The Make. Jessie Keane
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couldn’t steer the good ship Gracie any more; as if she was being buffeted by some force stronger than herself. She was cool and logical, whereas Lorcan was fiery and impulsive. They attracted and repelled each other, like powerful magnets.
Lorcan had worked for Gracie’s father when he had managed a casino in London’s West End. Then, when Paddy had taken off for Manchester with Gracie after his divorce, he had head-hunted Lorcan and installed him as manager of his new casino up there. Inevitably, Lorcan and Gracie had met. She’d been learning the business, working her way up the greasy pole as Dad insisted she should. She and Lorcan had fallen in love, then married on Gracie’s twentieth birthday.
It should have been happy-ever-after. But Lorcan hadn’t been content in Manchester. He was a Londoner, and he wanted to return there, to open and run his own place. Gracie, however, was settled in Manchester. Her dad was there, she loved Doyles and was thrusting ahead with her own career. So Lorcan went off down to London to get started up, expecting her to join him – but by then she had his old job, managing the entire casino, and she was happy.
There had followed weekends together, arguments, endless wearying debates. And all it boiled down to was this: he was settled in London. She was settled in Manchester.
Gracie heaved a sigh that shuddered through her frame. She’d loved him. But she had loved her career too, her burgeoning, swiftly growing career up here in Manchester with Dad.
Never one to mince his words, Lorcan had told her flat out that something was going to have to give, but it seemed he was sure it wouldn’t be his career to go, it would be hers. Then he had said he wanted children, but Gracie had been so busy forging a career that she didn’t want children, not yet anyway. Why couldn’t he understand that?
He didn’t.
During one bitter, final phone call he’d laid down an ulti -m atum: either she moved back down to London, or it was over.
‘Okay then!’ Gracie had screamed down the phone at him. ‘Okay, you bastard! Enough! It’s over!’
She had slammed the phone down. After five years of trying – and failing – to reconcile their differences, they gave up. They never spoke again.
She poked the papers with one finger. Divorce. Horrible word. An admission of failure. She looked down at her long, pale hands, bare of ornamentation. She hadn’t worn her wedding or her cabochon-cut, beautiful emerald engagement ring in years. Why the hell did he have to choose now, when she felt so stressed, when bad memories of her father’s death and new disasters were besetting her, to start proceedings?
Irritably she turned away, shrugging off her coat and throwing it aside. Time for the other post. Bank letters, those blank credit-card cheques that she never used and were a bugger to dispose of. A jiffy bag. She tore open the fastenings and tipped the contents out on the table. A bundle of mid-length dark red hair fell out, and a note.
She literally leapt back, away from it, her hands flying to her mouth.
It was a dead animal.
What the fuck?
Her heart started stampeding around in her chest as she stared wildly at it. She felt a hot sour surge of sickness building in the back of her throat. Oh Jesus. Had some sick bastard posted a dead thing to her? Then she noticed that the hair was exactly the same colour as her own.
Gulping hard, she reached out and tentatively touched it. There was no substance, no form, no small dead body. It was just hair, a lot of it – and it was just like hers. She looked at the folded note. Her hand shook with shock and fear as she picked it up, unfolded it, and read the typed words.
Smoke getting in your eyes?
Blame your scumbag brother.
I’m watching you, Red.
Call the filth on this and you’re all dead.
Gracie sat down hard on one of her bar stools. Her brain felt hot-wired suddenly, the blood singing in her ears. She couldn’t get her breath. She wondered for a moment if she was actually going to pass out. Smoke getting in your eyes. The fire at Doyles. Blame your scumbag brother. George in hospital. The tearful call from the girl, Sandy. Harry . . . Harry was missing.
George had always been trouble, and Harry had always followed his lead. What had they been getting into this time? And even more frightening than any of that, which was terrifying enough, the final line. I’m watching you, Red.
Gracie snatched up the jiffy bag. The label was neatly typed, like the note, and postmarked London. Whoever had sent this, they knew where she lived. They knew where she worked. They could be watching her right now.
Gracie glanced at the window. Outside, night had fallen, and there were stars starting to twinkle in the sky. There was no wind; the air was still, clear and cold. There would be frost tonight. Lights were winking cheerily down there on the narrow boats moored all along this stretch of the canal. There were buildings right opposite this one, with windows that faced right on to her kitchen. She got up, crossed quickly to the kitchen window and slammed shut the blinds with a shaking hand.
She looked again at the hair. It was the same texture and colour as her father’s had been before it became peppered with grey; the same colour as her own. Was that George’s? Harry’s? It wasn’t her mother’s; mum had been bottle-blonde just about forever.
Suddenly she didn’t want to be here alone in this big, echoing apartment with its lovely views. She went through to the sitting room and shut the blinds in there too, then went to the front door. She checked it was locked, and put the chain on.
After that she began to unwind, just a bit. Aware that she had been holding her breath, she told herself breathe, you idiot. No wonder you thought you were going to faint, you have to breathe.
She wished someone was here with her, someone who was a bit of a bruiser, an action-man type. Oh, you mean like Lorcan Connolly? shot into her brain. The one who caused you tears and heartache, and turned out to be the rottenest, most chauvinistic bastard you’d ever met?
Come on, she told herself. Get a grip, okay?
She went back into the kitchen. The hair still lay there on her table. Gracie stared at it and shuddered. Then she hurried back into the sitting room and went to the answering machine. She hadn’t wiped the messages. She replayed them, five al together, two about business, and three from the girl called Sandy, each one more distraught than the last.
She listened to Sandy’s messages again, tuning in this time, paying close attention. George was in hospital, Harry was fuck-knew-where. Sandy gave her phone number – a mobile, not a landline. Gracie wrote it down on the pad, cleared the messages, and dialled.
No answer.
Gracie went and took a shower, slipped on her slouchy indoor-wear, and made herself a warming cup of tea. She kept glancing through the open doorway at the hair on the kitchen table. She didn’t think she could keep down any food, so she didn’t bother trying. Instead she turned on the evening news, listening but hardly hearing any of it, the note constantly replaying in her mind. Call the filth on this and you’re all dead. She phoned Sandy’s mobile again at seven, then at eight. It went straight to voicemail. She left a message, said please call.
At nine, Sandy did.
‘Hi. Sandy?’ asked Gracie, quickly muting the TV with the remote.
‘Yeah. Hi. How are you?’ The girl sounded exhausted.
‘Fine. How’s George?’
‘I’ve been at the hospital all evening with him. He’s about the same. Still in intensive care.’ She sounded tearful again. ‘It’s horrible in there.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Gracie, although truthfully she couldn’t. ‘Did Mum go in with you?’
‘She’s going tomorrow. We’re taking turns, makes it a bit easier.’
‘Can you give me her number again? I mislaid it after you left it yesterday.’