The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  The little sober man before them, because Terence didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke and he didn’t take drugs. He needed no artificial stimulants to make him aggressive. It was with him twenty-four hours of the day.

  Now, as he sat in his four-bedroomed detached house in the Wirral, he was listening to his mother’s voice as she berated him once more on the subject of his ex-wife.

  Livvy Rankin was as big as her son was small, eighteen stone and nearly six foot tall. Her only child was her pride and joy and also the thorn in her side, as she would tell anyone who would listen to her.

  ‘Why the hell you can’t try and be nice to Tracey, I don’t understand. I want the kids here weekends, and I want them here at Christmas and New Year and all the time you’re roaring at the girl and scaring the life out of her, I don’t get to see the children. Would you not give her a ring and say you’re sorry? Apologise for hitting her father as well. Poor man, he must be sixty-five if he’s a day and you had to thump him.’ She shook her head in consternation.

  Terence knew when he was beaten. He would do as his mother asked. He always did.

  ‘I’ll do it in the morning, go round and see her, then I’ll bring the girls back to visit you. How’s that, Ma?’

  Livvy smiled. ‘That would be grand. Now eat your fry. Are you going out at all?’

  Terence nodded. ‘I’m meeting a friend. You off to bingo?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  Livvy left for bingo with her cronies at 7.35. At 7.40, Terence was on his way to visit a prostitute called Mavis Henson. He was a regular, and saw her three times a week. He would reach her flat at eight o’clock precisely and stay for three hours. It was like a ritual to him. Mavis provided erotic sex, at a price. She was worth every penny.

  Terence was whistling as he drove along, oblivious to the rest of the world. He had someone to see first, but would do that quickly. He hated to be late for a date with Mavis.

  David Brewster was in the lounge of his small mid-terrace house in Knowsley watching the end of Coronation Street. Hilda Ogden and Elsie Tanner were having one of their periodic feuds and he was smiling as the end credits came up. His wife Louisa was sitting with their youngest child, Carrie, on her lap.

  She said gaily, ‘That Hilda Ogden is funny, eh, Davie? Playing the radio really loud to annoy Elsie. I thought I’d bust me sides.’

  David grinned. He was a tall, heavy-set man with dark wavy hair and a full beard. He was handsome enough, and knew it. His wife, however, was exquisite and David adored her. He loved Coronation Street too, though he pretended to watch it on sufferance because his wife liked it. He didn’t fool her and they both knew it.

  Carrie was nodding off. David picked her up and said: ‘I’ll put her to bed for you, love. Stick the kettle on and we’ll have a cuppa. I have to slip out later.’

  Louisa handed him the child and as he made his way upstairs, she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Just then, Terence Rankin walked through the back door of their house as if he owned it. Louisa opened her mouth to protest and he sideswiped her with the back of his hand, barely even pausing as he passed her. She was knocked against the sink. Popping his head into the lounge and finding it empty, he heard David’s voice coming from upstairs.

  ‘What was that noise, love?’

  Terence Rankin’s face was a mask of hatred, lips pulled back over his teeth. He took the stairs two at a time. David’s older children, twin boys of twelve, watched as the man attacked their father on the landing.

  He seemed to disappear under a rain of heavy blows and it took a while for them to realise that the intruder had something on his knuckles. The dusters Terence wore smashed through bone and gristle. Little Carrie walked out on to the landing and was knocked flying by the madman attacking her father.

  Eventually it stopped.

  Their father was lying in a pool of blood on the brand new orange and brown shagpile carpet, and their mother was standing at the top of the stairs, crying, her hands to her face. She looked at the man before her.

  ‘But why? Why, Terry? What’s he ever done to you?’ She was shaking her head in bewilderment.

  Terence Rankin looked at her long and hard before he said: ‘He laughed at me, Louisa, I saw him. He laughed at me, and no one does that and gets away with it. Tell him he’s out. No more work from me or anyone.’

  With that he walked calmly from the house. He was fifteen minutes late for his date with Mavis and that annoyed him. She took one look at him and knew she was in for a night of it.

