An Eye For An Eye - Paul Heatley Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Paul Heatley

  All rights reserved.

  Digital Formatting by Craig Douglas

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  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended.

  Paul Heatley

  Paul Heatley's stories have appeared online and in print for a variety of publications including Thuglit, Spelk, Crime Syndicate, HandJob, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Shotgun Honey, among others. He is the author of six novellas available for Kindle from Amazon, and is a regular contributor to R2 Magazine. He lives in the north east of England.

  Dedication

  For Aidan.

  When you're old enough to read it.

  Prologue

  It was after–hours, but the landlord knew Jasmine’s father and so the group was given free reign. He’d left the keys on the bar and gone up to bed, asked them to lock the door on their way out and slip them back through the letterbox. He hadn’t been happy about it, but like most folk he knew not to say no to Neil Doyle’s daughter.

  The five occupied the back room, where the pool table and the dart board were. They helped themselves to drinks from behind the bar, and were running up a hell of a tab they had no intention of paying back.

  Richie Connell and Charlotte Donoghue played pool. Richie had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and unbuttoned his collar, had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. It was hot in the backroom, it had made his hair wet. He slicked it from his forehead. He chalked his cue.

  “You look like you’re in a movie,” Charlotte said.

  Richie grinned. “You ever seen The Hustler?”

  Charlotte scrunched up her face. “Eh?”

  “Just makin sure you’re warned, like.”

  “You’re losin, mate. Let’s get on with it, eh?”

  “Aye, I’m losin right now, but these next few shots are gonna be magic.” He put the chalk down, lined up his shot. He took his time. The white hit the sidewall, managed to tap one of his reds. He frowned. “Shite, man.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Fuckin magic, mate, pure magic.”

  Daniel Moore played darts with Carl Brown. He watched Charlotte’s next shot, watched her pot two more yellows then line up for the black. “She’s the hustler, mate,” he said to Richie. Charlotte was Daniel’s girlfriend. They’d been together six months, but they’d known each other since school. “Her dad took her with him to the pub every Saturday and Sunday when she was a bairn. This is what they did. Bet she didn’t tell you that.”

  Richie sucked in his cheeks as Charlotte potted the black to win the game. “Nah, mate. She didn’t.”

  “Nah, she never told me the first time we played, neither.”

  Charlotte grinned. “Just be grateful you didn’t put any money on it. You wanna go again?”

  “Y’kna what, pet?” Richie said. “Aye. Aye I fuckin do wanna play again. Kna what I’m up against this time, see? Now I’m not gonna go easy on you, like I did. Not gonna give you a chance.”

  “I’m sure it’ll make all the difference,” Charlotte said. She winked at Daniel and he smiled.

  Carl slapped Daniel’s arm with the back of his hand to get his attention. “Howay then, never mind what they’re doin. You’re getting your arse kicked over here, try concentrating on that.”

  Daniel turned back to the board. “It’s not over yet.” He threw his darts.

  Carl shook his head. “Might as well be. Fucking hell man, how much you had to drink?”

  “I’ve only had a couple.”

  “Maybe you should have a couple more then, you might throw it a bit straighter than you do when you’re sober. Here, Charlotte — does he always have this much trouble hittin the target?”

  Richie laughed. Daniel raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s no complaints on my end,” Charlotte said.

  “How big’s the target, like?” Carl said.

  Daniel lowered the dart, turned to Carl. “Now hey — that’s enough of that, eh?”

  Carl raised his arms, backed off, but he was grinning. “Just kiddin with yous, mate.”

  “Aye, well, watch what you say, eh?”

  “You just throw them fuckin darts, eh?”

  Jasmine Doyle sat at the bar. She sipped a gin and played on her phone, barely listened to her friends. She’d met a lad in one of her dad’s clubs the weekend before, they’d been texting back and forth every day since and she was waiting on a message back. She checked the time, saw it was after two. Probably he was away to bed, but he could have told her as much rather than just leave her hanging on for a response that wasn’t coming. She was starting to get annoyed, thought about sending him a message that said as much, but she didn’t. She put her phone down, decided she would give him a chance to explain himself in the morning. She finished the gin and turned to the room. It was late, but she wasn’t tired. Bored, but not tired.

  Richie, halfway through losing another game, leaned his cue against the wall and popped his spine. He went behind the bar, poured himself a drink. “You want anything?” he said to Jasmine.

  She passed him her glass. “Same again.”

  “Howay, Richie,” Charlotte said. “Don’t drag it out. Just come be a man and get it over with.”

  “That what you said to Dan the first time?” Carl said.

  “Here,” Daniel said. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  “Lighten up, man,” Carl said. “Y’kna it’s just a bit of banter.”

  “Nah, you’re bein an arsehole. I’ve telt you to stop, so just stop.”

  Jasmine watched them. She took the glass Richie offered her and drank. “Nah man, Carl,” she called across the room. “The first time, she says Is that it?”

  Daniel and Carl looked at her. Daniel’s face dropped. Carl laughed. “You know what she said after that, right?”

  “It in yet?”

  Carl laughed harder.

