The Make

Chance would be a fine thing, she thought as she dried herself and slipped on her robe.

But she’d had the chance, right there, tonight.

It was her birthday, and he hadn’t, the mean bastard, even bought her a card.

Next time, she was going to make the leap. Go the extra mile. She thought of George, big, charming, smelling sweetly of some woody cologne, smartly dressed, making her laugh out loud. To have a man like that . . . and then she heard Noel laugh at something on the telly downstairs. It was a coarse, ugly sound. She went into the bedroom and crawled between the sheets. He wouldn’t come up for hours – all those spliffs and lying around all day meant he never slept well, and that meant she didn’t either. When he did come upstairs, she’d pretend – as she always did – to be asleep.

She closed her eyes and thought of George. She dreamed of leaving Noel, but she was too afraid of him to do it. His sudden outbursts of temper scared her. So she fantasized of another life, away from this one. Being George’s girl, strolling hand in hand with him down the high street, laughing, chatting. Looking at engagement rings in jeweller’s shop windows. Planning on getting married, setting up house together somewhere nice. Having a little boy who was dark-haired and chunky, like George. She fell asleep, half smiling, thinking about that.

Chapter 37

After a hard night at the coalface keeping Sandy Cole entertained, George arrived home feeling worn out. He let himself in quietly, and passed along the hall. The lounge door was shut, and he couldn’t hear the telly going or see light spilling out from a crack under the door. Alfie must have turned in for the night. George went into the bathroom, took a piss, brushed his teeth. Then he went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Undressed, and fell into bed, and was out for the count in seconds.

He woke up in darkness, thinking that it was morning already. He sat up in bed. Switched on the light. Looked at the clock on the bedside table. Three forty-five. Something had woken him up. Usually he was a very sound sleeper. Maybe a motorbike passing outside on the road. An ambulance. A police car. Something.

He clicked off the light and lay back down again. And then he heard it. A faint noise . . . like someone crying.

Alfie?

He sat up and put the light back on, pulled on his robe. Alfie was having nightmares again. Poor kid.

George went through to the hall, opened the lounge door. The heart-wrenching sobs shot up in volume. Quickly, thinking that Harry must be in bed by now and asleep, and not wanting to wake the whole household, George went into the lounge and closed the door behind him. He fumbled over to the little lamp beside the telly and switched it on. Instantly the room was lit with a warm orange glow. Alfie was curled up on the sofa bed, thrashing, turning . . .

‘Hey, kid,’ said George.

Alfie was asleep, dreaming about god-knew-what horrors.

George sat down on the edge of the sofa bed and put a hand on Alfie’s shoulder.

‘Alfie! Mate. Wake up, you’re dreaming. Wake up.’

Suddenly the blue eyes were open. They stared up at the ceiling, their expression one of fixed, stark dread. Then Alfie blinked, turned his head. Looked full at George. Realized where he was.

‘Oh shit,’ moaned Alfie. He put his arm over his eyes.

‘Bad dream, uh?’ said George, patting Alfie’s shoulder awkwardly.

‘I keep on getting them,’ muttered Alfie. ‘What are they about? Do you ever remember?’

‘Jesus, remember them? I wish I could forget them.’ Alfie dropped his arm and gave George a weak smile. His brow was damp with sweat, his cheeks wet with tears.

‘Is it always the same dream?’ asked George, feeling more than awkward now. He didn’t know shit about bad dreams or good ones. Personally, he rarely dreamed; he was hardly the person to play amateur psychologist, now was he?

‘Always the same one,’ sighed Alfie, sitting up. He was naked to the waist, his skin fine and shining in the soft light. To George he looked like a painting, something ethereal and beautiful. George caught himself thinking that, and thought what the fuck . . .?

‘It’s always Deano. That bastard.’

‘Who’s Deano?’

‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

‘I do. Or I wouldn’t ask.’ Maybe Alfie would tell him – at last – what had gone on before George met up with him. He’d never probed, knowing that Alfie must have been traumatized by whatever shit had gone down before the night in the alley.

And so, for the first time, Alfie told George all about Deano, and about himself. How he had been living with his dad in Surrey – his parents were divorced; mum had taken off when he was eight.

‘That’s rough,’ said George, who could understand Alfie’s distress, he really could.

‘Worst of it was my stepmum. She hated me. Thought I was getting in between her and dad. I wasn’t. I always tried to keep out of the damned way. Short of becoming invisible, there was nothing more I could do.’

‘So what happened?’ George enquired, thinking he already knew the answer.

‘I left. Came up to London. Slept rough for a bit. Then I met this bloke, Lefty, and he said he could fix me up with a job . . .’

Uh-oh, thought George. ‘And did he?’

‘Yeah, he did. Just cleaning and washing up in a club in Soho, one of those weirdo places with orgy rooms and dungeons, where everyone wears chains and rubber, fetish stuff, you know the type of thing?’

George did, and it made his blood run ice-cold to think of sweet, angel-faced Alfie in a place like that. Dungeons, he thought. The ones he dreams of.

‘Deano owns the club. And he . . . he was nice to me at first. Really nice. Then he started . . . you know.’

George stared at Alfie. ‘What, you mean he was bullying you?’

‘No.’ Alfie squirmed. ‘Coming on to me.’

George felt rage take hold of him. Poor little Alfie. What the fuck had been going on with this bastard Deano? He swallowed hard, feeling sick and furious. ‘Did he do anything to you, Alfie? Anything he shouldn’t?’

Alfie looked down. ‘Yeah. He did. He treated me like . . . like a pet, sort of. Drugged me.’ A tear slipped down Alfie’s cheek. ‘Shagged me.’ He looked up and his eyes were wet.

George was struck dumb with horror.

‘Lefty . . . the guy in the alley? Lefty kept giving me pills, I felt out of it most of the time. When I ran away, I felt . . . it was like I was drunk, I couldn’t focus on anything, couldn’t make out where I was. I couldn’t get far. I stole Lefty’s Oyster card and I got down the tube and I just ran. But he was following me. I couldn’t shake him off. It was like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but your legs won’t move. So Lefty caught up with me and he was going to take me back to Deano. And then you showed up.’

‘Thank Christ,’ said George with feeling. To think of what Alfie had been through made him feel sick to his stomach.

If he hadn’t . . . well, he couldn’t stand to think what would have happened to Alfie if he hadn’t got there at that time. God bless drunken Laura Dixon, because if she hadn’t got so off her face, he’d have taken that cab with her and he’d never have seen Alfie being accosted in the alley by that bastard. Now he was glad he’d whacked the cunt with that scaffolding pole. He was only sorry he hadn’t walloped him harder.

‘Listen,’ said George. He put a reassuring hand on Alfie’s shoulder. ‘You got nothing to worry about and nothing to be scared of, not any more. You’re safe here. And you can stay as long as you like, you know that. We both like having you around. We’ll fix you up with something, some little job if you want, maybe down the casino where I work, how about that?’