The Make (11 page)

Chapter 25

‘Pick a card,’ said George. ‘Any card.’

Alfie smiled and rolled his eyes. He was sprawled out on George’s bed while George sat at the computer, ostensibly taking escort bookings but in fact getting a little bored with that and shuffling a deck of cards instead.

George and his tricks.

But Alfie obediently selected a card.

‘Seven of hearts, right?’ said George.

‘How do you
do
that?’ It was the seven of hearts.

‘Years of practice, my boy,’ said George, flicking through the cards with eye-watering speed. ‘We’ll go down the caff in a sec, okay? I’ll tidy this little lot away and then we’ll get a fry-up down us. Yes?’

Alfie nodded happily. This was their ritual. Harry went out about his business in the mornings, while George caught up with the escort biz; then George and Alfie went off down the caff. Sometimes Harry joined them there, sometimes not. Alfie loved being here with George and Harry. ‘You going in to work tonight?’ he asked.

George nodded. Yeah, he’d better show willing, he supposed. ‘You be okay here on your own?’

He still didn’t like leaving Alfie in the flat alone. He was sort of afraid that one night he was going to come back and find that Alfie had fled back to wherever he had come from. Cleared out his stash and maybe Harry’s too – even though Alfie had never shown himself to be light-fingered, he would need money, of course he would – and gone. And if that happened, George would be very worried. Alfie needed support, needed his friends around him. At nights . . . oh and it broke George’s heart . . . sometimes at night Alfie had terrible nightmares, and he would wake crying and George would have to hug him, reassure him. If he wasn’t there to do that for Alfie, who would? Poor little bastard.

If Alfie went . . . well, George admitted to himself that he would in fact be
more
than worried. He would be very sad, too. He was getting used to having cheery, sweet little Alfie around the place, and he would miss him if he was gone.

‘Won’t Harry be here tonight?’ asked Alfie, cutting through his thoughts.

‘Nope. Harry’s got a job on.’

‘Escorting?’

‘You got it.’

‘Not the cougar again?’

‘I’m going to have to watch you,’ said George with a wink and a grin. ‘You’re getting good.’

‘What’s going
on
with those two?’

George shrugged. Jackie Sullivan had called on Harry’s services four times in the last two weeks. He had jokily asked Harry about it, said what was she, insatiable or something? But Harry was close-mouthed about it. Just said she needed an escort, she was a nice lady, she felt safe with him, was that okay? Did George have a
problem
with that? George said he had no problem at all, he just hoped that Harry wasn’t falling in love with the daft old mare.

‘Don’t call her that,’ snapped Harry, and blushed.

George took the hint and dropped it. Harry was all grown up, after all. And anyway, George had his own clients to contend with,
plus
he was trying to keep Lorcan sweet by pitching in to work on the odd occasion: no sense taking the piss
too
much.

George put the pack of cards in his pocket, answered a couple of emails, and switched off the computer.

‘Okay, boy, let’s get some meat down us,’ he said, and Alfie jumped off the bed like an excited pet poodle when its owner says ‘walkies’.

He
loved
being with George.

Harry was across town, having breakfast with Jackie Sullivan in her kitchen; croissants and good fresh strong black coffee. Several times a week now he popped in to see Jackie. It wasn’t work, and for God’s sake of course he wasn’t going to charge her for it, that wasn’t even mentioned. He just came to see her because . . . oh fuck it, he just liked to see her.

They were friends.

They sat at the table and chatted and ate. She told him what projects she was working on, showed him stuff from her daughter Emma who worked in PR in Hong Kong, asked him what he was doing with himself . . . hours passed, they just flew.

They
had
been lovers, but that was never mentioned or even hinted at any more. Harry knew that she was embarrassed by what had happened between them on the first night they met, and he was diplomatic enough never to bring it up in the course of conversation.

Harry was a little puzzled over exactly why he so enjoyed this woman’s company. Was she some sort of mother substitute? Suze wasn’t anyone’s idea of ‘parent of the year’, so maybe it was that? But he doubted it. He had just clicked with Jackie; he
liked
her. There was no sexual spark there, not really, although there was a definite connection. Their sleeping together had been a one-off, an aberration, not to be repeated. Neither of them wanted that.

