A Man Alone Page 6

  Satisfied, Doyle lifted a finger and tried to catch the barman’s attention. He had a face like a fish. Turning his cod-eyed stare on Doyle and seeing he was no one of any importance, he looked away, continued his conversation. He wore a yellow T-shirt with ‘Love is All Around,’ printed on the front. Doyle saw the girl he was talking to. Long-limbed, athletic. She had a pretty face with long lashes and sensuous lips. But the constant demands on her body had tarnished her looks and worn her down to the point of exhaustion. She sat on a barstool, cupping her chin with a hand lest she fall asleep at the counter. ‘Love is All Around?’ Doyle shook his head. In this place, love was all upstairs. And had a price.

  Doyle drummed his fingers on the wooden bar. He did have another way of getting the man’s attention. He reached into the rucksack, his hand grasping the Mac-10’s pistol grip. Bringing it into the open, he looked at it. It was small, compact, made of plastic. Apart from the barrel sticking out of the body, it didn’t look like a gun at all. Doyle knocked off the safety, pushed the stock into his side, pointing at the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. He squeezed the trigger.

  Three seconds. Three seconds was all it took to empty the magazine. Doyle took a step back, his eyes wide in disbelief. Now he knew why Sergei had laughed and called it “spray and pray.”

  The pistol grip jerked in his hand. He fought to keep the barrel down but the weapon was too light. Bullets shattered the bottles, the mirror too. Keeping his finger on the trigger, plaster from the ceiling fell around him and then it was empty. As the first shot was fired, the people in the Lancaster scattered. A table overturned, chairs fell and glasses broke. Giving Doyle a wide berth, the Lanky’s customers gave no quarter in their panic to escape. They pushed one another out of the way, scrambled for the doors. It took little longer to empty the pub than it did to empty the gun’s magazine.

  Doyle stood in a bubble of calm. He dipped his hand into the rucksack, found the spare magazine, and replaced the empty one in the gun. Smoke wisped in the air. Doyle breathed it in, relishing the tang of an old and familiar smell. When he looked up the place was deserted. Now it was just him and the barman. He narrowed his eyes, pinning him to the spot. “Who’s upstairs?”

  The guy couldn’t answer. Shock, thought Doyle, did that to some people.

  Speaking softly he gestured with the gun. “Get the girls from upstairs—everyone from upstairs,” he said. “And get them out.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got two minutes.”

  Doyle waited. At last the guy exhaled. He hadn’t taken a breath since Doyle’s finger first curled around the trigger. Red in the face, thankful he wasn’t on the end of another burst of gunfire, he sidled away taking the stairs two at a time. As he disappeared from view, Doyle reached for his cigarettes and lit up. So easy to get back in the habit. Then he looked at the gun’s smoking barrel and his brow creased. So easy to get back in the habit.

  Above him he heard doors slam, footsteps, and a babble of hard-edged foreign voices. A girl’s round face peered over the banister. He waved her forward. A rag-tag line of semi-dressed girls and three crumpled men followed, one still hitching up his pants. The barman came last, treading carefully lest he annoy Doyle. Doyle cradled the Mac-10 in his arms, followed them with his gaze all the way out. He looked at his watch. Time was short. Calls would have been made, mobile phones burning hands in their desire to message Barry Wood.

  Doyle took one last look, made sure the place was empty, and put the rucksack behind the bar. He tucked the machine-pistol under his jacket and strolled through the door into the night. A few people hung around outside, but no one was going to stand in his way. Once clear of the pub, Doyle walked straight and fast, crossed the road, and walked down the slope toward a line of houses. He walked until he heard the screech of tires behind then stepped away from a streetlight’s glow and looked back. Barry Wood’s SUV had just pulled up outside the pub.

  Silhouetted against the glare of the Lancaster’s frontage he watched Wood get out of his car and slam the door. Wood waved his arms, gesticulating while those left in the wake of his outrage pointed in Doyle’s direction. Heads turned to look. Wood strained, peered into the gloom, and with a few men about him, started after Doyle.

  Crouched down by a low wall, Doyle raised himself and levelled the Mac-10.

