A Man Alone (2 page)

It wasn’t usual. Since taking up with Josie, Doyle had maintained a distance that suited them both. Their relationship was based on a respect that honored each other’s privacy. They got on, Doyle would say they even liked each other, but this was different. Doyle sensed April’s need. She reciprocated by burying her head in his chest. As her tears fell, Doyle rubbed her back with the flat of his hand. It was the closest they had ever been and Doyle felt a warmth, the like of which he had never known before, flood through him. As April’s sobs began to subside, he held her away the better to see.

“Boyfriend trouble?”

She nodded and her blond hair fell across her face shielding it from view.

Doyle sniffed, he had seen them together once, had seen the boy hanging round the corner shops. Gerard Burns, Burnsie to his mates, a tall gangly kid with weasel eyes. Doyle didn’t like him—wondered what April saw in the boy and after watching the Peter Jackson film, called him an Orc. Josie had laughed. Doyle hadn’t meant it to be funny. But he knew better than to involve himself in teenage love affairs and decided to let nature take its course. He just hoped April would see the truth in the boy before too long.

“You know,” he said, “things are never quite so bad in the morning.” He brushed hair away from her face so he could see her eyes. Doyle’s hand froze. Beneath the curve of April’s cheek and against the pale smoothness of skin, a blemish, a dark stain marred the whiteness of her neck. She tried to shake her head and let her hair fall back into place, but it was too late—Doyle had seen. He placed two fingers beneath her chin and turned her head. Bruising, a series of finger-marks spotted both sides of her neck.

Doyle rose from the bed and switched on the bedside lamp. The silver stud in April’s lip flashed as she turned her head from Doyle and the light. Doyle took her hands and turned them palms up. She squirmed but he held on and traced the contours of her skin with his eyes. More bruising, fingerprints stretched from wrist to elbow. Doyle felt his stomach tighten. “Did he do this?”

April didn’t answer. He tugged on her hands and forced her to look at him.

April nodded.

“Did he hit you?”

April sucked in air and shook her head. “No, we were arguing and he just,” she scrunched up her face as if the memory were too much, “pushed me away.”

“And?” Doyle released his grip.

April shrugged and rubbed her arms. “Held me tight.”

“Too tight?”

“A little.”

“And put his hands around your neck?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No,” she lied. “Just,” she touched her throat and slipped her gaze to look at Doyle, “held me.” Her tear-streaked eyes held his, wanting him to believe.

Doyle expelled a breath and squeezed her shoulder. “Okay,” he said and kissed the top of her head. “Try and get some sleep.”

April nodded and watched as he went to the door. “John.”

He turned to look.

“Don’t tell Mum.”

For a moment he held her gaze then nodded. “Okay,” he said, “I won’t.” Then he tilted his chin toward her. “You can do that in the morning.”

D
OYLE SAT AT THE
kitchen table with a cup of black coffee in front of him. He yawned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t slept well. The thought of
that
boy with his hands on April burned in his head like sulphur. Josie stood at the sink, washing the dirty glasses from the night before. Her hair was lank, her face drawn. She wore blue polka dot pyjamas with a white housecoat thrown over the top. Josie hadn’t bothered to get dressed. Doyle looked up from his mug. She probably wouldn’t bother for the rest of the day.

Back in the day, Josie MacDonald had been a real looker, a woman who had what it takes and knew that she had it. That’s what people told him anyway. And in the form of her face and the arch of neck, Doyle could still see a shadow of that former self. But that was a long time ago. Yet when they met there was still something there, a vitality and impish spirit that drew him to her. They had their pasts, their histories, but it didn’t matter. They drifted together like flotsam on a storm-tossed sea. But recently Josie looked tired, frayed around the edges, and the free spirit that first attracted him seemed sluggish and worn down. Perhaps they needed some excitement in their lives.

“I never heard her come in last night.”

“Not surprised with what you drank.” Josie’s shoulders arched back as the air soured between them. Doyle added quickly, “2:15.”

Still with her back to him, she nodded and rinsed a mug under the cold water.

“Don’t know what she does till then.”

“She’s your daughter.”

Josie banged the mug down on the draining board. She banged it so hard Doyle winced. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Knowing better than argue Doyle took a mouthful of coffee. She was still staring at him when April crept down the stairs. Sheepishly, she poked her head around the door and bit her lip. Josie looked at her and frowned.

“What’s the matter love?”

April met Doyle’s eyes and swallowed. She knew what she had to do but didn’t like it, didn’t like it one little bit. Doyle took it as his cue to leave. Lifting his jacket from the back of the chair, he said, “I’ll get the papers.”

J
OSIE LIVED SOUTH OF
the city, a working class district of narrow roads and red bricked terraces. A parade of shops lined the nearby street. Among the tanning salons, burger bars and discount stores, there were plenty of shops where Doyle could have bought his newspaper. But he didn’t. Instead, Doyle walked in the opposite direction. He went to Pete’s, the corner shop where Burnsie and his mates hung out.

It was early and the streets were empty. Most of the houses still had their curtains drawn. Before he crossed into Cockburn Street, Doyle paused and looked over the river. It was gray and overcast, but from his elevated position he could see clear across. For a moment he paused, watching a pair of tugs shepherd a giant tanker into its berth. Turning his head, he saw something else. Dressed in black track suits, Gerard Burns and two of his cronies lounged against the shop wall eating crisps. Doyle set his jaw and walked toward them.

