The Runaway (10 page)

Cathy cracked her knuckles, a sure sign of agitation. ‘He’s an Irish and all, Mum, remember? You should do, you was trumping his father for long enough.’

Madge grinned, her usual good humour coming to the fore. ‘We are getting on our high horse today, aren’t we, dearie? Who gives a fuck anyway? If the filth come snooping I’ll back the boy up and all, you know that. I just don’t want you getting too involved, love. I know I ain’t Mother of the Year, but I do care about you in me own way.’

Cathy picked up her cup of tea and took a swig. ‘You’re a funny woman, Mum. I should hate you really. I do sometimes, but it never lasts. You always end up making me laugh. At times I feel like I’m the mum and you’re the kid.’

Madge stared into her daughter’s lovely face and smiled, a real smile that softened her rough features and made her cheeks look round and rosy, her only Irish feature.

‘You’ve not had the greatest childhood, I understand that, love. But I am as I am. As me old mum used to say: “I’ll never change all the time I’ve got a hole in me arse.” But I just want you to know that life is a complicated thing. It’s not all cut and dried.’

Now Cathy did laugh, a loud raucous sound born of nerves and genuine amusement. ‘You’re right there, Mum. How could it be, living with you?’

They laughed together and peace was restored, but for the first time ever Madge was frightened for her daughter and the feeling was strange. She realised that never before in her life had she had to look after her own child. Cathy Connor, now coming up to fourteen years of age, had always looked after her.

It was a sobering thought.

 

Eamonn Junior was watching the man before him warily. The heavy smell of camphor was hanging in the air and he felt his insides heave at the unaccustomed taint permeating his nose and even his mouth. As the man hawked deep in his throat, he pulled his head from beneath the towel and spat into a small jug by his side.

‘I feel like shit on a stick! That’s what smoking does for you, boy, and don’t ever forget it. I’ve been bringing up fucking soot and all sorts the last few months.’

Eamonn nodded, holding on to his breakfast with all his might. The steaming bowl of water slopped everywhere as the man pushed it away from him impatiently.

‘Word on the street is you topped James Carter. Is this true?’

Eamonn looked into the heavy face before him and weighed up exactly what he was going to say before nodding gently.

‘Yes, Mr Dixon.’

The man laughed. Wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief of brilliant whiteness, he said, ‘You little fucker! Bold as brass, ain’t you? Well, the offer’s still on for the job if you want it. I was amazed to hear you’re not seventeen yet, but I’ll swallow that because you’ve got size on your side, see. I like to keep a lookout for new faces, new people. It keeps everything sweet. The firm gets stronger and I get more manpower. One thing though . . .’

He leant ominously close over the table.

‘Don’t get ambitious for anything that’s mine, right? If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to drop your kecks and shit on a table, you do it, right? What I say goes. If you have trouble with discipline then let me know now. I do not suffer fools gladly.’

Eamonn nodded, pleased to be inside the world of real villainy, over the moon at the prospect of being a face, one of Dixon’s gang. A known man.

‘One last thing, boy. The filth will be on to you in the next few days. You bluff it out. The famous wall of silence is on your side now because you are under my protection. Don’t fuck me up. Be polite to the Old Bill, be amenable. Tell all the old pony and trap you like. But whatever they say, deny it.’

Dixon lit a cigarette and coughed until his heavy-jowled face was like a red ball.

‘I’m starting you off on debts, right. Do you understand the logic behind buying debts?’

Eamonn shook his head. ‘No, Mr Dixon.’

The man smiled, cigarette smoke curling around his yellow teeth and up towards his badly fitting toupee. ‘Mr Dixon, eh? I like respect. Respect is earned, boy, always remember that. You earn it with this.’

He tensed one huge arm and shook his fist. ‘No fucker in their right mind disrespects people stronger than them, physically or mentally. Be wary of some of the little bastards because sometimes they have the edge. The nutter element.’ He tapped his head to illustrate his point before carrying on in his amiable, sing-song voice, as if he was discussing the weather or a mundane daily happening.

