‘We are supposed to be a couple,’ he reminded her.
Arm-in-arm they walked through the foyer and out into the bustling streets of the city, which was now under a blanket of darkness.
Doyle hailed a taxi and they climbed in.
Neither of them spotted the car which pulled out behind them and settled in traffic two car-lengths behind.
The driver never let the cab out of his sight as he followed.
Forty
The restaurant wasn’t very crowded, and for that Doyle was grateful.
It was small, what the tour guides like to call ‘intimate’. Subdued lighting, plush seats and mirrors on the wall reflecting the glow from the lamps on each table. Every now and then Doyle would catch a glimpse of himself in the mirrors and avert his eyes, as if the sight of his own reflection was somehow unpleasant.
He sat alone, waiting for the first course to arrive and for Georgie to return from the ladies room. There were two other couples in the restaurant and one portly man on his own in a corner. He constantly looked round as he ate, although invariably his gaze met Doyle’s and he would hastily return his full attention to his meal.
What do you know?
Why are you on your own?
Businessman? Out for a quiet dinner because there’s no one at home to cook you one? Had a row with your partner? Wife out with the girls?
Doyle smiled at his own curiosity. Perhaps it was a hazard of the job, he told himself.
A bit like being blown up by suicidal IRA men?
Another occupational hazard?
His musings were interrupted by Georgie’s return. Doyle ran appraising eyes over her, liking what he saw.
She wore a tight-fitting black dress open in a ‘V’ down the back just above the small of her back. It was too tight to allow underwear beneath, something he was convinced of by the way her nipples pushed against the material. She walked with grace on a pair of precipitous high heels.
As Georgie arrived so did the starter and they both began eating. Her clutch bag lay on the seat beside her, the Star automatic nestled inside.
Doyle wore the Charter Arms .44 in a holster around his waist, hidden by his jacket.
‘How did you find this place?’ Georgie asked. ‘It doesn’t look like your style.’
‘And what does my style mean?’ he said somewhat scornfully. ‘You mean you think I’d be better suited to a MacDonalds?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she murmured, looking a little embarrassed.
‘Appearances can be deceptive, Georgie,’ he said. ‘I mean, look at you. You don’t exactly look like a counter-terrorist.’ He lowered his voice as he spoke the last two words.
‘What do I look like?’ she wanted to know.
‘Tonight?’ He smiled. ‘You look like a model.’
She was taken aback by his remark. Surprised and flattered by it.
‘You’re full of shit, aren’t you?’ she chuckled.
‘The best quality bullshit,’ he reminded her.
‘And do all the girls fall for it?’
He shrugged.
‘Some.’ He looked at her unflinchingly. ‘What about you?’
‘If you mean do I fall for bullshit, the answer is sometimes. I’m going to take what you said as a compliment, though. It’s probably the closest I’ll get from you.’
They continued eating.
‘So are there any women in your life, Doyle?’ she wanted to know. ‘Is it true what I’ve heard about you?’
‘Tell me what you’ve heard and I’ll tell you if it’s true.’
‘You’re a womaniser. An irresponsible, violent, disrespectful and possibly disturbed man. You’ve got a death wish. You treat everyone with equal contempt, men and women. A loner. You drink too much, you’re unpredictable, single and, as I said, a womanizer.’
‘You’ve been reading my file,’ he said. ‘Or is that what Donaldson told you?’
‘I read your file and your psychological evaluation. When I found out I was working with you I wanted to know more about you.’
‘So you found that out and you still wanted to work with me. Why?’ he wanted to know.
She shrugged.
‘Perhaps it was a challenge for me,’ she said, smiling.
‘Now who’s full of shit?’ he muttered, sipping from the glass of Scotch beside him.
‘So is it true? What it says in the file?’
‘Believe what you want,’ he said, flatly.
‘What about me? Did you check up on me?’
He shook his head.
‘I didn’t feel the need,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t see the point in getting to know about your past and you might not have a future. All that matters is now. What’s the point in me getting to know you when you could be killed tomorrow?’
‘What a cheerful thought. Thanks, Doyle.’
‘I’m being realistic, Georgie. You could be killed, we could both be killed. That’s why I never look ahead. What’s the point in making plans when you could get shot tomorrow? I take each day as it comes. If I’m still alive when I get into bed at night then I’ve had a good day.’ He took another sip of his drink and ordered a fresh one. ‘It’s just my way of coping with life.’
‘Have you only been like this since the accident?’ she wanted to know.
‘What is this? Twenty questions? What does it matter? And anyway, it wasn’t an accident. I was bloody careless. I shouldn’t have got that close to McNamara. I should have killed him before he had the chance to spread himself all over the Craigavon bridge.’
She finished eating and pushed her plate away. The waiter came scuttling over and removed their plates, bringing a bottle of wine when Doyle asked. He prepared to pour but Doyle waved him away and did the honours himself, filling Georgie’s glass. A moment later the main course arrived and they were left alone again.
‘What do your family think about what you do?’ Doyle asked.
