Dark Side of the Moon

by Les Wood

  Moira pulled away and looked at him. ‘What?’ she said. ‘Do Ah look as if Ah’m runnin a bloody nursery here? Is there somethin Ah’ve missed while Ah’ve been through the back? Have ye changed the name of the shop to Mark’s Mugs when Ah’ve no been looking? Cos Ah tell ye, Ah’ll be a bloody mug before Ah’ll change some other bastard’s wean’s nappy.’ She glanced at Prentice. ‘No offence.’

  She turned to go back through to the stockroom and Mark grabbed her arm. ‘Moira. Ye don’t understand.’ He gave a little jerk of his head to indicate Prentice. ‘This here’s Mr Prentice. He works for Mr Boddice.’ He widened his eyes at her. ‘Mr Boddice.’ He paused to let it sink in. ‘And Mr Prentice here has done us a few favours in the past, so Ah think we owe him one back. Do ye not think?’

  Moira turned to Prentice and looked him up and down. ‘Favours is it?’ She snorted. ‘Oh aye, Ah know what kind of favours you do Mister Prentice.’

  ‘Call me Davie,’ said Prentice.

  ‘No, mister’ll do fine for me,’ said Moira. ‘Funny isn’t it? The favours, as he calls them, that you do for us cost us a hundred pound a week. And what do we get for that? We pay you, so that you don’t come round and fuck up our business. Our shop.’

  ‘Moira,’ said Mark.

  She ignored him. ‘We work all the hours of the bloody day to break even, just to break even, not even a profit mind ye, and you come round here and—’

  ‘Moira!’

  ‘What? What is it?’ She pointed at Prentice. ‘Do ye think he doesn’t need tellin? You’ve said it often enough yourself. We can’t afford this. We’re gonnae go under. We’re—’

  This was getting out of hand. ‘Wait!’ Prentice shouted. The baby gave a startled kick. ‘Just wait a fuckin minute!’ He shook his head and grinned. ‘Mark, my man, you’d better learn to keep this one under control, or ye might find yourself with a wee increase in yer weekly outgoings.’

  ‘Don’t you threaten us,’ said Moira. ‘We can—’

  ‘You can what?’ said Prentice. ‘Go to the polis?’ He laughed. ‘Go a-fuckin-head. It’ll no get ye anywhere.’ Prentice could see tears start in Moira’s eyes. He could see the despair, the helplessness. He hated himself for it. But this was what he did. This was his fucking job. ‘They’re scared.’ He leaned across the counter and whispered into Moira’s face. ‘Aye, even the polis. Scared of Boddice. They wouldn’t touch him.’

  Moira stood, arms folded in silent defiance, blinking back her tears and Mark put his arm around her. She shrugged it off. ‘Piss off,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘And now,’ said Prentice. ‘If ye don’t fuckin mind, Ah’ve had a bastard of a day and you two are just makin it worse. So Missus, or rather… Moira.’ He forced himself to smirk. ‘Moira. If you please.’ He held up the pack of Snuggies. She looked at him and scowled.

  ‘You prick,’ she said, and snatched the nappies. She took the baby from him and went through to the stockroom.

  Prentice sighed. He picked up Mark’s newspaper from the counter and took it into a corner. ‘Tell me when she’s finished,’ he said.

  He opened the paper and pretended to read. He could feel Mark staring at him, could feel the suppressed hatred. He couldn’t blame him. These people were trying their level best to get by, and here he was, someone who hadn’t made an honest penny in his life, fucking them over. Prentice hated himself. He had been the hardman for too long. Folk crossed the street to avoid him. Looked at him sideways in pubs, nudging their pals and whispering behind their pints. His reputation went before him. Always would.

  He turned the page and stared, without seeing, at the words and the pictures. He felt his chest tightening, a feeling of claustrophobia coiling around him. Was there really no way out? Would Boddice even let him get out?

  That was something else. Prentice knew things. Lots of things. Boddice might not be too happy if one of his team were to decide to up sticks and go back into the real world. What if Boddice thought Prentice might be the kind of guy to pass on a wee detail here or there to the police or to some rival? These fucking thoughts and questions going round in his head – he felt like screaming.

