The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  She stood up. ‘I’d like to go and book into a hotel, if you don’t mind.’ She was so cold, so distant, he felt she was a stranger. That he had never really known her.

  ‘I have an apartment you can use while you’re here,’ he suggested. ‘A hotel is no place on your own.’

  She nodded. ‘Whatever. So long as you don’t think you can come and go as you please.’

  He bit his lip to prevent a retort. ‘I’ll take you now. Would you like to speak to the doctor before you go?’

  ‘What for? You’ve told me all I need to know.’

  Cathy sat in Eamonn’s apartment and stared at the city of Manhattan, lit up with coloured lights and stars. It was a beautiful, breathtaking sight and she enjoyed looking at it. Somehow it brought her peace.

  Eamonn had filled the fridge with food, and there was a full bar with anything a person could desire. She had poured herself a generous measure of Napoleon brandy which she sipped as she sat in the dark and looked out over the city.

  One entire wall of the apartment was made of glass and it was so stunning she forgot her worries for a while as she looked at the view. It was a huge apartment and despite herself she’d been impressed. This annoyed her, because she knew it was what Eamonn had intended.

  He wanted her to know how well he was doing, how much money he had. She settled back in her seat, still staring out at the view but seeing only Eamonn now.

  Every time she looked at her daughter she saw him. He was Kitty’s father though Tommy had never once cottoned on. All those years and Cathy had not conceived again. At times she had wanted another child so much it had made her ache inside. It would have been something to offer her husband. They had come together as man and wife many times but Tommy had always known that she didn’t really want sex with him. Didn’t want the contact.

  Afterwards, they would lie together in silence, both feeling that something dreadfully wrong had happened, which of course it had. They had taken something beautiful, something wonderful, and destroyed each other with it. He had given her his love, and she had thrown it back in his face.

  Cathy swallowed down tears and poured herself more brandy. She needed to anaesthetise herself tonight, because if she didn’t she would ring Eamonn and ask him to come to her in her loneliness. For all her fighting talk, she would still go to bed with him because she wanted him, God help her, she had always wanted him. He was like a part of her, like her second self.

  She had loved him all her life and couldn’t stop herself now. But she must never let him know that because then he would take advantage of her. He wouldn’t be able to help himself: it was how he was made.

  Eamonn was in a sports bar off Madison Square Gardens, eating a rib-eye steak and deep in conversation with a large man called Igor Travenovich. Igor was a Chechen who had fled to America five years before and was now the head of a Russian family similar to the Mahoneys.

  The two men got on well. They were both hard-nosed and business-minded before anything else. Their similarities made them good friends. Both egoists, they couldn’t help but like what they saw in each other.

  ‘You understand the stuff must reach London before seven days? I hear the carrier is ill. Has had many troubles,’ Igor told Eamonn.

  ‘It’s sorted, everything will run to schedule, I promise.’

  Igor nodded. ‘You understand I must make sure that everything is fine, yes?’

  Eamonn laughed through a mouthful of steak. ‘I would do the same, mate. So don’t worry. No offence meant and definitely none taken.’

  Igor nodded. He had the bearing of a military man, the squared shoulders and steady-eyed look.

  Eamonn knew that the Russians and the Chechens and all the other breakaway states were going to mean trouble at some point. In New York there was such a variety of criminals it made you dizzy to contemplate their number. Eamonn had dealt with many different nationalities over the years, from Cubans to Jamaicans, South Americans to Chinese.

  Each had their own speciality, and each their own way of doing things. Eamonn, never averse to learning new tricks or taking on new business, had enjoyed his forays into their worlds. The Mafia and the Irish were now dealing with people who resembled themselves fifty years before - new races who came to the US with the express intention of making money.

  Eamonn could identify with that, because he had felt the same way. America was a cultural melting pot and he knew that England these days was not far behind. With England, though, the size of the country curtailed much of the criminal activity. America was so vast, there was more than enough room for everyone. Now that the Irish and the Italians were practically legal, the new rich - the Russians and all the Eastern Europeans - were coming in and making New York their own with their violence and black market money.

