The Make

Because now Lefty grabbed the other end, the feet end, and was easing the thing into the hole, snatching up the shovel again, starting to pile the dirt back in and the sound, oh Jesus the sound it made hitting that tarp, the cold hard slither of the dirt as it fell back into the hole. She hoped, she prayed that Lefty had killed whoever was in the tarp, killed him good, because otherwise the poor thing was going to die a slow, lingering death, suffocating beneath the cold earth.

Mona was crying, shattered. She crept forward, not wanting to but unable to help herself. She peered into the hole and now, with Lefty forking the soil into it with almost manic drive, she could barely see the tarp at all. A few more shovels full of dirt, and the job was done. Lefty hit the top of the soil, leaving a bit of a mound because he knew it would sink, and he didn’t want that happening, didn’t want some fucking dog walker or some rambling bastard to find it and start shouting. Carefully he piled the leaves he had displaced all over the grave, and then he snatched up his coat, put it on. Drew a wheezing, painful breath. Reached inside his coat and took a long, blissful pull of butane.

Mona stood there, shivering, shuddering, staring at him with disgust and fear.

‘Job done,’ said Lefty with a wild white grin. He surged past her, hefting the shovel over his shoulder. ‘Come on. That’s part one done. Now for part two.’

Oh shit, thought Mona, and trailed after him, afraid to be with him, but even more afraid to be left standing here alone, in the woods, with that thing buried just feet away from her.

Chapter 53

‘The weather outside . . . oh come on, Harry. You know the song. How does it go?’

Harry Doyle didn’t know how the song went. He knew he was going to hate those few lyrics forever, he knew that. Apart from that, his only thought was: I’m going to die, and it’s all my own stupid fault. His body was stone cold, every muscle clenched and trembling with terror. And this big rotten bastard was singing a flat rumbling line or two from a cheery Christmas song, and asking him if he knew how it went.

He didn’t know how it went. But he knew how this went. This was him sitting in an icy-chilly garage, naked to the waist, barefooted and tied to a chair with duct tape. His skin was shrivelling with the cold and damp – the place had an old asbestos roof, and the beams supporting it were dark with the sleety rain that had seeped in.

There were rows of old paint tins up on some rickety-looking shelves. A rusting tool box on the floor, alongside a line of blue gas bottles. A pile of wood under an old workbench that he knew – because he had been in here all last night – served as a des res for a rampaging horde of mice. He’d felt them scurrying over his feet during the hours of darkness. At least it wasn’t rats, thanks be to Christ. A chest freezer was chugging away over in the corner. Food in there. Better not think about that, because he was beyond hungry. Starving. Water dripped on to his freshly shorn head now and then and, sometimes – when the fat git wasn’t here and when the need for a drink consumed Harry like a man marooned in the desert – he turned his head, caught a few sour droplets in his mouth. He was shivering. His hand was agony but he thought that the bleeding had stopped. Too fucking cold in here to bleed for long.

‘You better watch out . . . you know that one, Harry?’ And he was off again, the evil bastard, prancing around Harry’s chair in his camel-coloured coat, mocking Harry’s powerlessness; oh yeah, he was toasty warm, nice and cosy, while Harry was freezing his arse off. ‘Santa Claus . . . what’s up, Harry? Don’t you know it? Don’t you like that song?’

There was nothing about this that Harry liked. It was nearly Christmas. He thought of his mum and his brother George, and Em.

His mind was wandering. He snapped it back, paid attention. While the great big horrible bastard was talking, or singing, or both, then at least he wasn’t pulling out any more of Harry’s fingernails, and he wasn’t laughing about cutting Harry’s bollocks out either. Both very good indeed.

‘I . . . like the modern stuff more,’ Harry managed to get out through chattering teeth.

Oh God, how had he got into this? he wondered in despair.

But he knew the answer to that. By being a stupid, greedy little cunt, and by being too easily led by George. George had always been a gobshite, always getting them both into trouble; Harry should have known better.

The talking was good; he had to keep doing that. ‘Mariah Carey,’ he got out. ‘I like her stuff. And George Michael.’

As soon as he’d said that, he knew he shouldn’t have.

‘Oh yeah.’

Now the big man had stopped dodging around. The man’s head was huge, like the rest of him. He had a little goatee beard, dark but with a stripe of grey down the centre. He was very still. He leaned in close to Harry’s face. Harry smelled cologne, sweat and coffee breath. Not nice. Bushy black eyebrows. Dark eyes beneath them, hard as polished pebbles as they stared into Harry’s. ‘You like all that, don’t you, Harry boy? Like the gay scene, yeah? But some things you don’t arse about with, Harry. A pun there, you get that? Eh?’

He nudged Harry’s shoulder, hard.

Harry nodded.

‘Arse, see?’

Harry nodded again. He felt exhausted, near tears, desperate. Had to talk to the bastard, but right now he couldn’t find the right words, and he was scared of stumbling across the wrong ones. He glanced at the open door behind the man, and thought he saw movement there. He thought – oh and this was crazy, this was proof that his mind was close to gone – he thought for one mad moment that he saw his sister Gracie’s face staring back at him.

Crazy.

Gracie was in Manchester. Gracie didn’t care about him, or George, or Mum.

‘You a giver or a taker, Harry? Uh? You know what I mean, right?’ The man was smiling at him.

He’s crazy, thought Harry. He’s crazy and I’m fucked.

‘Yeah. I know what you mean,’ he said, and coughed. His throat was dry, so painfully dry. He’d been in this hellhole since yesterday afternoon, without drink – except for those precious droplets of rank water falling from the roof – and without food. He wondered how long he could go on, could survive, like this.

‘Thought you would. Only some things, Harry – some things you don’t take. Some things get people upset, would you agree with that?’

Harry nodded, his head slumping forward on his chest. He couldn’t do this any more. He was done for. He was never going to get out of here.

‘That’s good.’ The man drew back. ‘You just think about that, Harry. And . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.’

The big man walked away, opened the door, and was gone.

Harry heard the key turn in the lock.

Silent tears fell from his eyes. He was too weak, too tired, too frightened to cry out loud.

Gracie

DECEMBER