The Runaway (20 page)

Dinnertime came and went.

No sign of Cathy.

Suppertime came and went.

Still no sign of Cathy.

Sally Wilden was dormed in with Denise, and the two girls looked at one another fearfully. Both knew that Cathy’s bonds would be tight; both knew she would receive nothing to eat or drink - both knew that the combination could be lethal.

Unlike the tie downs at other Homes, Hodges’s tie downs were real acts of bondage. He had even been known to use handcuffs. The tightness of the bonds cut off all circulation and limbs went dead pretty quickly. One girl had had to be taken to an outside hospital after eighteen hours of this torment. Surely they wouldn’t leave Cathy Connor all night as well?

Hodges wouldn’t dare, they consoled themselves.

He wouldn’t have the guts.

 

Betty Jones tracked Eamonn down to a small bedsit in Bethnal Green Road. It was owned by a young brass called Sylvia Darling. Eamonn used her place frequently, giving her a few pounds to leave the coast clear for him. Sylvia could ply her particular trade anywhere there was a wall and so the arrangement suited both of them.

A banging on the door brought Eamonn’s head out from underneath the sour-smelling blankets, and a pithy retort from his lips.

Betty sighed and banged on the door once more. ‘Open up, for Gawd’s sake, Eamonn. I’m freezing me drawers off out here.’

Recognising the voice, he hauled himself from the bed and in nothing but his underpants opened the door. ‘What time do you call this, woman? It’s still the middle of the fucking night to me.’

Betty laughed. ‘I thought you was supposed to have come up in the world?’

She looked around her with a dismissive eye, and on his dignity now, Eamonn pulled a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table and said quickly, ‘Tell me what you want and piss off, Betty, I’m tired.’

As he lit the cigarette, it was snatched from his mouth by the irate little woman before him.

‘Who you talking to, you little shit? I used to wipe your arse, and no matter how hard you think you are, or how big you’ve become, that will always give me the edge, get it? Now, put your kacks on and make me a cuppa and we can discuss why I’m here.’

Eamonn nearly smiled. He had always liked old Betty and suddenly remembered the times she had bunged him a few pennies as a child for a bar of chocolate. Deciding that he could offer her a bit of respect in the privacy of this room, he did as he was told while Betty smoked the cigarette for him.

Five minutes later, a cup of steaming tea in front of her, she began to speak.

‘It’s about young Cathy. I’ve been sniffing about like, making a real nuisance of meself to find out what the Social done with her.’

Eamonn’s eyes kindled with interest for the first time since he’d let her into the room. ‘And? Come on, Betty - where is she? Can I visit her, write her a letter?’

Betty looked into his handsome young face, alight with enthusiasm now, and could almost find it in her heart to pity him, despite the fearsome reputation she knew he was rapidly earning for himself as Danny Dixon’s main man.

‘It’s not that easy, love, I’m afraid. You know what that lot up the offices are like - keep their mouths tighter than a duck’s arse, they do. We’re not related to Cathy, see, so they don’t have to tell us nothing.

‘But I got a bit pally with one of the clerks, said I’d do him a favour like if he’d do me one in return. He had a butcher’s at Cathy’s file and saw she was marked down for long-term fostering. He wouldn’t tell me where exactly, but he said the family in question - the Hendersons - were a good-hearted bunch. Lah-di-dah and all from the sound of it.

‘Cathy will be well treated by them, Eamonn. We don’t have to worry about her even though we’ll miss her. In fact, she’ll probably be back here one day talking with a plum in her mouth. Imagine that - Madge Connor’s daughter turned into a real little lady!’

Eamonn scowled darkly. ‘I don’t think I want to, ta very much. They’ve got no business yanking Cathy away from Bethnal Green. She’s my girl, she should be here with me.’

Betty smiled at him sadly. ‘Talk sense, son. She’s not fourteen yet. They’re hardly going to hand her over to a known tearaway—’ she put up one hand apologetically and swiftly added ‘—nor an old brass neither. I offered to have her, you know. Nothing I’d like better than to give that little girl a home. But they’re having none of it. Better face it, Eamonn - Cathy’s out of here for the duration. I don’t think either you or me will see her again until she’s sixteen and can tell ’em where to shove their foster care.’

