The Make by Jessie Keane

asked Gordon over the roar of the club’s huge sound system.
    ‘Heard what?’
    Gordon shook his head. ‘Man, you missed out on a treat.’ He explained about Lefty’s miscalculation with Deano’s latest young squeeze. ‘He is deep in the manure, I’m telling you. Deano is very taken with that boy and he’s spitting blood over this. You know Deano – he just loves to terrorize anybody smaller than he is. And, let’s face it, nearly everybody is smaller than Deano – including these boys he likes, and Lefty.’
    Stew said nothing. He felt pity for Lefty’s predicament, but then if you mixed with shit one thing was certain – sooner or later, it was going to stick to your skin. He had no time for nonces, and Deano Drax was a bad one. He looked back into the club’s dark, gaping maw. Sometimes he thought it was like the mouth of hell in there. He’d looked inside it once, and there were dingy back rooms for orgies; dungeons too. He was glad he worked over the road in a nice straightforward strip club and not here. A few tits and bums never hurt anyone. He didn’t mind that, or the lap-dancing places – hell, live and let live. But people crawling around on dog chains, being pissed on or beaten and tied up for entertainment? Nah, he drew the line right there. He thought that Shakers told you everything you wanted to know about its owner’s mind-set.
    ‘Go through to the bar, see Chippy, he’ll sort you out with a drink,’ offered Gordon. Things were getting busy on the door and Gordon had to get back to work. People were queuing up now, weirdos wearing skin-tight plastic and fetish boots with heels so amazingly high they could barely stagger along. Which was the whole point, of course. If you couldn’t walk, you could be caught. You were easy meat.
    ‘Nah, that’s okay,’ said Stew hastily. ‘Got to get back. Catch ya later, Gord.’
    Stew left the club and was halfway over the road when he saw Deano Drax’s big motor with its black-tinted windows pull into the alley at the side of the fetish club. He kept walking, tried not to stare but, despite himself, he couldn’t resist a look. Deano, massive and bear-like, was getting out of the back of the car. Huge bald head; neat goatee beard. Stew’s face wrinkled with disgust. That fat smarmy-faced nonce made you feel sick just to see him, swaggering about the place like he owned the whole damned world. In the shadows of the alley it was hard to make out much, but Stew was sure there were others with him, two smaller figures. Maybe kids, maybe not.
    Stew shuddered and averted his eyes. He thought of Lefty, who was out looking right now for Deano’s grand amour . He didn’t think Lefty was a bad bloke at heart. Actually, he’d been fine until he started on the hash and the E and – worse – on the butane, and after that . . . well, now his brains were screwed, his lungs were black lace and he was Deano’s own personal lapdog, bought and paid for. Deano said jump, Lefty said how high? That being the case, Stew hoped, no he prayed, that the golden-haired boy he’d seen hanging round Drax a month or so ago, sometimes staggering a little like a crippled foal, sometimes staring around with drugged and bewildered eyes, Stew prayed that the boy was long gone, back home where he’d be safe, or that someone kind and good was helping him right now.
    Kid needs a guardian angel , he thought. I just hope to fuck he’s got one.

Chapter 15
    George sat in his local café, across the table from Alfie, the morning after their run-in with Lefty Umbabwe. George had a big smile pasted across his face. He couldn’t help it. The kid had devoured a plate of Full English in record time, knocked back two teas and two rounds of toast, and clearly wasn’t about to throw in the towel yet.
    ‘More toast?’ offered George.
    Alfie nodded. He still hadn’t spoken much, apart from to give his name. That bothered George. He looked even younger in daylight, and that bothered