Dark Side of the Moon

by Les Wood

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Campbell. ‘Watch.’ He drew the magnet over one of the computer monitors. The image distorted and fragmented, the pixels drawn towards the powerful field generated by the magnet, finally freezing in a jumbled, multi-coloured mosaic, a soft fizzing sound coming from the screen. ‘See?’ said Campbell. ‘That’s just the effect on the screen. The hard drives themselves are completely fried by this sort of thing.’

  Prentice grunted, and took the magnet from Campbell. He swung it down onto the disc drives, smashing the front panels and shattering the electronics inside. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now Ah believe ye.’

  ***

  The gate had been left open. Again. Boddice wondered why the hell he’d spent five grand on a security system if Shirley wasn’t going to bother her stupid arse to close the bloody gate to the driveway.

  He swung the Lexus through the entrance, sweeping up the monobloc drive towards the house. The living room lights were on and a solitary candle burned in the window of one of the bedrooms. Shirley was probably up there, doing whatever it was she did when she locked him out of the bedroom.

  For almost a year now, he hadn’t been able to satisfy her. Shirley had always been insatiable (Shag-me-Shirley they called her at school), but now the problem was he couldn’t even begin to satisfy her. His dick, for whatever reason – physiological, mental, anatomical – refused to do the business. It wasn’t tiredness, or lack of desire, or even lack of lust if it came to that. Christ, he still wanted it, was desperate for it – no problems there. It was just the mechanics of the thing or, more accurately, the hydraulics.

  It just wouldn’t stand up.

  Of course, it drove Shirley mad. She had tried everything to get him going – the sex games, the kinky stuff, the role play, the sensual massage. Ordinarily he’d have been front of the queue for stuff like that, enthusiastic as a spaniel. But it simply wasn’t happening. Shirley had even left some Viagra for him on the breakfast table one morning, a mocking note – Try these lover – sitting beside them. The bitch.

  He did try them anyway. Nothing.

  Eventually, Shirley had taken matters into her own hands, so to speak. Locking herself in the bedroom, turning to artificial means to get her jollies, and Boddice would sometimes stand in the hallway outside listening to the quiet buzz and soft moans coming from her room. He even suspected she might have been seeing someone else – God help her (and lover-boy!) if that ever turned out to be true.

  In the end, Boddice decided it must be psychological – a vicious circle kind of thing. Perhaps the more he thought about it the worse it became. The simple fact of dwelling on the issue was what was causing it to occur in the first place. Yes, that was it. The more he considered this, the more he became convinced it was true. Amateur psychology to the rescue.

  He needed a distraction, some diversion that would take his mind of the Shirley Problem. And what more of a distraction could there be than his Plan, which, by his reckoning, should now be in full swing at Trusdale and Needham.

  He unlocked the front door, kicked off his shoes and went through to the living room to pour himself a large malt. He settled onto the sofa and thought of what was going on, right now, at the store.

  He allowed himself a smile. If – no, when – it all came off, his life was going to change for ever. He would get his mojo back.

  And Shirley could go fuck herself.

  Literally.

  ***

  John made his way to the stage, taking care to stumble on the last few steps, almost sprawling his full length but recovering at the last instant. A roar of laughter went up from the dance floor. Someone shouted, ‘Too many fingers of the old fire-water there, pal!’ John smiled inwardly as he stood at the microphone and gave an exaggerated salute to the crowd. He turned to the band, swaying slightly and blinking slowly.

  ‘You sure you’re up for this?’ asked the band leader. ‘This isn’t the easiest song to sing you know.’

  John wondered why that was now a consideration. Since the karaoke section of the party had started there had been a string of screechers and wailers murdering everything from Like a Prayer, through Angels, to A Hard Day’s Night.

  The idea was simple. The band leader had passed a sheet of song titles around the tables during the meal, and if you felt like making an arse of yourself in front of everyone all you had to do was print your name beside the song you wanted to sing. Each volunteer was then called to the stage to do their turn. John saw it as a perfect opportunity. If ever there was a way to start drawing attention to himself, this was it. He had scanned the list of songs and this one had jumped out at him.

