Three Days Later

Of course he hadn't found the money. Three days was just not enough time to come up with that kind of cash when you were as seriously tapped out as Doyle was. He'd even tried going to the demon casino - Jenoff's - which was serious trouble, and no where he should willingly step foot, but as he couldn't pay the cover charge he wasn't even allowed inside.

He'd spent two days ringing round every name in his book, begging, pleading, cajoling … but found no one willing to help. He'd gone to the dog racing, the pony track - put down what he had left … he'd lost it all. He even went back to the pawn shop - having nothing of value, he took the few books he owned, one of his shirts and the toaster that came with the apartment. Obviously he didn't get much for them.

By the third day he was just holed up, his front door locked - with the sofa pushed up against it in case anyone broke in, a baseball bat stashed in an easy to reach spot and the phone off the hook. He couldn't believe it had come to this - that his life had come to this. And he didn't know how long he could feasibly stay hidden away in here.

The answer was: not long. Because on top of everything else, Doyle was an addict now. Nothing hard - nothing serious, nothing he couldn't tell himself he couldn't quit whenever he wanted to, but … he ran out of cigarettes and his scotch bottles were empty and after a while his hands started to shake.

And then the temptation was too much and he snapped. Taking what little money he had got from the pawn shop, he headed out to the liquor store. Not the one closest to him - he owed them money as well, and had reached his credit limit. Besides, maybe he would be less easy to find if he went further away from his house - you know, if anyone was out there looking for him.

...

As he stepped out of the liquor store - his first cigarette already lit, the lid halfway off the bottle - a car pulled up alongside him and he wondered why he even bothered to still hope. How hope was even still possible - after every last crushing defeat and misstep he had suffered - how he could still ever believe that maybe maybe this time it would be OK. The sheer futility of ever hoping for the best should have been proved to him a thousand times over by now, should have snuffed out any belief that things could come out good. But he was a glutton for punishment. No matter what his prior experience, he always somehow managed to hope for the best … only to be bitterly disappointed when faced with the worst. Of course they found him. The moment he set foot out of the house. Of course they did. There was no hiding from men you owed money to.

He was invited into the car - for half a moment he considered running, but the look on the man's face told him how utterly pointless that would be. So he got in the back and allowed himself to be driven off to Darin McNamara's club - wondering miserably what the hell was about to happen to him now.

He found out the answer soon enough.

There was no civilised chat this time, no hand shaking, or sitting down at a table to talk. He was pulled out of the car by two of McNamara's flunkeys and dragged inside. There was no point struggling, they were both much bigger than Doyle was. They stepped back to a respectful distance when McNamara suddenly appeared, standing right in front of him.

McNamara looked him up and down, his lip curled in disgust, and Doyle felt a part of him just shrivel up and die inside when he saw the contempt of the other man's expression. Just six months ago, he couldn't even begin to imagine being in a situation like this - it had been an entire world away from everything he had ever known; a hidden, seedy world he didn't want to know about. And now he was a part of it, thrown into the middle of it and left to sink. He'd been a teacher, a soccer coach, he'd volunteered at a food bank. He'd been a husband. A good and loving husband who was loved right back by his wonderful wife. Just six months ago. And now he was this - desperate, and pathetic, down and out and a man like Darin McNamara was looking at him like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. How quickly he fell.

'You know why you're here,' McNamara said, it wasn't a question.

Doyle felt the panic rise up inside of him, hot and liquid. 'I know. I'm sorry. But I haven't …'

'You owe me money, Mr. Doyle - and today is the day we agreed you would pay.'

'I just need more time, Mr. McNamara,' Doyle said, 'I'll get y' the money, I will - but I just need to...'

'What? Find someone else stupid enough to lend it to you? No, Mr. Doyle, you've had your chance. You knew what the price would be. Steven!' He called one of his flunkeys over, 'break Mr. Doyle's legs for him - an object lesson for him in the dangers of too much debt.'

'No, please no!' Doyle begged, backing away from the big man that bore down on him. Hot tears of horror sprang into his eyes and he struggled to stop them from falling. It was bad enough he was here in the first place, begging and pleading with a man like McNamara - cringing away from him like a kicked and frightened animal. He didn't want to snivel and cry as well. He'd lost too much dignity in such a short time, this was a line he wasn't going to cross - he'd just have to beg harder. 'Please, Mr. McNamara, I'll do anythin', it won't happen again.'

McNamara smiled - cruel and satisfied. 'Steven,' he called off his thug, and then offered his terms to the frightened half demon. 'Okay, Mr. Doyle - I'll make you a deal. My brother, Jack,' he snorted in impatience as he thought of his brother, 'is putting a crew together. There's a job. A bank on Seventh. They need a driver.'

'Y'mean...?' Doyle looked aghast, as he worked out what McNamara was saying. Of all the things he had done - of all the places he had gone, how low he had sunk, this was beyond anything else. This was a line he couldn't cross. 'Mr. McNamara, I can't do that.'

'Steven, be so kind as to break Mr. Doyle's legs for him.'

Steven stepped up towards him once more - and Doyle backed away once again. Panicking once again. He flung his hands up in surrender and tried not to think about what Harri would say, refused to think about her disappointed face - her disapproval - her horror - her shame. He felt it all himself, he didn't need his wife - his ex wife - scolding him inside his own head. He knew how wrong this was. How bad. But as Steven bore down on him, cracking his knuckles menacingly - and those treacherous tears threatened to fall from Doyle's eyes, what else could do?'

'OK, OK, I'll do it, I promise…' he cried.

...

And so he was inducted into the crew.