Who Dares Wins Read online

  “It’s at tha end o’ this road,” he said as Dorring got out. “Should’nay take ya nay more than five minutes.”

  It took him seven.

  The pub was at the front of a fishing harbor, which occupied an entire bay of craggy rock, and overlooked it. A sign creaked in the breeze above the door. The Mermaid and Anchor, it said.

  Inside, Dorring could tell immediately that it was a fisherman’s pub. The walls were coated in old black and white photographs of them—men dressed in hooded smocks with pipes in their mouths, skin cracked by the sea air, stiff, proud looks. On the ceiling, they’d nailed an old fishing net, so that it gave the impression that you were caught underneath it, and at the back of the bar stood an anchor. A log fire was lit in one corner and it filled the place with a smoky scent. Above its mantelpiece hung an old fashioned harpoon—a length of wood with a sharp metal end like an arrow tip.

  Dorring found the pub almost deserted. When he came through the door, a bell above it rang and all eyes turned to him. If there’d been a piano playing, he was sure that it would have stopped.

  Standing behind a small bar immediately ahead of the door was a middle-aged man with gray whiskers covering his stern face and a bald head lacking any hair at all. He had the proud look of a landlord, arms folded in front of a wide chest and a set of hawkish eyes narrowing at Dorring when he entered. The other face behind the bar wasn’t so stern and greeted Dorring’s appearance with a coquettish smile. She was a pretty young woman, around mid-twenties, with a radiant set of white teeth that she shone at him, her blue eyes gleaming from a rosy face bordered by long, straight, blonde hair.

  Then there were those on the other side of the bar.

  Leaning against it was a stringy man the shape of a stick insect who appeared to need the counter top for support. His glazed eyes and ruddy complexion told Dorring that he was drunk, and probably stayed that way most of the time. He gave Dorring a disdainful look the moment he emerged from the street.

  Other than that, there was a couple of fishermen sitting around a table next to a large latticed window overlooking the bay. They glanced up at Dorring as he walked past on his way to the bar, before returning to their pints and their low, confidential conversation.

  The barmaid pushed the landlord out of the way and insisted on serving the newcomer herself.

  “What’ll it be, stranger?” she said with a cheeky grin.

  She was pretty. Her long blonde hair and blue eyes shone all at once and contrasted heavily with the gloomy complexion of her companions. She was wearing a pair of black leather leggings that showed all her curves. On her torso hung a long white T-shirt cut off low on the neck so that it revealed her deep cleavage. She was leaning forward on the bar, displaying as much of it as she could to the newcomer.

  “How’d you know I’m a stranger?” Dorring put back with a grin of his own.

  “Because I’ve lived on this island ma whole life an’ I sure as hell would’ve noticed a fine specimen like you hangin’ aroond.”

  The grin on Dorring’s face expanded and he chuckled. He found her in-your-face enthusiasm charming.

  “So what’ll it be?” she added.

  “You sell lager?”

  “Lager?” she scoffed loudly, and the two men with her snuffed contemptuous chuckles. “You’ve come all the way here to drink lager?”

  “What should I drink?”

  “If it’s beer you want, then you should try one o’ our ales. Made specially here on the island. Lighthouse Keeper is one o’ the best.”

  “Then I’ll have one of those.”

  She poured him the pint. Dorring gazed sideways out the latticed window at the fishing bay. Several boats were coming in, the bellies of their hulls filled with the day’s catch and the air around them filled with swarms of gulls. Out to sea, a thick, swirling black cloud stood on the horizon like a sea monster. It was approaching the island menacingly and the waters were getting rougher with it.

  “Here you go,” said the barmaid.

  Dorring turned to her. She was smiling at him, his pint of amber beer standing to attention on a bar mat. He smiled back and she blushed. He took some money from his pocket and paid before taking a stool and sitting at the bar.

  “So then,” the barmaid said as he sipped the beer, “what do you think?”

  Dorring wasn’t an enthusiastic drinker, didn’t really enjoy alcohol enough to establish any kind of real knowledge for its flavor. But the pint tasted alright and he said so.

