The Make (24 page)
Authors: Jessie Keane
‘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.
DECEMBER
Christmas Eve
Lorcan’s casino was really something to see. There were seven American roulette tables, three tables given over to three-card poker, four for blackjack or
vingt-et-un
, and two for
punto banco
. The boulevard and the setting were nothing like hers. Gracie’s place was modern and had banks of slots lining the foyer before you got into the casino boulevard proper, to lure in the downmarket gamblers; but everything about Lorcan’s casino said classy Edwardian plush.
There were no slots, for a start. There was red and gold everywhere, lush
fin-de-siècle
paintings with gold-leaf frames, huge crimson drapes and gold-tasselled fastenings, deep blue tables, each with a mahogany surround polished and burnished to a dense, glossy dark red. The carpet under the punters’ feet was hand-woven, a swirling canvas of reds, golds and warm royal blues.
The place was packed.
‘Christmas Eve,’ said Lorcan, leading her down the boulevard, snaffling two glasses of champagne from a passing purple-waistcoated employee and handing one to Gracie.
‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers. ‘What shall we drink to, Gracie?’
‘George’s recovery,’ said Gracie, who was suddenly overwhelmed to be here among all these talking and laughing people, listening to the clatter of the ball ricocheting around the glittering roulette wheel. No wonder he’d wanted to show it off to her: it was magnificent.
‘Five black,’ said the croupier, and someone shouted excitedly as the winnings were scooped their way.
‘It’s fabulous,’ Gracie admitted, feeling sick with envy. Her place was a wreck right now, and it was up in the air whether or not she was going to be able to reopen anytime soon.
‘
You
look fabulous, Gracie,’ said Lorcan.
So do you
.
She didn’t say it aloud. She felt weird and displaced. It was so strange, to be with him again. So strange, but it felt so
right.
Even when they were bickering, she enjoyed it.
‘Want to spin the wheel, Gracie? Take a chance?’ asked Lorcan.
Gracie’s eyes came up and met Lorcan’s blue gaze.
‘What, on the roulette table?’ she asked him.
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ said Lorcan. ‘You know I don’t. Let’s go up to the flat.’
The flat was modern, large, and very male. It was a bachelor pad, minimalist and pared to the bone. There was a big TV in the living room, a bank of huge chocolate-brown leather sofas, a table, a fireplace. Lorcan switched on the lights so that they were low and seductive, and flicked the remote at the fire. Gas-fired flames leapt up and Gracie laughed. There was a large fake Christmas tree beside the fireplace.
‘Look up,’ said Lorcan as he closed the door behind them, the remote still in his hand.
And of course there was a dense sprig of white-berried mistletoe hanging down from the ceiling.
‘I suppose you bring all your girlfriends up here and get them under the mistletoe?’
‘Girlfriends?’ Lorcan half smiled and slipped his arms around Gracie’s waist. ‘Gracie, I’m a married man, or had you forgotten that?’
‘A married man who now wants to become a
divorced
man,’ she pointed out. He was very close – close enough to be extremely disturbing. If he kissed her now . . . how would she react? She didn’t want to find out . . . did she?
‘Yeah, and how do you feel about that, Gracie?’ He pulled her in closer; the fronts of their bodies were touching, all the way down to their toes.
Well, how did she feel? She remembered opening the letter with the divorce papers inside. How deflated she’d felt, how sad all of a sudden. And then, when she’d first seen him again at the flat, that sense of undeniable excitement. Followed of course by irritation and anger, because he wanted rid of her.
Well come on, Gracie, don’t you want rid of him too?
And therein lay the trouble. She wasn’t sure she did.
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Gracie, twining her arms around his neck and arching her brows at him. ‘Maybe I need convincing . . .?’
‘What you need is your arse smacking,’ said Lorcan, his mouth moving down towards hers.
‘Ha! And you think you’re going to do it, do you?’ she teased.
‘I think you want me to.’ Now his mouth was so close to hers she could feel his warm breath, could smell the peppermint sweetness of it. She felt more than saw him aim the remote toward a discreetly placed sound system on the far wall, and music started to play. Soft, seductive music. Music she hadn’t listened to for five years, ever since they’d split for what had seemed to be the last time, because if she
had
, she would have broken down and cried. Michael McDonald was oozing his seductive gravelly voice through ‘Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart)’. It was their song.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Gracie, half laughing but also more than a little inclined to sob like a child. ‘What a smooth bastard you are.’
‘Stop talking, Gracie, and start kissing.’
‘No. I can’t think straight when you kiss me.’
‘Good.’
Their lips met.
This was a memory, twining around her brain like the song. A memory of happy times, of laughter, of a passion that could rock her world – and frequently did, before the arguments, before the huge clash of wills that had eventually ripped their marriage wide open.
His tongue was in her mouth, teasing hers, taking her over.
She jerked her head back, looked into his eyes. He looked at her and smiled. ‘Go on, Gracie. Take the risk. Spin the wheel.’
It was frightening. She had no idea where this was going. It had taken her a long, long time to regain her equilibrium after the split. She’d been a wreck for months – crying, staying in bed all day, hitting the bottle more than she should; but now all bets were off. She’d loved him forever. She
would
love him forever, she realized that now. It was deeply, deeply scary.
But she wanted it.
She wanted
him.
She pulled his head back down to hers and kissed him, really kissed him, and it was as if all those years of hurt had fallen away. All that mattered right now was that they were here, together.
‘Better,’ he murmured against her mouth.
