John.”
Doyle nodded. “Give my love to April.” He broke the connection, paused, and dropped it into the waste bin at his side.
His coffee was cold. For a moment he thought about ordering another, then glanced at his watch. Maybe not. His dinner would be on the table at five. If he wasn’t there, then he didn’t eat. He left a few coins on the table and started to walk back.
Mrs Carnegie was waiting for him in the hall and pounced before he had time to even close the door. “Mr. Doyle.” Coming from behind the little counter that served as reception, she stood in front of him. It was a long hall with potted plants, and photographs of pre-war Brighton on the walls. To the right, a long flight of stairs spiralled up out of view. She was a small, neat woman with graying hair tied back in a bun. Always formal, always precise, but Doyle sensed a change to her normal constitution.
“Mr. Doyle,” she said again, quieter this time. She rubbed her hands as if a plague of ants were walking over them. “You have visitors.”
His belly crawled. Doyle didn’t get visitors. No one came to see him.
“She said she’s your daughter.” Mrs. Carnegie shrugged an apology. “I saw no harm and let them in your room to wait.”
Doyle frowned and felt Mrs. Carnegie’s hand on his wrist.
“I did do the right thing didn’t I? Her friend,” and Mrs. Carnegie hesitated, “was quite insistent.”
Upstairs a door opened. Doyle turned his head to look. Two figures stood at the head of the stairs. He squinted, moved his head side to side as he tried to see. “April?”
It was her. She seemed older and her hair was cropped shorter than he remembered. He forgot himself and smiled. The smile died on his lips. Lurking in the shadow of the stairwell was another woman. Small, ash-blond, Doyle had never seen her before, but as she stepped into the light there was something unmistakable in her look, her stance—the way she would have looked after pushing her shopping trolley into Josie at the co-op. Brenda Wood didn’t speak nor even smile, but reached into her bag and a moment later Doyle found himself looking down the barrel of large caliber revolver.
A .44 magnum if he wasn’t mistaken.
Mrs. Carnegie gasped and slid out of view, locking herself in the parlor. April melted into the darkness, and now it was just he and a woman whose husband and nephew he shot dead a few weeks before.
Doyle was aware of the world closing in around him. His senses picked out things that a moment ago would have passed without a thought: the tick of the clock, the deep red weave of the stair carpet, and from the kitchen beside the hall, the smell of meat cooking in its own juices. He should say something, he really should. The muzzle of that .44 grew larger and larger until it seemed he might lose himself in its cavernous opening. He glanced behind him. The door was still open. Calculating the distance between himself and Brenda Wood, he wondered if he could make it.
Stick or twist?
Brenda Wood didn’t give him an option. She took a step and then another. Slowly she descended the stairs. The gun was a cannon in her hand. Just him, her, and nowhere to run.
A thousand things whirled through his brain, Josie, Ireland, the people he left behind. For the first time, John Doyle felt life weigh heavily on his shoulders.
And at last he truly knew what it was to be a man alone.
End
About the Author
David Siddall lives and writes in Liverpool. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies including: Noir Nation, Heater, Mysterical-E, Supernatural Tales and Dark Visions 2. A Man Alone is his first novella.
Doyle nodded. “Give my love to April.” He broke the connection, paused, and dropped it into the waste bin at his side.
His coffee was cold. For a moment he thought about ordering another, then glanced at his watch. Maybe not. His dinner would be on the table at five. If he wasn’t there, then he didn’t eat. He left a few coins on the table and started to walk back.
Mrs Carnegie was waiting for him in the hall and pounced before he had time to even close the door. “Mr. Doyle.” Coming from behind the little counter that served as reception, she stood in front of him. It was a long hall with potted plants, and photographs of pre-war Brighton on the walls. To the right, a long flight of stairs spiralled up out of view. She was a small, neat woman with graying hair tied back in a bun. Always formal, always precise, but Doyle sensed a change to her normal constitution.
“Mr. Doyle,” she said again, quieter this time. She rubbed her hands as if a plague of ants were walking over them. “You have visitors.”
His belly crawled. Doyle didn’t get visitors. No one came to see him.
“She said she’s your daughter.” Mrs. Carnegie shrugged an apology. “I saw no harm and let them in your room to wait.”
Doyle frowned and felt Mrs. Carnegie’s hand on his wrist.
“I did do the right thing didn’t I? Her friend,” and Mrs. Carnegie hesitated, “was quite insistent.”
Upstairs a door opened. Doyle turned his head to look. Two figures stood at the head of the stairs. He squinted, moved his head side to side as he tried to see. “April?”
It was her. She seemed older and her hair was cropped shorter than he remembered. He forgot himself and smiled. The smile died on his lips. Lurking in the shadow of the stairwell was another woman. Small, ash-blond, Doyle had never seen her before, but as she stepped into the light there was something unmistakable in her look, her stance—the way she would have looked after pushing her shopping trolley into Josie at the co-op. Brenda Wood didn’t speak nor even smile, but reached into her bag and a moment later Doyle found himself looking down the barrel of large caliber revolver.
A .44 magnum if he wasn’t mistaken.
Mrs. Carnegie gasped and slid out of view, locking herself in the parlor. April melted into the darkness, and now it was just he and a woman whose husband and nephew he shot dead a few weeks before.
Doyle was aware of the world closing in around him. His senses picked out things that a moment ago would have passed without a thought: the tick of the clock, the deep red weave of the stair carpet, and from the kitchen beside the hall, the smell of meat cooking in its own juices. He should say something, he really should. The muzzle of that .44 grew larger and larger until it seemed he might lose himself in its cavernous opening. He glanced behind him. The door was still open. Calculating the distance between himself and Brenda Wood, he wondered if he could make it.
Stick or twist?
Brenda Wood didn’t give him an option. She took a step and then another. Slowly she descended the stairs. The gun was a cannon in her hand. Just him, her, and nowhere to run.
A thousand things whirled through his brain, Josie, Ireland, the people he left behind. For the first time, John Doyle felt life weigh heavily on his shoulders.
And at last he truly knew what it was to be a man alone.
End
About the Author
David Siddall lives and writes in Liverpool. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies including: Noir Nation, Heater, Mysterical-E, Supernatural Tales and Dark Visions 2. A Man Alone is his first novella.
Similar Books
