The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  It was strange the way these people seemed to find each other without the aid of clubs or anything normal people used to socialise.

  The woman was staring at Kitty as if she had just been given the winning lottery numbers before the draw.

  The man watched Johnny, who stared back at him impassively. He could hear Terry telling them how the two kids were going to do a scene, and how they were going to video it, and if they wanted an individual show it would cost extra, and that if they wanted the tape edited professionally that would also cost more, but it was worth it because the quality was exceptional.

  The woman was already haggling for a private hour with the girl and Johnny watched and listened, amazed at the level to which people could sink. He thought he had seen it all in his young life but this cold-blooded trade in flesh was overwhelming even for him.

  He smiled at the man gently, knowing what was expected of him and delivering it. He wanted to walk out of this room at some point and, with Terry Campbell that meant toeing the line. He hoped he could get close enough to the girl to tell her that. But the state she was in, she probably wouldn’t be able to take onboard what he was saying anyway.

  But he’d try.

  The man ruffled Johnny’s hair, running his fingers through its thickness. He looked up with his deep green eyes and the man was immediately enamoured. If Johnny could make a good impression, the man might insist on a one-to-one and if he had the money then Terry would agree to it, bringing in someone else for the other customers. His luck was out, though. The man was soon happily greeting two friends who had just shown up.

  He was a crowd man. Johnny felt his heart sink down into his boots. Still, it had been worth a try. The two men were dressed in bondage and Johnny’s heart sank even lower. The bondage gays could be vicious bastards; he knew, he’d already had a few in his time. They associated pleasure with pain. Funny how they seemed to enjoy inflicting it more than receiving it, though.

  He smiled again, because he knew that the odds of his passing on the HIV virus were growing shorter and shorter. If they made him bleed, and he had a feeling that’s exactly what they were going to do, he would give them an extra little present tonight, other than his body and his self-respect.

  Terry was pleased by the boy’s professional behaviour. Terry knew that a lot of the paedophiles felt better if the child seemed willing because then they could kid themselves that he had acquiesced and was happy with what they were doing. It reinforced their belief that children loved it all really, whatever the experts might say.

  Everyone had a drink, even Johnny. He gulped down the vodka thirstily, hoping to get drunk as well as drugged out of his head. He saw Terry forcing vodka down the girl’s throat, too. He could hear her choking. Everyone laughed, it was comical to them. Terry carried on pouring the neat spirit into her, and the girl drank quite a lot before passing out.

  Johnny was pleased for her; hoped she didn’t wake up until it was all over.

  The woman, who turned out to be an estate agent - Johnny knew this because she was discussing the sale of a property in Willesden that could be used the next week - then asked Terry again how much for some time on her own with the girl.

  He looked at her and considered the matter. ‘I’ll give you an hour, you give me the loan of the Willesden house next week for nix. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?’

  The woman laughed. Her teeth were stained yellow from smoking and her make-up was so thick it cracked and flaked off in little pieces. Terry then proceeded to usher the men and the boy through to the adjoining room.

  Johnny had expected something like this. The other room was equipped with a bed and a stock of drinks. As they moved through, Terry’s minder delivered two more party-goers to him.

  These were City gent types, suited and booted and carrying briefcases. Unlike the others, they were quiet. Accepting a drink, they stood together and Johnny guessed they were lovers who indulged in the exotic every now and then, when they could afford it. He kept his gaze on the door, hoping the girl was OK. He certainly wouldn’t have fancied being left alone with the big dyke.

  The two leather-clad men approached him. One caressed his hair while the other stroked his genitals through his trousers.

  ‘Take your clothes off, son, we want to see what we’re getting.’

  Terry nodded at him and Johnny started to undress slowly. The men all watched in anticipation. Johnny closed his eyes and went on to auto pilot. He heard a groan from the other room and glanced towards the doorway, hoping the girl was all right.

  He prayed they would both be all right.

