Dark Side of the Moon

by Les Wood

  Boddice walked over and ruffled Prentice’s hair. He drew him aside out of earshot of the others. Prentice stared at the ground. ‘Of course I know that. You’re my best man, Davie. The one I trust the most. But you’re fucking worrying me with your behaviour tonight. I can’t have you questioning me at every turn. Christ, we haven’t even got into any of the nitty-gritty yet. There’s something bugging you, I can tell. Has been for the last couple of weeks.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘This is serious stuff we’re about to get into Davie. Make no mistake, it’ll make us. Make us all.’ He crouched down, brought his face up close to Prentice, studied his eyes. ‘We will be able to retire after this.’ Prentice jerked his head up at that. Boddice gave a wry smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Think about it. We can get out of all this crap once and for all.’

  ‘Will we?’ Prentice asked in a low voice. ‘Will we really? Somehow Ah doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, if we do this right, you can count on it. If that’s what you want, I’ll make sure it happens.’

  Boddice put his arm around Prentice’s shoulder, a gesture of sly companionship, a cold excuse for friendship. ‘Consider it Davie,’ Boddice said. ‘This isn’t that much different from other jobs we’ve done.’ He drew Prentice closer, squeezed him tighter. ‘Maybe just a bit bigger in scale, but that’s all.’

  ‘Ah’d say it was considerably more than just a bit bigger,’ said Prentice. ‘This is off the scale, what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘Ah, but is it?’ Boddice said, turning Prentice to face the others huddled against the wind a short distance up the beach. ‘Think of the time we got that load of Italian suits from the warehouse at the airport, or the whisky job, remember that one? Ran like clockwork didn’t they? Complete successes. This is just the same. Everyone has their part to play. We go in, we get out, job done and no sweat.’ He released Prentice from the best-of-pals hug, let him walk a few steps. ‘I don’t know what you’re worried about.’

  Prentice stared at the wet sand. Aye, he thought, the whisky job; that was exactly the kind of thing he was worried about. Prentice remembered it very well. Sure, they’d got thirty grand’s worth of finest malts, but they’d also got themselves a dead body to dispose of after Boddice slashed – no that was too mild a word for it – after he pummelled the delivery driver’s face with a broken whisky bottle. Relentlessly. Mercilessly. And all because Leggett had forgotten to fucking blindfold the guy. Meaning, of course, that the poor bastard had seen each and every one of their faces. Including Boddice’s. And for that, he’d paid the price, Boddice standing over his body with the red-dripping shards of the bottle, gore-covered and grinning with a mad glee in his eyes.

  And now here was Boddice, smiling, genial, mister everything’s-fine-and-dandy, telling Prentice not to worry about this job – it’ll just be like the whisky job. Aye, right.

  The horror of the scenes from that night wrestled with the smiling, good-buddy persona of the Boddice who now stood before him. Prentice was in no doubt which was the reality and the dull throb in his chin from Boddice’s punch only reinforced it, confirmed the charade.

  There was nothing else for it.

  Prentice sighed. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve said Ah’ll do it an Ah’m not going back on my word. Ah guess Ah’m just a bit nervous about it. New direction and all that. Too many uncertainties.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘But Ah have faith in ye. Ah just hope ye know what ye’re getting us into.’

  Boddice stroked his beard. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘Never been more confident.’

  Prentice watched him walk back to the others. Sure, never more confident, he thought.

  But he had caught the hesitation in Boddice’s voice.

  Darker With the Day

  By the time Prentice woke up, the flat was freezing. One of his arms was outside the bedcovers. The deep, numbing chill on his skin was what had forced him awake.

  It was still dark. He checked the radio alarm – quarter to eight. Was that morning or night? Morning, surely. He couldn’t have slept right through the day, could he? He stretched out and flipped the switch for the radio to come on. It was a morning news programme. Thank fuck for that then, he thought. It had been a long time since he’d been on such a bender that he had missed out the entire next day. Though he felt he might have come close to it last night. A bottle of Grouse and some superlager to wash it down.

