The Make

The room seemed to be empty. And the door was open. Why was the door open, letting out all the heat into the frozen December night?

Because Drax was outside.

The thought popped into her brain and her breathing stopped dead.

She looked behind her. Saw nothing. No one was rushing towards her through the snow, ready to maim or kill. Her heart was thudding sickly in her chest now. Was Drax out here, stalking her? She drew back from the window, blinking, all her night vision gone. She sagged against the wall of the house, blinded, waiting for someone to attack her.

Nobody did.

After a few beats, her vision came back again. Now she could see that there was another building further along, and the door there was half-open, a fainter light spilling out on to the snow. Was it a garage, a storeroom? She heard movement coming from that direction.

Maybe Drax was out there, fetching something. People kept freezers, washing machines, tumble dryers in the garage sometimes, didn’t they? Maybe Drax did too.

What to do, what to do?

In turmoil, wanting to just flee, Gracie wrestled with herself. She knew she’d never get another chance like this. There would be a phone in there; maybe she’d be able to summon help. Before she could bottle it, she forced her legs to move forward. She stepped over the doormat, careful not to make a sound, and she was in; she was standing inside Drax’s kitchen.

Chapter 68

Lorcan rang the bell of George and Harry’s flat until his finger was numb. He stepped back, looked anxiously up at the first-floor windows. Everything was in darkness up there. He went back to his car and drove carefully over – slipping and sliding all the way – to Drax’s club. The roads were quiet, not much moving on them except the odd gritting lorry. On the weather reports they’d been telling people not to go out if they could avoid it. To stay home, in the warm bosom of their families. There was another ten centimetres of snow predicted to fall overnight, and Gracie was out here somewhere, wandering the streets, doing what?

Looking for him?

Or maybe she’d heard something from Harry?

He didn’t know.

All he did know was that he was frantic. When he got to the club, all was in darkness there. He went up to the main door, then went around the alley at the side, looked at the side door, thumped on it a couple of times. No one answered. All was quiet and calm under the soft torpid quilt of the snow.

Lorcan looked around desperately, wondering what to do. He was terrified for Gracie now, certain she’d gone after Drax with only Paul for protection, and he didn’t think Paul would be enough. He got out his mobile, and made a quick call. Then he waited. Within minutes, his phone rang with the information he needed. He went back to his car, got in, and started to drive.

Chapter 69

Gracie looked around the kitchen, her heart in her throat, her eyes wide with fear. She decided that what she needed was a weapon. She had no intention of actually using it, but it would just make her feel better. She looked along the glistening black granite worktops. A breadmaker. A container stuffed full of cooking utensils. Kettle. Toaster. Knife block.

Her breath caught. Knife block.

Christ, she couldn’t stab anyone. She just couldn’t. Her eyes skimmed on past the obvious, on to the more everyday. Microwave. Mugs. A dresser, stuffed full of blue and white china. Oh, this was homely. Not what she’d pictured in the home of an animal like Drax, but she supposed even perverts had to eat.

She went back to the container of utensils. There had to be something. Then she spotted the ice pick. She grabbed it. Hefted it in her hand. Looked at the sharp end, the twin picks to chop at ice. She reversed it in her hand. If she had to hit him at all, it would be with the blunt end.

A bubble of hysterical laughter almost escaped her then.

Shit, she was losing it. She went to the inner kitchen door, trying to orientate herself. She opened it, went through, careful to close it very quietly behind her so that Drax wouldn’t come back in, see it standing open when he knew he’d closed it, and smell a rat.

What the hell am I doing? she wondered, but she was crossing a big beamed hall now, past a big long-case clock ticking away in the corner, maybe counting down the seconds that were left of her life.

Stop that.

How the hell was she going to get out of here? She was in, and that was fine, that was great, but she had to find Alfie, and she had to get them both out, and how exactly was she going to do that before Drax came and found her?

Terror slithered down her spine, making her shiver hard and stop in her tracks outside what she believed must be the door to the sitting room she’d seen Alfie in. Only, what if it wasn’t? What if she opened the door and it wasn’t Alfie in there but some of Drax’s pervy mates?

She put her ear to the door and listened hard. She couldn’t hear a damned thing. There were no other doors on this side of the hall; this had to be the sitting-room door, didn’t it? She felt trembly, her legs unsteady, her hands awkward, fearing at any moment that Drax was going to come roaring up behind her, demanding to know what the fuck she was doing.

Gently, she turned the handle and pushed the door open, just a crack.

There was a loud pop. Gracie nearly hit the ceiling she jumped so violently. Then she heard crackling . . . the fire. It was only the fire, maybe a bit of resin dribbling from a log had made that noise.

She had to go in. She pushed the door open, edged her head inside just a little. The room was just as she’d seen it from outside: lavish with Oriental rugs and vast red brocade sofas, the lighting low and cosy, the fire crackling warmly in the hearth. Gracie had to shake herself a little, because this felt so unreal. The whole house was like an ad in Homes & Gardens, and Drax lived here. It was clear that, even though he was a detestable creature, Drax had an eye for beauty – in furnishings, surroundings – and in young boys too.

She moved inside, pushing the door closed behind her. She could see Alfie’s tousled blond head against the back of the sofa. Grasping the pick securely, she went around the sofa and bent down and looked at Alfie.

The smell that surrounded him was the first thing that hit her. It was bitter, chemical. And overlaying that was the sickly-sweet scent of dope. His eyes were closed. He looked fine, as if he was just dozing there.

‘Alfie,’ hissed Gracie.

His eyes opened and Gracie’s heart plummeted. His pupils were enormous. He was doped to the eyeballs. He looked at her and his face tried to form a smile. One hand rose, then flopped back down on to the red brocade.

‘Gracie, Gracie, Gracie,’ he slurred.

Shit, he was really stoned.

Drax hadn’t lost any time in softening Alfie up again for the kill, and how exactly was she going to get him out of here in this state? She didn’t have a clue. She went over to the window she’d looked through before. It was locked, and there was no key visible anywhere. She turned back to Alfie. All right, she was going to have to get Alfie out through the front or back doors. Meanwhile, there had to be a phone in here; she would ring for help, ring for Lorcan, for the police.