  Kitty could see the woman through her drunkenness. It was very hard to focus for more than a few seconds, though. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that something bad had happened, but could not remember for the life of her what it was.

  Opening her eyes once more, she saw a woman leaning over her. Her face wore a garish mixture of bright make-up and she stank of perfume.

  When Kitty realised the woman was kissing her breasts, she felt such distress that she vomited, vodka flying all over the woman’s hair and shoulders. Kitty felt an urge to laugh and scream all at the same time. She couldn’t do either, however, because she was finding it difficult to breathe. The vomit had come through her throat and nose, and tied as she was on her back, she was fighting for breath.

  The woman was now sitting upright, face contorted with rage. She slapped Kitty hard across the face.

  The girl could feel herself passing out and her last thought was of her mother. As she sank into the welcoming blackness, she wondered if Cathy was looking for her; if she knew that she had been taken from school.

  The woman tried to clean herself up. She heard a commotion in the other room and opened the door a crack. There was pandemonium out there. People were all over the place: uniform, plainclothes, and in her terror she was amazed to see at least two transvestites. She assumed they had come for the party.

  Shutting the door, she surveyed the room. She opened the curtains and tried to force open the window. It was nailed shut. But then it would be, wouldn’t it? There had been instances where the kids had jumped out, and the party had had to be abandoned.

  Her eyes darted around the room in terror. If she was found in here alone with the girl who was making weird wheezing sounds now, she was well and truly fucked. Not only her job, but her standing in the community, in her local church and with her neighbours, would be put in jeopardy.

  Picking up a piece of wood from the large fireplace, she decided she’d try and smash the window open. As she picked up the weapon the door was opened and she was confronted by the boy Johnny. He was shouting at the top of his voice: ‘There’s a girl in here! Come and help her, she’s choking.’

  He was kneeling on the bed now, trying to untie the girl’s hands. As the woman stood there, a tiny blonde came into the room and she knew immediately that this was the girl’s mother. Only a mother could have that ferocious look in her eyes, only a mother could have hatred all over her face as she looked at her.

  The boy was pulling the girl to a sitting position, and then the tiny blonde was wiping the girl’s face, cleaning out her mouth and nose. Suddenly the girl coughed and took a few deep breaths. It occurred to the woman then that the girl had nearly died, had nearly suffocated in her own vomit.

  As she watched, fascinated, the tiny woman handed the girl over to the boy then she got off the bed and walked across the room. She was so tiny, like a little doll.

  The lesbian was tall, five ten, big-boned, wide-cheeked. She looked every bit like one of her Slav ancestors. She had the heavy hips and brick thighs of a working woman.

  She was strong.

  But not strong enough for this tiny woman in the throes of a violent rage. As the girl’s mother attacked her, she was forced practically head first through the window from which she had been trying to escape.

  Then it was all over. A large man with a bald head and a rounded belly was pulling her off
, laughing as he did so. ‘Come on, Cathy, let the police take over now. We’ve got Kitty, she’s fine. Come on, love, let go.’ He was trying to pry Cathy’s fingers from the woman’s hair.

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? If you go to prison I’ll get you there, I’ll get you wherever you go, lady. You’re mine, your arse is mine!’ Cathy’s voice was a chilling whisper that was loud in the empty room. ‘You touched my baby - you touched my little girl. I’ll rip your heart out and sing like Julie Andrews while I do it. Remember that, lady.’

  Estelle Parkinson was just finding out what it felt like to be on the receiving end of pure aggression.

  Richard looked at the little tableau then stared hard at Estelle. ‘You’ll have a shiner there girl, and your hair’s falling out in clumps. But that’s fuck all to what you’ll get in prison. I hope it was worth it all, love, I really do, because life as you knew it is over for you now.’

  Estelle Parkinson stared at the man before her; she could feel his hatred of her as she knew he wanted her to. She dropped her eyes first. As she was escorted from the room, a large transvestite punched her in the back of the head, sending her and her captor reeling across the floor.

