The Runaway Page 7

  She loved the heady atmosphere of the gambling room, and also the unaccustomed comfort of the ‘business’ room. To ply her trade with a mattress under her back seemed the height of sophistication so far as she was concerned.

  After deciding she would live with Jessie’s taunts in order to keep this job, she sipped a large rum and Coke, staring around the gambling room.

  It was relatively small and windowless. Police raids made that inevitable. You got into the club through the one narrow door and if ever there were a fire, the chances were you’d burn to death in the stampede to get back out the same way. Anyway, gamblers didn’t need natural light. Electric was fine, they needed no reminder of the time of day. People had been known to come in on a Thursday and leave on a Saturday morning, wondering where Friday had gone. From Thursday to Sunday the club was open literally all day and all night.

  It was a good earner, and Jessie made sure that it reached its full potential. Most of the police force was paid off, except for the die-hards, the punters were happy and the drink was never watered - three good reasons to use the place.

  The girls were all of a certain age, guaranteeing no trouble with the men. Young girls wrought havoc in gambling clubs, their youth distracting the men from the serious business of gambling. Jessie knew that the punters who frequented her club would sleep with the Pope if the lighting was right. It was gambling that brought on their sexual rush, not a pretty face or a shapely leg. Sex was just another high, another bit of fun.

  As Madge listened to the noise and breathed in the foetid air of the place, she felt a moment’s exhilaration. After a bad start the night was turning out better than she’d expected. One of the other girls smiled at her and she nodded in a friendly fashion. At the end of the day, whatever Jessie had said, whores all looked out for one another.

  They had to.

  As a man sidled up to her and offered to buy her a drink, she grinned at him coquettishly and stifled a yawn. The drink, the sex, the excitement and the heat had all made her tired. Grinning, she accepted the drink, and told herself to liven up. This could be a lucrative little earner and she needed to keep her wits about her.

  Cathy was sitting on the settee, listening to the radio, when she heard a low call through the letter box.

  ‘Is that you, Eamonn?’ As she walked into the hallway she heard his voice again.

  ‘Open the door, you silly cow! Don’t let anyone know I’m here, Cathy. Keep your voice down.’

  Unchaining the door, she let him in. One look at his white face told her he was in trouble. Big trouble.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Her voice too was low.

  Eamonn looked down at Cathy then, realising just how small she was. Without her usual heels on she stood barely five foot two. Her tiny elfin face was all eyes, big blue eyes, and rosebud mouth. Seeing the fear there, he smiled, knowing the reaction his words would get from her.

  ‘I done it, Cath. I finally done it. I’m there, girl, right up there!’ He pointed to the ceiling and laughed softly.

  She stared at him blankly. ‘What have you done, Eamonn?’

  Pushing his face down level with hers, he whispered hoarsely: ‘I fucking shot James Carter! Shot the bastard dead.’ He watched as her eyes widened into twin pools of blue.

  ‘You’re joking! Dear Christ, tell me you’re joking!’

  Walking into the front room, he flopped down on the settee, stretching out his legs, all bravado.

  ‘It’s no joke, Cathy love. He wanted it and he fucking got it, mate, right in the boatrace.’ Putting out his fingers like a gun, he pointed them at her and went: ‘Bang, bang. That easy, girl. Like combing me hair, it was that easy.’

  Cathy just looked at him, sure she must be dreaming. ‘You’re bloody mad. Are you having me on? Only if you are, I don’t think it’s very funny, Eamonn. It’s sick. Shooting someone . . . Whatever next!’ She attempted to laugh, all the time knowing he was telling her the truth, yet unable to believe he would really do it.

  Eamonn laughed then, really laughed. ‘I’m there now, Cath - can’t you see that? I’m blooded, girl. I’m on the borrow, I’m the main man. Me life’s settled.’ Sitting up quickly, he looked into her eyes and said: ‘I’m on me way, Cath.’

