The Runaway (61 page)

Petey had in fact hit the nail right on the proverbial head, which was what had made him so annoyed. He tried to justify himself then. Tommy knew that as a prime mover in the overseas network he had no right to make himself vulnerable. What they were involved in could put them all away for so long, the word ‘parole’ would have left the dictionary by the time they were released.

Tommy knew the score, he must have been on a death wish. No one in their right mind would fuck with the Irish, or the American Irish, or for that matter the Armenians or the Russians. It was laughable that Petey, the man Eamonn had come to look on as a brother, who would steal the lead from a church roof and confess in that same church days later, should be the one to point out to him the immorality of his relationship with Cathy Pasquale. Even Jack, whose daughter he was married to, had not done that. Jack was a man’s man, he knew the score.

He also knew his daughter’s failings.

Eamonn’s mind drifted back to long ago and a Mafia Don’s daughter, then to Caroline whom he had killed without mercy in a moment of rage.

Women were his downfall.

Somehow he brought out the worst in them, and they brought out the worst in him.

But not Cathy. Never Cathy. She had been a constant throughout his life.

He saw Petey walking unsteadily to his car and felt the first flush of shame. He knew that they were probably as close as any two men were ever going to be. Getting out of the car, he walked over to Petey. It was a blinding day, the sun high, the air thick with the smells of gas and industrial smoke.

‘I’m sorry, Petey.’ Eamonn’s voice was quick. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jack observing them from his window.

Petey looked at him; his big moon face was hurt-looking and open. That was part of Petey’s attraction. He shook his head sadly. ‘You’ve changed, Eamonn. I never thought I’d see the day you’d raise your hand to me -
me
of all people. If you were anyone else I’d kill you for that. Rip your heart out.’

Eamonn sighed heavily. ‘These are strange times, eh?’

Petey nodded. ‘Very strange. We’re killing all and sundry. What’s the difference if we start killing one another?’

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Years ago this was all I wanted from life, you know. I thought I wanted things: money, prestige. Now I look at any ordinary family in Central Park and I fucking envy them. Even though I know they’re probably struggling to survive, I envy them because, unlike me, they sleep easily at night. They’re not having to decide who lives and who dies. They don’t have to listen to men always talking death and destruction. They don’t have to be on constant guard in case someone is waiting to put them out of the fucking frame. Suddenly, I see myself as others would see me if they knew my life. What it consists of.

‘I’m getting out, Eamonn, I have to,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’m telling the Irish they can do what they like, I’m taking early retirement and concentrating on my clubs and investments. Now I expect you’ll be asked to put
me
away. It’ll be interesting to see if you can do it. You know where I am - I won’t hide or try to run. I’ll leave it all to your conscience.’

With that he got into his car and drove away.

Walking back to his own car, Eamonn got in and sat behind the wheel. But he didn’t go anywhere; he didn’t know where he wanted to go. Even Cathy was pushed from his mind by the enormity of Petey’s words.

He watched the activity around him with new eyes. Listened to the sounds of industrial machines, heard the lone voice of a man singing.

Life went on.

No matter what happened to you personally, life went on for everyone else.

Two days later they cremated Tommy. Fine Lawn, the small company the Mahoneys used for occasions such as this, was a beautiful place just inside Staten Island. The service was attended by Cathy, Eamonn, Petey and Jack. No one spoke, and the short eulogy was uninformative. The priest had not known the deceased and it showed.

Cathy stood dry-eyed as her husband’s coffin was carried along the small conveyor belt and disappeared behind the black curtains, ready for his fiery committal. Eamonn gripped her hand and she felt a measure of pity for the man in the coffin. If she had given him even a small amount of herself, he would have been happy.

But the revelation on her wedding day had killed any chance of that.

Yet the man beside her, who was the instigator of all their problems, she had forgiven. Or at least had accepted him for what he was. Why had she found it so difficult to do the same for poor old Tommy?

She knew the answer to that question; it was because she could not help loving Eamonn Docherty. Deep inside she knew he wasn’t worth it. But that didn’t stop her wanting the man beside her so much it was like an obsession. He was on her mind all the time, his touch was all she craved. Eamonn was once more her all, as he had been throughout her life, if she had only admitted it to herself sooner.

