Moon Country

by Peter Arnott

  Moon Country

  Peter Arnott

  For My Family

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  0.0

  1.0

  2.0

  3.0

  4.0

  5.0

  6.0

  7.0

  8.0

  9.0

  10.0

  11.0

  12.0

  13.0

  Copyright

  Moon Country

  0.0

  The world is everything that is the case.

  0.0.1

  All the stories told about it turn out to be true.

  0.0.2

  For example, if this was London or Mumbai or somewhere, then the likes of Tommy Hunter might have got himself lost. But Oor Wee Toon is just not big enough for the likes of Tommy Hunter to be here and nobody notice.

  0.0.2.1

  If Tommy was still here, is what I’m saying, there would have been signs.

  0.0.2.1.1

  The animals would have scattered, sensing something, like fire on the prairie. The skies would have darkened. Graves would have opened. Cattle stampeded. Comets would have crossed the sky and dinged off the face of the moon.

  0.0.2.2

  But there’s been nothing.

  0.0.3

  It’s surprising how bleak that makes me feel.

  0.1

  It’s not that Tommy Hunter ever wanted trouble. It’s just that sooner or later he always was.

  0.1.1.1

  Seismic. Off the Richter scale. In Sensurrround sound. Like a geological feature.

  0.1.1.1

  You couldn’t help but see him, no matter how hard you tried not to look. Like a zit on the face of the earth. Something you could see from space.

  0.1.1.2

  Like that bubble of lava that’s sat underneath Yellowstone Park. Sooner or later that’s gonnae erupt and cover us all with six feet of irradiated, molten pus, its plume of chthonic shite blocking out the sun, bringing all of our stories to a close.

  0.1.1.2.1

  Not a minute before time, if you ask me.

  0.1.2

  All there is left of Tommy Hunter, then, is the stories about him. And all of the stories about Tommy Hunter turn out to be true. Even when they contradict each other.

  0.1.2.1

  Like the last time he turned up. All kinds of things got said about that.

  0.1.2.2

  Where did all that money come from to start with? Envelopes of the stuff he carried about with him in a carpet bag. A fortune he flung about the place with the largesse of some medieval monarch purging his soul of temporal entrapment: doing good, of course, but also prefiguring, in his penitent disbursement of the stuff of life, our final dissolution and the contingency of all things.

  0.1.2.3

  There were lots of stories about that, and they were all true. Or they might as well have been.

  0.2

  There are those who say, for example, that Tommy struck it rich randomly, sitting like a statue of homelessness in London somewhere — Camberwell Green or somewhere.

  0.2.1

  When a man he’s never seen before, and who has never seen him before, a long, black man in a long black coat and a black felt hat just walks up to him and drops a carpet bag full of money on the bench beside him.

  0.2.1.2

  For no reason at all.

  0.2.1.2.1

  Tommy doesn’t look up to see his face. Just listens to the clack clack clack of expensive footfalls die away. The messenger doesn’t break stride and is not to be identified.

  0.2.1.2.1.1

  The messenger’s purpose is not to be interrogated. His purpose is only to be fulfilled.

  0.2.1.2.

  For it was written that heaven would deliver unto Tommy Hunter that which made Tommy Hunter a force for right and truth and justice in the land.

  0.2.2

  Were he to have existed in order to have made this spontaneous donation, the Angel of the Wedge would have been strategically spot on. Even forces for right and truth and justice don’t get far in this most fallen of possible worlds without the financial wherewithal. Not if they’re Tommy Hunter they don’t. Not if you’re a guy who can’t walk into a post office to buy a stamp without the alarms going off. Similarly, it would have been no good sending Tommy a cheque or a BACS payment, because if you’re someone whose name on a computer will set off a worldwide electronic aneurysm then you can’t open a bank account or write off for a MasterCard or shit like that. You can’t be part of the world, not this world, not a world where everything is known about everybody, not a world where if you buy a kumquat in Tesco then some cunt in the CIA will know that you’re a target for exotic fruit marketing.

  0.2.2.1

  Guys like Tommy can’t exist in a world like that.