  Cathy shook her head so hard her hair whipped around her face. ‘You’re nowhere, you silly bastard, except on your way to getting a fucking rope around your neck. James Carter was fifteen years old! Fifteen, for crying out loud. We’re still kids, Eamonn - kids. No matter how much we think we know, we’re ignorant of real life. You’re telling me you stole his life away, and then laughing like it’s a joke or something?’ Her voice broke as she fought back the tears.

  ‘James Carter was even worse off than us - the eldest of nine kids, his mother depended on him for money. You think you know it all and you know fucking nothing! It’s always you, Eamonn, what you want. Only what you want. And this is the upshot. You’ve shot poor James Carter, and he’s dead, and now you want me to alibi you. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?’

  Eamonn stared at the little girl before him. In all his wildest fantasies he’d never expected this. Oh, he’d expected she might be a bit upset, but surely she should understand why he’d done what he had?

  Desperation in his voice, he said harshly, ‘I don’t know nothing, eh? I know enough. I know that what I want won’t come from unloading ships in the docks. I want what the real world’s got. The real people. I want cars and clothes and a nice drum. I want to walk down the street and be recognised as a man to respect, not the son of a drunken Irish docker. I want to be able to hold me bleeding head up. I want people to look up to me, Cathy. I want what every other fucker’s given at birth - I want to be someone. Someone important.

  ‘Fuck James Carter! Another time and it could have been me on the receiving end of that bullet, not him. He wanted what I wanted, love, and like me he’d have done anything to get it.’

  Cathy stared down into the face she adored. Saw the lighter flecks in his eyes and the beginnings of the dark shadow around his cheeks. Saw the strength of his brow and chin, and the harsh set of them. She shook her head sadly, swallowing back the words she wanted to say to him. To yell at him.

  Eamonn slouched back on the settee, picking nervously at a small slit in the arm, pulling out wads of horsehair, the tremor in his hand noticeable to both of them now.

  ‘What do you want, Cathy? Do you want to end up like your mum, lying down with every Tom, Dick and Harry for a couple of quid? Because that will be your life if you’re not careful. How many women round here moonlight, eh? So-called respectable women with kids and husbands. They look down on Madge but they’re no fucking better. None of them. What you see here is what we will end up with unless we do something about it. People like us are the shit on the shoes of everyone else. We’re the grafters, the lifters, the scrubbers. We’re supposed to be grateful for having a roof over our heads, having enough to eat. I’ve heard it all me life, first at school and then from the Labour Exchange. Well, I want to have too much of everything, not just enough. I want things, Cathy.

  ‘When me mum died, I was left with him, the fucking old ponce! I’ve been dragged all over the bleeding show. Have to live with the knowledge of him and his escapades. Have to watch me step in case his new wife slings me out the door. Have to listen to them, night after night, at it in their bed. Then I have to listen to his drunken ramblings.’

  He pushed his hands through his hair and sighed, before continuing.

  ‘The only way out is up, Cath. And going up in the world for the likes of us means either villainy or the forces - and I’m fucked if I’ll join the army! If Madge has her way, you’ll be flogging your fanny before the year’s out. You know it, and I know it. I’m offering you a way out with me. Me and you, girl, together. I came here tonight because you’re the closest person to me. You’re the only person I really care about. Not just to alibi me. I could get a dozen people to do that.’

  He was near to tears, and
sitting beside him Cathy put her arm around his shoulders. Burying his face in her neck he let her hold him until the shameful sobs had ceased. The sixteen-year-old hard man was now a frightened boy. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he whispered, ‘It could just as easily have been me shot tonight, Cathy, and you know that.’

  Holding him close to her, she closed her eyes tightly. Eamonn had done what he felt he had to do, and nothing would convince him otherwise.

  When his hands went to her breasts, she didn’t attempt to stop him.

  Eamonn needed her, and no matter what he had done, what she really thought, loyalty to him overrode everything else.

  He was the most stable element in her life. She worshipped him. Without him she had nothing.

  Kissing the top of his head, she felt his probing fingers, all thoughts of James Carter, guns and policemen forced from her mind.

  Eamonn needed her.

  That was enough to be going on with.

  Chapter Five

  Eamonn looked at his father and smirked.

  ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ The older man’s voice was low, tense.

  Eamonn nodded slowly. Maddeningly.

  ‘So what if I did?’ His voice was a curious mixture of childish bravado and manly insolence.

  Eamonn Docherty looked down at his son and felt the pull of him. In all his life he had loved only one thing: his child, his boy. As bad as he had ever been, whoring and fighting were his worst sins. The child of his body, however, was a different kettle of fish.

  ‘Don’t you realise what you’ve done, son?’

  The boy shrugged nonchalantly.

  The large hand that swung out and knocked him from his seat came as a total surprise. As the beating began the boy curled himself into a tight ball, taking the blows, moving around on the floor to minimise the damage.

  Finally spent, Eamonn Docherty leant against the wall of the dining room and wiped one hand across his sweating face. ‘They’ll hang you out to dry, boy. What are you? Stupid? Are you that fecking eggity you think you can get away with murder?’

  The boy slowly pulled himself to his feet, using the mahogany table for support, his fingerprints standing out like beacons on the highly polished surface.

  They looked at one another then, both men, each wary of the other.

  ‘That’s the last time you raise your hand to me, Dad. Next time I’ll fight you back.’

  They stared each other out, both battling with the rage inside them. Eamonn was pleased to see his father drop his eyes first.

  ‘You’re a fecking fool, boy, if you think you can walk away from this one.’

  Eamonn laughed then. ‘But I have, Dad. It’s been a week and not a sniff from the Old Bill. They don’t care about the likes of Carter, no more than they do the likes of us. It made the Evening Standard, and not a fucking dicky bird since. Except for locally, that is. In fact, I’ve been offered a job.’

  The derogatory snort from his father made Eamonn’s whole body tense up.

  ‘A job, is it? What kind of job would that be? Bashing old ladies over the head for their bit of pension? Armed robbery? Or how about a nice clean minding job, a sixteen-year-old hard man? Jasus save us, I’ve heard everything now.’

  Eamonn watched as his father dropped into a chair, an old man suddenly, the usual surly cockiness gone from him. He looked defeated, and instead of being pleased at this change in his antagonist, it hurt the boy. His father, for all his faults, real or imagined, had always seemed the epitome of the hard man. Now he found this hard man had feet of clay, and that inability to understand his son’s actions hurt deeply.

  ‘I’ve been offered a job by Dixon. It’s only picking up rents, but it’s a start. I can go great guns from there, I know I can.’

  Eamonn Docherty looked at his son, noted his size, his dark good looks, and patent lack of intelligence.

  ‘Picking up rents, eh? Lucrative job that. If you don’t get caught, of course, or fall foul of anyone.’

  The big man leant forward in his chair then, a desperate note in his voice as he pleaded with his son. ‘Is that what you really want? I wanted you to be someone, a normal person, son. I didn’t want you to end up like me. I thought you despised what I was, what I became? I thought you wanted better?’

  ‘I do, Dad. That’s why I’m taking the job. I won’t end my days like you, mate, poncing off some little widow, trying to con her last few quid out of her. Living for the pub opening and a decent bit of dinner on the table. You did what you set out to do, Dad. You made me want more, and this is the only way I’m going to get it.’

  ‘Have you no remorse at all, son? For stealing that young lad’s life away?’

  Eamonn shrugged once more. ‘Not really, no. Why should I? He wouldn’t have if the boot had been on the other foot. I’m nearly seventeen, Dad, a man in my own right. What you think is nothing to me. The funny thing is, it never was. You’re nothing to me, mate. Nothing to anyone except yourself. You have a high opinion of yourself, always did. But I could see you for what you were - a big Irish ponce. You lived off Madge. Her earnings kept you in the pub. She slept with men and you slept with her, knowing that. I think more of her than I do of you, Dad. Because Madge, for all her faults, never pretended to be something she wasn’t. If you died in the morning, I wouldn’t shed a tear. So now you know.’

  The older man hung his head and stared at the lino below his feet. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away before looking once more into his son’s face.