  His party piece.

  They were going to love this.

  John rubbed his hands and smiled at the band leader. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll be just fine.’

  He turned back to the crowd and started clapping his hands above his head, urging everyone to join in. Soon, there was a forest of waving, clapping hands raised above the bobbing heads and smiling faces. John started moving across the stage, dancing and strutting in time to the rhythm of the handclaps. It was bloody brilliant! He was glad he was sober, could take it all in. He shuffled back to the microphone stand and turned to the band. This was something he’d always wanted to do. ‘Hit it boys!’ he shouted.

  The brass section came crashing in, stabbing out high, pulsing bursts while the drums followed with a sledgehammered double beat. Whoops and yells went up from the crowd.

  John grabbed the mic from the stand and dropped to one knee. He brought the mic up to his mouth and began to sing.

  Jailhouse Rock.

  Man, he’d waited years to do this.

  ***

  Campbell was leading the way from the security office through to the main shop floor. They passed through dim, grey corridors, a far cry from the classy white surfaces, the mirrors and the glass of the public side of the store. This was the utilitarian, behind-the-scenes innards of the building, bland and gloomy, unpainted walls and bare concrete floors.

  At last they came to a chrome double door. ‘Right,’ said Campbell. ‘This is us, the ground floor area is through there.’ He looked at the others. Again he had that feeling of unreality, of plain weirdness, that he was ostensibly in charge at this point. Kyle and Prentice were waiting for his instructions. Boag still kept to the back, unwilling to make any fuss.

  But this was where Boag’s role started.

  Campbell signalled for him to come forward. ‘This door,’ he said. ‘If we run into problems through there, if things start to go tits up and the alarms go off, this is where the polis will come through. So, here is where the first fire will have to be. They’ll have to turn back. It’ll give us more time to get out.’

  Boag nodded. ‘Ah know,’ he said. ‘Ye don’t need to explain it to me.’

  Campbell raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘And you’re sure where to set the rest?’

  Boag tutted. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘The main entrance, the two side entrances and the three main fire exits.’

  ‘Just make sure ye leave us a clear path to the second-floor fire escape at the back,’ said Kyle. ‘If you get us trapped in here Ah’ll fuckin kill ye, understand?’

  Boag took two steps back. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Ah know what Ah’m doing.’ He took off his rucksack, laid it on the floor. ‘Ah just hope the rest of youse can say the same.’

  ‘Hey, ya wee shite-licker,’ said Prentice moving towards him. ‘Ah don’t like the tone of yer—’

  ‘Leave it!’ said Campbell. He tapped a finger to the side of his head. ‘Job in hand, remember? Let’s concentrate.’

  Prentice glowered at him, his jaw muscles working. He looked from Campbell to Boag and back again. ‘Ah can hardly believe this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Okay, let’s bloody well do it.’ He walked to the door and held out his hand to push it open.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Campbell.

  Prentice turned. ‘What now? Have ye not given the o
rder yet, or somethin?’

  ‘No,’ said Campbell. ‘Gloves.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Prentice.

  Campbell pointed to the door. ‘See that?’ he said. ‘Nice shiny door isn’t it? Just right for leaving lovely sets of fingerprints is it not?’

  Prentice glared at him. ‘Give me them,’ he said.

  Campbell fished in his pocket and brought out several pairs of latex gloves which he threw to the others.

  Prentice snapped his on, and, without waiting for the others, pushed open the door and went into the shop. Kyle hesitated for a second then followed him.

  Boag began unpacking materials from his rucksack.

  ‘You be alright?’ Campbell asked.

  ‘Ah’ll be fine,’ said Boag. ‘Ah’ve got the plans ye gave me. Just let me get on with it. Ah know where ye’ll be.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Campbell. ‘But don’t hang about. We don’t know how long all this is going to take, but hopefully it’ll not be too long.’ He looked at the explosives laid out on the floor. ‘And hopefully we’ll not be needing to use any of that stuff.’ He gave one last glance up the corridor, checked that everything was clear and pushed through the door to the store.

