The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  It was a sobering thought.

  Eamonn Junior was watching the man before him warily. The heavy smell of camphor was hanging in the air and he felt his insides heave at the unaccustomed taint permeating his nose and even his mouth. As the man hawked deep in his throat, he pulled his head from beneath the towel and spat into a small jug by his side.

  ‘I feel like shit on a stick! That’s what smoking does for you, boy, and don’t ever forget it. I’ve been bringing up fucking soot and all sorts the last few months.’

  Eamonn nodded, holding on to his breakfast with all his might. The steaming bowl of water slopped everywhere as the man pushed it away from him impatiently.

  ‘Word on the street is you topped James Carter. Is this true?’

  Eamonn looked into the heavy face before him and weighed up exactly what he was going to say before nodding gently.

  ‘Yes, Mr Dixon.’

  The man laughed. Wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief of brilliant whiteness, he said, ‘You little fucker! Bold as brass, ain’t you? Well, the offer’s still on for the job if you want it. I was amazed to hear you’re not seventeen yet, but I’ll swallow that because you’ve got size on your side, see. I like to keep a lookout for new faces, new people. It keeps everything sweet. The firm gets stronger and I get more manpower. One thing though . . .’

  He leant ominously close over the table.

  ‘Don’t get ambitious for anything that’s mine, right? If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to drop your kecks and shit on a table, you do it, right? What I say goes. If you have trouble with discipline then let me know now. I do not suffer fools gladly.’

  Eamonn nodded, pleased to be inside the world of real villainy, over the moon at the prospect of being a face, one of Dixon’s gang. A known man.

  ‘One last thing, boy. The filth will be on to you in the next few days. You bluff it out. The famous wall of silence is on your side now because you are under my protection. Don’t fuck me up. Be polite to the Old Bill, be amenable. Tell all the old pony and trap you like. But whatever they say, deny it.’

  Dixon lit a cigarette and coughed until his heavy-jowled face was like a red ball.

  ‘I’m starting you off on debts, right. Do you understand the logic behind buying debts?’

  Eamonn shook his head. ‘No, Mr Dixon.’

  The man smiled, cigarette smoke curling around his yellow teeth and up towards his badly fitting toupee. ‘Mr Dixon, eh? I like respect. Respect is earned, boy, always remember that. You earn it with this.’

  He tensed one huge arm and shook his fist. ‘No fucker in their right mind disrespects people stronger than them, physically or mentally. Be wary of some of the little bastards because sometimes they have the edge. The nutter element.’ He tapped his head to illustrate his point before carrying on in his amiable, sing-song voice, as if he was discussing the weather or a mundane daily happening.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, the debts. Say you owed someone five grand, and you didn’t pay them, and no matter how much they asked for it back you told them to fuck off out of it. They get right fed up, and they come to see me. Now I buy the debt off them for, say, two grand. They’re happy because two grand in the bin is better than nothing, see. I have now laid out two grand on your behalf. Already, you’ve caused me hag. I have it in for you, see.

  ‘I then come after you for seven grand - the five you owed muggins and the two I’ve been so kind as to lay out on your behalf. So I send someone round to have a word. If I get the seven grand in fourteen days, you’re laughing. If I don’t it goes up a hundred a week for interest, see. So it’s to your advantage to pay me, because after a couple of weeks - and this is where you come in, son - I begin to get really upset, see. And I send a friend round to negotiate like. You may be required to break an arm or a leg. In extreme cases I might want to have the fucker shot. I say extreme but it’s getting quite common, actually. I don’t like doing it, but I have to set an example, don’t I? After all, they have cost me money and that upsets me dearly.

  ‘Money is God. Remember that, son. It’s also the root of all evil, thank fuck, otherwise we’d be paupers!’ He laughed at his joke, causing another spasm of coughing. ‘Now, do you think you’ve grasped the fundamentals?’

  Eamonn nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Dixon.’

  The man smiled. ‘Well, we all know you can shoot a gun anyway, so at least I ain’t got that added worry. I’m teaming you up with Marcus Devlin. He’s an Irish nutter who’ll show you the ropes. You start work in fourteen days. Give the Old Bill a chance to get sorted out. I can’t say no fairer than that, can I?’

