The Make, page 30
‘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.
‘Alfie.’ She went back to him, shook his shoulder hard. ‘Can you walk; do you think you can stand up? Come on Alfie. Try and fight it, will you? We’ve got to get out of here.’
Alfie let out a giggle. His head waggled on his shoulders like it was too heavy for them. His eyes were unfocused. ‘Mickey, look. Look, Gracie.’
He was trying to point to a side table. Gracie went over. There was a vintage Mickey Mouse telephone there. Mickey grinned up at her in his red shorts, holding out the canary-yellow receiver in his big white-gloved hand, inviting her to make a call.
Mickey’s grin looked somehow threatening under these circumstances. She thought of all the boys Deano had entertained in this very room, maybe amusing them with this novelty phone before he pounced. She gulped down some air and gingerly picked up the phone. It had one of those old-fashioned dials on it, and her finger was shaking so badly she could hardly use the thing. She stood there and realized that she didn’t know Lorcan’s mobile number. It was stored on her mobile, and she didn’t have the damned thing with her.
Police then.
Nothing else for it.
She dialled 999. Waited. Cringing, almost whimpering in terror because she knew they were both as good as trapped here and that Deano Drax was going to walk in soon, find her here, do her damage. She clutched at the ice pick so hard that it dug into her skin.
‘Police, fire or ambulance?’ said a female operator in her ear.
‘Police,’ said Gracie, even her voice trembling now. ‘Hurry,’ she added. ‘And ambulance too – the man who came with me is out on the road, the car’s upside down, he’s unconscious.’
‘Where are you? What’s happening?’
Gracie stopped dead. She didn’t have a clue where she was, what road this was, what the name of the house was, nothing. She felt panicky tears starting in her eyes.
‘Deano Drax’s house in Essex,’ she said, and dredged from her frozen mind every other tiny detail she could muster before she hung up the phone.
It was then that she heard the screams coming from the garage.
Chapter 70
It was no weather to be out in. All the reports on the news said so. Don’t go out unless you absolutely have to. It was, so far as Lorcan could see, sound advice. It was freezing cold, and once you got off the main roads there were no gritters, so what you were driving on was basically a skid pan, which meant that he didn’t dare put his foot down or he’d just spin straight off the road, get stuck, and then he’d really be up shit creek.
He wasn’t even sure this was where Gracie had headed. He didn’t know what went on in her mind. But it was a hunch, a strong one. And the hunch told him she was still in love with him and she believed he was in trouble.
‘Ah, fuck,’ said Lorcan as the wheels lost traction again. The car drifted sideways and Lorcan stifled the impulse to wrench at the wheel or brake hard. He went with the skid, and presently the wheels gripped again, and he was able to proceed – driving at a snail’s pace, but there was no other way. Now the roads had become unlit country lanes, twisting and turning through pitch-black fields. His headlights speared ahead into the darkness. An owl swooped in front of the car, and he braked in surprise, nearly skidded; held it, thinking, Come on baby, steady.
Every slight bend was a potential crash site now. Lorcan drove with grim care, concentrating only on the endgame – finding Gracie. If Deano caused her any grief, he was going to rip his sorry arse out of his body. He steered carefully around each bend, fearing a skid at each and every turn, knowing that if the car was forfeited then he was bollocksed and would just have to go on foot.
He stared at the road, and nursed the car along. The headlights probed ahead. Another damned turn, sharper this time, much sharper. And it was then, easing the car oh so gently into the turn, that he saw the car upside-down in the ditch and thought, Oh fuck. Gracie.
It wasn’t Gracie, it was Paul. He was sitting on the snow-covered bank beside the car, nursing his head in both hands. Lorcan stopped the car, leaving the engine running, and got out. Paul turned his head, winced, and got back to the head-hugging again.
‘Paul? You okay?’
‘Fucking wonderful,’ groaned Paul.
