Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  “I’m sorry, Guv. Really. I didn’t know what to do. I suppose I was panicking a bit.”

  “OK, OK. I suppose I can sort I out. But whatever happens now, you’vegotto back me up. Be certain of that before we go on. Absolutely certain. This is serious stuff and we’re in it right up to our necks. I’ll do whatever I have to get us clear. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Guv. I’m with you all the way. Whatever it takes.” Despite his momentary indiscretion, Goodwin knew that he could rely on Todd.

  “Alright. You’d better get off now. We’ve both got work to do. Come and see me in the morning. First thing. I’ll brief you. And remember” he added as Pat Todd gratefully made for the door “never put me in this position again.”

  After Todd had left, Goodwin poured himself yet another stiff whisky. He placed it on the desk, in front of him as held his head in his hands and wept.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After he had been driving for about half an hour or so, Doyle pulled into a lay-by and switched off the Peugeot’s engine. He didn’t really know why he had stopped. It wasn’t to compose himself, he didn’t feel the need for that but he did take the opportunity to clean off most of the blood, Bellini’s and his own, that still adorned his bespattered face, using a rag he found in the pocket of the door panel. He winced at the smell of oil. He was feeling calm enough now, he thought, although his mind was still racing. There was a sense of emptiness was rising and rising inside him already. Don Bellini had provided a focus to Doyle’s life but he had betrayed him. Sold him out for less than the customary thirty pieces of silver. Things would never be the same again. He felt no real sense of hatred, or even bitterness, towards Bellini, just a deep seated, aching sense of regret. Bellini was an ill man, after all. It had been months now since it had started, Doyle thought, and he allowed himself the luxury of letting his mind wander for just a moment. It had all seemed to happen so suddenly at first. But Bellini’s was a dirty world and dirty actions were far from uncommon. It hadn’t seemed all that unusual at the time. Doyle mourned silently for his only friend, Don Bellini. The rain was falling more persistently now and Doyle would down his window and allowed it to sweep over his face. It wasn’t strong enough to wash away all the sins of the world. As he forced himself to confront the reality of his situation, Doyle began to accept that his time, just like Bellini, was up too. One way or another. There was just a couple of loose ends to tie up and then, he thought, he would be free at last. Free like the seagulls, soaring and swooping, along the coast at Southend. He tried to imagine their freedom, and the blessed release it bestowed, but he wasn’t able to. His mind flitted capriciously between these surreal thoughts of abstract concepts and the banal, prosaic reality of what he should do next. Right now, he had no idea how all of the loose ends would be drawn together in their final resolution. Doyle knew that he wanted resolution but he wasn’t able to work out yet how to achieve it. He knew, however, where it begin.