  ‘Right ya waster, that’s her done,’ said Moira in his ear. How long had he been daydreaming? He hadn’t even heard her come up. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she said. ‘That wee lassie was in a right mess, shite all up her back and everything. Dried-in shite. Nappy rash all over the wee soul. Ah had to put extra cream on her bum and thighs. How long since she was changed? Eh?’

  Prentice gathered himself, switched the hardman back on. ‘Haven’t a scooby missus, don’t care, don’t want to care.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Mark. ‘Wee lassie? Ah thought ye said its name was Jack?’ Moira frowned at him.

  ‘Ah did. Jack… Short for… Jackie,’ said Prentice, thinking on his feet.

  ‘Aye… aye, Ah suppose,’ said Mark.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Moira, handing the baby back. ‘She’s cleaned up now. An Ah fed her too. She was starvin.’ She looked Prentice up and down, making no effort to conceal her contempt. ‘Anythin else ye want from us, or can we get on with our work?’

  ‘No, that’s it Ah think,’ said Prentice.

  ‘Ye sure? Don’t want any ironing done while you’re here? Want me to come round to yer house and do some hoovering?’

  Mark shot her a look. ‘Moira, don’t.’

  Prentice laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it Marky boy. She could do more than that for me if she came round my house, eh Moira?’

  ‘Hey, Ah don’t think that’s called for,’ said Mark. ‘It’s not fu—’

  ‘Don’t bother defendin me to the likes of him Mark,’ said Moira. ‘He looks the type that wouldn’t know what to do with a woman.’

  Prentice knew he had gone too far. The right thing to do would be to back down. But there was that little niggle at the back of his mind. The one that told him what he should do is break this woman’s fucking teeth.

  ‘Alright Mark, calm down. It’s not a problem,’ he said, walking to the front door. ‘What will be a problem, will be the hundred and fifty pound ye’ll owe Mr Boddice, startin from next week. Like Ah said, you’ve got to start thinkin of keepin that wee bitch under a bit more control.’

  ‘What?’ Moira shouted. ‘A hundred and fifty? You’re joking, please say you’re joking.’ She burst into tears.

  Prentice paused beside the old woman who was still playing the puggy and pushed open the door. ‘No joke Moira,’ he said. ‘See you next week.’ He went out into the cold.

  ***

  A slurry of sleet swirled around him as he leaned against the wall of the shop and closed his eyes. Another notch on the bad-ass bedpost.

  He had to hand it to Moira though. She’d shown she was more than simply another spineless no-mark.

  Which was why she had to be crushed.

  Reputation. That’s what it was all about. He had to keep them scared. He had to be a boot-in-the balls of a man, a bone-crunching head-butt of a man, a Stanley knife of a man. A total cunt of a man.

  Reputation.

  People like Mark and Moira – got to let them know where they stood in the great hierarchy of things, and that was right down at the bottom of the pile. More important, they had to know that the bottom of the pile was as good as it was going to get for the likes of them.

  Aye, fucking reputation.

  Except, he didn’t believe in it any more. He was nothing more than a lackey for someone bigger. He had no real reputation at all. All he had was a persona, and a persona built on the back of people’s fear of someone else – Boddice. Prentice was tired of it all.

  He blew out a long sigh and set off from Mark’s. One thing about his visit had been worthwhile though. He knew now what the Palace was. It was the old dear playing the puggy that had brought it into his head.

  Mindless gambling. Women. Bingo.

  Of course. The Palace was the old bingo hall on Cardenhall Road
. Typical Boddice venue – disused for years – if he cut through the bottom end of the Cardenhall scheme he could maybe catch a bus that would all but take him to the front door. He pulled his coat around the baby, looked at his watch. He should make it in time.

  He crossed the road to the Cardenhall estate. The streets were empty, the sleet and rain driving the kids who would normally be hanging around back to their homes and Xboxes. The wind whipped around him, and he shivered as he walked. The light was fading and he knew he had to pick up the pace if he was going to get to the Palace in time. He remembered a short-cut at the next street that would take him out at Cardenhall Road, a lane that ran for about a hundred yards between two sets of tenements and emerged at the service alley behind the shops on the main road. It would save him ten minutes at least.