‘I thought you didn’t want to know anything about me,’ she said somewhat sarcastically.
‘I’m just making conversation,’ he said flatly.
She nodded.
‘I don’t have a family,’ she told him. ‘My mother and father were killed in a plane crash when I was ten. An aunt brought me up. She died the day before my twentieth birthday. My brother, I told you, was killed by the IRA.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘No one would miss me either if I was killed.’ She took a sip of her wine.
‘What about boyfriends?’
There’ve been a few. Nothing serious, though. Perhaps I’m like you in that way, Doyle.’
He grinned.
‘Maybe.’ He exhaled deeply. ‘So we’re just two lonely little souls pursuing our own goals. You want revenge for your brother ...’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.
‘And you? What do you want? What do you get out of this? Out of knowing that you could be killed any day? Why do you do it?’
‘Because it’s all there is for me,’ he told her, his face impassive. ‘Some days I used to wish that I’d get caught in a fight, a gun battle or something.’ He smiled. ‘So I could go out blazing like some fucking cowboy. Maybe it’s because I haven’t got the guts to get into a car and drive it into a wall. At least if I get shot or blown up then my death is someone else’s responsibility.’
‘Why do you want to die?’ she asked him.
‘Because there isn’t a better alternative,’ he told her. ‘Like it says in the song, “No happy endings like they always promised”.’ He chewed his steak for a moment. ‘That’s right, you know. Perhaps we do share one thing in common. We’re alone in the world. My parents are both dead, too. My mother had a stroke, my father had a heart attack. They both hung on longer than they should have and I watched them die, lying there in fucking hospital beds. There’s no way I’m going out like that, Georgie. Better to burn out than fade away, they say. Fucking right.’
She sipped her drink, looking across the table at him, realizing that there was something not only dangerous about hi
m but also something very sad. It touched her deeply. More deeply than it should have done. His arrogance, his anger and his attitude were the qualities which made him attractive to her. She looked across the table at him and she wanted him, wanted to share that rage, that ferocity. But she feared that she couldn’t. She wondered if Doyle was already dead as far as his emotions went. Was he capable of feeling anything other than hatred and anger? She wanted to know.
But she knew that now was not the time.
‘How are you getting on working as a barmaid?’ he asked after a long silence, a slight smile on his face.
‘I’m managing,’ she replied, also smiling.
The rest of the evening was spent passing good-natured conversation and Georgie was surprised at the occasional warmth that crept into Doyle’s tone. For all that, he was guarded about himself. He told her jokes, anecdotes. They swapped stories about their experiences in the C.T.U. They talked business.
They talked about killing men.
It was almost 11.30 p.m. when they finally left the restaurant.
Doyle suggested they walk and she was pleasantly surprised when he draped one arm around her shoulder. She responded by slipping her own around his waist. Well, it had to look convincing.
They spoke quietly as they walked, as if not to disturb anyone.
It was as they passed the City Hall for the second time that Georgie realized they were walking in circles.
She slowed her pace and turned to him, smiling, but Doyle’s features were set firm and he was gazing ahead as if at something she couldn’t see.
‘Sean, we’re walking in circles.’ she said. ‘The hotel ...’
‘Just keep walking,’ he whispered.
She felt the .44 inside his jacket as she snaked her arm around his waist again.
‘Are you carrying your automatic?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ she told him.
‘Good. You might need it. We’re being followed.’
Forty-One
‘How many are there?’ Georgie asked almost nonchalantly, keeping up the same steady pace, not looking back.
‘I don’t know,’ Doyle told her. ‘I spotted a car and one guy on foot as we passed City Hall first time. The car went through a red light to keep close.’
‘How do you want to play it?’
‘Let’s keep walking for now, see if they move on us.’
‘And if they do?’
‘We kill them. It could be anyone. IRA. UVF. It could even be one of Maguire’s mob.’
‘Sean, there’s no reason for it to be the IRA or the UVF. Since the peace talks started, guerrilla activity has ceased. You know we couldn’t have infiltrated as easily as we have otherwise.’
He nodded.
‘Then it has to be Maguire,’ he said.
They came to a turning in the road.
‘Right,’ he said, pausing to light a cigarette. ‘We’ll split up, try to lose them. I’ll meet you back at the hotel. Don’t forget, Georgie; if you have to, shoot.’
She nodded then snaked her arms up around his neck, drawing him to her, pressing her lips against him. He felt her tongue probing and opened his mouth, allowing it to stir the warm wetness within. They remained like that for long moments, then she pulled away, smiling.
‘If you’re saying goodnight we might as well make it look convincing,’ she told him and turned away.
Doyle smiled and walked off in the opposite direction.
The car followed him.
The man on foot pursued Georgie.
Doyle knew that the driver of the car dared not drive too fast. As far as he knew, Doyle was still unaware he was being followed. He didn’t know the counter-terrorist was aware of the tail.
He walked briskly but unconcernedly. If his tracker was going to try and kill him then he’d have to pull level with him or, better still, in front of him.
Then Doyle would be able to use the .44.