She saw his fists clench and the tide of misery that darkened his blue eyes before he hastily averted them.

Betty rose to her feet tactfully. ‘Well then, best be off, love. Look after yourself. Try and stay in one piece because sooner or later Cathy’ll be back, you can count on that.’

She let herself out. Eamonn sat slumped at the table, head in his hands. If she hadn’t known him for the bold-faced young villain he was, she could have sworn he was crying.

Cathy was delirious, her wrists and ankles so swollen and sore the pain was blurred now after twenty-four hours. Her heart was beating erratically and her hair was plastered to her head with sweat. Miss Henley was terrified and even Mr Hodges was beginning to worry, though a part of him enjoyed the scene before him.

But maybe he had gone too far this time . . .

Tie down was first introduced to mental institutions in the late 1800s. That is, officially. It had in fact been going on since time began. Lunatics could be treated in any way, as could prisoners. In homes and correctional institutions, it was often used as a last resort; at Benton School for Girls it was used before most other sanctions. Tie down was meant to be for epileptics primarily, so they didn’t fall out of bed and damage themselves. It was a form of help for poor unfortunates who fitted during the night - that was the official line anyway. Other places used it for runners, people who might otherwise escape when left unwatched.

In Cathy’s case it was for punishment.

She was tied in such a way as to render her motionless and also give the maximum of pain.

The looping of the cord around her neck, hands and finally feet guaranteed that if she struggled, she would strangle herself. With boys, Hodges tied them down on their stomach. Then they were much easier to get to if he felt that way inclined. He knew all the tie downs, had used them all over the years and rather fancied himself an expert on the subject. He would discuss it endlessly with likeminded fellows and usually felt a surge of heat in reliving his actions.

Now, as he looked down at the sufferer before him, her glazed terrified eyes and swollen limbs, he felt a prickle of fear. They didn’t even have proper documentation for her yet. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

As he cut the bonds that had dug deep into her flesh, he could hear the rapid, fearful breathing of his colleague.

‘She needed this, you admitted as much yourself.’

Miss Henley didn’t answer, not trusting herself to speak.

‘She’s a bitch of a child and this will keep her in order, mark my words.’

He was talking for effect and they both knew it.

As they massaged her wrists, both of them prayed she wouldn’t die on them. Two deaths in eighteen months did not bear thinking of. In grim silence they ministered to the girl, both knowing that it had gone too far and neither having the guts to acknowledge that fact aloud.

Both nursed secrets, both knew the other’s foibles, and both were terrified of the possible consequences if these were unmasked. It was an unholy alliance. They would never betray one another.

 

The girls were quiet over their lessons and Mrs Daggers knew why. Hardly there five minutes and the little Connor piece had already caused havoc.

Mrs Daggers had worked in women’s prisons and men’s; she could read the signs, and realising that there could soon be a mutiny, she set the girls some work and took herself out of the room and harm’s way.

She made for the top of the house and looked into the attic room that housed the cause of all this trouble: Cathy Connor.

‘How is she?’ asked Mrs Daggers in a low voice.

Miss Henley shrugged helplessly. ‘OK, I think.’

Mr Hodges carried on rubbing Cathy’s ankles, his breathing harsh in the confines of the room.

‘How long was she unconscious?’

Miss Henley’s voice was terse as she answered, ‘I have no idea.’

Even Mrs Daggers was shocked. ‘You mean, no one was watching her? She could have died, you stupid woman.’

Mr Hodges’s head snapped round. ‘Well, she hasn’t. Now, if you have nothing constructive to add to this conversation, perhaps you’d care to fuck off out of it.’ His language told the two women how badly worried he was, and they exchanged fearful glances.

‘One of these days you’ll go too far.’

The tall man’s icy stare exhorted Mrs Daggers to silence but she was on the verge of hysteria and they all knew it. ‘If this ever gets out . . .’ Her voice was frightened.

Mr Hodges pulled himself up to his full height and said with unsullied dignity, ‘. . . then we’ll all be up shit creek without a paddle. Now, start massaging and pray we don’t have to bring in the outside doctor.’

