The Make. Jessie Keane

      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.

       Gracie

      DECEMBER

       Chapter 18

      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