  Charlotte sucked her teeth. She gripped the pool cue, her knuckles white. Behind the bar, Richie covered his mouth with his drink, tried to hide his smirk.

  “All right, all right,” Daniel said. “You’ve all had a laugh. Let’s leave it off, now.”

  “You sound like you’re taking it all very personally, Dan,” Carl said. “It’s just a laugh, mate.”

  “You really got a small dick, Dan?” Jasmine said. She turned to Charlotte. “How big’s it, Charlotte? You don’t have to say anything, just use your hands so we get an idea.”

  “What’re you winding him up for?” Charlotte said.

  “Whey, it’s like Carl said, it’s just a bit of banter, Charlotte.” Jasmine’s eyes twinkled maliciously, they way they did when she took the piss and knew full well her target wouldn’t say a thing against her. “And you haven’t answered. I mean, the fact you won’t say anything about it, that’s got me worried for you, girl. Are you unsatisfied? I mean, you reckon that’s why she’s so good at pool, Richie? All that pent–up sexual frustration, she’s just whacking them balls?”

  Richie’s smile faded. He looked like he didn’t want to get involved.

  “Just lots and lots of practise,” Charlotte said.

  Daniel threw a
dart. It hit the board, number twenty.

  “Nearly a triple,” Carl said. “Howay, Danny boy — looks like you play better when you’re pissed off.”

  Daniel set his jaw, didn’t answer. He took aim. Carl blew on his ear right before he released. The throw went wild. The dart embedded itself in the wall.

  Daniel wheeled on Carl, swung a punch. Carl ducked it, laughing. “Oh, aye, Dan! Getting feisty!” He gave Daniel a shove.

  Daniel still had a dart. His fist was shaking around it. “I’m fuckin warnin you, mate.”

  Carl spread his arms. “What’re you gonna do, eh? Howay man, what are you gonna fuckin do?”

  “I’m warnin you —”

  “I’m hearing a lot of warnings, Dan, but you’re not doin shit.” He shoved him again, danced back as Daniel threw another punch.

  “Just leave it, Dan,” Charlotte said. “You an’all, Carl.”

  “Howay, lads,” Richie said, still behind the bar. “That’s enough now. It’s all jokes, aye?”

  Jasmine sat on her stool, laughed. She glanced at her phone, but still no response. She turned back to Daniel and Carl.

  Daniel’s face was turning red. “Right, leave off, or I swear I’ll smash your fuckin face in.”

  “Howay, big lad.” Carl danced like a boxer. “Can you fight your own fights when your fatha’s not round?”

  “Here, I divvint need me dad to kick your fuckin teeth in!”

  “Why aye — you can’t even touch us, man.” He pushed Daniel again, shoved his right arm, then tapped him on the side of the head with a closed fist.

  Daniel grabbed for him. “Fuckin arsehole!” Spit flew from his lips. He swung wildly. Carl bounced backwards, out of his reach, but then he hit the stool next to Jasmine and came to a stop, startled. Daniel caught him up, landed a punch to his chest with his left fist.

  Jasmine laughed. “Give him another one, Dan! You heard what he was saying about you! We all heard it!”

  Carl clutched at where the blow had landed. “Ow, man, y’fuckin cunt!”

  Daniel swung for him with the dart. Carl saw it coming. He ducked, dropped to the floor. Daniel’s momentum carried him through. His fist connected with something hard and his hand opened, he twisted against the impact and stumbled, fell. When he looked back he saw Carl and Richie wide–eyed, staring at Jasmine. She sat on the stool still, her hands raised, shaking. The dart was in her right eye. She screamed.

  Chapter One

  Graeme Taylor woke, rolled onto his side and checked the time. It was just after eight. He groaned. When last he’d checked the clock it had been after half–three. Sleep was coming to him harder and harder, and staying with him for less and less time. He’d heard it said that as people grew older it was common for insomnia to plague their nights, but he was only fifty–three. He’d thought that it applied to the over–sixties.

  From experience, he knew that was that, he was awake, and there was no point staying in bed any longer. Kicking the blanket back, he rolled out and landed on all–fours, thought about doing some push–ups, thought better of it, then got to his feet and dragged himself along to the bathroom to take a long piss. As he washed his hands he inspected his face in the mirror. His wrinkles were deep, his dark hair was greying, and his stubble was starting to come in white. Running a knuckle along his jaw he listened to it scrape, but decided against a shave.

  Stepping back, he gave the rest of himself a once–over. He slept in a pair of old underwear with holes in the crotch and seat, and a stained vest that was far beyond needing a wash and was really only fit to be binned. He patted his burgeoning waistline, then sucked it in. When he held his breath he still looked like he was in shape, but he had to promptly let it all back out and gasp air. He regretted foregoing the push–ups, but he still didn’t do them. He coughed hard, cleared his chest and throat, spat a lump of thick green phlegm into the sink. It slithered quickly down the drain, but he ran the tap regardless to help it on its way.

  The kitchen cupboards were bare, so he dressed and went out. His flat was in a high–rise, fourth from the top, and it was a long way down. The elevator was bust, had been for a long time. The building’s caretaker used to say he was waiting for a part, but he’d always made his excuses without much enthusiasm, and it had gotten to the point nobody bothered to ask him anymore. They just got used to the stairs.