  Eamonn nodded once more, bowled over by the complete assurance and friendliness of Danny Dixon, procurer, brothel-keeper and debt collector, to name but a few of his lucrative businesses.

  Taking out his wallet, Dixon removed three twenty-pound notes and placed them before the boy, saying shrewdly, ‘This money means I own you, son. Before you pick it up, bear that in mind. I own ya, lock, stock and fucking barrel.’

  Taking the money in trembling hands, Eamonn looked straight at the man before him. ‘Thank you, Mr Dixon.’

  Dixon grinned. ‘Respect and manners, a good combination. ’ He pointed at the money. ‘That’s called a retainer. It means you work for me and no one else, right? Go out, get laid, do what you like. But make sure you’re on call when I need you.’

  ‘How will I know you need me, Mr Dixon?’

  The man laughed again. ‘You’ll know. Now fuck off out of it and wait for me call. With sixty sobs of my poke, you’ll hear from me soon enough.’

  Eamonn stood up and held out his hand. ‘It’s been nice doing business with you, sir.’

  Danny Dixon shook his head. ‘We ain’t done no business yet, boy. All that’s happened is I’ve given you some of my hard-earned cash.’ He poked a finger at Eamonn’s chest. ‘You’re the one who’ll be doing the business, son. My business. Now on the trot and I’ll be in touch.’

  Eamonn walked from the room dazed with pride. He was finally someone, he was finally a face.

  Grinning like a Cheshire cat he walked out of the small house in Bethnal Green and held on to the feeling inside him. Thanks to James Carter he was now in the big league and he intended to stay there for as long as possible. Carter had been his stepping stone to the good life. He now felt no remorse whatsoever over the murder. As far as Eamonn was concerned it couldn’t have happened at a better time.

  Madge was at work and Cathy having a well-earned rest when the door was hammered on violently. The noise was shocking in the quiet flat and Cathy jumped from her seat in terror.

  ‘Open the door, Cathy! Let me in, love!’

  She sighed with relief on hearing Eamonn’s voice. Running to the door, she opened it, smiling widely. ‘I thought you was the Old Bill, banging the bleeding door down like that!’

  Picking her up in his arms, he kicked the front door shut and crushed her to him, drinking in her familiar odour of rosewater and Max Factor. He carried her through to the front room and placed her on the couch, simultaneously forcing her mouth open and exploring it with his tongue. Cathy could taste whisky and smell beer as she responded to his kisses. Pulling her face away, she protested, ‘You’re half cut, Eamonn!’

  Pushing her legs open with his knee, he positioned himself between them before crushing her to him once more and kissing her urgently. Sucking on her lips and face, covering her with his mouth and his hands.

  ‘Oh, Cathy love . . . Cathy.’ His words were low, brought from the depths of him. They were a plea and a demand all at once.

  Dragging up her lacy top, he pawed at her breasts, fondling them roughly, while Cathy tried to squirm away from him.

  ‘Eamonn, for God’s sake! You’re hurting me.’

  Embarrassed to open to him under the harsh lights, she tried once more to push him away.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, Cathy, not tonight.’ His voice was heavy with drink and sexual energy. ‘You do not push me away
tonight.’ Putting a hand between her legs, he ripped her knickers away and slipped a finger inside her, the dryness and tensing of her muscles affecting him not at all.

  ‘Relax, Cathy, enjoy it. Just relax, girl.’

  Stepping back, he knelt between her legs and forced his head down between them, his tongue probing her clitoris, wetting it. As Cathy tried to pull him away by grabbing at his hair, he pinned her arms to her sides, holding her down with a strength born of determination. As he sucked at her she felt the tears come. Bucking her hips, she tried to force him away from her once more.

  ‘Stop it, Eamonn, you’re frightening me. You’re hurting me.’

  Raising his head, he smiled at her. ‘You love it as much as I do. I love you, Cathy, you know I do. Now relax and let’s get on with it.’