  “Alright!?” she scoffed once more, her face taking on an affronted expression. “Is that it?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  “Tha’s better.”

  He sipped some more and she gazed at him some more with dreamy eyes. In contrast, the landlord and the drunk glared at him with malevolent eyes.

  “So…?” she said, letting the word out slowly and widening her blue eyes at him.

  “Alex,” Dorring said.

  “So, Alex, what brings you to McGuffin?”

  “Holiday.”

  “At this time of year?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long for?”

  “As long as I like, really.”

  When he said this, he glanced at the landlord, who stared back disdainfully.

  “Well,” the barmaid said, “I’ll need to help you settle in if you’re here for the long term.”

  “A week or two,” Dorring suggested.

  “Long enough,” she said, smiling amorously.

  Dorring smiled back and once again her cheeks went scarlet.

  “Hey, Mo?” It was the drunk, his head swaying and his eyes bloodshot.

  The barmaid turned to him and the smile on her face dropped.

  “What, Stevie?” she said.

  He was already smiling at what he was going to say next.

  “Ya gonna fuck tha big man tonight?” he asked with a smug look.

  Mo blushed.

  “Ah! Look,” the drunk went on. “She’s goin’ all red. So she does feel shame. Do you feel shame, Mo? Think what your ma would think o’ ya. Fuckin’ anyone that comes through them doors like a little…”

  “Stevie,” the landlord grumbled, stopping the drunk midway.

  “You’re just pissed outta ya mind, Stevie,” Mo said. “Go home an’ sleep it off.”

  “Ach! I’m no pissed,” the drunk insisted, stepping away from the bar and almost falling over in the process. “I’ll show ya I’m no. Come here an’ let me fuck ya to show I can still get the wee fella up.”

  He was already undoing his flies. Dorring stood up from his stool and walked up to the drunk. The guy looked ready to fall over as he craned his neck all the way back so that he could look up into Dorring’s eyes, his head about level with the Englishman's chest.

  “Leave the girl alone,” Dorring growled down to him.

  “Or what?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Cheeky bastard.”

  The drunk went to swing a punch. In his head it was probably a knockout blow worthy of a heavyweight champion. But in reality, it was as hopeless as his attempts to stand up straight.

  Dorring stepped back and the punch missed by several inches. The momentum made the drunk stagger forward. Stepping to the side and then nudging him as he went past, Dorring sent him sprawling forward so that he landed on a table and brought it down, along with two chairs and several half filled glasses of beer. He lay sprawled on his front, kicking and squirming his body to get back on his feet. It looked pathetic.

  “Right, that’s it!” the landlord shouted.

  “But Mac, it was Stevie,” Mo said, defending Dorring.

  Stevie eventually got up, his shirt covered in beer. His face had a look of utter hatred written on it, teeth gnashed together.

  “I’ll bloody well kill you!” the drunk screamed and went to lunge forward with the remains of a broken glass he’d picked up while on the floor.

  But he didn’t get far. The thr
ee fishermen from the table had already gotten up. They now had ahold of the drunk and were removing him from the pub. It appeared that they realized their friend would be safer taking his temper somewhere else. Somewhere it wouldn’t get him hurt.

  “I want you outta here,” the landlord said to Dorring.

  “But, Mac,” Mo pleaded. “He were only sticking up for me. Ya should be offering him a free drink on the hoose. Not kicking him oot.”

  She gazed benevolently into the landlord’s eyes and he gave in. Shaking his head and sighing.

  When the atmosphere settled itself, Dorring retook his stool and Mo retook her position at the bar opposite, gazing longingly into Dorring’s gray eyes.

  “You know,” she said, “ya’ve got the most beautiful eyes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. It were very noble what ya did for me just then.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Defended ma honor.”

  Dorring grinned and grabbed a menu card that stood in a stack at the front of the till.

  “We’re nay servin’ food at this time,” the landlord said immediately.

  “Is there anywhere serving food now?” Dorring asked.

