Jessie Keane - The Make

‘I’m hard at work this Friday night too.’ George glanced at Alfie. ‘You’ll be okay here on your own, won’t you Alf?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

Harry looked at Alfie. He didn’t understand all this with George and Alfie at all. Alfie was a posh kid and he ought to be at home, not roughing it here with him and George. But he was George’s friend, and Harry had had plenty of his friends bunking over in the past, so he couldn’t complain.

And why should he bother? Life was treating them pretty good right now. The escorting business was paying like a bastard; they were busy and there was cash rolling in wholesale, tax-free. George was ducking out of his job with Lorcan on a pretty regular basis, taking sickies as often as he could, then going off instead to escort and sexually service the lonely and sometimes downright desperate women of London town. Harry had even stopped signing on. They could stick their dole money. He had plenty. Yeah, life was pretty damned good. And he was – a little to his surprise – really looking forward to seeing Jackie Sullivan again.

‘So who’s yours?’ he asked George.

George whipped off another print-out. Looked at the paper.

‘Oh, she looks okay. Pretty little blonde. Sandy Cole.’

Chapter 17

Lefty Umbabwe hauled back and belted Mona a hard one right across the cheek. What else could he do? She was a loud-mouthed cow, always complaining. Lefty was beginning to regret his decision to take Gordon’s advice and draft in the club dancer to help him track down Alfie.

‘Ow! You fucker!’ yelled Mona.

‘Mona by name and moaner by nature, that’s you,’ shrieked Lefty, right in her face.

‘Listen, I’m shagged out here. My legs are worn to stumps, these bleedin’ heels ain’t meant for walking in. How much longer you planning to drag me around town, Lefty, uh?’ Mona grumbled, cupping her sore face with one hand. It was a bitterly cold night. Her breath was like fog in front of her face. Her toes were numb. All she wanted was to be home, indoors, in her own bed, nice and cosy.

‘What, you want me to tell Deano you didn’t want to help with this?’ demanded Lefty, playing his Ace card.

Mona frowned. How had she got into this? Her ma was babysitting her little girl Josie at Mona’s place, and that was where she wanted to be, too. Josie was only five; she needed her mama. Josie’s dad had taken off just as soon as he’d put Mona up the duff, but that was okay: she had her ma to help, she had her baby girl, she was happy enough.

But now Lefty had railroaded her into this. Okay, he was offering some bucks and she needed the dosh, but she didn’t even like Lefty. She certainly didn’t like Deano; she was shit-scared of that creep. But it was work, it was money, what could you do?

‘No, but . . . for fuck’s sake, Lefty, I’m done. I really am.’ She didn’t want it getting back to Deano that she was a reluctant helper, no way. Deano Drax was a horrible, pervy bastard, she didn’t want to go crossing him.

Lefty drew back. Rummaged in his big leather coat, found the can, took a pull. Mona was watching him with distaste. Bloody junkies. If Deano Drax was so damned keen on the boy, he shouldn’t have left this butane-sniffing fool in charge of him. And look at the state of him. Stapled head, greyish, sweat-smeared skin. He looked like death warmed over and served up as fresh. And they’d looked for the boy, oh God how they’d looked, searching for any trace of him and the man who’d snatched him away. They’d questioned cabbies, late bus drivers, tried down the tube, they’d even done the nearest trimmed and tinselled YMCA, but Lefty didn’t seem to be finished, even now.

‘This is hopeless,’ Mona told him, trying to keep her tone light and reasonable. She didn’t want another smack in the chops. ‘Come on, Lefty honey, can’t you see it’s no good?’

Lefty said nothing.

‘Look,’ said Mona, pushing forward her advantage. Personally she shuddered over what had become of the boy. Probably he had been picked up by another stinking nonce, and if he was ever found at all it would be on waste ground, stone-cold dead. She didn’t like to think about the boy too much, it made her feel bad. ‘Come on, Lefty. You’ve done your best.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Lefty. ‘Best? That ain’t good enough. Not by a mile. The only thing that’s gonna work in this situation, babe, is a result. And that result is to find the boy. Find Alfie. That’s all that’s gonna work here.’

‘Oh come on . . .’ Mona wheedled.

‘No!’ Lefty grabbed her arm, his fingers digging in viciously. Mona cried out as her upper body was hauled in horribly close to his. He smelled sour, disgusting. Junkies didn’t wash. His eyes looked demented and bloodshot as they glared into hers. His teeth were clenched in a grimace of utter determination. Suddenly she realized that Lefty Umbabwe frightened her.

‘Lefty . . .’ she protested faintly.

‘No. You listen up, girl. You think a cheap whore like you’s going to lay down the law to Lefty Umbabwe? We go on looking. If we don’t find him tonight then we come back and try tomorrow night, and the night after that, and the night after that, you got me? We find him. That’s all there is to it, girl. No other option. None at all.’

Mona nodded her head slowly. She was really in the shit here, being linked up to this lunatic.

‘Sure, Lefty,’ she said. ‘Let’s do that, okay? Let’s do that.’

Lefty released her arm. Mona rubbed at it gingerly. It would be all colours of the rainbow tomorrow, she knew it, and her cheek still stung painfully from the blow he’d inflicted. Bastard. But she had to keep on his good side. He was still looking at her face. She raised an unsteady smile with an effort. She didn’t want to cross him. Most especially, she didn’t ever want to show up on Deano Drax’s radar.

‘We’ll keep looking,’ she smiled.

Lefty nodded sharply, satisfied that he’d put his point across.

He took another long toke from the can, and together they walked on.

Gracie

DECEMBER

Chapter 18

21 December

Gracie had never visited anyone in intensive care before, so she didn’t know what to expect. Claude offered to drive them to the hospital, but Gracie said that she’d drive; and she was relieved when he said he was off down the pub to meet his mates, leaving them to visit George alone.

She found a stranger lying there, his head shaven and heavily bandaged, attached to a multitude of machines. There was a tube in his mouth, another in his throat, a thing pumping air into his chest. There was a steady beep going up from one of the monitors and there was a blood-filled tube going into his wrist, with a dial endlessly turning.

They had to tap in a code on a keypad to enter the ward, where there were just six beds in a big, overheated room, each one occupied by pale, corpse-like figures hovering in the nether world between life and death.

Gracie could smell death in here.

Suze sat down on one side of George’s bed; she sat on the other. There was a small, dark-haired nurse checking read-outs, and she gave them a cheery smile.

‘They have one nurse to every patient in here,’ said Suze to Gracie.

Gracie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She stared at George’s closed eyes, his bruised and pallid face. He was still bulky – he always had been; as square and squat as a barn door, that was George – but now his bulk seemed soft, spongy, and his fingers looked swollen.

Gracie swallowed hard and remarked on this.

‘His kidneys packed up,’ said Suze, blinking back tears. ‘That’s why they’ve got him on dialysis.’ She was stroking the back of George’s hand. There was a little sensor clipped on one chubby finger, monitoring vital signs.