  Opening his trousers, he pulled them down to his knees. Cathy stared at him as if she had never seen him before. This was a new Eamonn. A frightening Eamonn.

  ‘Please . . .’

  The plea was cut off as roughly he pushed himself inside her. Riding her hard now, he was oblivious to her fighting beneath him; the pain inside her unbelievable. His thrusting increased and as he began to groan aloud, Cathy scratched at his face, drawing her nails down his cheek with all her strength.

  Holding her down once more, he stared into her white face as he pushed himself into her as hard as he could, focusing on her eyes as she beseeched him to stop what he was doing. To please let her go. As he reached orgasm, she felt his body begin to stiffen and the pain in her wrists was made unbearable as he gripped her tighter and tighter. He was moving inside her more slowly now. She felt the hot wetness as it dribbled down between her legs, and when he collapsed on top of her, his whole body limp, she let out one sob before pushing him from her.

  Nearly hysterical with pain and fear, she cried. The burning between her legs was almost unbearable, and her wrists were numb.

  Kneeling up, Eamonn looked at her for a few seconds as if unable to believe what he’d done. Cathy was curled up on the sofa. He saw how small she was, how fragile. The blood smeared on her white thighs stood out in stark contrast. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he said: ‘Cathy . . . I’m sorry. I am so sorry.’

  Looking over her shoulder at him, she hissed, ‘Get out, Eamonn. Get away from me.’

  He put up a hand to stroke her face and she flinched away from him, covering her head with her arms. The enormity of what he’d done hit him then. The sheer terror in every line of her body sobered him up instantly. Picking her up like a baby, he tried to caress her, tried to make it better, and she fought him then. All nails and teeth, kicking out with her feet and punching him with her fists.

  ‘You bastard! You dirty, stinking bastard! Get away from me.’ She fought her way free and ran towards her bedroom. When he grabbed at her arm, she screamed.

  The banging on the wall made them both stand stock still.

  ‘Keep the bleeding noise down, you two. I’m trying to fucking sleep!’

  Pulling her into his arms, Eamonn held her tightly to him, all the while murmuring endearments into her hair, stroking her face, trying to calm her down. Trying to make sense of what had happened to her and to himself.

  As she cried he realised he had taken from her something that was hers alone. He knew that instantly, even in his drink-fuddled mind. And that she would never really forgive him for it.

  Finally he picked her up and took her into her bedroom where he placed her gently on her bed.

  ‘Cathy, please stop crying, darlin’. I’m sorry, love, all right? I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened, I’ve had such a great day . . .’ He was gabbling and he knew it. ‘I got the job today, Cathy, look.’

  Pulling the remainder of the money Dixon had given him from his pockets, he laid it on the bed. ‘You have it. Look, there’s over fifty quid there. You have it, Cathy, get yourself something nice . . .’

  Body heaving with sobs, she pushed the money from the bed. ‘Get out, Eamonn. Just get out, please. Leave me alone.’

  Her eyes were red and swollen now, her face blotchy, even her hair looked lifeless. Her lips, swollen and bruised from his kisses, looked deformed. She looked ugly for once, and he knew that he was responsible. He had made his little Cathy ugly inside and outside.

  ‘I just want to be alone. Please leave me alone.’

  He belted his trousers and began picking up the money from the floor. Wiping a hand across his face, he saw blood on the back of it and felt a moment’s irritation. When he looked in the mirror he saw the four long red welts on his skin and cursed under his breath.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Cathy, it ain’t like we don’t know one another, is it? I said I was sorry, girl. What more do you want?’ He knew it was just bravado, knew he was trying to justify his actions to himself as much as to her, and still he heard his voice carrying on. ‘It’ll be better next time, love, you’ll know what to expect. It’s always hard on the bird the first time, but you’ll get used to it . . .’

  His voice trailed off. ‘Please, Cathy. Please . . .’

