The Runaway (26 page)

Betty laughed then, really laughed. ‘Madge used to call her “Heinz Fifty-seven”. Wicked, I know, but it was true enough. Madge had no idea whatsoever. She wasn’t even sure what colour the baby would be. Madge is a big girl, and didn’t realise she was carrying till she was nearly five and a half months. By then there was no chance of finding anyone who’d take responsibility, and no one the girl can run to now. Other than Eamonn, his dad or me.’

Gates nodded. ‘Well, there’s something not right anyway. I’ve had all the big guns down on me and that’s a bit excessive for a thirteen-year-old runaway. A lot of people have had to go to a lot of trouble to sort this out, and I for one want to know why.’

‘So do I, Mr Gates, sir,’ Betty said sincerely, ‘so do I.’

 

Mama Gosa watched the girl as she discreetly searched through her few belongings. The Greek woman’s smile stayed fixed firmly in place. As the girl once more felt the lining of her coat, hoping against hope that the twenty-five pounds would miraculously reappear, the woman edged her nearer the door.

‘What’s wrong, eh?’ Her smile was dangerous now and Cathy saw this and sighed. She had been well and truly had over.

Looking at the woman face on she said heavily, ‘Where’s me money?’

Mama Gosa kept her lined face open and her eyes wide. ‘What money? I don’t know nothing about any money.’

Cathy stared the woman down. ‘Me twenty-five quid. I had twenty-five quid and now it’s gone and I want it, all right?’

For the first time the woman became uneasy. The little girl looked positively menacing for a moment.

Suddenly, everything caught up with Cathy. The last four weeks had taken a lot out of her. But she wasn’t going to be robbed blind for nothing more than a hot meal and a few treacherous smiles. Standing up to the woman, she yelled: ‘Where’s me fucking money, you old cow? I want me fucking money! And if I don’t get it soon, I’ll wake the whole fucking neighbourhood. Now, where is it?’

Instinctively she picked up a breadknife from the table nearby. She looked down at it in her hand then into the frightened face of the woman before her and the rage left her body as abruptly as it had arrived.

Throwing the knife away from her, she sat down heavily, put her head into her hands and began to cry. The abject misery of her sobs made even the woman who had robbed her feel a slight twinge of regret for what she had done.

Cathy snatched up her things. She went back into the front room, took off the nightie and began to get dressed in her own clothes. Back in the kitchen, she looked at Mama Gosa and shook her head sadly.

‘Lady, I hope you get what you deserve, I really do. One day you’ll have over the wrong person and they’ll really pay you back. When I tell me boyfriend what you’ve done he’ll be very angry - and I’ll tell him exactly where you live, hear me, and take him to your son’s cafe. Either way, I’ll see justice done.’

Picking up her bundle, she walked slowly from the room. She half expected something to hit her on the head or the back of the neck, but the woman let her go without a word.

At the front door Cathy turned and said, ‘That was a very expensive bed and breakfast, and the funny thing is, I’d have given you the money anyway just to be able to stay. You stole it for nothing. All for nothing.’

Stepping outside into the coldness of the November day, she pulled her coat tighter around her and began to walk. People rushed past her, their days busy, lives ordered and purposeful. She wandered aimlessly along until she came to North End Road market. She was cold and it was difficult to carry her things in a paper bag. She stole two jumpers and a small handbag.

Whatever happened, she had to get to the East End and she had to get there now. She couldn’t afford to do any more hiding out - the Gosas had put paid to that.

As the rain began to fall heavily she felt the sting of tears and brushed them away. Crying was no good, it achieved nothing. She had done all the bloody crying she was going to do. Crying was for prats, and people with the time and the money and the comfort to indulge themselves. She had none of these things so she’d have to wait until she had. Then, she reasoned, she’d cry all day and all night in front of a nice fire, breaking off now and again for lovely hot drinks and the occasional delicacy. The thought made her smile gently.