  Sighing, she plastered a smile on her face and emptied her mind of everything but the man before her. With the Rankins of this world, you needed your wits about you. Your wits and your cunning.

  He was a dangerous and slippery customer but he paid well, and that was the main thing.

  Unlike Rankin, Michael Duffy was a big man.

  Over six foot, he was built like the heavyweight boxer he once was with a handsome battered face from his days in the ring. Women adored him, which was a great shame because he much preferred the company of other men. Not that he was gay, far from it. But Michael Duffy had lost part of his penis many years before in a gang fight, and could not function physically with anyone. Not even himself.

  No one knew about it, though, and it was because of this lack in himself that from time to time he gave vent to his frustration in outbursts of savage violence.

  When he wasn’t working for O’Hare, he kept himself pretty much to himself. It was the only way he could avoid becoming embroiled in pointless encounters with the women he craved but could not hope to satisfy.

  He was in his flat when a call came for him to meet Eamonn Docherty. After feeding his Dobermann, he dressed carefully for the meeting. It was late in the evening and that suited Michael. He liked the night.

  Like his counterpart, Terence Rankin, he knew nothing of his boss’s demise. It wouldn’t be common knowledge for a few days and by then it would be too late for him to do anything about it.

  Mavis was lying on her stomach trying to rest. It had been a hectic couple of hours but even though Terence had been rough, she’d enjoyed herself. She liked rough sex sometimes, and Terence was a master of it.

  However, tonight she was to receive money the like of which she had only ever dreamed of before, and now was the time to start really earning it. As Terence lay on the bed, trying to steady his breathing, she put her arm around him.

  ‘That was great, Terry, really great.’

  He turned to face her and nodded, agreeing with her. His orgasm had been intense and long. Now he felt relaxed and ready to sleep.

  She stroked his face. ‘Have a little nap if you like, Tel. Shall I make you another drink?’

  He nodded. He felt heavy, his limbs and eyes like lead. As he tried to move once more, he found he couldn’t for some reason and was afraid. He felt the movement of the bed as Mavis got up. He tried to focus and couldn’t - everything was blurred. When she snapped the handcuffs on him, he couldn’t resist. Mavis smiled down at him.

  ‘Go to sleep, Terry, you’ll soon feel better.’

  He had no option; he did as she told him. Feeling much safer now he was contained, Mavis picked up the phone and began to dial. It was strange but she’d miss him in a funny sort of way, although she had a feeling she might be the only one.

  By 11.45, both Michael Duffy and Terence Rankin were in a small warehouse by the Albert Dock. Michael had driven himself there, though Terence had been taken, very much against his will. Once the drug had worn off he was not the most happy of men, and his constant threats were beginning to get on Eamonn’s and Tommy’s nerves.

  Finally, Eamonn had had enough. He cracked Terence over the head with a piece of wood he found lying on the floor. ‘Now shut your fucking trap, will you!’

  Terence stared up at him with deep hatred in his eyes and Eamonn knew that this man had to die, because if he did not Eamonn himself would never be safe again.

  Michael Duffy had b
een easier than they’d thought; it hadn’t taken as much to overpower him and now he lay on the dirty floor, quiet and watchful. He would try and talk his way out of this mess, Eamonn knew, and admired him for it. But there was no way Duffy was leaving the warehouse alive either. No fucking way.

  These men were to act as examples for everyone who had worked for O’Hare. Their deaths would show exactly what happened to people who thought they could get out of their trees and tuck up the Irish.

  It wasn’t until Tommy and Eamonn had poured petrol on the two prisoners that the enormity of their situation hit home. The smell was heavy in the confined space and the two men were terrified. Tommy found it in his heart to feel pity for them, as bad as they were supposed to be. It was a terrible way to die. But they had asked for it, both of them, and he understood this much: when you ran a big organisation, you needed discipline. You needed the people who worked for you to know that they had to toe the line, had to listen to orders and obey them without dissent. Had to be one hundred per cent trustworthy.

