The Runaway (7 page)

Cathy looked sadly at her. The streaked mascara and faded lipstick gave her mother’s face a clown-like appearance. Holding her hand tightly, Cathy said, ‘I know you did, Mum. I know you did.’

Madge sniffed. ‘I got a new job last night. I’m going to work in a clip joint near Soho.’

Cathy smiled even though her heart wasn’t in it. ‘Why the long face then, Mum? After all, you’ve been promoted.’

Madge laughed harshly. ‘You’re a sarcastic little mare, ain’t ya?’

Cathy pulled a brush through her thick blonde hair and said, ‘Why don’t you get a proper job, Mum? Like everyone else.’

Madge shook her head and said hotly: ‘I should bleeding well cocoa! Let’s not start all that old fanny again. Fine mess we’d be in with about three quid a week to live on. Have you thought of that, eh?’

‘Well, other people manage.’

‘I ain’t other people. Anyway, I like me job.’

Putting on her school coat, Cathy kissed her mother and said, ‘That’s the trouble, you like it too much. See you tonight.’

Madge swung round in her chair and said, ‘Before you rush off, what do you think of Ron?’

Cathy shrugged. ‘Why?’

‘He wants to move in, I think. It’s him what got me the new job.’

Cathy’s face was a picture of terror as she said, ‘Oh, Mum! You’re not moving him in, are you? He’s horrible.’

‘No, he ain’t. He’s a man, that’s all. Surely you’re not going to hold that against him? Anyway, nothing’s final. I might change me mind.’

‘You’d better, Mum. I’m sick of people in and out of my bedroom, and you know that’ll be the upshot. It always is.’

Her mother grinned slyly. ‘You could make us a fortune, Cathy. You’re ripe for it.’

The girl’s face blanched. ‘You’re not serious, surely?’

‘’Course not, you silly mare. I’m just winding you up.’

Cathy slammed out of the flat, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest.

More and more often lately her mother made jokes that Cathy didn’t think were funny. In her heart she knew they were real threats; in the night she admitted this to herself because, as much as her mother loved her, Cathy knew Madge was a brass through and through. Like a piece of Southend rock, if you cut Madge Connor in half it would be written there in big pink letters.

As she walked to school Cathy’s mind was on what her mother had told her, and for the first time in ages, Eamonn was not in the forefront of her thoughts.

‘Hello, me little pickaheen!’ Eamonn Senior’s welcome was loud and Junie’s face pinched as they saw Cathy sitting in their neat little kitchen.

‘Hello, Junie. Eamonn.’ Cathy’s voice was civil, and against her better judgement the older woman smiled kindly at her.

‘You’ve just mashed the tea then? Good girl, we’ll both have a cup. Bring them through to the parlour, there’s a dear.’

‘I’ll have a bottle of beer meself. Now then, child, where’s the eejit?’ the big man asked her.

‘He’s popped over the road to Mr Burrows’s. He said there’s a chance of a job in the docks.’

Eamonn Senior’s eyes widened. ‘Good for him!’

Cathy nodded solemnly.

‘How’s your mother?’ Cathy knew he only asked out of politeness. She pushed her blonde hair back from her face and stared at him with an adult expression.

‘She’s fine, thanks. Got a new job in a clip joint and seems pleased enough about it. It’s a step up as far as she’s concerned.’

The man’s face was a picture as he listened to the news. ‘A clip joint, is it? Well, I hope it keeps fine for her.’ This was said in a derogatory way but Cathy was saved from answering by Eamonn Junior’s return.

‘All right, Cath? I thought
you
was going to work today,’ he said, looking at his father with a sneer on his face. ‘Many more days off and you’ll be out, mate.’

His father blew out his lips in derision. ‘They can’t get rid of me, I’ve told you that. They can’t get rid of any of the Irish at the moment. You’d do well to remember that.’

Young Eamonn pulled himself up to his full height and said quietly, ‘I told you over and over again, Dad - I ain’t fucking Irish, I’m English!’ Before his father could retort he had pulled Cathy from her seat and they were out the back door and up the path to the lane.

‘I hate that bastard at times.’

Cathy grinned. ‘What with him and me mother, it’s a wonder either of us is even remotely normal.’

Eamonn pulled her against him, and pushed his hand up her skirt. ‘Give us a kiss, Cathy.’

