Dark Side of the Moon

by Les Wood

  He was just about to get up, maybe go through to the other room and switch on the telly, when his mother screamed and jumped back, throwing the bundle of washing onto the floor. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ she shouted. ‘Get it! Get that thing out of here!’

  Leggett stood and went over to her. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  She put her hands up to her mouth. ‘A mouse!’ She backed away. ‘A bloody mouse!’

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  She pointed to the pile of laundry. ‘There,’ she said. ‘In there, wrigglin about. Ah felt it touchin my hand!’

  Leggett knelt down and fished through the shirts and underpants. ‘There’s nothin here,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘Ye’re imaginin things, ya stupid auld cow.’

  ‘Don’t you dare call me that,’ she said. ‘Ah’m imaginin nothin. There’s a mouse in there, Ah’m tellin ye.’

  He stared at the bundle on the floor. One of the shirtsleeves moved. A tiny ball pushed against the inside and rolled down towards the cuff. ‘See!’ his mother shouted. ‘There it is! Get it. Go on!’

  Leggett smiled and put his hand into the sleeve. The mouse was there right enough. He felt it nudge his hand and walk hesitantly onto his palm. Its body was soft and warm, and its paws felt like nail clippings against his skin. He closed his hand around it and brought it out.

  ‘Get that thing away from me!’ his mother screamed.

  ‘It’s only a wee mouse,’ he said. ‘It’ll not do ye any harm.’

  ‘Aye it will,’ she said. ‘Ah’m warnin ye,’ she said backing off. ‘Don’t bring it near me! Get rid of it.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ he said. He stood up and plunged his hand into the water in the sink. He heard his mother gasp behind him.

  ‘Colin,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Too late,’ he replied. ‘And don’t call me Colin… it’s Colly, alright?’ He could feel the mouse squirming in his hand and he looked into the sink, opening his hand slightly to see it struggling. Its tail whipped back and forth and he could see the little black beads of its eyes staring up at him through the water. It was looking at him. Its tongue poked out between the tiny fangs of its teeth and a string of bubbles escaped from its mouth, floating up to break on the surface of the water. Its little hands grasped his thumb and its rear legs pushed frantically against his fingers. He watched the mouse watching him and wondered what it was thinking. Wondered what he looked like to it – safe, in control. Alive. Not dying, powerless, in terror and despair.

  He giggled.

  The mouse struggled less and less. It gave a final, feeble kick and went limp in his hand, but he didn’t release his grip. He continued to stare into its dead eyes, searching with something approaching awe for a sign, some indication of the point where it crossed over from life to nothingness. What did it look like?

  His head was snapped back by a hard blow across the face.

  His mother stood there, nursing her hand and her eyes bulging with fury. ‘Ya bastard!’ she shouted. ‘What did ye do that for?’

  He wheeled round and threw the mouse at her. She leapt out of the way and its body skited into the corner, hitting the wall with a wet slap. He felt his face reddening where she had struck him.

  ‘Ya cruel wee shite,’ she said. ‘Honest to God, what have Ah reared? Ah only asked ye to get rid of it, not to murder the poor wee thing!’

  He rubbed his face and glared at her. ‘Ah did what needed to be done,’ he said. ‘It was vermin, needed put down.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Ye could just as easy have taken it out the back green and let it go. Ye were enjoyin yourself, weren’t ye?’

  He bared his teeth at her. ‘Go to hell, ya auld bag,’ he said, and stormed through to the next room, slamming the door behind him.

  The stupid bitch, she’d spoiled the whole thing, cutting off his thoughts about the mouse. He tried to focus, to bring back the feeling, to grasp the state of mind he’d just had. The feeling that had made his heart race and his pupils dilate. He had almost seen it… something at the edge of his comprehension… something unknowable, yet he had almost known it. Christ, what he would give to bring the feeling back. He swallowed the lump in his throat and flopped onto the sofa.

  The idea about connectedness didn’t hit him until later that same week. He’d avoided his mother for most of the time, but he overheard her on the phone speaking to his Uncle Jimmy. He was coming round at the weekend and there was going to be a party. Weehoo! Leggett loved parties, and he loved it even better when his Uncle Jimmy was coming. For one thing, his cousin Michelle sometimes came along, and though he knew there was something not quite right about it, he would sometimes get a snog from her in the back bedroom. She was sixteen now, and the last time he had seen her she looked pretty fit.

