The Runaway & The Russian (The Runaway Trilogy Book 1)

by Helen Bright

  The Runaway & The Russian

  Helen Bright

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Helen Bright

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN — 978-1-912426-00-3

  Cover by Aubrey Gross at Indie Book Designs

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  1. Tess

  2. Tess

  3. Tess

  4. Tess

  5. Kolya

  6. Tess

  7. Tess

  8. Tess

  9. Kolya

  10. Tess

  11. Tess

  12. Tess

  13. Kolya

  14. Kolya

  15. Kolya

  16. Kolya

  17. Tess

  18. Tess

  19. Tess

  20. Tess

  21. Tess

  22. Kolya

  23. Tess

  24. Kolya

  25. Kolya

  26. Tess

  27. Kolya

  28. Tess

  29. Tess

  30. Kolya

  Coming Soon

  Also by Helen Bright

  About the Author

  Disclaimer

  Both this story and the characters within are fictitious. Any names of people and businesses used are a product of the author’s imagination. Therefore, any similarities are purely coincidental.

  1

  Tess

  Hungry. Scared. Alone. Same feelings, different day, but once again I'd been left with very few choices.

  This had been my life on repeat for many more years than I care to remember, though I know I’d brought this particular situation on myself. After all, it was my idea to run away to London, even though it didn’t feel like I had any other option at the time.

  I thought back to that last day at the children’s home where I’d lived for the last eighteen months. Nearly a week had gone by since I made my escape from The Willows, right under the noses of three residential social workers and two police officers.

  I dug deep in my pockets to find the last few pounds I had left. Even the emergency stash I had in my backpack had been long since spent. The money I now held in my hand came from begging at the side of a homeless guy, whom I befriended my first night of sleeping rough.

  I’d sneaked on to the train at Doncaster and managed to stay hidden away from the conductor until we reached King’s Cross. It was getting late by the time I’d walked into central London, and rush hour was finally coming to an end. I’d looked around for a hostel to stay in but couldn’t get a place that night. So I carried on walking, stopping at a McDonald's for a burger and a hot drink to keep warm.

  There were so many homeless people sleeping rough, and most of them looked scary and dirty, maybe even high. You shouldn’t judge a person when you don’t know their circumstances—I know that more than most. But being homeless was new to me, even if being scared wasn’t, so you can forgive me for being frightened, and a little judgemental.

  By the time I came across Danny I’d been thoroughly exhausted in both body and mind. I’d tripped over his legs as he spread them out over the pavement. He’d immediately jumped up to help me, apologising profusely, and from out of nowhere I’d felt a wet lick on my ear as his little dog, Bess, fussed over me. He’d been sleeping rough for over four weeks since being evicted from his flat. Danny was an ex-soldier who had come back from Afghanistan with PTSD, along with injuries sustained from a roadside IED that left him with a permanent limp.

  He told me how lucky he was to survive the blast because three of his colleagues didn’t. He’d been given a flat and financial help at first, along with counselling. But Danny had failed to go to some of the sessions when anxiety got the better of him, so he lost his counselling and eventually the benefits he was claiming.

  At that time, his PTSD was more severe, and he hadn’t been well enough to hold down a job. Consequently, he couldn’t pay his rent or claim any housing benefit, so he lost his home, too. There were places at a couple of hostels, but they wouldn’t allow him to take Bess. So that’s why Danny, an ex-soldier, someone who had served his country, was sleeping out on the streets.

  Even though I was wearing a winter coat and knitted sweater, I’d been so cold that first night: a typically cool one for late April in the UK. Danny offered to share his sleeping bag with me, and even though I’d declined his offer at first, by the early hours of the next morning I was so bitterly cold I finally gave in and cuddled up next to him. And I’d done so every night since.

  My days are full of keeping out of the rain, begging with Danny in the mornings and through the busy lunchtime hours, then settling down somewhere safe with him and Bess at night.

  I’d told him about some of my past and he could empathise with me a little. Danny’s background hadn’t been all that great either, and he had no family to speak of. That’s why he’d joined the army. Something positive in his life. Somewhere he belonged, and where he made a difference. Pity it hadn’t worked out for him. Danny’s a good man and deserves so much better.

  I also told him about Jean’s heart attack and my arrival at the children’s home—shuddering at the memories that day evoked. Even now as I sipped the remnants of my last hot drink of the day, thinking about my time at The Willows—and the problems Sarah and I had during our stay—brought out the same reaction.

  My mother had been a drug addict who used prostitution to fund her habit. She’d often brought the men she picked up to the two-up two-down council house we had in central Doncaster, and for more years than I care to remember, I had to stay hidden while they were with her.

  It had been my fourteenth birthday when I went into her bedroom to try and stop a guy beating her. When she’d brought him home I’d locked my bedroom door as usual, staying quiet in my room so I didn’t alert him to my presence. I’d heard them having sex, and prayed that he’d be one of those quick finishers that paid well, so I wouldn’t have to listen to his grunting and groaning for too long. But then I’d heard the sound of a fist hitting flesh and my mother crying out in pain, followed by another blow and a scream.

  I ran to my door and listened as more and more punches rained down on her. I unlocked the door, took the cricket bat that I kept by the side of it, and made my way down to my mother’s bedroom. I could hear the guy calling her a fucking bitch and a dirty whore as he hit her harder.

  She was screaming for him to stop, and although she’d always told me that under no circumstances should I come to her room and interfere—no matter what I heard—when the guy said the world would be a better place if she were dead, I opened the bedroom door and ran towards him, swinging the cricket bat as hard as I could at his head.

