Vox knew how to make amps, all right, and it sounded great onstage, creating a warm, throbby sound when she played her faithful, scuffed old burgundy Gibson SG through it.

  Inside the Portakabin, a gas fire flickered uncertainly and a large fridge in the corner thrummed. Zebra-stripe fur covered the walls and a small, rickety table was spread with sandwiches, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of gin. The fridge was stacked with lager, Coke and tonic water. Kate and Danny got themselves beers and slumped into a threadbare sofa in the corner where Danny started to skin up, while Connor went to fix himself and Hannah drinks.

  The door opened and a short, sturdy, stubble-headed man wearing a black denim jacket and jeans bustled in waving a handful of paper at them. He had an air of comic menace, like a spoof East End hardman. Paul was their manager. He’d come to Edinburgh ten years ago as a stand-up comedian at the Fringe and never left. These days he ran a promotions company, but still liked to put on a show, even in a zebra-stripe dressing room.

  ‘People,’ he declared in a thick London accent. ‘Don’t ever say that Paul doesn’t look after you. I have here a schedule covering the next two weeks.’

  The four of them raised their eyebrows.

  ‘Schedule?’ said Danny. ‘Oooh, la-de-da.’

  ‘Shut it, Irish fuck,’ said Paul.

  ‘Northern Irish fuck to you.’

  ‘Whatever, you’ll be praising me in a fortnight when everything’s gone smoothly and you haven’t even had to scratch your arsehole for yourself. All gigs, accommodation, travel, riders, support bands, interviews, payments and piss stops have been sorted.’

  He handed out sheets, which they scanned casually. There were ten gigs in fourteen days on a route which saw them skirting round the country anticlockwise.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘We finish in Glasgow on Friday the thirteenth?’ said Danny. ‘Nice touch.’

  ‘Where the hell is Durness, and what exactly are we going to do there?’ said Kate.

  ‘Northwest tip of the country. It’s a long drive from Thurso to Ullapool, so I thought we should break it up. I’ve been up that way a couple of times – bleak bastarding landscape. Still, it’s what your man wanted.’ Paul gestured to Connor. ‘His odyssey of self-discovery into redneck, pig-squealing country, or whatever it is. Anyway, all the gigs seem solid enough, there are good local supports to boost numbers, and we’re getting decent money.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Connor. ‘We get to see our own country, find out what the fuck’s out there, and get paid for the privilege, right?’

  ‘We should come out with a tidy profit,’ said Paul. ‘Oh, and while I remember, I’ve had half a dozen guarantees that London labels are sending people up to the Glasgow gig, and a couple are meant to be coming tonight as well. Which should mean that maybe, if we’re lucky, one fucker will bother his arse. Whatever, just make the most of these gigs to get up to ramming speed, so you can blow their bollocks off on the thirteenth.’

  Paul’s mobile started ringing and he flipped it open as he strode out the door, waving as he left. Danny sparked up his joint, took a toke and passed it to Kate as they started chatting about the tour schedule.

  ‘How you doing, honey?’ said Hannah, approaching Connor at the drinks table.

  ‘Fine.’ Connor pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket.

  ‘You don’t look fine,’ said Hannah, massaging his shoulder. ‘Is it another headache? I told you to go to the doctor. Ch
rist, I hate nagging you, but you’ve got to look after yourself. You can’t go pissing off round the country with splitting headaches and insomnia.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ he said, taking a swig from his plastic cup.

  ‘That’s not helping.’

  ‘Fucking hell, love, give it a rest. Everyone drinks.’

  ‘Not like you.’

  ‘I’m the troubled artist, amn’t I?’ said Connor, wagging a finger. ‘The old Cobain syndrome, nobody understands my torment and all that pish.’

  ‘Don’t joke about it,’ said Hannah, letting go of his shoulder. ‘Don’t even joke about it.’

  Hannah stood there as Connor downed his gin, gave her a quick kiss and turned to fix another drink. He was drinking too much, but she didn’t know what to do about it. They all drank a lot, a shitload in fact, but he drank differently. They all relaxed when they got pissed, but Connor only became tighter and tighter with every gin. She would have to keep an eye on him on this tour, as per usual.

  The Liquid Room was typical of Edinburgh’s sprawling, labyrinthine Old Town, full of old stone nooks, crannies and cubbyholes. A recent makeover failed to hide the centuries of damp that permeated the dingy, subterranean club.

