The three minutes that followed would forever haunt Ray's sense of self-worth. Over the toms, he could see baffled and amused looks as the already guitar-depleted Bacchae played a version of Lost in the Supermarket that would have been unidentifiable even to Mick Jones, who had written it. With the drum-mic level set for backing- vocal use, and the mic itself sliding gradually down its decrepit stand, Ray's singing was drowned by his drumming, which was itself suffering from the contortions he was doing to keep his mouth under the bloody thing. Also, the further the mic slid down the pole, the more it picked up the snare and the less it picked up Ray's already tremulous voice. By the end of the first chorus, not only was there no vocal audible, but the amplified snare was smothering the guitar and bass too. People at the bar were holding their ears, wincing before each stroke. Simon, meanwhile, looked ready to bludgeon Ray to death with his Les Paul.

The sarcastic applause that followed was the loudest response to the end of any song all afternoon - until, that was, Simon stepped up to the mic. His singing was no better or worse than any of them, and his guitar playing, 265.

as already acknowledged, was the band's greatest asset. The problem was, he couldn't do both at the same time.

He had somehow concealed this from them during rehearsals, presumably by hiding behind Ross's rhythm- playing and Div's bass, chiming in his own chords and solos during non-vocal breaks. How he had hidden it from himself was a mystery of that river in Egypt. Maybe he hadn't been hiding, and could play fine in rehearsals but choked in front of an audience (understandably, given what had just transpired). Either way, with Ross strumming an unplugged guitar, Simon couldn't have been more exposed if he'd been standing there in the buff. He started off playing nothing, and the sparse drums-bass-and-vocal effect might have seemed stylised if Ross wasn't standing next to him like a haddie, strumming silently away. Throwing in his own chords and solos made things a little conspicuous too. Again, Simon might just have pulled it off if he hadn't attempted to remedy the situation by suddenly playing Ross's part. The chords themselves were right, but he simply couldn't strum in a rhythm different to the lyrics, and the resulting 'bouncing ball' effect would have been damn funny if it had happened to four other poor fuckers.The term following Easter was always the shortest, breaking up after as few as six weeks for end-of-year exams. This was quite a mercy, as life in the flat after what Div called 'the deBacchle' was even uglier than usual. The rest of them didn't set out to make it three against one, but Simon's conduct very soon united them against a common and increasingly volatile enemy. It was made clear from early on that this outrage wasn't something to be laughed off, and it was made even clearer that he was blaming everybody but 266.

himself for the fiasco, from his fellow band members to the Ents Convenor and even the long-haired numpty who'd buggered the amp kidding on he was Jim Reid.

In a histrionically huffy gesture, Simon moved back to his parents' place for the run-up to his exams, and nobody was brave enough to ask the rhetorical question of whether he'd also be leaving his share of the rent and amenities bills for the remaining month of their lease. The consensus at the time was that it was a small price to pay.

Ray had assumed that the deBacchle was the death of his great rock'n'roll adventure, but a funny thing happened on the way to the funeral. With no chance of getting a fourth tenant at short notice for the fag-end of the student year, they had been planning to split the difference between them, until Div had a brainwave. His wee brother, Carl, had just finished Sixth Year at school and was starting at uni after the summer, so Div persuaded his parents to spring for the month's rent to give the lad a taster course in student living.

Ray had often noted that people's younger brothers or sisters seemed to have more concentrated versions of their older sibling's features. Carl didn't much resemble Div facially, but in easy-going attitude there was no mistaking the lineage; and when the kid picked up a guitar, it suddenly made sense not only why Div was a pretty good bassist, but also why he had kept his light under a bushel. The younger sibling's concentrated feature was sheer, natural musical talent.

With the exams petering out and the last scraps of grant money doing likewise, despite the mental scarring it was inevitable that they'd start jamming again to fill the days. Even if they'd had cash to blow, they were all staying clear of the QM to avoid the awkwardness of running into 267.

Simon, though in retrospect Ray realised the Dark Man had his own reasons not to show his face round there.

The sense of harmony was immediately obvious, musically as well as atmospherically. Div's voice was a natural complement to Carl's, but this time there was no question of who should be on lead, especially as this guitar hero had no problems playing his instrument at the same time.