  If a few got it into their heads that they could overrule you or take what was yours, then you had to set an example. This was a particularly gruesome example, but Tommy knew that it would do the job.

  The two hardest men in Liverpool were to be burned alive for the common good. Once this news hit the streets, together with word of O’Hare’s being found scattered all over the South East like a paperchase, only a raving lunatic would ever attempt to step out of line again.

  It meant the Irish could rule from afar with their face installed to pass on orders. It meant peace of mind, not only for Eamonn and his IRA cronies, but also for the lower echelons of their empire. They needed to know that everything was under control; needed to know exactly how far they could go.

  It was just good business, really.

  ‘You cunts! You don’t fucking scare me.’

  Terence’s voice was strong again, heavy with malice. Eamonn and Tommy ignored him. They sat at a table and broke open another bottle of Black Label.

  Eamonn checked his watch. Five of their men were to witness the execution. It was the best way to keep order in the ranks and ensure that the murders became a talking point among them.

  Terence began ranting and raving, spittle clinging to his lips as he writhed on the floor like a snake.

  Eamonn laughed. ‘Look at him! He’s a fucking nutcase.’

  Tommy laughed with him, the adrenaline beginning to surge through his veins. He knew he was in the company of a stronger will than his own and he relished it. With the Irish behind him, he was laughing all the way to the bank. After all, who would dare to challenge him now?

  ‘How long now?’ he asked.

  Eamonn checked his watch. ‘About another hour and a half. I want them all here to see this.’

  Tommy watched the two men again. The petrol smell must have been awful for them. It was bad enough they knew they were going to die; it seemed cruel to leave them so long with petrol all over their clothes and skin.

  Eamonn guessed his thoughts and said quietly: ‘I know what you’re thinking, but by the time the others arrive they’ll both have accepted their fate. I know what I’m doing, believe me. I have a lot of experience in this type of work.’ His voice was matter-of-fact. He betrayed no feelings for the men whatsoever.

  Tommy nodded. ‘Whatever you say, this is your show.’

  Eamonn stared at him consideringly. ‘You’ll do,’ he said finally.

  Tommy grinned and held up his glass in a toast. ‘Do you reckon we’re safe to smoke?’

  Eamonn laughed. ‘Yeah, we’re far enough away not to do them any damage. Yet.’

  An hour and a half later the five witnesses were in place and whisky was poured for them all. Thirty minutes earlier Eamonn had injected both condemned men with a massive dose of Demerol. They were high as the proverbial kites. He dropped matches on to them without a second’s thought.

  Well fortified with Scotch, Eamonn and Tommy watched the spectacle impassively. The five witnesses, however, were not so lucky. They saw something they would never forget, and as far as Eamonn Docherty was concerned, that was exactly as it should be.

  As the two men writhed on the floor, their hair and clothes being eaten by the flames, the witnesses stared in fascinated disgust. The smell of burning flesh was overpowering and the final twitching of the charred bodies obscene. Eamonn kept throwing on more petrol, making little explosions and flames erupt. He laughed while he did it and Tommy had to admit the man was an awesome sight.

  When the spectacle was over, he turned to the others present, including Tommy, and said quietly: ‘Let that be a lesson to you all. It is what happens when you fuck with me and mine. I will hunt you to the ends of the earth if necessary, and enjoy myself while I do it. In future, you report to me or my designated go-between. You keep your mouths shut and your ambition on hold. I’ll give you all you want and more, but I will not tolerate anyone trying to branch out on their own. Do you all get the picture?’

  Everyone nodded, even Tommy.

  An hour later he and Eamonn were on their way to their hotel; they would drive back to London the next morning. In the car Tommy said quietly, ‘I can’t believe you did that so calmly.’

  Eamonn shrugged. ‘It had to be done. There’s a lot at stake here. You have to understand that or you’re no good to us.’

  Tommy lit a cigarette, grateful to see that his hands were not shaking any more.

  ‘Fancy a bit of supper before we retire to our virtuous couches?’ Eamonn suggested.