‘Can you come over for dinner on Friday night?’ asked Jackie, pouring him more coffee.

‘What’s the occasion?’ asked Harry. He’d escorted her to various parties now, and he was getting used to it all. But by now they’d developed a code. When she said, ‘Can I book you’, that meant work. When she said, ‘Come over’, she meant as a friend.

Jackie beamed at him, her pale eyes lighting up. ‘It’s so exciting,’ she said, almost hugging herself with glee.

Harry looked at her and remembered the woman he had first seen weeks ago, shivering with nerves and wrecked with grief. Jackie’d come a long way since they’d first met, and he thought that maybe he’d been instrumental in helping her get over the intensity of her loss. He hoped so. He liked to see this big smile on her face; he loved to see her so animated, so happy.

‘Well come on,’ he said, grinning himself now. Her joy was infectious. ‘Spill the beans.’

‘It’s Emma. She’s coming home, and I want you to meet her.’

Harry felt the smile freeze on his face.

‘Oh,’ he said flatly.

‘What do you mean, “oh”?’ asked Jackie, half laughing, delighted with her news and wondering why he wasn’t instantly delighted too. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? She’s only back for a fortnight, of course, but isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry. He put down his coffee cup. ‘Yeah, it is wonderful, but . . . Jackie, I can’t meet her.’

Jackie stared at him. ‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Why
not
?’ Harry gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Jackie. I’m an escort. I’ve been squiring you around town for money. Do you honestly think your daughter is going to understand that? Much less actually
like
it?’

‘Well . . .’ Jackie shrugged her shoulders. ‘All right, we won’t tell her that’s what you do.’

‘Then what
will
we tell her? The same lies you’ve been telling all your friends and colleagues? That I’m an architect or some damned thing? What about that woman in Covent Garden? She thinks I’m a friend of Emma’s from uni. Jackie . . . this is all going to get too tangled. Too bloody
messy.
’

Jackie’s smile had faded while he spoke. ‘But . . . I’d love you to meet her.’

‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’ Harry looked awkward. ‘But think about it. It won’t work. The escorting . . . well, that’s business. But meeting Emma, that makes it something else. I’m very fond of you, but I don’t want to get into this, lying all the time, I really hate it.’

Jackie looked stricken now. ‘I didn’t know you felt like that.’

‘I just don’t want to blur the lines, that’s all,’ said Harry.

‘But haven’t we already done that? You come and eat breakfast with me. Would you feel better about that if you charged me for your time . . .?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘I’d just like you to meet Emma, that’s all.’

Harry stood up. ‘Jackie, no. It’s not going to happen.’

Jackie stood up too, her eyes hurt, her mouth trembling. ‘You’ll still escort me tonight?’ she asked, not looking at his face.

‘Yes.’

‘Because that’s business. Because you’re being
paid.
’ Now her eyes flicked up to his face. She was looking at him with dislike. ‘Okay. So what if I pay you for next Friday? Book your services?’

‘Then I’d have to turn down the booking,’ said Harry. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jackie snatched up the cups and turned away, crashing them into the sink.

‘I’d better go,’ said Harry unhappily.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn around.

Harry left.

Chapter 26

‘We’re wasting our fucking time here. Don’t you think, Lefty?’

Mona was still living up to her name, going on and on again about she was tired, she was usually in bed by this hour, her mum would complain because she was babysitting and she would want to get on home. They were looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, why wouldn’t he see sense?

‘Will you shut the fuck
up
,’ snapped Lefty, taking a long, sweet hit from his can of butane and instantly feeling slightly calmer; better.

Mona was watching him with distaste. ‘You are gonna
kill
yourself with that crap,’ she warned.

‘This rate, I’m gonna kill you first,’ he muttered, wondering if Gordy really was as smart as all that; he’d told Lefty to bring along Mona with the sweet face, but Mona didn’t have a sweet mouth to match.