  Everyone laughed. It was partly relief and partly embarrassment. For many of the officers there it was a first encounter with this side of the sex trade, and they all hoped it would be their last.

  Desrae walked into the bedroom, dreading what he might find, but one look at Cathy and he knew that whatever happened, Kitty was safe now. He looked at the young boy, Johnny, at his lovely hair and gorgeous eyes, and saw himself all those years ago. Only he had been lucky enough to find Joey. Who did this boy have? Putting his arm around the boy, Desrae cuddled him close.

  ‘There, there, son. You’re safe now. The cavalry arrived just in time and the nice policemen are going to take all the nasty people away. What a bleeding touch, eh?’ He smiled at the boy who finally began to cry.

  Desrae comforted him, knowing that after tonight, this boy would become a fixture in his life. Not for any sexual motive, but because he had been in the right place at the right time.

  Desrae loved taking care of people and now he had another lame duck to look after. Life had its compensations - but God found a strange way of delivering them sometimes.

  Kitty’s stomach had been pumped out and she had been examined by the best doctors available.

  She was intact, untouched.

  Cathy thanked God and sat beside her daughter’s bed, holding her hand as she slept off the drugs and the shock. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t remember much of what had gone on. If she did, then they’d make sure she got the best counselling that money could buy.

  Richard sat beside her, one heavy hand on Cathy’s knee. They sat there in silence together, like the parents of a much loved child, united in their adoration of the girl before them.

  ‘She’ll be all right, Cathy, I promise you.’

  Cathy glanced at him and smiled wanly. ‘I can’t believe people could actually do that. Yet I should know they do, I should know better than anyone.’

  Richard sighed and pulled her into his arms, gently stroking her back. ‘Go on, have a good cry, let it all out. You’ve had a big shock, Cathy. Your child was taken and nearly raped, you’re entitled to have a good weep.’

  She tried to smile through her tears. ‘What would I do without you, Richard?’ Her voice was low, tired-sounding. ‘You’ve always been there for me from day one. From the first moment I met you, I knew I could trust you - even though you were the scariest individual I’d ever laid eyes on. I sensed something in you: the kindness, the caring. I said that to Desrae once and he roared.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Unlike you he doesn’t see the real me. I rarely let anyone see it.’

  Cathy looked into his eyes. ‘I know that better than anyone. Everyone thinks you’re a vicious thug who masquerades as a policeman, and really you’re a lovely man.’

  He grinned. His teeth had always been one of his best points and he knew that. ‘I’m a lovely man, am I? Well, don’t let on about it. I don’t want me street cred ballsed up at this late stage.’

  Desrae came into the room then so Cathy couldn’t answer. He took in the scene before him and sighed heavily.

  ‘You two look like love’s young bleeding dream sitting there, wrapped around each other. Makes me feel quite jealous.’ He looked at Kitty and shook his head in distress. ‘The poor lamb! Look, Cathy, no disrespect, love, but you look bleeding terrible. Get your arse off home. They’ve said she’ll sleep till the morning, and I think you need a stiff drink and a hot bath . . .’

  Cathy was shaking her head when Richard pulled her from her seat.

  ‘He’s right. Come on, love. I’ll take you home. Get a couple hours’ sleep and then I’ll run you back here before I go into work, OK? I’ve left everything in the capable hands of my assistant. He’s about as much use as an ashtray on a motorboat, but he knows the score. He’ll book them then I’ll deliver them to the CPS. So I’ve got a bit of time.’

  Desrae pushed them towards the door. ‘Tomorrow they’ll be questioning Kitty. She’ll need you with her, and you’ll need your wits about you. Get a few hours’ sleep and freshen up, for Gawd’s sakes.’

  Cathy saw the logic of this and did what her old friend had suggested.

  With one last glance at her daughter she walked from the room. They were back at her flat in twenty minutes, and Richard ran her a hot bath while she made them both coffee. As she sank into the steaming fragrant water, he walked in bringing her a brandy and a cigarette.

  She smiled her thanks. ‘You spoil me, Richard.’