At weekends, Carl was hanging out at a place called The Strawberry Club, which was fast becoming the epicentre of Glasgow's mid-Eighties jangly-guitars-and-anoraks scene. It was hosted in a room downstairs from the main dancehall at Rooftops on Sauchiehall Street, an establishment that still described itself as a 'discotheque' in those days. It wasn't quite to the tastes of Div, Ross or Ray, as even self-consciously twee and sugary music was still twee and sugary, but they went along now and again because the QM disco was closed for the summer and the mainstream clubs were full of neds dancing to horrible records in between glass fights. The Strawberry Club carried no such threat, with smiling politeness being an affected part of the scene. People brought sweeties and handed them round, and they spoke with exaggeratedly formal pronunciation, like they'd all been to elocution lessons. It was as revolting as it sounded.

Carl, as it turned out, wasn't just there to dance and chat up girls, much as he enjoyed both. He was at all times being a busy little networker, sufficient to get involved in organising a 'showcase night' to be hosted by The Strawberry Club in the main hall upstairs. At this grand janglathon, a number of unsigned hopefuls would get to share a bill topped by some more established local names, in front of an audience including several invited representatives of indie record labels. And on this bill, of course, would be Carl's own band, as yet unnamed.

268.

The trauma of the deBacchle hadn't quite been exorcised by this point, so Ross and Ray took a bit of persuading, eventually being talked round by Carl's promise that he'd heard a few of the demo tapes and there was 'no way they would be the shitest band there'. Besides, they had six weeks to get ready, which was almost as long as the entire lifespan of The Bacchae from conception to abortion. What they didn't have was a handle, but that was quickly remedied. Div announced with a grin that 'we have to be The Arguments', and received no dissent amid the laughter.

Another thing they didn't have was original material, or rather they thought they didn't have it until Carl judiciously chose his moment to reveal 'a few things he'd been working on'. Haunted by the ludicrously overambitious compositions Simon had inflicted upon them, Ray was ready to be sceptical until Carl started playing his twelve- string. The only experience subsequently comparable was listening to a new Teenage Fanclub album: the songs were all so instantly likeable that you could swear you'd heard them before. They were simple, melodic and tantalisingly reminiscent of about ten other bands at once. It needed also to be said that Carl's lyrics were atrocious, but you couldn't have everything.

However, for all his musical eclecticism, there was one thing Carl shared with his Bacchic predecessor: Queen were not to be tolerated. They were old, pompous and bombastic and, worst crime of all, his big brother loved them. Div, therefore, couldn't resist stitching him up. One Sunday, rehearsing in their parents' garage, Div picked up the twelve-string and started playing the euphorically jangly opening chords of Funny How Love Is. Recognising it and getting a sly look from Div, Ray joined in with a stomp on the bass drum and booming toms. Carl, naturally assuming they were just 269.

jamming, picked out a looping riff on electric, sharing nods and smiles like they did when something was generally agreed to be 'happening'. Then Div stepped up to the mic and started singing, confident in the knowledge that his wee brother had no idea of the song's source. Played as it was, it sounded like it could have been by any number of trippy late Sixties outfits, and the lyrics about coming home for tea were deceptively far away from Scaramouche and Beelzebub.

'Oh man, that was excellent,' Carl said. 'We've got to do it again.' And they got through it twice more before he asked the obvious question.

And so it came to pass that the Strawberry Suckers ((c) Div 198-) found themselves cheering The Arguments to the proverbial echo for playing a song by the band that best represented the very antithesis of what jangly indie- pop was all about.

Possibly the only other person to recognise the track was the QM Ents Convenor, who had been invited in case he fancied booking any of the acts. He declared their contribution 'Fuckin' top . . . Queen, man - yous have some balls/ and offered them the opening slot on the bill for the forthcoming Lloyd Cole and the Commotions gig. He also confided that 'this scene's doin' my fuckin' heid in. One more bunch of twee cunts gets on that stage an' I'm gaunny lose the place.'

