by Martina Cole
He never got the chance.
Jack Harvey murdered the pair of them outside the Dean Swift pub. Now he was in Broadmoor, his criminal reputation only enhanced by this vicious act. He had beaten Victor to death with a wheelbrace and cut the throat of the long-suffering Rita, who had not really wanted either of them.
Jack’s daughter had grown up accepting as her due the respect which the name ‘Harvey’ brought her. Her father was away, but he still had friends on the outside - that was how the story went. Caroline had never really bothered with him. It was her mother who still visited him and talked about him as if he were a mixture of the Pope and Charlton Heston, keeping his memory alive all over the East End.
Caroline cashed in on it, loving the notoriety. As for her father, she dropped him a Christmas card every year, plus a line every so often when her mother forced her to. Caroline wanted - in fact needed, the respect of people around her. And if she could win that respect from a face like Eamonn, her happiness would be complete.
As they sat in the Blind Beggar pub and listened to the juke box, a young man came in. He was fairly tall and dark, his hair cut in a college boy style. He was wearing a mohair suit, Caroline noticed, her eyes going to him automatically. He smiled back at the girl with the big blue eyes in the corner of the little bar.
‘Know him, do you?’ Eamonn’s voice was terse.
Caroline shrugged. ‘No. Should I?’ Her own voice dripped with sarcasm and something else. Something that Eamonn would not allow to pass unchallenged. It was full of smugness and daring.
Getting up, he walked to the stranger at the bar and said, ‘You smiled at my bird.’
The young man turned towards him and grinned winningly. ‘Free country. She’s nice-looking. Take it as a compliment, mate. I only smiled.’
He had boyish good looks and he knew it. Eamonn sensed that this lad got himself along by his easy smile and his easy charm. He had car keys in his hand and the look of a boy who had been well brought up. Who had had everything a child should have.
All this went through Eamonn’s mind in the split second it took him to smash a pint glass on the counter and slice open the boy’s cheeks. He even wondered what the doting mum and dad would think about their son once he had scars all over that smiling face.
He wasn’t a regular, or Eamonn would have known him. He was one of the new breed who used the East End pubs because they thought it gave them a bit of kudos, a bit of savvy. Well, he would have something to remind him of this night for the rest of his days.
‘My name’s Eamonn Docherty and I dare you to tell that to the Old Bill,’ was his parting thrust.
Laughing, he walked from the pub, Caroline trailing behind him. No one stepped in to help the young man and no one phoned for an ambulance until they were sure that Eamonn was long gone. The boy held his torn face together with his fingers and looked around him in disbelief and shock.
Caroline followed Eamonn home in silence. They walked into the flat together. Still without speaking she took off her coat and faced the man she had decided to live with and love. His fist hit her in the face and she felt the bruising pain as his knuckles connected with her cheekbones.
He punched her to the ground and systematically rained blows on her head and body.
Still he didn’t speak.
Curling herself into a ball, she relaxed her body and took what he offered.
Finally spent, he pulled open her legs and took her roughly and silently on the floor where she lay.
As she watched his eyes close and felt his seed spurt hotly inside her, she felt a moment’s euphoria.
He was jealous. He had hurt her. Ergo he must love her.
No one had let Caroline Harvey into the big secret of what love really was and no one ever would.
Afterwards he cradled her to him like a child and whispered soft words into her ears. For those few minutes, she felt safer than she had ever felt in her life.
Cathy saw the man approach her and sidestepped to avoid him. They both did a little dance as each tried to pass the other. Finally she stood still and waited for him to walk around her.
He didn’t.
Looking up, she saw a big man with a heavy beard. He looked foreign, maybe Russian. But, she conceded, that could just be because of his fur hat. He wore a heavy overcoat and a white scarf, looked smart but somehow menacing.
‘Hello, young lady.’
His voice was deep and definitely a London one. Cathy tried to walk around him.
‘Come on, young lady, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
People were walking past them as if they didn’t exist and Cathy stared up at the man with baleful eyes.
‘You’re in my way, mister.’