  He fired a burst and watched Wood dive to the ground. Two others jumped a garden and took cover behind a fence. Again he squeezed the trigger. The windscreen of a parked car shattered. As far as he could tell, he never hit anyone. But hell, bullets flew everywhere. Reaching for his phone and finding 2 in his directory, Doyle pressed call.

  Behind the Lancaster’s wooden counter his rucksack exploded. It hammered the night and shook the houses. The sound echoed through the streets, passages, and every back alley in the district. But Doyle didn’t wait to see. He was walking away—fast.

  DOYLE HAD LEFT HIS car at the back of a scrap merchant’s. It was dark and there was no one around. He tossed the Mac-10 over the wall onto a pile of loose metal—it was about all it was good for now—and drove to the Formule 1 opposite the Albert Dock. The hotel was cheap, and as its name suggested, formulaic. But it had a passing clientele that suited him. The guy at reception was foreign, disinterested, and took his money with barely a glance.

  The room had just enough space to walk around the bed. Doyle disconnected the smoke alarm and lay with his head on the pillow. He smoked a cigarette, stared at the ceiling, and began to think. The house wasn’t safe. Even with the place crawling with police he wouldn’t put it past Wood to try something. For the moment no one knew where he was. But he couldn’t stay there forever. And what about Josie and April?

  His guilt was a physical thing that flushed his cheeks. Doyle hadn’t thought much about them—hadn’t thought much at all. He had said this was for them, that a man like Barry Wood had to be stopped. But was it justice or a desire to return to the man he once was? And tomorrow...? Doyle took the cigarette from his mouth and blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. He hadn’t thought about that either. The man wouldn’t back off, that much was certain. Wood had too much self-regard. The respect he thought was his would take a battering if he couldn’t handle one man. But he would be on his guard now. Doyle would have to tread carefully. But that could wait until tomorrow. Right now he needed to sleep. He dropped his cigarette into his coffee cup and turned off the light.

  Doyle heard giggles and muffled voices through the thin walls as the couple next door fucked like rabbits. Outside his window, he heard angry snarls, a shout and a glass breaking. Pleasure and pain—the twin sounds of the city. Doyle yawned and turned onto his side. He was soon fast asleep.

  7—SATURDAY

  IT WAS A BLACK dream. Doyle was drowning. His limbs heavy, his mind numb, and every time he tried to rise from the suffocating hell, he was dragged back down. Far away a bell tolled. Was this the end? Was this…

  Doyle woke with a start. The covers were wrapped around his head. On the bedside table, the stupid plastic £1 alarm clock rang fit to burst. Pulling off the crumpled sheets, he turned off the alarm and reached for his phone. Doyle switched it on, looking at the screen. A dozen, maybe more, messages from Wood detailing what he was going to do to the ‘cunt’—the ‘fucking cunt’ that had blown away his pub. Doyle deleted them.

  There was also a missed call from Josie, several in fact. When he called, she was frantic. Josie stuttered and coughed into the phone. When she had calmed enough to speak, she said just four words. And they chilled him to the bone.

  “April,” she said. “He’s got her.”

  DOYLE WAITED IN HIS car. He had driven north of the city, to dockland—a post-industrial wasteland of warehouses and empty yards. He glanced at his watch then raised his eyes to look through the windscreen. Opposite was a box shaped building with ‘Just Tires’ on a sign above the door. The proprietor had left an hour before giving him a cold fish stare before rechecking the locks on the door and pulling down the metal shutters of th
e tire bay. Whatever Doyle was doing, it was none of his business.

  The conversation between Doyle and Wood had been basic: be at the Stanley dock at six and April could go free. Him for her, it was that simple. Doyle spat out the window. He doubted it would be that simple.

  He checked his watch again. It was 5:40.

  Doyle lit a cigarette. He knew how these things went, had been present at plenty in the past and knew the rituals, the pretense of honor, the ultimate self-sacrifice, and the clean, unfussy execution of the victim. That’s the way it was when both sides knew the rules. Whether Barry Wood knew them too was another matter.

  5:45. Doyle flicked the cigarette stub out of the window. The idea of driving away had crossed his mind, but April’s desperate cry as Wood held the phone to her mouth before making his demands was imprinted in his head. He could as much abandon her as he could fly to the moon. Anger coursed through him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, not after so many years. Doyle closed his eyes and let his anger slide. He mustn’t lose it—not when he was so close.