She took his hand as they left, the birdsong and the greenness of this place suddenly making her depressed. Cathy longed for the noise and traffic of Soho, for Desrae, for Kitty. And if she could have her Eamonn one weekend a month as he had promised, then life for her would be complete.

She didn’t need anything else.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

As they walked through Heathrow, Cathy noticed that Eamonn was very subdued. Small wonder that he was wary of coming to England after his past associations. Caroline’s murder enquiry was still open and no one could ever feel completely safe with something like that hanging over them.

It seemed that death always hung over them like a spectre, constantly hanging over their heads, when she wanted only to be happy with the man she loved.

Eamonn watched closely as his two large suitcases were put through the X-ray machine. He picked them up and put them on a trolley with Cathy’s luggage then walked through customs with her, his natural grace and her natural beauty making heads turn in their direction.

A black cab took them back to Soho. Both were relieved to be on the home stretch of their journey - Cathy because she missed her home, Eamonn because the contents of those cases would have guaranteed him a hefty prison sentence if they had been discovered.

He sighed heavily as the journey finally got under way. Cathy put her hand into his and he held it tightly. The touch of her skin was like an electric shock coursing through his body. He finally had what he wanted, finally had Cathy in his grasp.

As he gazed at her, his eyes felt as if they had been given the opportunity to look into heaven. Such was the power of his feelings for the woman beside him, at that moment he wanted nothing more from life than this: just to hold her hand.

 

Desrae was dressed in his finest: a pale pink Oscar de la Renta suit with pearl buttons. He smoothed it over his thighs, and admired himself in the mirror in Cathy’s bedroom. He checked the room once more and was satisfied. The whole place was immaculate, and full of flowers, the bouquets filling the flat with their fragrance. In the small hallway he had placed a large bowl of sunflowers, and everywhere else were roses and gypsophila.

It looked lovely.

As he thought of poor Tommy, his eyes misted over with tears. Tommy was the son of the man he had adored for so long. It really was like losing his own boy. He was upset that Cathy had let the funeral happen in the States without his knowledge, but guessed, wrongly, that she’d been trying to save him from sadness and stress.

He walked from the bedroom and went to Kitty’s room. She was lying on the bed, all long legs and coltish prettiness.

‘All right, darling? Can I get you anything? Tea, perhaps?’

Kitty looked at him with huge blue eyes and shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks, Auntie Des. I’ve just had a glass of milk. What time is Mummy due?’

‘Anytime. I thought she might ring from the airport, but I thought wrong as usual. She’s probably up to her eyes, poor lamb.’

Kitty sat up, and put down the book she was reading. ‘Do you think she’ll be sorry that Daddy’s died?’ Her voice was low, genuinely curious, and for a split second Desrae felt a terrific urge to slap the girl’s face. It was unnatural, the way she had shrugged off her father’s death as if nothing had happened.

‘Your father was a good ma—’

Kitty interrupted him. ‘I know that - he was my father after all.’ Her voice had the haughty quality she adopted from time to time. ‘All I’m saying is, do you think that Mummy will be so devastated she might be ill or something? One of the girls at school, Sarah Palmer, her daddy died and her mummy tried to kill herself. Cut her wrists. It was awful.’

Desrae softened then. ‘Mummy loved your daddy very much. We all did, love. But Mummy’s a strong lady, a real East Ender. She’ll rally round - for you if for no other reason.’

Kitty smiled then, transforming her whole face. ‘That’s a relief.’ Her voice was a child’s once more and Desrae was sad for the girl. Losing her father so young was not easy for her. He made his way to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The girl was his pride and joy, his grandchild. Even if she did call him Auntie. Not many girls would have welcomed a transvestite to their school open days but Kitty did. As she said: Auntie Dessie was Auntie Dessie and she didn’t care what anyone else thought.

Desrae loved taking the girl around the West End with him, showing her off to people, going shopping. He could deny her nothing - which often caused friction between him and Cathy, who felt the girl was spoiled enough as it was.