He looked down at her and laughed. ‘Come on, come with me.’
He had hold of her arm and, gripping it tightly, pulled her down a small alleyway. Cathy tried to wrench her arm free. He just smiled at her. There were few lights down here and the stench of rubbish was overwhelming. He had pushed her against the wall. Taking off his gloves, he pulled two pound notes from his wallet.
Cathy stared at him in complete silence for a moment. As she tried to make a run for it, his hand caught her a blow across the face. It wasn’t a heavy blow but it was enough to stun her.
‘Don’t be foolish, girl. Do what you’re told and you’ll get the two pounds, OK?’ His voice was thick with excitement. He opened his overcoat and fumbled with his trousers. Cathy closed her eyes as she saw him remove his flaccid penis and start massaging it.
‘Come on, little girl, put it in your mouth . . .’ He spoke more softly now, cajoling her, and as she felt his hand go to the back of her head to force her down on to him, she lashed out with her arm. His second blow to her head hurt her badly.
The man was getting impatient and as Cathy stood trembling before him she felt the futility of trying to escape. He was massaging his member once more and pulling her head towards it, talking all the time.
‘Come on, little girl, haven’t I got two pounds for you? Just take it in your mouth and everything will be lovely. It will be fine. I only last a few seconds usually. There’s a good little . . .’
Cathy felt the hot salty taste of his penis in her mouth and gagged as he thrust it into the very back of her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. He was enormous, and he was strong. Once more she was being coerced into doing something that she did not want to do.
As she tried to pull away he pushed harder at her, ramming his member further and further into her mouth. All the time he was talking and his hypnotic tone of voice only made her more frightened.
‘There’s a good girl. You see, it’s nice, isn’t it, really? Once you get the taste, you love it. All you little girlies love it, don’t you?’
Another voice came unexpected out of the shadows. Hearing it, Cathy bit down as hard as she could on the man’s erect and pumping penis.
‘You fucking dirty old git! Leave the poor little mare alone. You should be fucking well ashamed of yourself.’
The man was trying to put away his exposed private parts and at the same time stop a tall and very vocal woman from hitting him with her large handbag.
‘Go on, you dirty old bastard, before I call a policeman. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life . . . and this little girl no more than twelve. It’s a national disgrace.’
The woman’s high-pitched protestations lent the man’s feet wings and he disappeared out of the alley, taking his two pounds with him.
Cathy stood heaving against the wall. Nothing came up but bile. She hadn’t eaten for a long time. The woman rubbed her back, feeling the girl’s fragility and getting angry all over again.
‘You poor little cow. You’re only a sprite, ain’t you? Come on, come with Desrae, I’ll take care of you for a while. Christ knows, I came along at the right moment. Pushing your poor little head down like that . . . Wonder he didn’t do you a damage, it is.’
Cathy felt t
he woman take her arm and allowed herself to be led along. She could still taste the man and was gagging even as they walked out of the alley and into the relative brightness of the road.
Cathy was worried that this woman, Desrae, would leave her alone again and kept her eyes peeled for the man in case he was nearby.
‘I do believe there should be laws about dirty old gits like him - I really do, love. I mean, what a bloody palaver, eh? I bet he nearly choked you. I’ve had a few like that in my time, and believe me, love, it don’t get no better. Horrible feeling, ain’t it? Queers are the worst fuckers for it, but a few of the older men go for it too these days. So I’ve been told anyway.’
Desrae, as she had called herself, kept up this conversation all the way to her flat in Greek Street. Opening a door, she pushed Cathy before her into a dingy hallway. ‘Upstairs, first on the right, love. Mind the bleeding stairs - they’re so steep it’s like climbing Everest. Even Chris bleeding Bonnington would need crampons in this place!’ She laughed at her own wit and was immediately attacked by a coughing fit.
As they walked up the dirty stairwell, littered with paper and old Durex, Cathy took in the smell of rubbish and cigarette smoke. Then Desrae opened another door and turned on a light.