  “Don’t know,” Mac said gruffly. “You’ll have to take a wee walk an’ check for yourself.”

  “Don’t be like that, Mac,” Mo said. “He’s come all this way an’ the least we can do is show him our famous fish an’ chips.” Looking back at Dorring, she added, “The batter’s made with our own ale. It’s lush.”

  “But Mac said the kitchen’s closed,” said Dorring.

  “Then I’ll make it for ya myself. A way o’ saying thank you.”

  The landlord rolled his eyes and Mo disappeared behind a beaded curtain. Dorring suddenly felt uncomfortable when it was just him and the landlord. The man called Mac held Dorring on the end of his eyes as though on the end of a blade.

  The Englishman decided he couldn’t take sitting at the bar being stared at. So he picked his drink up and took a seat at the table the fishermen had vacated when they’d taken Stevie the drunk out of the pub.

  Dorring gazed out the latticed window at the bay. More fishing boats were coming in and the water had gotten rougher, the tide slapping against the stone wall of the harbor and the boats rocking about in it. On the horizon the thick black clouds were gathering out to sea. Dorring spotted purple threads of lightning striking the water. Not a good time to be a fisherman, he thought.

  The food arrived. Beer battered cod with chips and mushy peas. A staple British meal full of starch, carbohydrates and fat. All of it deep fried. Except the mushy peas. They're boiled, mixed with sugar, and ground into a green paste that resembles the results of a bad cold.

  Dorring wasn’t much for British cuisine. He preferred food that wouldn’t eventually kill you. Nevertheless, he was hungry and eager not to disappoint the smiling face sitting opposite. So he tucked into the food with obvious relish. The whole time he ate, Mo watched him eagerly to see what his opinion of her culinary effort would be.

  “So,” she said when her patience could take no more, “what do you think?”

  “Gorgeous,” Dorring replied. “And it’s not the only thing at this table fitting of that description.”

  He gave her a cheeky grin and she went scarlet. Unable to stop herself, she giggled like a schoolgirl into the palm of her hand.

  “How long do you plan to stay?” she asked when she’d controlled her mirth.

  “Like I said, a week or two. Depends how I find it.”

  “So that what you do then—go from place to place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sounds incredible. Just movin’ aboot. Get to go anywhere ya like. An’ then if ya don’t like it, you move on. It’s like that song. Wherever you lay your hat is your home.”

  Dorring smiled when she said this.

  “Paul Young,” he said.

  She giggled again. Simpered some more.

  “My ma used to play me tha’ song all the time,” she said.

  “Mine too.”

  “So ya must be the type o’ boy who’s always on the road?” she said with a confidential smile.

  Dorring’s smile increased at the conjuring of the song’s lyrics.

  “Well, I love them and leave them,” he said. “Break their hearts and deceive them everywhere I go. So save your tears, because I’m not worth it, you see.”

  Looking him straight in the eyes, she said, “Let me be the judge o’ that. An’ maybe I don’t hurt so easily.”

  She was leaning forward, elbows on the table, the dreamy look fixed on her face. Dorring wasn’t sure if it was her caught in a snare or him. Maybe it was both of them.

  “You got a place to stay yet?” she asked.

  “No. I was going to ask here.”

  “The McPherson place,” she said.

  “What's that?”

  “Lovely wee cottage at the north o’ the island. Right on the coast. Nice stretch o’ sandy beach. Woods behind it. Lovely wee spot.”

  “Sounds good. Do many people stay there?”

  “Not this time o’ year.”

  “Anyone in the last year?”

  He gazed at her eyes. Looking for something.

  “No,” she said, and he couldn’t tell for sure if this was true or not. Her face had gone blank when she said it, but he didn’t know if this was a sign of bluffing. He’d already decided that he wouldn’t go looking for Kevin directly. He’d put his ear out—or his fishing net—and see what turned up. Because if Kevin had found danger on McGuffin—and the fact that he had come here looking for a very dangerous man made this extremely likely—Dorring wouldn’t want to endanger himself by revealing too soon his true purpose for being there.

