Jessie Keane - The Make

Suddenly she didn’t want to be here alone in this big, echoing apartment with its lovely views. She went through to the sitting room and shut the blinds in there too, then went to the front door. She checked it was locked, and put the chain on.

After that she began to unwind, just a bit. Aware that she had been holding her breath, she told herself breathe, you idiot. No wonder you thought you were going to faint, you have to breathe.

She wished someone was here with her, someone who was a bit of a bruiser, an action-man type. Oh, you mean like Lorcan Connolly? shot into her brain. The one who caused you tears and heartache, and turned out to be the rottenest, most chauvinistic bastard you’d ever met?

Come on, she told herself. Get a grip, okay?

She went back into the kitchen. The hair still lay there on her table. Gracie stared at it and shuddered. Then she hurried back into the sitting room and went to the answering machine. She hadn’t wiped the messages. She replayed them, five al together, two about business, and three from the girl called Sandy, each one more distraught than the last.

She listened to Sandy’s messages again, tuning in this time, paying close attention. George was in hospital, Harry was fuck-knew-where. Sandy gave her phone number – a mobile, not a landline. Gracie wrote it down on the pad, cleared the messages, and dialled.

No answer.

Gracie went and took a shower, slipped on her slouchy indoor-wear, and made herself a warming cup of tea. She kept glancing through the open doorway at the hair on the kitchen table. She didn’t think she could keep down any food, so she didn’t bother trying. Instead she turned on the evening news, listening but hardly hearing any of it, the note constantly replaying in her mind. Call the filth on this and you’re all dead. She phoned Sandy’s mobile again at seven, then at eight. It went straight to voicemail. She left a message, said please call.

At nine, Sandy did.

‘Hi. Sandy?’ asked Gracie, quickly muting the TV with the remote.

‘Yeah. Hi. How are you?’ The girl sounded exhausted.

‘Fine. How’s George?’

‘I’ve been at the hospital all evening with him. He’s about the same. Still in intensive care.’ She sounded tearful again. ‘It’s horrible in there.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Gracie, although truthfully she couldn’t. ‘Did Mum go in with you?’

‘She’s going tomorrow. We’re taking turns, makes it a bit easier.’

‘Can you give me her number again? I mislaid it after you left it yesterday.’

‘Sure.’ Sandy repeated the number. ‘Pity you’re not closer, you could come and see him.’

‘Yeah I could.’ Gracie glanced through to the kitchen, looked at the dark red hair there – one of her brothers’ hair. It belonged either to handsome, gentle, idle Harry, or loud, chunky Jack-the-lad George. Probably it was Harry’s. She wasn’t going to tell this poor, wretched-sounding girl about the hair. She wondered if she should tell the police about it, show them the note, but it had stipulated no cops . . . and Harry was missing. And they’d said they were watching her.

‘Listen, I’m coming down to London,’ she said, the words coming out almost of their own volition.

‘Really? When?’

Gracie thought about that. She looked again at the hair. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

Chapter 12

21 December

Gracie called in on Brynn next day at his sister’s place and told him to take over, that she was going down South for a bit.

‘How long’s a bit?’ asked Brynn, still coughing and spluttering after yesterday’s fire.

‘I don’t know. You can keep in touch with me on the mobile, and I’ll be back soonest, okay?’

‘Not much is going to be happening for a while,’ said Brynn, wheezing then letting out a hacking cough. ‘If the insurance people come back with anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘You look after him,’ said Gracie to Angie.

‘Will do,’ said Angie.

She dropped an awkward kiss on to Brynn’s leathery cheek, registering his surprise at this small show of affection. Gracie Doyle, she thought, unable to help herself. The girl with a calculator where her heart should be. Wasn’t that what Brynn, what the whole world, thought? That she was cold? And maybe he was right; maybe she was. But perhaps right now, when everything was hitting the fan, that was a good thing to be.

She’d already thrown a few bits and pieces into a suitcase and a bag this morning, put them in the back of the car. Now, with Brynn primed, she drove off into the cold, leaden-skied morning down the M6. She picked up the M1 east of Birmingham, stopping briefly in the services to refuel. Four hours later, she was in London.

It was starting to snow. Maybe it would be a white Christmas after all. She snagged a parking space a long way from her mother’s door in the familiar Hackney street, bought a parking ticket, and went and knocked at the door of the plain Victorian house she’d grown up in. There was a small, red-berried wreath hanging on it. Mum had kept the house after the divorce, and Dad hadn’t objected. Gracie guessed he’d just been glad to be free, to start anew.

‘Who is it?’ asked a shaky female voice from the other side of the door, after she’d knocked on the damned thing for what felt like an age.

‘It’s Gracie,’ she called out.

‘Gracie?’ echoed the voice. ‘What the hell . . .?’

There was a noise of chains being unfastened, bolts being thrown back.

‘What, you had a crime explosion round here?’ asked Gracie as her mother swung the door open. ‘What’s with the—’

Gracie stopped speaking. Her mum was standing there. Her mother had always been a youthful dresser. She was pushing sixty now, but still she wore skinny jeans and a fashionable turquoise top. Her hair was cut close to her head and skilfully dyed a flattering ashy blonde, but her face looked pale and puffy. Her bloodshot brown eyes were darting and nervous. Her lips trembled. She looked like she’d had the stuffing kicked out of her.

‘Oh fuck,’ said Suze wearily. ‘Not you.’

‘Nice to see you too, Mummy dear,’ said Gracie, and pushed inside the hall with her case and bag.

‘I suppose Sandy phoned you.’

‘She did, that’s right. And the police called too. Said you’d notified them. Why didn’t you call me?’

Suze shrugged, as if it wasn’t worth dignifying Gracie’s comment with a reply. ‘I’m just surprised you actually bothered to turn up.’

Gracie turned a gimlet eye on her mother. ‘Yeah, well, I actually did,’ she said, refusing to rise to the challenge of a fight so soon. She was tired from the trip. She didn’t want arguments, she wanted tea, biscuits and answers – in that order. She went on through to the kitchen. So familiar, but all different – the units were new beech-effect, the worktops a shiny black granite.

Suze was busy refastening the defences at the front door. By the time she joined Gracie in the kitchen, Gracie had taken out the jiffy bag and decanted the hair inside it out on to the worktop.

‘Someone sent me this,’ she said, as her mother stopped dead in the doorway and let out a small cry.

‘Oh shit,’ Suze moaned, putting her hands to her mouth.

‘George is in hospital,’ said Gracie. ‘So Sandy told me.’

Her mother nodded. ‘Yeah. He is.’

‘Did someone cut his hair? Does this look like George’s hair to you?’

Her mother was shaking her head. She went over to the worktop and lightly touched the hair, her hand shaking violently. ‘No. I mean yes. They cut his hair, they had to, but George never wears his hair this long anyway. And look.’ Suze pulled a jiffy bag out of a drawer and tipped out the contents. More hair. And it was the same.