He smiled at the prospect, but for the moment he merely kept walking, keeping his pace slow enough-to allow the driver to track him.
The time for speed would come soon enough.
Georgie meanwhile was also walking slowly, her high heels beating out a tattoo on the wet pavement. She pulled her jacket around her to ward off the cold, her clutch bag held before her, the comforting shape of the automatic nestled within.
There was an alley up ahead to her right.
She ducked into it.
It ran for about three hundred yards along the back of shops and houses.
It was as black as pitch down there, the only vague light coming from some of the rear windows of the houses or their yards. Dustbins were lined up on both sides of the narrow alley like sentinels.
Georgie scuttled along it, heading for a pile of old boxes stacked high against one of the shops. The place stunk of rotting vegetables and cats’ piss but she pressed herself against the wall, eyes fixed on the opening of the alley, watching to see if her pursuer followed her.
She saw his shape loom in the alley entrance.
He paused for a moment, then began walking tentatively down the narrow thoroughfare, cursing when he tripped over the rusted frame of a child’s bike.
He drew closer, slowing his pace now, eyes and ears alert for the slightest sound or movement.
Doyle crossed the street, quickening his pace slightly, not even glancing back over his shoulder as he walked. He knew the car was still there, its driver watching him through the windscreen.
There were a set of traffic lights up ahead, showing green.
Doyle paused and lit another cigarette, one eye on the lights.
They changed to amber.
He sucked hard on the cigarette and walked on.
Red.
Doyle broke into a run, hurtling across the junction, narrowly avoiding a car which came from his right. The driver banged on his hooter angrily as the counter-terrorist dived across in front of him.
The man in the pursuing vehicle swore under his breath as he glanced up at the red light then at the figure of Doyle disappearing around a corner on the far side of the road.
He stepped on the accelerator and shot across the junction, ignoring the traffic signal, swerving to avoid a van which was forced to brake hard to prevent a collision.
‘You fucking idiot,’ the driver of the van bellowed as the other car sped after Doyle.
Doyle himself had ducked into a side-street. He watched as the pursuing car shot past, skidding to a halt at the end of the street, its engine idling as the driver looked around for his quarry.
Whoever was driving was no expert, Doyle thought. . A blind man would have known by now that he was being followed. In the glare of street lamps, Doyle could see that there was just one man in the car.
Just the one in the car and the one following Georgie. .
He frowned.
Who the fuck were these guys?
He watched the car finally turn left and drive off in the direction of Sandy Row.
Doyle waited a moment longer then turned and headed back the way he’d come.
*
Georgie lost sight of the man momentarily as he entered the alley-way, so impenetrable was the darkness. She could hear his footfalls on the cracked concrete but she couldn’t see him.
She thought about easing the .45 from her bag but resisted the temptation.
The man was closer now.
Georgie carefully stepped out of her shoes, anxious that the click of her heels should not give away her hiding place.
As she did so she put her left foot into something soft. It felt cold and she winced as she felt it ooze up between her toes. What it was she didn’t even want to think about.
The man was on the far side of the alley, drawing closer all the time. He pressed against the door of a yard and the hinges creaked loudly.
From inside the yard a dog flew at the door, barking madly.
The sound startled the man and gave Georgie the opportunity she was looking for.
She hooked one hand through a dustbin lid handle and ran at the man who turned, stunned,, to meet her charge.
His reactions were too slow.
Georgie smashed the dustbin lid into his face, a loud clang echoing around the alley, joining with the frenzied barking of the dog to create a deafening cacophony.
The man fell back against the gate, his nose broken by the impact, his head spinning.
She dropped the dustbin lid and brought her bare foot up into his crutch with stunning force.
He let out a strangled cry and dropped to his knees.
Georgie retrieved the dustbin lid and hit him again, across the back of the head this time. The blow opened a hairline cut across his scalp. Blood ran through his hair as he pitched forward, his face connecting with the ground, the impact lessened as he fell into the contents of a spilled dustbin.
Georgie prodded him with her foot, dropped to one knee and hauled him over on to his back.
The dog was still barking madly, throwing itself at the gate as if anxious to get through to the people in the alley.
She knew she had to move fast; so much noise would attract attention.
She rummaged through his pockets, finding it difficult to see anything in the pitch blackness. Even his features were hidden from her in the gloom.
She found a wallet in his trouser pocket but nothing other than money inside.
Not even in his jacket or inside pockets.
No I.D. Nothing.
She paused for a moment then wiped her bare foot on his jacket; retrieved her shoes and bolted down the alley-way, the sound of the dog echoing in her ears.
As she reached the other end of the alley she slowed down, breathing deeply to restore her composure, wiping her foot with a tissue before slipping her shoes back on.
She set off at a steady pace, and in fifteen minutes she was back at the hotel.
She wondered what had happened to Doyle.
Forty-Two
The night porter in the Excelsior Hotel nodded politely at Georgie as she passed him heading for the lifts. She returned the gesture, aware that his eyes were following her every movement, his gaze centred on her legs and backside as she entered the lift.
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