It was an inopportune moment for one of the anoraked denizens to present himself, proffer a white paper bag and say: 'Hello there. My name's Adrian. Would you like a sweetie?' The Ents Convenor decked the guy with a solid right hook before being dragged away and ejected by several bouncers. Rooftops, having about a dozen flights of stairs, was probably the worst venue in the city to get thrown out of, but that had presumably been far from the 270.

Ents Convenor's mind when the red mist descended.

Among the masses (well, a couple of hundred at least) musically unequipped to spot the hand of Mercury was a bloke called Jim Collins, who ran a small Edinburgh-based indie label, StarJet. He wore NHS-style specs that nonetheless probably cost him a mint, and talked like a horse- racing commentator on caffeine, suggesting an endless list of musical comparisons and speculative influences. His strike rate was impressive enough to make Ray wonder whether he had just burgled their flat, though one name was amusingly missing. Collins said he'd get them studio time and release one single as long as it was 'that last one, Funny, was it called?'

Of course, he freaked when he found out, but not before the song and its two-track B side were in the can, by which time also the ink was long dry on the contract.

The NME's singles reviewer called it 'a work of three- minute alchemy: turning truly base material into something special'. Div wanted to deck the bastard, but the review (and no doubt the Queen catalogue completists) did help them make it into the indie chart, peaking at eleven. One place higher would have been enough to get them a mention on the ITV Chart Show, but as they didn't have a video anyway, it made no odds. Jim was hardly going to spring for something like that considering he wouldn't even pay for a photographer for the single's sleeve.

A mate of Carl's took that picture, a big lanky bloke called Steff. Ray never found out whether he turned pro, but The Arguments definitely didn't. They had a memorable couple of months, as new bands often did back in those days when records stayed in the charts for more than a nanosecond. There were lots of local gigs and a few more mentions in the inkies, the largest a half-column news-story-cum-interview 271.

in the Melody Maker, written with a predictably snide tone because the TIME had given the single a good write-up. It was fun, it was exciting and it was a temporary distraction from the unavoidable truth, which was that they weren't a real band: they were two hacks, one journeyman and Carl. Everybody could see that, not least themselves.

The split was amicable, if a little heart-breaking. It wasn't exactly a case of coming this close to glory and having it dashed away, but they'd had a taste of the stuff of schoolboy dreams, enough to know how much they would miss it. They were aware also that they'd only got their fifteen minutes courtesy of sheer luck and someone else's talent, so the chances of a repeat were slim to none.

There wasn't too much time to feel sorry for themselves, as the end of Christmas term was fast approaching and the end of The Arguments had unfortunately come just in time to give them an outside chance of salvaging their degrees. Carl, for his part, didn't even salvage his first year. Within weeks of the split, he had started collaborating with Kenny Redford, with whom he went on to form The Gliders and later the highly acclaimed Famous Blue Raincoats.

Ray remained proud of his own small place in The Gliders' and the FBRs' rock family histories, and looked forward to the day he could elicit a totally blank response by telling Martin all about it. Despite the occasional twinge of regret or jealousy, he had always been very happy for Carl, with the sole reservation that he still sounded far too upbeat all the time. Just once Ray would have liked to hear him sing something about messy break-ups, suicide and death. Even The Beach Boys did Pet Sounds, for Christ's sake.The sun was peeping over the horizon by the time Ray reached a roadsign bearing place names of anything larger 272.

than a farm. He knew he hadn't been driving anything like as long as it felt, probably less than an hour, but it had mostly been on some obscure B road, all of whose junctions had been little more than dirt tracks. His old and reliably borked Polo had never reappeared in his mirror after he first lost sight of it, but the fact that he didn't know where he was had kept him aware that he might be intercepted further along the road. Every set of oncoming headlights had him ready to swerve as he anticipated the approaching vehicle suddenly slewing into his path.

Dawn and the sight of an A road allowed him to relax a little, sufficient to stop worrying about pursuit and turn his thoughts to the fact that Kate would be climbing the walls. Jesus, the poor woman. The roadsigns said he was nearing Crieff, which meant he could be home in about an hour, but that was an extra hour more than he'd want to be waiting if the roles were reversed. He reached instinctively for his pocket, then remembered that his mobile had been pilfered and the only change he'd been carrying was in his jacket, back in that pantry. His wallet, however, was still in his trousers. He'd stop at a twenty-four-hour garage and get change, or a phonecard if they were selling them.