  Doyle checked the glove compartment. The .38 was there. He was tempted, but slammed the door shut. No heroics. There was one chance. It relied on Barry Wood being there and doing as he promised.

  5:50. It was time. Wondering if he would get the chance to use them again, he placed the Fiesta’s keys behind the sunshade and got out of the car. He walked to the T junction and turned right. On his side of the road were a string of storehouses, tired pubs, and cafés offering all-day breakfasts. On the other, gated yards of pallets and machinery. Above a gray stone wall, the arms of a giant wind turbine turned lazy circles.

  The gates to the dock were locked. Doyle eased himself through a gap in the wire mesh. The outside world disappeared. His life, his being, the whole sum of his years had led to this one place and time. He looked at the water—black, viscous, seeming to pull him into its depths. The effect was disorientating and he looked away afraid of plunging into that unholy foulness never to emerge. He took a deep breath and took in his surroundings. The warehouse was longer than a football pitch and high as the water was deep. Once, ships from the empire came with their cargoes of tobacco to berth at its side. Now it was only the pigeons and rats that made use of the gray brick fortress. Doyle shivered. Above his head he saw a sign: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Doyle’s lip curled into a half smile. ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE would have been more appropriate. It was that kind of place.

  Steeling himself, he set off along a colonnaded walkway. It came as no surprise when, before he reached the halfway mark, they stepped from the building’s shadow. Barry Wood, Jay, and Stonehead Duggan. No one moved. Doyle stared at Wood, held his gaze and searched for a semblance of humanity behind his obsidian eyes. There was nothing there.

  “Where’s April?”

  Wood came alive. His body seemed to swell and he jabbed a finger. “Don’t you say nothing.” His eyes shone with glee as he appraised Doyle, a fly caught in his web. “This is my game and I make the rules.” He glanced at his watch and raised his brows as if he were surprised at Doyle showing. “At least you’re punctual.”

  Doyle clasped his hands before him like a man at prayer. It was best to say nothing. Wood paused, savoring the moment, eager to turn the screw and have his fun. But it could wait. He turned to his nephew and jerked his head in Doyle’s direction. Jay pulled a semi-automatic from his jacket pocket, darted forward.

  Jay trained the gun on him, pausing until Doyle held his arms out like a scarecrow. He patted him down and went through his pockets. Jay looked back at his Uncle and held up Doyle’s phone.

  “That it?”

  Jay nodded.

  Wood jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Jay tossed it into the water.

  Doyle dropped his arms.

  “Bit surprised,” said Wood. “Thought you might try to be the hero.” He shimmied like a boxer taking a stance. “Do the rescue bit.” And then he smiled, a thin line of menace. “Actually, I was lookin’ forward to it.” He glanced back at Stonehead. “Weren’t we?”

  Doyle checked his watch. 6:05. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve come as you wanted. Let me see April.”

  Wood held his gaze. “Why should I?”

  “Because you’ve got what you want, because you’re a man who values his reputation.” Doyle focused hard on Wood. “Because if you go back on our agreement, your word will mean shit.”

  Doyle watched Wood’s shoulders stiffen. He had hit the mark. Reputation meant everything to this guy. Wood opened his mouth then bit back his words. He swiveled his head to look at Jay then at Stonehead. Both were grinning. Then he laughed, a short bark that echoed across the water. Doyle frowned, there was something here he was missing.

  “It’s sad really,” said Wood, “but there’s something you should know.” He rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “I haven’t got the girl, I never had the girl. She came to us and begged me to sort it. She hates you, hates what you’ve done. It was her idea.”

  Doyle felt something inside him twist. “You’re lying.”

  “No. Last night when we were figuring out what to do with you, my little mate,

  Burnsie brought her in. Said if I let her and her mam be, she’d help me get you on your own.” He used a finger to trace a cross over his heart. “God’s truth Doyle. It was her idea.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Wood shrugged. “Whether you do or don’t doesn’t really matter. It’s just a thought to take to whatever dark place you’re going to. Got to say she surprised me.” He shook his head. “Devious bitch. She’s one to watch is that kid.”

  Doyle’s heart beat a little faster. This wasn’t going the way he planned. “So what now?”

