The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  Richard lit a cigarette. Blowing the smoke towards the ceiling, he asked, ‘Did he have any other friends he might have gone to?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, and that’s the truth. The boy was small-boned, very feminine-looking, you know what I’m saying? One look at him and you knew he was a pillow pusher. Even his voice sounded like a bad recording of Judy Garland. He took a lot of flak because of that, kept himself to himself. He’d already had a few beatings, see. Other than working in the shop and being with me, he didn’t really have another life. I took care of him, made sure he was OK.’ His voice broke and he coughed to hide his distress.

  Richard rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ‘So there was no one else?’ he persisted insensitively. ‘A lot of the boys had their daddies, men like yourself, but they also have a lover on the quiet. You’re sure there was no one else?’

  Brian thought for a few seconds before answering.

  ‘That boy was a loner, man, and in all honesty I don’t have no truck with boys who have secret lives. That’s how you get AIDS, man, you hear what I’m saying? He wasn’t promiscuous, I know that, I’d lay my last penny on it. He had me and I was enough for what he wanted.’

  ‘Did he leave anything behind at all?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘It’s like he never existed. Not even a pair of pants in the laundry basket. I checked.’

  Richard stubbed out his cigarette. Then: ‘Do you know of a man called Terry Campbell?’

  Brian nodded. ‘Heard of him certainly, but I don’t know him. I like the exotic, man, I admit that, but what Campbell offers ain’t my cup of tea.’ He paused for a second and then said seriously, ‘You telling me that Peter was involved with him?’

  Richard saw fear and repugnance in the man’s eyes and shook his head. ‘Not directly, no, but the man he worked with might have been. Casper, his co-worker, topped himself.’

  Brian’s eyes widened, showing yellowing whites. ‘Is that a fact? Nice old man too. Always polite when I went into the shop. He put the hit on Peter, you know. Peter told him no. Casper wanted him to do a bit of video work, but the boy was shy, man, really shy. That wasn’t his trip at all. He was effeminate but not a performer, you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Well, thanks for your help, we appreciate it,’ Gates said. ‘If Peter gets in touch, you make sure you let us know, OK?’

  Brian nodded. ‘Gonna miss that boy, he was good company in his own way. Never argued, never caused no upset. Just a nice boy, you know what I’m saying?’

  Cathy touched the man’s arm and said gently, ‘You’re right there, he was a very nice young man.’

  Brian stood up to leave, then turning towards Gates said seriously: ‘He ain’t gonna get himself hurt, is he? I mean, if that Campbell is involved then something dirty is going down. I have a few faces in Brixton and Tulse Hill if you need a bit of extra muscle, know what I’m saying?’

  ‘I know what you’re saying and I’ll bear it in mind,’ Gates told him.

  ‘That boy wouldn’t leave me without a word unless he was in big trouble, and he wouldn’t rob me, man, because he knew he didn’t have to. I would have given him the money if he’d asked. And I certainly never kept anyone in my home longer than they wanted to be there, you understand me?’

  ‘We’ll find him, don’t worry,’ Richard promised.

  Brian nodded. ‘I sure hope so. I hate to think of him running scared, and if Campbell is involved then he really has something to be scared of, doesn’t he?’ As he walked to the door he added an afterthought: ‘I don’t know if this will help, but I heard through the grapevine that Campbell has a flat in Norwood. I remember someone saying something about it a while ago. He bought it for his sister. You know she’s black, not light-skinned like him?’

  Cathy shook her head.

  ‘Yeah, black as night, man. I heard another rumour too: that his sis has two children, and some people say they’re Campbell’s.’ He grimaced. ‘And they call me and mine weird, man! But I never wanted no one I was related to, you know what I’m saying?’

  Cathy showed the man to the door. When she walked back into the lounge, Richard commented: ‘If he’d said “you know what I’m saying” once more, I think I would have done him a permanent damage.’

  ‘It’s just his way. I liked him. He’s obviously worried about Peter and so am I. Do you think the boy knows anything?’