  0.2.3

  Others have suggested a socio-historic sequence of events to account for Tommy’s stash, which is every bit as credible as the angel thing.

  0.2.3.1

  So, it might just as well have been that on a dusty day in April a red-bearded tramp in an old tweed coat, no shirt, Jesus sneakers, no socks and a set of cut-off jeans walked into a venerable solicitors’ office in West Nile Street, the wind blowing rags of chip paper in his wake. Mrs Golightly, faithful receptionist, will have looked up over the purple rims of her bifocals into the face of Satan himself, Old Nick quietly demanding, in a voice like Clint Eastwood but with an accent that could have welded ships, to meet with Mr Hugo Moncrieff, a senior partner lost to gout and corruption some half a dozen years before. On being informed of that Georgian gentleman’s predecease, the apparition will have chuckled softly to itself, and said its own name, “Ah’m Tommy Hunter,” with the inconsequence of an asteroid detonating off the coast of Mexico, this self-nomination sending an eel of fear wriggling through Mrs Golightly’s sexagenarian vitals, and setting her fingers to fumbling blindly across the intercom, thereby summoning a random gaggle of junior partners, secretaries and personal assistants to cluster nervously behind the modishly curvilinear reception desk, staring helplessly at this ill-smelling irruption from the Gehenna of the penal system, only one of them finally recognising him, kindly old Mr Meyer, brought into the firm to handle the Newton Mearns trade back in 1974. Old Meyer’s nut-brown face will have cracked in welcome saying, “Come on in, Tommy, son,” extending a Semitic and arthritic paw to gather in the lost sheep.

  0.2.3.1.1

  And as they sat together in the dark plush of the meeting room, the Ragged Man and the Old Jew, sentimentally conjoined by some trope of wandering, perhaps, they will have talked about the old days — about Frank and Eleanor, Joseph and Janice, maybe even about old Jack Webster — while a minion will have got sent with a banker’s draft for thirty-seven thousand pounds across the road to the Royal Bank of Scotland.

  0.2.3.2

  Course, he maybe just dug it up, his share of the ancient loot, resurrecting a worm-eaten bin bag from a hole by a loch, Rob Roy’s castle reflected in the muddy tarn, fourth tree down from the stone shaped like a pirate’s skull.

  0.2.3.3

  Or mebbe he just saved up his wages up from the jile. He was in there for long enough and he never smoked as far as I can remember. That’s most likely the truth of it, and the truth has no obligation to be interesting.

  0.2.3.4

  But call me whatever the fuck, I favour it was this way.

  0.2.3.4.1

  I see Tommy Hunter haunting the streets somewhere, newly expelled from the inferno to gaze once more upon the stars, somewhere on this middle road of life, near destitution, paralysed though restlessly mobile, waiting for something, perhaps acclimatising to being on the outside, more likely
not getting used to it at all, blindly wandering alien streets full of undifferentiated noise and movement, all these bloody people all around him suddenly, and him still wrapped in prison stink, a bubble of bad smell, uncaring and unheeding, face like stone and glass, hour after unstructured hour, buying a pie and chips, not enjoying it, absently stroking a dug, scaring folk away with that monster stare of his, standing at the park gates gazing into the lost world of the playground, mothers hustling their little ones away.

  0.2.3.4.1.1

  All loss, he must have been, all isolation: a mad jakey, a middle-aged catastrophe, talking to himself, if he ever talked to anyone at all. You’ll’ve seen them about.

  0.2.3.4.1.1.1

  The sudden shouters, the schizoid self-debaters, the mad, the flotsam, the casually beaten and set fire to, the socially excluded if you want to get governmental about it, the economically inactive, the internal exiles of the marketplace, hostile and fucking weird, ex-servicemen, ex-prisoners, ex-inmates, ex-humans, really, startling folk on buses with philosophical questions, peering into second-hand Yankee comic book shops, clashing their wrists together and turning into Captain Marvel … that kind of thing. They’re everywhere.

  0.2.3.4.1.2

  I think if you’d have seen Tommy then, you’d not have looked at him twice. In order to avoid some insane dialogue or aggressive begging or both, you’d have passed him by on the other side, and you’d’ve been wiser than you could have known, truth be told.

