by Les Wood
‘—Well said, young Alistair.’
They all turned to see Boddice standing in the doorway.
‘You really should spend more time listening out for a chap on the front door,’ said Boddice. ‘And also make sure that the bloody thing is locked.’
Boag took a deep breath and shrank back into his chair. His heart was thumping in his chest, a small animal trying to punch its way out. He had no idea how long Boddice had been standing there listening, but, if he hadn’t interrupted, Boag might just have got his last sentence out – the one where he asked the rest of the team not to blame him if the whole scheme was as fucked up as a whore’s fanny on a two-for-one sale offer. Good God, what if…
‘So,’ said Boddice, cutting off his thoughts. ‘I gather from what you’ve been saying that you’ve got round to discussing what exactly is going to take place on the big night.’ He pulled up a chair and sat at the table. ‘And I’m also guessing you’ve seen the security system for the diamond, am I right?’
Kyle and Prentice exchanged glances.
‘Don’t worry about it too much,’ Boddice went on. ‘I have a little something up my sleeve with respect to that particular problem. A wee surprise. In the meantime, I’m sure you’ll figure out some way to tackle it on your own.’
‘Ah don’t like surprises,’ said John.
Boddice gave him a cold stare. ‘I don’t care what you like or don’t like,’ he said. ‘Just you do your bit and you’ll be fine, and so will everybody else.’
Prentice spoke up. ‘Just exactly what are our bits that we’re supposed to do? Nobody knows what anybody else is doing. For God’s sake, we’ve just discovered that this wee plook,’ he jerked a thumb at Boag, ‘is gonnae be walking in with some sort of hi-tech Molotov cocktails in his bag. What other revelations are in the pipeline?’
Boddice nodded gravely. ‘You’re quite right, Davie,’ he said. He walked to the door and opened it a crack, peered out into the shop. ‘Okay,’ he said, satisfied there was no-one lurking outside. ‘The plan. Let’s get it sorted.’ He laced his fingers together and stretched his hands outwards, cracking his knuckles. Boag winced at the sound. ‘Rather than having me spell it all out,’ said Boddice, ‘you lot can do it. You’ve heard part of what Boag’s going to be doing already, and there’ll be more from him later, but let’s start with the twins.’ He flicked his gaze to Campbell. ‘Let’s start with the party, shall we?’
Campbell cleared his throat. ‘Two parties, actually,’ he said. ‘The first one is on the night the diamond is unveiled…’
The Model
They were grudging, but they gave Boag credit anyway. He’d spent hours at it, measuring, sawing, gluing, nailing.
Knitting.
Well, not knitting exactly, but certainly indulging in wool-related activities.
They’d gathered round Boag’s life-sized model of the Dark Side of the Moon display plinth which he’d set up in the living room of his flat – inspecting, judging, questioning. Boag was handy; not in the good-man-to-have-in-a-street-fight sense of handy, but in the good-at-building-things-from-scraps-of-wood sense. He’d done a very decent job on this, if he said so himself.
‘And you’re sure this is the right size, the proportions are all correct?’ Kyle had asked.
‘Ah told you before,’ Boag replied, exasperated. ‘Ah took everything from the picture you took on your mobile. Scaled it all to Campbell’s height.’
***
After the session in the tattoo parlour, when Boddice had set out the details of their tasks, Kyle had gone back to the store on his own. Posing as an excited rubber-necking tourist, an eager beaver desperate to see where the mighty Dark Side of the Moon would be displayed. The perfect excuse to grab a photo of the display plinth on his mobile, made easier, of course, by Campbell being on security in the Bubble that day. A few days later, and it would be the big boys, the Securarama heavies, watching the place, even though the diamond was still a thousand miles and a fortnight away. Anyone whipping out a camera or a mobile phone then would have politely, but firmly, been told to shove it the fuck up their arse.
Once they had the picture, Boddice had pulled Boag aside and told him he was ‘tasking’ him to build a life size model, something to practice on. Tasking. Fucking management speak; where had that come from for Christ’s sake?
