Dark Side of the Moon

by Les Wood

  Dark Side

  of the Moon

  Dark Side

  of the Moon

  Les Wood

  First published 2016

  Freight Books

  49–53 Virginia Street

  Glasgow, G1 1TS

  www.freightbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © 2016 Les Wood

  The moral right of Les Wood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or by licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 0LP.

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-911332-00-8

  eISBN 978-1-911332-01-5

  Typeset by Freight in Plantin

  Printed and bound by Bell and Bain, Glasgow

  Contents

  Prologue: A Little Night Music

  Part 1: The Palace

  Prentice: What is and What Should Never Be

  Boag: The Song of the Clyde

  The Wilson Twins: Tattooed Love Boys

  Leggett: The Folsom Prison Blues

  Kyle: Every December Sky

  Part 2: The Best-Laid Plans…

  Boddice: Nobody’s Child

  On the beach

  Darker With the Day

  Park Life

  Army Dreamers

  The Wilson Twins: Sartorial Eloquence

  The Lexicon of Love

  Private Dancer

  Part 3: Hope and Argyle

  Going Underground

  Altogether Now

  The Model

  All Tomorrow’s Parties

  Leggett: Unfinished Sympathy

  Part 4: On The Dark Side

  Party Fears Two

  Part 5: Shine on You Crazy Diamond

  Nobody’s Fault But Mine

  Under The Bridge

  Acknowledgements

  Les Wood lives in Barrhead with Marie, his better half, and Skye, the staffie dug. He has had several short stories and poetry published in various anthologies and magazines. He has previously been a winner of the Canongate Prize for New Writing and a prizewinner in the McCash Scots Poetry Competition.

  leswoodwriting.com

  For Marie, the luvama…

  There is no dark side of the moon really…

  …matter of fact, it’s all dark.

  (Gerry O’Driscoll)

  Prologue: A Little Night Music

  Foreigners.

  First it was the Russians and Italians, and they were bad enough. But containable, willing to negotiate.

  Now, it was Albanians and Romanians, shady characters with their too-black moustaches and thick eyebrows, hands always stuffed in the pockets of their leather coats, permanently looking into the middle distance, half smirking, never meeting your eye.

  They thought they could just waltz in and take over. In bloody Glasgow.

  Aye, that’ll be right, Boddice had once thought. This is my territory; I run the show around these streets. Nobody gets to piss in my porridge and expect to get away with it.

  Except they did. These bastards didn’t give a toss. They were blatant, nonchalant, unruffled. They had the drugs, the contacts, the distribution, the confidence and the will. And now they were starting to muscle in. Without as much as a by-your-fucking-leave. Boddice had found his patch shrinking, his circle of fear and intimidation pulling away from him like a receding tide. Not that the others could ever know this. Oh no.

  It was late. He sat in his darkened living room trying to listen to Mozart. All that Classic FM Snoozy-Sounds-At-Seven, Notes-To-Nod-Off-To rubbish. It was all shite – an effort just to listen to it, never mind try to understand it.

  But it was necessary. He had an image to cultivate: refinement, pedigree, taste.

  His cigar had long ago gone out, and his whisky glass was empty; the central heating had clicked off and the room was chilling rapidly. He sat on the sofa staring into the blackness. Thinking.

  And this evening had given him a lot to contemplate. The message. The offer. A bolt from the blue. A blast from the past.

  After all these years.

  It was certainly different. Difficult. Yet tempting. Very tempting.

  And exciting. Oh, yes, definitely that. It would make him rich. More money than he would know what to do with. If he pulled this off, the Albanians, Russians, Italians, all the Glasgow fucktards who were jostling for position, establishing their own wee gangster empires, all those pricks would be eclipsed by the enormity of what he had done. He would become a legend. And he liked the sound of that.

  If he could pull it off.

  He found the remote and switched the music off, letting the sound of the rain thrown against the window take over.

  A smile spread across his face.

