Dark Side of the Moon

by Les Wood

  ‘What?’

  ‘It means that—’

  He didn’t get to finish. At that moment, the door opened, the bell on its little spring chiming cheerily, and Boddice walked in. Campbell flashed a look at John, warning him not to ask any further. John, more aware than usual, gave the smallest of nods.

  ‘Bit dingy in here is it not?’ Boddice asked, looking around the almost empty room.

  ‘We’ve been tidying away,’ Campbell explained. ‘Getting ready for the shutdown. Ah’ve even made up a wee sign.’ He moved behind Boddice and picked up a large cardboard square.

  Closed until further notice for refurbishment.

  Two’s Tattoos will be back soon!!

  The sign was scrawled in black magic marker.

  Boddice probed a nostril with his index finger, absently inspected what he’d found up there. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Pushed for time today, boys, I’m afraid. No luxury of fannying about.’ He flicked something small and grey from the end of his finger. ‘Let’s find out how you boys got on, eh? I’ve been looking forward to this.’

  John and Campbell exchanged glances as Boddice went into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved the two sheets of paper containing their tasks. John had gone white, swayed slightly, struggling to catch his breath.

  ‘You okay, son?’ Boddice asked.

  John nodded, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

  ‘You don’t look so good,’ Boddice said. ‘Too many pints last night?’

  ‘Something like that,’ John replied.

  Boddice opened the first sheet. ‘Well, let’s see who’s first then.’ He took the piece of paper, held it at arm’s length as he read, his mouth pursing as he tried to decipher the writing. He looked up. ‘HGV driving, eh? Who had to do that?’

  John raised his hand, and Campbell noticed the tips of his fingers were trembling.

  ‘Ye know,’ said Boddice. ‘That might actually be a pretty useful thing.’ He looked at Campbell. ‘Good choice, son.’

  Campbell gave a thin smile in reply.

  ‘So, how did it go?’ Boddice asked. ‘Did you get the licence?’

  ‘Well, aye and no,’ John said, staring at the floor. ‘Ah picked it up easy from where Campbell left off. They couldn’t tell it was me.’ He kept his head down, but stole a look at Boddice, watching for his reaction. ‘Ah passed all their tests and that, but they’ll not submit my forms until Ah pay the fee. Ah kept putting them off, telling them the cheque was in the post, and for some reason they believed me, but they’ll not let me sit the official test till Ah give them the money.’ He looked up at Boddice, his chest puffing with pride. ‘But Ah know Ah’ll pass. It’s a doddle.’ He had a natural aversion to tests or exams of any kind, but he had excelled at these, actually found them enjoyable.

  ‘Very good, son,’ said Boddice. ‘Ye did well. Good job. Ah’ll make sure they get their money, and you’ll have your licence.’

  Ordinarily John would have beamed with pleasure, grateful for approval from the big man, happy that he’d done something right in Boddice’s eyes, something to raise his profile. But not this time, not now that Boddice was unfolding the second piece of paper. John felt as if his legs were made of powder, and there was a piledriver hammering relentlessly in his chest. Why the fuck had he been so stupid – no, make that insane – as to pick such a ridiculously dangerous task? And to write it down on a bit of paper? One that Boddice had in his hand at this very instant.

  The room became clammy and grew dimmer by the second. A sour juice trickled down the inside of John’s cheeks, and a pulsating, buzzing sound in his head waxed and waned with a steadily increasing frequency. The floor took on a life of its own, pitching and yawing like a ship in a storm.

  Boddice used his stubby fingers to smooth out the sheet of paper.

  The last thing John saw before he hit the floor was Boddice turning the sheet of paper the right way up, scanning the words, a frown beginning to crease his brow. John screamed, ‘Noooo!’, but even as he fell he knew the sound which came out of his mouth was nothing more than a weak, watery moan.

  ***

  He couldn’t have been out for more than thirty seconds. Campbell was kneeling beside him with an arm around his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. John looked up at Boddice who stared back, his face set in a dark scowl.

  Boddice held up the sheet of paper. ‘No wonder you were reluctant to let me see this,’ he said. ‘And this explains why your brother threw a flaky when he read it.’ He took a few paces forward, towering over the twins on the floor.

  John noticed a small white thread clinging to the leg of Boddice’s trousers in the shape of the letter ‘s’. He couldn’t look away, and he wondered why, at this critical turning point in his life, he should become absorbed in something so trivial.