Patting his grubby shirt reminded him of the state he was in, and now that there was some daylight, a glance in the sunshade mirror showed his face to be looking like that of a miner coming off shift. His clothes were caked, his face was black and he was still damp with piss. He looked and smelled like a jakey. A lobby dosser, even.

When he reached a twenty-four-hour garage, it happily turned out to be attached to a twenty-four-hour supermarket. There was one not far from his house in Newlands, which he had found himself taking full advantage of in recent months. As well as other sleep-deprived parents, 273.

shift workers and hungry hash-heads, it attracted all manner of nocturnal creatures through its revolving doors, and was therefore probably the only kind of place he could confidently show up in his present state without turning too many heads.

He thought about going to the Gents first, to give his face a wipe, but remembered he'd be back there to change anyway, so went straight to the clothing section. He picked up a T-shirt, cheap jeans, Ys, socks, a Mars bar and a can of Lucozade then made for the check-out, keeping a considerate distance from the customer in front. There was a news rack alongside, with the morning editions displayed above the food mags (glutton porn, Kate called them). Ray looked at the headlines, marvelling at how little the world had moved on in the time it had taken for his to turn upside down. Fallout from yesterday's political stories on the broadsheets and a soap star's divorce on the English-based tabloids, all of them seeming to Ray like chip-wrappers, so long did it feel since the stories broke. The Daily Recorder, however, had something fresh down the left-most column.PERVERT TEACHER SOUGHT IN HUNT FOR BOYS.Ray was about to snort at the familiar sensationalism, wondering what tangential detail was being employed to justify the 'pervert' epithet. Then he realised he recognised the two half-column, school-photo headshots above the headline, confirmed by the caption: 'VANISHED: Jason Murphy and Alexander Sinclair'.

274.

Oh fuck.

He scanned the text frantically, unable to read quickly enough. Phrases leapt out like assassins.

'... became worried when they didn't return from school at lunchtime but staff and classmates confirmed that they never got there . . .'

'... walked out after losing control of his class. Ash had only been in the job three weeks . . .'

'. . . is understood by police to have been suffering extreme stress. Classmates said he had been taunted by Murphy recently and . . .'

'. . . led his class in a depraved discussion that even involved bestiality . . .'

'. . . forced children to draw pornographic pictures of male sexual organs . . .'

The story was continued inside, where it was accompanied by another photo, a copy of the deer-in-the-headlights pic the school had used for his staff ID.

'. . . still no word at press time . . .'

'. . . police are stressing it is too early to draw conclusions, but. . .'

But but but but but ...

The photograph wasn't a good likeness, and certainly not of Al Jolson at checkout twelve, but Ray felt suddenly very vulnerable. After what he'd just been through, the comparative threat should have seemed small, but the difference now was that he couldn't go home. The police would be even less likely to believe his story if they were trying to nail him for abducting two kids, while around Burnbrae, the nailing would likely involve a gibbet.

In that psycho-ridden farmhouse, his fear had been of what he had to escape from. Now he had nowhere to escape to.

275.the place of many bampots.'Oh good, a riot.' said McIntosh chirpily.

'Christ, that's just what I need right now, Tosh: you in Pollyanna mode.'

'Ach, come on Angelique, it adds a wee bit of colour to the morning to see the local populace in high spirits.'

'Knock it off or I'll kill you, all right?'

'Heard that,' he acknowledged.

They pulled up short of Ash's house on Kintore Road; or rather, short of the placard-wielding crowd spilling on to the road from the pavement on Ash's side of the street. Being held back by a couple of uniformed PCs. Angelique could see Mellis from CID standing outside the semicircle of headcases, talking to another uniform she didn't recognise.

'Look at these fuckers. I see Mellis; hope he's brought a stack of outstanding warrants. This kinna gathering's usually four-deep with crims.'

'Idiosyncratic spelling of paedophile,' McIntosh observed, looking at the placards protesting variously against Peedafile's, Pedafile's and Pedofil's. Another demanded 'Hang child mullester's', while still another proposed 'Castrait all pervert's'.