  When he reached the lane, the street lights were just coming on, powering up from the dull red switch-on glow but not yet reaching the full-blown orange sodium glare. High walls lined with overgrown shrubs and brambles ran into the distance towards the neon lights of the shop stockrooms at the far end.

  He walked quickly, anxious to get to the main road as soon as possible. When he saw the figure enter the lane ahead of him, he gave a sigh. Young lad. Red and yellow Berghaus jacket. Waist drawstring pulled tight. Collar fastened high. Baseball cap tugged low on his forehead. All the ingredients. Prentice guessed what was coming.

  Prentice cradled the baby against his shoulder and kept up his pace, but the figure walked towards him slowly, slinking against the right-hand wall. As he approached, Prentice could see the boy was avoiding eye contact.

  As they drew level, the boy stepped in front of him.

  ‘Alright pal?’ the boy said. ‘Got the time on ye?’

  Prentice laughed. The wee tube actually used that line. ‘Fuck off son,’ he said. ‘Ah’m in a hurry.’

  ‘No, honest pal, have ye got the right time?’ the boy said, still blocking Prentice’s path.

  ‘No, honest son, fuck off. Alright?’

  Prentice moved past him, deliberately bumping him with his shoulder as he did so.

  ‘Hey, ya bastard,’ the boy said. ‘Ye want to come back and try that again?’

  Prentice stopped in his tracks, stared straight ahead, his back to the boy.

  He waited.

  Could hear the boy breathing behind him.

  ‘You thinking you’re hard enough son?’ Prentice said quietly without turning around.

  The boy sniffed. ‘Naw mister.’

  ‘Good,’ said Prentice and carried on walking.

  ***

  For the first time that day he was in luck. When he got to the main road, a bus was already waiting at the stop in front of the shops. He paid his fare and went up to the top deck. It was deserted apart from two women sitting near the front, deep in an animated conversation. He went to the back row and slumped into the seat. He was surprised to see his hands trembling. The boy in the lane had been lucky. If he hadn’t backed down Prentice might have had to do some serious damage.

  And he still had this bloody baby to deal with. She was asleep in his arms, her mouth open, revealing gums but no teeth. A small scratch, like a Nike tick, marked the skin on her cheek. She was young. She had no idea what was happening to her, where she was, where she had been. Fuck, she had no idea who she was. Prentice wished he could be like her – a blank canvas, untainted.

  The December dark had already descended and the sleet had turned to a cold, relentless rain. The bus lurched through the grim, desolate streets and Prentice had to wipe the condensation from the window to glimpse the rows of tenements which passed by, gardens littered with burger wrappers, broken bottles and plastic bags. The two women got off at the next stop, leaving Prentice alone with the baby at the back of the bus.

  The Palace was three stops further on. He would get off at the next stop and walk the rest. It was an automatic precaution. He didn’t want to draw attention to where he was going. He was becoming fed up with all this pretence at subterfuge, all this underhand, secret crap.

  He made up his mind. Things were going to change. He had to extricate himself from this life, try to make a new start, Boddice or no Boddice. He had no idea yet how he was going to do it, but he knew it was time.

  He had also made up his mind about something else. He could see his stop in the distance. There was a small queue waiting. One of them surely would be coming onto the top deck. He took the baby and laid her securely in the corner of the seat against the rear wall. He made sure she was well-wrapped, and she stirred in her sleep. ‘Good luck, wee Jackie,’ he said. He bent down and kissed her forehead.

  He kept his head down as he got off the bus, brushing past the group huddled against the rain at the bus stop. He stood in a close-mouth as the bus drove off. No-one went up to the top deck. Maybe that was a good thing. When someone did eventually find her there would be no association with his hunched figure stepping down at the bus stop. He kept watching the bus as it rumbled into the distance. As it rounded the corner at the far end of the street he set off.

  The Palace was less than three hundred yards away.

  Boag: The Song of the Clyde

  Alistair Boag had been sleeping rough.

  Very rough.

