A Man Alone (7 page)

But she didn’t. She just sat there, drawing on a cigarette, idly turning the pages of her magazine, and saying nothing. Eventually, after what seemed an age, she lifted her eyes to Doyle, pushed her chair away from the table, and went to the drawer where the knives were kept. She pulled out the .38 and tossed it on the table. It thudded on the veneer top. Doyle looked. The barrel pointed toward him like an accusing finger. Glancing into the living room, Doyle picked up the revolver, shoved it into his waistband, and pulled his shirt over the top. Josie sat back down, staring at him. He waited, then waited some more. Still, she wouldn’t speak. Doyle swallowed. He could face down men in a street bar tussle or a man with a loaded gun, but a pissed off Josie MacDonald was a different prospect.

“So,” he said at last, reasoning he may as well get it over with, “do you always go through my pockets?”

She slammed the table. “A gun. You’ve brought a gun into my house.”

Doyle raised a finger and shushed her. Making sure the workmen were out of earshot, he said, “It’s necessary.”

“Necessary? D’you have the slightest idea what you’re getting in to? And what about me and April?” She shook her head. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Doyle’s frustration spilled over and he balled his fists. “I’m just a bloke trying to do what’s right, Josie. That’s all. A bloke who likes a beer, who wants to come home to a family, and eat roast beef on Sundays.” He looked at her and his eyes were hard as flint. “But I won’t have a bastard like Barry Wood telling me what I can and can’t do. I’ve known men like him all my life. Men who think they’re king of the streets because they’ve cracked a few heads and got some hard cases on board.” Doyle poked a finger in his chest. “Not me, not after Ireland, not after,” he hesitated. “Not after what I’ve seen and done.”

“But guns John? Where will it end?”

Doyle tipped his head toward the living room window. Hearing the row the workmen had made a discreet exit and were waiting in the van to sign off the job. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “the use of guns has already begun.”

Josie looked at Doyle like she was seeing him for the first time. For a little while she was silent. Then she sighed quietly. “You’ve never talked about it,” she said. “Ireland, I mean. What happened?”

He ran a hand across his scalp. “I was just a kid but I should have known better. I was a soldier, and I guess I was looking for adventure, a few thrills.” A harsh laugh escaped. “I got that all right.” He looked Josie in the eye. “I got involved with people I shouldn’t have. And when they were finished, when they’d used me up, they spat me out like a piece of filth. They gave me up Josie, gave me up and hoped I’d be ‘disappeared’ like others before. I ran Josie. I ran until I came here and could run no more.”

Josie put a hand to her mouth. “You never said anything and we’ve lived together five years,” she said. “I knew you were a soldier but…” Her voice trailed away. She took a breath and sat straighter in the chair. “Why
didn’t
you say anything?”

“That was the whole point. If I lost myself then others might lose me too.”

Josie shook herself. She stared at him as if she were in a dream and any minute might wake up. Her head ached. “This is too much,” she said. “It’s like the person I knew, it’s like John Doyle never existed and I’m seeing you for the first time.”

Doyle stared at her.

The penny dropped. “Fuck!” She ran a hand through her hair. “Your name isn’t Doyle is it? What else is there? What else don’t I know?”

Doyle could see tears begin to crease the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Not now, not in front of him. He tried to comfort her and put his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged him away.

“So, what is it?”

Puzzled, Doyle shook his head.

“Your name?”

“John Doyle works just fine.”

Josie snorted. “So it does.” She got up from the chair and turned her back on him. “I’m taking April to mum’s.”

Doyle reached for her but she shied away.

“It’s best. You can play with your guns or do what you want. But when we come back, I want things sorted.” She hesitated then turned to face him. “Or I want you out.”

She pushed past him. Upstairs he could hear her calling April, telling her to hurry. A few minutes later they came down, a suitcase in Josie’s hand, a small holdall in April’s. He met their gaze, Josie’s steady and determined, April’s hard and angry. She was still pissed at him.

They sat in silence until the taxi arrived. April got in first while Josie hung back. At the last moment, she wavered and looked at Doyle. “Be careful,” she said and brushed his mouth with her lips.

Doyle tried to say something, to make it right. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then it was too late. The last he saw was Josie’s face behind the taxi’s rain smeared window.

He went inside and closed the door.

Doyle sat in the armchair beneath the new window. His nostrils twitched, brick dust and fresh mortar reminding him of how close he had come to death. He closed his eyes and made himself breathe deep and even, bringing himself back to a level of calm. On the coffee table next to the settee, Josie had left a pack of cigarettes. Doyle hadn’t smoked for years, but he took one now, finished it, and immediately lit a second. He realized how much he had missed his forty-a-day habit. He should be angry with himself for succumbing, but all he could do was relish the nicotine and deep satisfying sensation of the smoke billowing through his lungs. He came to a decision. Not one he liked, but it was the right thing to do. For Josie and April, he reasoned, it was the right thing for them.

He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray and took out his wallet, flipped through the compartments until he found the Fortress Taxis card. For a moment he stared at the number on the back before he punched it into the phone.

It rang twice.

There was a sly bark of laughter as Wood answered and ID’d the caller.

Doyle could almost see him smirking. “We need to talk.”

“Too late,” said Wood. “I’ve always believed actions speak louder than words.”

“You’re frightening my family.”

“Fuck your family and fuck you.” Doyle heard his anger, the words forced through gritted teeth. “You should have thought about that before you fronted me.”

“I did nothing but defend myself and you know that.”

“You dissed me in front of my boys. And that my friend, is fatal.”

“I always thought you had to earn respect?”

“Oh I’ve earned it all right. When I walk through these streets people call me Mr. Wood. This is my place, I was born here and they respect me for who I am and what I’ve done. You?” Wood sneered. “You’re just some woolly-back twat who doesn’t belong here, a cunt who thinks he can get away with murder. Well think again. You started this and you can take the consequences.”

Doyle closed his eyes and listened to the rant of indignation, the self-styled justification, and bit down on his anger. “Look,” he said and kept his voice reasonable, “we can sort this out. There’s no need to involve anyone else.”

“Fuck you, Doyle. I’ve known Josie Mac for years and what she’s doing with a prick like you defies logic. If she’s with you, then she’s involved.” Doyle felt him leer into the phone. “And when I’ve finished with you, I’ll make sure no man looks at her again.”

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.

I
T 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.”

N
EXT 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.