A Man Alone (5 page)

“That’s what happened. There wasn’t much I could do.”

Josie sat on the couch. The lines on her forehead had deepened with every revelation until they ran like furrows in a ploughed field. Finally she buried her head in her hands.

“Christ, Jesus Christ!”

Doyle looked at the hearth until Josie managed to compose herself. “I don’t believe what you’re telling me.” She stared at him. “I told you they’re bad men, John. Men who won’t take shit.” She shook her head trying to think. “Who were they?”

Doyle shrugged. “I think one was Barry’s nephew.” Using a finger, he circled his face. “Looked similar but younger. Had thick lips.”

Josie nodded. “That’s Jay alright.”

“The other was big, marked face and square head.”

“Stonehead Duggan.”

“Stonehead?” Doyle frowned then remembered the man’s features. He grinned. “It figures.”

“Fucking hell, John. He’s a loon. You don’t want him on your case.” She closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. “You shouldn’t have,” she threw a hand in the air and dropped it on her thigh as she searched for the right words. “I mean you should have …”

“Done what they wanted?” He shook his head. This was hopeless. He thought Josie would at least understand. “So you think I should have just sat there? Take what they gave out then on Saturday walk into the Cross, hold my hands up and say, ‘Sorry Mr Wood, it was all my fault?’” Doyle shook his head. “Not going to happen.” Josie tried to speak but Doyle raised a hand stopping her. “And d’you think that’d be it? D’you think Wood is going to say, That’s alright Mr Doyle. Have a drink and let bygones be bygones? If you think that then you’re—”

“Stupider than I look?”

Doyle saw tears in her eyes. He took a deep breath. This wasn’t right, they shouldn’t be fighting. But this is what men like Barry Wood did. They drove a wedge between people until you got so tired you rolled over and let them do as they pleased. He lowered his eyes. No, they shouldn’t be fighting.

There was an uneasy silence before Josie spoke. “You’ll have to get it sorted.”

“I can look after myself.”

“It’s not just you though, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Me and April. We live under the same roof as you. And to a man like Barry Wood it means we’re involved.”

“Well, he’ll have to go through me first.”

“Fucking hell, John,” Josie looked at him. “Have you heard yourself? You sound like Clint Eastwood in a bad film.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“We’ve never had a situation like this.”

Josie rose from the couch and went to Doyle. She put out a hand and touched his arm. Then she relaxed and let her arms circle his waist. She hugged him to her. “You’re a good man, John. This just isn’t you.”

Doyle pulled away from her embrace. “I’ve not always been.”

“Been what?”

“A good man. There were times, things in the past I’m not proud of.”

“When you were in the army?”

“Sort of,” he said.

Her face clouded. “You’ve never talked about it. I thought you had a desk job.

‘Force Research,’ something or other.”

Doyle grabbed her arm. “You forget that,” he said. “Forget I ever mentioned it.” He grimaced. “Christ,” he said, instantly regretting that drunken night when he had let his guard down and said too much.

Josie pulled her arm free. “All right, all right.” She said and rubbed her arm where Doyle’s fingers had pinched. “That hurt.”

Doyle held up his hands in silent apology. He was letting Wood get to him.

The bastard was winning. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“So what now?” she said.

“We wait.”

“That’s it. Just wait?”

“Not much else we can do.” He shrugged. “You never know, they may find some other mug to pick on. Maybe things will blow over.”

“You said that before.”

Doyle turned back to the mantelpiece. Buddha’s expression hadn’t changed. He was still laughing at him. Doyle whistled between his teeth. “It’ll be okay,” he said. But this time he was even less sure of his words.

E
VERYTHING ABOUT BARRY WOOD
was small time, small time operator, small time crook. That’s the way he worked and that’s the way he liked it. He hovered just below the police radar. And to those running the city’s dirty trades—the drugs, illegals, booze and fag brigade—so long as he didn’t interfere in their operations, they let him be. And he had his uses. He acted as a middleman in what he considered his part of town, ran their products to a network of distributors ready and willing to share the delights of cheap booze, Chinese cigarettes, and imported narcotics. Barry Wood was a man who knew his worth.

The Lancaster was one of his pubs. Known to locals as the Lanky, the downstairs was nothing more than a drinking den. The dark interior and low-key atmosphere was conducive to the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol. On one side of the bar, stairs led to a floor of single rooms where Barry’s girls plied their trade. It was still early and business was slow. A couple of the girls lounged around the worn counter drinking cheap vodka, joining the dozen or so barflies who had only one thing on their minds, get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible. There was little conversation. Got in the way of the drinking.

Next to the gents, and mischievously labeled Snug, was a smaller room. This was Barry’s office. Flanked by Stonehead Duggan and his nephew Jay, he sat at a table in the middle of the room. He ran his hand over the scar below his chin. It was a way to remember the foolishness of long ago when blind fury and a knife thrust could have ended his life. It was a touchstone, and he often used it to dissipate his anger. It wasn’t working. He lifted his glass then slammed it back on the table. “This guy’s taking the piss.”

Stonehead fingered the patch over his left eye. Jay looked anywhere but at his uncle.

“Tell me again, what happened?”

“Took us by surprise,” said Duggan, and Jay nodded, keen to agree. “Wasn’t ready if you know what I mean.”

Barry watched Stonehead push the tender flesh around his ruined eye. Soft fucker had discharged himself from hospital.

“Be ready next time though.”

“What’s that?”

