The Make (29 page)
Authors: Jessie Keane
‘Oh you better watch out, you better . . . come on, Harry. Join in.’
Deano Drax’s tuneless horrible nasal whine was going to be the last sound he heard on this earth, Harry knew that now. The man couldn’t sing. Drax was prancing around Harry’s chair, saying
join in, join in
, wailing out these
fucking
Christmas tunes until Harry felt he was going to just flip and scream the place down.
How long had he been in this hellhole now? He’d lost all track of time. Days, he thought. Although it could be over a week. He just didn’t know. He knew he was filthy, sweaty, bloody. The thought of a hot shower, of being clean and warm, was too painful even to contemplate.
Harry didn’t join in. Deano Drax stopped his merry little jig and stood stock-still in front of Harry. He bent forward and stared into Harry’s face.
‘I
said
, join in,’ he growled.
Harry said nothing. He wished the fucker would just shoot him. It’d be a merciful release right now.
As if Deano had heard Harry’s thoughts, he was reaching out, taking the gun off the top of the chest freezer.
Ah shit
, thought Harry.
What the hell?
Deano pointed the muzzle of the gun at Harry’s head and gave a grin.
‘It’s Christmas Day, Harry. You probably didn’t realize that, right?’
Christmas Day. Harry thought of what he should be doing. He could be at Mum’s with George, getting the full Christmas works, turkey and stuffing and . . . oh
shit
, all that food, what did he have to go and think about food for? . . . and probably with Alfie too. Instead, he was about to get killed. No more pain, though – that was a bonus.
‘Of course you didn’t,’ went on Drax. ‘Otherwise you’d have joined in with my songs, wouldn’t you Harry? It’s traditional, isn’t it. Carols at Christmas, and party games. Do you like party games, Harry?’
Harry didn’t like party games. Wearily, he shook his head.
‘That’s a shame, because I do. And we still haven’t finished the game we were playing before.’
Now Drax was shoving the cold, hurtful metal muzzle of the gun up against Harry’s cheekbone. Harry gasped at the pain, but was too weak, too beaten, to utter a protest.
Get on with it then.
‘Russian roulette,’ breathed Deano, looking into Harry’s eyes.
Harry stared right back at him. The evil bastard was getting off on this, he could see it. He loved to hurt people.
‘Here we go then, Harry. Let’s see what the game nets us, shall we?’
Oh shut up and shoot me.
Deano squeezed the trigger. Harry shut his eyes, screwed them up tight. There was a dull, solid
click.
Despite himself, Harry flinched.
Deano drew back, smiling broadly, stroking a spade-like hand through his neat little goatee beard. ‘Lucky that time, Harry.
Very
lucky.’ And then the smile dropped from his face and he rammed the black muzzle back against Harry’s flesh, grinding it hard into his cheekbone. And he fired the gun again.
Click!
Deano started to laugh.
Harry let out his breath. He felt the warm trickle of blood on his face where the gun had cut in. Well, he was still alive. Three bullets down, three to go. One of those would kill him, for sure.
‘The game’s getting exciting now, Harry,’ said Deano, drawing back with a smile and a shake of his massive head. He placed the gun carefully on the freezer lid again. He looked at Harry almost tenderly. ‘Wonder when your luck’s going to run out?’
Think it already has
, thought Harry, as Deano fiddled in his tool box and came up with the pliers once again.
Lorcan was going clean off his head. He was trying to think as Gracie would think, trying to work out what had been going on in her febrile little brain while he’d been out. All right, he’d been out for longer than he’d expected. Had she started to worry, thinking something had happened to him? Had she got a call from the hospital – maybe George had taken a turn for the worse? Had she got restless – this was always a possibility with the Gracie he’d known – and gone over to Auntie Vera’s to see her mother for something?
For what?
Gracie and her mother had never got on. He didn’t
think
Gracie would actively seek out her mother’s company, except in an emergency – but he could be wrong. So, the hospital then. He called them, bypassed all the usual tedious questions about whether he was a relative or not.