As he prepared a tray, he heard the door of the flat open. Cathy was home, thank God! And God love her, she’d need him now more than she ever had before. He heard Kitty’s screech of delight and smiled. Those two would always have each other - at least that would never change.

Walking out into the hall, straightening his wig, he stood frozen to the spot when he saw who Cathy had in tow: Eamonn Docherty, as large as life and twice as good-looking, his smile fixed and his hand on Cathy’s arm in a protective gesture. Desrae knew immediately that he had administered a bit more than tea and sympathy.

It was there, in their eyes, their faces. The shock of it was overwhelming. Tommy wasn’t even cold and they were already at it!

Picking up his jacket, he smiled tensely and said in a high-pitched voice: ‘Well, I’d better be on me way. Pop round later, love, and let me know how it all went, eh?’

Cathy’s face was anxious as she looked at her oldest friend. ‘Aren’t you staying?’

Eamonn said heavily, ‘I was just leaving, Desrae, I have my bags in the cab. There’s no need for you to go.’ He smiled once more at Kitty, his eyes boring into her. Then, after kissing Cathy chastely on the cheek, he was gone.

The girl, unaware of the atmosphere, said loudly after the door had closed, ‘Who was that, Mum? He’s a real hunk.’

Cathy smiled. ‘That’s your Uncle Eamonn.’ Her eyes met Desrae’s, begging him not to say anything in front of the child.

‘Mum, he’s gorgeous! Why haven’t I ever met him before if he’s my uncle?’

Cathy laughed. ‘Can I get me coat off and have a cup of tea before the twenty questions start?’

Kitty, at eleven already taller than her mother, made a mock grimace. ‘I’ll go and finish my book, let you and Auntie Dessie talk, and make the tea, and then I want a chat with you on my own, OK?’ Cathy nodded.

Desrae put down his jacket and Cathy followed him into the kitchen. ‘Thanks for taking care of Kitty, Desrae, I really appreciated it.’

He didn’t answer. He stood staring at his friend, his own face hard. ‘What was
he
doing with you then? Mr Wonderful . . .’

Cathy sat at the table and put her head in her hands. ‘Mr Wonderful helped me enormously actually, Desrae. He took care of the funeral arrangements, everything. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Now, can I have a cup of tea? I’m parched. It’s a long old flight from New York and the journey back into London was a traffic nightmare. I really don’t need you and your bad attitude at the moment.’

Desrae was wrongfooted now and he knew it. ‘I’m sorry, it was just a shock, seeing him here. You looked so very cosy together . . .’ Placing a cup of tea before her, Desrae said unhappily, ‘Tommy was special to me, you know that. He was my last link with Joey. My Joey was still alive inside his eldest son.’

Cathy was remorseful now for her own reaction. ‘I know, and I’m sorry too, Desrae. It’s been hard all round.’

‘I had his sisters on the phone. I don’t think they were very happy about the funeral being over there. I must be honest, I can’t understand it myself.’

Cathy wiped a hand across her face. ‘It just seemed like the best thing at the time.’ She sipped her tea and lit a cigarette.

‘It was quick, painless. He wouldn’t have known much about it, at least we can be thankful for that. Now, if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about it. As for Eamonn, he’s a married man with nine children - yes, Desrae, I said
nine
children, and another on the way. And if you think that makes me and him an item, then you’re right. But all we’re guilty of is picking up our old friendship. If Tommy’s death showed me anything it was that life’s too short to waste. Now, I think I’ll drink me tea and see my daughter. I’ve missed her.’

She looked into her friend’s face. ‘And I’ve missed you too. A hell of a lot.’

Then, seeing the grief in Desrae’s eyes, she cried. She cried because at last she had seen someone who was really sorry that Tommy was dead.

 

Wang Cheng was a small man, impossibly small even for a Chinese. He was only four foot ten inches, and his skinny body looked like a child’s. As he bowed to Eamonn, he was smiling.

‘Meester Docherty. How pleasant to see you.’

Eamonn gave a small bow back and then, laughing, the big man embraced the tiny one. Up in a small flat in Gerrard Street he unpacked his cases and transferred his clothes into two identical receptacles. This was achieved in minutes.