Authors: Jessie Keane
The Make (7 page)
NOVEMBER
Some time after Laura Dixon had shagged him shitless in the Gents at her divorce party, Harry was crossing Covent Garden when he spotted his former client, the cougar – Jackie Sullivan – browsing among the blooms outside a florist. He stopped walking and stared. He was getting to be an old hand at the escorting business now; he had plenty of dosh; he was happy.
It was cold today. Freezing. His breath plumed like smoke with every exhalation. The cougar was wrapped up in a white fake-fur hat and matching gloves. She wore black boots and was carrying a Kelly bag. Her coat looked expensive, patterned in a large black-and-white dog’s-tooth design. Harry thought she looked adorable; he started to smile, and approached her as she halted to stare in the window at a display of red hothouse roses.
‘Hey,’ he said, touching her shoulder.
She turned. Her face was the same; small, sharply formed, anxious of expression. Her pale denim-blue eyes stared at him with something like panic.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ said Harry, beaming.
‘Um . . . hello,’ she said uncertainly, ‘How are you?’
Another woman came up beside her. This one was large, hard-faced, dark-haired and wearing a Burberry trench. Harry had thought the cougar was alone.
‘Jack darling, I don’t like the red,’ she said in a hectoring tone of voice. ‘I much prefer the cream – so much softer, don’t you think?’ The brunette’s eyes, full of curiosity, were now resting on Harry. There was a predatory half-smile on her crimson-painted mouth. ‘And who’s this?’
The cougar’s cheeks flushed the same hectic red that Harry had found so charming on the night they’d spent together.
‘Oh, this is . . .’ she hesitated.
‘Harry,’ he supplied for her, shaking the woman’s hand.
‘He’s a friend of my daughter’s,’ said Jackie quickly. Harry glanced at her. The blue eyes looked back at him without expression. ‘They were at uni together.’
Harry felt a stab of hurt at that. Like he was a dirty secret. Then he remembered her pushing him out through the door into the dawn, and realized that was precisely how she saw him – as something shameful and disgusting, to be concealed.
He shouldn’t have touched her shoulder. Shouldn’t have smiled at her. Shouldn’t have breezed over here like she’d be pleased to see him. It was patently obvious that she wasn’t.
Of
course
she wasn’t. Why would she be?
‘This is Camilla,’ said Jackie formally. ‘A client of mine.’
He understood that Jackie was marking out her territory, drawing boundaries. Jackie was an interior designer. She was posh. She spoke
like thet.
Like one of the nobs. She was
way
above him in the social scale of things; he was nothing but a good-looking chancer, living on benefits and selling his nubile young bod for undeclared amounts of money. He felt he’d made a major error, made a complete bloody fool of himself. He should have been more careful, more discreet.
‘Well, it was nice seeing you again, Mrs Sullivan,’ he said.
‘You too, Harry,’ she said, very polite.
Harry looked into her eyes again. Saw nothing there, no small spark of the connection that had been there on the night he’d stayed. He nodded once, then turned and walked away.
‘Emma’s a very lucky girl,’ said Camilla, her eyes following Harry as he walked off. ‘What, darling?’ asked Jackie vaguely, looking with intense concentration at the cream-coloured blooms that Camilla favoured.
‘What an exquisite young man.’ Camilla was still watching Harry, admiring the luscious fall of his shoulder-length auburn hair, his wide shoulders beneath the black leather bomber jacket, the tight fit of the stonewashed jeans on his long, long legs. Finally he was lost in the crowds. Camilla gave Jackie a louche look. ‘Imagine waking up to something as wonderful as
that
in the morning.’
‘Yes,’ said Jackie with a cool smile. ‘Imagine. A mixture of the gerbera and the roses, do you think? Yes?’
‘Lefty in?’ Stew asked Gordon, who was policing the door of Deano Drax’s fetish club in Soho. Stew had nipped over from the strip joint over the road. They were both doormen, and they had become pals, so they often stood out in the alley beside the industrial-sized wheelie bins and had a smoke and a chat.
The immaculately attired Gordon ushered in a few more punters, stopping a couple, giving them a quick frisk. Perversions were all very well, but weapons were a no-no inside Shakers. Satisfied, he motioned the punters through into the dark, pulsing body of the club.
Gordon gestured for another of the bouncers to take over the door. He moved to one side, taking Stew Baker with him. Stew was a solid man, in build and in character, one of the best, a good mate to Gordon – and to the hapless Lefty, too.
‘You mean you ain’t
heard
about Lefty?’ asked Gordon over the roar of the club’s huge sound system.