Still, by having Campbell standing to attention beside the plinth in the picture, and by measuring his exact height, Boag could easily work out the relative proportions of the structure – the height, the diameter, the angle of taper as it swept up to the apex holding the single spike on which the diamond would rest. But most importantly, he could calculate the dimensions of the array of lasers surrounding the whole construction.
Boag painstakingly reproduced the whole set-up, using fishing line to suspend the mock-up of the laser grid from the ceiling so that it floated above the plinth at just the right height, and arranging the positions of the ‘sensors’ on the floor surrounding the base of the plinth. The really tricky bit was replicating the path of the beams; Campbell had told him that each of the lasers was angled such that the beam fell not on the sensor immediately underneath, but on the one four along to the left, clockwise. This gave a slanted pattern of forty-eight beams that Boag reproduced using strands of red wool. There were a further two banks of lasers and sensors running down either side, sending horizontal beams criss-crossing those coming down from above.
More measurements, more foutering about with red wool.
Finally he’d got it completed, brought the others in to see it. All in all, it looked good. It looked impressive. It looked the business.
It looked impenetrable.
***
They stood back, arms folded, chewing bottom lips, stroking chins, biting nails. ‘How in the name of fuckdom are we going to get through all that?’ asked Kyle. ‘Ah mean, it’s like a chain-link fence or something. One of they things wee lassies make with bits of string between their fingers…’
‘A cat’s cradle,’ offered John.
‘Aye that’s the thing,’ said Kyle, eyeing John suspiciously. ‘There’s no way we can grab a pea through that, never mind a diamond the size of whatever.’
‘But we can try,’ said Prentice, moving to the window and looking out at the street below. ‘It’s what the big man wants, so we’ve got to give it a go.’
He crouched in front of the model, his knees popping, and pushed his hand up between the strands of wool, reaching for the apex where the diamond would sit. It was no use. Whatever way he inserted his arm he always pushed the wool away; if this had been the real thing the beams would have been broken, the alarms ringing all hell in their ears.
‘Do you want any of us to try?’ asked Campbell. ‘We might have skinnier arms.’
Prentice shook his head. ‘No, it’s too tight for even a wean’s arms.’
The others crowded round, pushing, jostling, exploring the model from every angle, looking for a way in. John stumbled and caught his sleeve on one of the strands of wool, pulling the laser mock-up out of alignment. The suspended array swung like a drunken puppet.
‘Jesus Christ! You’re all a bunch of fuds! Get back the lot of you.’
They turned to look at Boag, who pushed past them and moved quickly to stabilise the structure, grabbing the swaying wooden frame and smoothing the oscillations in the strands of wool. ‘This isn’t some sort of toy, you know,’ he said. ‘This took me bloody ages, and you lot are acting as if it’s just a Lego model.’ He caught the look on Prentice’s face, but ignored it. ‘This is delicate, it’s precision-made.’
‘Aye we get it,’ said Kyle. ‘Vorsprung durch Technik and all that shite.’
Boag’s face reddened. ‘Aye, you can mock, but you’re forgetting Ah built this. Days and days Ah’ve been at this.’ He straightened a cord at the top of the plinth, made an adjustment to the angle of one of the top boards. ‘And because of that Ah know it inside and out. Ah know every nook and cranny.’
He went into his pocket and brought out a golf ball. He parted the strands of wool and stretched his hand into the centre of the plinth, leaving the golf ball balanced on the little platform on top of the central spike. ‘And the thing is…’ he gave a weak smile, ‘… Ah know a way through. Ah know how to get in.’
Prentice cocked an eyebrow. ‘You?’ he said. ‘You know how to get in?’ He laughed. ‘Aye, that’ll be right. Ah don’t believe you.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Kyle, laying a hand on Prentice’s shoulder. ‘Let’s see what he means.’ He extended his arm, bowing and motioning towards the model in an exaggerated sweeping gesture. ‘Be our guest. Show us.’
Boag went to the corner of the room and picked up a plastic bag. ‘A wee trip to B&Q, that’s all you need to beat this thing,’ he said. From the bag he pulled a long metal contraption with a handle grip at one end and what looked like a pair of crab’s claws at the other.
