Authors: Jessie Keane
The Make (8 page)
‘You
are
joking,’ said Harry.
‘Nope. Deadly serious, my man,’ said George, handing Harry a sheet of A4 paper that had just been coughed out by the printer beside his small computer station in his shambolic bedroom. ‘Your assignment – should you choose to accept it,’ said George, sending a collusive grin to Alfie, who was sprawled out on the bed watching all this going on, ‘is to escort Ms Melissa Whitehead to a family wedding. She’s a bit of a dog, I grant you, but she needs an escort for this do, if she ain’t going to look like a total lost cause to her nearest and dearest.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Harry, staring at the photo. It wasn’t pretty. ‘If she wants a shag, I’m
definitely
not going to be up to it.’
‘Unkind, unkind,’ tutted George. ‘And speaking of such delicate matters, you know that cougar, the one you
also
worried you wouldn’t be able to do the deed for . . .?’
Harry looked up. ‘Who, Jackie?’
‘See, you’re on first-name terms. And, my boy, your face lit up at the very mention of her. I think it’s
lurve
.’
‘Don’t be a prick,’ said Harry. ‘What she say?’
‘Needs you – and no one else, I might add –
you
specifically, to escort her to another do.’
‘Oh.’ After the Covent Garden incident, Harry thought she’d never want to see him again. He felt cheered, all of a sudden, and Melissa Whitehead didn’t seem quite so daunting after all.
‘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.’
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.
DECEMBER
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.
And he’s not even breathing for himself
, thought Gracie, feeling sick.
‘What . . . what happened to him?’ she asked Suze.
‘Someone done him over. We found him at the gate. There’s a crack in his skull. They had to drain off some fluid that was pressing on his brain.’ Her voice caught and she clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob. ‘He’s been like this ever since we found him.’
‘He’s going to be all right,’ said Gracie, surprising herself with the need to give comfort to this woman who had never thought to comfort
her.
Suze glared at her. ‘Yeah? You got that in writing, have you? That’s
bullshit.
They told me to expect the worst when they brought him in here. Have you any idea what that’s like, to have someone say that to you about your boy?’
‘He’s getting the best possible care,’ insisted Gracie. What was Suze attacking
her
for? She was here to help, that was all.
‘There could be
brain damage
, for God’s sake. Someone knocked the
crap
out of him. He could be a
vegetable
for the rest of his life, and you’re telling me he’s going to be fine. How do you
know
that he’s going to be fine?’
Gracie said nothing. It was clear that Suze needed someone to kick off at. She didn’t seem willing to do that with Claude, but – as always – she was quite happy to let her ire rain down upon Gracie’s head.
‘I don’t even know what you’re doing here,’ said Suze venomously, still glaring across at her.
Neither do I.
Gracie looked at George lying there. She had this
other
image fixed in her brain. Chunky little George at five on the beach at Westward Ho, wearing black bathers and a vast grin. Way back before Mum and Dad had parted company and split the family in half.
‘Has George been dating Sandy long?’
‘Not long, no.’ Suze sniffed and fished out a hankie from her bag. She honked loudly.
It felt so strange to Gracie, to be sitting here. This was
George
lying here in bits. And there, across the bed from her, was her mother, Suze. It was surreal. But she’d had to come. She
had
to be here.
‘Months, days, years?’ she coaxed. ‘What?’
‘Couple of months, she says, although George has never mentioned it. She’s keen.’
‘She must be, she’s calling herself his fiancée.’
Suze’s eyes opened wide with surprise. ‘Is she? Well, that’s a turn-up. Fiancée? Well, then she must be. You’d have thought he would have told me though. But then – you know what George is like.’ Suze’s mouth twisted in bitterness. ‘But no, you don’t, do you? You didn’t bother to keep in touch.’
Gracie stared across at Suze. ‘Excuse me, but it was
you
who didn’t keep in touch. I wrote to you. A lot, as I remember. That first year after you and Dad split.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘I
did
.’
‘Well I never got a bloody thing.’
‘Oh come on.’ Gracie sighed. Her mother had always been a fantasist, embellishing dull reality with drama and excitement. They were so unalike, it was as if she’d been dropped to earth from another planet.
‘I didn’t.’ Suze was glaring a challenge at Gracie now. ‘You never cared about me after you and your dad left. You never gave a
shit.
’
‘I did. I still do. Or else why would I be here?’
‘Pass,’ sniffed Suze.
‘And while we’re on the subject of not caring, what about when Dad died? What about his
funeral
? You didn’t come to that. Neither did George or Harry.’
‘Look, I’m not a hypocrite. I couldn’t stand there lamenting the loss of your dad while I still hated him. And, as for Harry and George, I thought it would upset them.’ Suddenly Suze’s eyes were shifty. ‘So I didn’t tell them.’
‘You didn’t . . .’ Gracie’s jaw hit the floor. Her voice raised a notch. ‘You didn’t
tell
them their father had died?’
‘Can you keep it down?’ said the nurse, hurrying past. ‘They can hear you, you know. Every word, sometimes. So no arguing.’
‘Sorry,’ said Gracie.
She looked at George. Shot a glare at Suze and hissed: ‘So you’re telling me this poor sod’s lying here at death’s door, and he don’t even know his father’s gone?’
‘I couldn’t tell them,’ said Suze, lowering her voice. Her eyes were desperate. ‘They blamed me when he went and took you with him. If I’d told them he’d died . . .’
‘It all comes back to you, don’t it?’ said Gracie, shaking her head. ‘Everything’s about you. As usual.’
Suze made an agitated move with her shoulders. ‘Look, can we skip this now?’
‘Yeah. For now.’
‘You don’t know how hard it’s been,’ whined Suze.
‘Spare me.’
‘Christ, Gracie Doyle. Cold as fucking
ice
, that’s you. You haven’t changed a bit. You’re just like your dad; all you know is bets and odds and tells. Real life don’t matter.’
That stung.
Gracie drew breath to answer, to snap back a scathing retort, but at that moment one of George’s steadily beeping monitors started emitting a high-pitched whine instead. The nurse was there instantly, pressing a button.
‘Go and wait outside, will you?’ she said quickly.
‘What’s—?’ started Suze.
‘Outside,’ said the nurse, shoving her away.
And suddenly there were other people rushing in, and Gracie and Suze were swept out into the corridor. The people flocking around George’s bed were wheeling machines, attaching paddles to his chest, and finally Gracie and Suze understood what was going on here. George’s heart had stopped beating.
