A Man Alone (11 page)

There was a huge splash as the barrel went over the side. The slack in the chain disappeared, it tightened around Stonehead’s ankle. As he tried to catch it in his hands and heave on the barrel’s weight, his leg went from under him. He dug with his fingers, clawed at the uneven cracks in the concrete. His bloodied fingers found no purchase and he slid toward the water.

Doyle watched as the big man was swept over the side. Just for a moment Stonehead clutched the wall. He hung there, his huge strength keeping him from going down while his desperate face stared up at Doyle. Opening his mouth, Doyle thought he was going to beg for help. Then the drum dragged on the chain, Stonehead lost his grip. He slipped beneath the water with hardly a sound. Doyle walked to the edge. Nothing. The only thing to suggest Stonehead Duggan had ever existed was a series of bubbles rising from the depths. Doyle spat on the water. It was the only epitaph the bastard deserved.

He tucked Stonehead’s gun into his trousers, jogged back to the Fiesta, and jumped in the driver’s seat. Doyle reached for the keys behind the sunscreen, and turned the ignition. A minute later he turned it off, placed his head against the steering wheel. What Wood and Duggan had said couldn’t be true. He knew April better than that. She was in danger and to save her, he had to control his emotions. So he sat there, staring through the windscreen, smoking, and thinking about his options.

How had it come to this?

Doyle closed his eyes and remembered—remembered the fear, self-loathing, the stomach churning knowledge that it wasn’t right. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Even now he could see the woman’s face as she opened the door and they pushed past her into the house. He remembered the screaming child in the corner. But mostly he remembered the poor bastard dropping to his knees before they emptied their pistols into his chest.

That’s when he knew it was finished. His information ignored as a turf war between the army, MI5 and Special Branch, waged over paramilitary intelligence in Northern Ireland. He wanted out; they wouldn’t let him, so he ran. Wanted for murder by the police, collusion by the army, and betrayal by the IRA, he ran until he found a new identity, a domestic haven in a small terraced house in the south end of Liverpool.

Now it was over.

Doyle sighed, letting out a long breath. He winced, pulled down the sunshade and looked at his lip in the mirror. There was a thin line, cracked and raw. He found some tissues to wipe his mouth in the glove compartment. Further inside was the .38. He checked the chambers and put it in his pocket. In his waistband was Stonehead’s revolver. It was enough. One way or another he would find April. And if Barry Wood got in his way, so much the better. He started the car and headed back to the city. South along Wapping, into Brunswick, and over the railway to the place he had called home for nearly five years. After tonight, it would never be home again.

There were two places he reasoned where Wood might be: the Marlborough on Mill Street or the Southern Cross. Both were Barry’s pubs. He would want to be seen, would want an alibi should the bloated body of John Doyle ever surface. Well, thought Doyle, he had surfaced, but not in the way Barry Wood had envisioned.

He pulled in by the Marlborough, wound his window down, and glanced across.

The door of the bar was open. He could hear local duo, Dog and Bone, strangling a tune in their own inimitable style. But it was quiet. No laughter leaked from inside the bar, no smokers gathered outside the door. Another quiet night in the suburbs.

Doyle slipped the car into gear and drove to the Cross. Just before he made the left, Frank Sinatra’s voice floated in through his half open window. Later it would be The Kinks, The Beatles, maybe even the Stones blasting from the boom box behind the bar. A mad Saturday’s drinking had started early. The crowd huddled round the door, smoking and drinking as if there were no tomorrow. To some, the lung damaged and gray faced, perhaps there wouldn’t be. Doyle didn’t stop, and a little further he saw Wood’s SUV at the curb. Barry Wood was partying, keeping a high profile and waiting on a call from Stonehead to say it was finished. Doyle nodded to himself. One way or another, it soon would be.

He U-turned and parked on a side street. Sank low in his seat, he waited and watched a police patrol pass. They were waving the blue flag, reassuring the residents this was a good and safe place to live. Twelve minutes later it passed again. Doyle took a deep breath, got out of the car, and walked the short distance to the Cross. He lowered his head, pulled up the hood of his fleece as he neared the bar.

Doyle paused in the doorway. Suffused with liquid laughter, a flood of voices greeted him. He scanned the room, looking for Wood. Time slowed. Adrenaline kicked in, and to his heightened senses, everyone was bigger, their movements slower, their laughter louder. Then Doyle’s stomach dropped. Behind the counter serving drinks was April.

B
ARRY WOOD SIPPED HIS
vodka-Red Bull, gazing at the people—his people. He had put a grand behind the bar knowing it wouldn’t last long, but that wasn’t the point. He was in the Cross, and everyone saw that he was there. From time to time, a raised glass at the bar acknowledged his presence. One or two even came over to thank and wish him well. False sentiments he knew but didn’t care—he was in a mood to celebrate.

Barry glanced at the clock behind the bar. 7:15. Early as it was, the place was full. Word had spread that he was throwing his money around and the party started. Bodies jostled at the bar, urgent in their need for free beer. Music—his music, the CD Davy kept behind the bar just for him—was playing and he sat back with the self-satisfied air of a man who knows he’s done a good day’s work. He lifted his drink and took a large mouthful. Already he was getting a buzz, the caffeine and alcohol layering his brain in a pleasant haze. Why, he might even stick another £1000 in the till, make a real night of it.