‘What the hell’s that?’ asked John. ‘It looks like—’
‘A bloody litter-picker,’ Prentice finished, laughing. ‘You know, the parkies use them, saves them getting their hands dirty when they have to pick up crisp pokes and Buckie bottles and the like.’ He shook his head. ‘You mean to tell us that you’re gonnae crack this hi-tech mega-security system with a five quid piece of shite from a DIY shop?’
Boag chewed his lip. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It’s all low-tech, DIY crap, but you better believe me… it works.’ He held up the litter-picker. ‘Ah’ve modified this a wee bit to make things easier.’
Prentice laughed. ‘Easier than what?’
Boag shook his head. ‘Did you ever play that game Operation when you were wee? Remember the game where you have to take out a patient’s bones and organs and stuff using a wee pair of tweezers, and if you got it wrong, if you touched the sides of the wee slots then a buzzer went off and you’d killed the patient, lost the game?’
‘Was that not a lassie’s game?’ asked John.
‘Or a game for fucking nancy-boy cissies,’ growled Prentice.
Boag stared at him. ‘Naw, it wasn’t, and anyway it doesn’t matter who played it, the point is that this is just a bigger version of that game. It’s the same principle.’ He pushed the others aside and positioned himself in front of the model. ‘Watch carefully,’ he said.
Boag took the litter-picker and lowered himself onto his haunches. He squinted up through the maze of red fibres and gradually threaded the litter-picker through a tiny gap, a channel through the intersecting strands. He advanced the contraption, slowly moving up and into the depths of the model, all the while avoiding contact with any of the strings. After a few minutes the head of the picker was in front of the golf ball. Boag gently pulled the trigger on the picker’s handle and the claws at the end opened. He edged the picker forward the final two centimetres and released the trigger. The claws closed over the golf ball, gripping it between their serrated edges. Boag lifted the ball from the apex of the plinth and began to withdraw the picker, smoothly backing out through the same channel.
‘Here, give me a go at that!’ Prentice elbowed him out of the way and grabbed the litter-picker from Boag’s hands. The golf ball fell from the picker’s claws and bounced out from the base of the model, rolling under the settee. Boag fell back on his arse on the floor.
‘What did you do that for?’ said Boag. ‘I nearly had it out there.’
‘Aye, we could see that,’ Prentice replied. ‘But it’s best to leave a job like this to one of the big boys, somebody who knows what they’re doing.’
‘Ah want a shot as well,’ said Kyle. ‘We need to see who’s going to be the best at this, who’s got the steadiest hands.’
Boag looked from Kyle to Prentice, toothy grins of enthusiasm breaking out on their faces. Now that they could see that it was possible they were suddenly such fucking big shot heroes, desperately determined to show that they were the only bastards who would be capable of pulling it off. The pricks. They didn’t give a runny shit about the time, the effort, the planning and measuring that he’d put into this. Or the hours he’d spent working out a possible route through the pattern of beams. Oh no, that mattered less than a flea on a dog’s arse.
Boag got to his knees and crawled over to retrieve the golf ball from under the sofa. He stood and placed it back on its spot on the plinth. ‘On you go, have yourselves a fucking ball.’ He turned and left them to it.
***
In the end it turned out Prentice had the steadiest hands; it would have to be him wouldn’t it? But there was no doubt, he was the best. He managed to pick the ball out on his first go, and repeated it on every other attempt. No mistakes. No touching the wool. Perfect, in fact. The others (though the twins were never going to be allowed to be involved, that much was clear) were too clumsy, never quite getting the hang of the litter-picker or coming to grips with the technique required; obviously none of them were masters of the good old Operation game. None of them were cissie enough.
Except Prentice, that was.
All Tomorrow’s Parties
The Trusdale and Needham bash was in full swing. The entire ground floor of the store had been transformed into one giant party room. It was just after eleven thirty, everyone who was anyone had already arrived, and no-one had been so uncool as to leave early.
