The Make

He stopped walking.

Stood there, thinking about it.

Ah, fuck it.

He started to walk back to ask if she was okay as it was pretty obvious that she wasn’t. And it was then that he wished he’d just kept on walking, because now he saw there was someone else in the alley with her: a tall, stick-thin darkish man in a floor-length black leather coat.

Shit.

In the yellow light of the streetlamp he saw the glint of a long blade in the man’s hand. A thrill of fear shot all the way up George’s neck to the top of his skull. Suddenly all his senses were on high alert. The man was shrieking at the girl, looming over her threateningly.

George looked around. There wasn’t a soul about. No cops when you needed them, no fucking cavalry pounding down the street; just him – and he wished he was a thousand miles away.

‘You no-good bitch, you think you got the right to say yes or no when I’ve told you the way it’s gonna go? You don’t ever run out on him. You keep him sweet, okay? You keep him sweet or I’ll cut you, cunt, I’ll cut you bad. Give you a spell in the correction room, how’d you like that? You listenin’ to me?’

The girl was crying, shielding her head with her upraised arms. George caught a glint of thick pale hair. With no intention whatsoever of doing so, he stepped forward and said: ‘Hey!’

The man standing over the girl looked round but the girl didn’t move. She seemed paralysed with fear.

‘Hey,’ repeated George more quietly, wondering what the fuck he was doing.

There was a flash of teeth in the gloom of the alley. The man was smiling, like he couldn’t believe George had been so foolish as to intervene. Well, that was fair. George couldn’t believe it himself.

‘Walk on, bro,’ said the man, the smile dropping in an instant. ‘You just keep on walkin’. We got a bit of business here and you don’t want to get involved in it, I’m telling you.’

But George stood there, wanting his feet to move but somehow unable to make them. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Now the man turned to fully face George. He was holding a knife in his left hand. It glinted in the cold sodium glare of the light.

Fuck it, this is crazy.

‘Hey! Move on. I won’t tell you again.’

He’s right. Do the sensible thing.

George started to walk on. Whatever was going on back there, it was not his business. Best to keep out of it. He quickened his pace. Yeah, he was going to get home, have a shower, bung something in the microwave, then go to bed and forget this whole frigging disaster movie of an evening. He passed a building swathed in scaffolding, like the ecto-skeleton of some huge insect. A few sticks and stuff were piled up just around the corner – insulation material, some discarded scraps of polythene billowing like ghosts in the faint, chilly breeze.

Sticks.

George paused and looked at the sticks. And . . . there were scaffolding poles too, just left there. He picked up a stick. Picked up a scaffolding pole, and turned on his heel.

Oh shit this is so stupid, Georgie boy, what are you thinking?

He went back along the street. The bastard was still there, flapping his arms, waving the knife at the terrified girl, shouting and bellowing. George felt as if his bowels were about to let go as he broke into a run and headed like a bullet straight for the man.

But the man heard him coming. George was heavy and wasn’t known for his lightness of tread. When he hit top gear, he made a lot of noise. He saw the man turn, and a panicky oh shit gonna die shot like wildfire through George’s brain. He let out a jittery roar that was half fear, half anger as his pace picked up and he collided with the man like half a ton of frozen meat. The man flew back and down and hit the cobbles like a sack of shit.

‘You motherfucker!’ he shrieked.

George piled in. His eyes were almost entirely focused on the knife. He felt a vicious kick land on his thigh, and he knew that later it would hurt, but right now he couldn’t feel a thing.

‘Arsehole!’ he yelled, and struck the man a hard blow on the knife hand with the stick.

The man was wriggling like an eel, cursing, throwing out a string of expletives.

‘Yeah?’ ranted George, so hyped on adrenaline he didn’t know what he was saying. ‘How’d you like this, you cunt?’

He wanted to get that knife away from him. That was all he was focused on, but the man was like rubber, bouncing around while George felt like dead weight. He felt the cold hiss of the thing go past his cheek and thought: My God he nearly got me then. I could have bled to death right here in this alley, and for what? For a stranger. For something that ain’t even my business.

George dropped the stick and clamped down on the hand holding the knife. He squeezed, pummelled the man’s fingers on the cobbles. The man was shouting, squirming and cursing and telling him that he was dead, dead and buried.

‘Yeah, well, I’ll see you in hell then, fucker,’ roared George, not even sure what was coming out of his mouth.

He was so hyped up.

He was terrified.

How did I get into this?

The man got his hand free and was halfway up, struggling under George’s superior weight but coming back with all guns blazing. He swished the cold night air, slicing through it with the blade, forcing George to flinch back. The man was grinning again; he knew he was getting the upper hand. George could feel his resolve weakening, could feel the malevolence rising off this fucker like mist off a bog.

This bastard was going to kill him, and he wasn’t even going to care. The man came up on to his knees. Fuck this, thought George as the knife whooshed down, slitting open the sleeve of his jacket. It was sharp. He had time to think that. The knife was extremely sharp. Lucky it hadn’t slashed deeper, caught the skin.

He’d ruined his best jacket.

That realization, the silly thought that the man had ruined his best jacket with that fucking knife, galvanized George. He swung the scaffolding pole round in an arc. It hit his opponent’s head with a solid clunk.

The man seemed to freeze there on his knees. Then a slow dark line bloomed along his hairline and cascaded down over his face. His eyes turned up in his head. The hand holding the knife released the blade, which clattered on to the cobbles. His mouth remained open until blackish blood poured into it, staining his pearly-whites a dingy scarlet in the cold light of the streetlamp. Almost in slow motion, like a dynamited building, he lurched sideways and collapsed.

Suddenly, there was silence.

George knelt there, gasping for breath. He stared at the man. Not a movement. Nothing. George sank back and threw the scaffolding pole aside. It hit the wall at the side of the alley with a metallic thonk, then clattered down on to the cobbles.

Maybe he was going to be sick. He felt sick. He was built like a brick shithouse but he was not a violent man. Tonight, he had surprised himself.

Then the man on the ground groaned.

All George’s senses sprang to their feet and started dancing a panicky fandango.

The fucker wasn’t dead, anyway. And George didn’t want to be here when he came round. No way.

George stumbled to his feet. The alley spun around him. He had to sit down again quickly. He slumped against the wall of the building beside the alley. The girl was three feet away, and still crying.

‘S’all right,’ panted George. ‘S’all right.’

He scrambled to his feet again. This time, he managed to stay up.

‘Hey,’ he said to the girl, trying to keep his voice gentle because she was huddled there, arms over her head, scared out of her skin. Poor little bitch. ‘Hey, come on, let’s get out of here.’