‘Anyway, as I was saying, the debts. Say you owed someone five grand, and you didn’t pay them, and no matter how much they asked for it back you told them to fuck off out of it. They get right fed up, and they come to see me. Now I buy the debt off them for, say, two grand. They’re happy because two grand in the bin is better than nothing, see. I have now laid out two grand on your behalf. Already, you’ve caused me hag. I have it in for you, see.

‘I then come after you for seven grand - the five you owed muggins and the two I’ve been so kind as to lay out on your behalf. So I send someone round to have a word. If I get the seven grand in fourteen days, you’re laughing. If I don’t it goes up a hundred a week for interest, see. So it’s to your advantage to pay me, because after a couple of weeks - and this is where you come in, son - I begin to get really upset, see. And I send a friend round to negotiate like. You may be required to break an arm or a leg. In extreme cases I might want to have the fucker shot. I say extreme but it’s getting quite common, actually. I don’t like doing it, but I have to set an example, don’t I? After all, they have cost me money and that upsets me dearly.

‘Money is God. Remember that, son. It’s also the root of all evil, thank fuck, otherwise we’d be paupers!’ He laughed at his joke, causing another spasm of coughing. ‘Now, do you think you’ve grasped the fundamentals?’

Eamonn nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Dixon.’

The man smiled. ‘Well, we all know you can shoot a gun anyway, so at least I ain’t got that added worry. I’m teaming you up with Marcus Devlin. He’s an Irish nutter who’ll show you the ropes. You start work in fourteen days. Give the Old Bill a chance to get sorted out. I can’t say no fairer than that, can I?’

Eamonn nodded once more, bowled over by the complete assurance and friendliness of Danny Dixon, procurer, brothel-keeper and debt collector, to name but a few of his lucrative businesses.

Taking out his wallet, Dixon removed three twenty-pound notes and placed them before the boy, saying shrewdly, ‘This money means I own you, son. Before you pick it up, bear that in mind. I own ya, lock, stock and fucking barrel.’

Taking the money in trembling hands, Eamonn looked straight at the man before him. ‘Thank you, Mr Dixon.’

Dixon grinned. ‘Respect and manners, a good combination. ’ He pointed at the money. ‘That’s called a retainer. It means you work for me and no one else, right? Go out, get laid, do what you like. But make sure you’re on call when I need you.’

‘How will I know you need me, Mr Dixon?’

The man laughed again. ‘You’ll know. Now fuck off out of it and wait for me call. With sixty sobs of my poke, you’ll hear from me soon enough.’

Eamonn stood up and held out his hand. ‘It’s been nice doing business with you, sir.’

Danny Dixon shook his head. ‘We ain’t done no business yet, boy. All that’s happened is I’ve given you some of my hard-earned cash.’ He poked a finger at Eamonn’s chest. ‘You’re the one who’ll be doing the business, son. My business. Now on the trot and I’ll be in touch.’

Eamonn walked from the room dazed with pride. He was finally someone, he was finally a face.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat he walked out of the small house in Bethnal Green and held on to the feeling inside him. Thanks to James Carter he was now in the big league and he intended to stay there for as long as possible. Carter had been his stepping stone to the good life. He now felt no remorse whatsoever over the murder. As far as Eamonn was concerned it couldn’t have happened at a better time.

 

Madge was at work and Cathy having a well-earned rest when the door was hammered on violently. The noise was shocking in the quiet flat and Cathy jumped from her seat in terror.

‘Open the door, Cathy! Let me in, love!’

She sighed with relief on hearing Eamonn’s voice. Running to the door, she opened it, smiling widely. ‘I thought you was the Old Bill, banging the bleeding door down like that!’

Picking her up in his arms, he kicked the front door shut and crushed her to him, drinking in her familiar odour of rosewater and Max Factor. He carried her through to the front room and placed her on the couch, simultaneously forcing her mouth open and exploring it with his tongue. Cathy could taste whisky and smell beer as she responded to his kisses. Pulling her face away, she protested, ‘You’re half cut, Eamonn!’

Pushing her legs open with his knee, he positioned himself between them before crushing her to him once more and kissing her urgently. Sucking on her lips and face, covering her with his mouth and his hands.

‘Oh, Cathy love . . . Cathy.’ His words were low, brought from the depths of him. They were a plea and a demand all at once.