  McLean had offered to drop him at the pub, maybe even come in for one himself after he’d let the others off at their various destinations and taken Boddice home. Prentice had said thanks, but no thanks. Felt like an early night, he lied. He suspected Boddice had put McLean up to it; get a few pints down him, see if he would open up about what was on his mind. Fuck that for a game of soldiers.

  He found his tobacco pouch and Rizlas on the bedside table and rolled a thinny, spilling some of the tobacco onto the bedcovers. He sparked the lighter a few times, but no flame came. Cursing, he edged himself out of bed to go through to the kitchen, get a light from the gas ring. The living room was cold too. He felt a pang of envy for those people who had central heating, timers set to come on early, warm the place up before venturing into the morning. Maybe one day he’d be able to live in a house like that. Maybe Boddice’s super-duper plan might actually succeed, and Prentice would be able to afford somewhere decent instead of this fucking toilet.

  He went through to the kitchen and winced as his bare foot came in contact with a cold, gluey softness. He flicked on the light and looked down. It was the lid of a take-away carton, and he saw the best of the Punjab Fountain oozing between his toes. The smell of chicken jalfrezi hit his nostrils and his stomach heaved. Christ, he didn’t even remember ordering a take-away, never mind eating one.

  It’s time to tidy this fucking flat, he thought. Since Elaine had left, he’d been living like a pig in shit. It was too easy to make do with curries and ready meals. The discarded boxes and foil cartons littered the kitchen worktops, and now the fucking floor. The living room was cluttered with old newspapers, overflowing ashtrays and porn DVDs.

  He poured himself a glass of water and looked at the empties lying in the sink. Eight cans polished off, and the whisky was two thirds gone. He’d drunk more in the past, but it was still a fair whack.

  No headache though. That was something at least. He’d Elaine to thank for that. She’d always had this ritual of drinking a pint of water before going to bed after a heavy session. She made a big thing of it, self-righteously sipping the water in bed, proclaiming it to be the best hangover cure bar none. Prentice had resisted at first, insisting it was all a load of crap, the best thing for a hangover was the hair of the dog that bit you. But eventually he had simply fallen into the habit as well. And it worked. No matter how out of it he was, he always managed to stagger to the sink and down some water. Made him have to get up in the middle of the night though, pishing like a horse.

  He wiped his foot with the cloth from the sink, flossing the spaces between his toes to remove the last of the mess. He surveyed the kitchen. Later, he thought, later I’ll get round to giving the place a wee redd up. He lit the roll-up from the cooker and went back through to the bedroom, stopping off in the living room to switch on the electric fire, get the place warmed up a bit before he came through to get dressed.

  He slipped under the covers, grateful for the remnants of his body heat. He lay in the dark, smoking, thinking about the night before.

  Why had Boddice decided to change tack all of a sudden? He had his fingers in all sorts of pies – some minor dabbling with minicabs, tanning salons – but, first and foremost, his business was drugs. He’d steered clear of the other obvious money-spinning opportunities – the construction and security stuff, minicabs, the nightclubs; said it was a CBA thing: Couldn’t Be Arsed. Which was fair enough, Prentice supposed. The drugs had made Boddice money. Lots of it. He had a big house somewhere in a posh village out of town, he had the cars, the share in a racehorse and the motor launch on Loch Lomond. But that
CBA attitude had also left him behind. There were other, bigger players in the city now; the guys who wanted their grubby little digits in every pie, no matter how big or small, leaving the likes of Boddice with much slimmer pickings. But Boddice seemed happy with that, though Prentice couldn’t see it as a reason why he would unexpectedly turn to robbery. And not just robbery, but a fucking heist, ripping off some trendy new department store. And, since Boddice had mentioned they could go away for a long time if it all went tits up, probably involving guns.

