‘Rough night?’ she said smiling.
He nodded. Thanks to my missus,’ he lied.‘I’ve been sleeping on the back seat of the car.’
‘Did she throw you out?’ the young woman wanted to know, moving closer to the till.
‘I walked out,’ Doyle continued. ‘When I found out what she’d been doing. I’ve been looking for her ever since. Now I know where she is. And the bastard who’s been fucking her behind my back.’ He smiled. ‘If you’ll excuse my French.’
The young woman chuckled and put her purchases on the counter. ‘So who is he?’
she wanted to know.
‘His name’s Finan,’ said Doyle. ‘Matthew fucking Finan. Bastard. I don’t know how long it’s been going on but I’ll catch them at it. I’ve been parked outside his house for the last two nights.When he comes back I’ll …” He allowed the sentence to trail off.
The smile had faded from the young woman’s face. ‘Where’s your car?’ she wanted to know.
‘Round the corner in Glen Road. Outside number fifteen.’
‘You’ll have a long wait if it’s Matthew Finan you’re after,’ said the shopkeeper, pushing the young woman’s goods into a carrier bag. ‘It’s his sister who lives in Glen Road.’
‘Shite,’ hissed Doyle. ‘Do you know where I could be after finding him?’
The shopkeeper shook his head.
The young woman picked up her carrier bag and left without looking back at Doyle.
So, you do know him.
Doyle paid for his breakfast then opened the can and took a long swig.
‘What’s his sister’s name?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know,’ the shopkeeper said briskly, suddenly more interested in tidying the newspapers laid out on his counter.
Doyle bought a Daily Star, jammed it into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the door. He stopped outside the shop and took a bite of the Mars.
Finan’s sister, eh?
It was another step closer.
NOVEMBER 16th, 1993:
Malcolm Porter knew he’d had too much to drink. He’d been fairly sure of it when he’d left the joyously rowdy atmosphere of the Bull. He’d stumbled twice as he negotiated the steps that led from the public bar of the pub to the pavement.
Now he was positive he’d drunk too much. He sucked in a deep breath and stood still, propping himself against the wall of a house wishing the world would stop spinning quite so violently.
But what the hell, if a man couldn’t celebrate after a victory such as he’d just tasted then it was a pretty bad show. How many times did anyone experience the exultation of being in a darts team that had just won its regional ieague?
He glanced down at the trophy he still gripped in his right hand. It was a silver-plated figure holding a dart. Poised, as he had been, to make the winning shot. His name was inscribed on the bottom of the plaque, just above the name of the pub.
He brandished the small trophy above his head with all the pride of an FA cup-winning captain.
Porter giggled at his own actions (further proof that he was pissed) and continued the walk home.
Normally it would have taken him less than ten minutes to reach his house in
Hopewell Avenue but the weight of victory and the burden of booze were adding extra time to the trek.
He chuckled again as he continued on his way.
Past a wall that bore the six-feet-high letters: NO
SURRENDER TO THE IRA.
He glanced at them but they didn’t register. He’d seen the same kind of graffiti for as long as he could remember. After a while it all blended into one, and became as much a part of the landscape as the terraced houses that wound through the city like files of troops.
He stood in front of the wall for a moment and saluted the words.This caused another ripple of giggling.
Sheila would be angry when he got home, he knew that. She’d go on at him for waking the kids and complain about his being drunk, but it would pass quickly enough. She could never stay mad at him for long and, besides, if a man couldn’t enjoy a few drinks when he’d just won such a magnificent trophy then where was the justice in the world?
He already knew where he was going to place the trophy. There was a spot on the mantelpiece between his wedding photo and those of his two children. It would look suitably imposing there.
He brandished it before him once more and walked on.
Nearly home now.
As the car pulled up beside him he gave it only a cursory glance. He thought for a moment about
stopping the vehicle and showing the occupants what he’d just won.
He giggled once more.
The car stopped and he was aware of the rear door opening.
Porter turned in the direction of the vehicle. Saw a man coming towards him. A man he didn’t recognise.
He felt strong arms enveloping him, pulling him towards the waiting car.
He dropped his trophy and saw it land in the gutter.
For fleeting seconds he did nothing. By the time he attempted to fight back he was sprawled on the back seat next to another man.
Porter couldn’t see faces. It was too dark inside the vehicle. He was about to say something when he saw the gun.
He almost giggled again. Almost asked if he could have his trophy back.
Two shots sounded, the muzzle flash and retort muffled, to a degree, by the silencer protruding from the barrel of the .22.
Both powered into his head.
The car drove off. As it did, one of the rear wheels crushed the trophy flat.
Doyle sat in the Orion and finished the rest of his breakfast. He balled up the empty crisp packet and Mars wrapper and dropped them out of the window into the street.Then he sipped at the Red Bull and watched the front door of number 15 Glen Road.
The cassette was on, turned down low.
‘.. .You had time to waste, time to wonder …’
Doyle looked down at the back of the paper spread out on the passenger seat.
‘… Time, to become someone else …’
He picked it up and re-read the previous night’s match report on the Liverpool versus Newcastle game. There was a photo of Liverpool’s winning goal and Doyle smiled to himself as he scanned it. Then he dropped the paper and returned his attention to the house.
He’d already been sitting there for a couple of hours. His right leg was stiff so he massaged the thigh with one hand.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ he murmured to himself, eyes never straying from the house.
As he leant forward he caught sight of his own reflection in the rear-view mirror.
You look like shit
His hair needed combing. He needed a shave. Needed a fucking shower.
Doyle wondered how much of his life had been spent sitting around in cars
waiting for people. Watching.
All part of the job, old son.
Surveillance. Tailing. Stake-out.
He preferred the term hunting.
Doyle ran a hand through his long hair then scratched at one of the scars that were so much a feature of his visage. He couldn’t remember where half of them had come from.Those or the ones that couldn’t be seen until he took off his clothes.
Each one was a reminder of pain.
So much pain.
All crammed into forty-four years.
Some of them wasted?
He sat back in his seat
‘… Might be a good thing, might be a bad thing …’
He yawned.
‘… But you can’t put your arms around a memory.’
Doyle jabbed the cassette off as he saw the young woman approaching the door of number 15. Five-three. Early twenties. Dark hair tied back in a pony tail.
Carrying three bags of shopping.
He watched as she fumbled for her key then let herself in.