A Man Alone Page 5

  A chill ran through Doyle.

  “You’re a maggot Doyle, a worm with your belly on the ground and I’m going to tread you into that ground and make sure you never get up.”

  Doyle said nothing. He knew better than give Wood more ammunition. There was a pause on the line and he could almost see the man’s eyes glitter, could almost see the satisfied smirk of a man who knew he had hit the mark.

  He sighed into the phone. “So this is where we are.”

  “No,” said Wood, “this is where you are.”

  “So it is Mr. Wood. Just one thing, if you try and hurt my family, I’ll kill you.”

  Wood’s laugh was a tight, sinister wheeze. “Think you’re a playa, do ya?”

  His voice mocked him. “Good,” he said, “very good.” He must have pushed the phone closer to his mouth for his voice hardened and became more intimate as if this were information for Doyle and Doyle alone. “You’re just one man Doyle. A man alone. What the fuck can you do to hurt me?” He let his words hang for a few seconds then spoke again. “I know where you are, so I know where to come. And I’ll be coming very soon.” He ended the call.

  Doyle sat a little while longer then tossed his phone on to the settee. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened them he looked around the room. There wasn’t much of him there. A battered guitar in a corner, a half read book on the sideboard. If he slipped away would anyone notice? Would it be any great loss? His eyes lighted on a photograph of Josie and April and he remembered the loneliness and despair of his life before. It wasn’t an option.

  Stroking the arm of the chair where he sat, a tiny sliver of glass dug into his palm. Pulling it from his skin, he watched a drop of blood form and well from the cut. Some men were relentless in their spite; cutting until they bled you dry and you were no longer able to offer any resistance. Wood was one of them. And Doyle knew there was only way to deal with such men.

  Rising from his chair he went to the bookcase and got down the yellow pages.

  Later that day, Doyle went shopping.

  IT WAS MIDDAY WHEN Doyle drove into town. He parked his Fiesta in the multi-story on Mount Pleasant and walked past the Adelphi Hotel toward the shopping center. On his way he stopped at the mobile phone store to buy six pay-as-you-go phones. From the model shop in St John’s, he bought a pack of rocket igniters and motors, and at the hardware store, he bought two three-foot sections of plastic drainpipe and a dust mask. Back home, he put the materials into the backyard shed then switched on the computer in April’s room. It took him ten minutes to find what he wanted on eBay. Ticking the next day delivery box, he powered down the computer and looked out of the window. Night would shroud the streets in a little more than an hour and he could continue his business. He waited, staring at the wall. This was the calm before the whirlwind he was about to unleash on Barry Wood. He needed time to clear his mind. When he was ready, Doyle put on his green fishing jacket, pulled a baseball cap low over his eyes, and pushed a pair of mini bolt cutters into his pocket. He slung an empty rucksack over his back, locked the doors, and slipped into the alley at the back of the house.

  A little more than a mile from the house and backing onto a deep railway cutting, were the Shorevale allotments. They were screened by a tangle of skeletal alders and wild vegetation. He stopped by the locked metal gates and looked back the way he had come. No one followed. Doyle jumped the railings. He skirted the path, headed toward the railway line. If anyone saw, he was just another scally taking a short-cut home.

  He found what he wanted in the third shed he broke into. Since the July 7th attacks, the authorities had cracked down on the supply of fertilizers containing ammonium nitrate. But these had been lying unused for years. He stuffed two bags into his rucksack before making his way back to the house. Dumping the bags in the shed, he went upstairs and took a long soak in the bath.

  That night he went back to the Turks Head. Two nights in succession—he was almost a regular. Sandra was there. Doyle gave her twenty quid and asked her to call Sergei. As she started to press the numbers on her mobile, Doyle caught her elbow and smiled. “And tell him it’s for a special order.”

  5—THURSDAY

  NEXT MORNING, DOYLE ROSE early. Clearing out the contents of the fridge, he brought in the supplies from the shed and smoked a cigarette. That first one always gave him a good feeling about the day. He looked at the burning end. Yeah, today was going to be a good day.