  He could no longer pretend. He had done something unforgivable, had hurt Cathy. But she must forgive him, she had to, or all his triumph counted for nothing. Without her, he was a beaten and neglected child all over again.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Cathy. Please, darlin’, tell me what to do?’ Kneeling by the side of the bed, he began to cry. He pressed his face into the covers as tears bubbled out of his eyes and into the musty bedding.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, she put one hand on his head. Looking up into her white face he was amazed to hear her say, ‘Don’t cry, Eamonn. Just go home.’

  She had touched him. He was halfway to getting her back, they both knew that. As his arm went around her waist and he lay beside her, holding her to him tightly, he cried with her. When both her arms eventually went around him and she held on to him as tightly he knew a moment’s intense relief.

  They lay entwined, tears eventually ceasing, and only the beating of their hearts and the soft sounds of their breathing broke the silence of the room. As the shadows deepened on the walls, still they lay together.

  They had crossed a bridge that night, and a further bond had been formed between them. Two broken children, they were both well aware that all they had ever really had was each other.

  Cathy would forgive him anything, Eamonn knew that now. As he held her to him, he felt the excitement of a man who owned another person wholly.

  Like Dixon owned him, he owned Cathy. Lock, stock and barrel.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, love?’

  Madge’s voice was low and husky-sounding from too many cigarettes and too much booze when she came into her daughter’s room later that night.

  Cathy nodded, closing her eyes against the harsh light and the sound of the radio playing loudly in the front room. She could hear men’s voices too, and sighed. ‘Mum, go back to your punter. I’m fine. Really.’

  Madge stared down into her daughter’s white pinched face and said gently, ‘Is it your time of the month, love?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘I’ve got a bellyache, Mum, that’s all. I’m fine.’

  Madge stared down at her for a few seconds more then, screwing up her eyes, said, ‘You ain’t been up to nothing with that Eamonn, have you?’

  Sitting up in bed, Cathy cried out: ‘No, I bleeding well ain’t! And if I had been, who are you to criticise anyway? I mean, be fair, Mum. It’s a wonder I ain’t out on the bash with you. That’s what a lot of people think I do anyway.’

  Her temper faded as quickly as it had erupted, and lying down again, she said wearily, ‘Please leave me alone, Mum. I feel so bloody rough. I’m probably coming down with something.’

  Madge stood up and said snidely, ‘As long as it ain’t a bellyful of arms and legs.’

  ‘Oh, piss off, Mother. You get on my wick at times.’

  Cathy’s voice was so virulent, Madge was shock
ed for a few moments.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, lady! Whatever you think of me, I’m still your mother . . .’

  Cathy interrupted her by saying nastily, ‘Pity you don’t think of that when you go out on the gatter and bringing home half the docks.’

  The sharp slap on Cathy’s cheek shocked both mother and daughter. When the girl started to cry it was as if she would never stop. Tears drenched her face and rolled on the sheet unchecked. Looking down at her daughter once more, Madge found herself in the grip of unaccustomed emotions. Unable to understand Cathy as a child, the emerging woman was becoming like a sister to her, a friend, and it grieved her that they were at loggerheads.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby. I could cut me bleeding hand off.’

  She pulled her daughter roughly into her arms. The two of them held each other and cried. Madge, motherly for once, caressed her child’s narrow back and whispered endearments into her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Cathy. I’m so sorry, love.’

  Enjoying the feel of her mother’s arms around her, she tightened her grip on Madge’s waist. ‘I love you too, Mum. I’m sorry I was such a crosspatch.’

  Madge smiled through her tears. ‘Crosspatch’ was Cathy’s word from when she was a small child, a tiny little bundle, all stick-thin legs and huge blue eyes.

  ‘You’re not a crosspatch, darlin’. You were right in what you said. I’m an old trout. It’s the way God made me, but I love you, Cathy. In me own way, I love you very much.’

  At that point the door was pushed open and Ron came into the room. ‘What’s going on here then, eh? A fucking mother’s meeting? Get your fat arse back into the front room, girl. I’m getting lonely all on me Jack Jones.’

  Madge tutted loudly. ‘Piss off, Ron. Can’t you see the girl’s upset?’

  ‘What’s the matter with her then?’ Pushing his face towards Cathy’s, he bellowed, ‘What’s up with you, you silly little mare?’