‘The girls are very quiet and I think there’s a good chance of trouble. My advice would be a good supper for a change and some kind of activity tonight. If anything happens to this child there’s going to be murder done here - and I don’t mean this one.’ Having said her piece, Mrs Daggers began massaging Cathy’s tortured limbs.

Although nothing was said in reply, she knew that the warning had been taken on board and filed away for future reference. She had done her bit. Now she could only wait and see what fresh developments the day would bring.

 

Denise slipped from the classroom and waited in the corridor for Miss Brown, whom she knew would be doing her rounds.

‘Please, miss, how’s Cathy Connor?’

Miss Brown’s normally rosy face was white and it looked for a moment as if she did not recognise Denise’s distinctive figure.

‘It’s not good but she’ll survive,’ she finally divulged. ‘I could hammer that fucking Hodges myself! Stupid man. I wish he’d get the shove or retire or something . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

After a few seconds she said sadly, ‘I thought she was a goner there, Denise, that I did. The thing is, even if I reported what I saw there’s so many of them involved in it, including old Barton, no one would ever believe me. Hodges is treated like bloody royalty by everyone in the service. They all think he’s the dog’s bollocks. But I tell you this: if that girl had died, I’d have gone to the papers. I might never have worked again, but I’d have risked it.’

Denise nodded to let her know that she understood the older woman’s dilemma. This was her home as well as her place of work. She was one of a growing army of women who, having worked in institutions for years, were now institutionalised themselves. Outside the walls of Benton School for Girls she was lost. This place was her life and she used what little bit of influence she had to make things easier for the girls in her charge. Denise knew that one Miss Brown or Miss Jones was worth a thousand Hodges, and yet they were rarer.

The kind ones were always the exception to the rule.

Having been in and out of Homes all her life, Denise was an expert on the staff.

‘She’s all right then?’ Her deep voice was gruff with emotion.

Miss Brown nodded. Grabbing the girl by her shoulders, she said earnestly, ‘Don’t let them all go off over this. That would cause more trouble than it would solve. Give them the silent treatment. That scares the fuckers more.’

Denise smiled despite herself and nodded.

 

The twins, Doreen and Maureen, were amazed and delighted to discover they were to serve up what amounted to a feast in the eyes of the Benton girls: tomato soup and ham sandwiches, followed by Swiss roll and custard.

The news was not treated in quite the same way by the rest of the girls who, under orders from Denise, boycotted the canteen and sat stony-faced and hungry in the recreation room.

This news frightened Hodges and Henley more than a riot. It meant the girls were going to sit and await the outcome of their folly. Afraid to provoke them further, they eventually allowed the girls to stay in the rec room all night long. They chatted among themselves, waiting patiently for news of their friend.

 

Danny Dixon was pleased with his protégé and wanted to tell him so. Eamonn had been rounded up and now stood nervously in front of the man who paid his wages. The man who held the lives of everyone here in the palm of his hand.

Dixon wasn’t scared of anyone at all. Even as a child he had not feared his violent bullying father or alcoholic mother. Joanie Dixon was legendary in the East End. She could knock a man out with a single punch. It was rumoured even her husband would cross the road rather than meet Joanie when she had the hump.

Growing up in such an environment, it was inevitable that young Dixon would eventually be a face of some description, but no one had guessed just how big he was to become. Hardened men who worked for him, who maimed for him, who terrified people for him, were wary in his presence.

Dixon knew that the fear he engendered in people was because no one knew how far he would go. His was a controlled violence. He didn’t hurt people because they upset him, he would happily take an insult, yet he could attack the same person for no apparent reason whatsoever. His sheer unpredictability was his best asset in this business and he knew it, cultivated it, and enjoyed his notoriety.

He loved to listen to the old biddies talking all their trash about the East End hard men. It amused him no end to hear himself talked about in tones of awe. Dixon knew the score. Unlike his peers, he knew that bullshit was part and parcel of East End life. He prided himself on doing nothing more than playing the game. He had sussed out the life early and felt he knew a big secret that no one else shared.