  It was time to tell the others.

  PART 1: THE PALACE

  Prentice: What is and What Should Never Be

  For Davie Prentice, a shitey day was just about to get shitier.

  Boddice had him doing the rounds, collecting money from assorted schemie-scum, noising up the chancers in graffiti-scrawled, rubbish-strewn tenement blocks; the kind of places where a tattered old bed sheet Sellotaped to the window served as a curtain, and carpets that didn’t squelch under your feet were a Grand Designs luxury. Pale, wasted faces answering the door. Barely conscious. Eyes hooded, crack-riddled. Some of the bastards still in their underwear or jammies.

  Desperate.

  Most of them had a couple of quid to hand over, but not enough to pay off the full whack of what they owed. Which, Boddice had told Prentice, was all fine as far as he was concerned. Just add another two hundred percent onto the interest rate and come back the next day with the baseball bat. That was usually enough to get them to cough up the readies.

  But Prentice was weary of the whole thing. He wasn’t exactly a coffin-dodger at thirty-five, but he felt old beyond his years. Here he was, trudging around on foot, taking the bus, forgetting to dress for the weather – losing his driving licence had fucked him up good-style – dealing with the dregs of the city. Christ, it was only early afternoon and already Prentice felt ready for his bed. He should be getting out of this line of work. Think about settling down into something sensible. A wife. Weans. A real job.

  He’d come to Rosco’s place to collect the three hundred Rosco owed. It was the top flat in a manky, scunnersome close, the doors to the other flats boarded up by graffiti-covered metal sheets. No answer when Prentice rapped on Rosco’s door, he tried the handle and found it open.

  The first thing that hit him was the stench. It nearly knocked him off his feet: a combination of piss, shite and something else, some bass note of unpleasantness humming underneath it all. He fought back the urge to gag and moved through the dimness of the hall to the living room. The smell was worse in here. A plate with the congealed remains of a fish supper sat on a cushionless sofa beside what looked like a weeks-old vomit stain. It was the only furniture in the room. Prentice covered his mouth. Did people really have so little dignity that they could live like this? To pricks like Rosco though, dignity was just the name of a boat in a Deacon Blue song.

  There was no sign of him. ‘Rosco, are you here ya clatty bastard?’ Prentice s
houted.

  No reply.

  He made his way back to the hallway and found the door to the bedroom. The smell was almost overpowering now. His gorge was rising. ‘Rosco! You in there?’

  Prentice turned the handle and opened the door. A blast of heat hit him, along with the stupefying stink of decay. He dry-heaved a couple of times, his eyes watering. The orange glow from a four-bar heater lit the room. It must have been on for days to heat the room like this.

  Out of the corner of his eye Prentice spotted a shapeless shadow on the floor at the far side of the bed. He flipped the light switch and forced himself to move further into the room.

  It was Rosco. Or rather, what used to be Rosco. He was naked, lying half under the bed. His face was a bloated, purple balloon, his fingers and hands blackened and puffy. A yellow, jelly-like fluid oozed on the floor beside his body.

  ‘Holy fuck, what happened to you?’ Prentice said aloud. As if in reply, a soft mewing sound came from behind him. Prentice spun round. There, in the corner, was a baby. It lay on its back on the floor, gurgling and kicking its feet, oblivious to its surroundings. Prentice’s jaw dropped. ‘Jesus…’

  He knelt beside the baby. It was dressed in a white jumpsuit with miniature trainers on its feet. As far as Prentice could tell, the baby was unharmed. What the hell was it doing in here? He picked it up and took it into the hallway. The air felt fresher here, but he knew it was only relative compared to the reek of putrefaction in the bedroom. The baby looked up at him, its little eyes blinking, searching. Its mouth moved forming unknown baby-words.

  Prentice was at a loss. Rosco was gone, and whatever had happened to him was bound to have happened sooner or later. The guy was a loser, had always existed barely half an inch this side of the Great Divide. It was no big surprise. But this baby? Where had it come from? Whose was it?

