The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  The cafe owner smiled sadly. ‘I’ve heard that before. You sit there and get nice and warm. I’m open all night, I don’t mind if you stay here. All I ask is that you think about what I said, eh?’ He smiled and Cathy smiled back. ‘I have a friend you might want to meet, a lady with a small boarding house. I can ring her if you like, my dear. She owes me a favour anyway.’

  Cathy smiled widely. ‘Thank you so very much, Mr . . .’

  The big man nodded happily. ‘Tony Gosa - they call me Tony Gosa.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gosa. I appreciate your help.’

  He stood up abruptly as the door opened once more, bringing in more prostitutes and a large African man dressed in a white suit and a leather stetson.

  Cathy drank her coffee; the pain in her hands was receding and she finally relaxed, looking at the exotic people around her with interest. The women chatted and laughed, their perfume ripe and heavy as it wafted towards her. It reminded her of how she must smell, and indeed look, after the ride in the fish lorry. If she could get a bed for the night and a bath, a change of clothes and a rest, she would be fit and well enough to track down Eamonn. That was her main priority.

  She knew she must keep away from the East End for a few days as Denise had warned her, but the money in her pocket would at least ensure her a place to stay.

  Tony Gosa, the ever-genial host, brought her over a third cup of coffee and waved away any suggestion of payment. He looked sad-eyed and upset on her behalf and she felt relieved to have encountered such a sympathetic person.

  Alone and frightened, a friend was just what she needed.

  Duncan Goodings was fifty-seven years old, a rotund man with a ready smile and steely blue eyes. He was as fat as his sister, Mary Barton, was thin. He was also a much more resolute character than her, and even their own parents had conceded that that made him at once a strong and an irritating personality.

  He had been summoned to his sister’s house by her husband and had arrived formally dressed in his usual three-piece suit, making Mr Justice Barton wonder if there was any truth in the popular belief that the fellow never slept. He looked as awake and well groomed as any normal man did at nine in the morning on his way to the City.

  Fortunately for Mary, her husband was perhaps the only person who could intimidate Duncan Goodings. Whether it was the judge’s sheer size, his imposing appearance or his uncanny knack of grasping the underlying truth of any situation, Duncan wasn’t sure. All he knew was, his brother-in-law was demanding he help out his sister, and help her out in record time, or he would want to know why.

  Taking the large Scotch offered to him by his horse-faced bitch of a sister, Duncan tried unsuccessfully to smile. His face felt as if it would crack from the effort. Being summoned here in the middle of the night, leaving his young wife alone in bed, was not his idea of fun. Not that there had ever been many laughs to be had in this house. His sister’s own children had abandoned the imposing residence as soon as they had finished university. Duncan sympathised with them. Anything would be better than living with these two.

  ‘So what’s all this about then?’ The smug look on his brother-in-law’s face spoke volumes and Duncan listened with growing uneasiness to his sister’s rambling story. He’d known all along he should have stayed in bed with BiBi, his young, skinny, but very versatile Eurasian wife.

  He had put heart and soul into rising to the top of the social work profession and now knew without a doubt that he was being asked to do something that was both illegal and immoral. For all his faults, and he knew they were legion, he had never in his life abused his position of trust. In fact, he prided himself on his integrity and fairness towards his subordinates.

  Yet, as he listened to Mary’s squalid little tale of power abused, he could see a way of turning it to his own advantage. This could be the very thing he needed to keep his sister out of his hair. Sometimes it was very hard to have to do what she asked, such as coming to dinner without his beloved BiBi, and pretending that she didn’t even exist.

  Yes, on reflection, this could all be turned to the good. Actually smiling now, aware that they needed him far more than he did them, he said, ‘And this policeman, what’s his name again?’

  Both his sister and her husband knew when they were cornered and had the grace to look just the smallest bit ashamed.