  To top it all, as far as he could gather from what Boddice had said last night, Prentice wasn’t even going to be the main man. Those dopey twins and, he could hardly bring himself to think it, that glaikit wee jakey, Gerry Boag’s son, were receiving most of the attention from Boddice last night. Vital cogs in the machinery, Boddice had called them on the way back from Ayr. Prentice couldn’t see what was so fucking useful and indispensable about that unlikely trio. Kyle had felt it too. Prentice had seen him sulking at the back of the people carrier, avoiding eye contact with them. Was Boddice trying to teach them a lesson? Had they fucked up somewhere? Unlikely, with regard to Kyle. Boddice had still seen fit to trust him with Leggett’s little fright. And what the hell had that been all about?

  Prentice sighed. It was beyond him at the moment. Maybe he was just imagining it. Sure, Boddice had been snippy with him last night, but then he was always a baw-hair away from exploding at the best of times. Maybe the best thing to do was just take a chill-pill, let things flow over him for a while. See how things panned out over the next week or two; it was more than likely the three amigos would fuck up somehow before things got too far advanced. Then life would settle back into more comfortable familiarity. A few more weeks of that and he could maybe bring up the subject of having a break from it all, quitting even. If Boddice would let him.

  He took another draw on his roll-up, hating the bitterness of the cheap tobacco. The news on the radio was babbling on about some third-world shit-hole that desperately needed foreign aid. A drought had ravaged their crops or something. Tough titty for them, he thought. Get yourself a decent country in the first place. Take responsibility for your own fate.

  He put his arms behind his head and lay against the pillow, the roll-up gripped between his lips.

  Take responsibility for your own fate.

  Aye, it was time for that.

  He reached out to switch the radio off, but his hand froze above the power button. The announcer was concluding the headline story; the police were treating it as suspicious; they were asking for anyone with information to come forward, for persons with any knowledge concerning the discovery of the body of a baby on the upper deck of the number 39 early this morning.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Prentice said. ‘What have Ah done?’

  Park Life

  A metal park bench, one of those jobs designed to make it more difficult for the neds to vandalise: no wood or plastic to burn or melt. Nevertheless, the bench had its fair share of dayglo graffiti announcing such mundanities as Fergie shagged Louanne here 15.11.08 or Michelle is a fat cow or the more prosaic Billy ya Bass.

  John checked to make sure it was the correct one. McLean’s instructions had been third bench from the entrance, just past the overflowing dog-shit bin. He looked at the pile of little plastic bags surrounding the foot of the metal pole supporting the bin. Some of them had burst, leaving keech all over the pavement. He sighed. This was it alright.

  He took a paper tissue from his pocket, wiped the droplets of rainwater from the bench and sat down. The metal slats were freezing against his arse, numbing his legs. He tried to pull his jacket lower over his bum, but it was useless. He puffed his cheeks and blew out a long exhalation, watching his breath condense in an almost solid cloud. There was nothing for it but to sit it out, wait till his backside warmed the bench to a temperature that would at least let his balls drop back into their sac.

  He thought about Fergie and Louanne. The fifteenth of November for fuck’s sake. John doubted young Fergie would have been up to it – that time of year his knob would be more likely to be doing the incredible-shrinking-man routine than showing Louanne a good time. And 2008 – man, they probably had two sprogs by now. Louanne was maybe even a granny.

  John checked his watch. Ten to two. Just in time. Never a good idea to be tardy for a thing like this. Err on the side of caution – that was the ticket. But Christ knew where Campbell had got to. He was nowhere to be seen. So much for being Mr Bright Spark, Mr Reliable. If he didn’t hurry up, there was going to be some fun and games. And quite possibly broken teeth.

  John scanned the park, looking for some sign of his brother. The place was almost deserted – hardly surprising given it was the middle of the week and cold enough to freeze piss. A dog took itself for a walk amongst the overgrown bushes lining the path. There was no sign of an owner. Ducks and swans cruised the edges of the pond, hoping for some ancient grizzled pensioner with a bag of crusts. Eventually he spied Campbell coming through the gate on the far side of the park. John waved to him, signalling for him to get a move on. Campbell continued his leisurely stroll.

  ‘You’re late,’ said John, when Campbell finally arrived at the bench.

  Campbell squinted at him. ‘Late? What are you talking about?’

