A Man Alone (3 page)

He stepped back giving the man room to think. “Now, like I said before, what’s the problem?”

Doyle shook his head. The paper was now so tightly coiled that it was a rigid, cylindrical tube. “Like I said before, there is no problem.”

Wood took a deep breath. The guy was an idiot. He jabbed a finger hard into Doyle’s chest, so hard Doyle was forced to take a step back. “Look, dickhead. Come to me and I’ll sort it. Otherwise, I’ll sort you.”

Doyle glanced into the big man’s eyes. Nine-tenths of power lay in intimidation. Doyle knew this, had used it himself in the past. He also knew what Barry Wood didn’t—that he was predictable, each word and move choreographed like a high school musical and that the element of surprise lay with him. He glanced down the street, saw Burnsie and his mates leaning against a low brick wall, watching, waiting, laughing at him like he was some soft cunt from the sticks. He turned back and looked the big man right in the eye. “No, Mr. Wood,” he said, “I don’t think you understand.” And in an underhand movement Wood never saw, Doyle jabbed the rolled up paper hard into his gut. Wood folded in the middle as the air exploded from him. Before he had a chance to recover, Doyle kicked out, bringing the flat of his heel into sharp contact with Wood’s knee. As the big man’s face contorted in agony, his leg buckled and he fell forward. Doyle was waiting and snap-punched him twice in the face.

And that was all.

Doyle backed away. Wood lay sprawled in the road shaking his head, wondering what the fuck happened. But it was over. Wood was in no fit state to continue the brawl. Doyle picked up his paper, brushed the dirt from the cover, and turned his back. He needed to hurry. Josie would have his breakfast on the table and it wouldn’t do to be late.

B
UT THE ONLY THING
on the table was Josie’s folded arms. As he walked in she glanced at the wall clock. It looked like she had been counting the minutes until he returned.

“D’you know about this?” She was smoking and ash from her cigarette fell on the table.

He acted the jerk and shrugged helplessly.

Josie stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and tipped her chin to the stairs.

“April.”

Doyle tossed the paper on the table and took a deep breath. May as well get it over with. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard her come in and she told me what happened.”

Josie speared him with a look. “Why didn’t you wake me, why didn’t you go and look for the twat?” She squirmed in the seat. “Little bastard.” She pulled open a pack of cigarettes and pushed one into her mouth. Once, twice, three times she tried to light it with a cheap, plastic lighter, but a tiny spark was all it emitted. She flung the lighter across the kitchen.

“I’m not having it. Not off him or anyone.” She was working herself up, bringing her anger to the boil, and God help anyone who got in her way. Doyle had seen it before, knew in normal circumstances it was best to steer clear, to go for a long walk or down to the pub until she had calmed down. She rose from the chair and thrust it back with her legs. It scraped across the floor. “I’ll sort the cunt out.”

Doyle grabbed her wrist. It was small and thin and his hand easily circled it.

She twisted, trying to break free and bared her teeth. Doyle suppressed a smile. He couldn’t help it. When Josie MacDonald got riled, the world had better watch out. He said it was the hot blood of her forefathers bubbling through her veins. She said it was living with a shit like him. Doyle almost wished he had let her deal with Burnsie. Getting to him first had probably done the boy a favor.

He waited until she stopped struggling then held her gaze. “I’ve seen him. He was outside the shop and I’ve had a word.”

Josie pulled at his hands. “A word, he wants more than a fucking word.”

Doyle tightened his grip until she winced. “It’s done. He won’t bother April again.”

“It’s not done as far as I’m concerned.”

Doyle tugged on Josie’s wrist. Occasionally he had to force the point home, make sure she understood. “It ends here.” Doyle stared into her eyes. The fire dimmed, and Josie took a deep breath. Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Well he’d better keep away,” she said. “Or he’ll have me to deal with.” Doyle released his grip and she rubbed her wrist. She looked at the circle of red where Doyle had held her. “That hurt you know.”

Doyle shrugged. “Sorry.”

She mumbled beneath her breath and went to the sink. “Want a cuppa?”

Doyle breathed a sigh of relief. Drama over. “Tea would be good.”

She turned her back. He heard water running into the kettle.

With the paper flat on the table, Doyle sat down and tried to smooth out some of the creases. He waited until the kettle began to rumble then glanced up at Josie.

“Don’t know a bloke called Barry Wood, do you?”

J
OSIE WENT BALLISTIC.
“Barry Wood,” she screamed. “You’ve been fighting with Barry Wood?”

Doyle hid behind the paper. Once or twice he lifted his head thinking to stem the abuse, but it was hopeless. An overpowering silence eventually made him peer over the paper’s edge.

Josie had stopped shouting and was waiting for him to speak. He didn’t.

“I said what were you fighting over?”

Doyle folded the paper, laid it on the table and waited to see if she had calmed enough for him to explain. “It was the boy,” he said. Josie frowned but before she could speak he waved a hand, “April’s fella. After we had words, this Barry Wood got involved.”

Josie’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“Said that he was one of his boys. Said I should have gone to him.” He shrugged, puzzled while Josie bit her lip and nodded. It made sense to her.

“That’s all we need. Burnsie’s in with Barry Wood’s mob. Shit.”