She kissed him then, smelling Coal Tar soap and Park Drive cigarettes.

‘Me mate has a bedsit. He says we can use it tonight.’

Eamonn’s eyes were a deep sea blue. Looking into them, she felt herself drowning. He was half smiling, his face already showing signs of five o’clock shadow. He was as dark as the gypsies he was said to descend from.

Seeing her expression he said softly, ‘Come on, Cathy. What you got to lose? I want you.’

Shaking her head, she sighed heavily. ‘No, Eamonn. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready yet. I told you - I’m frightened.’

She was pleading with her eyes. Eamonn stared hungrily into her pretty heart-shaped face and felt the pull of her then. Closing his own eyes, he said through gritted teeth: ‘For fuck’s sake, Cathy, you’re thirteen going on thirty! You’re not a kid, none of us is. Never bleeding well had the chance! I promise you, I’ll be really nice to you. You’ll love it.’

Cathy felt something inside her give way. Burning her boats, she said: ‘All right then, Eamonn.’

He crushed her to him tightly, feeling the strong steady beat of her heart against his ribs. She was so tiny, yet so female. He loved the smell of her, the feel of her. They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the alley.

‘Eamonn! You’d better come, mate.’

Titchy O’Mara was a small stocky boy of sixteen. He had the roundness of his mother and the harsh features of his father. Out of breath, he put his hands on his knees and steadied himself.

He smiled briefly at Cathy before gasping: ‘There’s a big fight tonight, Bethnal Green against Bermondsey Boys. There’s been fucking murders today! Harry Clark got a hammering in Bermondsey market - he’s in the Old London being stitched and all sorts. They’ve really pushed it this time. We’re going over the water at ten tonight, but we’re tooling up beforehand. You coming or what?’

Eamonn’s face was stiff with anger. ‘Harry Clark? But he’s only a kid, no more than fifteen. The dirty bastards! Have you told the rest of the firm?’

Titchy nodded. ‘’Course I have. We need to get everyone for this. I’m telling you now, this is the big one, mate. We’ve got to sort the fuckers once and for all.’

Eamonn nodded, all thoughts of Cathy forgotten. ‘I’m coming. Wait here while I get me gear.’

She rolled her eyes heavenwards as he disappeared through the back gate into his house. Titchy smiled at her shyly. He liked Cathy Connor, they had a lot in common. His mother was a dock dolly as well.

Five minutes later Eamonn was dressed in his battle clothes: black trousers, black shirt and black leather jacket. His fashionable elephant’s trunk hairstyle was freshly Brylcreemed and he carried a bicycle chain and an iron cosh in a tool bag.

Kissing his cheek, Cathy watched him disappear with Titchy and sighed with relief that the inevitable had been put off for a few days by the actions of the Bermondsey Boys.

 

Eamonn was easily the tallest of his cronies and they looked to him for guidance. Even the older boys looked to him, because Eamonn had the edge. Unlike his pals, who just liked to act it, Eamonn was really hard. He didn’t just fight, he set out to maim. His name was synonymous with real fear in the East End. It wasn’t just his size, impressive though that was. He had a coldness about him that the others picked up on.

At fifteen, he had beaten unconscious a North Londoner called Teddy Spinelli, a loan shark of Italian descent. Once, Teddy had been respected - feared even. Since the hammering he had received at Eamonn’s hands, he had not been seen or heard of anywhere in the Smoke. Even the older villains gave Eamonn his due, impressed with this young boy, this fighter. Seeing themselves in him when young.

This was duly noted and gave him a mystique which Eamonn used shamelessly for his own ends.

There was one drawback to all this, however: every firm with dreams of the big time wanted to be the one to hammer Eamonn Docherty, therefore acquiring his reputation by default. Eamonn knew this and it was why he was so adamant about getting this South London firm put away once and for all. All in the name of poor Harry, of course.

If he pulled this one off, his entry into the real London gangs was assured. He was just sixteen years old.

He began passing out the weapons they had stashed away for such occasions. Putting his bicycle chain around his neck and his cosh down the back of his trousers, he pulled from his jacket a small handgun, ostentatiously checking it for ammunition.

The other boys all stared at him in awe.

‘Where the fuck did you get that?’

Eamonn grinned. ‘It was me old man’s. Let’s just say I borrowed it.’