  ‘He either knows something or suspects something. Until we locate him, we can’t speculate. I’m interested in this stuff about Campbell’s sister. I heard the rumours years ago. Campbell is light-skinned, looks Mediterranean, but his father was black. The sister is stunning, apparently, and he’s always been that bit too close to her. The parents were divorced. His father was an old-time bouncer: big, black and mean. His mother’s only a little woman, but a real hard bitch. I remember having dealings with her years ago when Terry was first spreading his wings. Started out pimping for his cousin and gradually progressed to the big time. His real name is Trevale, he prefers Terry, for business purposes anyway. He’s a Jamaican white man and thrives on it. Straddles two cultures and uses them both to his advantage. I think his mum needs a visit, as does Peter’s sister. I’ll get on to it now. Want to come with me?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘This is all really weird, isn’t it? I mean, we don’t actually know if anything’s wrong, do we? It’s all supposition.’

  Richard gave one of his rare unforced smiles, and Cathy was reminded of how good-looking he could be when he wasn’t acting his usual hard-faced self.

  ‘Look, Cathy, where Campbell is concerned nothing is ever cut and dried. He’s everyone’s worst nightmare. He’s scum, but he’s clever scum. The lives he’s ruined can’t even be counted. I remember the first time I came across his handiwork. It was a young boy working the Cross. We’d brought him in for soliciting. The poor little fucker had tried to pull an off-duty Vice copper. Anyway, the long and the short of it was he was scarred up like you’ve never seen. I mean, this kid had been tortured in the name of fun. With cigarettes and knives and all sorts. If I told you it all you’d throw up, Cathy. I know I nearly did. I felt sorry for him, he was completely destroyed.

  ‘Well, it was all Campbell’s doing, and a while later we raided a bloke’s house in Cheam, of all fucking places, and saw the boy being mutilated on a video. I have never wanted to harm anyone as much as I did that day! We’ve been after Campbell a few times but he always slides off the hook. Now, though, I intend to get the fucker, get him once and for all.’

  Richard looked so upset Cathy had an urge to go to him and comfort him. The thought nearly made her smile because he was a big strong man who looked after everyone else. Instead she said softly, ‘You’re a nice man, Richard Gates, you know that, don’t you?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Well, let’s keep that between ourselves, shall we?’

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  ‘You do that, it looks like it might rain.’

  He helped her on with it, enjoying the feel of her close to him. Enjoying having a legitimate reason to touch her.

  Together they left her flat and made their way to the Railton Road and Trevale’s mother’s house.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Terry Campbell looked at the boy beside him and smiled. The boy didn’t smile back. He was staring at Terry’s mobile phone, and trying to figure out a way to get his hands on it. He had no idea where he was, or what was going to happen to him. All he could remember was having a drink with this man, and then waking up here.

  Johnny Cartwright was nearly eighteen, though he looked much younger than that. He wore his hair long and flowing, his eyes were a deep green and his teeth were white and even.

  He knew he was good-looking. He had been making a living on the streets of London for over two years and in that time had heard a lot about Terry Campbell. When Campbell had approached him the night before, Johnny had decided to take the proffered drink and then scoot at the first opportunity. He’d he
ard whispers about what happened to the boys Campbell took up with.

  But at the same time, he was not a man you insulted. You just avoided him as best you could.

  Now Terry walked to the corner of the room and opened a small fridge. Inside there was beer and wine and also bottled milk shakes. He took out a strawberry one and handed it to the boy. Then he went to the window and stared out of it.

  The boy stayed where he was on the bed. His head was thumping, and he knew it must be due to some kind of drugs. He had the heavy lethargy only they left you with. He took a guess at Mogadon but could have been wrong.

  Terry turned to him briefly and said, ‘There’s glue in the cupboard if that’s your poison. Otherwise I have a few sweeties you might want. You’re the entertainment for a few of my friends tonight, and if you do a good job and don’t panic, there’s a two-hundred quid bonus for you, right? But if you start a load of upset then you get nothing but a good hiding, understand me?’

  Johnny sipped at the cold milk shake, its sweetness soothing to his dry throat. He saw the camera equipment around the room, and the large-screen TV, and his heart sank. On a table by the bed were handcuffs and other sexual paraphernalia.

