Jessie Keane - The Make

‘This is Alfie,’ said George.

‘Right. Hi, Alfie.’ Harry was bewildered. The boy was too young to be one of George’s stable of loud, fun-filled mates. And . . . ‘Holy shit, what happened to that?’ he demanded, alarmed.

Alfie was still wrapped up in George’s jacket, and Harry could see that the arm had been slashed right through.

‘It’s nothing, we’re both fine,’ said George.

‘That’s not nothing. That’s your best jacket, you paid a lot for that jacket,’ said Harry. ‘What is that – a tear, or did someone swipe you with a razor?’

‘A knife,’ sighed George. ‘It was a knife.’

‘Fuck me, George, what happened?’

While Alfie sat silent, staring at the floor, George outlined the events of the evening.

‘You hit him with a scaffolding pole? Was he all right?’ asked Harry, flopping down on the sofa beside Alfie, who flinched.

George gave Harry a look that said are you kidding me? ‘I told you. The bastard was waving a knife around, threatening this poor kid. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t just walk away and leave them to it, could I? So I, yes, I admit it, I did hit the guy with the pole, and what I didn’t do, Harry, was hang around and wait for him to come round. He was okay when I left him, that’s all I can say. I didn’t stick around to enquire after his health and give him the chance to have another go, all right?’

‘So why’d you bring him back here?’ asked Harry, getting irritable. He was tired. He’d had a stressful evening. The last thing he wanted was to hear about George’s troubles.

‘What else could I do?’ asked George, glancing at the boy. Poor little sod. ‘He’s told me his name, but that’s all. He was shit-scared, Harry, I’m telling you. He’s in shock maybe. I couldn’t just let it go. You wouldn’t have. Would you?’

‘I think I would.’ Someone waving a knife around? Oh yes, he’d have let it go all right. He didn’t fancy being a dead hero.

‘No you wouldn’t. Look, Alfie can stay the night on the sofa bed, I’ll sort him out with a pillow and we’ve got a spare quilt, it’s no biggie.’

Harry looked at Alfie. He was almost effeminate in his beauty. He certainly didn’t look like any sort of threat. They weren’t going to get shot or shagged in their beds by this little squirt, that was for sure.

‘Okay,’ he sighed, and stood up. ‘I’m turning in.’

‘Good evening?’ asked George, belatedly remembering that Harry had been out with a client tonight too. He felt like an age had passed since he had last seen Harry, but it was just a few hours ago.

‘Oh, mega. Lucky I wasn’t gang-raped by a pack of rampant females. Then our girl attacked me in the Gents.’

‘Classy.’

‘I thought the same. I’ll square you up with the cash tomorrow, okay? Night, Alfie. Night, George,’ said Harry, and went yawning off to his bed.

Chapter 8

Deano Drax was furious. All his boys knew it, and that made them nervous. You never wanted Deano to be that way, because then he was likely to kick your bollocks out from under you, just for the fun of it.

Lefty Umbabwe wished he had some of the other boys here with him, but he didn’t. It was Tuesday – three days after the night-time fight in the alley – and he was alone with Deano in Deano’s country house, in the big sitting room with the inglenook fireplace and the blackened oak beams overhead. There was an Aga in the kitchen and a swimming pool out the back. It was a choice house, expensive; but then it would be. Deano owned Shakers in Soho, and he also controlled a huge proportion of the drug action on the streets. He wasn’t about to live like a pauper with all that loot passing through his hands on a regular basis.

Lefty stood on the rug in front of the roaring log fire. His head still hurt. It had throbbed like a bastard ever since that fucker had whacked him with the scaffolding pole on Saturday night. The cut was stapled now, and he’d been checked over in A & E. They’d kept him in overnight, fearing concussion, but he’d checked himself out early next morning – didn’t want no questions being asked. He’d live. Although . . . not for long, by the looks of it. Not with Deano sitting there staring at him like he was nothing but a useless pile of shit. Not with Deano’s favourite bitch on the missing list.

‘So what’s the story, Lefty? Hm? What’s the tale?’ asked Deano.

Deano had a small, fast-paced voice, husky and low, but then he didn’t have to shout because his very presence was bloody terrifying. He was sitting there, his huge bulk jammed into an ornately carved chair that looked like a throne. And Lefty thought that was fitting, sort of, because Deano was king of all he surveyed. The last thing anyone in their right mind would want to do was upset him.

And Lefty had upset him.

It wasn’t a very cheering thought, but he knew he had screwed up badly. He’d been supposedly keeping an eye on the boy – a service he’d often performed for Deano, with other less well-favoured boys – but this boy, who had been Deano’s big pash for months, had given him the slip.

Alfie was a stunning kid, Lefty had to admit that; and if he was a bender maybe he’d even like to get stuck in there too. Lefty had been pleased as punch with himself for sourcing such a peach for Deano’s delectation. Maybe at seventeen Alfie was a little – okay, a lot – older than Deano’s usual prey, but the beauty of it was that Alfie looked so much younger than his actual years. He could pass for fourteen, easy. Alfie had been everywhere with Deano over the past months, cosied up to him, sitting in a drug-induced haze on his lap – frankly, it had turned everyone’s stomach, but what could you do? This was Deano.

Lefty, for a brief, shining time, had been flavour of the month, the golden one. Now he was the crap one, the one who’d let Deano down, and he was in the shit up to his neck. For Deano, Alfie was it – the big obsession; and his anger at Alfie’s loss was making him ultra-pissed off with everyone in general and Lefty in particular. It was strange to realize that even a bastard nonce like Deano – a monster, really – had feelings, too.

Anyway, Alfie had nicked Lefty’s Oyster card and legged it. Maybe he hadn’t liked the idea of being shafted by this fat fuck, but that was beside the point. Whether the kid liked it or lumped it was not Lefty’s business. He had to keep the boy there, at Deano’s disposal.

He’d never forget chasing Alfie all through the tube system, catching teasing glimpses of him, then losing sight of him again, then spotting him once more. Then he’d lost him for real, and he thought, That’s it, I’m screwed. But no. He’d caught sight of the blond head weaving and bobbing along, half running, half stumbling through the concourse and up the escalator of Canary Wharf station, under its big, curved-glass canopy.

Alfie had staggered out of the station and run away to hide in an alley. He’d already spotted Lefty hot on his heels; he knew he shouldn’t have run off like that. Lefty was hopping mad with the boy, a madness further fuelled by his fear of Deano. When he cornered Alfie at last, Lefty was out of breath and wheezing like a bastard – Jesus, he had to try and cut down on the cans – and he’d whipped out the knife to show the little runt who was boss around here. But he’d found him. And at that point Lefty felt the situation was not beyond rescuing. He gave the boy a little glimpse of the blade, made him quiver, threw a great big scare into the youngster, which was good, stop him doing the same fucking thing all over again.

Deano wanted him.

Deano would have him.

What the hell did he care? And then that bastard had whacked him with the pole, and it had been goodnight nurse. When he’d come round, both boy and bastard had fled the scene and he’d limped off to the nearest hospital to get stitched up.