‘Heard what?’
Gordon shook his head. ‘Man, you missed out on a treat.’ He explained about Lefty’s miscalculation with Deano’s latest young squeeze. ‘He is
deep
in the manure, I’m telling you. Deano is
very
taken with that boy and he’s spitting blood over this. You know Deano – he just
loves
to terrorize anybody smaller than he is. And, let’s face it, nearly everybody
is
smaller than Deano – including these boys he likes,
and
Lefty.’
Stew said nothing. He felt pity for Lefty’s predicament, but then if you mixed with shit one thing was certain – sooner or later, it was going to stick to your skin. He had no time for nonces, and Deano Drax was a bad one. He looked back into the club’s dark, gaping maw. Sometimes he thought it was like the mouth of hell in there. He’d looked inside it once, and there were dingy back rooms for orgies; dungeons too. He was glad he worked over the road in a nice straightforward strip club and not here. A few tits and bums never hurt anyone. He didn’t mind that, or the lap-dancing places – hell, live and let live. But people crawling around on dog chains, being pissed on or beaten and tied up for entertainment? Nah, he drew the line right there. He thought that Shakers told you everything you wanted to know about its owner’s mind-set.
‘Go through to the bar, see Chippy, he’ll sort you out with a drink,’ offered Gordon. Things were getting busy on the door and Gordon had to get back to work. People were queuing up now, weirdos wearing skin-tight plastic and fetish boots with heels so amazingly high they could barely stagger along. Which was the whole point, of course. If you couldn’t walk, you could be caught. You were easy meat.
‘Nah, that’s okay,’ said Stew hastily. ‘Got to get back. Catch ya later, Gord.’
Stew left the club and was halfway over the road when he saw Deano Drax’s big motor with its black-tinted windows pull into the alley at the side of the fetish club. He kept walking, tried not to stare but, despite himself, he couldn’t resist a look. Deano, massive and bear-like, was getting out of the back of the car. Huge bald head; neat goatee beard. Stew’s face wrinkled with disgust. That fat smarmy-faced nonce made you feel sick just to see him, swaggering about the place like he owned the whole damned world. In the shadows of the alley it was hard to make out much, but Stew was sure there were others with him, two smaller figures. Maybe kids, maybe not.
Stew shuddered and averted his eyes. He thought of Lefty, who was out looking right now for Deano’s
grand amour
. He didn’t think Lefty was a bad bloke at heart. Actually, he’d been fine until he started on the hash and the E and – worse – on the butane, and after that . . . well, now his brains were screwed, his lungs were black lace and he was Deano’s own personal lapdog, bought and paid for. Deano said jump, Lefty said how high? That being the case, Stew hoped, no he
prayed,
that the golden-haired boy he’d seen hanging round Drax a month or so ago, sometimes staggering a little like a crippled foal, sometimes staring around with drugged and bewildered eyes, Stew
prayed
that the boy was long gone, back home where he’d be safe, or that someone kind and good was helping him right now.
Kid needs a guardian angel
, he thought.
I just hope to fuck he’s got one.
George sat in his local café, across the table from Alfie, the morning after their run-in with Lefty Umbabwe. George had a big smile pasted across his face. He couldn’t help it. The kid had devoured a plate of Full English in record time, knocked back two teas and two rounds of toast, and clearly wasn’t about to throw in the towel yet.
‘More toast?’ offered George.
Alfie nodded. He still hadn’t spoken much, apart from to give his name. That bothered George. He looked even younger in daylight, and that bothered George too. To think of a kid like this wandering about on the streets. And what had been going on between Alfie and that bastard waving the knife around?
George lifted a finger to Bert the café owner. ‘Can we get some more toast over here, when you’re ready. And two more teas?’ He had no trouble making himself heard over the hubbub of noise in here. George had a voice like a foghorn – and a laugh like a bronze gong.
While Bert got busy with the toaster, George thought back and tried to recall what the man in the long black leather coat had been yelling at Alfie before George had decided he was crazy enough to intervene. Something about ‘the man’. That was what the man wanted . . .? It was driving George nuts. He’d drunk hardly a thing that night, but still he couldn’t remember fuck-all. Mostly because he’d been scared right out of his brains.
‘Alfie?’ he said.
There were other patrons in the café; it was a good place, one George and Harry often frequented. It was busy, bustling with life. Outside it was cold, but in here it was hot, everyone talking and laughing and eating, the windows steamed up, the coffee machine hissing and frothing; it felt cosy.
Alfie looked up at George’s face.