Dragging up her lacy top, he pawed at her breasts, fondling them roughly, while Cathy tried to squirm away from him.

‘Eamonn, for God’s sake! You’re hurting me.’

Embarrassed to open to him under the harsh lights, she tried once more to push him away.

‘Oh no you don’t, Cathy, not tonight.’ His voice was heavy with drink and sexual energy. ‘You do not push me away tonight.’ Putting a hand between her legs, he ripped her knickers away and slipped a finger inside her, the dryness and tensing of her muscles affecting him not at all.

‘Relax, Cathy, enjoy it. Just relax, girl.’

Stepping back, he knelt between her legs and forced his head down between them, his tongue probing her clitoris, wetting it. As Cathy tried to pull him away by grabbing at his hair, he pinned her arms to her sides, holding her down with a strength born of determination. As he sucked at her she felt the tears come. Bucking her hips, she tried to force him away from her once more.

‘Stop it, Eamonn, you’re frightening me. You’re hurting me.’

Raising his head, he smiled at her. ‘You love it as much as I do. I love you, Cathy, you know I do. Now relax and let’s get on with it.’

Opening his trousers, he pulled them down to his knees. Cathy stared at him as if she had never seen him before. This was a new Eamonn. A frightening Eamonn.

‘Please . . .’

The plea was cut off as roughly he pushed himself inside her. Riding her hard now, he was oblivious to her fighting beneath him; the pain inside her unbelievable. His thrusting increased and as he began to groan aloud, Cathy scratched at his face, drawing her nails down his cheek with all her strength.

Holding her down once more, he stared into her white face as he pushed himself into her as hard as he could, focusing on her eyes as she beseeched him to stop what he was doing. To please let her go. As he reached orgasm, she felt his body begin to stiffen and the pain in her wrists was made unbearable as he gripped her tighter and tighter. He was moving inside her more slowly now. She felt the hot wetness as it dribbled down between her legs, and when he collapsed on top of her, his whole body limp, she let out one sob before pushing him from her.

Nearly hysterical with pain and fear, she cried. The burning between her legs was almost unbearable, and her wrists were numb.

Kneeling up, Eamonn looked at her for a few seconds as if unable to believe what he’d done. Cathy was curled up on the sofa. He saw how small she was, how fragile. The blood smeared on her white thighs stood out in stark contrast. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he said: ‘Cathy . . . I’m sorry. I am so sorry.’

Looking over her shoulder at him, she hissed, ‘Get out, Eamonn. Get away from me.’

He put up a hand to stroke her face and she flinched away from him, covering her head with her arms. The enormity of what he’d done hit him then. The sheer terror in every line of her body sobered him up instantly. Picking her up like a baby, he tried to caress her, tried to make it better, and she fought him then. All nails and teeth, kicking out with her feet and punching him with her fists.

‘You bastard! You dirty, stinking bastard! Get away from me.’ She fought her way free and ran towards her bedroom. When he grabbed at her arm, she screamed.

The banging on the wall made them both stand stock still.

‘Keep the bleeding noise down, you two. I’m trying to fucking sleep!’

Pulling her into his arms, Eamonn held her tightly to him, all the while murmuring endearments into her hair, stroking her face, trying to calm her down. Trying to make sense of what had happened to her and to himself.

As she cried he realised he had taken from her something that was hers alone. He knew that instantly, even in his drink-fuddled mind. And that she would never really forgive him for it.

Finally he picked her up and took her into her bedroom where he placed her gently on her bed.

‘Cathy, please stop crying, darlin’. I’m sorry, love, all right? I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened, I’ve had such a great day . . .’ He was gabbling and he knew it. ‘I got the job today, Cathy, look.’

Pulling the remainder of the money Dixon had given him from his pockets, he laid it on the bed. ‘You have it. Look, there’s over fifty quid there. You have it, Cathy, get yourself something nice . . .’

Body heaving with sobs, she pushed the money from the bed. ‘Get out, Eamonn. Just get out, please. Leave me alone.’

Her eyes were red and swollen now, her face blotchy, even her hair looked lifeless. Her lips, swollen and bruised from his kisses, looked deformed. She looked ugly for once, and he knew that he was responsible. He had made his little Cathy ugly inside and outside.