'It's not even nine o' clock yet, either. Amazing what can motivate some people to get out of their scratchers when they don't have jobs to go to.'

276.

They walked over to Mellis, who welcomed them to the madhouse with a subtle twitch of his brow.

'Sergeant McIntosh, Special Agent X,' Mellis said loudly, over the hubbub of angry shouting five yards behind. 'What brings you two to this morning's carnival?'

'We're here to talk to a witness who lives in one of these houses, a Raymond Ash.'

'Are you DI de Xavia?' asked the uniform, a sergeant, she could now see. There was surprise in his tone. As per.

'In the flesh,' Mellis said, before Angelique could answer for herself. 'I take it her reputation precedes her.'

'Save it for the Lodge, Inspector,' she warned Mellis, then turned to the sergeant. 'And don't tell me - you thought I'd be taller.'

'I ... eh ... I'm Sergeant Glenn. We spoke yesterday, about-'

'Oh right. The exploding budgie, aye.'

'Eh?' asked Mellis.

'So what the hell's this about? Has a paediatrician moved into the neighbourhood?'

'You need to stop reading those big papers, Angel,' Mellis said, handing her a copy of the Daily Recorder and pointing out the second story on the front page.

Angelique speed-read the text. 'Oh, balls.'

'And big dicks too, according to the weans. Hence this show of enthusiastic public-mindedness.'

'How did they all get here? Are they running buses or something?'

'Looks like it, doesn't it? I'd say it's about half from Burnbrae and half from round here. They're still arrivin' as well.'

'I came by here yesterday,' said Angelique, incredulous.

277.

'Ash's missus said if I didn't want to hang about, first thing in the morning was good because they're up early with the wean.'

'I thought you were going to the school yesterday.' said Glenn.

'No. I phoned there to warn him I was coming, but they said he'd walked out. That's why I tried him here. I figured he'd said "fuck it" and gone home, or at least to the pub. Not sure I'd have lasted the day at work myself if somebody had taken a shot at me the night before.'

'That's if somebody took a shot at him,' Glenn added scornfully.

'You're the one who said-'

'About the budgie, aye, but-'

'What's with this bloody budgie?' demanded Mellis.

'Like I told you, Inspector.' Glenn got in ahead of Angelique. 'Ash claimed somebody tried to shoot him. I gave him short shrift, but it turned out there was some evidence that a shot was fired. To wit: some broken windaes an' a deid budgie.'

'Some evidence?' countered Angelique. 'I spoke to Forensics yesterday. They found a nine-mill bullet in the wall behind the budgie's cage, and they're still pickin' up feathers.'

'Aye, but in the light of subsequent developments, I've a mind to think the bugger could have fired the thing himself, to get attention. That was my impression when he first came in, and the facts are startin' to back me up. New job, new wean. He's under stress and he wants somebody to notice.'

'A cry for help?' Mellis mused. 'It's possible. From what I've been told, Ash certainly fits the picture of a person on the edge of some kind of breakdown.'

278.

'Who knows what could have been goin' through his mind?' Glenn continued. 'Sick bastard, if you ask me. Did you hear what he did before he left the class yesterday? Had them all drawin' cocks.'

'Jesus,' said Angelique. 'Imagine that. Weans drawin' willies. Whoever heard of such a thing?'

'Aye, but no' at the teacher's askin'/ Glenn retorted. 'I think this guy could have flipped out bigtime.'

'And what do you think?' she asked Mellis.

'I think I know too little to comment. There's two kids missing, that's my priority at this stage. I'm ruling nothing out and nothing in. They could be walking through their mothers' front doors right now. Same as Ash could turn up here with a lovebite and a hangover.'

'Christ help him if he does/ said Angelique. 'And is there anything to link Ash with these kids, other than timing?'

'No. Not a thing. Which is what we've all been at pains to explain to our wee assembly here.'

'Ya big spoilsport.'

'Oh don't worry, they're not letting the facts get in the way of a good rammy. So what is it you want with Ash?'

'You don't want to know,' interjected McIntosh, for which Angelique was grateful. Whether or not Mellis wanted to know, she seriously didn't want to explain.