The Runaway (15 page)

‘It took this to get you to visit me without a fight, eh?’ Her voice was hard, but her face was drawn and tired.

‘Social Services have taken Cathy. I tried to see you earlier, came as soon as I could.’

Madge nodded, placated.

‘You took it for her then? That was a very fine thing to do,’ he said.

She lit a cigarette and snorted derisively. ‘Under duress, Eamonn. Don’t go thinking I’ve any noble sentiments because I ain’t. If I had that little mare here now, I’d break her fucking neck! She stabbed him, and at nearly fourteen she should have carried the can, mate. She’d have been in and out in no time. As it is, I’m away for the duration, ain’t I? As for that bastard Gates, I’ll see me day with him. With the pair of them.’

Eamonn Senior shook his head in distress. ‘Madge, I really thought you’d finally become a worthwhile person. After all, if you hadn’t brought that filth into your home, none of this would have happened.
You
caused it all. Everything. That girl was a rock to you but you could never see it. You gave her a bit of affection, as and when the fancy took you. As she grew up, you let her take on more and more of the responsibility that should have been yours. You used and abused her.

‘Well, let me tell you something, lady. I’m glad Gates put a stop to your gallop. I’m glad you’re going to do a long time, Madge, because that’s all you’re fit for. Any decent mother would have looked out for the girl, but not you. Oh, no. You’d have had her on the streets with you. That was your man’s intention, whatever you chose to believe. Well, I’ll leave you to stew in your own juice. By Christ, I hope it burns a hole through your heart, I do that. I don’t know why I even came here.’

‘Why did you, Eamonn?’ Madge’s voice was low now, a pleading note in it to which he responded despite his temper.

‘I came, Madge, because we were together for years and the girl was like me own child. I came hoping I’d find a different Madge Connor. A contrite woman, who had finally done something worthwhile with her shite of a life. That’s why I came.’ He looked into her watery eyes and hoped against hope he would find some sign of humanity there.

‘Well, you had a wasted journey then, didn’t you?’ Laughing contemptuously, Madge got up and dismissed him by turning her back on him and calling for the PO to take her back to her cell.

Watching her, he was amazed at the hardness that had come over her in the space of twenty-four hours. She was afraid of prison. Well, who wasn’t? But surely she must realise it was better that she be incarcerated than that young girl?

Shaking his head at the vagaries of women, Eamonn Senior walked out of Holloway and made his way to the nearest public house where he drank himself unconscious.

 

Cathy woke up as they reached Deal seafront. The lights and the sea were so different from anything she had ever seen before that she stared at them in fascination before she remembered where she was going and why.

Holidaymakers walked along the rainy prom carrying paper-wrapped fish and chips. Small children tagged along behind them. Kiss-me-quick hats and huge sticks of pink rock were evident everywhere, and the women looked wonderful with their brightly coloured clothes and backcombed hairstyles.

Cathy saw a man pick up his tiny daughter and hold her above his head. She could see his wife looking on, face alight with happiness. Cathy envied them their sheer exuberance, the contentment and the stability of their lives.

As they left the seafront they began to drive up a long winding road. Every now and then there were lovely houses to be seen, with neatly kept gardens and expensive cars in the drives. The houses were lit up like beacons and looked warm and inviting.

It was as they turned into a small lane that Cathy felt the first stirrings of apprehension.

‘Nearly there.’ Mrs Barton’s voice was clipped.

As they approached a pair of huge wrought-iron gates she stopped the car. Getting out, she pulled on a long old-fashioned bell rope. The cold had made its way into the car and Cathy shivered. It was a damp cold, which chilled her to the bone. Unlike the other houses they had passed, this one looked far from jolly and inviting. It had a cold and hostile air. There were no snow-white nets at the windows, only ornamental metalwork. No decorative brick walls, only a heavy chain-link fence and barbed wire. It looked more like a fortress.

An elderly man opened the gates. As they drove past him, he peered into the car with rheumy eyes. Standing still, he watched until they had rounded a bend in the drive.