She was learning, finally, what life was all about, and though it hurt it was also comforting. Because she’d learned now that facing the unknown was the scariest thing of all. She’d faced up to it at Benton and last night on the streets of Soho. Met it head on and won through. And now that the unknown no longer held such terrors for her, she was free to turn back, to the world she knew - the East End streets that she called home. Never mind if the police were looking out for her. She’d friends there, hadn’t she, and a boyfriend who must be missing her madly.

Chapter Fifteen

Eamonn Senior sat in Betty’s neat little flat and looked around him in amazement. A message telling him to come and see her as soon as he could had brought him here. For the first time in his life he’d stepped over the threshold of the woman he detested and Betty was pleased by the expression on his face.

‘Jasus, Betty, you have the place gorgeous.’ His voice was filled with reluctant admiration and the little woman smiled.

‘Madge always liked it here. But I was never really one for other visitors, if you know what I mean.’ He did and grinned to acknowledge what she was saying.

‘What’s happening with Cathy then?’ he asked abruptly.

Betty lit a cigarette. Blowing out smoke, she said, ‘She’s gone on the trot and even Gates don’t know where she is or why she went running. From what I can gather, some old bitch from the Social Services took her to a secure unit. Now they’re all spouting a load of old fanny about the child being violent and dangerous or some such crap, but the bottom line is they screwed up and so now she’s out there somewhere and we have to wait until she gets in touch.

‘The Social Services want her back too and from what I gather, they’ll lock her up and throw away the key if they get their hands on her, so if we do see her we have to help her and get her away as quick as we can.’

Eamonn listened in growing amazement. ‘What the feck is all this shite about violent and dangerous? Are they sure they have the right person?’

Betty nodded her head in agreement. ‘It’s all mad, I know, but by all accounts they - her and this young girl she went on the trot with - attacked some old boy who was working at this Benton School for Girls. He had a couple of bad bangs on the bonce and he’s said it was them. She’s in trouble, Eamonn, even though Richard Gates is on her case and looking out for her. I know he means well, and he’s come up trumps for an Old Bill, but the wall of silence is the best bet. I ain’t telling him if I see Cathy, and neither should you. We have to try and help her get away. That’s providing she turns up, of course. She could be anywhere. I just hope she’s all right, you know?’

The two of them stared at each other for long, long moments. Both were thinking the same thing and neither wanted to put it into words.

 

Cathy had made her way back to Soho. She had walked all afternoon and decided she would return to the cafe and see if she could hustle back her money, or at least a part of it, from Tony Gosa.

It was now early evening and there were people everywhere. The shops were packed and the traffic was heavy. She looked around her with interest. Girls not much older than her were leaving their office jobs and making their way home. They wore smart, up-to-date clothes, Panda eyes and feathercuts. To Cathy they looked fantastic.

She was picturing Eamonn’s face when she turned up looking just like these girls - but the only way she would manage to do that was to get back her twenty-five quid. It was suddenly important to her to look good for him because she knew that looks played a big part in Eamonn’s life. He spent a lot of his time combing his hair and looking in mirrors after all. She wanted to be his equal when she saw him again, someone to be looked at with pleasure and admiration. Not as a rag bag with scruffy clothes and a dirty face.

Tony Gosa did not look shocked to see her; in fact, he looked as if he’d been expecting her.

‘What do you want?’ His voice was loud and everyone in the small cafe looked at Cathy askance. It was filled with young people wearing fashionable clothes and fashionable sneers. Two girls of about sixteen sniggered at each other and pointed to her as if she were some kind of sideshow at a carnival.

‘I want me fucking money!’ Cathy’s voice was equally loud and aggressive and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at her openly. ‘You had me over, mate, and I’m here to collect what’s mine.’

Tony Gosa was amazed but showed no emotion whatsoever. As he walked from behind his counter, he grinned suavely at his customers. Then, taking her roughly by the arm, he propelled Cathy out of the door and on to the pavement in record time.

Bending over her, he said through his teeth: ‘If I ever see you again, I’ll cut your fucking throat, little girl. Now piss off and don’t let me see you here again.’