  Duncan Goodings had already made a mental note to get rid of the principal offenders in this drama quickly and without any publicity, especially Hodges, Henley and his own sister. All in all, this wasn’t turning into such a bad night after all.

  Smiling once more, he held out his glass for a refill of Scotch, and was gratified to see both his sister and her husband jump out of their seat in their eagerness to be hospitable.

  Cathy was grateful to Tony Gosa, and so pleased to have made a friend in her first few hours in the West End that she followed him to the boarding house quite happily. As he led her through a maze of streets, she felt tired yet exhilarated. When he flagged down a cab she went with him without a second thought.

  At three forty-five in the morning she walked through the door of a dilapidated building off Fulham Broadway. A large Greek woman welcomed her with open arms and relieved her of her bundle and her coat.

  Mama Gosa was huge. Rolls of quivering fat undulated each time she moved and her chins wobbled happily as she exclaimed over and petted the small figure before her.

  ‘Such a little thing, Tony. She needs food and warmth, yes?’

  Cathy ate a large bowl of stew and afterwards was stripped and put into a steaming bath before she knew what was happening. Mama Gosa’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she carefully washed Cathy’s hands and helped her clean herself.

  After another two white pills and a clean nightdress had been given to her, she was settled in front of a roaring fire in the small front room. Mama Gosa left her there and told her to relax and maybe have a little sleep. She would be back later.

  As Cathy lay on the rather dirty settee, she pondered on her good luck. Her hands were feeling much better and she was clean and fed. Thanks to Madge and her earlier life, Cathy knew that she had to watch out for herself, knew the pitfalls of being alone, yet she trusted these two foreign people.

  Glancing around the room, she saw faded brown wallpaper and heavy oak furniture. On the walls hung icons and pictures of a dark-eyed scowling man in a big black hat. She sensed he was religious in some way, he had that heavily pious expression they all shared. In her short life, most people who looked like that had tried to tuck her up.

  Satisfied that she had sussed out the situation, Cathy lay there and basked in the luxury of freedom and warmth.

  The pills were making her light-headed and she felt her eyes closing. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of Eamonn and the joy on his face when he realised she was home at last. That she had come home for him.

  Until she dared go in search of him, she would enjoy all that the Gosas had to offer. It didn’t occur to her to wonder where her belongings were or, more importantly, her money.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Richard Gates was awake and contemplating whether to have a full cooked breakfast or black coffee and toast. As it did every morning, the full cooked breakfast won. Unconsciously rubbing the two large scars on his belly, he made his way naked to the kitchen.

  The scars were a constant reminder to him of how close to death he had once come. Knifed when still a young PC, he had survived against heavy odds. The person who had knifed him had not come off so well, but Gates had stopped thinking about him years ago.

  He had strong muscular arms and legs, and his stomach was heavy, full and surprisingly firm. The muscles having been slashed, he knew he would never look like Johnny Weissmuller again. But what the fuck? As he always thought - with his offbeat looks it didn’t make one iota of difference.

  Pulling a towel around him, he put the kettle on and picked up his mail, promptly throwing it all in a drawer. He looked at his letters only every f
ew months or so. After all, why meet trouble head on? He rarely received anything of interest, only circulars and bills. He wasn’t really close enough to anyone for personal mail.

  As the bacon and tomatoes sizzled away, he walked through to his front room and turned on the radio. He liked noise around him in the mornings.

  His flat was very tidy, and this fact always amazed people. It had a pristine cleanliness, almost like an operating theatre. The walls were painted white, he had a few good books, and his record collection was considered both weird and amazing by his few friends, containing everything from Burt Bacharach to the Stones. The carpet was deep brown, and there were two brown corduroy-covered two-seater sofas with brown Perspex arms. A large glass coffee table devoid of any clutter except for an ashtray finished off the room.

  Not a photograph or personal memento to show who lived here. It looked like a room still waiting for its owner to stamp his personality upon it. Only his kitchen looked even remotely lived in. Gates loved to cook, had always loved to cook, and his pots and pans, recipe books and jars of spices, gave the flat its only touch of character.