  The other good thing about his Uncle Jimmy was that he always brought his guitar to parties. It was a battered old acoustic, with scratches and scrapes on the woodwork and a burn mark where he had left it too close to the fire one night, but Jimmy could play it good and he knew some great songs.

  When Saturday arrived, Uncle Jimmy and his new girlfriend – a woman with a bad perm and a fag constantly hanging from her mouth – came round with a carry-out of super lager and vodka. There was no Michelle. Uncle Jimmy said she was out with some guy or other, ‘Gettin her arse shagged off, no doubt!’ But Uncle Jimmy had brought the guitar. That was a consolation at least.

  They sent out for fish suppers and pizza, and the lagers were cracked open. Leggett sat in the corner chair, smoking a cigarette, watching and listening. He eyed up Sandra, Jimmy’s girlfriend. Leggett thought she was pretty hacket, though her body wasn’t so bad. Nice tits. Still, he’d have to be well drunk to even think about giving her a jump.

  The talk was mostly about relatives and folk they knew, holidays and work. Occasionally, his mother would let out a long, braying laugh at some remark from Jimmy, and Leggett would smile, pretending he’d been following the story.

  The time wore on, and Leggett became bored. It had turned out to be a crap party, a waste of a Saturday night. The room was too hot and everyone had a sweaty glow, shirt collars loosened and sleeves rolled up. Leggett felt clammy and seedy. The telly in the corner was blaring out some piss-poor variety special, nobody-you’ve-ever-heard-of acts strutting about like they were headlining the bloody Albert Hall. The fish supper wrappers were lying beside the fireplace along with the empty pizza box, cold chips and some crust spilling onto the carpet.

  He was considering going down to the street corner, see if any mates were hanging around, when Jimmy reached round behind his chair and brought the guitar out of its plastic case. ‘Anybody fancy a wee singalong?’ he asked. The two women nodded enthusiastically, and Leggett sat up in his chair. Jimmy glanced at each of them in turn, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said in a ropy American accent. ‘I think we could drum up a little bit more excitement at this here party! Some good ol’ country music is just what we need. Yeehaw!’

  He set the guitar on his knee and began picking out a jangly rhythm on the upper strings. The women clapped their hands in time. Jimmy laughed, and Leggett found himself tapping his feet and smiling too. This was more like it. The tune twanged away, and Jimmy started to sing in a smoky drawl. An old Johnny Cash song, something about trains a-comin and a-rollin.

  Jimmy was warming up, moving into the next verse. He turned a little in his chair, leaning towards Leggett. Now he was singing about his mama telling him not to play with guns. Leggett sat up straighter. Jimmy crinkled his face into a leathery smile and winked at him. And then came a line that stopped Leggett’s heart in his chest. How the guy in the song was in some place called Reno and shot a man, just so he could watch him die.

  There was something else about a train whistle, but Leggett didn’t hear the rest of the words. His throat constricted and he could hardly catch his breath. I shot a man… just to watch him die… Fucking weehoo and holy mama; that was it! Oh man, oh man!
It was as if an earthquake had ripped through his head, heaving his brain to one side and slamming it back down inside his skull. It was suddenly clear to him… just to watch him die… That was what he had wanted with the mouse, but with a man… that would really be it! He felt the connection ricochet around his head, screaming like the train in the song, barrelling towards him, out of control and trailing a blaze of white fire. If he could do that… if he could look into the eyes… then he would know, then he would see. He felt sick, his stomach churning and grinding. Jimmy’s voice and the brittle, spiky sound of the guitar clanged in his ears. It didn’t sound like music anymore. He jumped up and ran out of the room.

  ‘Hey, wee man, what’s the matter?’ Uncle Jimmy called after him.

  Two weeks later, and he saw the picture of Nguyen Ngoc Loan in the paper. It all fell into place for him then – the mouse, Uncle Jimmy and the picture.

  Connected.