  It was filling up. Connor and Danny stood outside the open loading doors to the side of the stage, smoking an alfresco joint and watching the support band. The Hydraulics were a gang of pale-skinned, teenage glamour pusses with backcombed hair, spangly Danelectro guitars and self-righteous anger as their weapons of choice. It all screamed early Manics to Connor but he liked them, they were supremely confident despite a lack of talent. They ended in the obligatory shriek of feedback, contemptuously eyed up the crowd, and strutted off as if it was Wembley Arena. Connor laughed, took a last drag from the joint, flicked the roach in the gutter and headed backstage. Danny looked miffed at not getting a final toke but followed Connor without saying anything.

  The Ossians played a stormer. Connor teetered on the brink of being shapelessly drunk and incoherent during their fifty-minute set, but held it together. Through the gin haze, he stared out at the five-hundred-strong crowd, soaking up the admiring looks. For some reason his attention kept being drawn back to one particular face, a young guy at the far edge of the crowd, half-shrouded in darkness. Connor thought he recognised him to begin with, then smiled as he realised that in the half-light the kid actually looked a bit like himself. A younger, taller, thinner version of him. Jesus, they were even modelling how they looked on him – that was fucking scary. He looked again later in the set, but the face was gone. Around him, the rest of the band pushed the songs into vibrant new shapes in a show that was edgy and wired, with The Ossians always just in control. Danny was a clattering maelstrom of rhythmic energy at the back as he battered away on the vintage white marine pearl Ludwig kit he’d bagged dirt cheap at a car boot from a fellow drummer who had no idea what he was selling. He and Kate made a perfect rhythm section, Kate sauntering about with her sunburst Gibson Firebird bass like she owned the place, when she wasn’t helping Connor out with vocals. But it wasn’t all full-on rock attitude, the band could do quiet and atmospheric as well as bash out killer riffs. They finished with a relaxed stroll through ‘My Evil Twin’, the simple country melody and sweet harmonies belying the dark humour of the lyrics. Connor gently strummed his black Tele, the sound shimmering as it resonated from his Fender Twin Reverb, while he and Kate shared a microphone. Hannah, abandoning her usual guitar to knock out hypnotic little lines on a noddy eighties Casiotone keyboard, drifted off into her own wee world, while at the back Danny put down his sticks, slugged on his pint and slapped a set of sleigh bells in time. The crowd loved it.

  Afterwards, Connor hung about out front, taking slaps on the back, pretending to be modest about the attention but secretly lapping up every indulgent second. He was bought drinks at the bar, doubles on his own insistence. The rest of the band came out from a brief rest backstage and the praise renewed. Shy teenage boys hovered a distance away from Hannah and Kate, besotted and scared. The girl fans were much more brash, rushing up and kissing Connor, asking him to sign CDs, all exposed midriffs and cleavages. Connor looked awkwardly at Hannah, who just smiled. She didn’t mind, it was innocent enough. She had plenty of worries where Connor was concerned, but infidelity wasn’t one of them.

  Looking around, she noticed a couple of familiar faces in the crowd from fifth and sixth year at Marchmont High. Some were underage drinkers, but she couldn’t be bothered worrying about it. She got grief when she first started teaching, mostly from bitchy girls who felt threatened by her looks, but when they found out she played guitar in a band that wasn’t lame, grudging respect took over. She wasn’t back in the classroom for the next fortnight, so she could forget about all that shit for now. When she was up on that stage, she felt like a different person playing the guitar, the history-teacher part of her subsumed completely. But then, that’s why she did it, wasn’t it?

  A Franz Ferdinand classic kicked in over the PA and the dance floor began to fill. The Ossians found a padded leather booth and sat down.

  ‘Well?’ said Hannah.

  ‘Fucking great or what?’ said Danny. ‘That was one of the best we’ve ever played, easy.’

  ‘Yeah, it was pretty cool,’ said Kate, smiling.

  ‘It was good, right enough,’ said Connor. ‘A great start to a fucking brilliant tour.’ He looked at Hannah, touching her hand on the table. ‘What were you on, love? What was that solo in “RLS” all about? You went off on one. And the end bit of “Justified Sinner”, too. Fucking superb.’ He kissed Hannah’s cheek and she smiled.

  ‘Maybe she was just trying to keep up with you, Mister Unpredictable,’ said Danny. ‘You were all over the place tonight.’