‘Oh shut
up
, Lorcan,’ she mumbled. ‘Just shut up and take me to bed, will you?’
Lorcan bent and picked her up into his arms; they were still kissing as he crossed the room, kicked open a door, and laid her down on a huge bed. He drew back then, pulled at the waist tie on the black wrap dress she wore, spread it open. She was wearing nothing underneath.
Lorcan stared at her, then reached out, skimming one big hand over the hot white curve of her hip, tracing the indentation of her waist, then gliding on up to cup one full, magnificent breast.
‘You know, I’d forgotten how pale your skin was,’ he murmured, and then his lips were at her breast too, teasing the nipple into hardness.
Gracie leaned back, ecstatic, giving herself up to the moment, moaning softly, but then he was gone, moving away from her.
‘Oh Jesus, Lorcan,’ she groaned.
He was throwing off his clothes. A minute, and he was back with her, pushing the dress off her shoulders and scooping up her naked body so that it lay across his.
‘Fuck, I should have done this the minute we met again,’ he muttered against her neck, his teeth nibbling at her throat, his body so familiar and yet so deliciously strange. She remembered him now, remembered all of him, how gorgeous he was, how incredibly handsome. And how big . . .
A groan escaped her as he moved on top of her and parted her thighs, driving into her, unable to wait a moment longer.
Lorcan paused, panting, staring down at her with concern. ‘All right?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she managed, wrapping her legs around his waist, smoothing her hands into the hair on his chest, wondering what was happening, how she had stumbled back into this, and where it would take her.
But all that mattered was the here and now, and as he started to move inside her, the heat and heaviness and hardness of him seduced her completely.
It was bliss. It was so wonderful that she wondered now how she had stayed sane all these years without him. She held on to him. She knew his rhythm just as he knew hers. It was so right, so perfect. She could feel his skin growing damp and slick with the extremity of his passion, she could hear her own breath coming in urgent little gasps. Then he was hard, so very hard that she could barely stand it. Her head went back with abandon and she arched up against him. He was coming. He was coming inside her.
Gracie stiffened. Wasn’t this what they’d argued over so many times in the past? He wanted children; she wanted her career. She wasn’t on the pill – the damned thing made her feel sick. She’d become so carried away by the moment that she’d failed to even
think
about contraception.
She thought about it now. Thought about the possibility of having Lorcan’s child, and what that would mean. A fresh start together? Or more arguments, more heartache?
Lorcan was withdrawing from her, flopping back on to the bed, his breathing unsteady.
Gracie lay there, horrified at herself. What the hell could she have been thinking of?
Nothing. Only satisfying her lust; that was all. She thought of all those awful, painful rows they’d had. She couldn’t go there again. She just
couldn’t.
Now he was turning back towards her, his hands reaching for her, starting to attend to her pleasure now that he had attended to his own.
‘No – don’t,’ said Gracie, and sat up, reaching for her dress. Her body, her treacherous body, was still humming with desire, wanting to continue. ‘Why not?’ asked Lorcan.
‘Because I . . .’ Gracie groped for the words and simply couldn’t find them. Instead she said: ‘I’ve got to get back to the flat. That’s why. I’m expecting someone.’
And before he could protest any further, she stood up, rewrapped her dress firmly around her, and said: ‘I’d better get a taxi.’
Lorcan gave her one long, exasperated look. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. ‘No need. I’ll drive you. But trust me Gracie – one day soon we’re going to do this properly, and we
are
going to talk.’
An hour later they were back at the flat when the doorbell rang.
Gracie went to the intercom and told the woman who answered her to come on up.
A few minutes later, Gracie opened the door to two small pale women, one blonde and in her fifties, the other a brunette in her twenties with a lovely, heart-shaped face.
Mother and daughter
, she thought instantly.
The heavy was standing right behind them. ‘You expecting these people?’ he asked Gracie in a flat Essex monotone.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
He nodded and went back off down the stairs. The two women watched him go, their expressions nervous.
‘Jackie?’ asked Gracie, looking from one to the other of them.
‘I’m Jackie Sullivan,’ said the older woman, holding out a hand. ‘You’re Gracie, yes? Harry’s sister? Oh goodness . . . of course you are. You look so much like him.’
Gracie shook Jackie’s thin, cold hand.
‘This is Emma, my daughter.’ Gracie shook Emma’s hand too; her grip was stronger, warmer. ‘We’re both extremely worried about Harry,’ said Jackie, and her eyes filled with tears. Emma’s did too. They clung to each other like a couple of waifs and looked pleadingly at Gracie. ‘Do you know what’s happened to him?’ asked Jackie.
I wish
, thought Gracie, and her mobile started ringing. She ushered Jackie and Emma into the flat as she picked up. ‘Hello?’
It was Suze, babbling and crying and making no sense at all.
‘Mum, slow down. What are you saying?’ urged Gracie, watching Lorcan introduce himself to their visitors as ‘Gracie’s husband’. Cheeky git. Then an image of what they had been doing, naked and locked together just a couple of hours ago, shot into her brain. She actually felt herself blush.
‘The hospital phoned,’ Suze managed to get out.
Gracie clutched at the phone. Oh fuck. She thought of that horrible moment when George’s heart had stopped. This was it. George was dead. George had gone and
died
on them. ‘Oh God,’ she managed to get out. ‘
No.
Oh Mum, I’m so sorry . . .’
Suze’s voice caught on a sobbing laugh. ‘
No,
you silly cow. He ain’t
dead.
They’re saying George is showing signs of coming round.’