  Things had been getting bad for weeks, money running out, forcing him to beg spare change in the pishy stairwell of a multi-storey car park. And now he didn’t even have enough cash to get into one of those shit-hole hostels-for-the-permanently-fucked-up. He’d had to face the reality of sleeping in a bloody skip. It had taken the whole day to find a decent one at the foot of a block of flats near the city centre and, even then, it had been bad. Cold rain pissing down through the night and only a few soggy cardboard boxes to give him any semblance of shelter among the nail-studded planks and twisted metal bars that lay in a tangled nest at the clinkered bottom of the skip. To crown it all, a woman, out of her face with the drink or the drugs, had been wailing some tuneless song from the open window of one of the flats above:

  She’s just a bare-fitted loaby dancer,

  Waitin for someone tae romance her.

  To sweep her aff her feet,

  No’ give her cause tae greet,

  Is there a man who’ll gie her an answer?

  He had no idea what the hell that was supposed to have been about, but she kept at it, singing it over and over, keeping him awake into the wee hours.

  When morning finally came, Boag slunk out from the skip with the first sounds of life from the high-rise and made his way into town. He wandered down to Buchanan Bus Station; maybe there’d be the chance of picking up a few coins from the commuters on their way to work. A clock, set on a pair of giant burnished steel legs outside the station looked as if it was about to sprint across the street. It read quarter to nine.

  His coat hung with clingy, damp weight and the smirry rain plastered his hair against his head. Secretaries with sombre black umbrellas, half-awake students, men in suits, men in paint-stained overalls, women with shopping bags struggling with novelty brollies, women with briefcases, pensioners dragging wheeled suitcases behind them like strange pets. They all bustled past him, on their way to wherever the hell they were headed. No-one met his gaze.

  He carried on, crossing the road to the Grande Bouffe restaurant which sat on the corner of the busy junction. He shivered as he watched his reflection in the plate-glass windows move like a ghost through the early breakfasters in the dining room. They were warm and satisfied, cosseted and pampered. Tucking in to bacon and eggs, beans and mushrooms, crisp toast and steaming mugs of dark coffee or tea. Reading the morning papers, talking into their mobiles, scanning the busy street.

  They looked right through him.

  The window was etched with various signs and slogans – La Grande Bouffe Restaurant, Fusion Menu, Late Night Jazz, Pre-Theatre Menu, Mediterranean Brasserie.

  Fusion Menu, Boag thought, what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

  A man in a dark suit sat at a table near
the window, typing into a fancy mobile phone and reading a pink newspaper. He was middle-aged, but his hair was gel-slicked and his sideburns were shaved into small dagger-points on his cheek. He leant back in his chair and turned to see Boag staring in at him. The man looked Boag up and down, considered him for a few moments, and motioned for one of the waiters to come over. Boag watched him say something to the waiter, gesturing towards Boag standing in the rain. The waiter moved off and the man tilted his head back and continued to look along the length of his nose at Boag.

  ‘Alright pal?’ It was the waiter, standing beside him, linen towel draped over one arm, squinting against the rain. ‘How’s about moving on, eh? Give the customers a bit of peace?’

  Boag blinked at him. ‘What do ye mean? Ah’m just standing here mindin my own business.’

  ‘I know that, pal,’ said the waiter. ‘But you’re putting people off their breakfast.’

  ‘What? That guy in there?’ Boag jerked his thumb at the man in the dark suit who was studying them with a slight smile on his face.

  ‘Aye,’ said the waiter. ‘He doesn’t want to see your scraggy face looking in at him. So, if you could just be on your way, that would be great.’

  Boag laughed. ‘He doesn’t want to see my face lookin at him? Go back in and tell him to turn his fuckin chair round then. It’s a free country, as far as Ah know, and Ah can stand where Ah bloody well like.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said the waiter. ‘But if you don’t move your arse, I’m going to get the police. Either that, or you’ll get my toe up your backside.’ One of the doormen from the hotel next door wandered over to join the waiter.

  ‘Any problems here, Tommy?’ said the doorman, folding his arms.

  The waiter turned to Boag. ‘Well?’ he said.

  Boag looked from the waiter to the doorman. It wasn’t worth making any fuss, not with the two of them now. ‘No, you’re alright,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll move myself. Just tell that character in there that he doesn’t own the pavement. He’s no any better than me, just cos he’s got a smart suit and a shirt and tie. He still shites broon the same as me.’