  It became an obsession, gnawed at him, burrowed deep into his soul. He felt he would go insane – every waking minute was spent thinking about that fucking song and the way his hand felt wrapped around the mouse as it twisted and writhed in his grasp. He couldn’t get it out of his head. He had to know, had to feel what it was like. That transition from existence to absolute zero.

  He decided to do something about it.

  He bought the airgun.

  Things settled down a bit after that. He found plenty of use for the gun, oh yes. In the back courts, down by the canal, on the hills that ran down to the edge of the scheme. Cats, rats, even a dog or two. Though it made him feel better, it still wasn’t enough. There was still that hot coal burning deep inside, glowing steadily, unquenchable, waiting to flare and flash into flame. But he knew he only had to bide his time. It would come. Soon, maybe later, but it would come. The time when Boddice would give him his chance. The opportunity to be like Kyle and Prentice.

  Then he would know what it was really like.

  ***

  His mobile phone buzzed and vibrated in his pocket and he jerked forward, feeling light-headed; mouth dry and sticky. He frowned at the drugs sitting on the table in front of him, as if seeing them for the first time. Outside, the snow had stopped, and a patch of blue hung like a high flag behind the heavy folds of the clouds. He pulled the phone from his jeans and keyed up the message.

  Tears came to his eyes as he read it.

  A message from Boddice.

  It was the final connection.

  Kyle: Every December Sky

  It was one of those days when the light in the sky gave Kyle the strange feeling that he had lived before. An intangible, light-headed sense in the back of his mind. Nothing he could grasp with any certainty, just a feeling... almost, but not quite, a memory that he’d had a previous life.

  It was not an unusual feeling for Kyle – a smell or a song could trigger it, or a sound or a taste, but most often it was the dimming of the light on a day like this: getting towards dusk, low, dark clouds the colour of a winter sea, heavy with the threat of snow and, far on the horizon, a weak, watery sun filtering through the bleak greyness to cast a dim yellow glow on the Glasgow streets. Whatever caused it, it was as if the universe tilted on its axis for a moment and he felt himself struggling to grasp at memories he wasn’t entirely sure were there at all.

  Of course, he never mentioned any of this to anyone. They wouldn’t understand, would think him an A-number-one candidate for the loony bin. But Kyle wondered if there were times when they shared the same thoughts and feelings. That maybe everyone had a trigger, a sequence of events, a coincidence of circumstances, that awoke a deep, latent memory, but, like him, they kept quiet about it.

  Perhaps he attached too much importance to it. After all, it was just a feeling and, if he was honest, he didn’t believe all this Buddhist-style shite meant anything.

  Kyle parked his car in a side street and started to walk the couple of blocks down to the Palace. To park outside would just make it obvious to any nosy bastard who cared to look that there was something going on in the derelict bingo hall. Christ only knew why Boddice had picked this spot for the meet. The hall was due for demolition in a couple of weeks. Safe enough for whatever Boddice had in mind. He always liked to have some sort of security for these things, especially if he was arranging a hit.

  The sun finally disappeared behind the tower blocks in the distance and a squally wind threw sleet and rain in his face. Kyle pulled his jacket closer around him and ran his hand through his hair. It needed cut – he’d have to get Mary to go over it with the clippers. Number three all over. Boddice wouldn’t allow them to have it any shorter, said it attracted unwanted attention. From wee neds wanting to have a go to see if you were as hard as you looked, to the polis cruising for someone who looked as if they needed to be flung in the back of the car. True, the shorter it was, the more aggressive and intimidating you looked – usually; Kyle thought it made some guys look like overgrown babies – but Boddice didn’t want overt aggression. People knew what to expect if they saw that. Much better to go in with the softer look and then surprise them when things didn’t turn out quite as they anticipated.

  Whatever... he would get Mary to see to it later tonight. He was in danger of turning into a hippy. He smiled. Maybe that was what was behind all this previous-life crap.

  He arrived at the Palace. Loose plaster hung down from the awning over the front doors and the black plastic letters B N G clung to their little attachment rails on the overhead marquee like the final notes in a musical score. A faded dayglo poster announced the appearance of Les Dennis on the fifth of March. What the fuck year must that have been?