  Finishing his milk shake, he felt the bile rise inside him and feared he was going to vomit. It was partly the milk on his empty stomach but mainly fear. He knew he was in for a nightmare experience. He had heard about these parties and knew that boys who had attended them had sometimes never been seen again.

  Then he smiled grimly to himself. He was HIV. Well, maybe he’d pay back a few debts later this evening - though one of the older boys had said that many of the men who hired them and their like were HIV themselves. Johnny lay back on the bed, his head whirling.

  What did it matter anyway? Who gave a toss about him? He’d take what drugs were on offer and try to get the night over with.

  ‘How many men are coming?’

  The boy’s voice was low and Terry didn’t look at him as he said nonchalantly, ‘About eight, maybe more.’ Johnny felt his heart racing once again and closed his eyes in distress. He heard Campbell laugh. ‘Don’t worry, there’s a girl being delivered here later. Between you, you should be all right. She’s fifteen but a virgin by all accounts. She’ll take most of the flak, I should imagine. Relax and enjoy it. Think of the money and what you can do with it.’

  The boy nodded. His face was a sickly green colour and his mouth was slack. ‘What sweeties have you got?’

  ‘That’s the spirit, son,’ he said approvingly. ‘Think of this as a little business venture and you’ll be as right as ninepence. It’s only ever trouble if you make it trouble, do you get my drift?’

  The boy knew he was being threatened and kept silent. All he had to do was get tonight over with.

  Myra Campbell was small, only four foot nine, and slim, with tiny childlike breasts and a handspan waist. Her bleached blonde hair was cut very short, and her eyes were still made up in the panda style she had adopted in the late-sixties. For her age she was an attractive woman.

  But her childlike demeanour hid a devious personality that was at times frightening in its singlemindedness.

  She lived for her son Trevale, her eldest child. No one could ever say anything bad about him; no one could ever convince her he was evil. To Myra he was her life. She adored him, and he adored her. That was how it had always been.

  When she placed a cup of coffee in front of Cathy, the two women eyed each other up. They instantly disliked one another. Cathy saw through the dainty little woman like a pane of glass, and that alone would make Myra her enemy. She had spent her whole life deluding people and the few who saw through her she hated with an intensity that was frightening. In fact, Myra Campbell made Cathy’s skin crawl.

  The feeling was mutual. Myra hated Cathy’s holier-than-thou expression, but most of all she hated her for the way she looked.

  Richard Gates watched the exchange in fascination. Myra went to the kitchen to fetch her own drink, and Cathy met his eyes and made a face.

  The house was beautiful though over-clean. You could sense that this room was rarely used; only on high days and holidays. The carpet was expensive; everything in the room was expensive. From the Edwardian loveseat to the antique vases on the mantel it was a lovely, tasteful place. One to be savoured and enjoyed. A room to read in, to relax in.

  But it felt drained of life, of enjoyment, of hope. The atmosphere was stifling and Cathy could not wait to leave.

  Myra came back into the room and sat on the edge of her chair. She eyed her two visitors warily. ‘So what’s all this in aid of then? My boy, I suppose.’ She pursed her lips, and both Cathy and Richard knew she was not expecting an answer. ‘I don’t know why you lot keep picking on him. He does some bloody good things for people but you don’t shout abo—’

  Richard interrupted her. ‘Up for the Nobel peace prize, is he? Him and Mother Teresa, for taking in all the waifs and strays from the Cross and giving them a living? Is that what you’re referring to?’

  Myra snorted, and her voice was low and bitter as she said, ‘Fuck you, Richard Gates, and all your sort. My baby is a good boy, a kind boy, and nothing you make up will ever convince me otherwise.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve changed your tune! Years ago he was just a high-spirited lad and everyone was making him do things he didn’t want to do. You’ve developed plenty of trap since then and all!’

  Myra stood up, thin body bristling with indignation as she paced the room, drawing deeply on a cigarette. ‘He’s my baby and I ain’t going to let anyone bad mouth him to me. Do you dig what I’m saying, Mr Gates?’