  ‘I hear the London man has had a very bad time of it,’ Igor commented.

  Eamonn smiled, showing his expensive teeth. He always vowed that one of his sons would become a dentist. It was one of his jokes that in America it was a sure road to riches without ever needing to use a gun.

  He wasn’t joking now. ‘Look, Igor, as long as I deliver my end of the bargain, I don’t see why you should stoop so low as to listen to gossip. The man has problems. We all have problems at some time. It’s in hand, it’s sorted. Your merchandise will arrive on time. Let me worry about Tommy and drop this conversation - now.’

  Igor fell silent, eating his ribs and shrimp. Eamonn clicked his fingers for the bill, even though they had not finished their meal, and ten minutes later they left the restaurant.

  Igor shook hands before getting into a yellow cab. Eamonn walked past the Gardens, watching the comings and goings of the people for the game.

  He felt deflated. Igor had dared to query the way he was handling Tommy. It showed the consensus was the Irish were losing ground. He had noticed some alarming new developments over the last few years. The Russians were now banking everywhere; they were the new Mafia. They were jumping into bed with everyone, and then jumping out again after administering a right royal fucking.

  Tommy’s mistake was known to them now and that wasn’t good at all. Tommy Pasquale had become a liability. It was Eamonn’s job to take him out. But in his heart he knew there was another reason why Tommy had to die.

  Eamonn wanted for himself what Tommy had been given but had never really possessed: Cathy.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Cathy had fallen asleep on the sofa. Even though she was in a strange city, and on a strange mission, her sleep was untroubled. She lay there, her face at peace, her breathing regular and shallow. Her sleep was deep enough for her to avoid dreams.

  Eamonn stared down at her: at her soft skin, her long eyelashes, visible in the breaking dawn, and her breasts, spilling from her robe. He felt himself hardening. Never had he wanted a woman more. Never had he gazed upon anyone with such longing.

  Her arms were above her head, the pose childlike. It was how she had slept as a little girl, with him beside her in the bed, his cold feet always on her back.

  The thought made him smile.

  He knew that he should not have let himself in, even if he did own the apartment. She was entitled to her privacy, entitled to be alone and to use the place as her home. But he had sneaked in just to look at her, just to see her in repose.

  He stared at her body hungrily. He could just see her pubic hair through the thin material of her negligee. It was still thick, blonde and luxuriant.

  He put his hand up to his face, covering his mouth. He suddenly felt a great urge to cry. To weep over their wasted lives.

  ‘Make the most of it, Eamonn, this is the nearest you’ll ever get to me.’

  Her voice was low, husky, and it made him start. Looking at his face, Cathy smiled lazily. Then, sitting up, she readjusted her clothing. As she covered her breasts he felt a great sadness, a sense of loss inside him. For him she represented safety and love; had done since they were children. It was this that attracted him to her still.
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  He sat beside her and said brokenly, ‘I just wanted to look at you, that’s all. Just look at you like I used to when we were children.’

  She heard the plea in his voice and knew that it was answered inside her; she wanted what he wanted. She wanted to pull him on to her, wanted to take his hand and place it on her breasts. She wanted him to ride her hard, to use her roughly. She had dreamed of it often enough over the years.

  Instead she sighed gently.

  ‘We’re not children any more, you know, we’re all grown up and we’ve both made complete shite of our lives. I have my club - it’s one of the best known places in London now, the La Cage of Soho. It’s a tourist place, a good night out. And I have Kitty. If I didn’t have her, I don’t know what I would have done over the years.’

  She was silent then, filled with thoughts of her daughter. Eamonn watched her profile. She had not changed since a girl. She was the one person he had ever really loved, he knew that now, unequivocally.

  ‘I love you, Cathy. Always did, always will.’

