The Make. Jessie Keane

gas, Lefty. One of the boys has fucked up some vital thing, and what Blofeld is saying is, This organisation does not tolerate failure,’ Deano grinned, displaying perfect white veneers. ‘Well, guess what, Lefty? This one don’t either.’

      Deano reached out a casual hand, grasped Lefty’s testicles, and squeezed.

      Lefty shrieked and went up on tiptoe. ‘Holy shit, Deano,’ he cried out.

      ‘That hurt?’ asked Deano, close in to Lefty and inflicting terrible, sick-making pain.

      Lefty could only nod, his face twisted in anguish now.

      ‘Try this.’ Deano squeezed tighter. Lefty thought he was going to pass out from the agony of it. ‘Hurt?’ enquired Deano.

      Lefty nodded.

      ‘Good.’ Deano released his grip and Lefty collapsed in a blubbering heap to his knees. Deano stared at the crumpled man for a long moment and then he casually drew back an elegantly shod foot and kicked him hard in the stomach.

      Lefty sprawled back, gibbering no Deano, don’t, please don’t, no more and curling himself into a tight ball.

      Deano shoved him hard with his toe. ‘Now you listen up, cunt. I want my boy Alfie back, you got that?’

      Lefty was nodding frantically.

      ‘Or else I’m going to cut your freakin’ balls right off, you got me?’ Deano said. ‘And then I’m gonna stuff ’em down your stupid throat.’

      Alfie was his, and some fucker had dared to snatch him away. When Deano caught up with this arsehole – and he would – he promised himself that this cunt and anyone associated with him was going to suffer. His family, his friends, anyone.

      ‘Now get your useless arse outta my house, you tosser,’ he told Lefty.

      Lefty crawled to his feet and, limping, left the room. Everything hurt. And what hurt even worse was the panicky knowledge that he didn’t have a clue where to start looking for the boy. Not a fucking clue.

       Chapter 9

      ‘Shall I tell you what I’d do, Lefty?’

      Gordon was built like a tank and he was sitting, over-spilling his cheap plastic seat, in a café in the Mile End Road with his colleague Lefty Umbabwe. Lefty looked like death; his dark skin was greyish with strain, his head stapled up like Frankenstein’s monster. He’d come in limping, and Gordon had said, hey, wassup? Trying not to laugh, and failing. He’d never seen such a mess as Lefty in his entire life.

      ‘What would you do?’ asked Lefty, drinking tea and wishing it was whisky. His bollocks ached. His head ached. His mind whirled with desperation. He needed another whiff from his butane can, but he couldn’t do that here in the café; he’d get them both chucked out. ‘Come on man. Really. I’d like some help here.’

      Lefty had poured out the whole tale of woe to Gordon. How he’d lost track of Deano’s boy, during the honeymoon period. Deano wasn’t sick of the sight of the kid yet, which was what always happened in the end with Deano and his grand amours.

      What always happened was this: Deano’s people picked the kids off the streets, because the streets of London were paved with gold, everyone knew that, and they all headed here. The stupid kids thought they were going to make their fortune, join a band, become a star; it was all going to happen for them in London town.

      Sadly, it didn’t work like that. It worked like this: the kids found themselves cold and hungry on the streets and, if they were lucky, they went back home with their tails between their legs. If they were unlucky, they fell prey to loitering paedos like Deano, who drugged them up and used them for their own amusement for a few weeks; then, when the nonces grew weary of their charms, they farmed the kids out at a handsome profit to their fancy bender friends.

      ‘I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d throw myself in the bleeding river,’ said Gordon, and burst into peals of laughter.

      Lefty stared at Gordon. ‘Hey, you think this is funny?’ He jumped to his feet. It hurt. He winced. Gordon caught the wince and that made him laugh even more.

      ‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Gordon, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘But Christ, Lefty, what a fucking to-do. What the hell happened? You’ve played babysitter lots of times before, why’d you balls it up now?’

      Lefty slumped back into his seat. ‘I got the dose wrong. Thought the boy was well under, but he gave me the slip. Ran out of the club, legged it. It was night-time, black as your frigging hat too. I had a bad time tracking the little cunt down, then this bastard butts in – and before I knew it he whacks me and then Alfie’s gone.’

      ‘Well, my friend, now it’s official: you’re in the shit.’ Gordon worked for Deano too, as a bouncer on the door of Deano’s fetish club Shakers. He knew Deano from way back. Knew what a twisted git he was, and he knew Deano would make Lefty pay hard for this.

      ‘I know that.’ Lefty stared at Gordon, who was tucking into a big fry-up.

      ‘You should have used your loaf in the first place, checked the dose, and you wouldn’t be in this bind.’

      ‘Yeah. I know.’

      ‘Fact is, Lefty, you’re lucky you can find your dick to take a piss these days, the amount of stuff you keep sniffing. Something like this was just bound to happen.’

      Gordon was right and Lefty knew it. Lefty couldn’t face food. He still felt dizzy and a bit nauseous from that blow to the head. And he needed his fix. Deano had given him this week to find the boy, or else his arse was well and truly cooked and he didn’t have a clue where to even start.

      ‘Yeah, so come on. Where would you start looking?’ he pleaded.

      Gordon speared a sausage, bit off a hunk and chewed thoughtfully, his eyes resting all the while on Lefty.

      ‘Right,’ he said at last, swigging down a mouthful of tea, ‘here’s what I’d do. Go back to where you found him at around the same time of day. Start asking the cabbies, the night-bus drivers. Nearest tube station, talk to station staff, any buskers, anyone. You got a picture of this boy Alfie?’

      Lefty shook his head.

      ‘No matter. Just describe him. Take one of the girls with you, though: don’t do it alone.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘People see a big black bastard asking around about a cute white boy, they might get antsy. Take Mona, she’s got a sweet face. You know?’

      Mona was one of the fetish-club dancers. It was true, Mona had a kind face. And a gorgeous arse.

      Gordon was mopping up skeins of sticky yolk with his bread and Lefty had to look away.

      ‘Get her to tell everyone she’s the kid’s mother, shed a few tears, my lost boy, my tragic life, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.’

      ‘Yeah.’ Lefty felt slightly better now. It was good advice, and he was going to take it.

      ‘Another idea,’ said Gordon, talking fast now, waving the dripping bread about in Lefty’s direction. ‘Am I on fire or what? The ideas are comin’ thick and fast. Go to the nearest YMCA, get Mona to do the business: her little boy Alfie ran away from home, is he there? And the tears, don’t forget the tears, man. They pay dividends.’

      Lefty was nodding. ‘My man, you are a scholar and a gentleman,’ he congratulated Gordon.

      ‘Hope it helps.’ Gordon shrugged modestly. ‘Besides all that, I’ll pass the word around, get all the mates to keep ’em peeled. I really hope you find him, Lefty, because if you don’t, seriously, I would take my first piece of advice if I were you. Just throw your arse in the river. Because Deano’s going to do that – and much worse – to you, and then you know what? He’s gonna post you home to your