  Wood leered. “I’ve got you Doyle. I’ve got you where I want and your life’s not worth a carrot. One man.” He held up a finger. “That’s all you were, and now it’s over. That’s all there is to it.” He walked over to Doyle, balled his fist, and punched him in the face.

  A light exploded in Doyle’s head. He fell back, managed to cushion the fall with his hands but still crashed hard on the ground. A foot dug into his ribs. He groaned. Blood from his split lip strayed into his mouth. He turned on his side and spat on the floor as the metallic taste registered. Doyle saw Wood standing over him, and he waited for more.

  But there wasn’t. Instead Wood summoned Jay. “Take yourself off to the car.”

  “I want to watch.”

  Wood grabbed his shoulder “We’re not here.” He flicked a finger between them. “We were never here. Understand?”

  Jay’s dull eyes glimmered. If they weren’t there then they couldn’t be accused of anything. A slick smile creased his mouth. He stared at Doyle, grinned in a see what you’ve gone and done, kind of way, then turned his back and began to walk.

  Doyle pushed himself to his knees. 6:10.

  Wood pointed. “Don’t you fucking move.” He gestured Stonehead forward. In his hands was a stainless link chain. Wood looked back at Doyle. “So this is the way of it. See that?” He gestured to a metal drum lying on its side. Stonehead clipped the chain to a metal loop on its flat end. “One drum, one chain, and one stretch of water. But here’s the thing. The dock’s forty foot, the chain twenty.” He smirked. “I won’t bother to ask if you can swim.”

  Wood nodded at Stonehead. “Give us five minutes then do it.” Once more he looked at Doyle. “Goodbye Mr. Doyle. We won’t meet again.”

  Doyle watched him until he ducked beneath the gate’s wire mesh and disappeared back into the living world, a world where a man’s span wasn’t just measured in seconds and minutes. Not once did he look back. A cold wind rippled the water, teasing the cut on Doyle’s lip. He shifted his gaze to look at Duggan.

  Stonehead hadn’t moved. He had waited days for this moment. He made sure Doyle saw him finger his eye patch, then pulled the chain tight between his fists. A grim smile stretched across his face. Doyle tried to swallow but there was nothing ther
e. He licked his dry lips, tasted the crust of blood that had formed and glanced at his watch. 6:13.

  Stonehead watched him in silence. From his waistband, he drew a large revolver, pointed it at Doyle. It was a Brocock, a converted-gas operated air pistol. Some bright lad had discovered that by the judicious use of a drill and bit they could fire live ammunition. The underworld was awash with them. They were made from alloy, dangerous and inaccurate, but at this range Doyle wasn’t taking any chances.

  Stonehead tossed him the free end of the chain and gestured with the gun. “Put it round your ankle.” Reaching in his pocket, he produced a large brass padlock. “Fasten it with that.” He threw it to Doyle.

  Doyle caught the lock. “And if I don’t?”

  Stonehead shrugged and extended his arm holding the gun. “Makes no difference to me”. I can finish it here and now or you can have two more minutes.”

  Doyle checked his watch. 6:14. Every second dragged. He picked up the chain.

  Stonehead laughed. “Amazing what people will do for an extra minute, an extra few seconds of existence.” He sniffed the air as if it were some kind of elixir. “Makes you think how precious life is.” He sat on the barrel, keeping the gun trained on Doyle, pushed the ground with his heels. The barrel moved. He snorted a laugh. “It won’t be good you know.” He tipped his chin in the water’s direction. “Down there I mean. Fighting for breath and knowing you ain’t ever going to make it.” He made a mock shivering motion with his shoulders. “Me,” he nodded more to himself than Doyle, “I’d take a bullet any day. Quick, simple, all done in an instant.” He looked at Doyle. “I’ll do you a favor if you like?” He rose from his seat, stepped forward and put the gun barrel to Doyle’s forehead.

  Doyle didn’t move. He stared into Stonehead’s good eye and waited as the cold ring of steel ate into his skull. A heartbeat passed—then Stonehead removed the gun and stepped back. He sniggered. “Nah,” he said. “Too easy. I want to see you go over the side, I want... ” He stopped talking and his brow creased. “Will you stop looking at your fucking watch.”