The Make

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 cafe 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 cafe; 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 mama in a plastic bag.’

Gracie

DECEMBER

Chapter 10

19 December

Gracie didn’t sleep well the night after the police visit. She had blackout blinds at her bedroom windows and an eye mask to keep out any hint of residual light because working so late she often slept in until gone noon. She was usually an eight-hour girl – anything less and she woke up grouchy and stayed that way for the better part of the day – but things were playing on her mind, despite her best efforts to ignore them. Like her family, for instance. The family she had distanced herself from long ago, and barely gave a thought to any more.

When her parents split, she’d been sixteen years old. George and Harry had been twelve and eleven respectively. As kids they had endured years of furious rows and recriminations, their father cold and withdrawn, their mother shouting and screaming. There was talk of affairs, and it became obvious who’d done the cheating – their mother.

How the hell could she have done that to Dad. To all of them?

Dad had been managing a casino in the West End at the time, working all hours, and Mum had cited that as the reason she had strayed. Gracie had been numb at first, and then coldly enraged at her mother. Of all the trampy, despic able things to do. Dad had worked hard to give them a comfortable home, a decent life, and this