The Make

Chapter 64

The whole world was upside-down, and full of eerie silence.

‘Paul?’ gasped out Gracie. She felt a deep sense of unreality. It was still snowing, but the wipers had stopped working. Through the windscreen she could see nothing but a solid film of snow, tinted pale primrose by the glare of the headlights. The seat belt was cutting into her flesh, holding her suspended, upside-down, in her seat. Her breath plumed out into the rapidly chilling air inside the car. She was aware that she was shivering with shock as well as cold. The window on Paul’s side was gone, shattered into fragments. That side of his face and his right-hand shoulder looked bloody.

‘Fuck it, Paul,’ said Gracie, louder.

No reply. His eyes were closed. Gracie was scrabbling for the seat belt release, her shaking hands failing to find it half a dozen times before finally, cursing, shivering, she had it and pressed it. She fell free of the belt’s restraint, her head and shoulders hitting the car roof, her legs sprawling. How to get out? She still had Paul’s phone in her hand. She stuffed it into her coat pocket and crawled, crab-legged, awkward, disorientated, over the unconscious Paul. She grabbed the jagged window opening and hauled herself through and out. Branches caught at her, dragged into her hair and dug into her stomach.

She fell, panting, whimpering, into a snow-filled ditch. She sat there for a moment, too stunned to move. Slowly, half afraid to find out, she checked herself over for injuries. But she was okay, not a mark on her. She looked back at the car. It was sloping down, bonnet-first, into the ditch, resting on the driver’s side against an old, twisted oak tree. Now she could see what had happened when the car spun out of control and turned over. The car had struck the oak on Paul’s side, shattering the window.

Gracie dragged herself to her feet, staggered up to the car where Paul still sat pinned by his seat belt, upside-down, unconscious.

‘Paul!’ she yelled at him.

No answer. Just the moaning of the hard chilling northern wind through the branches of the trees.

Gracie looked all around her, wondering what the hell to do now. She could see faint lights in the distance up ahead. A farmhouse, hopefully, where she could summon help. She’d have to go on foot, alone, from here. Not a cheering prospect. And what about Paul? She couldn’t just leave him like this: he’d freeze to death. She flipped open the phone.

Shit.

Now the battery was dead.

She left the damned thing switched on and tucked it into Paul’s jacket. Wondered whether she ought to at least get him upright, but she’d heard you could make matters worse by moving crash victims, exacerbating injuries. No, she was going to have to push on, reach that house up there, get some assistance. There was nothing else she could do.

With a last desperate look at Paul hanging there, Gracie struggled up the bank of the ditch and back on to the grass verge. The snow was relentless now, slicing towards her almost horizontally, stealing her breath away and tinting the whole night-time world pale blue. Ahead, there was light, warmth, help. She had to go for it; there was nothing else she could do. She scrambled over the fallen tree that had been Paul’s undoing, then slowly, stumbling a bit but then gaining pace, Gracie started walking.

The lights of the house seemed to recede as Gracie trudged through the snow, twisting her ankles a dozen times on unseen obstacles. Every step she took seemed to take the damned things further away, not closer. She could have howled aloud with the frustration of it. She was so worried about Lorcan, and Harry, and Alfie – and now there was Paul back there in the car, probably freezing to death, if not mortally injured already. She had to get help for them all. When she reached the farmhouse – if she ever did – she was through playing silly buggers. She was going to call the police, call out the whole fucking army if necessary. She was done with pussyfooting around. Deano Drax had to be stopped, right now. Eventually, she rounded a corner, and at last she could see the outline of a big thatched house.

There were lots of lights on in there. It looked cosy, welcoming. Gracie started forward, walking past two big pillars on which hung large, dark-painted wrought-iron gates. The gates stood open. She paused there. Then slowly, she looked up. On each one of the pillars was a huge stone lion, pawing the frigid air, wearing a collar of snow and roaring up at the cold night sky.

It was Drax’s place.

Gracie froze, her heart hammering, her mind in a flat spin. What to do, what to do? She looked to the left and to the right, but there were no more comforting lights, no nothing. This was the only place out here. She thought again of Paul, lying injured back along the road. He could die, and if he did, then she was responsible. She’d wanted to come out here, not him. She thought of Lorcan. He was a big hard bastard but he wasn’t twisted like Drax. Anything could have happened to him. As for Harry, he could already be dead for all she knew. And Alfie. What about him? He could be here, inside this house, kept prisoner, abused, hurt.

She looked up at the lions. They seemed threatening, warning her to back off. But she couldn’t. Whatever it cost her, she knew she had to go on.

Chapter 65

‘Oh you better watch out, you better . . . come on, Harry. Join in.’

Deano Drax’s tuneless horrible nasal whine was going to be the last sound he heard on this earth, Harry knew that now. The man couldn’t sing. Drax was prancing around Harry’s chair, saying join in, join in, wailing out these fucking Christmas tunes until Harry felt he was going to just flip and scream the place down.

How long had he been in this hellhole now? He’d lost all track of time. Days, he thought. Although it could be over a week. He just didn’t know. He knew he was filthy, sweaty, bloody. The thought of a hot shower, of being clean and warm, was too painful even to contemplate.

Harry didn’t join in. Deano Drax stopped his merry little jig and stood stock-still in front of Harry. He bent forward and stared into Harry’s face.

‘I said, join in,’ he growled.

Harry said nothing. He wished the fucker would just shoot him. It’d be a merciful release right now.

As if Deano had heard Harry’s thoughts, he was reaching out, taking the gun off the top of the chest freezer.

Ah shit, thought Harry. What the hell?

Deano pointed the muzzle of the gun at Harry’s head and gave a grin.

‘It’s Christmas Day, Harry. You probably didn’t realize that, right?’

Christmas Day. Harry thought of what he should be doing. He could be at Mum’s with George, getting the full Christmas works, turkey and stuffing and . . . oh shit, all that food, what did he have to go and think about food for? . . . and probably with Alfie too. Instead, he was about to get killed. No more pain, though – that was a bonus.

‘Of course you didn’t,’ went on Drax. ‘Otherwise you’d have joined in with my songs, wouldn’t you Harry? It’s traditional, isn’t it. Carols at Christmas, and party games. Do you like party games, Harry?’

Harry didn’t like party games. Wearily, he shook his head.

‘That’s a shame, because I do. And we still haven’t finished the game we were playing before.’

Now Drax was shoving the cold, hurtful metal muzzle of the gun up against Harry’s cheekbone. Harry gasped at the pain, but was too weak, too beaten, to utter a protest.

Get on with it then.