  It had already turned three o’clock in the morning when he finally reached Southend on Sea and he drove, quite sedately, along the seafront. The pubs and clubs had long since bolted their doors and the last of the boozy revellers, locals and tourists alike, had already made their way home. Even the bright flashing lights of the amusement arcades had ceased in their persuasive call to lost souls for the night and they were finally resting in the peaceful oblivion of their shuttered darkness. The parade was deserted, save for a solitary young policeman, pacing his beat with deliberation. As he passed the lock up shop fronts he shined his torch enquiringly into every dark recess, rattling every doors, hoping that something would happen to relieve the tedious monotony of the night shift patrol. At the same time, he hoped that it wouldn’t. Doyle indicated and pulled the car in to the kerb. He fumbled for the button and the passenger side window descended with a regular, humming buzz. The officer came and crouched down at the side of the car, leaning in through the open window, trying to detect if there was the hint of alcohol on the breath of this scar faced driver which would allow him to call for a car and return to the warmth and comfort of the police station. It was a long shot, he knew, but drunken drivers had been stupid enough to flag down a copper before. Booze does strange things to a man’s perception of reality. There was even one story still doing the rounds at the station of a company director, an otherwise man well respected in the local community, who went to his doctor with a minor ailment. The doctor told him that he was drunk. Not that he wasadrunk, but that hewasdrunk. Right then and there. Drunk. The man, who was well known to his circle of intimates for his aggressive alcoholism, had taken offence at such a scurrilous suggestion. He had hardly had a drop all day and, to vindicate himself and to prove what an idiot and a charlatan that so called doctor was, he drove to Southend police station and demanded to take a breathalyser test. The result of that was being immediately banged up in the cells, followed shortly afterwards by a two month period of incarceration at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Much to the young copper’s chagrin he could not detect even the faintest trace of alcohol on this driver’s breath. Clearly, he wasn’t that stupid and it was dark enough for him not to see any of the remaining traces of the blood on Doyle’s clothes either. It was a good job as Doyle hadn’t even thought of this – his mind had been too preoccupied elsewhere, racing with a relentless but unfocused determination, trying to come to terms with his situation and to begin to formulate a plan. This wasn’t easy, in the past Bellini would invariably give him the plan and he just had to follow it through, simply, step by predetermined step, to its logical and preordained conclusion. He politely asked the young policeman for directions to Gravesend Road and courteously thanked him as he pulled away. No more than five minutes he had said, and within four, Doyle was parking outside number 29. He reached onto the back seat and roughly dragged his holdall into the front of the car. As he drew back the zip of the bag, he removed his Tokarev from inside his jacket. He looked at it for a moment, examining it minutely. It was a thing of stark, uncompromising beauty, exactly the same model that Bellini had pointed at him just a little while before. He shook his head, silently and sadly, and pushed the gun deep down into the recesses of the bag. He fumbled around in there for a moment or two until his hand finally settled on the smooth grey steel of the IMI Desert Eagle Magnum. He pulled it out. It was a monstrous gun with a reputation for the brutality of its destructive power that was second to none. It was virtually twice as big as the Tokarev. He held lovingly, stroked it, caressed it almost as one would do to a favourite pet. He pulled back the breech and checked the cartridge. It had a full clip of ammunition. As he got out of the Peugeot and slammed the door behind him, he released the safety catch and tucked the barrel of the gun into the waistband of the back of his trousers, covering its grip with his jacket. He had by now formulated something that he could just about dignify with the grandiloquent title of ‘a plan’. It was the first plan in many a long year that had its genesis spawned in the dark crucible that was the mind of Francis Doyle. The plan went as follows: i) he would knock on the door; ii) after that, he would wing it – see how things developed and play it by ear. Doyle thought that this was a good plan. He was pleased with it.

  He noted that the curtain were drawn but there was a light still visible in the front room. The house, though, appeared to be in complete silence as he made his way up the small path that led from the street to the yellow painted front door of number 29. It’s a nice house, he thought to himself. Nothing special, not a mansion like Bellini’s place which stood in its own grounds and had an indoor swimming pool of almost Olympic proportions. But it was certainly better than Doyle’s flat. A nice ordinary house for nice ordinary people. Maybe it could do with a lick of paint but it seemed clean and tidy enough. Melanie had clearly done alright for herself. He wasn’t passing judgement when he thought this, not expressing pleasure or envy or other concepts that were largely alien to him – it was a simple, straightforward statement of fact. He knocked once on the wooden jamb bet
ween the two opaque glass panes on the door. He knocked hard.