  Boddice folded his arms, crumpling the sheet of paper against his chest. ‘You been dipping your wick somewhere you shouldn’t, eh son? Tasting forbidden fruit?’

  John started to stutter an answer, but Campbell halted him with a firm squeeze of his arm.

  Boddice turned to Campbell, his voice matching the glowering, thunderous look in his eyes. ‘This must have been very tricky for you, being placed in such a delicate situation, having to sneak in and out, make sure you weren’t spotted. Being compromised like that, all because of your brother’s fondness for a bit of rumpy-pumpy.’ He turned his back on them, directed his next question to the wall: ‘And were you successful, son? Did you manage to convince when you got your tadger out? Were you… good enough?’

  John looked from Boddice to Campbell and back again. Campbell was taking his time in answering and John felt as if he was going to throw up. ‘Ah was fine, Mr Boddice,’ Campbell said eventually. ‘No problems in that department.’

  Boddice swung round, and John had to cling on to Campbell to prevent himself falling over again. ‘Superb!’ Boddice said, clapping his hands and breaking into a wide grin. ‘I knew you boys had the right stuff, that my trust in you wasn’t misplaced.’ He balled the sheet of paper and threw it onto one of the counters.

  John allowed Campbell to help him to his feet, guide him to one of the stools in the corner. Campbell sat him down, giving him a knowing wink as he did so. John flinched, bafflement and surprise playing across his face.

  Boddice glanced at his watch. ‘That’s all I needed to know boys, all the information I require. I need to be making tracks, but before I go, a few final instructions. You can start work on Monday. Everything’s in place, just present yourself at Trusdale and Needham, the security office at eight in the morning, there’ll be someone there to take care of you.’

  ‘Who?’ Campbell asked. ‘The insider?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Boddice. ‘They’re not going to reveal themselves to the likes of you. No, as far as everyone’s concerned you’ll be the new start. Just make sure you don’t fuck up. Turn and turn about, remember? One day you, the next day, him.’

  Campbell nodded. ‘We get the picture, don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried, son. If things go tits up, it’ll be you who needs to worry, not me.’ Boddice adjusted the collar on his coat, straightened his sleeves, pulling them over his wrists. ‘But time’s pressing, boys. I’ll just leave you to…’ He looked around the shop. ‘… to whatever it is you’re up to.’ He turned to John, grabbed the front of his jacket, almost lifting him off the stool. ‘And you, son, you just watch yourself the next time you feel like competing for a medal in the humptathlon, okay?’ He let him go and opened the door, stepping into the street. ‘Eight o’clock on Monday. Don’t be late,’ he called over his shoulder.

  The door blew shut, rattling the Closed sign and sending a shudder through the shop.

  John got up from the stool. Disoriented, unsure of what he’d just witnessed. His legs felt funny, like he had stepped onto an escalator that wasn’t working, standing for a second, swaying while his body expected to be carried up. It wasn’t just that he’d fainted, but more t
hat Boddice had let them off scot-free. No questions asked, no recriminations. How in the name of jumping Jesus had that happened?

  Campbell picked up the notepaper Boddice had thrown on the counter and gave it to John. ‘Check it out,’ he said.

  John unfolded the sheet and scanned the message scrawled in uneven block capitals:

  I’VE GOT APPOINTMENTS AT THE VD CLINIC AT THE SANDYFORD. YOU HAVE TO GO AND GET YOUR KNOB EXAMINED NEXT TUESDAY.

  ‘What…? How…?’ John spluttered.

  Campbell grinned. ‘It’s as well one of us has a functioning brain cell isn’t it?’

  ‘You did this?’ asked John. ‘But how did ye manage to get…?’

  ‘It was easy really,’ Campbell interrupted. ‘You remember that hellish yellow jacket Boddice was wearing when we met him in the back room of the pub?’

  ‘Aye, it was hideous, what about it?’

  ‘Well, thank fuck it was hideous, or else Ah wouldn’t have found it in his wardrobe.’

  ‘His wardrobe? What do ye mean? When were you in his…?’