  Another thought came to him. What was he going to do with it? Call the police, let them deal with it? That was the obvious move. But there was the risk they’d manage to trace something back to him. Snooping, curtain-twitching neighbours could have spotted him entering Rosco’s close. Unlikely, but not improbable.

  Or, he could just leave the baby where it was. Surely the mother would come back for it? Or would it be the father? Prentice went through to the living room, checked the kitchen, the bathroom. No pram, no infant formula, no nappies. No sign of any baby paraphernalia. No sign any parent had ever been here. Christ, what kind of person leaves a baby alone in a flat with a dead junkie? Prentice already knew the answer to that one; it hardly seemed likely someone like that would be coming back any time soon.

  Or, there was the third option.

  He could take the baby with him. Okay, that was just an insanely stupid idea – he didn’t know the first thing about infants, they were an alien species – Jesus Christ, he couldn’t even remember holding one before. And what would he do with it once he’d taken it?

  What a mess.

  Bugger it. Easy decision. He would leave the baby behind. Let fate decide. It wasn’t his problem.

  He went back to the bedroom and placed the baby on the bed. He switched off the electric fire and surveyed the room before leaving. The baby lay quietly. It turned towards him and in the gloom he could see its little eyes watching his face. It kicked its legs a few times and flapped its arms on its chest. Prentice went out into the hallway and pulled the bedroom door shut.

  He stood in the hallway for a full five minutes, staring at the door.

  Prentice sighed. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he thought. Ah can’t do it.

  He went back into the bedroom, gathered the baby into his arms and rushed out of the flat before he could change his mind.

  Prentice got to the bottom of the stairs and ran out into the street. The air was sweet and cool after the stench of Rosco’s flat and he sucked it in, savouring it. The baby lay with its head back, blinking at the sky, as if seeing it for the first time. Prentice scanned the windows of the flats opposite. They stared back, grim, lifeless. At least no-one had seen him.

  Prentice turned to walk up the street when his phone buzzed: an incoming text. He fished the mobile from his pocket, glanced at the message: Boddice at the Palace 4.00. He frowned, not sure what it meant. Obviously Boddice wanted some sort of meet – and it was to be in private, out of sight. Boddice had a habit of picking obscure places to arrange gatherings – abandoned bus depots, derelict tower blocks, once even a bloody disused mine working in the north of the city. But what was the Palace? Prentice sighed. Why the hell couldn’t Boddice be more explicit in his messages? The bastard was so paranoid Prentice thought he would consider holding a meeting up his own arse just so no-one could see what he was up to.

  Prentice looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Two hours to work out where he was supposed to be and then actually get there. Two hours to work out what to do with this bloody baby. It began to stir in his arms. He hoisted it up and felt a soft, squishy heaviness under its backside. God knew how many days had passed since the nappy had been changed. The baby squirmed and began a low whimpering. Prentice sighed and looked up the street. In the distance he could see Marmion Court, a twenty-five-storey tower block which rose from the surrounding scheme like a solitary grave stone.

  It gave him an idea.

  ***

  Mark’s Market was the only functioning shop in a row of derelict units at the bottom of the high rise. A couple of boys of about eight or nine were kicking a ball against the metal shutters of one of the empty units as Prentice made his way over to the door of the shop. Seagulls wheeled and dived on the icy downdraft from the tower block, swooping onto the overflowing binbags piled outside the entrance to the flats.

  ‘Heh, mister?’ one of the boys called. ‘Any fags you could give us?’

  ‘You going into Mark’s? Gonnae get us a bottle of Buckie when ye’re in?’ said the other.

  ‘Are youse two fed up with they faces?’ said Prentice, turning to them. ‘Cos if youse don’t fuck off right now, Ah’ll rearrange them for ye, alright?’

  The two boys looked at each other and laughed. ‘Aye, so ye will. Come ahead ya prick,’ said the smallest one, giving Prentice the come-on with his hands. Prentice started to walk towards them and they ran off to the end of the row of shops.