  She turned to face him, her eyes pained. ‘That’s not fair, Eamonn, and you know it.’ Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. He knew then that she still loved him; deep inside she had never stopped loving him.

  People like Cathy loved one hundred per cent. They were loyal to their lovers, wanting only them. She would forgive her lover anything. The bond forged as children was still strong and he sensed that she would let him take her now with no more protests.

  He pulled her to him then, opening her mouth with his own, forcing her lips apart with his tongue. He tasted of cigarettes and Grappa, smelt of smoke and Paco Rabanne, always his aftershave.

  She felt the touch of him as if it was burning through her clothes, felt the heat spread over her body, into her breasts and between her legs.

  She was pulling his clothes from him, ripping at his shirt, the buttons flying everywhere, dragging at his body. Forcing him down between her legs, making him eat her, taste her. Arching her back to meet him as he gently kneaded her breasts and feasted on her.

  As she felt the beginnings of her orgasm, she held his face to her body, wanting to drown him in her juices. He was hard, ready for her, and as he rose above her she watched him enter her, his thickness making her want him more. Never had she felt like this before, never in her life had she wanted anyone more.

  It was a revelation to her, that these feelings had been inside her for so long, suppressed, unused.

  She met him thrust for thrust, and as she felt him tighten, felt his whole body stiffen, she climaxed again, a longer, more intense orgasm than before.

  It was over in minutes but neither of them had ever experienced anything like it.

  He held her to him, feeling all-powerful, as if he could squeeze her until he broke her bones. Their breathing was still erratic, he could feel the quick beating of her heart. Finally he knew the meaning of real love-making and it was a revelation. He knew that he would never again feel like this with anyone.

  They didn’t speak, there was nothing to say. Eventually he rose and picked her up like a doll, taking her into the bedroom. As they lay on the bed together, they both felt as if they had come home. Tommy was forgotten, Deirdra was forgotten, their children were forgotten as they enjoyed each other.

  It was a honeymoon period, a time for them alone, and they both knew they had to savour it while it lasted. Whatever happened now, they were once more an item, once more together, and neither wanted to think further than that.

  Harvey O’Connor, a third-generation Irishman, was dressed in a white coat and loafers. His good suit was covered up, around his neck he had a stethoscope and in his top pocket a collection of scissors and medical implements.

  He looked at himself in the mirror of the washroom and winked approvingly. He was nondescript, his sandy hair and brows making him blend into any crowd. As he left the washroom he smiled at two young nurses and they smiled back absentmindedly.

  In the pocket of his white coat he had a syringe already prepared and as he entered Tommy’s room he was smiling reassuringly. Tommy was still in a state of shock, still staring ahead. His breakfast was beside him, uneaten. The smell of eggs was rife in the room, and made Harvey screw up his nose in distaste.

  He took the syringe from his pocket. It contained a mixture of insulin and cyanide. No one was too concerned what he did; the death certificate had already been written out hours ago. It was just a case of taking the appropriate steps. In other words, administering the injection and leaving the hospital with the minimum of fuss.

  A nurse, a middle-aged Mexican called Juanita, would discover the body and alert the right people. As Harvey pushed the needle into Tommy’s arm, he noticed the man’s healthy muscular physique and sighed. It was a shame, but it had to be done.

  This was worth twenty thousand dollars to him, and unlike most jobs he was to talk about it to certain people.

  It was to become known that a murder had been committed.

  Whether it was the prick of the needle or the inherent urge to live which is strong in everyone, Tommy turned to face him, pulling his arm away in the process. Harvey dragged Tommy closer, forcing the needle in deeper. He plunged the poison into his system and watched in satisfaction as Tommy’s eyes glazed over and his life was quickly extinguished.

  Harvey let out a deep sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was to have to beat the man to death, or try and suffocate him.

  Positioning the body on the bed in a sleep position, he closed Tommy’s eyes and pulled the sheet up around his neck. Then, smiling gently, he picked up a piece of Tommy’s breakfast toast, scooped some scrambled egg on to it, and ate it. It was cold, but he was ravenous. He even sipped at the coffee, grimacing with contempt at its cheap taste. Hospitals were the pits where food was concerned.