  Inside, Micky Johnston had never lost faith in Frankie Doyle, in spite of his earlier protestations and the passing hours. Despite everything Doyle had said on the phone, he knew that he would come. He had to. Johnston’s very continuance of existence depended upon it. The knock though, when it came, had jolted him out of a lulling reverie that had taken him to the very edges of sleep. He was still lying on the settee and he tried to ease himself up into a sitting position. It wasn’t easy with his leg but, with difficulty and no little discomfort, he managed it. As his real foot touched the floor he could sense the wet, sticky sludge that the carpet had morphed into. He looked down and saw that it was stained a vivid, vibrant red. Mel Wheeler sat slumped forward, still taped to her chair, of course. Her head was bowed as if in prayer. The masking tape had fallen from the left hand side of her head and the gaping chasm of the empty eye socket stared accusingly out at Johnston. Her face was infected by the rich crimson of her own blood. The yellow spring dress showed no more yellow. It too was soaked a bloody scarlet. Johnston surveyed the horror of the sight for a few seconds. Although he was captivated by it, he felt genuinely sorry for Mel. He had told her as much as he lay on the settee, his face buried deep into its cushions, his back turned coldly towards her. But he wasn’t to blame for any of it. That was all Doyle’s fault. He knew that she would understand and now he would get his retribution. He’d do it for her, too, for Mel as well as for Carole but, most of all, he’d do it for himself. The Brocock revolver had been lying beside him on the settee. He held it close as he drew himself onto his feet and made his way, limping stiffly to the door of the living room. Through the frosted glass panes of the front door Doyle saw him silhouetted against the light. He wondered, for an instant, if he should try to shoot him straight away, through the door. But his thought processes, never quick at the best of times, seemed even more sluggish than normal and the moment passed.

  “There’s a key. Under the mat” Johnston called out, his voice rising an octave with barely controlled excitement. “Open the door. Come in, Frank.”

  Doyle bent. His knees cracked and as he pushed the mat to one side, he felt a dull, brutal ache that he had not noticed before course through his body. He suddenly felt like an old man. The key was brushed aside with the movement of the mat and fell into an assortment of potted plants that stood at the side of the door. He mumbled an expletive to himself, as he roughly sought through them and before seeing, at last, the glint of the key. It smoothly turned and opened the Yale lock and Doyle stepped into the house. He stepped back into Melanie’s life, or more probably death, he thought, after the best part of twenty years. He walked slowly up the hall, leaving the Desert Eagle still concealed in his waistband, and stopped at the doorway of the living room.

  Micky Johnston stood there facing him, shielding his five foot seven frame as best he could behind Mel and her chair. His revolver was raised and aimed high at Doyle’s head. Although Johnston held it tightly with both hands, Doyle could see it visibly shake and wave like grass in the wind.

  “I knew you’d come. I bloody knew it.”

  Doyle said nothing but stepped into the room and made towards Mel and Johnston.

  “Stay where you are. Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot you now.” Doyle could hear the panic in Johnston’s voice. He could smell it in the air. He didn’t stop and all Johnston did was to back off further, hesitatingly, until his back was against the wall and he could back off no further. Doyle looked at Melanie. He had never thought to have seen her again. You look nice, he told her under his breath, it was inaudible to Johnston. He saw beyond the wounds and the bloodshed. It was the first time he had said anything like this, to Melanie or anyone else, since long before they were married. Despite her horrific appearance, it was the first time he had ever really meant it. He reached out his hand and gently stroked her hair. His fingers strayed almost carelessly down and paused, just below her ear, feeling for a pulse although he knew he would not find one. Withdrawing his hand, he delicately kissed his fingers and allowed his tongue to taste her blood. It tasted sweet to him. It was a moment of rare intimacy for Francis Doyle. He and Melanie were alone again, despite the alien presence of Micky Johnston, after all these years. This was the way it should have been. Perhaps he could have loved her after all, he thought. If only things had been different. But then, Johnston bit back into his consciousness and he became aware once more of his unwelcome, intrusive presence.

  “She’s not dead” he said, more to persuade himself than Doyle.

  “Yes she is” Doyle contradicted him. “You’ve made a nice job of it, Micky. Very professional. Very thorough.”

  “No. She’s just unconscious. That’s all. I had to do it. The same way as you did Carole. This is vengeance, Doyle. My retribution. That’s what this is all about. Now, get on the sofa.” Although he knew what he had done – in truth it was more than obvious – Johnston still couldn’t bring himself to fully accept that he had killed Mel. He was no cold blooded callous murderer. That was Doyle. Not him. He was just a man looking for the justice that the world denied him. A man trying to put right the many wrongs that had been done to him, to expurgate all the sins that had been visited upon him.