  He had a Belling electric stove with four large rings. It was the most expensive item in the flat and the most used. He also had an eight-track cassette which he played when one of his marathon cook-outs came over him.

  Unlike his peers he didn’t feel the need to enthuse about the Beatles or the other top groups. He liked what he liked, and his dealings every day with what he termed ‘the scum of the earth’ made him the highly individual man he was.

  His small flat was his haven, his refuge from the maelstrom of work. He protected it accordingly.

  The only other thing of note he possessed was his car, a large black Zephyr which he adored.

  His sole concession to the fashions of his time were the wide kipper ties he wore, and even these were rapidly going out of style. Gates would stubbornly carry on wearing his. He had hundreds and he loved them.

  A very private person, he knew he was considered strange by other people. But he could live with that and enjoyed his solitary life.

  As he smoothed down his thin close-cropped hair and waited for the weather forecast, the phone rang. Swearing under his breath, he looked ruefully at his breakfast and went out into the hallway.

  No one who knew him well would dare call him at home before ten o’clock. This had to be work, either a murder or a decent attempt at one. At the very least it had better be an armed robbery, nothing else would be allowed to spoil his breakfast.

  In fact, the caller was Duncan Goodings and it was just as well he was unaware of the type of man he had to deal with. His nerves had never been Duncan’s strongest point.

  Cathy awoke and wondered where she was. A heavy smell of bacon was permeating the room and her stomach rumbled in sympathy. She was starving.

  The fire was banked up and rain was hitting the windows with a steady rat-tat that was strangely reassuring. Stretching, she sat up and looked about her. In the cold light of day the room looked dilapidated, furniture and walls scuffed, carpet threadbare in places; but with the cheerful fire aglow it didn’t look so bad. She had lived in worse, much worse, all her life.

  As Cathy pushed her hair from her face with fingers that were feeling less painful, the door opened and Mama Gosa came in with a cup of tea.

  ‘You look much better. Drink this up and I’ll fetch your few bits. I’m sure you want to get dressed and be on your way, yes?’

  Cathy smiled and took the tea gratefully, her blue eyes open and trusting.

  ‘You’re looking quite bright this morning. A good sleep and a hot bath were just the things to get you on your feet, yes? Show me your poor hands and I’ll see if we can do any more for you.’

  Cathy put her cup on the floor and held out her hands. Though red and sore-looking, they really had improved and she and the Greek woman smiled at one another.

  ‘Much better, yes? Now I have made you a nice big breakfast to see you on your way, so drink up and come and eat.’

  Cathy was nonplussed for a moment. ‘Must I leave today? I can pay - I have money.’

  Mama Gosa grinned. ‘We’ll see, yes?’

  She left the room and Cathy sipped at the tea and pondered her situation. This set up suited her. If she could camp out here for a few days, get her hands in better shape and have a much-needed rest, she would be able to face the world looking and feeling better than she had in a very long time.

  She had an idea that her twenty-five pounds would come in very handy.

  Suddenly it hit her that she was in effect on the run, and the unfairness of her situation stung. In just under four weeks she had been through more than most people endure in a lifetime. Yet, she consoled herself, she was still standing. She was still here, and she was coping. Admittedly, it was difficult to keep body and soul together at times, but she was making sure that she did.

  Life with Madge had prepared her for the worst, and if you expected the worst anything other than that was a bonus - like this place. Denise and her knowhow had been a bonus too, and of course Eamonn was the very best bonus life could offer.

  Following the smell of bacon and eggs, she made her way through the house to the kitchen. Her natural alertness was returning, together with her strength, and it occurred to her that there was really no reason why the two Greeks should give her their time and hospitality. Maybe she would be asked for something in return? No matter. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. She just hoped against hope that all they would want was money.

