A Man Alone (4 page)

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.

I
T 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.

D
OYLE 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 didn’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?”

The young barman had been watching. He had been following events, hoping they would go away. Now it was getting serious, and this was his watch, his first job, the bar entrusted to his keeping. He made a decision. Holding his palms out as they had advised on his training day, he came over to where Doyle sat. “Please gents,” he said. “Take it outside.” He tried to smile, diffuse the situation. He hadn’t yet learned the art of looking the other way.

Square-head leaned over the counter and grabbed the kid by his shirt. He pulled him close, spat in his face. “Will you just fuck off,” and he pushed him back, the force strong enough to send him sprawling to the floor. Square-head turned back to Doyle. Saliva speckled his lips. “Well. What’s it gonna be?” And before Doyle said anything, added, “Remember, you got family.”

Doyle stopped stirring his drink.

“A girl innit?” He leered over Doyle’s shoulder and winked at his companion.

“Pretty thing, so I heard. Be a shame if something were to happen.” There was a sound deep in his throat Doyle recognized as laughter.

Doyle looked at him, at his weather-beaten face, his pig eyes and didn’t hesitate. He tapped the cocktail mixer on the rim of his glass then drove it straight into his face. Square-head squealed, stepped back, brought both hands to his ruined left eye. The plastic rod stuck from it like an arrow. Blood squeezed through his fingers. In the same motion Doyle brought his elbow back and cracked it into the bridge the other man’s nose. Doyle felt it turn to mush. There was a muffled curse behind him.

He stepped off the stool, looked at Square-head. The pain had hit and he staggered away from Doyle, trying to understand what had just happened. “Fuck—fuck,” he cursed anything and everyone. There was little danger there. Doyle turned to his right. Wood’s nephew had recovered quicker than he had expected. Blood flowed from his nose over his lips and down his chin but he bared his red-stained teeth and took a wild swing. Swerving backwards, Doyle avoided the blow, grabbed the boy’s outstretched wrist in his left hand and with his right caught the back of his neck. Using his weight, he turned then slammed his face into the counter. One, two, three times he beat his face into the wood then let him go. The boy slid down the front of the bar and pooled on the floor.

Square-head ripped the plastic rod from his eye and moved his head side to side trying to see Doyle through his one good eye.

“Bastard. Fucking bastard.” He lurched forward, arms outstretched, trying to get his hands on Doyle. As he moved, Doyle sidestepped and struck the big man’s throat with the side of his hand. Square-head choked and sank to his knees gasping for air.

Doyle looked from one to the other. They were finished, both of them. Behind the counter, the barman had raised himself from the floor and stared like he was watching a scene from a movie. Elsewhere, the commotion had caused a mini exodus. The Lisbon’s customers weren’t going to wait for the police. Too many questions, too many inferences in what they were doing in a
gay
bar. They grabbed jackets and briefcases and sloped out the door.

Doyle caught the eye of the boy behind the bar and held up his hands. He shrugged, thought better of saying something stupid, and headed for the exit.

It was raining. Doyle turned up his collar and crossed the road onto Mathew Street. Soon he was lost in the crowd.

“S
O THAT’S ABOUT IT.
” Doyle stood by the mantelpiece, idly pushing the china figures on its top with his hand. There was a little Buddha. He picked it up and looked. The fat bastard was laughing at him. Resisting the temptation to hurl the pot-bellied twat into the hearth, Doyle carefully replaced it and faced Josie.