  Tommy agreed. He didn’t want to be alone just yet. He wanted to be as drunk as a lord before he got into bed.

  ‘No steak or pork for me tonight, I don’t think. How about a Chinky?’ Eamonn went on.

  ‘Without the spare ribs?’ Tommy joked queasily.

  Eamonn grinned. ‘But of course.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cathy and Desrae were soon back on their old footing. Both ashamed of themselves, they went out of their way to be kind to one another. Desrae even told himself that he would try to like Eamonn Docherty, if that’s what it took to make his surrogate daughter happy. Since Eamonn’s visit, Cathy had bloomed. She was up and dressed and in full make-up by seven-thirty every morning, but it was three days now since she had seen the Irishman and Desrae hoped he had not forgotten her.

  As the days passed, Cathy ceased looking out of the window every ten seconds in the hope of seeing Eamonn come to her door. Now, with press attention focusing on other stories, they were talking about reopening the club for their regular customers. Cathy felt this would be the best thing for Desrae, and Desrae thought it would be the best thing for Cathy. Both of them needed to be busy for their own reasons.

  Cathy was hurt inside, deeply wounded, that she had found Eamonn again only for him to abandon her once more. She went over and over their evening together and tried to see what she could have done to make him ignore her like this.

  They had chatted, laughed and reminisced; they had talked of their childhood, their parents, and their lives since. He had kissed her as he’d left and she knew he had wanted her then. Should she have given in? After all, she had slept with Tommy when his father had died, and she didn’t love Tommy. Eamonn clearly wanted her but she had held back, even though she’d known then that he was the only man she could ever love.

  As she walked from the flat towards the club, Cathy was hailed by the Soho regulars. Her eyes were sad and her heart heavy, but she smiled and waved at everyone, stopping to talk to one of the hostesses from the Diamond Mine, a particularly rough club.

  As she joked with the girl, her mind was still on Eamonn Docherty. His deep blue eyes and thick dark hair were all she could think of; his heavy body, muscular and strong, tormented her.

  She walked into the shop fronting the club and smiled at Casper the manager. He was fifty-five with sparkling green eyes, a wrinkled face and the worst toupee anyone had ever seen. He had worn it for over twenty-five years a
nd no one could remember what he looked like without it. Even when he paid one of his hostesses for twenty minutes of her time he didn’t take it off and it was one of Soho’s longest standing jokes.

  But Casper, for all his ridiculous appearance and jokey manner, was a face in his own right, and one to be reckoned with in the West End. Everyone knew he could be very aggressive, dangerous if pushed, and consequently he was respected. If there was one person he really liked, though, it was Cathy Duke. He instantly noticed the sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, love? You look a bit under the weather. How’s Desrae? He’s coping, ain’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s taking it hard but that’s to be expected really. We’re going to get the club going again. I thought it might be good for him, give him something to do instead of moping.’

  Casper nodded solemnly. ‘Good idea. I don’t know how many people have rung about it like. You’ve lost a lot of business. There’s a new one opening in Old Compton Street, above a shop. Small-time, I reckon, mainly for the working-class poofters, but whatever, it’s all competition for you. If Joey had been alive he wouldn’t have swallowed that, eh?’

  Cathy listened in silence, her mind not really on business.

  ‘Still, I reckon young Tommy won’t swallow it either so you’d best be prepared for a bit of the old aggro soon. I hear the owner of the club is a Malteser, Victor Bagglioni. What a fucking gobful of a name that is, eh? I don’t like foreigners. Nothing personal like, they just ain’t right, are they?’

  He always made Cathy smile. Putting a hand on his arm, she said, ‘Don’t change, Casper, you’re a real tonic.’

  He reddened. He liked to make his remarks as outrageous as possible, liked to shock people, and yet he knew that Cathy Duke was one of the few people who saw through him. Realised that deep down he was lonely, unhappy with his lot, but unable to change his way of life.

  ‘There could be trouble here, Cathy,’ he warned her gently.