Yeah, he was in a mood to celebrate. His chest swelled. People had crossed him before—although not like this. But doubt had never entered his mind, never once had he taken a step back. He had put Doyle down like a mangy dog, and once again he stood on top of the pile. The grin on his face widened as he thought of Doyle going over the edge into the cold water of the dock. He had told Stonehead to film it on his phone and couldn’t wait to see if the cunt begged for his life. All the sweeter if he did.

Wood frowned and checked his mobile lying on the table next to his drink.

Nothing. Dead. Nada. Wood slapped the table with his hand. What was that soft prick Stonehead doing? He had told him to text when it was finished. Knowing him he probably had a flat battery. He’d fucking kill him if he didn’t have the pictures.

Wood took another drink and looked over the bar. Was Jay still flirting with Josie’s kid? He had to admit that girl was really something. Her coming to him and asking to leave them alone, took a lot of bottle that. Okay, the kidnap thing was his idea and
that
was genius. But she went along and cried into the phone like a professional. If it had been the other way round, she might even have fooled him. The female of the species never failed to surprise him. He glanced across at her and shook his head. Ruthless. Never once had she asked what he was going to do to Doyle. Never once had she contemplated the consequences of her actions. Maybe the kid didn’t understand the way things worked.

Wood watched her working the bar and frowned. Or maybe she did? She was a tidy piece all right. He would have to watch Jay. Start shagging that and he might get ideas. Wood grinned. Jay was a good kid but green. A good fuck might do him good. Wood laughed, and rubbed his chin. A good fuck would do him good too.

Barry Wood raised his head, straining his neck over those around him so he could look a little closer at the girl. He wasn’t alone in his appraisal of April MacDonald. There was a guy standing at the back of the bar scrum who had an equal interest. He picked up his glass and froze with it half way to his lips. “Fuck me.” A hand clenched his guts. It couldn’t be. He tried to shout a warning to Jay, but he was slow. His voice caught, and he looked across at his nephew with a growing sense of dread.

But Jay had already seen, was reaching inside his pocket for the gun he carried. Wood looked again at the stranger, narrowing his eyes the better to see his face. It was the face of a ghost. John Doyle had come back to haunt him.

A
PRIL DIDN’T HAVE TIME
to think. She took two empty glasses off the counter and looked at the face behind them. “Lager and a brown mixed.” She nodded and turned to the fridge for a bottle of Mann’s. Using a sleeve, she wiped sweat from her eyes. Harassed and busy, why the fuck had she asked Barry for a job?

She looked across to where he was sitting, could hardly believe what she had done. Everyone knew he was a bad man. But mum had brought her up to be frightened of no one. So she did what she had to and put it on the line. Said she would do what he wanted so long as they left mum and her alone. And Barry had liked that, liked the fact she stared him in the eye and didn’t flinch. April smiled, remembered the look he had given her. The smile turned into a frown. What about John? She bit her lip. The truth was she hadn’t thought about him. But why should she? Who the fuck did he think he was anyway, Jason Bourne? There was a momentary flash of something April dimly recognized as guilt. It quickly evaporated. Something else her mum once said—family before all. And mum was the only family she had.

“April!” Davy Carpenter called her from the end of the bar he was working. He lifted his chin in a ‘what’s up’ kind of way. She waved a hand. Distracted was all.

April handed the beers across the counter. The guy slipped her a 20p tip.

She tossed it into the glass by the side of the till and wondered how long Barry’s money would last. Not long when everyone knew there was free beer. She glanced over at Davy Carpenter. He was working like a dog and for what? Minimum wage and a drink from Barry. And when was the last time he took a grand in a night? Two hours into her shift she realized bar work wasn’t for her. Even as she said it an idea seeped into her mind. No, bar work wasn’t for her, but she could run one, run it better than Davy Carpenter. Her mood lightened. Perhaps she could run one for Barry?

A quiver of excitement passed through her. If she did well tonight she might put it to him. She had ideas. Live music and food—hot food. A pan of scouse or a chilli would keep the punters interested. Yeah she might put it to him later.

She took another glass and held it beneath the lager pump. Brushing her fringe out of her eyes, she gazed at the faces cluttered around the bar. Just for a second, the bodies parted. Staring straight at her was John. His lip was swollen and a black mark showed on his cheek. April’s eyes widened. Lager flowed over her hand and into the tray. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. And John just stood there and stared and stared into her face. She tried to smile, tried to make things right. But just before the sea of faces closed in and John’s face was lost from view, she looked into his eyes and saw something she had never before seen. He knew, she swore that he knew.

The glass of lager slipped from her fingers.

D
OYLE WAS AWARE OF
a hollow in his stomach. A growing emptiness that spread to every part of his body. He thought he understood people, thought he knew April and Josie at least. Five years and turned out he knew fuck all. He watched the glass fall from April’s hand until it shattered on the floor. It broke the spell. A few light-hearted cheers and laughs followed. But Doyle wasn’t listening. His neck began to tingle. The sixth-sense itch of self-preservation had kicked in and as he turned, his eyes locked on Jay. He had that same stupid look on his face Doyle had first seen in the Lisbon. He watched Jay trying to pull a pistol, a Beretta. It was a beautiful piece, black lacquered, clean, and never fired in anger. But it was caught on the lining of his pocket and he cursed, trying to drag it clear. Pulling harder, the material ripped and as his finger snagged the trigger, the gun went off.