The Make. Jessie Keane
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George persisted.
‘Fourteen,’ said Alfie with a quick grin.
‘Holy shit.’
‘Kidding,’ said Alfie with a roll of his eyes at George’s gullibility.
George tipped his head to one side and looked Alfie in the eye. George played a mean hand of cards. The Doyle poker gene had not passed him by. He was ace at reading people’s reactions, but angel-faced young Alfie flummoxed him. He could read his accent, no problem. Well-bred. Nicely rounded vowels. From a good background, that much was obvious. So what had he been doing, wandering around the dangerous night streets with someone waving a knife in his face?
‘Which is it then?’ he asked. ‘Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? What?’
‘Seventeen. That’s the God’s honest, George.’
George stared across at Alfie. ‘You going to tell me what happened with that guy, Alf? The one in the alley?’
Alfie’s smile dropped away. The shutters went down. He said nothing.
‘Alf?’ prompted George gently.
Alfie exhaled sharply and sat back in his chair. He looked into George’s eyes. ‘Please let me stay, George,’ he said. ‘Please.’
George pushed back his chair and leaned back too, puffing out his cheeks with exasperation. Bert came and put more toast and tea in front of them. George nodded his thanks and looked at Alfie.
‘Seventeen?’ he asked. Alfie could easily pass for younger, with that puckish, elfin, Peter Pan quality, the big eyes, the golden mop of hair; he’d look twenty when he was thirty-five. He’d look fifty when he was ninety.
Alfie nodded and dived into the toast.
George felt a smile forming on his face again. ‘Seventeen, with a tapeworm.’
He watched the boy eat. There was something about the boy eating that just made George feel happy. Maybe he was a compulsive feeder – certainly he fed himself with a vengeance. But it was more than that. George knew the state Alfie had been in last night. Shaking. Shot away. His eyes huge from the after-effects of some drug or other. And then, during the night, the boy’d had nightmares. George had heard him crying out, rambling on about dungeons and shit. He had tried to ignore it, but it had gone on, and on, and he’d thought, fuck it, he’s going to wake Harry up in a minute; Harry is not going to be a happy bunny.
So he’d gone through to the lounge, and there had been Alfie, curled up in a corner of the sofa bed, sobbing. George had sat down in his vest and boxers and said hey kid, what’s the matter? You okay?
And then, because Alfie had seemed so distraught, he had put his arm around him and hugged him. Saying over and over, it’s okay, hush, it’s all right, what was it, a bad dream? It’s okay, you’re safe.
After about an hour, Alfie had lain down again, and finally drifted back into sleep. George had felt tears prick his own eyes, he was so affected by Alfie’s distress. George had sat there, watching him for a long time. Watching over him, sort of.
Like he was doing now. Caring for him, feeding him, and feeling glad that the haunted expression in his eyes was starting to go.
‘Say I can stay. Please,’ said Alfie again, past a mouthful of toast.
George stared at Alfie. ‘It’s a small flat,’ he said.
‘Please.’
Harry wouldn’t be happy. Said the place was too small to swing a cat anyway, but with three of them in there . . . and fuck it, what if Cuthill found out? He’d stick the rent up at the very least, or – worst-case scenario – boot their arses out the door. And then where would they be? He’d be damned if he’d go back home again and watch that creepo Claude pawing his mum day and night. Yuck.
‘Okay, you can stay,’ George heard himself saying, frightened that if he said no Alfie was just going to leg it, vanish into the warren of streets and never be seen again.
He’d have to square it with Harry, that was all. It would work out. It would have to.
‘You are joking,’ said Harry.
‘Nope. Deadly serious, my man,’ said George, handing Harry a sheet of A4 paper that had just been coughed out by the printer beside his small computer station in his shambolic bedroom. ‘Your assignment – should you choose to accept it,’ said George, sending a collusive grin to Alfie, who was sprawled out on the bed watching all this going on, ‘is to escort Ms Melissa Whitehead to a family wedding. She’s a bit of a dog, I grant you, but she needs an escort for this do, if she ain’t going to look like a total lost cause to her nearest and dearest.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Harry, staring at the photo. It wasn’t pretty. ‘If she wants a shag, I’m definitely not going to be up to it.’
‘Unkind, unkind,’ tutted George. ‘And speaking of such delicate matters, you know that cougar, the one you also worried you wouldn’t be able to do the deed for . . .?’
Harry looked up. ‘Who, Jackie?’
‘See, you’re on first-name terms. And, my boy, your face lit up at the very mention of her. I think it’s lurve.’
‘Don’t be a prick,’ said Harry. ‘What she say?’
‘Needs you – and no one else, I might add – you specifically, to escort her to another do.’
‘Oh.’ After the Covent Garden incident, Harry thought she’d never want to see him again. He felt cheered, all of a sudden, and Melissa Whitehead didn’t seem quite so daunting after all.
‘I’m hard at work this Friday night too.’ George glanced at Alfie. ‘You’ll be okay here on your own, won’t you Alf?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
Harry looked at Alfie. He didn’t understand all this with George and Alfie at all. Alfie was a posh kid and he ought to be at home, not roughing it here with him and George. But he was George’s friend, and Harry had had plenty of his friends bunking over in the past, so he couldn’t complain.
And why should he bother? Life was treating them pretty good right now. The escorting business was paying like a bastard; they were busy and there was cash rolling in wholesale, tax-free. George was ducking out of his job with Lorcan on a pretty regular basis, taking sickies as often as he could, then going off instead to escort and sexually service the lonely and sometimes downright desperate women of London town. Harry had even stopped signing on. They could stick their dole money. He had plenty. Yeah, life was pretty damned good. And he was – a little to his surprise – really looking forward to seeing Jackie Sullivan again.
‘So who’s yours?’ he asked George.
George whipped off another print-out. Looked at the paper.
‘Oh, she looks okay. Pretty little blonde. Sandy Cole.’
Lefty Umbabwe hauled back and belted Mona a hard one right across the cheek. What else could he do? She was a loud-mouthed cow, always complaining. Lefty was beginning to regret his decision to take Gordon’s advice and draft in the club dancer to help him track down Alfie.
‘Ow! You fucker!’ yelled Mona.
‘Mona by name and moaner by nature, that’s you,’ shrieked Lefty, right in her face.
‘Listen, I’m shagged out here. My legs are worn to stumps, these bleedin’ heels ain’t meant for walking in. How much longer you planning to drag me around town, Lefty, uh?’ Mona grumbled, cupping her sore face with one hand. It was a bitterly cold night. Her breath was like fog in front of her face. Her toes were numb.