As he drew close, the boy nearest looked up and saw him. He nudged Burnsie with his elbow. Burnsie narrowed his eyes. As he recognized Doyle, his shoulders stiffened. An instant later the boy relaxed, shrugged in response to a whispered warning and slinked back against the wall. He tracked Doyle until he was nearly upon them, then turned his back and placed a cigarette in his mouth. The others joined him.

Doyle waited. He heard a whisper, a giggle, but still he didn’t move, surprising himself at how easy it was to slip into a role he thought long forgotten. A light was struck and the nauseous, sickly-sweet aroma of the boy’s spliff drifted up from their huddle. Eventually Burnsie turned his blank face on him. Doyle stared into his weasel-slit eyes. “I want to speak to you.”

“What about?”

“You know.” Doyle tipped his head to the corner and away from his companions. Burnsie shrugged and followed Doyle. He cocked an eyebrow at his mates. He could handle anything the old get wanted.

He was still smiling when Doyle grabbed his neck and pushed him against the wall. The air caught in his throat and Doyle came close and kept his voice low so there would be no mistaking his words. “Leave April alone.”

Burnsie couldn’t move. His wide, dilated eyes stared at Doyle waiting his next move. Nothing happened. Seconds passed. Then sensing idle threats was all the man had to offer, a thin unsavoury smile spread across his lips. “Or what?” he said and his mouth twitched.

Doyle said nothing. Slowly he released his grip and stepped back. Burnsie loosened his shoulders, stood square to Doyle. He was seventeen, tall, and could stare into Doyle’s face without raising his eyes. So he did. He pushed his face into Doyle’s space so they were only inches apart. Doyle saw the arrogance of a boy who had walked through life doing exactly as he pleased, never once reaping the consequences of his actions.

“I do what I like when I like.”

“Not with my daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Burnsie sneered. “Since when?”

Doyle hit him. He swept the back of his hand hard across the boy’s face.

Burnsie’s head spun away from the blow. His jaw sagged and his eyes widened. It was so quick, so unexpected, that he didn’t react. He looked at Doyle and with trembling fingers, probed his burning cheek.

Doyle saw the other boys peer round the corner but ignored them. If they were going to jump him, they would have done so already. He stepped closer and put his index finger to the boy’s throat. “I’m telling you to leave April alone. You leave her be or something bad will happen.” He pushed until the boy began to choke. Then he dropped his hand and turned away. He sidestepped the boys on the corner, went into the shop.

They had disappeared by the time he left the newsagent. Doyle was calm, the brief burst of adrenaline gone as soon as he had turned his back on the boy. Others he knew retained their aggression until it found some violent or sexual outlet. But Doyle was a man who knew how to control himself. In the past it had been part of his armory, a necessity of survival, and it earned him the respect of his peers. As he stepped away from the shop, he took a deep breath and did a quick search of the street. He didn’t expect any hassle but it paid to be vigilant. And that was something else he had learned in the past.

Doyle strolled across the road, unfolded the newspaper and began to read.

Engrossed in the back pages, he was passing the boarded up Beresford Arms when a black SUV swept past and pulled up at the curb. He stopped and raised his eyes. The man who stepped from the driver’s side had presence—the street seemed to shrink around him. Doyle ran his eyes over him: 5’10”—stocky, faded tattoos, and biceps that bulged inside the sleeves of his white, F.C.U.K T-shirt. He had a diagonal, two-inch scar on his neck where a glass or knife had once slashed him and mean hard eyes—eyes that had Doyle square in their sights.

Moving like a beast of the mountain, he walked round the bonnet and leaned against the wheel arch. Doyle would not have been surprised to see him beat his chest with his fists. The guy took up a stance, arms folded, legs apart and eyeballed Doyle. Doyle had been in enough situations to know when trouble called. And this one was shouting at the top of its voice.

The man tipped his chin toward him. “You got a problem?”

Doyle shook his head. “None that I can think of.”

The big man blew air between his teeth. It was an exaggerated exasperated action, and when he addressed Doyle, it was as if he were speaking to a stupid child. “My boys tell me you’ve got a beef with one of them.”

“Your boys?”

He jerked his head behind him, back toward the corner shop. “They work for me. Fetch and carry, that sort of thing.”

Doyle knew exactly what sort of thing.

“Young Gerard says you fronted him.” He opened his hands, palms outwards in a magnanimous gesture of goodwill. “You got a problem, then you come to me and I’ll sort it. Understand?”

Doyle didn’t answer. He looked at the big man and started to roll the newspaper in his hand. “Not really.”

The big man frowned. He wasn’t used to having his word questioned. He opened his mouth then looked hard at Doyle. His head tilted to one side. “You’re not from round here are you?”

“That’s right. I’m not.”

The big man waited and when Doyle didn’t elaborate, he eased himself away from the SUV and stood in front of him. “I’m Barry Wood.”

Somewhere in his head the name registered, but in truth it meant nothing.

Doyle shrugged.

Barry Wood’s face clouded. “Look it’s like this,” he said keeping his voice low and reasonable—for that’s what he was, a reasonable man. “You touch one of my lads and it’s like touching me. It shows a lack of respect.” He opened his hands like it was a given fact, just the way of the world. And all the while he watched Doyle twirl the newspaper round and round in his hands.

Wood smiled. He prided himself on being able to see the nature of men. Some men acted hard and fronted up. But a look, the right word said in the right way, sent them crumbling to dust. A few men would never back down. Wood had met a few, the alpha males of society. Their epitaphs were written in blood across the bars and pavements of the city. But most men were weak, never looked you in the eye and allowed themselves to be walked all over. This man was one of them—an outsider he could do whatever he wanted with.