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‘Seventeen. That’s the God’s honest, George.’
George stared across at Alfie. ‘You going to tell me what happened with that guy, Alf? The one in the alley?’
Alfie’s smile dropped away. The shutters went down. He said nothing.
‘Alf?’ prompted George gently.
Alfie exhaled sharply and sat back in his chair. He looked into George’s eyes. ‘Please let me stay, George,’ he said. ‘Please.’
George pushed back his chair and leaned back too, puffing out his cheeks with exasperation. Bert came and put more toast and tea in front of them. George nodded his thanks and looked at Alfie.
‘Seventeen?’ he asked. Alfie could easily pass for younger, with that puckish, elfin, Peter Pan quality, the big eyes, the golden mop of hair; he’d look twenty when he was thirty-five. He’d look fifty when he was ninety.
Alfie nodded and dived into the toast.
George felt a smile forming on his face again. ‘Seventeen, with a tapeworm.’
He watched the boy eat. There was something about the boy eating that just made George feel happy. Maybe he was a compulsive feeder – certainly he fed himself with a vengeance. But it was more than that. George knew the state Alfie had been in last night. Shaking. Shot away. His eyes huge from the after-effects of some drug or other. And then, during the night, the boy’d had nightmares. George had heard him crying out, rambling on about dungeons and shit. He had tried to ignore it, but it had gone on, and on, and he’d thought, fuck it, he’s going to wake Harry up in a minute; Harry is not going to be a happy bunny.
So he’d gone through to the lounge, and there had been Alfie, curled up in a corner of the sofa bed, sobbing. George had sat down in his vest and boxers and said hey kid, what’s the matter? You okay?
And then, because Alfie had seemed so distraught, he had put his arm around him and hugged him. Saying over and over, it’s okay, hush, it’s all right, what was it, a bad dream? It’s okay, you’re safe.
After about an hour, Alfie had lain down again, and finally drifted back into sleep. George had felt tears prick his own eyes, he was so affected by Alfie’s distress. George had sat there, watching him for a long time. Watching over him, sort of.
Like he was doing now. Caring for him, feeding him, and feeling glad that the haunted expression in his eyes was starting to go.
‘Say I can stay. Please,’ said Alfie again, past a mouthful of toast.
George stared at Alfie. ‘It’s a small flat,’ he said.
‘Please.’
Harry wouldn’t be happy. Said the place was too small to swing a cat anyway, but with three of them in there . . . and fuck it, what if Cuthill found out? He’d stick the rent up at the very least, or – worst-case scenario – boot their arses out the door. And then where would they be? He’d be damned if he’d go back home again and watch that creepo Claude pawing his mum day and night. Yuck.
‘Okay, you can stay,’ George heard himself saying, frightened that if he said no Alfie was just going to leg it, vanish into the warren of streets and never be seen again.
He’d have to square it with Harry, that was all. It would work out. It would have to.
Chapter 16 (#ulink_98e04ac0-b775-5bec-bced-212637d218cb)
‘You are joking,’ said Harry.
‘Nope. Deadly serious, my man,’ said George, handing Harry a sheet of A4 paper that had just been coughed out by the printer beside his small computer station in his shambolic bedroom. ‘Your assignment – should you choose to accept it,’ said George, sending a collusive grin to Alfie, who was sprawled out on the bed watching all this going on, ‘is to escort Ms Melissa Whitehead to a family wedding. She’s a bit of a dog, I grant you, but she needs an escort for this do, if she ain’t going to look like a total lost cause to her nearest and dearest.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Harry, staring at the photo. It wasn’t pretty. ‘If she wants a shag, I’m definitely not going to be up to it.’
‘Unkind, unkind,’ tutted George. ‘And speaking of such delicate matters, you know that cougar, the one you also worried you wouldn’t be able to do the deed for . . .?’
Harry looked up. ‘Who, Jackie?’
‘See, you’re on first-name terms. And, my boy, your face lit up at the very mention of her. I think it’s lurve.’