‘I’m his brother-in-law,’ he explained to a distracted-sounding nurse. ‘I’m trying to reach his sister, my wife. Gracie. There’s been a family emergency. Tall, red-haired woman. Is she there with him?’
The nurse went off to check.
Come on Gracie, be there
, thought Lorcan.
It seemed to take forever, but at last the nurse came back. No woman matching that description was visiting intensive care at that time, she said.
‘Yeah, but Gracie could have popped out to go to the loo or grab a coffee. Is anyone else there visiting George Doyle?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
Lorcan hung up, and phoned Suze’s mobile.
‘Is Gracie there with you?’ he asked when she picked up.
‘No she’s not,’ said Suze. ‘I thought she was with you.’
‘Any idea where she’d be? I left her right here at the casino, now she’s gone.’
‘Listen, I gave up trying to understand Gracie
years
ago,’ said Suze with a sniff.
‘You’ve no idea where Gracie could have gone?’
‘Nope. None at all.’
Great.
Which left him with two thoughts, neither of them very comforting. Had Drax grabbed her? He’d tried it once before. Or
someone
had, anyway. Had he been so long delayed that she’d thought something had happened to him? Did she think that Drax had him? Was she even now on the way over to Drax’s club to see if he was there? Or had she gone back to the boys’ flat for something?
‘Fuck it,’ said Lorcan, and picked up his coat and hurried out the door.
Gracie had no idea what to do next. She was shivering with cold and sweating with nerves at one and the same time as she crept closer to the huge bulk of the house, which seemed to crouch in blackness against a star-studded sky.
There were lights on downstairs – no doubt these were the lights she had seen from the lane where she and Paul had come to grief. Stepping warily, Gracie moved closer until she could see in one of the windows. The window was decorated with a leaded lattice and she could see that the glass was so old that in some of the diamond-patterned sections it had bulged out, giving a curiously distorted effect as she peered inside.
She found herself looking into a sitting room, replete with low dark beams, red-themed cosy couches, and an old brick inglenook fireplace in which a big fire was roaring away. Alfie was sitting on one of the couches, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.
Gracie froze. What, was he asleep? Drugged?
Alfie wouldn’t be relaxed enough to sleep if Drax had grabbed him. She had seen how much Alfie hated Drax when he’d talked about him at the hospital. If he was in Drax’s clutches, Alfie would be in a state of fear. He
had
to be drugged.
She moved on. It was no use trying to alert Alfie that she was there. Drax could be right there in the room, just out of her field of vision, and she would be alerting him too. Her bowels felt almost liquid with terror as she thought of coming face to face with Drax. And where was Lorcan? Was he here too, held prisoner somewhere? It was a big house and the entire upper storey was in darkness.
This is impossible
, she thought.
She walked on, cautiously, padding through the snow, thinking that at any moment a security light was going to come on, that in some way Drax was going to be alerted to her presence. The snow muffled her footfalls but she couldn’t see where she was treading. Flowerbeds, solid obstacles, all were shrouded in a concealing blanket of white. She could so easily trip and fall, twist her ankle, and then where would she be? Up shit creek, that’s where.
The snow was continuing to fall steadily, deadening sound. She felt totally alone here outside the house; she could see no lights anywhere in the surrounding countryside. She rounded the corner of the house, skimming a hand lightly along its walls to steady herself in the blue-tinted semi-darkness of the snow-filled night.
Now she was around the back of the house, and she could see light spilling out from another window up ahead. She slowed, all her senses alert to danger. Maybe Drax was in this room, having left Alfie at the front of the building.
She drew closer and saw that there was a half-stable door near the window – and the door was standing ajar. She swallowed hard and wondered if she was actually going to throw up, she felt so sick with apprehension. Her legs didn’t seem to want to move any more. Or at least not in
this
direction. Everything in her was saying,
Don’t do this. Run.
But Drax had Alfie. He might have Lorcan too.
And
Harry.
She drew closer and risked a peep in at the window.
It was a kitchen. An honest, homely, practically laid-out farmhouse kitchen, with a big refectory table in the middle of the floor, more beams on the ceiling, an Aga, and an old-fashioned butler’s sink just below the window through which she was looking.