They were standing outside Canary Wharf tube station. They’d been down there, talking to staff, buskers, to anyone they could lay hands on – but no good. They came up on to the street and it was as dark as your armpit now, sleety rain in the air, a little slush underfoot. Traffic zipping past. Christmas lights twinkling. It was bitingly, toe-numbingly cold.

Lefty was flagging down cabs, saying,
You seen a big dark-haired geezer with a little blond boy a few nights back?
He was spelling it out for them. The time, the
exact
location, asking one after another, and he was getting so bloody desperate now. He’d tried so many of the London cabbies. They’d swerve hopefully into the kerb, thinking he was a fare, and then he’d start in with the questions.

You see a big chunky guy, dark-haired, with a slim blond boy the other night?

He must have pulled over a
dozen
, thought Mona, before
it
happened.

It was something that later she couldn’t even bear to think about. The night was crawling on, and the traffic was thin now; it was gone two in the morning.

‘Let’s pack it in, Lefty,’ she told him. Her ma was going to give her a lot of grief over this, she knew it. She’d phoned earlier, said she’d be late.

‘
How
late?’ Ma had demanded to know.

It was a question Mona couldn’t answer. Ma had every right to be upset about it; this wasn’t the first time it had happened, after all.

‘We’re not going to find a damned thing tonight,’ whined Mona.

But one more cab was approaching, its orange light glowing through the frost-misted air. Lefty flapped his hands and it pulled over. The driver looked young, pale – maybe Polish – and he didn’t seem to understand what Lefty was saying to him.

‘You see this guy, big guy, dark hair, and a boy, blond, the other night?’

The driver shrugged, bewildered. He’d expected a fare, not questions.

‘You speaka de English?’ snapped Lefty. He was nearly dancing from foot to foot, so extreme was his impatience and anxiety now.

Another shrug.

‘You understand what I’m
sayin’
to you?’

The driver shrugged again. ‘You want get in?’ he asked, thinking that this was a fare, a normal fare, Mona would always remember that.

‘No, you listen boy, I don’t want to get in. I want you to think hard. You see a big man, dark hair, and a boy, a slim blond boy? You
think
, you understand me?’

‘He doesn’t understand what you’re saying,’ said Mona.

‘Yeah he does.’

‘No he
don’t
.’

‘I’m tellin’ you he
does.’
Lefty’s grin was vast and manic now with determination. He turned again to the driver.

Mona caught his arm.

His head whipped round.

Mona almost fell back. He looked
demented.

She swallowed hard. ‘Look, Lefty, this is no good,’ she said, trying to sound reasonable, when what she
felt
was just plain desperate. She couldn’t go on with this. Neither could he, why couldn’t he see that? ‘Give it up, for God’s sake.’

Lefty grabbed her restraining hand. ‘Fuck
off
, girly,’ he snapped, and now he was trembling, jittering around on the pavement.

The driver started revving the engine, getting ready to go. He didn’t need trouble, and Lefty was starting to look very much like it.

‘Boy,’ said Lefty to him, ‘what you doin’ . . .?’

The cab started to roll slowly forward.

Lefty grabbed at it, swearing.

And then there was a knife in his hand and he was leaning in, furious, lunging at the cab driver’s throat with it.

‘You understand
this
, you motherfucker? Do you?’

Mona staggered back, found herself up against the wall of a building. Her eyes opened wide with horror.

The cab driver started screaming as Lefty lunged and lunged and lunged at him.

Blood spurted.

Mona couldn’t believe what was happening. She could see blood pouring out down the side of the cab, blood that looked black in the hard glare of the streetlights. The cab driver went on screaming, shouting, and it seemed to Mona that it went on forever, that it would never stop . . . and then suddenly, shockingly, it did.

Oh shit.

She cowered back against the building, wanting to run away, wishing she could move, but she couldn’t. All her strength had gone. If not for the wall of the building behind her, she would have collapsed on to the pavement.