The store was mobbed. The invitation list had run to over six hundred bodies, and no-one had passed on the opportunity. Movers and shakers, politicians, celebrities major and minor (a combination of film stars, models, writers, fashion designers, hairdressers and STV sports presenters) and general hangers-on glided and floated around the ground floor sales area, keeping a weather eye open for a networking opportunity, a potential tryst, a chance to score some coke. Designer suits and dresses (little black numbers were the flavour of the night, with maximum exposure of cleavages and butt-cheeks de rigueur) competed with each other for attention in the general throng. At the far end of the room a small kitchen had been set up, dispensing Chinese food in little cartons. Sounds of flash-frying were accompanied by clouds of steam and the flaring of yellow and blue flames above the gas stoves as the chefs threw noodles and diced chicken, peppers and onions around the woks. People struggled with chopsticks, attempting to manipulate the hot, succulent food to their mouths.
In another corner a bunch of revellers danced to the house band’s easy-sleazy version of Minnie the Moocher, the tuxedoed, Brylcreemed frontman almost fellating the microphone. Searchlights high in the roof vault swept their beams across the crowd below, reflecting off the champagne glasses, earrings and gold necklaces of the women, creating a swirling, glittering galaxy of dazzling lights.
The press had been and gone – an allotted half-hour at the start to snap the arrivals of the great and the good, including Maggie Trusdale and Jaclyn Needham themselves, who had flown in from New York especially for the event. They posed with studied elegance on one of the upper balconies, all big hair, high heels and scarlet lipstick, their trophy husbands relegated to adorning the wall behind them, as the cameras flashed and journalists jostled.
Of course, there had been other events in various galleries and museums throughout Glasgow as part of the City of Jewellery festival, but they were all small fry; this was the big one, the exhibit everyone had been waiting for. It wasn’t just the Scottish press which had turned out, but the London dailies and Sunday supplements, the international style magazines, the glossy, glitzy gossip garbage and the lager-lads’ soft-porn comic books were all in attendance, all forced cynicism and trying too hard to be unimpressed.
It was now time to get down to some serious partying. The noise levels ramped up, fuelled by the free bar and the kind of hedonistic atmosphere which only the delusionally self-centred can generate. The dancers in the corner were giving it hi-di-hi-di-hi-di-hi and ho-di-ho-di-ho-di-ho, arms raised above their heads, punching the air in time to the music. Groups of people congregated around the candle-lit tables, laughing and eating, drinking and flirting.
; Campbell stood beside the door to one of the lifts, a spot that offered a good vantage point to scope the comings and goings of the people on the walkway above, queuing to enter the Bubble for the chance to be one of the first to see the famous Dark Side of the Moon. The diamond itself had arrived the day before, the store closed to the public as the specialist Securarama guys took over, all sharp suits, shades and earpieces. The rest of the staff were made to stand to one side as they brought in the small steel box containing the diamond and transported it to the Bubble where they unpacked it with a slow, devotional grace.
Now, with the party shifting up into top gear, an excited babble erupted as those in the queue stood on tiptoe, or leaned over the handrail of the walkway, trying for a better vantage point to catch even the slightest glimpse of the stone before they were ushered along the connecting glass passageway into the Bubble itself.
A man in a white tuxedo and red bow tie reeled up to Campbell, his eyes focused on a point somewhere over Campbell’s left shoulder, a cocktail glass sloshing a blue liquid onto his sleeve.
‘Okay, pal?’ the man said, his words slurring. Campbell said nothing, staring straight ahead. ‘Lisssen…’ said the man. ‘I rrreally want to have a wee shot at seeing this diamond, eh? Eh?’ Campbell remained mute. ‘Annnyway…,’ the man went on, ‘I don’t really see why I have to queue up with the rest of the plebs to do that. I was therefore wondering,’ he brought out a tenner and stuck it in Campbell’s breast pocket, ‘if you could see your way to fast-tracking me, so to speak, perhaps let me ride up in a secret lift or something,’ the man spread his arms wide, spilling yet more of his drink, ‘… you must have something like that eh? Eh?’
Campbell turned his attention to the man, gave him a full-toothed smile, turned on his most polished voice. ‘I’m so sorry sir,’ he said. ‘We don’t have the facility to cater for your request.’
‘Awww, come on,’ said the man. ‘I know…, I know…, I know there must be special passes and suchlike, Vee-Eye-Pee treatment, eh?’ The man brightened, seemingly struck by a brilliant thought. A change of tack. He pulled himself into a full upright posture, straightened his shoulders, stuck out his chest. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