  ***

  John had more than just a few drinks laid out for him on his table when he returned, the applause still ringing in his ears. His shoulders were aching from all the slaps he’d received on the way back, his hair tousled and his hands pumped by well-wishers. Man, that was brilliant!… I didn’t know you had such a great voice… It was just like Elvis was in the room… Hey, Johnny-boy, that was magic! Even the band were clapping, glancing at each other with big grins on their faces. John was loving it. A few shouts of More! went up around the room, but John held up his hands, shook his head, mouthing sorry folks to the crowd. All those years of practice: standing in front of the mirror with a hairbrush, singing along to the ’68 Comeback Special, getting the poses and the moves just right – had paid off in spades. He never thought he’d get the chance to do it with a live band – Christ, he’d never even tried it at a karaoke night – but he knew he’d be good at it, knew he had the talent. Campbell would be mortified if he was here. John laughed at the thought of his brother cringing somewhere in the background as he endured John’s star turn.

  He took a vodka and coke from the table and scanned the room. People were still staring and smiling at him, lifting drinks, gesturing cheers in his direction. He smiled back, remembered the act he was supposed to be putting on. He made to sit down but deliberately missed the chair, ending up on his arse on the floor, the drink conveniently spilling over his shirt. There was laughter, and a couple of guys helped him to his feet, got him seated. John thanked them, throwing an inane, glazed smile in their direction.

  But something wasn’t right. Something was missing. He slumped in his seat, made a show of loosening his tie and wiping the sweat from his brow with a napkin, but all the while he was searching the room, trying to identify the source of his unease. His heart beat heavily in his chest. Someone else had taken to the stage – one of the girls from the stockroom – and was not so much singing Nothing Compares 2 U as yelling it at the top of her voice in the mistaken assumption that volume equated to tunefulness. The crowd were focused on her now, egging her on, her mates drunkenly yelling encouragement and derision in equal measure. John’s gaze wandered to the tables at the front of the room, nearest the stage. The girls from admin were shouting at each other across their table, trying in vain to hold some sort of conversation above the din from the stage.

  It was then John realised what was out of place.

  McKinnon wasn’t there. He was sure he’d seen her sitting with the others as he weaved through the tables to get to the stage, convinced he had spotted her nodding along as he belted out the chorus. But now her chair was empty, her jacket no longer draped over the back, handbag gone. She might be paying a visit to the loo, powdering her nose, but the vacant space at the table had a permanent air about it.

  John felt his chest tighten. Where the fuck had she gone?

  ***

  The store looked different at night. An eerie silence settled around Campbell and the others as they picked their way through the gloom, the feeble yellow light from the security lamps throwing lurching shadows ahead of them. The only sound came from their footfalls, which echoed faintly from the overhead galleries and walkways. Display mannequins loomed threateningly from behind pillars, their featureless faces and the flat blank space where their eyes should have been made them look strangely malevolent.

  ‘Kinda spooky, eh?’ said Kyle.

  Prentice and Campbell turned to look at him. ‘Want one of us to hold yer hand?’ asked Prentice.

  Kyle laughed. ‘Aye, and kiss my arse as well!’

  ‘Over there,’ said Campbell, pointing to the opposite end of the room. ‘The stairs lead up to the Sky Walkway.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the lifts?’ asked Prentice.

  ‘No use,’ Campbell replied. ‘They’re immobilised at night. Fire safety.’

  Prentice shook his head and sighed. ‘C’mon then.’

  They crossed the shop floor and climbed the polished beech stairs to the third floor, the edge of each step inlaid with an array of tiny bulbs which illuminated their legs as they pushed upwards. They followed the signs for the Stewart Gallery, Kyle noticing the display of expensive hats had been replaced by a series of identical white handbags. Prentice and Campbell hurried ahead towards the ramp which led to the Walkway door.

  Kyle hung back. He leaned over the gallery rail. Below, Boag slinked amongst the counters and sales points, carrying his rucksack in one hand, and a torch in the other. He bent low to the floor, zigzagging between the mannequins and podiums. He stopped and glanced up, gave Kyle a small wave. Kyle lifted a hand in response, turned it into a thumbs-up. Boag returned it and carried on towards one of the side entrances.