  Smiling pleasantly, she went into the kitchen and began to eat her breakfast. The food was good and hot, the kitchen filthy. It didn’t bother Cathy in the least. She knew she needed her strength and her wits about her. Hopefully she would recover both these things in this funny-looking refuge in Fulham.

  Eamonn was still asleep and snoring when Patsy Fullerton crept from the bed. She was on the wrong side of thirty, with enormous breasts and backcombed bleached hair that made her look like a reject from a Carry On film.

  As she struggled into her underwear and a very grubby Mary Quant mini-dress that did not really suit her short stubby legs, she watched the boy in the bed and shook her head in wonder. Three times, straight off, and not one word had he spoken to her. He was a funny little fucker.

  Still, she reasoned, he was doing all right, had a few quid to fling about, and didn’t spend half the night telling you all his troubles. She often joked that her job was more a line of therapy really. Most punters wanted a captive audience to listen to their woes more than they wanted an actual woman.

  If they paid for oral sex they never kept their mouths shut, before, during or after the event. It pissed her off.

  Still, she had her money safely tucked into her bag and had had a good night out with the young man asleep in the bed. That in itself was a touch as far as she was concerned. Normally she was lumbered with some old bastard with greasy hair, a greasier smile and even greasier money - usually not quite enough to pay for all the services she’d rendered.

  Which didn’t really bother her because at the end of the day, if you kept the fuckers happy then they’d come back, which was what her job was all about.

  Her pimp was big, black and liked the good life. She provided it for him, along with a few other girls, and was quite happy to do so. Why, she didn’t even know herself and had long ago stopped trying to puzzle it out.

  She had no illusions that the boy in the bed would ever want her services regularly, although she had heard he was gradually going through every whore in London. And besides that she knew damn well he was being seen out and about with a regular bird called Caroline Harvey, daughter of a well-known 1950s face.

  Funny then, that when he’d lost himself in the oblivion that Patsy provided and called out a girl’s name, she had distinctly heard him say ‘Cathy’. Girlfriend or no, Caroline Harvey was out of the running with Eamonn Docherty, did she but know it.

  Caroline Harvey was small, plump a
nd had the biggest violet-blue eyes anyone had ever seen in a woman. People were always saying her eyes reminded them of Elizabeth Taylor’s. She mascaraed her lashes religiously, knowing they would enhance her best feature. Her breasts were small but full and her waist thick; she had long legs which she covered always in black stockings to hide the stretch-marks from a pregnancy when she was fourteen.

  Her dark brown hair was cut in the latest style and she wore clothes that accentuated her figure. She knew what suited her, she knew what to say, and she knew exactly what was going on around her. She made a point of doing so.

  All in all she was pleased with herself, very pleased with herself. More so since she had bagged Eamonn Docherty. He was an up-and-coming face and she loved the notoriety she earned by being seen with him.

  At this moment, though, he was in her bad books. He had left her in a club the previous night and she had quickly arranged to stay at a friend’s. She would never admit what she had in fact guessed: that Eamonn had simply forgotten her. Caroline couldn’t actually bring herself to acknowledge that. Instead, she made her way home, encountering Patsy on the stairs of her lodging house.

  The two women stared at one another. Patsy, knowing the score, grinned easily. ‘He’s a wanker, love.’

  Caroline laughed good-naturedly. ‘I know, but ain’t they all?’

  As she let herself into her flat she was smiling. Let Eamonn have his other birds. As long as the money kept coming her way, she didn’t give a toss. All she wanted out of life was enough to spend, a hot cock and a bit of fun. She was also shrewd enough to put money by, something her mother had taught her years before.

  ‘Never depend on no one but yourself’ had been a constant theme, along with: ‘If a man can’t give you more than you can give yourself, then dump him.’

  Both sayings had since been proven right, time and time again.

  Plastering a big smile on her face Caroline said, ‘What on earth happened to you last night?’