Jessie Keane - The Make

‘Not until I’m wasted,’ she grinned, and slung back another mojito.

They fell out of the building at just after twelve, along with a load of others who were all shouting and cheering like loonies.

I’m surrounded by bloody idiots, thought George.

He hailed a cab. ‘Southwark Bridge, mate,’ he said, and it was at precisely that moment that Jemma threw up all the drinks she’d spent the evening shoving down her throat. Vomit splattered the open back door of the cab and the driver rounded in fury.

‘Fuck off, I’m not having her in my cab,’ he said, and he reached back, slammed the door shut, and drove off.

‘Fuck that,’ said George.

‘Oh Michael you’ve been so good . . .’ Jemma was now telling George, turning a sick-streaked chin up towards him as if inviting a kiss.

George flinched back, disgusted.

‘Show’s over,’ he said angrily. ‘It’s gone twelve and I’m about to turn back into a ruddy pumpkin. I’m George, okay?’ He looked for an orange light in the gloom and was relieved to see one coming near. He hailed the cab and it swerved in to the kerb.

‘Southwark Bridge please, pal,’ he said, and hoped that this time Jemma didn’t throw up. He shoved her into the back, and closed the door.

Jemma started clawing at the window. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’ she mouthed at him.

‘No luv. Need a walk,’ he said, and the cab pulled away. Thank Christ for that, he thought.

If there was one thing he hated, it was the sight of a woman falling-down drunk. His stomach was complaining loudly after an evening of prissy little tartlet jobbies and mineral water. He longed to get some proper food down him, but it was too late to find a chippy. The crowds had departed, and he was alone in the crisp, chilly night air, a heaven full of stars above him and the open road in front. He breathed in deeply, relieved that was over.

His conscience niggled at him a bit. Maybe he should have seen her home to her door, but he thought bailing out when he did was the safer option. Next thing you knew, she’d be inviting him in for coffee, and he couldn’t have got it up for the skanky mare if his life had depended on it.

Then he saw another one – a girl in jeans and a pale top, crouched just around the corner of a building in an alley, obviously drunk out of her skull, her arms over her head. He walked on. He’d had a gutful of Jemma and her type for one night. But . . . his footsteps slowed. He could hear the girl crying. She was all alone.

He stopped walking.

Stood there, thinking about it.

Ah, fuck it.

He started to walk back to ask if she was okay as it was pretty obvious that she wasn’t. And it was then that he wished he’d just kept on walking, because now he saw there was someone else in the alley with her: a tall, stick-thin darkish man in a floor-length black leather coat.

Shit.

In the yellow light of the streetlamp he saw the glint of a long blade in the man’s hand. A thrill of fear shot all the way up George’s neck to the top of his skull. Suddenly all his senses were on high alert. The man was shrieking at the girl, looming over her threateningly.

George looked around. There wasn’t a soul about. No cops when you needed them, no fucking cavalry pounding down the street; just him – and he wished he was a thousand miles away.

‘You no-good bitch, you think you got the right to say yes or no when I’ve told you the way it’s gonna go? You don’t ever run out on him. You keep him sweet, okay? You keep him sweet or I’ll cut you, cunt, I’ll cut you bad. Give you a spell in the correction room, how’d you like that? You listenin’ to me?’

The girl was crying, shielding her head with her upraised arms. George caught a glint of thick pale hair. With no intention whatsoever of doing so, he stepped forward and said: ‘Hey!’

The man standing over the girl looked round but the girl didn’t move. She seemed paralysed with fear.

‘Hey,’ repeated George more quietly, wondering what the fuck he was doing.

There was a flash of teeth in the gloom of the alley. The man was smiling, like he couldn’t believe George had been so foolish as to intervene. Well, that was fair. George couldn’t believe it himself.

‘Walk on, bro,’ said the man, the smile dropping in an instant. ‘You just keep on walkin’. We got a bit of business here and you don’t want to get involved in it, I’m telling you.’

But George stood there, wanting his feet to move but somehow unable to make them. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Now the man turned to fully face George. He was holding a knife in his left hand. It glinted in the cold sodium glare of the light.

Fuck it, this is crazy.

‘Hey! Move on. I won’t tell you again.’

He’s right. Do the sensible thing.

George started to walk on. Whatever was going on back there, it was not his business. Best to keep out of it. He quickened his pace. Yeah, he was going to get home, have a shower, bung something in the microwave, then go to bed and forget this whole frigging disaster movie of an evening. He passed a building swathed in scaffolding, like the ecto-skeleton of some huge insect. A few sticks and stuff were piled up just around the corner – insulation material, some discarded scraps of polythene billowing like ghosts in the faint, chilly breeze.

Sticks.

George paused and looked at the sticks. And . . . there were scaffolding poles too, just left there. He picked up a stick. Picked up a scaffolding pole, and turned on his heel.

Oh shit this is so stupid, Georgie boy, what are you thinking?

He went back along the street. The bastard was still there, flapping his arms, waving the knife at the terrified girl, shouting and bellowing. George felt as if his bowels were about to let go as he broke into a run and headed like a bullet straight for the man.

But the man heard him coming. George was heavy and wasn’t known for his lightness of tread. When he hit top gear, he made a lot of noise. He saw the man turn, and a panicky oh shit gonna die shot like wildfire through George’s brain. He let out a jittery roar that was half fear, half anger as his pace picked up and he collided with the man like half a ton of frozen meat. The man flew back and down and hit the cobbles like a sack of shit.

‘You motherfucker!’ he shrieked.

George piled in. His eyes were almost entirely focused on the knife. He felt a vicious kick land on his thigh, and he knew that later it would hurt, but right now he couldn’t feel a thing.

‘Arsehole!’ he yelled, and struck the man a hard blow on the knife hand with the stick.

The man was wriggling like an eel, cursing, throwing out a string of expletives.

‘Yeah?’ ranted George, so hyped on adrenaline he didn’t know what he was saying. ‘How’d you like this, you cunt?’

He wanted to get that knife away from him. That was all he was focused on, but the man was like rubber, bouncing around while George felt like dead weight. He felt the cold hiss of the thing go past his cheek and thought: My God he nearly got me then. I could have bled to death right here in this alley, and for what? For a stranger. For something that ain’t even my business.

George dropped the stick and clamped down on the hand holding the knife. He squeezed, pummelled the man’s fingers on the cobbles. The man was shouting, squirming and cursing and telling him that he was dead, dead and buried.

‘Yeah, well, I’ll see you in hell then, fucker,’ roared George, not even sure what was coming out of his mouth.

He was so hyped up.

He was terrified.

How did I get into this?

The man got his hand free and was halfway up, struggling under George’s superior weight but coming back with all guns blazing. He swished the cold night air, slicing through it with the blade, forcing George to flinch back. The man was grinning again; he knew he was getting the upper hand. George could feel his resolve weakening, could feel the malevolence rising off this fucker like mist off a bog.