  0.2.3.4.2

  Yes. I think this was Tommy Hunter, that April, two weeks out of the slammer, invisibly prowling after himself, arriving at the door of some bedsit or other he’d got sent to by the probation service, run, as such establishments invariably are, by money-grubbing cunts of the lowest variety, in this instance of South Asian extraction, justifying their cupidity in the name of the ummah with the same defensive, self-righteous bitterness as the Humean natives do in that of enlightened self-interest or whatever the fuck it is we say these days: one Assam in this instance, he being the third and least academically able son of the proprietor, specifically entrusted in lieu of a career in medicine, law or pharmacy with the cleaning and maintenance of the family property, his duties being performed in a spirit of desultory incompetence — and also, much more successfully, autodirected to provoke the tenantry at every opportunity. This exiled and unconscious scion of the Punjab now alerts our Tommy to the arrival of a package with his name on.

  0.2.3.4.2.1

  “Ah hud tae fucken sign fur this,” Assam informs Tommy, contemptuously extending the communication with the aggrieved self-importance of Hermes on a jihad.

  “So fuck?” says Tommy with his hand out, adding interrogatively, “Did ye look in it?”

  “Naw, did ah fuck!” Assam continues in his grammatically challenged manner, but handing over the blue and red striped bundle without further demur, for, dumb fucker though he is, Assam knows better than to mess too persistently with this particular cunt. While therefore only pantomiming his defiance, he is nonetheless driven to playing up a bit, so as not to avow himself entirely dickless in the presence of the infidel.

  0.2.3.4.3

  Tommy doesn’t grant the prick another glance, however, as, now raised to the status of human congress by the arrival of communication, he pushes past his landlord’s agent and unlocks the door to his dingy room, dismissing Assam from his consciousness, shutting the door behind him without further acknowledgement or thanks.

  0.2.3.4.3.1

  Assam batters on the door — (just the wance) — and says a bad word.

  0.2.3.4.4

  Meanwhile, inside, Tommy roughly splits the envelope and pours the money on the bed, thirty-seven thousand pounds in used tenners, spreading like a sheet of possibilities on the duvet of no return, light in the gloom, hope in the darkness, glory spread thin upon the surface of the sordid world.

  0.2.3.4.4.1

  And his face doesn’t change a bit.

  0.2.3.4.5

  That’s what must have been the case, in my book. The hell with whatever is the case in your book.

  0.3

  However Tommy Hunter in fact acquired his fiscal equipage, and whatever message or instruction to stay away was included, tacitly or explicitly, with this windfall, the incontrovertible fact of the matter was that here it was he manifested himself, one wet dawn in April a few years ago, skipping his probation, swinging down from the cab of an articulated bone rattler in a lay-by at the very edge of Oor Wee Toon, long ago invented, employed and defined as a single, specialised but long since superannuated link in the supply chain of the motor manufacturing industry, and now solely delineated by the ironic, taunting motorway that cuts through it like a grey swathe, a glimmering path that leads through it and out of it and away from it.

  0.3.1

  Away! That first word we sucked at our mother’s tit! Away! Tae fuck!

  0.3.2

  Tommy had been away all right, but now he had come back to the very break in the very stretch of fence of the very cemetery where the poor cunts who’d never gone anywhere at all had ended up, and as he swung his leading leg over that fence at the exact same spot he’d used to when getting off his bus from special school, and he’d set off striding uphill, through the dead and towards those as yet barely and furtively alive, what dark thoughts seeped into his feet from that corpse-fed potter’s field? What dull, burning certainty of purpose filled his heart and drove his steps, him and his bad memories and his aching soul and his bag of stolen money, howsoever recovered, howandsoever temporarily in his care? What brought him up that hill?

  0.4

  Well. We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we? Tommy Hunter had came hame. And everything that followed, whatever else you’ve heard, was as predestined as the rain that leaked into his tennis shoes.

  1.0

  “Back story” you might call this next bit.