  The brown UPS van delivered his parcels a little after 9. He took them to the kitchen, opened the tops, and checked the contents. In the first was one liter each of nitric and sulphuric acid. In the second, from the Perfect Pet store, a gallon of glycerine for, ‘Topical use in the treatment of horses, cattle and other species.’ Doyle closed and locked the doors, drew the curtains and placed the dust mask over his face. If Barry Wood wanted to raise the stakes, then he would oblige. After all, poker was his favorite game.

  He broke the seals on the two bottles of acid and poured them into a glass bowl in the bottom of the fridge. He added the glycerine one drop at a time until he had a milky white solution.

  Next, on a sheet of clear plastic placed on the kitchen floor, he opened the bags of Fertilizer, adding paraffin until he had a wet semi-glutinous compound. He poured the acid mix into the compound and stirred until it was evenly distributed throughout.

  Doyle took a break. He smoked a cigarette on the step outside. It was years since he had done anything like this and he had forgotten how nauseous the fumes from the chemicals made him. His head throbbed, his stomach churned. Even with the windows open, the smell filled the house.

  Taking advantage of being outside, he took a saw to the drainpipe and cut it into one foot sections. Back in the kitchen, he sealed one end of each pipe with black insulating tape, then carefully packed them with the mix from the floor. The motors from the model shop were filled with black powder and used to fire miniature rockets into the air. On the kitchen table, he removed the delay apparatus—a piece of cardboard—inserted an igniter, and pushed one into each tube leaving the ignition wires exposed. After programming each mobile phone, he removed the speaker and soldered the signal output to the rocket igniters. He sealed the tube using plenty of black tape and taped the phone to the outside of the tube.

  At last he was finished. Six tubes containing explosive and timer lined the kitchen wall. Doyle yawned and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Time for something to eat and an early night. Tomorrow, he was going out to play.

  6—FRIDAY

  CARL MALONEY DROVE HIS cab into the city. It was Friday night, the kids were back at university, and the town was alive. An endless stream of taxis and buses disgorged their human cargoes into the maelstrom of the city center. Crowds hogged the bars and spilled onto pavements and roads. The town was full and split at the seams.

  Friday night—best earner of the week.

  Except it wasn’t. Too many short trips, too many Lark Lanes and Garstons, too many ‘just the end of the street please mate,’ from girls showing more tit than he’d seen last year on the Costa Del Sol. Carl banged the steering wheel in frustration. His tips were shite. He stopped outside the Philharmonic Dining Rooms, peered through the windscreen and looked at his pick-up. The guy wore a green jacket, combat pants and a baseball cap. A small rucksack was at his feet and in his hand an expanding type briefcase. Carl frowned. By the looks of it, he wasn’t about to break his run of bad luck.

  The guy shuffled across the road and got into the back of the cab. Carl twisted his head and watched his fare settle back, briefcase on the floor, rucksack on the seat.

  “Where to mate?”

  He mumbled something and Carl pushed his head forward trying to hear.

  “What’s that?”

  “Pineapple.”

  “On Park Road?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Pineapple was an old coaching inn that offered rooms at reasonable rates.

  Carl turned to the windscreen and
put the car into gear. He guessed his tip, if he got one, would be in the reasonable bracket as well.

  “Going back early tonight lad?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said you’re going home early. Or you having a few more bevvies back at the Pineapple?” In the rear-view mirror, he saw the guy look up and caught a glimpse of his eyes.

  “Maybe.”

  Carl detected something out of town in his accent. Maybe he should chance his arm. He pursed his lips, it was worth a try. “It’s just that if you’re looking for a good time, I know a place.” He shrugged, “Girls, nice girls if you know what I mean.”

  He looked in the mirror to see if there was any reaction. “Just a thought like.”

  The guy was curious. “What place?”

  “Not far from the Pineapple. Personal attention if you get my drift.” He gave his fare a sly wink in the mirror. “I’ll go in with you, make the introduction.” He spoke out the side of his mouth as if he were imparting a secret. “We get a bit of commission see.” What he didn’t mention was instead of £50 he would be charged £70—the difference going to Carl.

