A Man Alone (12 page)

The blast reverberated through the room. There was a collective gasp as people ducked and pulled in their necks. A girl screamed. Others raised their heads searching for the source of the explosion. Someone recognized Doyle and swore. “Fuckin’ hell!”

And as they looked and saw, they couldn’t believe that John Doyle was fool enough to step into the heart of Barry Wood’s empire. A girl’s voice cut through the silence, “Oh—my—God!” And a whirr of movement followed. Faces blurred as they hurried out of the way to make circles of open space around Doyle, Jay, and Barry Wood. They moved to the edges of the room. A pause as breaths were held waiting the next move. One man sidled through the door, others ran, and they deserted the Southern Cross as if they had never been there at all.

Doyle stared at Jay as the room emptied around them.

“Christ—Jesus Christ.” He was jumping around, hopping and screaming in agony.

There was a hole in one of his new trainers. Asics Kayano’s, a hundred and twenty nine quid from Foot Locker. Blood began to stain the side.

Jay bit his lip and stifled another scream. He shouldn’t have left one in the chamber. Someone should have told him not to leave one in the chamber. He turned, looking for his uncle, the man who always knew what to do.

Barry hadn’t moved. Leaning over the table he was waving his arms. “Jay,” he shouted. “The gun. Use the fucking gun.”

Jay looked at it as if it had magically appeared in his hand then remembered why it was there. Forgetting his pain, he raised the Beretta and pointed it at Doyle.

Doyle didn’t give him a chance. He pulled the Brocock from his belt, drew a bead on Jay and fired twice. The first bullet hit him in the face. It must have passed straight through for as he fell back, a spray of blood and brain splattered the wall behind. The second blew the gun apart. Doyle cursed—blamed himself for using the cheap shit and not the .38. He looked at his hand. Messy and blood streaked—he was sure he had lost a finger. Behind the counter, April screamed.

Doyle clasped his right hand within his left and surveyed the damage. Not as bad as he first feared, but the tips of his middle and index fingers were shredded. He gritted his teeth, sucking in air as the pain started. But things were about to get a whole lot worse.

Barry crawled to his nephew. Jay lay on his back. A third eye had opened in the middle of his forehead and dark blood pooled about him. Taking Jay’s gun from the floor, he rose from a crouch and pointed it at Doyle. “I don’t know how you did it. I don’t know how you got past Stonehead. But this is it. This is where it ends.” He didn’t blink, he didn’t draw breath. He just stared at Doyle.

Doyle reached into his pocket. Wood’s arm, the one holding the gun, stiffened, and he thrust it purposefully toward Doyle. Slowly, Doyle pulled out a packet of tissues. He ripped the pack open with his teeth and rolled them around his fingers in an effort to stem the flow of blood. Wood took a step forward. “You’re a hard bastard to put down Doyle. I’ll give you that.”

Doyle patted his pockets as if he were looking for more tissues then reached across with his left hand to his right pocket. The blood had already seeped through the thin layers of paper and was dripping on the floor.

Wood puffed out his chest, thrust up his chin. “But I’m harder. I’m the Man, I’m…”

Doyle drew, cocked, and fired the .38 as he pulled it from his pocket.

Wood felt a solid thud and stopped speaking. He stared at the circle of red on his chest. He stared as if it were the strangest thing he had ever seen. The shot came from nowhere. Wood looked up at Doyle, his eyes questioning, saw a short-barrelled pistol in his hand.

Doyle fired again. Using his left hand and the pistol’s double action, Doyle’s aim was off. It hit Wood in the abdomen. The next tore into his shoulder. Wood staggered. He sank to his knees and looked at the gun in his hand. Even now he tried to drag it round and point it at Doyle.

Doyle stepped forward and knocked the Berretta away. Cocking the .38 awkwardly with his left thumb, he pressed the barrel to Wood’s forehead. Wood’s eyes focused. He grimaced, tried to speak, declare his defiance. It was too late. Doyle squeezed the trigger.

Wood’s head flew back. His body followed and slumped to the floor. He lay with his legs folded beneath him, head to one side, and didn’t move.

Doyle took a deep breath and looked at April. She stood motionless behind the counter. She looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t fit to keep company with normal, everyday human beings. Doyle looked into her eyes, looked deep for there was something he needed to know. Seconds passed. He had to ask. As he opened his mouth, he heard the distant wail of sirens. Maybe it was best not to know. Maybe he should let things be.

Doyle turned his back and walked away.

It was easy. He had done it once before.

J
OHN DOYLE FOLDED HIS
paper and looked out at the sea rolling over the shore. It was November and except for a few hardy souls walking the promenade, Brighton’s sea-front was deserted. Doyle found a comfortable spot, a café sheltered from the wind where a miserly sun warmed his back.

The place also served a mean Italian coffee.

He had been there two weeks, telling Mrs. Carnegie, the landlady of The Seaview Guest House that he was recuperating after an accident at work. A hand swathed in bandages was proof enough of his status. He paid his bills, kept to himself, and didn’t come home drunk. She left him alone, and that suited him.