  1.0.1

  There’d been four of them in on it. This is getting on for fourteen years ago now, when Tommy Hunter and the Wheen boys got back from the army — with empty pockets, time on their hands and carnage in their hearts.

  1.0.1.1

  There were supposed to have been five, but Gerry Docherty’s bottle had crashed at the last minute to midnight, and he’d left town before Joe could stab him.

  1.0.1.2

  There remained the four of them, then, not quite kids by now, with two shooters between them, and, come to think, a local boy on the inside of the van as well — called Eric, I think, or Colin. Some victim sort of a name like that.

  1.0.1.2.1

  This Colin (or Eric), he had been at school with them — a speccy wee cunt that Joe and Gerry used to pin up on the blackboard to steal his lunch money — and he had done quite well for himself in his short, cunty life so far, recently being rewarded with a position of trust at a reputable security firm.

  1.0.1.2.2

  A firm that later on, it so happens, took over the running of one of the privatised prisons that both Tommy and Joe — and even old Jack Webster — ended up in at one stage or another.

  1.0.1.3

  Anyway, willingly or no, this boy was in on it too. For despite his salaried presence on this weary, stony earth, and the solid further acquisition of a wife and wean, this Eric or Colin had retained an entirely reasonable wariness of his former school chums, who in some way or other had arrived at the determination of turning Colin’s (or Eric’s) social success to their own advantage.

  1.0.1.3.1

  In the manner of all criminals, they knew with moral certainty that their proposed redistribution was only right. It was only right, they felt, that Eric (or Colin) should share his access to the world of banking, however tenuous and circumstantial it might be, with them, despite the fact that he was only on four-fifty an hour or some such pish, and could not realistically be held to be a major shareholder in the institution whose old notes his firm were transporting for disposal.

  1.0.2

  So
, like I say. There were the four of them and Colin (or Eric) in on it, Tommy himself with Frank and Joseph Wheen being the core of the musketeers, with the now-to-be-named-fourth being Jack Webster, a gentle soul with a gift for the sourcing and exchange of dodgy articles — who had come up with the shooters and had scored the motor — as their helpmeet.

  1.0.2.1

  A lovely man, Jack, and not without aesthetic leanings, as a silver-grey Merc did seem excessive for the job, but Jack had liked the colour and felt that a certain resonance of much beloved episodes of The Sweeney was called for. So he’d nicked it and turned up with it.

  1.0.2.1.1

  Frank had rolled his eyes when he saw it. Frank liked to think of himself as a practical fellow.

  1.0.2.1.1.1

  Hunter had smiled, an enthusiast for other people’s enthusiasms.

  1.0.2.1.1.1.1

  Joe didn’t say anything.

  1.0.2.2

  Joe was more of an A-Team Ford Transit kind of a guy: all intention and no class. But no pragmatist either, as brother Frank could readily testify. A bit obvious, if you catch my drift.

  1.0.2.2.1

  Joe was the one who was obviously going to use the shooter once he had it in his paw. Practical Frank and the others should surely have anticipated that. Because once he had Eric (or Colin) and his fellow employee helpless in the woods with their van opened and the two of them forced inside to disembark the contents, there was no way that Joe wasn’t going to succumb to the temptation of so readily available a cinematic reference. Knowing Joe as they did, the rest of them should really have seen it coming.

  1.0.2.2.1.2

  Joe had indeed, quite predictably, and without any provocation or even much malice aforethought, released himself to the trigger’s explosive temptation, splattering Colin’s (or Eric’s) colleague all over the inside of the van — and making himself permanently deaf in one ear, incidentally.

  1.0.2.2.2

  And they all had understood immediately that now, obviously, they had to do for Eric (or Colin) as well.

  1.0.3

  Erin (or Colic) had begged and screamed and soiled himself. Jack Webster had sat on a tree stump throwing up, haunted now and forever by his glimpsing and momentarily scenting the inside-out horror of what was already on the walls and floor of the van, while the musketeers had just shouted at each other — Tommy, as had been customary all through their school and army days, finding himself the weathercock in the gale of resentment that blew between the Brothers Wheen.