Lefty was just standing there now, panting; he’d stopped plunging the knife into the man’s throat, but Mona couldn’t look away. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. Lefty was standing there with the knife dripping blood on to the ground, the driver silent behind the wheel, his head thrown back, his neck a mess of gaping wounds.

Suddenly Mona leaned over and was sick. She heaved her guts up while Lefty looked back at her dispassionately. Then he opened the driver’s door, stopped the engine, yanked on the handbrake, slammed the door shut. He came back to where she was and said, quite calmly: ‘We gotta clean this up.’

Clean it up? What was he talking about, washing the fucking dishes?

A wild surge of hysteria welled up in Mona. He’d hacked a man to death, and now he was standing there calmly saying they had to
clean this up?
He was crazy. He really was.

Mona shivered and retched again. Nothing came up but bile. Oh shit, how had she got into this? She was walking the streets with a crazy man and now she had witnessed a murder.

‘Come on, Mona. You gotta help me out with this here. We got to clear this mess away.’

Like the dead man – Mona was sure he was dead – was nothing at all; a piece of rubbish to be disposed of.

Now Lefty was opening the driver’s door again.

‘What the hell you
doing
?’ Mona demanded, gasping, half sobbing with shock.

The light was on inside the cab now and, oh fuck, it was horrible in there. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from it.

Lefty didn’t answer. He was pushing the body over, out of his way. Then he straightened and looked at her. There was the black, slick sheen of blood on his hands. He paused, took a long pull on the butane, and Mona thought she was about to be sick again, just looking at him. She hated him, but now she was mortally afraid of him too. She had never seen anyone lose it as suddenly as that.

‘Come on, get in the back. We gotta clear this away.’

Mona pushed herself away from the wall. ‘No. I don’t, I can’t . . .’ she said shakily.

‘You get the fuck in here!’
hissed Lefty.

Mona actually jumped. She staggered across to the cab and with a groan of despair she got into the back. There was blood everywhere in the front of the cab, she couldn’t look. She shuddered and whimpered and crouched there, hugging herself, trying not even to glance at the dark, slumped form of the dead man.

Lefty started the engine, and drove.

He drove to the river; an abandoned cement works or something. There was no one about down there and it was dark and damned scary. Mona wished she was somewhere, anywhere else. This was any sane person’s worst nightmare. She’d been party to a murder. Didn’t that make her an accessory? She’d had one or two brushes with the law before, just a little soliciting, a little recreational drug use – but nothing like this. This was
heavy
shit. The worst.

Lefty parked up near the edge of the dock and got out of the car. Terrified at the thought of being left alone in here with a corpse, Mona flung open the door and scrambled out too. She stood there, looking at Lefty, with no idea what he was going to do. She’d seen him kill this poor bastard; maybe he was now going to do her too? There was no way she could stop him, that was for sure. But he was leaning back into the car, taking off the handbrake. Then he cranked the window open a notch and slammed the door shut.

‘Come on, push,’ he said.

Mona stood there, frozen with fear.

Lefty came right up to her so that Mona was confronted by his grey-black face, sheened with sweat, that big, stapled wound across his forehead. He looked like a monster. He
was
a monster.

‘Come
on
,’ he shouted in her face.

Mona followed him round to the back of the car on legs that felt like rubber. Lefty put his shoulder to the back of the car, and Mona leaned into it and gave a shove too. The car started to roll forward, crunching over gravel. They pushed. The car rolled, gaining speed . . . and then suddenly it dropped away from them, fell over the edge of the dock and into the inky waters below with a huge splash.

Mona looked around, but there was no one to hear, no one to see.

Lefty stared over the edge of the dock and watched the car bob there for long minutes, slowly filling with water. It turned lazily, like a turtle bathing in the surf, and tipped sideways. Then slowly, inch by inch, it sank. Great bubbles came up and exploded on to the surface as it went down. A mini-whirlpool sucked the bubbles down, and then suddenly the waters were still, closing over the car as if it had never existed.

Lefty turned to Mona. She could see his teeth flash in a grin.

She shuddered.

‘Job done,’ he said, and took another pull on the can.