Now Lorcan was looking in the car, fearing the worst. Shit, what if she was in there, dead? He was half afraid to look, but he had to. The car was empty. He stood up, looked at Paul.
‘Where’s Gracie?’ he asked.
‘Dunno. Don’t remember anything apart from the car spinning off the damned road,’ said Paul.
Lorcan forced himself to calm down, because right now he felt that he was about to pick Paul up by his ears and spin him round until he hollered. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know where she is? She was with you, right?’
‘Yeah. She was. So I guess she went on alone.’
Alone to Drax’s place? Acute anxiety was twisting Lorcan’s gut into knots now. He couldn’t believe she’d be so fucking foolhardy as to do that – but then, this was Gracie. Sometimes you didn’t know what she was going to do.
Or maybe she’d been injured in the crash, and crawled away, and was even now lying nearby in the snow, dying?
Lorcan hurried back to his car and brought a torch. He looked at the passenger side interior of Paul’s car, but there was no blood, no sign of any trauma. He flashed the torch around the ditch, back up the lane, then further on down. He couldn’t see her. He stood there, his breath pluming out in the frozen air, and looked at the lights away up in the distance. He flicked off the torch, went to Paul.
‘Can you walk?’ he asked.
Paul nodded, wincing. He stood up shakily. Lorcan got an arm around him and helped him round to the passenger side of Lorcan’s car. He closed the door carefully on Paul, then ran round to the driver’s side and, cursing the conditions that stopped him from driving like Lewis Hamilton on the track, he drove on, very slowly, very cautiously, heading for the lights up ahead.
Chapter 71
Gracie clapped a hand over her own mouth to stifle a small shriek of shock. Someone had screamed. Literally screamed, so loudly that she had heard it in here, and she was pretty sure that it had come from the garage.
What the hell was going on out there?
She looked at Alfie. He’d heard it too, even in his drug-befuddled state. She could see that his silly, smiling expression had faded to be replaced by bewilderment. She bent down to him again. Looked him in the eye. ‘Alfie?’ she tried.
No good. He was out of it.
And meanwhile, in the garage, Deano was doing something dreadful to someone, and she thought that someone must be Lorcan, and she had to do something, she couldn’t just stand here waiting for the police, they might not even be able to get through on these treacherous roads. She might be condemning Lorcan to death if she did nothing. ‘Alfie, I’m going outside,’ she said to him. ‘I think Lorcan’s in trouble out there. I’m going out to help. Okay?’
He just stared at her, dazed and confused.
For God’s sake, I could really use a hand here, thought Gracie.
But there was no one to help.
Whatever was going to be done, she would have to do it.
Urgency gripped her now. If Drax was hurting Lorcan, she just couldn’t let that happen. She might already be too late. Leaving Alfie reclining there in his drug-hazed stupor, she went quickly to the door leading into the hall and with a hesitant look out there she slipped through.
Shaking, feeling so frightened she could have vomited on the spot, Gracie went back to the interior kitchen door and opened it just a crack. She peeked through. She thought Drax was going to come shouting and cursing at her, but no, the kitchen was still empty, the outer door still slightly ajar.
She felt at any moment that her legs were just going to give way beneath her. She wanted to run, far and fast in the opposite direction, but Lorcan was out there, he was in danger, and she loved him too much to let any harm befall him. And what about Harry? He could be out there too. Hurt. Needing help.
She crossed the kitchen quickly, not allowing herself time to think. If she did, she knew that she would simply lose her nerve and flee. She opened the door and slipped outside.
Instantly she could see nothing. It was very dark. Slowly her eyes adjusted after the glare inside the building. She could see faint light still spilling out from the garage. And now she could hear someone sobbing.
Sobbing.
And – oh fuck, oh help – it sounded like a man.
What the hell was he doing in there?