  ‘After Ah’d played hide the sausage with his wife, complete with vocal performance and everythin, she fell asleep. She snores like a rusty chainsaw, by the way. Anyway, Ah sneaked out, all tippy-toes and quiet as a mouse with slippers on. Ah found the main bedroom and there was the yellow jacket hanging in the big mirrored wardrobe. Into the inside pocket, and there were the bits of paper. Ah hate to think what we’d have done if they weren’t there.’

  ‘So, what did ye do?’

  ‘Ah replaced it.’

  ‘What, my note?’

  Campbell nodded.

  ‘And she never heard ye?’

  ‘Ah don’t think so. When Ah got back, she was still sleepin. She woke up later on and Ah had to go through the whole hoo-haa thing again. In the armchair this time.’

  John started to laugh, sheer relief flooding through him. ‘Man, that’s really funny. Ah can just see the two of youse, shagging away, creating all that racket.’

  ‘But John, it isn’t funny.’

  ‘Aye it is, at least Ah only had to do a daft wee dance.’

  ‘That’s my point exactly,’ Campbell said. ‘Ye know what this means, don’t ye?’

  ‘We’re both arseholes?’

  ‘No, much worse than that. It means she saw right through us. She knew we weren’t the same person. We were rumbled.’

  ‘And that means…’

  ‘That we failed the test.’

  They were silent for a few minutes. John picked up a bottle of red ink, placed it in one of the overhead cupboards. Campbell lifted the blind and stared out into the street. ‘Well, at least Boddice didn’t find out about what we were up to,’ John said eventually.

  ‘What you were up to, ye mean. Ye can keep me out of it.’

  ‘Aye, well it’s all finished now.’

  ‘How do ye mean?’

  ‘She’s called it off, doesn’t want to see me any more, says she’s got somebody else.’

  ‘Oh aye? And Ah wonder what that poor bugger’s gonnae have to do to give her the jollies. Dress up as Batman?’

  ‘Or Robin.’

  They looked at each other and laughed. ‘Holy Johnny Bag, Batman,’ Campbell said. ‘Missus Boddice is sending out the shag signal again!’

  ‘Man, we got out of jail there though, didn’t we?’ said John, puffing his cheeks and blowing off a stream of air.

  ‘No thanks to you, ya tosser,’ Campbell said. ‘You know somethin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re lucky to have me.’

  John tilted his head. ‘Ah know that,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ah know that.’

  PART 3: HOPE AND ARGYLE

  Going Underground

  The subway station was packed. An electrical fault somewhere on the Inner Circle had delayed the trains and the platform was crowded with commuters and shoppers jostling for position.

  Kyle stood in the queue which backed up onto the steps, and looked over the heads of the crowd to the far end. There was no space. Just a sea of angry, frustrated travellers.

  When the problem was finally resolved and things started running again, it was fifteen minutes and two trains before the throng thinned out.

  The third train into the station was busy, but Kyle managed to get onboard and actually found a seat. The other passengers looked weary and frazzled already, and they hadn’t even made it into the city yet. The guy beside Kyle slumped in his seat listening to his iPod on a pair of sling-back head-phones, drumming his fingers on his knee in time to the music. Kyle could faintly make out the sounds of Led Zeppelin – When The Levee Breaks. A bit of class at least, he thought.

  The doors closed and the train juddered into the tunnel. From the corner of his eye, Kyle studied the guy with the iPod. He had the dreamy, distracted expression so many people wore while listening to music on headphones, playing games on their phones; turned in on themselves, not quite present in the real world. It reminded Kyle of his previous-life feelings; it had the same quality of dislocation, of existing in two places at the one time. The tilting of reality.

  He had felt it again that night at the Palace, levelling the gun at Leggett’s chest as the boy backed away, scrabbling blindly for the exit, and pulling the trigger, standing slightly outside himself, adrift in consciousness. He considered it a defence mechanism, something which protected the fragile marrow of his soul, shielded it from the horrors of what he sometimes had to do. Of course, the incident with Leggett had jolted him back to the harsh physicality of the world. The gun had fired, and Leggett had collapsed to the floor, but in fright and terror, not as a result of a gaping, gushing wound in his belly. Kyle had stood over him, blinking in amazement, while Leggett burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. Kyle had examined the gun, checked the loader, searched for something that could have gone wrong. The gun was fine, no problems there. It had been the bullet. A fucking blank. A dud. A useless piece of junk.

  He’d been tricked.