  ‘Aye, run, ya wee shites!’ he called after them.

  Prentice turned back to the shop and pushed through the door.

  ‘Market’ was hardly the word to describe the place. Pale fluorescent strips lit a couple of bare aisles, disintegrating cardboard boxes placed on the floor to soak up the wet footprints of the customers. A woman in a heavy overcoat and house slippers stood playing the puggy machine next to the door, pulling pound coins from her purse and feeding them into the slot. Prentice walked past the miserable shelves of cut-price tinned vegetables, cans of soup and packets of chocolate biscuits to the checkout at the back of the shop. Boxes of crisps of different flavours surrounded the counter and there was a selection of cheap whiskies and wines stacked on the wall behind the till.

  The man at the counter looked up from his Daily Record. ‘Aw, wait a minute,’ the man said, standing and raising his hands. ‘Heh, Prentice what are you here for? Ah’m all squared up with Boddice. He’s got what he’s owed. Ah paid ye a fortnight ago, remember?’

  ‘Settle yourself Mark,’ said Prentice, smiling. ‘Ah’m not here for collectin.’ He looked around him, making a show of scanning the shop, glancing up at the fake CCTV camera in the corner. ‘How’s business? Gettin any more trouble from anybody?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said Mark. ‘Just the usual. Stupid boys wantin to noise me up. Coupla bags of crisps an sweeties nicked. No real trouble… no… not really.’ He kept his gaze on the counter in front of him, never meeting Prentice’s eyes.

  ‘See?’ said Prentice. ‘Told ye Mr Boddice would look after ye, didn’t Ah?’

  ‘Aye, ye did.’

  Prentice continued inspecting the shop. ‘Tell ye what Ah’m here for, Marky boy. Do y
e sell they disposable nappy things in here?’

  ‘Eh?’ Mark looked up, noticing the baby for the first time. ‘Oh, right, Ah see. Aye… aye we’ve got somethin like that.’ He pointed to the aisle behind Prentice. ‘Bottom shelf on the left there.’ He came round from behind the counter. ‘Here, let me get them.’ Mark picked up a packet of Snuggies from the shelf and laid them on the counter. ‘Anythin else?’

  ‘Not just now,’ said Prentice, looking over Mark’s shoulder to the stockroom at the back of the shop. ‘But have ye got anywhere Ah can get this wean changed? It’s mingin.’

  Mark leaned over and stuck his finger into the baby’s hand. Its fingers curled round his own, grasping tightly. ‘Ah didn’t know ye had a wean Prentice,’ he said, pulling his hand away. ‘Takin it out on yer rounds now, eh?’

  Prentice glared at him. ‘It’s no mine. It’s… eh, it’s… my sister’s.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah’m looking after it, right?’

  ‘What’s its name?’

  Ah wish Ah fuckin knew, thought Prentice. He said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Jack… name’s Jack.’

  ‘Hiya Jack,’ said Mark, tickling the baby under the chin. Mark screwed up his face. ‘Man alive, yer right, it is stinkin.’ He stepped back behind the counter and went to the till to ring up the nappies. He noticed Prentice staring at him and his hand froze above the keyboard. He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Aye, right enough, right enough. Have them on the house Prentice.’

  Prentice held up the nappies. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Where can Ah go?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Mark. ‘Ah’ve got a better idea.’ He stuck his head into the stockroom. ‘Moira! C’mere a minute will ye?’ He smiled at Prentice and rolled his eyes. ‘Better to get somebody that knows what they’re doing, eh?’

  A woman dressed in a black shell suit, her blonde hair scraped back in a tight pony tail, came through from the stockroom. Her face was pale, her eyes puffed from lack of sleep. Mark put his arm around her shoulder. ‘This is my wife, Moira,’ he said. ‘Listen, will ye take this wean through the back and change its nappy for me?’