A cold, compelling rage gripped her as she thought of what could be happening. She got her legs moving, forced herself to head in the direction of the garage. She had no idea what she would find in there, but it wasn’t going to be pretty. She crept along the side of the house, using a hand against the wall to steady herself. In her other hand, she clutched the pick so hard it hurt.
Now, having heard that blood-curdling scream, she wished she’d had the nerve to pick up one of the knives instead. But she wasn’t a killer.
Yeah, but you might be dealing with one here, said a quiet voice in her head. You fight fire with fire, don’t you?
The ice pick was going to have to do. She crept closer, closer, until now she was outside the garage door, she was right there, and she could hear tortured breathing and then . . . oh fuck, someone laughed. Someone actually laughed.
It was Drax. It had to be.
She edged closer, wanting to turn tail but unable to. She had to see this through.
‘So now come on, join in,’ said a hard, harsh male voice.
Drax.
Gracie braced herself and took a peek around the edge of the doorframe. She could see . . . the back of a huge man, bald-headed, bulky, wearing a camel overcoat, hopping from one foot to the other, dancing around someone sitting in a chair.
‘You like the modern stuff? Okay, we’ll sing them then, shall we? What would you like? That Chris Rea, I like that one. “Driving Home for Christmas”. You like that, Harry?’
Harry. It was Harry he had there. So where the hell was Lorcan? Was he here somewhere too?
‘Yeah,’ she heard Harry say tiredly, his breath ragged. ‘Yeah, why the fuck not? I like that one. Get it over, will you? I’m tired of this. Just fucking-well shoot me, Drax, will you?’
‘Not until we’ve sung a couple of Christmas songs together, Harry my son,’ said Drax, and his voice sounded reproachful, almost hurt.
It was Harry who’d screamed. Harry he was hurting. And . . . did he really have a gun?
Gracie’s rage was icy now. That twisted, horrible bastard. She didn’t know anyone gentler than Harry. And he was tied there, imprisoned, being hurt by this arsehole.
Gracie risked another peek around the door. Drax was facing her.
Shit!
She drew back, her heart seizing up in her chest. Had he seen her? She didn’t know. At any moment she thought he was going to emerge from the garage, grab her too. For a moment it was quiet inside there. She held her breath, not daring to move an inch.
He did, thought Gracie in cold horror. He saw me.
‘So what game shall we play now then, Harry? Hm?’
‘What the fuck do I care?’ mumbled Harry. He sounded tired, frightened, finished.
Gracie was standing there, frozen, still not daring to move. He hadn’t seen her. If he had, he’d be out here by now, grabbing her, hurting her too. Slowly, she exhaled. Drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
‘Now that’s not nice, is it Harry?’ chortled Drax. ‘I know. We’ll play Russian roulette again, how’s that?’
Oh my God, thought Gracie. He has got a gun.
Lorcan stopped the car outside the open gates of Deano Drax’s place. Just as well they didn’t have to go any further because up ahead looked pretty much impassable anyway. It had been a struggle, just getting this far. He switched off the engine and the lights and darkness fell around him and Paul. He glanced across at his companion. Paul looked done for. He was slouched back in the seat, eyes closed, and he looked deathly pale.
‘You okay?’ asked Lorcan.
Paul’s eyes flickered open. A wry grimace touched his mouth. ‘This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend Christmas,’ he said.
‘Nor me,’ said Lorcan.
‘I feel weak as a kitten.’
‘Just the after-effects of shock,’ said Lorcan. ‘You’d better stay here, in the car. I don’t want to take it any closer, announce my arrival.’
‘Think if I try to stand up I’ll just fall down anyway.’
Lorcan nodded. He looked up at the lions rampant on each high brick-built post, rearing up against the buffeting snow.
‘Here goes nothing,’ he said, and got out of the car and started walking up Deano Drax’s long, winding driveway.