The friendly face of the night before was gone. She heard him saying as he walked back into his cafe: ‘You do people a favour and look how they repay you.’

Cathy was scarlet with rage and humiliation. Tears of frustration burned at the back of her eyes and she stood staring into the cafe while she wondered what to do. All that was left was jumping the trains and getting back to the East End that way; all her earlier dreams of turning up looking half decent were thrown out of the window. And on top of all that, her stomach thought her throat
had
been cut!

As she wandered up Old Compton Street she felt the wind biting into her face. She was hungry, cold and frightened. Frightened that there was nothing for her in the East End or the West End of London. She had no idea what the police were doing - whether they had her down as wanted, whether the blow to the Jailer’s head would be enough to put her away good and proper this time.

She was so very confused.

Leaning against the wall by a strip club, hugging her few bits to her chest, her stolen clothes and pitiful belongings, she watched the world go by.

For the first time, she realised just how much trouble she was in. She might as well have taken the can for Ron’s murder, because as things stood she was really not much better off.

Cold was settling all over London and fog beginning to come down when finally she pulled herself out of her reverie. It was late but people were still hurrying by her. There was loud music beating out of doors and windows, and the streets teemed with men and women all looking for excitement.

White with tiredness and pain, her fingers once more screaming with the cold, Cathy began to walk. Her predicament was becoming more and more serious as time wore on. She realised now what Denise had meant when she had said: ‘There’s no going back.’

The moment she had attacked that man at the school she had put herself at the mercy of the system. If they caught her now they’d have every justification to send her back to Benton or somewhere even worse.

Why this thought had only just occurred to her, Cathy wasn’t sure. All she knew was, she was in deep trouble and no one really cared enough to help her.

 

Caroline and Eamonn were in a small pub in Whitechapel; she was decked out in all her finery and Eamonn was watching her with pride. Caroline wasn’t a bad-looking girl and her eyes were amazing.

Another reason she delighted him was her family connections. Caroline’s father, Jack Harvey, had worked for a Maltese villain called Victor Messon.

Victor was a huge man who employed people like Jack Harvey to mind for him. Jack, it was rumoured, had also been a favoured friend. Everything had been hunky-dory between the two until they had both become enamoured of the same woman. She was a tiny Jewish girl called Rita Goldfinch, staggeringly beautiful with the biggest, softest brown eyes. At least, that was what Jack had always said. Like Caroline’s, Rita’s eyes attracted people, but unluckily for her she had attracted two violent men, each equally determined to get her.

They were both already married, though that wasn’t a problem. They each wanted a mistress not another wife, though there were those who said that Victor would have left his old woman and set up home with the little Jewish girl.

He never got the chance.

Jack Harvey murdered the pair of them outside the Dean Swift pub. Now he was in Broadmoor, his criminal reputation only enhanced by this vicious act. He had beaten Victor to death with a wheelbrace and cut the throat of the long-suffering Rita, who had not really wanted either of them.

Jack’s daughter had grown up accepting as her due the respect which the name ‘Harvey’ brought her. Her father was away, but he still had friends on the outside - that was how the story went. Caroline had never really bothered with him. It was her mother who still visited him and talked about him as if he were a mixture of the Pope and Charlton Heston, keeping his memory alive all over the East End.

Caroline cashed in on it, loving the notoriety. As for her father, she dropped him a Christmas card every year, plus a line every so often when her mother forced her to. Caroline wanted - in fact needed, the respect of people around her. And if she could win that respect from a face like Eamonn, her happiness would be complete.

As they sat in the Blind Beggar pub and listened to the juke box, a young man came in. He was fairly tall and dark, his hair cut in a college boy style. He was wearing a mohair suit, Caroline noticed, her eyes going to him automatically. He smiled back at the girl with the big blue eyes in the corner of the little bar.

‘Know him, do you?’ Eamonn’s voice was terse.

Caroline shrugged. ‘No. Should I?’ Her own voice dripped with sarcasm and something else. Something that Eamonn would not allow to pass unchallenged. It was full of smugness and daring.