  Graeme stopped for breath when he reached the foyer, leaned against graffiti–decorated walls, then went out. The sky was grey and he felt raindrops lightly tap his face. Despite the weather, he decided to forego the car and walked along the road, to the café. It wasn’t far.

  It hadn’t been open long by the time he got there, but already a few tables were occupied. Older folks mainly, fellow insomnia–sufferers up with the dawn and waiting round for everyone else to wake, too. They, at least, looked like they were over sixty. There were a couple of younger men too, taxi drivers, meaty paws wrapped around deep–filled stotties that oozed tomato sauce and dripped egg yolk down their chins.

  The bell above the door rang as Graeme stepped inside. Shannon was behind the counter. She looked up at the noise, saw him and smiled. “Morning, Graeme,” she said. “How’re you, pet?” Shannon was roughly the same age as Graeme, and had owned the café for the last ten years. Graeme had been visiting it for almost as long. She had bottle–blonde hair cut short and spiked, and skin leathery from frequent trips to the local sunbeds and abroad to Benidorm. Each ear held a looped gold earring.

  “Not bad, Shaz, not bad.” Graeme stepped up to the counter, pressed his hands down flat on top of it. “How’s yourself?”

  “Keeping busy. How about you? Got much on?”

  “Nowt, at the minute.”

  “You all right? You look a bit pale.”

  He waved off her concern. “Just not sleeping too well is all.”

  “Guilty conscience?” She said it wryly, winked at him.

  Graeme spread his arms, cocked his head. “What have I got to feel guilty about?”

  They laughed together.

  “What can I get for you this morning, love?”

  Graeme eyed the menu above her head, but he already knew what he wanted. “Think I’ll have a coffee and a bacon sarnie, the day.”

  “Not be long, pet, just have yourself a seat.”

  Graeme sat at a table opposite an old guy sipping tea. A dog lay on the ground by his feet, an old sheepdog with shaggy grey fur. It arched its eyebrows to look up at Graeme, then went back to staring at dirt on the floor. The old guy nodded, then turned back to his paper. He wore his coat still, but through the gap where it wasn’t buttoned Graeme could see that he was wearing medals. There were three of them. He was too far and they were too concealed for him to make out what they were for, but even up close he wouldn’t have been much the wiser.

  One of the taxi drivers near the door stood up and wiped his mouth with a napkin, left. The bell rang. The other taxi driver had finished eating but he stayed where he was, leaning forward in his seat with his hands locked together, pressed against his forehead. Graeme could see his feet tapping under the table like he had a lot on his mind.

  A woman sat two down from Graeme, near the window. Her long hair was losing its colour, and her body had lost its shape. She adjusted her glasses, stirred her tea, and let out a long sigh through her nostrils. She lifted a leg and tried to pass wind subtly, but it squeaked against the plastic chair.

  Before he could take in the rest of the faces and demeanours present, Shannon brought Graeme his breakfast. “Here you go, young’un. Get that down ya.”

  “Cheers, Shaz.” Graeme lifted the lid on the bun, covered the bacon with tomato sauce. He poured three sugar sachets into his coffee and stirred it, then took a sip. It scalded the roof of his mouth, burnt his throat all the way down. He coughed, cleared his throat, tasted phlegm. He picked up the sandwich and began to eat. Every so often he had to pull a bit of fat from between his teeth, deposit it on th
e corner of the plate. His eyes roamed the café, watched the old guy continue reading his paper, his medals jangling under his coat whenever he moved, watched the lady two tables down staring out the window. She didn’t pass anymore wind. The other taxi driver took his hands from his face and stood up, pulled his jacket off the back of the chair and left. A couple more people came in, ordered, left. They didn’t sit. The phone rang and Shannon took an order, and ten minutes later a young lad in oily overalls appeared to pick them up.

  Graeme finished his sandwich, nursed his coffee. As he began to contemplate his plans for the day, of which he had none, he became aware of his phone buzzing in his pocket. It vibrated against his thigh. He pulled it out, checked the caller ID. It was Neil Doyle, but it was his home number. Graeme frowned. Usually he called from one of his clubs, or the gym, or his own mobile phone. He rarely called from home, and had made it perfectly clear that under no circumstances was anyone ever to call him there. Graeme took another quick mouthful of coffee, answered. “Hello?”

  “Is this Graeme Taylor?”

  It wasn’t Neil’s voice. “Aye?”

  “All right, Graeme? We need you to get on over to the house, mate. Like, fuckin pronto.”

  Graeme scratched his cheek. “Somethin up, like?”

  “I wouldn’t be callin ya if there wasn’t, would I?”

  “Anythin to be worried about?”

  “Nah — but look man, I’ve still gotta make some calls once I get off with you, so just get your arse over here, aye? And get a shifty on.”

  “Uh–huh.”

  “Got that?”

  “Aye.”

  “Fuckin mint. Fast as you can, like.” The caller hung up.

  Graeme looked at the phone a moment before putting it back in his pocket. He drained off what remained of his cooled coffee and got to his feet.

  “You off, Graeme?” Shannon said.