Seeing the full extent of the house, Cathy was shocked. It was huge. An old Victorian building, built for prestige not comfort. As they got out of the car, a biting wind swirled around her and permeated her thin borrowed clothes.

The impressive front door opened and they were ushered inside. The entrance hall was high-ceilinged and incredibly cold. The woman who came to greet them had a heavy bosom and a hawklike face. Her nose was like a beak and she wiped a dewdrop from it with a dirty handkerchief.

‘Who’s this then?’

Mrs Barton gave a contemptuous gesture for reply, pushing the woman from her forcibly. ‘Where’s Miss Henley? Tell her I’m here. Then take the girl and give her something to eat, and bring me a scalding hot cup of tea. Do you think you can remember all that, Deirdre?’

‘Yes, Mrs Barton, ma’am.’ The woman nodded, her hawk nose quivering with suppressed indignation.

Grabbing Cathy by the arm, she pulled her across the hallway and into a small office. As she opened the door, warmth seeped out and engulfed them.

‘Mrs Barton’s here to see you, brought this little madam with her.’ Deirdre’s voice was all affronted dignity and the small plump woman behind the desk looked at Cathy in amazement.

‘She wants tea and she wants you,’ Deirdre continued.

‘Take the girl to the kitchens and bring the tea through. I’ll see Mrs Barton.’

Cathy heard the steely tone in her voice and smiled to herself. Here was one person with no fear of the social worker.

‘What are you looking at, girl?’ The voice was hard, brooking no argument.

Cathy shook her head in distress.

‘In this establishment, you speak when you’re spoken to. Answer me, girl.’

She shook her head and tried to explain herself, but no words would come out.

‘Take her away, Deirdre. She’s obviously retarded or something.’ The contemptuous tone was too much for Cathy and she felt her eyes filling with tears.

‘I’m not a bloody retard!’ The words were out before she knew what she’d done. They were loud and shrill in the overheated room, and the plump woman’s face was a picture of shock and disbelief.

‘Take her away, Deirdre. Take her to the quiet room. No food, no nothing, until I say otherwise.’

Deirdre took Cathy roughly by the arm and dragged her down a long flight of stairs. She tried to struggle and was given a sharp pinch for her trouble.

‘You’re for it, madam. Miss Henley won’t have misbehaviour here. She’ll slap your face till your earholes rattle. And it’s no good crying and carrying on, that don’t cut no ice with her.’ She dragged Cathy bodily through the kitchen and, opening a heavy metal door, pushed her into darkness.

Cold darkness.

Realising what had happened, Cathy tried to get out by the closing door. A hefty shove sent her sprawling across the damp floor. The door banged to with terrifying finality and Cathy lay there, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest and her brain working overtime.

Her sobs of fear and rage were hysterical but nothing could be heard through the thick metal door, and no one would have been interested if they had heard her.

It was that kind of place.

 

Leona Henley listened avidly to Mrs Barton’s tale of woe, refilling her cup and offering her biscuits, small dainty sandwiches and slices of rich moist fruit cake.

‘I knew the girl was trouble from the moment I set eyes on her. Now you understand why I brought her here,’ the social worker finished.

Miss Henley listened with interest and then said, ‘I really shouldn’t take her. This is, after all, a criminal establishment. The girls here are too young for prison and so I get them. Thieves and bullies mainly, as you well know. I’d need a court order to take her.’

She was interrupted by Mrs Barton.

‘I can get the necessary documents. The girl practically attacked me. I’ll lodge a complaint, and you must too. I really can’t be expected to inflict her on foster parents, can I? She witnessed her whore of a mother murdering a man, and between me and you, Miss Henley, I think she was of the same occupation as the mother. On the doctor’s report it said sexual relations had recently taken place.’

Miss Henley, suitably scandalised, raised her eyebrows.

‘It’s my guess the mother caught her at it so to speak and that’s how the tragedy happened. She’s a little tart, I tell you. Needs a firm hand. And that was why I thought of you. If I can’t place her legitimately then you’re the last resort anyway, and I always speak so highly of you to everyone.’