  ‘I tried my best, Eamonn son. We can only do our best.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point I’m trying to make. One man’s meat is another man’s gravy, eh? I’ll be moved out by the weekend.’

  As the man watched his son leave the room he felt an overwhelming loneliness and defeat. He’d wanted life to be different for his son and now it looked as if it would be. For all the father had been a drunkard, a wastrel and a womaniser, he’d never actually resorted to criminal actions - well, no more than the odd bit of petty pilfering in the docks. Now, at sixteen, his son had launched into a criminal career by murdering a fellow teenager. And the killing wouldn’t stop there, he knew. From now on, Eamonn Junior would live like a villain and die a villain’s death. That was to be his destiny and nothing on God’s earth could save him from it.

  Madge was happy, which meant that her daughter should have been ecstatic. Instead Cathy was withdrawn and nervous. Watching the girl as she made them both tea and toast, Madge noticed the deep shadows under her eyes and the sunken cheeks.

  ‘Are you sure everything’s all right, love?’

  Cathy smiled gently. ‘For the millionth time, Mum, I’m all right. Stop questioning me. I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s Eamonn, ain’t it? This is something to do with him. He’s never been off the doorstep all week. Anyone would think you two were joined at the hip.’

  Cathy made an effort not to look in her mother’s direction, knowing that the shrewd blue eyes would immediately read the thoughts inside her head. Say what you liked about Madge Connor: she ignored her daughter shamelessly at times, but when she wanted to know something, she had a way of finding it out.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mum. I’ve always seen a lot of him.’

  ‘Well, girl, you’re seeing too much of him for my liking. I know the score there so don’t try and give me any old fanny. If he topped Carter then he’s for the chop himself. Don’t get involved, love.’

  Cathy’s eyes flashed a steely blue as she turned on her mother. ‘What do you know about anything? He was with me, and if the filth come knocking on this door, I’ll tell them the same thing. Bloody hell, Mum, I expected it off everyone else but not you! He was the closest thing to a son you ever had. If it was his father in trouble you’d be moving heaven and earth to help him.’

  Madge sipped her tea and smiled, further irritating her already strung-out daughter. ‘His father, for all his bleeding faults, wouldn’t be in this k
ind of trouble, as you so nicely put it. That boy’s a natural villain. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will be. Believe me, I know exactly what I’m talking about. He ain’t just a ducker and diver no more, love, he’s a face, and faces have a habit of getting kicked in round these parts. Just you bear that in mind. Everyone is for him at the moment but that could change overnight. You know what the East End’s like. That Carter boy was an Irish, and the Irish stick together. They ain’t like Londoners.’

  Cathy cracked her knuckles, a sure sign of agitation. ‘He’s an Irish and all, Mum, remember? You should do, you was trumping his father for long enough.’

  Madge grinned, her usual good humour coming to the fore. ‘We are getting on our high horse today, aren’t we, dearie? Who gives a fuck anyway? If the filth come snooping I’ll back the boy up and all, you know that. I just don’t want you getting too involved, love. I know I ain’t Mother of the Year, but I do care about you in me own way.’

  Cathy picked up her cup of tea and took a swig. ‘You’re a funny woman, Mum. I should hate you really. I do sometimes, but it never lasts. You always end up making me laugh. At times I feel like I’m the mum and you’re the kid.’

  Madge stared into her daughter’s lovely face and smiled, a real smile that softened her rough features and made her cheeks look round and rosy, her only Irish feature.

  ‘You’ve not had the greatest childhood, I understand that, love. But I am as I am. As me old mum used to say: “I’ll never change all the time I’ve got a hole in me arse.” But I just want you to know that life is a complicated thing. It’s not all cut and dried.’

  Now Cathy did laugh, a loud raucous sound born of nerves and genuine amusement. ‘You’re right there, Mum. How could it be, living with you?’

  They laughed together and peace was restored, but for the first time ever Madge was frightened for her daughter and the feeling was strange. She realised that never before in her life had she had to look after her own child. Cathy Connor, now coming up to fourteen years of age, had always looked after her.