The Make by Jessie Keane Page B

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.

Chapter 16
    ‘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