Cathy was amazed to see a very nicely decorated hallway, all beige paintwork and green spider plants, and was then taken through into a lounge that housed a leather settee, two chairs and a big old dresser full of china and glassware.
‘Put your bits down and I’ll get you a stiff drink, love. I know you ain’t old enough but a drop of the old gold watch is the best thing to get rid of the taste of cock.’
Desrae screeched with laughter again and set about turning on lamps and pouring them both a drink. As she placed a heavy cut-glass tumbler in Cathy’s hand, the girl looked up at her in amazement. Desrae’s hair was bleached and styled neatly in a French pleat. Her eyes were made up with heavy mascara and deep green shadow; lips a deep red slash. Her features were heavy yet strangely refined, and her smile was genuine and friendly.
Eyes twinkling with mischief, Desrae announced: ‘Yes, my little love, you’re right on your first guess. I am, in fact, a man.’ And laughed again. ‘But don’t let that put you off, dear. I don’t eat little girls up. And - what a bleeding touch - I very rarely want them to eat me!’
He screeched at his own wit once more and motioning with his glass, encouraged Cathy to down her whisky in one throw. ‘Tastes like shit but it does the bleeding job, eh?’
Cathy tossed back the drink and erupted into a fit of coughing. A muscular arm was placed around her thin shoulders and Desrae kissed her on the forehead.
‘You poor little mare. But don’t worry, old Desrae will take good care of you now. You’re as safe as the proverbial houses.’ Seating the girl on the large sofa, he took her few things from her and then started to remove her shoes.
‘I’ll run you a bath, I think, and make you a bit of grub. Then me and you are going to have a natter. I ain’t got nothing pressing on tonight. You’re lucky it’s me night off from the club or I wouldn’t have found you, see.’
He carried on chatting about nothing all the time he ran the bath.
Cathy lay on the settee, listening yet not listening. The man-woman’s voice had a soothing effect on her and she found she enjoyed the sound of it. Instinctively, she realised she was indeed safe and it no longer even seemed strange that her saviour should be a man in a dress and flesh-coloured tights. There was nothing in the world that could shock her now.
Five minutes later she was sitting in a bright pink bath, surrounded by bubbles and pink tiles, and sipping at a small hot toddy that Desrae assured her would cure all the ills of the world.
‘Here, use this to tie your hair up.’
Cathy took the elastic band and proceeded to put her hair into a top knot.
‘Beautiful hair you’ve got, love, and the most amazingly delicate shoulders. Really shows breeding, that. I got shoulders like a fucking bricklayer - mind you, that’s hardly surprising since I was one once.’ The deep raucous laughter rang out once more and Cathy found herself laughing too.
‘Thank you ever so much, I don’t know what I’d have done . . .’ Her voice trailed off and before she knew it, Cathy was crying. The kindnesses of her rescuer had undone her. The tears began to fall and then sobs, long held back, erupted harshly.
Desrae, upset himself, cuddled the girl in the bath tub and said loudly: ‘Here, stop it. I’m filling up meself and I’ll ruin me bleeding make-up.’
Half laughing and half crying, the strange pair hugged each other then chattered together in the bathroom for an hour. Cathy told him everything that had happened in the last month, enjoying the telling, getting it all off her chest and somehow straightening things out in her own mind. Finally she was spent.
Desrae, sitting back on his heels, looked at the little girl before him and shook his head sadly. ‘Well, all I can say, Cathy Connor, is thank fuck you found me! There’s some right strange ones out there, I can tell you. And coming from a man wearing women’s clothes that probably sounds stranger still, eh?’ Saying which, he picked up a large cerise towel and held it out for her to step into.
The towel was warm and enveloping; Cathy pulled it to her and swayed with tiredness. Desrae picked her up as easily as a kitten and carried her to the settee. ‘Snuggle up there, love, and I’ll get you some nice hot soup. Then we’ll talk about what you’re going to do next.’
Leaving her on the settee, in front of the gas fire, Desrae busied himself in his tiny kitchen, pouring out the tomato soup into a nice big bowl and cutting thin slices of bread and butter - minus the crusts, of course. All the time he worked, his mind was running over Cathy’s predicament. The little girl in his lounge was underage, underfed and under cared for, in his opinion.