  ‘But in a good way,’ said Connor. ‘Just keeping everyone on their toes. Right, I’m off for a single fish.’ He looked at Hannah. ‘And I’m having a dance when I get back, OK?’

  He headed to the Gents, pushed open the heavy door and went into one of the two cubicles. He finished pissing, zipped up and took a speed wrap out his pocket. He licked his finger and stuck it in the speed then sucked it clean, repeating the move four times before folding the wrap up and sticking it in his pocket.

  As he came out the cubicle he was grabbed by a massive pair of bear mitts and thrown hard against the far wall, banging his head against the cold tiles.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said, shaking his head. In front of him was a tiny man, not much more than five feet, with a bald head and heavily creased face. Behind him loomed a big bastard mountain of a guy, rubbing his hands together like a kid eagerly awaiting his dinner.

  ‘Nick, I was going to come see you tomorrow,’ said Connor to the smaller guy. ‘Honestly, I just had to get this gig out the way then…’

  The short man held up a hand gently as if trying to flag a bus.

  ‘Save it, Con,’ he said in a high-pitched Highland accent. ‘You’re just embarrassing us all with that bullshit. We both know you’ve been avoiding me, and we both know why. The little matter of thirteen hundred quid for drugs which, I assume, you either gave away when you were cunted, or just took yourself, with no intention of ever paying me back. It’s my own fault, of course. I should never have let you run up a fucking tab. Stupid really.’

  ‘I’ve got the money, Nick, I just need to get it…’

  Nick held up his hand again, this time gesturing slightly to the big lump of meat behind him, who strode forwards.

  ‘Shug, wait…’ said Connor as the big guy punched him square in the face, making his head crack off the tiled wall again.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ said Connor, holding his nose. Blood seeped through his fingers.

  ‘Hold your head back,’ said the big guy in a friendly voice, handing Connor a tissue. ‘And pinch the bridge of the nose, that helps stop the bleeding.’

  ‘Listen to Shug, he knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Fucking cheers,’ said Connor through his hands
, but tilting his head back nevertheless.

  ‘Now,’ said Nick. ‘What are we going to do about this debt?’

  Connor kept quiet. Pain throbbed back and forth across his face and his forehead as he dabbed at his nose and lip with the tissue.

  ‘Initially, I was just going to have Shug here put you in hospital, teach you a fucking lesson,’ continued Nick. ‘But then as I was scooting around the Internet I read on your site that you were planning a tour of the Highlands. A quick email exchange with your helpful manager gave me the details. Which led to an idea. I need to conduct certain transactions, as it were, outside Edinburgh, but I’m having trouble moving around at the moment, because those twats at Drug Enforcement are watching me. The transactions I’m talking about aren’t exactly legal. I’m sure you understand. For a while I’ve been wondering how to get round that. You see where this is going, don’t you? Suddenly here was good old Connor, who happened to owe me quite a lot of money, and who also happened to be in a band about to tour round Scotland. So I thought, why don’t I get you to conduct these transactions for me? No cunt suspects you of anything, except being a gobby wee shite, and the tour is the perfect cover. So. What do you think so far?’

  ‘I’m not getting involved in any fucking drug deals,’ said Connor, his head still tilted back. ‘Are you mental?’

  Out of the corner of his eye Connor saw Nick signal again to Shug, but before he could prepare himself he felt a powerful fist to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and making him double up.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Shug.

  Just then the toilet door opened and a gangly student came in. Nick stared at him, blocking his path. The student quickly took in the situation, turned and left without a word. Connor was still trying to get his breath back, wheezing a little as he tried to get air into his lungs.

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole all your life,’ said Nick. ‘All I’m asking is that you take care of a wee bit of business for me, and we’ll write off that money you owe.’

  Connor saw Nick’s hands move, and looked up from his crouched position to see a Stanley knife pointed at him. The wee nutjob had arrived in Edinburgh a few years back from somewhere up north, and had started working the door with Shug at one venue or another. Like all these shortarse hardmen, Nick was the psycho of the pair, but somehow it was Shug who did the donkeywork. Pretty soon Nick realised that dealing a bit on the side at clubs and gigs could double the money they earned as bouncers, and gradually the dealing took over, until eventually the pair went into it full-time. Connor had been buying off Nick on the sly for over a year now, without the rest of the band knowing. He knew Nick well enough to know he would use that fucking knife if it came to it.