An Eye For An Eye - Paul Heatley Read online

  He nodded. “That’s me away.”

  “Big plans for the day?”

  He shrugged. “Just have to wait and see.”

  ***

  Neil Doyle lived in Jesmond. Graeme hurried back to the high rise to get his car, then drove over. Halfway there it started to rain, thick drops crashing down upon the windscreen, but by the time he reached the house it had stopped. The clouds, however, remained dark and promised another downpour.

  The kerbs were lined with cars and it took Graeme a while to find a space to park. He started to wonder how many of the cars belonged to neighbours, and how many were there to see Doyle. He’d only ever been to the street a couple of times before, and he couldn’t remember it ever being so busy in the past. A nervous fluttering began in the pit of his stomach, a worry that maybe something was up, something had happened that potentially put them all in danger, everyone in any way associated with Doyle and his various enterprises throughout Newcastle.

  On his way to the house he checked the time. It had been over half an hour since he’d received the call. Traffic and rain had slowed him, but if as many of the vehicles were there for Doyle as he suspected they were, he doubted anyone would notice him slipping in at the back of the gathering, a little late.

  The house, like all the houses on the road, was big. Three storeys high, seemingly every room with a bay window. It was an affluent neighbourhood, the residents all bankers and accountants and the like. If they knew who Neil Doyle was, they kept it to themselves and accepted the given story that he owned a string of nightclubs and gyms.

  Graeme went up the path that cut the front garden in two, made for the front door. There were two guys there already, smoking. They saw him approach, greeted him by name. Graeme was sure he’d probably met them before, but most of the men Doyle surrounded himself with were of the same ilk: broad shouldered and bald–headed, and he could never tell them apart. He nodded, said “Lads,” and went inside.

  The house was full. Graeme recognised a number of faces milling about in the hallway, others that were through in the kitchen and in the front room. Some of them acknowledged him, but mostly everyone seemed tense, nervous. They made small–talk amongst themselves, but it was strained. Doyle wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  The full spectrum of Doyle’s varied associates were present. The juice–heads in tight t–shirts and vests that attended the gym run by his son Michael; the fellow businessmen with whom Doyle had working arrangements, kitted out in their finest, ostentatious grey, black, and blue three–piece suits with perhaps a handkerchief protruding from a breast pocket, or the chain of a pocket–watch hanging from another; and the lowest–rung employees, the street–level dealers with their tracksuit bottoms tucked into their socks, and polo shirts that flaunted their thin arms, and accents like someone was trying to strangle the Geordie out of them. Graeme had never seen such a mismatched bunch all squeezed into one space before. He noticed, with a mix of both pride and disappointment, that there was no one else there like him; a middle–aged guy with fading jeans, scuffed boots, and an old leather jacket shrugged over a black shirt.

  A door off the hallway, near the foot of the stairs, opened and Michael Doyle stepped out. The gathering, already fairly quiet, fell silent. Michael rolled his shoulders, looked round. “Right,” he said, his voice deep enough to shake the walls. “If you know what you should be doing, get to it. See or hear anything, straight on the fucking phone. Off you go.” Most of the room filed out. Michael saw Graeme. “Howay,” he said, tilting his head back through the door into the room behind him. Graeme forced his way through the exiting throng.

  Michael took him into the study, then closed the door. One wall was made up of filled bookshelves, tomes that Graeme imagined were there more for decoration than for anyone to actually read. Directly in front of him was a floor to ceiling window which, on a brighter day, would be sure to let in plenty of light, and to his right there was a desk, against which leaned Neil Doyle. To his left there was a sofa. Someone was sitting on the sofa, a young lad Graeme didn’t recognise. Whoever he was, he looked nervous. His hands were clasped tightly between his thighs and he chewed on his bottom lip. He stared at everything with wide eyes, stared at Graeme, flinched when Neil began to speak.

  “What’ve you heard?” he said.

  Graeme shrugged. “Nowt,” he said.

  Neil pushed himself off the desk, straightened up and crossed his arms. The kid on the sofa flinched again. Graeme frowned, wondered who he was, why he was present.

