A Man Alone Page 2

  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.

  BUT 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?”

  JOSIE 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.”

  2—MONDAY

  DOYLE 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.”

  Doyle heaved a sigh and pushed the card into the pocket of his dressing gown.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said and turned his back on Josie. He was right about one thing though; his headache had grown infinitely worse.

  IT HAD BEEN A long day. Josie had gone to bed early. Doyle sat on his own in the lounge with the TV off and the room in darkness. In his hand was a glass of Jameson’s. He took a sip and looked at the ceiling, up to April’s room where, he presumed, she and her Facebook allies were agreeing in their assessment of him. She hadn’t spoken to him. Doyle closed his eyes. A quiet life was all he wanted and in the last few years had managed to achieve a normality he once thought impossible. It wasn’t perfect, but what was? He kept his head down, worked when he could, and kept himself anonymous. No fuss, no excitement—that was Doyle’s way. It had to be that way.

  A humorless smile creased his face. If they could see him now—Brendan Murphy, Shane Gallagher, and the others on the enforcement committee. He had been the man, the one they looked to, the man they said had ice water in his veins. What would they do now? Laugh at his predicament or put a bullet through his head? After what he had done, he guessed it would be the latter.

  A crack on the window broke his thoughts. Another followed. Doyle frowned, set his whiskey down and went to the door. For a moment he stood with his ear against the wood. Outside he could hear voices, youthful and exuberant. He jerked it open and stepped out. There were four. He looked but black hoodies obscured their faces. Two were on the far side of the street, guarding their bicycles and pelting the window with stones. Arms poised to throw; they froze when they saw him. The others were closer. They were by the side of the bay window, doing something to the wall. They jumped back, startled by his sudden appearance. There was a metallic clatter on the pavement and he heard a can roll into the gutter. He took a step toward them and a stone hit his chest. Covering their retreat, the boys returned to their fusillade. Doyle ducked and used his hands to shield his face. One whizzed past his head. When he looked again, they had run to their bikes and were already racing down the street. He couldn’t be sure, but swore one was that kid—Burnsie.

  Doyle watched the night swallow them before he went back to the hall and switched on the light. Daubed in red paint: Grass lives here.

  It was the ultimate insult.

  Doyle shook his head. If they knew the truth, they wouldn’t call him a copper’s nark. He touched the slogan. It was still wet but drying fast. If he was quick, he might be able to wash it off. Inside the house there was silence, a cocoon of false safety he knew wouldn’t last.

  “What was that?” Josie’s tired voice called from upstairs.

  “Nothing,” he said. He could at least give her the night in peace. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Doyle slumped back in the armchair, slugged his Jameson, and found the business card she had given him hours before. He looked at the number. Reaching for his mobile phone, Doyle made the call.

  3—TUESDAY

  DOYLE WAS AT THE Lisbon at 2 o’clock the following afternoon. It was the oldest and best known bar in Liverpool’s gay quarter.

  Against his better judgement, he’d called Barry Wood. The man wanted an apology. Doyle guessed it wasn’t just an apology he was looking for. Wood suggested, the Southern Cross. Doyle said no. The Lisbon had been his idea. Wood laughed, he didn’t mind. To him, one place was as good as another.

  Doyle checked his watch. He had been there an hour and taken his time choosing where to sit. Occupying the basement of a Victorian tenement, little light filtered through the street level windows, leaving much of the room in shadow. He pulled a stool to the bar where he could see the door. A small glass half filled with ice and lime sat on the counter next to him. Only a few tables, those in the quieter corners and wood panelled alcoves, were occupied.

  He clocked them soon as they walked in. They didn’t have the demeanor of the Lisbon’s usual clientele. One was squat, stocky and though younger, had the same round pug features as Barry Wood. This, Doyle guessed, would be Barry’s nephew. The other man was taller with a square head that looked like it had been carved from granite. Weathered and pock-marked by some childhood disease, he looked the ‘doing’ type. Doyle grimaced, for he knew exactly what he was there to do.

  They stopped in the doorway and swept the room with their gaze before Square-head settled on Doyle. He bent to whisper in the other’s ear and jerked his head toward Doyle. Neither looked comfortable. Doyle guessed gay bars were not on their usual agenda. He took a sip of his drink. Round one to him.

  They sauntered over while Doyle ordered a refill of his Caipirinha. That Barry Wood had failed to materialize was not a huge surprise. Public place, violent encounter—perhaps he should credit the man with more intelligence.

  Doyle stared straight ahead, kept his eyes on the mirror behind the bar and watched their approach. The smaller man was early twenties, wore a brown leather jacket over a hooded fleece, and almost bounced as he walked. The other wore a casual denim jacket a size too small. They closed in, one either side, hemming him into the bar. Doyle shifted. There wasn’t much room for maneuvering.

  Square-head leaned into Doyle’s ear. “Thought we’d find you in a bar for faggots.” He grinned.

  “I was expecting Barry Wood,” said Doyle and turned to look at the man. “I wanted him to feel at home.” The grin died. Doyle saw a flicker of something in his eyes that just for a moment registered doubt.

  The barman came across and placed Doyle’s drink in front of him. It came with a plastic cocktail mixer to stir the Cachaca into the ice and lime.

  The thug dropped his gaze to the glass, smirked, then raised it back to Doyle’s face. “A faggot’s drink for a faggot.”

  Doyle sighed and lifted the glass to his lips. The guy di
dn’t have much of a line in offensive remarks. “Where’s Barry Wood?”

  “He don’t waste time on scumbags like you.” He gestured to his younger companion. “We’re here to collect if you know what I mean.”

  Doyle glanced over his right shoulder. The other man was there, head tilted to one side, trying to look bad. Living in his uncle’s shadow—he tried too hard.

  The young barman, who had remained standing opposite Doyle, chose that moment to intervene. “Gents?” It was an invitation to buy drinks. Barry’s nephew switched his gaze away from Doyle. He looked the boy up and down before his fleshy lips curled into a sneer.

  “Fuck off, kid.”

  Doyle raised an eyebrow. Yeah, he thought. Trying much too hard.

  The barman looked like he had been struck with a cattle prod. His wide eyes looked from one to the other until they settled on Square-head. Was this a joke? When Square-head snarled at him he guessed it wasn’t. He raised his hands and backed off, remembering that somewhere at the back of the bar there were some shelves that needed cleaning.

  Square-head grunted and returned his attention to Doyle. He laid a finger on his chest. “So this is how it’s going down. Saturday at nine, you come to the Cross and apologize to Mr Wood personally. Let everyone see you do it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He balled his fist and cracked his knuckles. “Then you get a smack. And then another.” He shook his head. “There’s nothing down for you lad. One way or another, Barry will get his apology.”

  Doyle lifted the glass to his lips and sipped. The lime was sharp and hadn’t fully mixed with the Brazilian liquor. He placed it back on the counter and began to stir it. “I thought Barry Wood was big enough to meet me on his own.”

  “Look, dickhead.” Square-head was loud and the threat in his voice caused several drinkers to look around. Square-head didn’t care. “Barry hasn’t got time for the likes of you.” He pushed his face close to Doyle’s. Doyle turned his head away. The guy’s breath smelled like a garbage dump. “What is it you want—a fucking hiding?”