  ‘You’re worth spoiling, though I regret putting in the bubble bath. I’ve done meself out of a quick look at your womanly tackle.’

  Cathy laughed, a heavy tired sound. ‘I’m so relieved she’s OK, Richard. I was so frightened . . . terrified of what might have happened to her.’

  He stopped that line of thought. ‘Well, she’s fine. We got there in time and she’ll get over it, darling, we’ll all see to that.’

  She took a gulp of brandy, enjoying the burning sensation.

  ‘You were like a bleeding wild cat! That Parkinson woman’s face . . . I hope I’m never on the receiving end of your anger, girl.’

  Cathy blushed. ‘I wanted to kill her. Honestly, Richard, I could quite easily have shot her if I’d had a gun.’

  ‘Now you know why they don’t want guns sold over the counter here. In the States firearms are easily available and no one really knows what they’re capable of in anger. The sad thing is, once you’re calmer you regret it. Even though that woman was a nutter, if you’d topped her you’d have had it on your conscience.’

  Cathy thought about what he’d said then answered him. ‘I don’t know so much. What she was going to do with my child was obscene, disgusting. Maybe I would have been sorry, I don’t know. All I do know for sure is, if I’d had a gun then, I’d have blown her away.’

  Richard stared down at her. She looked so beautiful, her hair pinned up in a French pleat and her face devoid of make-up. She was all blue eyes and pink lips.

  He loved her.

  He loved her so much that at times it was like a physical pain. Sometimes he fantasised about being married to her, imagined that she loved him as much as he loved her. That they had a child together, that they lived together as man and wife, and loved together as man and wife. The bubbles were obscuring her, but he sneaked a look at one pale pink nipple and felt the beginnings of an erection. Standing up abruptly, he went from the bathroom and sat in the lounge drinking his brandy.

  She came in a while later, wrapped in a large white towel, her skin rosy from the hot water, smelling of sandalwood and toothpaste. ‘That does feel better.’ She curled up beside him on the sofa, and as he saw her settling herself comfortably he felt an urge to take her, whether she wanted him or not.

  But he didn’t. It was like everything as far
as she was concerned: he kept it in his mind, never allowing it to spill over into his meetings with her.

  He knew she loved him as a friend and contented himself with that.

  She slipped a hand into his. ‘Thank you again, Richard. I seem to spend my life thanking you for one thing or another, don’t I?’

  Her touch acted on him like an electric shock. ‘You’re welcome. Let me get you another drink.’

  He poured another large brandy and she downed it practically in one gulp.

  ‘I feel squiffy, but very relaxed.’ She stifled a yawn. Moving round in the seat she lay against him, allowing him to put an arm around her. She snuggled against him and murmured, ‘You make me feel so safe. I’ve never felt like that before, not with anyone.’

  ‘It’s because I’m a policeman, and you know what they say about us, don’t you? Defenders of the populace, and all that crap.’

  Cathy giggled. ‘You know what I mean. After the night we’ve had, I should never feel safe again. I nearly lost my child, the only thing in this life I really care about. But now, snuggled up here with you, I can finally relax. I can always be myself with you, don’t have to pretend to be anything I’m not. You know the real me, the real Cathy Connor. I’ll always be Cathy Connor inside, always. Little Cathy Connor who you helped, who you looked out for.’

  She took another sip of brandy. ‘Don’t you wish you were married, had a family?’

  He squeezed her to him and said jokingly: ‘I have Kitty, I have you and Susan P. I’ve even got fucking Desrae, so help me! What would I want with a wife, eh? I’d be bored out of me brains.’

  ‘I’m so glad I had Kitty,’ Cathy said thoughtfully. ‘I wish I had another child, I wish I’d had loads of them. I wish I could have been a normal person. You know what I mean: met a boy, got married, had kids, had a mortgage, gone to a little part-time job for me pin money. I’d have loved all that. Cooking dinners, washing and ironing, scrubbing floors . . .’