  The front entrance was boarded and shuttered, and cast-iron sliding gates were drawn across the stairs leading to the doors. Mounds of rubbish piled up behind the rails in scummy drifts. Kyle moved round to the side of the building, clambering through the overgrown weeds and mud-sludged puddles, and found the fire exit. The door was banging back and forth in the wind. He grabbed it and pulled it open, wedging it in place with a cement-crusted wooden board. Standing in the doorway, he looked up the stairwell that led to a dim flickering glow in the darkness above. He scrambled over a tarpaulin blocking the passageway and started up the stairs towards the light. At the top, he pushed open the swing doors, revealing the ruined carcass of the auditorium, and made his way towards the centre of the hall.

  The Palace had once been a cinema, and the seats that had stood in rows of red-veloured splendour now lay scattered and broken amongst the rubble on the floor. Graffiti was sprayed on the walls, and someone had taken the trouble to draw a fairly impressive pornographic scene on the side of the staircase leading to the broken stage. Flurries of snowflakes drifted down from a hole in the roof and the matted carpet squelched under his feet as he walked across to the small fire that one of the guys had started in the middle of the floor.

  It looked as if he was the last one to arrive. The Wilson twins stood off to one side, smoking; coats buttoned and collars turned up against the cold. Prentice sat on the edge of the stage, staring glumly at the dark recesses of the balcony, the light from the fire flickering in his eyes. Boag sat on his hunkers, warming his hands at the flames, his face drawn and pale. As Kyle approached, Boag glanced up and looked away quickly. Kyle hadn’t seen him for a while and he wondered if he was sleeping rough. The thought crossed his mind to maybe lend him a wee bung when they were through with this. He gave Boag a nod and half a smile as he walked up to join him at the fire.

  No-one spoke – except for the boy Leggett. He just wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

  ‘Wee-hoo!’ he yipped to no-one in particular, kicking up a pile of yellowed bingo cards and clapping his hands excitedly. ‘Oh man, oh man! Ah think this might be it. Ah think big Boddice is gonnae pick me this time! What do youse think guys?’

  No-one paid him any attention. None of the others really liked him that much. Too much of a liability on whatever jobs he’d been trusted to take part in. Too much of a loose ca
nnon. Too much of a fuckwit. Kyle put his hands in his pockets and stared into the fire.

  ‘Oh aye,’ Leggett went on. ‘Youse’ve all done this kind of thing before, Ah know. Ah think it’s gonnae be my turn now, but. Ah’ve been practising too...’ Kyle lifted his head and looked over at him, ‘...using dugs and cats and that, and Ah know my wee air pistol isn’t quite the same thing, but it does the business, ye know?’ Leggett picked up a piece of plastic tubing from the floor and hurled it to the back of the hall where it clattered behind a balustrade decorated with little silver and gold crowns. ‘The wee fuckers sometimes get away, but most times Ah get them clean. Pow! Right in the eye or the balls!’ He spun round, cocking his thumb back and making a pistol of his hand. ‘Wee-hoo! Ye should see them. They just fold up, all yelpin and whinin. Fuckin magic! And then Ah’ll go over and step on their necks or their ribs till they stop.’ He sniggered and shook his head. ‘Aye. Ah think he’s gonnae give me my chance, big Boddice.’ He clasped his hands and straightened both arms in front of him, screwing up his eyes and taking aim along the length of his arm towards his thumb. ‘Pow!’

  Kyle stared at him and spat on the floor.

  Leggett turned his head. ‘What’s your problem, Kyle?’ Leggett said, lifting his chin, curling his lip at him.

  The twins turned to look at him. The others didn’t move, couldn’t be arsed.

  Leggett folded his arms, took up a defiant stance. ‘You not think Ah’ve got it in me? Eh, Kyle? You got a problem?’

  You’re fucking right I’ve got a problem.

  Kyle was about to say something, walk over and wipe that stupid sneer off Leggett’s face, when there was a sudden rushing of wind in the hall and the snowflakes falling from the roof swirled and danced above the flames of the fire. The door at the back of the hall opened and there was McLean, Boddice’s right-hand man, his minder, his trusted lieutenant, striding down the aisle towards them.