The Make. Jessie Keane

asked George, belatedly remembering that Harry had been out with a client tonight too. He felt like an age had passed since he had last seen Harry, but it was just a few hours ago.

      ‘Oh, mega. Lucky I wasn’t gang-raped by a pack of rampant females. Then our girl attacked me in the Gents.’

      ‘Classy.’

      ‘I thought the same. I’ll square you up with the cash tomorrow, okay? Night, Alfie. Night, George,’ said Harry, and went yawning off to his bed.

       Chapter 8

      Deano Drax was furious. All his boys knew it, and that made them nervous. You never wanted Deano to be that way, because then he was likely to kick your bollocks out from under you, just for the fun of it.

      Lefty Umbabwe wished he had some of the other boys here with him, but he didn’t. It was Tuesday – three days after the night-time fight in the alley – and he was alone with Deano in Deano’s country house, in the big sitting room with the inglenook fireplace and the blackened oak beams overhead. There was an Aga in the kitchen and a swimming pool out the back. It was a choice house, expensive; but then it would be. Deano owned Shakers in Soho, and he also controlled a huge proportion of the drug action on the streets. He wasn’t about to live like a pauper with all that loot passing through his hands on a regular basis.

      Lefty stood on the rug in front of the roaring log fire. His head still hurt. It had throbbed like a bastard ever since that fucker had whacked him with the scaffolding pole on Saturday night. The cut was stapled now, and he’d been checked over in A & E. They’d kept him in overnight, fearing concussion, but he’d checked himself out early next morning – didn’t want no questions being asked. He’d live. Although . . . not for long, by the looks of it. Not with Deano sitting there staring at him like he was nothing but a useless pile of shit. Not with Deano’s favourite bitch on the missing list.

      ‘So what’s the story, Lefty? Hm? What’s the tale?’ asked Deano.

      Deano had a small, fast-paced voice, husky and low, but then he didn’t have to shout because his very presence was bloody terrifying. He was sitting there, his huge bulk jammed into an ornately carved chair that looked like a throne. And Lefty thought that was fitting, sort of, because Deano was king of all he surveyed. The last thing anyone in their right mind would want to do was upset him.

      And Lefty had upset him.

      It wasn’t a very cheering thought, but he knew he had screwed up badly. He’d been supposedly keeping an eye on the boy – a service he’d often performed for Deano, with other less well-favoured boys – but this boy, who had been Deano’s big pash for months, had given him the slip.

      Alfie was a stunning kid, Lefty had to admit that; and if he was a bender maybe he’d even like to get stuck in there too. Lefty had been pleased as punch with himself for sourcing such a peach for Deano’s delectation. Maybe at seventeen Alfie was a little – okay, a lot – older than Deano’s usual prey, but the beauty of it was that Alfie looked so much younger than his actual years. He could pass for fourteen, easy. Alfie had been everywhere with Deano over the past months, cosied up to him, sitting in a drug-induced haze on his lap – frankly, it had turned everyone’s stomach, but what could you do? This was Deano.

      Lefty, for a brief, shining time, had been flavour of the month, the golden one. Now he was the crap one, the one who’d let Deano down, and he was in the shit up to his neck. For Deano, Alfie was it – the big obsession; and his anger at Alfie’s loss was making him ultra-pissed off with everyone in general and Lefty in particular. It was strange to realize that even a bastard nonce like Deano – a monster, really – had feelings, too.

      Anyway, Alfie had nicked Lefty’s Oyster card and legged it. Maybe he hadn’t liked the idea of being shafted by this fat fuck, but that was beside the point. Whether the kid liked it or lumped it was not Lefty’s business. He had to keep the boy there, at Deano’s disposal.

      He’d never forget chasing Alfie all through the tube system, catching teasing glimpses of him, then losing sight of him again, then spotting him once more. Then he’d lost him for real, and he thought, That’s it, I’m screwed. But no. He’d caught sight of the blond head weaving and bobbing along, half running, half stumbling through the concourse and up the escalator of Canary Wharf station, under its big, curved-glass canopy.

      Alfie had staggered out of the station and run away to hide in an alley. He’d already spotted Lefty hot on his heels; he knew he shouldn’t have run off like that. Lefty was hopping mad with the boy, a madness further fuelled by his fear of Deano. When he cornered Alfie at last, Lefty was out of breath and wheezing like a bastard – Jesus, he had to try and cut down on the cans – and he’d whipped out the knife to show the little runt who was boss around here. But he’d found him. And at that point Lefty felt the situation was not beyond rescuing. He gave the boy a little glimpse of the blade, made him quiver, threw a great big scare into the youngster, which was good, stop him doing the same fucking thing all over again.

      Deano wanted him.

      Deano would have him.

      What the hell did he care? And then that bastard had whacked him with the pole, and it had been goodnight nurse. When he’d come round, both boy and bastard had fled the scene and he’d limped off to the nearest hospital to get stitched up.

      ‘You’re not sayin’ much, Lefty old son.’

      Now Deano stood up. Lefty took a step back. Deano was so big that he seemed to fill up the entire low-ceilinged room with his bulk. Deano could intimidate without even trying. He was solid as a brick wall and his eyes showed about the same level of feeling. He had a shaven head as big and round as a bowling-ball and a ridiculously neat little goatee beard. Deano was a vicious bender, everyone knew that; he’d been worked over good and proper by his father at an early age, everyone knew that too. Everyone also knew that Deano had offed his own father as soon as he’d had the size and strength to do it. Whether or not being shafted by his own dear old dad had turned him, no one knew – and no one was going to ask either, that was for sure. Certainly not Lefty, anyway. Live and let live, that was Lefty’s motto. Just so long as the big creep wasn’t trying to stuff it up his arse, he didn’t give a shit.

      ‘I told you what happened, Deano. It’s the God’s honest truth,’ said Lefty. He could hear the pathetic whine in his own voice, but he couldn’t help it.

      ‘But you were meant to be keeping an eye on my boy,’ said Deano mildly, drawing closer.

      Jesus, thought Lefty in a spasm of terror. His guts were going up and down like Tower Bridge.

      ‘I know that.’ Lefty held his hands out, palms down, in a gesture of suppression, saying, Hey let’s calm this down, shall we? And Deano looked calm, but then, he always did. Even when he was getting ready to rip someone’s throat out. ‘Listen, Deano. It’s not a big deal because I’ll find him, okay? I got the boys out looking already, and he can’t have gone far. We’ll get your boy back. No sweat.’

      ‘Oh, you’d better sweat, my friend,’ said Deano, looming ever closer. Now he was standing right in front of Lefty.

      Lefty was sweating, he was sweating buckets. He could feel nervous perspiration popping out all over his body. Could feel his face wreathed in a shit-eating sort of grin, like a junior ape trying to placate a silverback. His heart was beating very fast. His wounded head was throbbing with every single beat.

      ‘Tell me again, Lefty.’

      ‘Nothing to tell, Deano. This bastard hit me with a pole. When I came round, Alfie was gone.’

      ‘This bastard, what was he like then?’

      Lefty shrugged hopelessly. ‘Big. Thickset. Darkish hair. I don’t know.’

      ‘Only, you know those Bond films, the bit where Blofeld sits there stroking his cat?’ asked Deano.

      ‘I . . .’

      ‘And