  Boddice had used him. Boddice had his methods, and there was often madness in them, but this time Kyle felt betrayed and exploited. He had killed many times in the past, but it was never an easy thing, not a task to undertake lightly. Boddice could command him to carry out a hit, but Kyle was certain Boddice hadn’t the slightest inkling how much emotional effort it actually took. To fool him into thinking he was about to do it again, to force him into that gut-wrenching decision for a bit of fun, just to put the frighteners on a wee scumbag like Leggett, was cruel and heartless.

  It might even have been different – in fact Kyle knew it would have been different – if Boddice had let him into his little secret in the first place, kept him in the loop. No doubt Boddice had his reasons, deeper machinations were presumably at work. Gradually, Kyle’s rage had subsided. He’d never had cause to question Boddice’s decisions before; perhaps it was better just to let the big man do whatever he was going to do. Go with the flow.

  There was a commotion near the door. The train had arrived at the next station and more passengers had come on. It was standing room only now. A guy had shuffled in on crutches and he stood leaning against the glass partition next to the door. The straggly beard, pale blue shell suit and holey trainers gave him away – Kyle had seen it too many times to mistake it for anything else – the standard-issue uniform of the druggie: the beanie pulled tight and low over his forehead, the sagging jaw and the slow, hooded eyes, perpetually focused on a point somewhere in the middle distance (no-one living in this house), reinforced the image. All it needed was the whiney, slurred voice, the elongated, sliding vowels, and the picture would be complete. Kyle didn’t have to wait long.

  The train pulled away with a jerk, sending the standing passengers lurching into each other. The guy with the crutch almost lost his balance, but was held up by the press of bodies around him. In the middle of the tunnel, he let out a yell. ‘Can youse smell it, man?’

  People in the centre of the carriage turned to see who h
ad shouted, craning their necks for a better view, while those nearest to the door and crutch-guy shot each other a quick Oh-no look and stared at the floor. The guy looked around, wild-eyed now, struggling to focus. ‘Can youse smell it ya bastards?’ he shouted. There was a shuffling of feet and people tried to back away a few inches, get some clear space between themselves and the nutter. He shouted again, ‘Can youse smell my fuckin leg, man?’

  An Asian girl, long hair so black it seemed to suck light from the air, put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. She offered crutch-guy her seat, but he ignored her.

  ‘Can ye smell my leg?’ he asked again. ‘Eh?’ Passengers turned away, looked out the window at the walls of the tunnel rushing past, found something interesting on their jacket to fidget with, decided now was a good time to check the keys in their pockets.

  The poor buggers who were stuck right beside the guy flashed nervous, jealous looks at the smug bastards standing in relative safety in the middle of the carriage. The smug bastards in the middle of the carriage looked on sympathetically, but grateful they weren’t in any immediate jeopardy. Kyle folded his arms and sighed. What a fucking day this was turning out to be.

  The guy started on a new topic. ‘Brillo pads, man.’ Kyle raised an eyebrow. What was coming now? ‘That’s what Ah’m gettin now. My shites are comin out like brillo pads.’ Kyle heard someone mutter, ‘For fuck’s sake,’ and the guy took this as a signal to warm to his theme.

  ‘It’s no what Ah’m eatin,’ he said. ‘That’s just chips an stuff, but my arse is red-raw with these jaggy shites Ah’m doing.’ He gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘this fuckin leg of mine is pure bowfin, man. Been like this for days. Can youse no smell it? An Ah tell ye whit, there’s—’ He stopped dead. His attention had been caught by something at his side. He stuck his chin down onto his chest and hobbled a few inches to his left on his crutches. He nudged a man in a business suit, nodded to the case the man was carrying.

  ‘Is that a computer, pal? In there? A computer, eh?’

  The businessman transferred the case to his other hand and turned his back on the crutch-guy. ‘Your job is it?’ he went on, undeterred. ‘What is it ye do?’ The man ignored him. The crutch-guy raised his voice. ‘How ye no talkin to me, eh? You too good to talk to the likes of me?’ Kyle could feel the mood of the other passengers slide a little further up the tension scale, a short, sharp glissando of anxiety. This was a turning point. They all sensed it. The guy had asked the question they all knew had the potential to tip the whole situation over the edge. They were poised on the crest of a wave, balanced between the plunge down the other side or a safe glide back into calmer waters. The businessman kept his back to the crutch-guy, ignored him.