Doyle sat there waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he gestured helplessly. “So, who is Barry Wood?”

“Someone you don’t want to know.”

“Bit late for that.”

Josie took a deep breath. “He’s local. Never worked in his life but owns three pubs and the bookies on Mill Street. Got something to do with Fortress Taxis too.” She came forward and placed her hands on the table where Doyle was sitting. “Thing is,” she said, “he’s got people working for him. And not just those kids.” She leaned forward to emphasize her words. “They’re bad people, John.”

Turning her back on Doyle, she began to pace the kitchen. Josie’s mind went into overdrive. “Best thing,” she said, “is for me to find out what’s going on.” She stopped and looked at Doyle. “See if he wants,” she narrowed her eyes, “to see you.”

Three small words but loaded with intent.

Doyle arched an eyebrow. He had made his stand and now, as far as he was concerned, it was over. “Don’t worry about it Josie.” He reopened the newspaper and spread it out on the table. “Everything will be fine. Besides,” he said, “it wasn’t really a fight.”

“No?”

“I only hit him once.” Doyle looked up and closed one eye, thinking. “Twice. It’s just men’s stuff, Josie, a misunderstanding. I’m sure Barry Wood is man enough to appreciate that.”

A low hiss of air escaped Josie’s mouth. “You don’t know Barry Wood.”

Doyle smiled. “Give it a day or two and it’ll be forgotten about.”

Josie looked at him and shook her head. “You don’t get it do you? Barry Wood never forgets anything.”

D
OYLE HEARD THE DOOR
open and bounce against the inside wall. He groaned as the sound reverberated through his thick head. He stood by the sink, wearing his dressing gown and had just poured a Resolve into a glass of water. A belch worked its way past his lips, and he waited for the hiss of salts to settle before he drank it. Josie shuffled in with the shopping, held her arms out and dropped the bags on the floor. Something split and sugar granules poured from the overturned bag. Doyle met her eyes.
Fuck. Here we go again.
Doyle turned his face to the window and gulped down his medicine. He had a throat like a bear’s arse. And he figured his throbbing head was about to get a whole lot worse.

He had done the usual thing; Sunday roast then a couple of pints in the Southern Cross. But it had been a strange afternoon. He had lived there for five years, but in truth was still an outsider. And for the first time yesterday, Josie’s neighbors and friends made him feel like one. The raised eyes and nods of greeting were the same as always, but there was something beneath the soft smiles and words that puzzled him.

The Cross was a mix of Reds and Bluenoses, and after Saturday’s football, the place was usually alive with the piss-taking and gentle cajoling at one or the other’s expense. And though there was banter and a few cracks, the laughter seemed forced. The bar was blanketed in a brooding consciousness, as if the speaker was aware that a misplaced word or action might be misconstrued and used against him.

Doyle noticed the whispers, the furtive looks in his direction. Within a few minutes, those nearest had sidled away to tables or the ends of the bar, and he found himself drinking alone. Doyle had seen it enough times in the past. The word had gone out. He was persona non grata, a pariah—and God help anyone he was seen with. It was like the old days—every conversation guarded, every bar scanned for a knife or an assassin’s bullet. And it made him sick to remember. Maybe Barry Wood wasn’t such a clown after all.

He left the Cross, jumped a taxi into town, and got hammered in a bar where no one knew his name. It was after midnight when he went home and crawled into bed.

Doyle turned slowly and faced Josie. She had a face like thunder. “I’ve just bumped into Brenda Wood,” she said and pushed a hand through her hair. “Chucked her fucking trolley into me is more like.” Doyle said nothing. “Brenda,” said Josie confirming Doyle’s guess, “is Barry Wood’s wife. She pushed her fucking trolley into me at the co-op.” She rubbed her ankle and flinched when she found the bruised spot.

Doyle waited, but knew exactly where this was going.

“She’s not happy,
he’s
not happy. Told me to tell you he’s waiting to see you.”

“Waiting to see me? You make it sound like a hospital appointment.” Doyle frowned. Perhaps that was not a good analogy.

Josie shook her head and reached for her purse. Inside was a business card.

“Here,” she waved it in front of him, “Brenda gave me this.”

Doyle took it, held it at arms length then brought it closer. Advertising Fortress Taxis, a mobile phone number was scrawled on the back. He lifted his eyes to her.

“Barry’s personal number. She said if you apologize that will be it.”

He looked at her and saw something he had never seen before—she was almost begging him to phone. “And you believe her?” Doyle shrugged and turned away. “It was him that started it.”

“Listen to yourself.” Josie’s voice rose. “You sound like a kid who’s had a fight in the playground.” About to say more, her body sagged with the effort of arguing. She came close and rubbed his arm. “Try and understand. Barry Wood rules this place, has done since he was a kid. He’s a thug, his whole family are. A brother’s in Walton, his dad was killed in a shooting and his sister is doing time for drugs. As for Brenda,” Josie shook her head, “I saw her outside school once, laying into a girl whose son had a fight with her Jay. And that’s only her nephew. She’s like a cat protecting her young that one. They’re bad John, the whole family. Even Jay’s on the payroll now. You really don’t want the Wood family after you.” She squeezed his elbow. “Make the call. Please John.”