The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  Life really was a bastard.

  As he came off the docks and on to the main road he saw two girls hitching a lift. Normally he would have given them a wide berth. Plenty of drivers had been had over while giving a lift to young girls, threatened with the police and all sorts. But tonight the weather, his thoughts and the Freddie and the Dreamers song had made him feel lonely.

  He stopped the lorry. Leaning out of the cab, he shouted, ‘It stinks of fish, girls, but I’ll take you as far as I can.’

  Before he knew it the two girls were in his cab and he was smiling at them. ‘You’re drenched, loves.’

  Denise instantly noted his kindly face and, wrinkling her nose against the smell in the lorry, asked sweetly: ‘Got a fag, mate?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Richard Gates was fuming.

  It was ten-fifteen and he had just come off the phone to Social Services. The woman to whom he’d spoken, a Mrs Mary Barton, had not been at all forthcoming about Cathy Connor. After first wasting ten minutes establishing his bona fides as a policeman, she had then spent another ten telling him about the girl’s supposedly aggressive behaviour. Eventually he had told her bluntly that if she did not tell him the real reason for Cathy’s sojourn at Benton, he would come round to her house and personally shake it out of her, her husband, and any offspring such an unlikely union might have produced. This had reduced the woman to virtual apoplexy and the young WPC in the room with him and Betty to tears of laughter.

  Finally he had been informed, in a decidedly offish manner, that if he would care to wait by the phone she would get someone at the school to ring him and explain the situation.

  Slamming the phone down without even a ‘Good evening,’ he looked at the young WPC and then Betty and announced: ‘This stinks. There’s something not quite right going on here. According to that woman’s superior, the girl was to have been taken to the Hendersons, whoever the fuck they are. According to Mary Barton, Cathy then attacked all and sundry and so was put into a secure unit.

  ‘Now, I may be as thick as two short planks, but that little girl was incapable of fighting Muffin and the fucking Mule last time I saw her, and yet this bitch of a social worker reckons Cathy attacked her as they drove along.’

  Betty looked flabbergasted.

  The young WPC sighed heavily. ‘I wish now I’d voiced me worries at the time, but to be fair, sir, we see this all the time, don’t we? Kids being taken off willy-nilly. Barton looked a hard old cow but I thought she was taking the girl to a foster home. I never dreamed she would take her to a secure unit. I mean, even if the girl did attack her - and I have me doubts about that - Barton couldn’t officially put her anywhere like that until the courts decided what to do with her. Cathy Connor would have had to be sentenced to be detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, wouldn’t she?’

  Gates nodded. ‘Yeah, she would. So how did she turn up at a secure unit that same night? There’s something not right here and I’ll find out what it is if I have to go to fucking Deal meself, tonight.’

  Betty was scared and exhilarated all at the same time. She wanted to do the best for Cathy, who was a good kid, and now she had Gates behind her she felt much better. He was a man who managed to get things done - even if he did look like a reject from a Bela Lugosi film!

  Denise was puffing away on a cigarette and chatting nineteen to the dozen with the lorry driver. Cathy kept quiet, smoking a Senior Service, quite happy for Denise to be the spokesperson. Lost in her own thoughts, trying to ignore the pain in her hands, she allowed Denise to monopolise the man and the conversation. The smell of fish was not so rife now they were used to it, and as the lorry travelled towards London Cathy felt her eyes growing heavy.

  Denise was truly grateful to the man beside her, and even his acne and bad breath did not deter her. Being half Chinese and decidedly heavy, she knew she was never going to get the man of her dreams but this one, with his pleasant ways and kind heart, drew her in a way she had never experienced before.

  She knew instinctively that they were safe with him. And coming from what they were used to, this in itself was a good feeling. He gave them cigarettes and kept up a stream of good-humoured banter as if they were long-lost friends. Best of all, he didn’t ask them any awkward questions.

  Denise was well pleased with the way that things had turned out and as both girls warmed up and relaxed, she began to feel decidedly happy. They were on their way and they were safe.

  Derek too was pleased. He liked the Chinese girl very much; she had a vulnerable look about her for all her size, and her chatter was interesting and funny. He saw the admiring glances she was throwing his way and smiled at her, knowing that this encounter was going to lead to much more and thanking his lucky stars he had had the foresight to stop and pick up the two girls.

  Life was good again and big Abby was driven from his thoughts for good.

  ‘Have another Senior Service, love,’ he prompted Denise.

  He was big-hearted and generous - just what the two runaways needed.

  Mr Hodges was terrified to hear that not only had two of the girls escaped, but a Detective Constable from London was making enquiries by phone. Miss Henley had taken the call from a rattled-sounding Mary Barton and now she and Hodges himself were jumping out of their skin.

  The Two Misses watched everything with quiet smiles and sat back to enjoy the show. Neither was in trouble, neither had done anything wrong; they were more interested in how the main actors in this squalid drama were going to extricate themselves from the mire.

  All things considered it was turning into a good night all around.

  Richard Gates took the call from Benton at just after eleven-thirty. Both the WPC and Betty listened avidly as he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Detective Inspector Richard Gates here. Who’s this I’m speaking to?’ His voice was terse and aggressive. ‘. . . Mr Hodges, do you say? Could you spell that for me, please? I’d very much like to have everything accurately noted down for my report in the morning.’