Stonehead bared his teeth. “Said I’ll be ready next time.”

Wood nodded and pushed a brandy across the table. Duggan slugged it back.

He guessed it helped deaden the pain.

“Fast though,” said Duggan.

“What’s that?”

“I said he’s fast. Didn’t give us a chance. Sort of,” Stonehead lost focus and gazed into the middle distance. Eventually he said, “Just went and did it. Unexpected like.”

“That’s right,” said Jay. A plaster ran across the bridge of his nose and dark shadows tinged the skin beneath his eyes. “It come from nowhere. One minute we’re talking and next—pow!” He threw up his hands.

Wood opened his mouth then just as quickly closed it. The boy was his sister’s kid—an idiot but still his sister’s kid. Sometimes he was sorry he said he’d look after him while she finished her sentence. But Brenda had insisted. And she could be very persuasive. He smiled to himself. There was nothing to her, a featherweight, but she was a mad, bad bitch, and if people thought he was a hard case, then they didn’t know Brenda Wood. She kept a taser in her handbag and a .44 in her knicker draw. And if anything,
anything
happened to Jay, he’d better pack his bags and leave town. But there was something in what the lad said. He touched his cheek. It was still tender from Doyle’s punch. For a little while after, he had ruminated on his actions, about what went wrong. Now Stonehead and Jay confirmed his thoughts. He had done nothing wrong. The other guy had got his retaliation in first, that’s all. Wood frowned. It wouldn’t have happened in the old days.

Barry was forty two. In his younger days, he had run with the Cutters and built a reputation on the terraces as a man who never took a step back, a man who fronted up whether in company or alone. From youth to man, work came easy. Firms that wanted a little extra muscle or wanted someone reliable to run the doors in town center hotspots knew who to contact. Eventually his ambitions found fruition in an extortion and protection racket that resulted in a five-year stretch in Walton.

He was smarter now and had a trio of pubs, a taxi firm, and a bookmaker’s where proceeds from his various enterprises were washed through the accounts. Life was good. His drivers knew where to drop off those wanting a good time, and the girls upstairs were always grateful for the ‘security’ he provided. No one messed with Barry Wood. Not till now, that is. He slipped a glance at Jay. He could understand him getting a whack, kid was still wet behind the ears, but Stonehead? It was unheard of.

Something about this Doyle wasn’t right. He leaned across the table. “What do we know about this bloke?”

“Doyle?” Stonehead grunted. “Just turned up five years ago and started seeing Josie MacDonald. No one knew him, or where he came from.”

“He’s not local?”

“Nah. Someone said he was a squaddie but…” Stonehead shrugged.

Barry Wood stroked his chin. Violence was a part of his life. These days it was enough for him to put out a word or show his face to bring people to heel. But this character, this John Doyle, either didn’t know or didn’t care. He took a deep breath and made a decision. Wood picked up his glass and took a mouthful—sour and flat, he pulled a face and looked at the lifeless liquid. “Jay,” he handed the glass to his nephew. “Go and get the ale in.”

Jay rose from his seat and as he reached for Barry’s glass, saw the sly grin on his uncle’s face. “What’s up?”

Wood raised an eyebrow. “Tonight,” he said. “I think we’ll pay Mr. Doyle a visit.”

T
HE DARK CAME EARLY
that night. Low black clouds rolled in off the Irish Sea and brought a series of squalls to the city. Hearing the rain, Doyle rose from his armchair and looked through the window. The wet streets were empty. He drew the curtains and turned back to the room. Josie was in the bath, April her room. Doyle narrowed his eyes and gazed at the ceiling. April’s music thumped through the floorboards. And she
still
hadn’t spoken to him.

He looked at the TV, some reality shit he had no interest in. Doyle yawned. An early night would do him good. Christ, he deserved it after a day like that. Clicking the remote, he rose from his chair then went to turn it off at the socket. The red light on the side of the TV was like a watching eye and annoyed him to hell. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he registered the car in the street gunning its engine.

Seconds later it was swamped by the blast of a shotgun.

Two shots in quick succession:
blam, blam
. The window imploded. Doyle dropped to the floor, hands shielding his head. Though the heavy curtain caught most of the glass, tiny slivers sped through the room. Doyle lay waiting for more—waited for the front door to be kicked down and men with guns to come bursting in. Nothing happened. Outside in the street a manic voice screamed, tires screeched on wet tarmac, and the car speeding away, faded into the distance.

A moment of silence, then Josie was shouting from the top of the stairs, “What’s that—what’s happening?”

April’s door opened and a quiet, tearful voice called for mum.

Doyle crawled onto his knees and surveyed the damage. “I’m all right.” He looked at the devastated window and the armchair beside it. The top had been shredded. “I’m all right,” he repeated, this time to himself. Hearing Josie’s step on the stairs, he shouted, “Don’t come down.” Instinct kicked in and keeping low, he went to the curtains. Standing to one side, he gently eased them back.

On the other side of the street, window blinds twitched as Doyle’s neighbors looked out and a few doors cracked opened. But the car had gone. Behind he heard a rush of footsteps. Towel wrapped around her middle, Josie stood in the doorway.

“What the fuck?” Shock, surprise, anger, it was all there as she scanned the living room. Focusing on Doyle, her brows creased. “You’re bleeding,” she said and reached out a hand.

Doyle pulled back. He fingered his neck, felt the splinter of glass and pulled it free. A trickle of blood dropped onto his collar.