Desrae, himself a product of Homes, was loath to get in touch with the police. Anyway, he reasoned, a lot of people couldn’t distinguish between child molesters and homosexuals. Especially the Old Bill. He could be putting himself in the frame if he went to them. There was no way he was pushing her back out on the street, though, that was not even an option.
As for that Eamonn fella the girl was pinning her hopes on . . . about as much use as an ashtray on a speedboat him, was Desrae’s opinion. Not only that, as soon as Cathy put a foot on her old stomping ground the filth would be all over her like a rash.
No, the girl needed to keep away from there, and he’d have to point that out to her toot sweet.
Rubbing his large hands together and proudly surveying his handiwork, he carried in the tray and put it on a side table. He spoonfed Cathy her soup, all the while working out in his mind what he was going to do with her. Suddenly he had the most amazing idea.
‘I’ve just had a thought, love.’
Cathy raised one eyebrow and smiled. ‘What?’
‘You can stay here and work for your keep.’
She frowned. ‘What - do the tidying up and that?’
Desrae nodded and then said grandly: ‘I’m going to learn you a bleeding trade, girl.’
Cathy was perplexed. ‘What kind of trade?’
He grinned from ear to ear. ‘I’m going to teach you how to maid, Cathy Connor. How to be a maid to a woman of a certain persuasion. That being the horizontal persuasion, admittedly.’
Cathy knew immediately what he meant and they both laughed.
‘Me mum never had a maid, but I done her clearing up and that.’
Desrae dismissed Madge with a wave of one well-manicured hand. ‘I’m talking about a real professional here, dear. I have all sorts of outfits and other things that I use in me job. I’ll show you how to take care of them, and of me. And in the process I’ll show you how to look after yourself. Deal?’
She grinned. ‘Sounds good to me.’
She stared at the incongruously womanly figure before her and said gently: ‘Thanks, Desrae. Thanks for helping me out.’
The words were inadequate,
Cathy knew that, but they were heartfelt. Placing a long finger under Cathy’s chin, Desrae turned her face up towards his own.
‘You’re welcome, darling. Now listen to Uncle Desrae: you have to keep away from the East End, at least for a while, all right? The filth will be all over you if they catch sight, you understand? You hide out here for a while and we’ll have a rethink in a few weeks, yes?’
Cathy nodded gratefully. ‘I really can’t thank you enough.’
Desrae chuckled merrily. ‘Wait until you’ve maided for me a little while. You might change your bleeding tune, girl. Now, let’s get you bedded down for the night and we’ll talk some more in the morning, eh? You look bleeding knackered. ’
Twenty minutes later Cathy was tucked up in a small single bed in Desrae’s dressing room. Like the rest of the flat it was overdone and over-feminine and the smell of perfume was stifling. Cathy loved it. It was the nicest room she had ever slept in.
As Desrae removed his make-up and brushed out his hair, he wondered whatever had induced him to take on a young girl. Was it the reminder of what it had been like for him when he had first hit the West End as a teenager all those years ago? Or was it the need for company, a need that was becoming ever more pressing as the years wore on?
Whatever it was, the girl was here to stay for as long as she liked, and Desrae hoped that it would be a long, long time. There was something about Cathy, about her demeanour, her attitude, that met a need in himself.
She was vulnerable, and yet she had guts. She had been through the mill and yet she still had the ability to trust. He did not want to abuse that. He adored her already, from her big blue eyes to her tiny graceful little hands.
He only hoped that when she realised what the job entailed, it wouldn’t put her off.
Sighing, he wiped cold cream all over his face and neck and, puckering his lips one last time, smiled into the mirror and said: ‘You’re not looking bad, girl, even at the grand old age of twenty-nine.’ Desrae - Desmond Raymond - Smith was thirty-five, but would not admit that even to himself.
Finally, they were both in bed, each aware of the other’s presence nearby and each glad of it.