Chapter 72
Sandy had spent Christmas Day evening holding George’s hand as he lay in intensive care. She had slipped out of the house, saying she was going over to her Mum’s place, and Noel was zonked out, stoned as usual, he didn’t give a fuck. George was awake now, conscious, eyes wide open, apparently doing well. He still couldn’t speak, he still had this weird thing in his throat, but he had indicated by clumsy sign language that he wanted a pencil and a notepad to write something down on. Finally, after several more sessions of desperate writing movements, the nurse brought him what he wanted. When he saw Sandy coming into the room, he hid the pad and the pencil under the bedclothes.
Sandy had been there for over two hours, wittering on to him about how crap her Christmas had been, and how wonderful it was to see him getting better, and that when he was out of here they would just take off somewhere together, have a lovely holiday.
George lay there and wondered where Alfie was. And where was Mum when you needed her? All he could do was lie there and listen to Sandy droning on and on while he kept an anxious eye on the nurse, hoping she wouldn’t go too far away. She didn’t. He was only just out of the woods, so she was still watching him closely. Sooner or later, Sandy was going to have to go home, wasn’t she?
At last, she did. She kissed him on the lips and – thank God, at last – she left.
The minute she was out the door, George got out the notepad and pencil and started writing. He felt weak and his writing was odd, like a very old man’s, but he wrote what he needed and waited until the nurse was passing close. He beckoned her over. Showed her the pad.
‘What is it, George?’ she asked. She seemed like a nice girl, a small blonde with concerned blue eyes and a robust country glow about her.
George pushed the pad up in front of her face.
The nurse read what he’d written there.
She looked at him.
‘I’ll do that,’ she said. ‘Right away. If you’re sure?’
George nodded emphatically. Then he thought of something else and wrote some more. Showed this to the nurse. She read it, and said: ‘No of course I won’t let her in here again. Not if you’re sure . . .’ She knew the anaesthetic drugs could be affecting him, even now. Making him imagine things.
George pointed urgently to what he’d written first.
The nurse read it again. Sandy Cole who was just here is claiming to be my fiancée. She’s not. She’s a crazy cow and she’s been stalking me. She hit me over the head with a brick outside my mother’s house after I told her to fuck off.
The nurse hurried off to phone his mother, and the police.
Chapter 73
There was no more time to think. Let herself think, and she’d talk herself right out of it. Gracie grasped the ice pick firmly in her right hand and peeked around the doorframe. Drax’s back was to her.
It was now or never.
Gracie threw herself forward, swinging her arm back as she moved. Drax never even saw her coming. She was right upon him. Gracie, suddenly high on adrenalin, saw a flash of recognition in Harry’s eyes, saw Drax’s huge head start to turn in the direction he was looking. In that instant of clear realization, in the sure knowledge that she would never get another chance and if she failed now there would be no going back, Gracie hit Drax as hard as she could across the head with the blunt end of the ice pick.
There was a hollow, sickening thunk.
Drax pitched forward across Harry’s legs and rolled off them. He hit the floor on his back, one knee raised; then the foot slid away and he was flat out. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. Gracie stood there, gasping, thinking that she’d hit so hard she’d probably killed him.
‘Gracie?’ Harry was staring at her as if he was hallucinating. ‘What the fuck . . .?’
Gracie was staring down at Drax. She couldn’t believe she’d done that, actually hit someone with the sincere wish that they’d die. Blood was seeping out on to the concrete of the garage floor from Drax’s head. She suddenly felt that she might throw up. She swallowed hard, and looked at Harry instead.
Oh fuck. Harry. Only this wasn’t the handsome, carefree, mild-mannered Harry she’d known when he was just a boy. Drax had hacked his hair off; what little remained was sticking up in all directions. His face was pale, gaunt, streaked with tears, lined with anguish. His hands were tied, and three of his fingers ended in bloody messes where the nails had been ripped out. One of them was bleeding steadily even now, dripping on to the concrete floor. She thought of that horrible, heart-wrenching scream she’d heard while she was trying to rouse Alfie, and felt sicker still.