  On cue, Juanita entered the room at nine-fifteen. He left then, and let the woman do her stuff. It was a job well done, and a profitable hour’s work. What the hell? He had even had breakfast thrown in.

  The call came at 10.35, as Eamonn and Cathy emerged from the shower. Eamonn took it and afterwards showed the practised sadness of a funeral director as he told Cathy the news.

  ‘Tommy had a massive coronary this morning. There was nothing that anyone could do. It was due to the drugs he had taken, and his lifestyle.’

  Cathy sat stunned, numb with shock, as she listened to him talking. While she had been making love, her husband, poor Tommy, had been dying.

  Eamonn guessed her thoughts and said gently, ‘Come on, Cathy, we weren’t to know, were we?’

  She shook her head, her distress evident. He went to her and pulled her into his arms. She tried to break away but he held her tighter.

  ‘Don’t do this, Cathy, don’t beat yourself up. You weren’t to know what was going on, none of us was.’

  She understood the logic of his words, but could not accept them yet. But she allowed him to hold her. Suddenly, she was cold, so cold. Her body felt as if it had been locked into a freezer, so chilled had she become.

  Eamonn dressed himself then, knowing he would have to take her to identify her husband’s body. As he slipped on his shoes he heard the buzzer sound. Coming out of the bathroom, he saw his wife and two youngest children standing in the hallway.

  Cathy was white-faced, grim-looking.

  Deirdra smiled at them both and said cheerily, ‘Good morning.’ She held out her hand to Cathy. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’

  Eamonn closed his eyes and felt a sinking in his heart. Cathy stared at Norah as if she had seen a ghost. He ushered his wife and children through to the lounge and said sadly, ‘This is Tommy Pasquale’s wife, Cathy. Cathy, this is my wife, Deirdra.’

  His wife stood there, all dignity and viciousness.

  ‘Tommy died this morning,’ he told her. ‘I’m just taking Cathy to the hospital to sort things out.’ He saw with satisfaction the shock on Deirdra’s face. She even put her hand to her mouth, a gesture which on any o
ther woman he would have enjoyed. As it was her pudgy hand annoyed the life out of him.

  ‘My God, I’m so sorry.’ Deirdra knew she was in the wrong, knew she was ‘out of order’, as her husband would have said. Knew that she had been barking up the wrong tree.

  ‘So what brings you here anyway?’ He pressed home his advantage. ‘I thought I mentioned I was letting the place to some friends?’

  He knew he was being unfair but to catch her like this, to have the chance to put her on the spot, was too much to resist. Cathy stared at the two antagonists and felt her heart sink. So this was Eamonn’s wife, this was the woman she had envied over the years. This plump, unhappy woman, with the beautiful hair and the clothes that did nothing for her.

  Deirdra didn’t answer her husband; Norah did. ‘Mummy said we’d come and get you, and make you come home with us.’ Her little voice was matter-of-fact, her eyes dancing.

  Eamonn knew that Cathy was aware of the situation and thanked God she wasn’t a woman to panic, to let others unnerve her.

  Cathy stared once more at the little girl and then said softly, ‘I’d better get dressed.’ She turned to Eamonn and said, ‘Thank you so much for all your help. I’ll be fine now, really. I know Tommy would have appreciated what you’ve done, he always had a high regard for you.’

  Deirdra was mortified. This woman had just lost her husband and she, Deirdra, had arrived like the avenging angel.

  ‘Please, my husband will take you to do whatever you have to,’ she said hastily. ‘I met Tommy many times at our house. He was a good man. He spoke of you and your daughter many times.’

  In her ignorance, Deirdra had hit on the one thing to make Cathy crumple. At the other woman’s words, she felt the tears come then her whole body began to shake with an ague-like shuddering. She collapsed on to the settee, her legs weak, eyes pouring tears.