  ‘Hey!’ Prentice hissed from up ahead. ‘Stop admiring the view and get your arse in gear!’

  Kyle jogged along the gallery to join the others. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to check something.’

  ‘Check what?’ Prentice asked. ‘We’re no exactly on a guided tour here.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Let’s get this thing over and done with. The sooner we’re out of here the better.’

  Kyle held his hand up. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Ah understand. Let’s go.’

  The mirrored door to the Sky Walkway was ahead of them, the vestibule duller than the last time they’d seen it now that the surrounding spotlights were switched off. They crept along the ramp towards the entrance. Prentice made to pull on the door handle. ‘Wait,’ said Campbell grabbing his wrist. ‘It’s locked. We need a code to get in. The door’s alarmed – any vibration will set it off.’

  ‘Christ almighty,’ said Prentice. ‘How could ye no have told us that before?’

  Campbell shrugged. ‘Ah just didn’t, sorry.’

  Kyle pushed him in the back. ‘Open it,’ he said. ‘And sorry isn’t good enough. Next time there’s anything we should know about, ye’ll give us plenty of warning or ye’ll get ripped, okay? The whole thing could’ve went off the rails right there, and we’d be spending the next few years twiddlin our thumbs in the jail.’

  Campbell nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Ah didn’t mean anything by it. Just slipped my mind.’ Campbell went over to the keypad set in the wall. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Wait until Ah tell ye before ye open the door. The code might not work first time.’

  ‘What?’ said Kyle.

  ‘It changes every night,’ replied Campbell. ‘There’s a cycle of seven different codes.’

  ‘And you know them all, right?’ asked Prentice.

  ‘Of course Ah do,’ said Campbell. ‘But…’

  ‘But, what?’ said Kyle.

  ‘But… we only get three chances. If we don’t get it right in three goes, the alarm will go off.’

  ‘The alarm will what?’ said Prentice. ‘Ah don’t believe this. B
oddice! Where the hell is he? Eh? Every step of this stupid thing is fucked to buggery. Nobody’s tellin anybody the straight truth about anythin. We’re stuck in here and he’s swanning about somewhere, well out the way, and we’re the ones that are risking everything—’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Kyle.

  ‘No, Ah’ll not calm down,’ said Prentice. ‘Ah’ve had it up to here with calming down, and going along for the ride, and just doing as Ah’m told, and kowtowing to every wanker that thinks they know better than me.’

  ‘It’s open,’ said Campbell.

  ‘And another thing,’ Prentice went on. ‘How come we…’

  ‘It’s open,’ Campbell repeated.

  ‘Eh?’ said Prentice.

  ‘While you’ve been ranting, I punched in a code and it’s open. Look.’ He grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it towards him. ‘We’re in.’

  Prentice stared at him. ‘How many times?’ he asked.

  ‘How many times what?’ he asked.

  ‘How many times did you enter the code?’

  ‘Got it first time,’ Campbell lied, forcing himself not to blink. ‘Ah’m not that daft that Ah would risk going all the way to the third time if Ah wasn’t sure.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ said Kyle. ‘It’s open now. Let’s get cracking.’

  Prentice didn’t move. ‘You better not be fuckin us about,’ he said to Campbell. ‘You can do what ye like when it’s just you and your dipstick brother, Ah couldn’t care less, but when Ah’m involved don’t ever consider making a decision that puts me on the line.’ He opened his jacket, revealing a hunting knife jammed into his waistband. ‘Do we understand each other?’

  Campbell nodded.

  Kyle pulled Prentice away. ‘Stop fannying about,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Prentice shrugged him off, shot a final scowl at Campbell and followed Kyle through the door.

  They stopped in the short connecting corridor. The Sky Walkway stretched ahead of them, the streetlights from the intersection below shining up through the glass floor panels, and the spotlights on either side of the building scanning back and forth along its length. At the far end the entrance to the Bubble was a dark square against the background glow of Central Station. It was perhaps thirty yards away.