The room seemed to be empty. And the door was open. Why was the door open, letting out all the heat into the frozen December night?
Because Drax was outside.
The thought popped into her brain and her breathing stopped dead.
She looked behind her. Saw nothing. No one was rushing towards her through the snow, ready to maim or kill. Her heart was thudding sickly in her chest now. Was Drax out here, stalking her? She drew back from the window, blinking, all her night vision gone. She sagged against the wall of the house, blinded, waiting for someone to attack her.
Nobody did.
After a few beats, her vision came back again. Now she could see that there was another building further along, and the door there was half-open, a fainter light spilling out on to the snow. Was it a garage, a storeroom? She heard movement coming from that direction.
Maybe Drax was out there, fetching something. People kept freezers, washing machines, tumble dryers in the garage sometimes, didn’t they? Maybe Drax did too.
What to do, what to do?
In turmoil, wanting to just flee, Gracie wrestled with herself. She knew she’d never get another chance like this. There would be a phone in there; maybe she’d be able to summon help. Before she could bottle it, she forced her legs to move forward. She stepped over the doormat, careful not to make a sound, and she was in; she was standing inside Drax’s kitchen.
Lorcan rang the bell of George and Harry’s flat until his finger was numb. He stepped back, looked anxiously up at the first-floor windows. Everything was in darkness up there. He went back to his car and drove carefully over – slipping and sliding all the way – to Drax’s club. The roads were quiet, not much moving on them except the odd gritting lorry. On the weather reports they’d been telling people not to go out if they could avoid it. To stay home, in the warm bosom of their families. There was another ten centimetres of snow predicted to fall overnight, and Gracie was out here somewhere, wandering the streets, doing what?
Looking for him?
Or maybe she’d heard something from Harry?
He didn’t know.
All he
did
know was that he was frantic. When he got to the club, all was in darkness there. He went up to the main door, then went around the alley at the side, looked at the side door, thumped on it a couple of times. No one answered. All was quiet and calm under the soft torpid quilt of the snow.
Lorcan looked around desperately, wondering what to do. He was terrified for Gracie now, certain she’d gone after Drax with only Paul for protection, and he didn’t think Paul would be enough. He got out his mobile, and made a quick call. Then he waited. Within minutes, his phone rang with the information he needed. He went back to his car, got in, and started to drive.
Gracie looked around the kitchen, her heart in her throat, her eyes wide with fear. She decided that what she needed was a weapon. She had no intention of actually
using
it, but it would just make her feel better. She looked along the glistening black granite worktops. A breadmaker. A container stuffed full of cooking utensils. Kettle. Toaster. Knife block.
Her breath caught.
Knife block.
Christ, she couldn’t stab anyone. She just couldn’t. Her eyes skimmed on past the obvious, on to the more everyday. Microwave. Mugs. A dresser, stuffed full of blue and white china. Oh, this was homely. Not what she’d pictured in the home of an animal like Drax, but she supposed even perverts had to eat.
She went back to the container of utensils. There had to be something. Then she spotted the ice pick. She grabbed it. Hefted it in her hand. Looked at the sharp end, the twin picks to chop at ice. She reversed it in her hand. If she had to hit him at all, it would be with the blunt end.
A bubble of hysterical laughter almost escaped her then.
Shit, she was losing it. She went to the inner kitchen door, trying to orientate herself. She opened it, went through, careful to close it very quietly behind her so that Drax wouldn’t come back in, see it standing open when he knew he’d closed it, and smell a rat.
What the hell am I doing?
she wondered, but she was crossing a big beamed hall now, past a big long-case clock ticking away in the corner, maybe counting down the seconds that were left of her life.
Stop that.
How the hell was she going to get out of here? She was in, and that was fine, that was great, but she had to find Alfie, and she had to get them both out, and how exactly was she going to do that before Drax came and found her?
Terror slithered down her spine, making her shiver hard and stop in her tracks outside what she believed must be the door to the sitting room she’d seen Alfie in. Only, what if it wasn’t? What if she opened the door and it wasn’t Alfie in there but some of Drax’s pervy mates?