  Michael left Graeme’s side, slowly circled the room, stood behind the sofa. The kid jittered, tried to roll his eyes far enough back to see Michael, what he was doing there, without actually turning his head. Michael crossed his arms in imitation of his father. Unlike Neil, who since making the venture into ‘legitimate’ business never wore anything other than a tailored suit, he wore a tight black t–shirt that showed off his arms, the bulging, rippling muscle there that throbbed beneath the surface like there were snakes under his skin.

  “Jasmine’s in hospital,” Neil said.

  “Well, shit,” Graeme said, unsure what else he could say. He hadn’t had much to do with Jasmine Doyle, and he was grateful. Whereas Michael was his own man and handled his own business, Jasmine had earned a reputation as a spoilt princess. From what little Graeme had seen, it wasn’t unwarranted. “Sorry to hear that. It serious?”

  “Oh, it’s pretty fucking serious,” Neil said. He took a deep breath. “She’s lost an eye.”

  Graeme blinked. “An eye?”

  “Yes.”

  “An eye?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bloody hell. How the fuck’d that happen?”

  “Out last night with some mates. They were in the back of some pub after–hours, having drinks, playing pool, and a couple of the lads got into a scuffle. She got in the middle of it, one of the twats had a dart in his hand, stuck it in her eye.” Graeme could see the way Neil trembled with barely contained fury. The kid on the sofa could see it, too. “She’s in the hospital now. Her mother’s there with her.”

  “Hang on, hang on — he stuck it in her eye?” Graeme said. “On purpose?”

  “She says it happened too fast, she can’t remember.” Neil turned to the kid. “You were there, you tell him.”

  The kid almost shit himself when he was spoken to. He stammered, then settled himself down and cleared his throat. “Uh, well, it was —” He coughed. Graeme could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Dan and Carl were scrapping on, and I guess they just, like, got too close to her, y’kna?” The kid looked at Graeme like he expected him to say something.

  Graeme blinked. “All right,” he said.

  Neil looked at the kid. His eyes narrowed. “What’s your name again?”

  “Um — it’s Richie, sir. Richie Connell.”

  “Right.” He spoke to Graeme. “There was four of them there with Jasmine, they all legged it apart from Richie here. He called the ambulance, went with her to the hospital, and you see how he’s sitting there? Sitting there like he’s gonna piss himself.”

  Richie swallowed.

  “I mean, what’s he think he’s done wrong? He’s done everything right. Unless there’s something he’s not telling us.”

  “Must be scared of you, dad,” Michael said.

  Richie gave a start at the voice behind him.

  “Must be. But what’s he got to be scared about? Did you stick the dart in her eye?”

  He shook his head fast, as if terrified he was about to be accused. “No! I mean, uh, no, sir.”

  “Then why’re you so worried?”

  “Scared for his mates,” Michael said.

  “Maybe. But one of them mates has gone and blinded my little girl. Who did it?”

  Richie’s jaw worked, but no words came out.

  Neil raised an eyebrow. “Howay, son, it wasn’t a difficult question. You were there. You saw it happen.”
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  Richie coughed hard like there was something lodged in his throat he needed to get loose before he could speak again. “I–I–I don’t know, sir, I don’t know who did it. They were fighting, and it was an accident. They didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Maybe not. But they did do it. It’s done. Apologies aren’t gonna grow her fuckin eye back, are they? What happened?”

  “I don’t know, sir, I swear down. Like Jasmine said, it all happened so fast — I didn’t even know anyone was holding a dart!”

  Neil stared at Richie. Richie couldn’t hold his gaze. He turned away, lowered his eyes to the ground. His lips trembled like he was about to cry and his thighs pressed closer together like he really was about to piss himself.

  Neil turned to Graeme. “Here’s the crack. I’ve made everyone that needs to know aware of the situation. Wanted them to hear it from me before they could hear it from anywhere else. And I also wanted them to know that it’s business as usual. If anyone sees the two, they’re gonna give us a shout, but chances are they’re both gonna stay indoors, off the streets. Lookit, I’m not gonna gan on the warpath, tearing up the Toon looking for these little cunts, not unless I have to. I wanna get them in, find which one it was, and get it dealt with. Quick and quiet. Did you catch them names he said?”