  He smiled at the two women and continued: ‘What report? Why, my report to the court, of course. I realise that a mistake has been made and as the girl started off in my care, I intend to see that the mistake is rectified as soon as possible.’

  He sighed theatrically and went on, ‘Nice little thing, is Cathy. I’ve known her since she was a child. I understood she was to go to the Henderson family - can’t understand what she’s doing in a secure unit. Even you must find that strange, surely? Unless, of course, you can shed further light on the matter for me, such as court dates for assault charges, etc . . . No? Well, in that case I might just come down and pick the girl up myself. Save your Mrs Barton a job.’

  As he listened to the shifty-sounding Hodges spluttering out excuses and trying to defend his actions, Gates lit himself a cigarette and sat back in his chair, totally relaxed.

  Hodges was all over the place. Cathy could be removed as soon as Gates liked.

  Betty, grinning from ear to ear, was wondering when they would be able to go and get the poor mite. She was looking forward to having her home again.

  Cathy woke up as they made their way into North London. Denise was giggling and Cathy grinned back at her.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked sleepily.

  Denise’s expression altered and Cathy realised the laughter had been shared with the lorry driver, not her.

  ‘Look, Cath, I know this ain’t part of the bargain, but I’m going to get you dropped off in Soho. All right?’

  Cathy stared at her friend, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  Denise closed her eyes and swallowed deeply before answering: ‘Well, Derek here reckons he can get me set on in a proper job. So the best thing for you is to go to Soho. I’ve explained the whole thing to him and we both think you should keep away from the East End, at least for a few days. Let’s face it, it’ll be the first place they look, won’t it? I mean to say, whether you should have been locked up or not, until we know
what old Barton’s done, we can’t really relax, can we?

  ‘Leave it a few days and then go round to where you used to live like. See how the land lies. They’ll watch all your old haunts, the Old Bill. I can tell you, I know. I’ve been this route before.’

  Cathy stared at her friend without really comprehending what she was saying. ‘Where are you going then?’ Her hands were aching again and she felt tired and cold.

  ‘Like I said, I’m going with Derek here.’

  Denise’s face was sheepish, Derek Salmon’s open and smiling. He couldn’t really see what all the hag was about. As he drove he kept glancing over at the two girls, smiling at them until even Cathy found herself smiling back.

  ‘But where are you going?’ she persisted.

  Denise sighed. ‘Up North with him. He’s dropping this lot off here then he’s going for some more fish from a place called Grimsby, all right? What are you, the fucking police?’

  It was said in a joking way but Cathy got the point all right. Denise had found herself a bloke and now it was every girl for herself.

  ‘But what will I do in Soho?’ Cathy’s voice was desolate. ‘I won’t know anyone or anywhere.’

  Denise laughed heartily. ‘You’ve got twenty-five bleeding quid, you dozy-looking cow! You can go where the fuck you like.’

  Denise was trying hard to jolly her along but could see Cathy’s confusion and alarm. Her own eyes were sad as she said: ‘I hate to drop you in it like this, mate, I really do but I’ve got meself a chance here, you know a fresh start like. You’re welcome to come too, if you want?’

  Cathy shook her head. She knew that the offer was made out of residual friendship and loyalty which would be over-stretched if she accepted. She closed her eyes and tried to smile.

  ‘I forgot about the money.’

  Denise grinned. ‘How could you forget that? A small fortune.’

  The two girls chatted more happily then but an hour later Cathy was standing alone in Oxford Street, with twenty-five pounds in her pocket and a heavy heart. As she waved off her friend she felt lonelier than she had ever done in her life. Walking along, she saw a sign for Dean Street and followed the road. It should take her into Soho; any road along here would, Denise had told her.

  Carrying her few possessions, Cathy made her way in the dark and the cold towards the place where she hoped to find bright lights, food and drink, and a bed for the night.

  Her hands were sore, her heart was too, but as cold and desolate as she felt, she knew she was on her way to a better life. Anything, anything in the world, would be better than Benton School for Girls.

  Mr Hodges was terrified into silence and only a large brandy and Miss Henley’s agitated twittering brought him round again.

  ‘We’re all finished, the lot of us. This policeman, this DI Gates, is coming here in the morning for Connor.’

  Miss Henley shook her head in disbelief. ‘But she’s gone, didn’t you explain to him? The police here have been notified, he’ll find that out . . .’

  Jumping up from his seat, Hodges roared: ‘I’m fucking well aware of that, woman, but what the hell else could I do? The girl should never have been here in the first place, we all know that. Now it’s up to Barton to sort this out and smooth things over. If she doesn’t we’re finished. All of us.’

  Mary Barton’s husband was usually an amiable man, cursed by a domineering wife but of the opinion that it was worth giving her free rein for a quiet life at home.

  A High Court judge, Mr Justice Barton was nicknamed Unjust Barton - a nickname he was secretly proud of. He also prided himself on his handlebar moustache, his neatly brushed steel grey hair, and above all his firm hand with the criminal classes. He could intimidate a witness or counsel for the prosecution with equal ease and effectiveness.