  Carl thought he detected a ghost of a smile slip onto his fare’s face before he shook his head.

  “No. Just the Pineapple.”

  At the wheel Carl shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  Making a right, he cut along Upper Duke Street to the junction and waited for the lights to change. A steady flow of traffic headed into the city. Carl glanced at his watch. 11:30. Back in the day everyone would be going home at this time. Now things were just kicking off. The lights turned green, and he put the car into first. Sometimes he was glad he wasn’t a kid anymore.

  It was a straight drive, five minutes at most. Carl U-turned outside the Tesco store and pulled into a space beside the Pineapple. He checked the meter. “£3.80.”

  The guy fiddled in a side pocket for change and dropped coins into Carl’s outstretched palm. He climbed out and slammed the door without saying a word. Carl looked in his hand. Four quid—20p tip. “Thanks mate,” he said and didn’t even try to disguise his sarcasm. “I’ll put it toward me new Lamborghini.” He tipped the money into his wallet and drove away.

  He was still smarting when he picked Shirley up outside Hannah’s. She worked the bar and was one of his regulars. She folded her long legs into the back seat then pulled at her blouse trying to fan air into the opening.

  Carl twisted his head and copped an eyeful. “Tough night?”

  She blew. “Long, hot one.”

  Carl grinned. “I can see that.”

  Shirley saw where he was looking. “Fuck off, you old get.” She tried to look demure, difficult when her skirt barely covered her arse. “Them’s are for me fella’s eyes,” she said. “And not for the likes of you.”

  As she straightened herself and sat back, Carl saw her face change as she looked in the well between the seats. “Hey,” she said. “Did you know there’s a briefcase down here?”

  AFTER DROPPING SHIRLEY OFF, Carl drove back to the Pineapple. He pushed through those standing around the bar and searched the room. The guy wasn’t there. Julie was serving, and he asked her if she’d seen him. “Green jacket—baseball cap?” He used a hand to indicate his height. She shrugged, hadn’t seen him nor had he taken a room, and she’d been there since six. Muttering beneath his breath, Carl threw the briefcase onto the seat beside him and drove to the office. Luckily it was just up the road.

  Situated on the third floor of a retail block, its ground floor door was sandwiched between a Chinese takeaway and a florist. Carl grabbed the briefcase and bounded up the stairs. He checked his watch. This was fucking typical, shit night and now this. It was eating into his shift.

  Agnes was on dispatch. She wore black - always. Tonight it was a black sweater over a knee length skirt. Her hair was pulled back tight. She was one of those women Carl thought would be more at home in some Mediterranean village, knitting and bemoaning the fate of her widowhood. He always thought there was a bit of Greek in her. Given half a chance he would like to put a bit of Irish in her too.

  Sitting at her desk, telephone and radio in close proximity, she was eating a yellow cream puff. Agnes narrowed her eyes, looking at Carl as he walked through the open door. It wasn’t usual. Carl never went back to the office. Not even for a coffee.

  Carl held the briefcase up to show her. “Some soft cunt’s left this in me cab.”

  She shrugged in a ‘what the fuck d’you want me to do about it’ way and flicked out her tongue to capture a piece of cream from her top lip.

  Carl put it on the table next to her. “Well has he called to say he’s lost it?”

  She swallowed what was in her mouth and was about to reply when a voice cut in. “What you got there then?”

  Carl turned to see Billy Pierce in the kitchen doorway. He had a mug in his hand and was using a teaspoon to wring every last flavour from the teabag inside. He strolled across to Agnes, expertly flicked the teabag into a waste bin, and perched himself on her desk. Carl looked from one to the other. Billy Pierce and Aggie Watson. No wonder he got all the good fares, the airports and cross-country runs. A couple of cream puffs with a jammy doughnut would make her legs open for anyone. And he’d been trying to get there for months. Miserable bitch. He looked at her filling her face and sniffed. Anyway she had flabby tits topped with a face like a walrus. Billy Pierce was welcome to her.

  Billy put his mug on the desk and lifted the briefcase by the handle. “Fuck me it’s heavy.” He put it back down. “Have you opened it yet?”