  John pointed to his watch. ‘Boddice told us to be here at the back of two, and it’s seven minutes past now. You’re late.’

  ‘Ah’m no bloody well late, Ah’m on time. Seven minutes past two is the back of two.’

  ‘No it isnae. Five to two is the back of two. What planet were you brought up on?’

  ‘The same planet as... look, Ah’m no gonnae start that crap again. The back of two is after the hour, not before.’

  ‘Ye’re wrong. It’s before.’

  ‘After!’

  ‘Befoooore,’ said John in a sing-song voice, grinning.

  Campbell threw his hands up. ‘Okay, okay. Let’s say for argument’s sake that when Boddice said he’d meet us at the back of two he meant about five to.’

  John nodded. ‘Uh-huh, go on.’

  Campbell spun around, arms outstretched, looking up at the sky then down at the ground with wide-eyed exaggeration. He moved over to where John sat, inspected under the bench, behind it. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Where the fuck is he then? It’s nearly ten past and he’s no here yet. Does that not tell ye something?’

  ‘He’s late too,’ said John.

  Campbell smirked. ‘Oh, well you’d just better tell him that then, cos here he comes.’

  John twisted round to follow Campbell’s gaze. Boddice’s car – the Lexus this time – glided through the park gates and drew up at the edge of the path with a spray of gravel and muddy puddle water. John made to stand up. Campbell laid his hand on John’s shoulder. ‘No, wait here,’ he said. ‘He asked us to specifically meet him here... right here at this bench. You know what he’s like. Unless you want the full hair-dryer bawling out, let him come to us.’

  John sat back down. ‘Aye, ye’re right.’

  They watched McLean get out of the car, open the door for Boddice, who picked his way through the puddles and sodden leaves towards them. Campbell moved to stand beside John at the bench, arms folded across his chest.

  Boddice was smiling – that was a bonus at least. He pointed to John. ‘Okay guys, you know the routine. Denim jacket?’

  ‘John,’ said John.

  ‘And so you, Mr Leather-Jacket, are Campbell.’

  ‘Right,’ Campbell replied.

  ‘I hope I can remember,’ Boddice laughed. ‘Sleep well boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Alright,’ said John.

  ‘Fine,’ said Campbell. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing really,’ said Boddice. ‘Just wondered if the excitement of last night had got to you. Kept you awake wondering what was going on.’

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest,’ said John – Campbell sucked in his breath, wondering what was coming next – ‘No, it didn’t. Ah hadn’t really a
clue what was going on last night, but Ah didn’t let it bother me.’

  ‘But you’re still interested, right?’ asked Boddice.

  ‘Sure we are Mr Boddice,’ Campbell interrupted. ‘What John’s tryin to say is that we’re still not sure what exactly is involved in this job. Especially with us having a pivotal role as you mentioned last night.’

  ‘Which is exactly why we’re here this morning, boys,’ said Boddice. ‘I’ll admit I’m still going to be a bit vague about things... at least until I’m sure it’s all feasible.’

  He motioned for John and Campbell to come closer. ‘Before we do anything else though, I need to check something. Jackets off and roll up your sleeves.’ John and Campbell exchanged uncertain looks, but did as they were told. ‘Let me see your arms,’ Boddice said.

  The twins held out their arms to show their black-and-grey sleeve tattoos which extended all the way from their cuffs to just below their shoulders. They each had similar patterns – a fantastical conglomeration of delicately-shaded clouds and sunbeams, overlaid with flower petals and storm-tossed waves, the occasional bird and fish. They were intricate, complex designs; closer inspection revealed further details and images emerging from the background – a skull here, a tiger there, a butterfly, a dragon. They represented months of work. Boddice examined them thoroughly. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘I can’t tell.’

  ‘Can’t tell what?’ Campbell asked.

  ‘They’re different aren’t they? The tattoos you both have?’

  ‘Well, they both use grey-wash techniques with soft blends and they—’

  ‘Cut the technical guff,’ Boddice said. ‘I mean the patterns, the pictures; they’re different, right?’

  ‘Yes, they’re different. I’ve got a set of—’