‘How old are you, Alfie?’
This was a point that really bothered George. The boy looked very young. He must be a minor. He shouldn’t be out on his own like this. Shit,
anyone
could have picked him up, and what George really ought to do was take him to the nearest cop shop, see about getting him home. He had said as much to Alfie earlier this morning, and had been alarmed to find Alfie halfway down the stairs half an hour later. George had caught up with him. ‘No police!’ Alfie had shouted. ‘No police!’ Five minutes more, and the kid would have been out on the streets again, prey for any loitering monster. It made George’s blood run to ice, the thought of that.
So – no police. Not
yet
, anyway. That was cool with George. He didn’t want involvement with the filth if he could avoid it, anyway; he’d done dodgy deals around town a few times, fly-pitching and ripping off a few tourists, minor stuff, but it was best to keep a low profile. Alfie was just staring back at George with those big baby-blues that seemed to hold so many secrets. He said nothing.
‘Come on, Alf. Straight up, how old are you?’ George persisted.
‘Fourteen,’ said Alfie with a quick grin.
‘Holy
shit
.’
‘
Kidding
,’ said Alfie with a roll of his eyes at George’s gullibility.
George tipped his head to one side and looked Alfie in the eye. George played a mean hand of cards. The Doyle poker gene had not passed him by. He was ace at reading people’s reactions, but angel-faced young Alfie flummoxed him. He could read his accent, no problem. Well-bred. Nicely rounded vowels. From a good background, that much was obvious. So what had he been doing, wandering around the dangerous night streets with someone waving a knife in his face?
‘Which is it then?’ he asked. ‘Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? What?’
‘Seventeen. That’s the God’s honest, George.’
George stared across at Alfie. ‘You going to tell me what happened with that guy, Alf? The one in the alley?’
Alfie’s smile dropped away. The shutters went down. He said nothing.
‘Alf?’ prompted George gently.
Alfie exhaled sharply and sat back in his chair. He looked into George’s eyes. ‘Please let me stay, George,’ he said. ‘Please.’
George pushed back his chair and leaned back too, puffing out his cheeks with exasperation. Bert came and put more toast and tea in front of them. George nodded his thanks and looked at Alfie.
‘Seventeen?’ he asked. Alfie could easily pass for younger, with that puckish, elfin, Peter Pan quality, the big eyes, the golden mop of hair; he’d look twenty when he was thirty-five. He’d look fifty when he was ninety.
Alfie nodded and dived into the toast.
George felt a smile forming on his face again. ‘Seventeen, with a tapeworm.’
He watched the boy eat. There was something about the boy eating that just made George feel happy. Maybe he was a compulsive feeder – certainly he fed
himself
with a vengeance. But it was more than that. George knew the state Alfie had been in last night. Shaking. Shot away. His eyes huge from the after-effects of some drug or other. And then, during the night, the boy’d had nightmares. George had heard him crying out, rambling on about dungeons and shit. He had tried to ignore it, but it had gone on, and on, and he’d thought, fuck it, he’s going to wake Harry up in a minute; Harry is not going to be a happy bunny.
So he’d gone through to the lounge, and there had been Alfie, curled up in a corner of the sofa bed, sobbing. George had sat down in his vest and boxers and said
hey kid, what’s the matter? You okay?
And then, because Alfie had seemed so distraught, he had put his arm around him and hugged him. Saying over and over,
it’s okay, hush, it’s all right, what was it, a bad dream? It’s okay, you’re safe.
After about an hour, Alfie had lain down again, and finally drifted back into sleep. George had felt tears prick his own eyes, he was so affected by Alfie’s distress. George had sat there, watching him for a long time. Watching
over
him, sort of.
Like he was doing now. Caring for him, feeding him, and feeling glad that the haunted expression in his eyes was starting to go.
‘Say I can stay. Please,’ said Alfie again, past a mouthful of toast.
George stared at Alfie. ‘It’s a small flat,’ he said.
‘
Please
.’
Harry wouldn’t be happy. Said the place was too small to swing a cat anyway, but with
three
of them in there . . . and fuck it, what if Cuthill found out? He’d stick the rent up at the very least, or – worst-case scenario – boot their arses out the door. And then where would they be? He’d be damned if he’d go back home again and watch that creepo Claude pawing his mum day and night.
Yuck.
‘Okay, you can stay,’ George heard himself saying, frightened that if he said no Alfie was just going to leg it, vanish into the warren of streets and never be seen again.
He’d have to square it with Harry, that was all. It would work out. It would have to.