‘Don’t be a prick,’ said Harry. ‘What she say?’
‘Needs you – and no one else, I might add – you specifically, to escort her to another do.’
‘Oh.’ After the Covent Garden incident, Harry thought she’d never want to see him again. He felt cheered, all of a sudden, and Melissa Whitehead didn’t seem quite so daunting after all.
‘I’m hard at work this Friday night too.’ George glanced at Alfie. ‘You’ll be okay here on your own, won’t you Alf?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
Harry looked at Alfie. He didn’t understand all this with George and Alfie at all. Alfie was a posh kid and he ought to be at home, not roughing it here with him and George. But he was George’s friend, and Harry had had plenty of his friends bunking over in the past, so he couldn’t complain.
And why should he bother? Life was treating them pretty good right now. The escorting business was paying like a bastard; they were busy and there was cash rolling in wholesale, tax-free. George was ducking out of his job with Lorcan on a pretty regular basis, taking sickies as often as he could, then going off instead to escort and sexually service the lonely and sometimes downright desperate women of London town. Harry had even stopped signing on. They could stick their dole money. He had plenty. Yeah, life was pretty damned good. And he was – a little to his surprise – really looking forward to seeing Jackie Sullivan again.
‘So who’s yours?’ he asked George.
George whipped off another print-out. Looked at the paper.
‘Oh, she looks okay. Pretty little blonde. Sandy Cole.’
Chapter 17 (#ulink_c624e15a-f644-5ca3-8d8e-e2ef3e5baddf)
Lefty Umbabwe hauled back and belted Mona a hard one right across the cheek. What else could he do? She was a loud-mouthed cow, always complaining. Lefty was beginning to regret his decision to take Gordon’s advice and draft in the club dancer to help him track down Alfie.
‘Ow! You fucker!’ yelled Mona.
‘Mona by name and moaner by nature, that’s you,’ shrieked Lefty, right in her face.
‘Listen, I’m shagged out here. My legs are worn to stumps, these bleedin’ heels ain’t meant for walking in. How much longer you planning to drag me around town, Lefty, uh?’ Mona grumbled, cupping her sore face with one hand. It was a bitterly cold night. Her breath was like fog in front of her face. Her toes were numb. All she wanted was to be home, indoors, in her own bed, nice and cosy.
‘What, you want me to tell Deano you didn’t want to help with this?’ demanded Lefty, playing his Ace card.
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 (#ulink_502c0dd3-283f-504e-a42f-552931753d8b)
DECEMBER
Chapter 18 (#ulink_a2ccaa66-a678-5ecb-ac97-21155d407bf3)
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 from her bag. She honked loudly.
It felt so strange to Gracie, to be sitting here. This was George lying here in bits. And there, across the bed from her, was her mother, Suze. It was surreal. But she’d had to come. She had to be here.
‘Months, days, years?’ she coaxed. ‘What?’
‘Couple of months, she says, although George has never mentioned it. She’s keen.’
‘She must be, she’s calling herself his fiancée.’
Suze’s eyes opened wide with surprise. ‘Is she? Well, that’s a turn-up. Fiancée? Well, then she must be. You’d have thought he would have told me though. But then – you know what George is like.’ Suze’s mouth twisted in bitterness. ‘But no, you don’t, do you? You didn’t bother to keep in touch.’
Gracie stared across at Suze. ‘Excuse me, but it was you who didn’t keep in touch. I wrote to you. A lot, as I remember. That first year after you and Dad split.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘I did.’
‘Well I never got a bloody thing.’
‘Oh come on.’ Gracie sighed. Her mother had always been a fantasist, embellishing dull reality with drama and excitement. They were so unalike, it was as if she’d been dropped to earth from another planet.
‘I didn’t.’ Suze was glaring a challenge at Gracie now. ‘You never cared about me after you and your dad left. You never gave a shit.’
‘I did. I still do. Or else why would I be here?’
‘Pass,’ sniffed Suze.