  His whole life was a game, a big happy game, and he saw everyone else as mere pawns. Even his flat-chested, bullet-nosed shrew of a wife.

  Tonight, after partaking freely of a twelve-year-old malt at his club and enjoying the ministrations of a young friend, a lovely boy with blond good looks and a mouth like a vacuum cleaner, all he really wanted was to sleep. His wife, however, wouldn’t let him.

  The phone was ringing constantly and her high-pitched voice kept intruding on his slumber. Now, God damn her, she was telling him to get up in the no-nonsense voice she usually reserved for menials.

  ‘Bugger off, woman, and leave me alone. I have a heavy day tomorrow. Leave a man be, can’t you?’ His voice became a roar and his wife flinched.

  It was the look of sheer terror on her face which made him sit up and take notice. Mary was a lot of things, but timid and scared did not automatically spring to mind when thinking of her. Tonight, however, she looked dreadful.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it one of the children?’ he asked, alarmed. ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, what’s wrong?’

  Mary Barton started to cry and this alone was enough to bring her husband from his twin bed to hers. ‘Oh, I’ve been a very naughty girl, but I was only trying to help those nice Hendersons . . .’

  Mr Justice Barton looked at his wife as if he had never seen her before. Then, sighing, he took her into his arms. ‘Come along, Mary. Tell me what you’re wittering on about, woman, and I’ll try and sort it out for you.’

  He waited with baited breath for her to explain what all the bloody rumpus was about, his little blond friend in the forefront of his mind. Please God, she hadn’t found out about that.

  But as she started talking he began to relax. It was nothing to do with him, thank Christ. In fact, secretly, listening to his wife’s dilemma, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. If he helped her out of this mess, she might just be a little bit more amenable in future.

  Mary Barton, bitch of a woman, bugger of a wife and scourge of the Social Services, had dropped a prime bollock.

  He could get a good bit of mileage out of this and intended to do just that.

  Mary’s tear-blotched face looked up at her husband’s and both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

  Nevertheless, they kept on playing the game. It was their idea of a civilised marriage.

  Cathy walked through the door of a small Soho cafe. Finding a table as close to the heater as she could, she ordered herself a coffee and some toast and sat down to think.

  Her hands were throbbing with pain and, taking the mittens off gingerly, she surveyed her fingers with horror. Most of her nails had fallen out and the open skin beneath was very sore.

  When the Greek man behind the dingy counter noticed the state of them, he shook his head sadly.

  ‘Stay there, sweetheart. I’ll bring your order over to you. What you had - an accident of some kind? I’d say those need looking at by a doctor. Go on, sit back and get yourself warm.’

  Gratefully she settled in her seat while the man brought over the coffee and toast.

  ‘Let me have a little look, I won’t hurt you.’

  She was the only person in the coffee bar and was nervous because of it. He sensed this and laughed, his big round face alive with friendliness.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t eat up little girls any more - I just nibble on their fingers.’

  Cathy was startled into a smile by his banter and he smiled back at her, displaying large, uneven but very white teeth. He examined her hands and tutted. Holding her wrists gently, he said: ‘You been tied up, girl?’

  Tears stung her eyes and she shook her head. ‘No, ’course not. I ain’t been well, that’s all.’

  The man stared at her for a long while. Then: ‘I don’t think you should have them bandaged, they’ll benefit more from the air, but you must keep them very clean, you understand me?’

  Cathy nodded.

  ‘You smell like an old fishmonger, girl. You need a bath and a change of clothes and a good rest by the look of it. Drink your coffee and eat up, I’ll talk to you later.’

  As he spoke, the door opened and two women came in. Cathy recognised them both at once as
prostitutes. They had the same way about them as Madge had done. They gave her a cursory glance and sat themselves down, chatting and laughing happily.

  Cathy ate her toast in peace and sipped at the hot coffee. She could feel her body gradually warming up but the pain in her hands had become almost unbearable.

  The Greek man brought over two white pills and told her to take them, they would ease the pain. She took them without even asking what they were. Her hands were so sore she would have taken anything.

  He also brought her over another coffee and she smiled at him gratefully. Pulling out her money she offered a five-pound note. He closed his eyes in distress, noticing the sidelong glances from the two prostitutes at the other table.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, girl? Put that money away, for Christ’s sake. You’re asking to get rolled. Those two would kill their own mothers for a few pounds.’

  Seeing the frightened look on her face, he relented and, sitting beside her, said gently, ‘Look - you’re in Soho and you look like a runaway. I see them all the time. They come here thinking they’ll have a good life, that things will be better for them here. Well, they very rarely are. You’re just a little girl. All you can do to supplement your cash is sleep with men. You understand? Now, whatever you have run from, it can’t be any worse than what you’ll find here. So drink your coffee, it’s on the house, then get yourself back to wherever it is you came from. Listen to me: I know what I’m talking about.’

  Cathy heard him out then shrugged at the end of his speech. He obviously talked this way a lot; the words had a practised edge to them.

  ‘I’m only staying a few days and then I’m going to some friends,’ she said.