  “So how much will this cottage be?” he asked.

  “She charges a hundred an’ fifty a week. Is tha’ okay?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Okay. I’ll call her now.”

  She bounced up out of her chair like an excited schoolgirl, smile gleaming across her face. At the bar, she gave Mac a disdainful look and then made the call on the pub’s phone. Dorring watched her with a smile on his face. She had such youthful exuberance and he felt blessed by its presence. Felt radiated in light.

  Nevertheless, he quickly checked himself. Dropped the smile and turned away. After all, he was here for a reason. He was here to find someone. Possibly find two people. One a friend. The other a terrible foe.

  The bell above the door rang and he turned away from the window. A man entered the pub. It had started to spit and he was holding an umbrella. At the door, he turned around and shook it off outside before folding it away and turning to face the inside of the pub.

  That’s when things got a lot stranger for Dorring. Because he instantly recognized the face gazing about the place. He was fourteen years older, his black hair filled with gray, but the stern face with its wide jaw and piercing eyes, Dorring could never forget.

  The man hung the umbrella up on a peg by the door before walking across to the bar. There were nods and ‘How’d you dos’ for the landlord and Mo. Then he swiveled his head at Dorring as he passed and went pale.

  Stopping sharp on the spot, he gazed down at Dorring in disbelief. It was as though he’d spotted a ghost sitting at the table before the window. Dorring simply stared back without saying a word and the two remained motionless for some time. That was until the man shook himself and carried on to the bar.

  “Hello, Mac,” he said with familiarity. “Is the bossman here?”

  “Aye, Mr. Jones,” the landlord replied respectfully. “He’s upstairs. Will you be having your meeting there?”

  The man glanced furtively back over his shoulder. Dorring spotted him in the reflection of the window pane.

  “Yes,” he said, turning back to Mac.

  The landlord lifted the bar top and the other man walked through, nodding to Mo as he entered the beaded curtain.

  Conner Jones, Dorr
ing said to himself as he sat staring out the window. Conner Jones and he’s here.

  3

  The last time Dorring had seen Conner Jones, they were serving together in the Special Air Services (SAS) unit. As Conner disappeared behind the bar, Dorring’s mind was cast back to the past.

  Fourteen years ago, to be precise.

  They were traveling through the deserts of Helmand Province in Afghanistan in a Desert Patrol Vehicle (DPV) with a machine gun turret on the top and armor plating all around, heading into a town of one story stone buildings the same color as the sand.

  That’s when they got the call.

  “In need of assistance,” came through on the radio. “This is 150 Provist Company. We’ve got a situation brewing down here in the Sidique Bazaar. Need assistance with crowd control from anyone in this sector.”

  “Provist company?” Conner said. “That’s Royal Military Police, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Dorring said. “And Sidique Bazaar is close. Let’s go see what’s up.”

  Conner lifted the receiver to his mouth and told them they were on their way.

  When they reached the bazaar—a collection of ragged market stalls in a rectangular courtyard fenced in by two-story stone buildings—they immediately saw the large crowd gathered in a far corner in front of a derelict building. Several infantry soldiers from the regular army had already arrived, but were having trouble with the sizeable throng.

  “I got an idea,” Conner said as Dorring drove them along an edge of the courtyard towards the scene. “Get me as close to them as you can.”

  Dorring parked tight to the back of the crowd and Conner turned to him.

  “You wanna do the honors?” he asked.

  “No,” Dorring said, knowing exactly what idea he’d had. “You go ahead. Because if this goes tits up, I want it on the record that it was completely your idea.”

  “Whatever,” Conner said, getting out of his seat. “It’ll be fun to see them shit their pants and tear ass out of here.”

  He maneuvered himself into the turret while Dorring watched the crowd through the windscreen. The baying mob were busy shouting and screaming and waving their arms. They hadn’t even noticed the DPV pull up, too engrossed in trying to push past the army guys holding them back from the edge of the derelict building.