Titchy’s eyes were round and staring. ‘Surely you’re not going to use it?’ His voice was high, scared-sounding, and Eamonn loved it.

Looking around him at the fourteen-strong gang he had been leading for the past few years, he shook his head.

‘Anyone who can’t handle it had better fuck off now, I ain’t playing kids’ games tonight. Harry Clark is lying in the Old London battered to fuck. Tonight we avenge him, and we go down in London history.’

He smiled at them all, a chilling sight.

‘South London get their comeuppance, and we become the number ones. Within a week we’ll all be on a wage with the big boys. Who needs the docks, eh, when we can pull in big money for doing what we like best? Kicking people’s heads in.’

Titchy laughed nervously. ‘You’re a fucking nutter!’

Eamonn Junior grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from you!’

Everyone laughed, but the sound was tinged with hysteria. Tonight wasn’t just a rumble. Tonight they were going to be blooded - whether they liked it or not.

Eamonn had always had the edge, and each and every one of them knew it. There was no turning back now.

Chapter Four

‘Hello, Cathy love. I see your woman going out done up to the nines. In on your own again the night?’

Mrs Fowler’s voice was kind, and Cathy stood in the lobby to the flats and smiled at the old woman.

‘Yes, I’m on me own tonight, Mrs Fowler. And believe me, with my mother that’s a Godsend at times!’

‘She’s a bleeding case, her,’ the old lady said comfortably. ‘Still, as I always say, each to their own, girl. If you fancy a cuppa later, give me a knock, all right?’

Cathy nodded and took the stairs two at a time, her kitten-heeled shoes clattering all the way up to the second floor. Some people were nice, really nice.

Pulling the key through the letter box on its piece of string, she opened the front door. The worn paint and scarred surface were unchanged from the day they’d first walked in here.

Cathy stepped into the seedy flat. Slipping out of her coat, she looked around her in dismay. Madge had once more completely trashed the tiny kitchen and living room in her hurry to get out to work.

The worn horsehair sofa was covered with sequinned dresses and discarded stockings, most with ladders or badly repaired holes. The floor was littered with shoes and handbags, strewn everywhere, left for her to tidy up.

Walking into the kitchen, she groaned. Make-up in various stages of decay covered all the surfaces. Spit-covered mascara brushes were scattered over the table next to dirty dishes. Exotic blushers were everywhere and gaudy cream eyeshadows were left, minus their lids, by the overflowing ashtray.

Putting on the kettle, Cathy began clearing away. As she carried things into her mother’s bedroom she wrinkled her nose at the stale smell. She threw open the window and looked down into the street, at children playing and women gossiping, and took in a good deep lungful of London air. Leaving the window wide open, she picked up her mother’s large make-up bag and went back into the kitchen. She gathered up the make-up and unzipped the bag. Inside were several packs of French letters. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Then, taking one of the packets, she slipped it into her own clutchbag.

If she was going to lose her cherry, at least she’d do it with proper precautions.

She made herself a cup of tea then began cleaning the lounge, putting all her mother’s dresses on hangers and arraying her shoes in neat lines around Madge’s bedroom walls. The handbags she stacked in the wardrobe, checking them first for change as she always did. Finally she pulled her mother’s bedclothes over the bed and, using the carpet sweeper, cleaned the floor.

Afterwards she made herself a coffee, lit a cigarette and listened to the Beatles on the radio, wondering if she’d ever have the chance to be part of the wild sixties - though, she admitted to herself ruefully, her mother had practised if not exactly free love, then certainly promiscuous love for years. In a funny way she envied her mother. Everything was cut and dried with Madge. You either did something, or you didn’t. There was no middle ground.

Cathy sighed. She rinsed out her cup and then began sorting through the washing basket. As she worked she dreamed of washing clothes in a nice kitchen, like the one on the Tide advert, and cooking elaborate meals for her husband Eamonn. In her dream her mother and Eamonn Senior were miraculously dead and buried, leaving their two children to live the good life with no painful reminders of the past.

Thinking of Eamonn she imagined him taking her sexually and the thought made her breath come in quick jolting gasps. He was right, she admitted. She was ripe for it. What she wasn’t ripe for was a child, a flat like this one and the hard life of the women around her: old before their time and knocking out children like Ford assembly lines.