Doyle sipped his black coffee, toying with the pack of cigarettes on the table, back to forty a day. He flipped the lid and teased one out with his teeth. In the same pocket as his lighter he found his phone. It was a cheap Nokia, picked up from the supermarket. It hadn’t yet been used. He hadn’t spoken to Josie for over a week, but it paid to be careful. It wasn’t so easy to lose yourself anymore. Doyle reasoned it was time enough. His finger punched in Josie’s number.

Her voice was hesitant. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“John. I thought…” She exhaled in relief. “Why haven’t you phoned?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Doyle caught the thinly disguised irritation in her voice.

“Are you still in Brighton?”

“Yeah. You haven’t told anyone?”

Josie hesitated. “Only April.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “I said no one.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…”

Doyle mentally saw her shrug her shoulders.

“Well, it’s only April.”

Doyle sighed. “Yeah, it’s only April.”

“You in a hotel or something?”

“Best if you don’t know.”

“I guess you’re right. It’s been murder here.”

“Yeah?”

“The police have been here nearly every day.”

“What have you told them?”

“Nothing.”

Doyle nodded. “That’s good Josie. You know nothing about me okay?”

“If that’s what you want.”

There was an awkward silence. It was strange, thought Doyle, two people who had shared their lives now had nothing to say to each other.

“How is April?”

“She’s good.” Josie sounded hesitant. “She’s quiet. A little…” Doyle could almost see her scrunch up her face, the way she did when she tried to find the right word. “Moody,” was what she eventually said.

“Where is she?”

“She’s gone away for a few days. The coast with friends. I thought it would do her good. You know, after what happened.”

“Nice.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I need to keep my head down a little longer. With Wood gone you don’t know who will step into the vacuum. You understand?”

“Yeah.”

There was another pause. “John,” she said and he could hear her pushing the phone closer to her mouth. “You
are
coming home?”

He took a breath. “Sure,” he said. “Just not yet.”

“Okay, John.”

Doyle nodded. “Give my love to April.” He broke the connection, paused, and dropped it into the waste bin at his side.

His coffee was cold. For a moment he thought about ordering another, then glanced at his watch. Maybe not. His dinner would be on the table at five. If he wasn’t there, then he didn’t eat. He left a few coins on the table and started to walk back.

Mrs Carnegie was waiting for him in the hall and pounced before he had time to even close the door. “Mr. Doyle.” Coming from behind the little counter that served as reception, she stood in front of him. It was a long hall with potted plants, and photographs of pre-war Brighton on the walls. To the right, a long flight of stairs spiralled up out of view. She was a small, neat woman with graying hair tied back in a bun. Always formal, always precise, but Doyle sensed a change to her normal constitution.

“Mr. Doyle,” she said again, quieter this time. She rubbed her hands as if a plague of ants were walking over them. “You have visitors.”

His belly crawled. Doyle didn’t get visitors. No one came to see him.

“She said she’s your daughter.” Mrs. Carnegie shrugged an apology. “I saw no harm and let them in your room to wait.”

Doyle frowned and felt Mrs. Carnegie’s hand on his wrist.

“I did do the right thing didn’t I? Her friend,” and Mrs. Carnegie hesitated, “was quite insistent.”

Upstairs a door opened. Doyle turned his head to look. Two figures stood at the head of the stairs. He squinted, moved his head side to side as he tried to see. “April?”

It was her. She seemed older and her hair was cropped shorter than he remembered. He forgot himself and smiled. The smile died on his lips. Lurking in the shadow of the stairwell was another woman. Small, ash-blond, Doyle had never seen her before, but as she stepped into the light there was something unmistakable in her look, her stance—the way she would have looked after pushing her shopping trolley into Josie at the co-op. Brenda Wood didn’t speak nor even smile, but reached into her bag and a moment later Doyle found himself looking down the barrel of large caliber revolver.

A .44 magnum if he wasn’t mistaken.

Mrs. Carnegie gasped and slid out of view, locking herself in the parlor. April melted into the darkness, and now it was just he and a woman whose husband and nephew he shot dead a few weeks before.

Doyle was aware of the world closing in around him. His senses picked out things that a moment ago would have passed without a thought: the tick of the clock, the deep red weave of the stair carpet, and from the kitchen beside the hall, the smell of meat cooking in its own juices. He should say something, he really should. The muzzle of that .44 grew larger and larger until it seemed he might lose himself in its cavernous opening. He glanced behind him. The door was still open. Calculating the distance between himself and Brenda Wood, he wondered if he could make it.

Stick or twist?

Brenda Wood didn’t give him an option. She took a step and then another. Slowly she descended the stairs. The gun was a cannon in her hand. Just him, her, and nowhere to run.

A thousand things whirled through his brain, Josie, Ireland, the people he left behind. For the first time, John Doyle felt life weigh heavily on his shoulders.

And at last he truly knew what it was to be a man alone.

End

About the Author

David Siddall lives and writes in Liverpool. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies including:
Noir Nation, Heater, Mysterical-E, Supernatural Tales
and
Dark Visions 2. A Man Alone
is his first novella.