  Graeme thought. “Dan and Carl, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye. You know who Dan is?”

  “Should I?”

  “Daniel Moore. As in son of Robert Moore. As in nephew of Patrick Moore.”

  “Fuckin hell.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “What about him?”

  “Family?”

  “Nae idea. What’s his last name?” He asked Richie.

  Richie squeaked. “Brown,” he said.

  Neil pulled a face. “None the wiser,” he said.

  “He’s from Middlesbrough,” Richie said. “They’re in Middlesbrough still. His family, I mean.”

  Neil raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling us that now? D’you not think that’s maybe somethin you should’ve told us straight away? What if this lad’s done a flit back down to Boro, man! Did you think about that?”

  Richie was pale. “He doesn’t — he won’t — they don’t get on. He was stashing drugs in his bedroom, under the bed, but he had a baby sister and she found a pill on the carpet. She didn’t take it, like, but his parents went mental, kicked him out. He won’t go back there. He’ll still be in Fenham.”

  “I’ll tell you what, son, he’d fuckin better be.” Neil glared at Richie a moment longer, then continued on to Graeme. Graeme could see the tension in his face, in his shoulders. Could see the way he battled to stay calm, or at least as calm as he was usually able to present himself. “Michael’s going after Dan. He’s gonna bring him in. If we need to have any trouble with his dad or uncle, I want it dealt with as quickly as I want the rest of this sorted. You’re gonna gan fetch Carl. Richie here’ll give you the address. And if he’s not there, if he’s not in Fenham, then it looks like you’re going down to Boro.”

  “All right. I’ll want someone with us, though.”

  “Aye. Take one of the lads outside.”

  Graeme didn’t want to use one of the skinheads. “I’ve already got someone in mind.”

  “Who?”

  “Tony Gordon.”

  Neil thought on the name.

  “Had the straightener with him a few months ago, didn’t I?” Michael said.

  “Tracksuit Tony?” Neil said.

  “Aye,” Graeme said.

  “The fuck you want him for?”

  “Cos the lad might run,” Graeme said. “I don’t run.”

  “Well just grab one of the lads outside man, for fuck’s sake!” Neil’s level mask was slipping.

  “Tony’s a good lad,” Graeme said. “I know him, I like him, I trust him.”

  Neil waved his arms. “Whatever, man! Go get him and just get on with it then, eh? And bring Carl fucking Brown of Middlesbrough straight back here.”

  “Aye.” Graeme went to the desk, picked up a pen and paper, gave it to Richie. “Write down the address, son,” he said. “Memory’s not great.” While Richie scribbled the details, Graeme spoke to Neil. “What’re you gonna do to him, whichever one it was?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Killing the kid seemed excessive, but knowing Neil’s temper, and how capable he was of winding himself up, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the plan.

  Neil leaned against the desk again, refolded his arms. His face turned dark, his eyes were very hard and focussed, all his calm came back. “When I find out who it was,” he said, “I’m gonna take one of his fuckin eyes.”

  Chapter Two

  Graeme called Tony from the car, found out he was in the gym, drove over there. He was lifting weights when Graeme arrived. Graeme stood by the bench, waited until he had finished his set. Tony sat up, grabbed a towel, mopped the sweat from his face. “All right?” he said. The clang of barbells and dumbbells, the scrape of cable machines, the constant thud and whir of treadmills filled the air, and over it all a repetitive techno beat that couldn’t quite drown out the frequent grunts and groans of the labouring men and women.

  “Not bad, son, not bad,” Graeme said. “Were you at work last night?”

  Tony was a bouncer. “Aye. Got off at three.”

  “Still a bit early in the day, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s not gonna build itself, is it?” He flexed a bicep, then laughed. “What can I do for you, anyway?”

  “Need a hand with somethin.”

  “What?”