  Carl looked at him as if he were an imbecile. “It might be something important.”

  Billy shrugged. “All the more reason to open it then.” He pressed the clasp then tried again before wiping a finger beneath his nose. “It’s locked.”

  Carl looked at him. The guy was a fucking idiot. He was going to tell him as well when the phone rang. Agnes brushed sugary residue from her fingers, shushed them with a wave of her hand before answering the call.

  “Fortress cabs.”

  Carl watched her face change. He saw her mouth drop and eyes widen. She listened to the call and darted a glance at the briefcase sitting on the table beside her. She replaced the receiver and sat looking at the bag. Puzzled, Carl and Billy looked at each other, then at Agnes.

  “Well?”

  Agnes met Carl’s eyes. “It was the bloke who lost that.” She tipped her head toward the briefcase.

  “Thank fuck for that. Tell us where he is an I’ll—”

  “He says there’s a bomb in it.”

  ACROSS THE ROAD, DOYLE watched. A few trees grew on a small grassed area off the main road. In the dark, their spindly forms made suitable cover for a man not wanting to be seen. He had just lit his second cigarette when he saw the taxi. It was a blue Mondeo, license plate 761. It pulled up in front of the office. He watched the driver retrieve the briefcase from the passenger seat then disappear through the door of the building. Doyle checked his watch, gave him five minutes, and made the call. He spoke to a woman, said what he had to, and broke the connection.

  He smoked another cigarette and watched. It didn’t take long. The driver along with another man emerged almost together, hesitated, then started to run along the row of shops. The woman followed them into the street a few seconds later. Wheezing badly, she stopped and started to cough. Seeing the men far ahead and fearing to be left behind, she started to jog after them. Not a good idea. Her face reddened, she began to puff, and her tits bounced as if each worked independently of the other.

  There was a momentary pang of guilt as he watched her scuttle after the men.

  It didn’t last long. Collateral damage was always part of the deal. He took his phone from his pocket, scanned the directory. In it were six pre-entered numbers. He speed-dialed the first.

  Inside the briefcase, the charge ignited. The explosion ripped through the top floor of the building, blowing the windows outwards. Fire and flame, followed by t
hick black smoke billowed from the open spaces. Shattered glass fell like confetti. There was a moment, a frozen moment when the world stood still—then fire and car alarms began to shriek. People were everywhere. Fleeing from the burger bars and kebab joints, they poured onto the sidewalks, spilling onto the road. Cars screeched as drivers braked hard to avoid the crowds.

  Doyle watched from his position beneath the trees with a sense of quiet detachment. He nodded to himself. It couldn’t have gone better. Picking up his rucksack, he walked away from the burning building. His taxi driver had told him of a place where he could have a good time. He was going there now. Turning his head to look at the mayhem behind, Doyle smiled. But then again, he was having a very good time already.

  He took his time. As he neared his destination, a small convoy of cars sped toward him. Leading was a dark SUV. Doyle pulled the bill of his cap lower until they passed. Then he quickened his pace.

  Inside the Lancaster, Doyle sensed the mounting hysteria. Standing at the bar he lifted his head and could almost smell the excitement. The news of the explosion had reached the punters. It was karaoke night, but only some pissed up tart wanted to sing. Persistent as she was, the guy in charge put her off, told her next week. He was already rolling a cable round his arm, happy for once at the prospect of an early night. Doyle heard snippets of conversation, odd words as they tried to make sense of the explosion. Words like, gas, the Irish, or Muslim extremists. Why the Taliban would want to take out a taxi firm above a Chinese chippy was anyone’s guess. Doyle’s appearance didn’t register. To them he was just another scruffy guy standing at the end of the bar.

  Doyle put the rucksack on the floor, his hands on the counter. He looked round the room. The place was sparsely populated and the snug empty. Those locals who had called in for a few before heading into the city had gone. Others had followed Wood and his cronies to the site of the explosion. The Lancaster was left to those whose days and weeks tumbled one into another, whose lives were made infinitely better by the addition of alcohol to occupy the spaces left behind.