  Doyle turned his back on Johnston. He walked to the settee and sat down. He suspected that the outline of the Desert Eagle under his jacket would have been visible to his adversary but he didn’t care. He doubted if Johnston would have even noticed. In any case, he was more concerned about the simple process of sitting down. That would be an ironic end, he thought, shooting yourself through the arse by mistake with a Magnum stuffed down your trousers. He couldn’t help it, a wry smile played fleetingly across his lips as he lowered himself gingerly onto the couch. Micky Johnston didn’t like it.

  “Don’t fucking laugh at me” he snarled. “Do you even have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve ruined my life. Destroyed me. You’re a fucking bastard, Doyle. You know that? But its over now. Today is the day that Micky Johnston stops being pushed around and treated like shit by the likes of you and Bellini. Now it’s my turn. Today is the day that you die.”

  Doyle nodded in agreement. Today, he thought, one way or another, probably was that day.

  “You’ll die at my hand.” He was getting too melodramatic now and Doyle had to force himself to keep listening. “And after that, I’m going for that wanker Bellini.”

  Doyle shook his head and smiled once again, this time deliberately. “You’re too late for that, Micky. Mr. Bellini’s dead. I killed him a few hours ago. He sold me out to the police and then he went and pulled a gun on me. You wouldn’t believe the sort of day I’m having.” He laughed with a humour that was most uncharacteristic for him. It surprised Johnston but not enough for him to hide the sea of bitterness that he felt.

  “You fucking bastard. I don’t believe you.” Johnston fell back on his usual standby of self denial, the one that he shared with Doyle himself. He knew, though, that Doyle was not lying and he couldn’t help but felt cheated. Even now, that mad, psycho bastard Doyle had got one over on him. Doyle was now laughing maniacally. Johnston couldn’t remember even seeing him smile before, let alone laugh. He didn’t even know why he was doing it himself. Maybe it was just because this whole situation, his whole life, had become so totally ridiculous. His world had been turned on its head. Nothing could ever be as it was before. Doyle’s reality had shattered for ever into a million bloody shards and here he was, in a room that made the chamber of horrors at Madame Tussauds look like a crèche at your local Mothercare, the blood drenched corpse of his long time ex wife taunting and teasing him silently and a one legged, jumped up little shit like Micky Johnston waving an old service revolver at him as if he were about lead one last hopeless charge out of the trenches at the Somme. It was all so surreal that surely it couldn’t be true. He felt his belly ache with the strenuous effort of laughing so hard, and tears poured from his eyes. He didn’t even try to
stop.

  Johnston was becoming increasingly furious. He wanted Doyle to cower before him, to beg and plead for mercy and a quick death before he would finally shoot him. But all the bastard was doing was laughing. Laughing at him. In the past he had had to endure it, but not any more. Now he was in control. He had the power. He screamed at Doyle to stop, until he thought his lungs would burst. But Doyle couldn’t stop. That was it. He’d had enough. That was all that he could stand. He raised the gun towards Doyle’s head and pulled at the trigger. The bullet exploded forward and the revolver kicked back with a strength of recoil that he hadn’t expected. He was tired and still more than a little unsteady on his artificial leg and if he hadn’t been braced against the wall he would have fallen unceremoniously to the floor.

  The bullet that had been so carefully aimed at Doyle’s head, hit him no more than a glancing blow on his right shoulder. He looked down and saw only a small, superficial wound, and felt the heat of his own blood as it began to flow inexorably, staining his jacket. There was no pain. Not yet. The shock of the gunfire had put an abrupt end to his hysteria and he was, finally, laughing no longer. He knew that, no matter how incompetent Johnston was with a gun, his next shot might be luckier but Doyle acted, it seemed, out of instinct rather than through any coherent logic. He hurled himself forward, off the settee, driving his feet against its base, using it to give him the momentum that he required to make a sudden, lunging attack. He saw that Johnston still had the revolver in his hand, although it looked as if he was too surprised by his own actions to be preparing to shoot again, Doyle, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps deliberately, tried to put something in the line of fire. He aimed himself at Mel’s corpse and hit her hard, low down like a rugby tackle. The chair, Mel and Doyle drove forward together, straight into Micky Johnston.