  “Nothin much. Just need you to come along.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just pickin some kid up. Nothin to it.”

  “Nowt to it, eh? Why don’t you just tell us all the crack then and I’ll make me own mind up?”

  “Neil Doyle’s daughter took a dart to the eye. Two lads involved, on me way to pick one of them up and take him back to the big man.”

  Tony raised an eyebrow, folded his arms. “So the little tart took a dart. What do I care? She got me a kicking not so long ago.”

  “You’re all healed now, though, eh?”

  “Not the point, Graeme.”

  “Just a few bruises here and there, it was nothing serious.”

  “She’s a little cunt, man. She lost the eye?”

  “From what I’ve heard.”

  Tony shrugged. “Y’kna what, I’d like to say I feel bad for the lass, but I really divvint. Two lads stuck a dart in her eye? She’s lucky they didn’t take an eye each. The way she gans on, someone was always gonna give her a clip eventually.”

  “The lads were fighting, she got in the middle.”

  “Aye, and what were they fighting about? Bet she had something to do with it.”

  “Don’t know what they were fighting about, don’t know which one stuck the dart in. To be honest, I don’t really care. But Neil cares, and he wants to know.”

  “This has got nowt to do with me, Graeme.”

  “I know it hasn’t, but I’m askin you to come along. As a favour.”

  “A favour to you, or to me?”

  “Well, y’kna I’ve done plenty for you.”

  “Not denying it.”

  “The Doyle’s respect you, Tony. Since the straightener. You took your licks, and you got a few in, you haven’t grumbled and you were back at work the next week. You took it like a man, and that impressed them.”

  Tony shrugged. “It was two weeks after. And their respect didn’t pay back the wages I lost that fortnight I had to take off cos me eyes were swollen shut and I couldn’t breathe through me fuckin nose. And that was cos of his daughter. I had to have a fuckin fight with Michael Doyle because I wouldn’t let her in a club when she was already smashed out of her head? I had to take a beating because I was doing me fuckin job? Oh aye, I’m proper glad they were impressed, like. Makes it
all the better, really does.”

  “Howay, Tony. For me, man.”

  Tony ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth, said nothing.

  “Look, one of the lads…” Graeme stepped closer, lowered his voice. “One of them, not the one I’m goin to pick up, the other one, he’s Robert Moore’s son.”

  Tony didn’t recognise the name.

  “You might not have heard of him, but you’ve probably heard of Patrick Moore, aye?”

  “Mm.”

  “Well, Robert’s his brother. And they’re just as bad as each other, believe me. Anyway, I’ve got a nasty feeling, right? If things go bad — and I mean, touch wood that they won’t — but if they do, and this thing turns bigger, I want someone with me that’s gonna watch me back, and know I’ll do the same for them. I want you, Tony. I trust you.”

  Tony’s shoulders sagged. “Christ’s sake man, Graeme…”

  “I wouldn’t ask just anyone.”

  Tony sighed. It was long and exaggerated. “Right. Fine. Aye, I’ll do it. But only for you, right? I couldn’t give a toss about the fuckin Doyle’s. I’ll come along because I trust you, because we go back. And I’ll do it for me fuckin mother, an’all, cos God knows if she found out you asked us for a favour and I said No I’d never hear the bloody end of it.”

  Graeme smiled. “That’s all I ask, mate. How is your mother, by the way?”

  Tony shot him a look. “Watch it.”

  Graeme laughed. “Aye. Howay then, let’s get going.”

  “Right. But I’ve gotta shower first.”

  “Quick as you can.”

  “Aye.” Tony turned, but Graeme stopped him.

  “You got a change of clothes?”

  “Course I have.”

  “Anythin that’s not a tracksuit?”

  Tony frowned.

  “They still call you Tracksuit Tony. I mean, it’s been so long now it’s probably always gonna stick, but it wouldn’t hurt to turn up in some pants every once in a while, or even a pair of jeans.”

  Tony sucked his teeth. “You’re trying me patience now, mate.”

  Graeme grinned. “Maybe. But y’know I’ve only got your best interests at heart.”