Miss Henley knew she was caught between a rock and a very hard place. The hatchet-faced bitch in front of her wanted the girl away, and so away she would go. It was inevitable. She had seen this woman beat a recalcitrant child unconscious before now, with a ferocity that had astonished even her who had herself been guilty of the same thing, God knows. Mrs Barton was a doubly dangerous woman because she had an in with everyone. Everyone important that was. She could close a place down overnight if she wanted to; her power was great and she wielded it shamelessly.

Her husband was Mr Justice Barton and her brother the regional head of Social Services for London and the Home Counties.

‘I’m sure we can fit her in here. And you’ll provide the necessary paperwork?’ Miss Henley asked.

Mrs Barton smiled happily. ‘Of course, dear. Now how about another slice of that delicious cake? Who made it - one of the gels?’

Contented now she had achieved her aim, she relaxed and began actually to enjoy herself. It was so nice when one managed to deal with a difficult problem, as she was to remark to her husband later on.

‘A job well done, dear. I mean, how could you inflict a child like that on a nice family like the Hendersons?’

 

Cathy woke up on the freezing cold floor. It was pitch dark, and a musty smell of dampness hung in the air. Remembering where she was, she opened her eyes wide, hoping she would see something, anything, to dispel the total blackness. It was deathly quiet, only a faint scuffling noise, which Cathy knew instinctively was mice, breaking the silence. The mice didn’t frighten her; she had lived with worse all her life.

The floor was damp under her hands and Cathy pulled herself into a sitting position, dragging herself across the floor to sit against the wall, knees tucked up before her, arms wrapped around herself to try and keep warm.

In her mind she saw Ron’s body once more, and Eamonn’s face as he stole her virginity. Both events were mixed together in her mind and she tried desperately to try and fix on something else. Her heart was beating too fast and she fought down the hysteria welling inside her. Crying was pointless, she knew. She had to try and focus on something else, and so she thought of her mother, pleased inside that Madge had finally done something for her after all these years.

Silently Cathy thanked her. In that dark void she believed that maybe Madge would hear her and know how grateful she really was.

It was the only thing that kept her sane.

 

Miss Henley finally remembered to let Cathy out fifteen hours later. After Mrs Barton had left, they had gone to bed, thinking the girl would be more malleable after a night in the quiet room. But in the morning two of the inmates had had a fight, and it was early-afternoon before they remembered Cathy.

Opening the heavy door, Miss Henley was surprised to find the girl sitting against the wall quite calmly. Her huge blue eyes were vacant, but as Miss Henley remarked to herself, that wasn’t anything unusual after a first taste of the quiet room.

‘Up you get.’

Cathy pulled herself to her feet and awaited further instructions. The girl’s thin coat was covered in a layer of green mould from the damp walls and her legs were blue with the cold. Still she did not say one word. Just followed her jailer from the store room, clumsy from the cold and her own lack of movement. The kitchen was warm, and Cathy noticed twin girls watching her warily.

‘Give her some tea, bread and jam. Then bring her to see me in my office.’

The girls nodded in sequence and watched the woman’s retreating back.

The twins had thick black hair and big brown eyes; each had a small blue spot on their face above the right cheekbone. They were borstal spots, Cathy recognised that much straight off and knew immediately what kind of place she was in.

‘I’m Maureen and this is Doreen. We’re in for arson. Burned our mum’s house down.’ They smiled at one another as if they had told a great joke. ‘What you here for?’

Cathy shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

The two girls stared at each other and shrugged. ‘Keep your own counsel if you like, but we’ll find out.’

They busied themselves getting bread and margarine from the store and pouring out a mug of thick black tea from a boiling urn.

‘Get that down you, and tell us your name.’

Cathy ate the food ravenously, and sipped at the scalding black tea as she felt her arms and legs begin to defrost.

‘I’m Cathy Connor. I’m from the East End.’

‘What you doing here? ’Tis for young offenders. You must have did something.’

Cathy shook her head. ‘I ain’t. I ain’t done nothing.’ She remembered what the nice man and the WPC had told her.

Maureen looked into her face and smiled. ‘All right then, keep your trap shut. But I warn you now, girl. Denise will want to know and she’ll find out.’