She put her ear to the door and listened hard. She couldn’t hear a damned thing. There were no other doors on this side of the hall; this
had
to be the sitting-room door, didn’t it? She felt trembly, her legs unsteady, her hands awkward, fearing at any moment that Drax was going to come roaring up behind her, demanding to know what the
fuck
she was doing.
Gently, she turned the handle and pushed the door open, just a crack.
There was a loud
pop.
Gracie nearly hit the ceiling she jumped so violently. Then she heard crackling . . . the fire. It was only the fire, maybe a bit of resin dribbling from a log had made that noise.
She had to go in. She pushed the door open, edged her head inside just a little. The room was just as she’d seen it from outside: lavish with Oriental rugs and vast red brocade sofas, the lighting low and cosy, the fire crackling warmly in the hearth. Gracie had to shake herself a little, because this felt so unreal. The whole house was like an ad in
Homes & Gardens
, and
Drax
lived here. It was clear that, even though he was a detestable creature, Drax had an eye for beauty – in furnishings, surroundings – and in young boys too.
She moved inside, pushing the door closed behind her. She could see Alfie’s tousled blond head against the back of the sofa. Grasping the pick securely, she went around the sofa and bent down and looked at Alfie.
The smell that surrounded him was the first thing that hit her. It was bitter, chemical. And overlaying that was the sickly-sweet scent of dope. His eyes were closed. He looked fine, as if he was just dozing there.
‘Alfie,’ hissed Gracie.
His eyes opened and Gracie’s heart plummeted. His pupils were enormous. He was doped to the eyeballs. He looked at her and his face tried to form a smile. One hand rose, then flopped back down on to the red brocade.
‘Gracie, Gracie, Gracie,’ he slurred.
Shit, he was really stoned.
Drax hadn’t lost any time in softening Alfie up again for the kill, and how exactly was she going to get him out of here in this state? She didn’t have a clue. She went over to the window she’d looked through before. It was locked, and there was no key visible anywhere. She turned back to Alfie. All right, she was going to have to get Alfie out through the front or back doors. Meanwhile, there had to be a phone in here; she would ring for help, ring for Lorcan, for the police.
‘Alfie.’ She went back to him, shook his shoulder hard. ‘Can you walk; do you think you can stand up? Come on Alfie. Try and fight it, will you? We’ve got to get out of here.’
Alfie let out a giggle. His head waggled on his shoulders like it was too heavy for them. His eyes were unfocused. ‘Mickey, look. Look, Gracie.’
He was trying to point to a side table. Gracie went over. There was a vintage Mickey Mouse telephone there. Mickey grinned up at her in his red shorts, holding out the canary-yellow receiver in his big white-gloved hand, inviting her to make a call.
Mickey’s grin looked somehow threatening under these circumstances. She thought of all the boys Deano had entertained in this very room, maybe amusing them with this novelty phone before he pounced. She gulped down some air and gingerly picked up the phone. It had one of those old-fashioned dials on it, and her finger was shaking so badly she could hardly use the thing. She stood there and realized that she didn’t know Lorcan’s mobile number. It was stored on
her
mobile, and she didn’t have the damned thing with her.
Police then.
Nothing else for it.
She dialled 999. Waited. Cringing, almost whimpering in terror because she knew they were both as good as trapped here and that Deano Drax was going to walk in soon, find her here, do her damage. She clutched at the ice pick so hard that it dug into her skin.
‘Police, fire or ambulance?’ said a female operator in her ear.
‘Police,’ said Gracie, even her voice trembling now. ‘Hurry,’ she added. ‘And ambulance too – the man who came with me is out on the road, the car’s upside down, he’s unconscious.’
‘Where are you? What’s happening?’
Gracie stopped dead. She didn’t have a clue where she was, what road this was, what the name of the house was, nothing. She felt panicky tears starting in her eyes.
‘Deano Drax’s house in Essex,’ she said, and dredged from her frozen mind every other tiny detail she could muster before she hung up the phone.
It was then that she heard the screams coming from the garage.