  Cathy put her coffee cup on a low table and said, ‘No one’s accusing your son of anything yet. We just need to talk to him, that’s all, ask him a few questions. Is he at his sister’s? What’s his address?’

  Myra stared at the younger woman before her and smiled, a cold smile that didn’t touch her heavily made-up eyes. ‘Do I look that fucking stupid, love? I ain’t got no address for my boy, and if I did have I wouldn’t give it to you under torture. As for my daughter, I have nothing to do with her at all. She’s a whore.’

  She spat out the words like bullets and Richard jeered: ‘Is that because she’s doing what you’ve always wanted to do, eh? Fucking your son?’ He was deliberately goading her.

  Myra’s face paled. Talking between her teeth, she said heavily, ‘Get out of my home. Get out now, both of you. I invited you in, and now I want you to leave.’

  Cathy stood up. The two women were both small-boned, both delicate, both very angry.

  ‘Your son is responsible for the ruin of many young lives, Mrs Campbell, doesn’t that bother you at all?’

  Richard watched them, his face impassive.

  ‘He ain’t never ruined no one, lady, you got it all wrong as usual. Like everyone always gets it wrong where my boy’s concerned. It’s all hearsay and talkology. His solicitor will explain that to you, as he’s explained it to the police many times. No one has ever said a bad word against my boy except the filth, and let’s face it, they ain’t exactly whiter than white these days, are they?’

  Cathy was getting even angrier. ‘Your son is scum, and after meeting you I can understand why. Look at you, in your ivory tower, knowing your adored little baby is taking children from the streets and using them, ruining their chance in life and disposing of them afterwards like rubbish. All this stuff in here,’ she swept an arm around the room, ‘was paid for by other people’s degradation and shame. He caters for the lowest of the low and he’s in good company because he was taught everything he knows by you, wasn’t he?’

  Myra raised her hand to slap Cathy’s face. Cathy’s hand with its long pale pink nails grabbed at the woman’s wrist and, twisting it, she put Myra on her knees. As she heard the woman cry out in pain, Cathy laughed.

  ‘Don’t even think about striking me, lady, because I’d rip your hair out by the roots and ram it down your throat! Remember that, won’t you? I won’
t rest until your boy’s banged up or off the streets permanently. You tell him that from me, Cathy Pasquale.’

  Richard was staring at her as if she had just grown horns and a beard in front of his eyes.

  Cathy shoved Myra away from her and walked from the room. Richard followed her. Neither of them spoke until they were sitting in his Cosworth outside Myra’s three-storey house. Cathy was still shaking with fury, her face white and mouth set in a grim line.

  Richard lit a cigarette and passed it to her. Taking it, she swallowed back tears.

  ‘I could have come across someone like him, couldn’t I, when I was a girl? Instead I met you and Desrae and Joey. I’ve just realised all over again how lucky I was.’

  She faced him, eyes filled with pain and confusion. ‘What makes these people like they are, Richard? I hear all this shit about abusers being abused themselves, but I’ve never wanted to abuse anyone, ever. And I was abused all my life, throughout my childhood. My real life began when I killed Ron. I still remember that night, remember what I did to him, and yet, if I hadn’t I would never have had the good life I enjoy now. The material things I have now, I should say. Maybe that’s my punishment eh? Instead of prison I got money, wealth even, but I was never, ever able to get peace of mind.’

  Richard put a strong arm around her and pulled her to him, holding her tightly. As she breathed in the scent of him she felt safe and secure once more. She always had done with him, right from the night he had sat beside her in the police cell and wrapped her in an old blanket.

  Richard hugged her to him as if his life depended on it. He kissed her gently, smelling the peach shampoo and hint of musky perfume she always wore. He wished she’d cry, because he knew that if anyone needed to cry it was the woman in his arms.

  Instead she pulled away from him and, smiling sadly, said: ‘Campbell’s sister, I think, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, so we’re seeing Terry’s sister first, are we, and not young Peter’s?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘I think somehow she’ll have more to tell us than his mummy.’