  Unfortunately for me, the guy beating my mother had quick reflexes and ducked down before the bat made contact, which caused me to fall forward. That’s when he turned his fists on to my face and body, before picking up the cricket bat and using that. I tried to shield myself with my arms and hands but it didn’t seem to stop the bat connecting with me. After what felt like forever, but in reality was only seconds, I’d stopped feeling pain and hearing the noises that accompanied the violence. Just before my world turned black, I saw out of the corner of the only eye I could open, my mother diving towards the man’s bare back with a knife in her hands.

  I woke up a week later in hospital. I’d been placed in a me
dically induced coma to help with the swelling on my brain that the repeated beating had caused. I was black and blue all over, suffering four broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone and collarbone, and three broken fingers. I had various cuts about my face that had mostly healed by the time I was brought out of the coma, but they were still sore, although only the cut above my eyebrow had needed stitches.

  The police had tried to interview me but weren’t allowed in until the social worker arrived. Her name was Andrea, and she’d explained to me what happened after I became unconscious. My mother had stabbed the man, Philip Casey, several times, and he’d died twenty-four hours later. She’d used his phone to call the ambulance, then injected herself with a lethal dose of heroin. She died in the ambulance outside our home after several failed attempts at resuscitation.

  When I first heard the news that my mother had killed herself, I felt my eyes tingle and thought I was going to cry, but due to the extreme swelling and bruising around my eyes, no tears could form. The doctor explained the mechanics of that to me, but that didn’t explain why I didn’t cry for her when I’d healed. Maybe it was because I’d expected it to happen one day, anyway? She’d been a junkie for most of my life and I’d found her near death a few times over the years. Still, you’d have thought I’d have cried for her, and the fact that I didn’t had the social workers wanting to send me to counselling. I didn’t go. I’d stopped trusting anyone in authority by the time I got the appointment.

  So I was only fourteen when I’d found myself alone in the world. I’d been placed in temporary foster care until they checked to see if I had any family that would come forward and take me in. I told the social worker not to hold her breath on that ever happening. I didn’t know who my father was and the only one left on my mother’s side was my grandmother, and she was currently serving time in prison for dealing class A drugs. The look that the social worker gave me when I told her that was one I’d been familiar with for years… Poor Tess, bound to end up the same way as her mother or grandmother… There’s no hope for this one.

  I’d seen that look so often from my teachers, Mum’s last rehab counsellor, and even Mrs Henshall in the local shop. They all expected me to follow in my family’s footsteps, but I was determined that wouldn’t happen. I would never be like them. I was never going to put myself in a position where my life choices were ruled by drugs or alcohol.

  The police were more abrupt when speaking to me than I’d expected them to be. They often had to be reminded by the social worker that they were speaking to a minor, who had gone through a traumatic experience and was still recovering. They’d even asked if I’d been selling my body alongside my mother.

  I’d been examined while I was unconscious and it had been determined that I hadn’t been raped and was still a virgin. I told them I had never been part of my mother’s profession, but I could tell they didn’t believe me. One of them even suggested that I performed other services for men while my mother stole from them, and that’s what had made Philip Casey “lash out.”

  I’d become angry and upset, and the police were made to leave—but I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I’d be accused of doing something I hadn’t done. So I found a way to turn my mind blank and my expression neutral when faced with those questions again, because I hated the satisfied smirk they gave when they knew they’d gotten a reaction from me.

  It was reported in the newspapers that Mr Philip Casey had been a hardworking man, who raised money for cancer charities in his spare time. He’d been a loyal husband and doting father before that fateful night he had been “lured” back to our home by my mother.

  Despite my telling the police what happened, the full events of that night weren’t made public until nearly eleven months later, and by that time I was staying with my foster mother, Jean Brent.

  Jean was there with me throughout the inquest and helped shield me from the reporters outside the courthouse, as well as Philip Casey’s family. They’d spat at me a few times, calling me a murdering, junkie slut.

  Jean had been my rock. She was the same with the other two girls that had been in her care: Sarah and Christine. Sarah was two years younger than me but came from a similar background, and we became friends instantly. I wasn’t as keen on Christine, the older girl. She was a bit stuck-up and believed herself better than us. She’d been in foster care because her mum had a nervous breakdown and was in the hospital. She had no other family that could take her in, only her grandparents. But they were elderly and in poor health, so she ended up in short-term foster care until her mum was better.

  Even though Sarah and I were supposed to be staying with Jean short term, we were with her over two years. Christine stayed less than eight weeks.

  Apart from the police interviews and the inquest, the time I spent living at Jean’s home was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I’d felt safe, well cared for and loved. The day that Jean had her heart attack and I was taken to the children’s home, all that safety and love went out of the window, and the nightmare that was my life began all over again.

  Sarah and I ended up at The Willows an hour or so after they had taken Jean away in the ambulance. She had to have a triple heart bypass and wasn’t able to get us back after her surgery and subsequent recovery. But I do know she tried. She even came to visit us for a while at The Willows, but this was eventually discouraged by Lisa—the absolute meanest bitch of a social worker that ever walked the earth.

  2

  Tess

  Sarah had always been a bit wild and reckless. Being older, I found myself looking after her: trying to keep her from getting into trouble—never an easy task where Sarah was concerned.

  About a year after we’d found ourselves at The Willows, Sarah and I started to attend a youth centre about a mile away. We played basketball and other sports there after school, and on Thursdays they had a disco.

  The DJ was a tall, good-looking, Asian guy of Pakistani origin called Tariq. He was fun to be around and always gave his full attention when he spoke to us. He seemed particularly interested in Sarah and one of the other younger girls called Beth. At first, I just thought he was looking out for Sarah and Beth, and that his influence was helping, as Sarah rarely got into any more fights at school. And, as far as I was aware, her shoplifting habit had declined a little. But one day when we sat in the bedroom we shared, Sarah had pulled an iPhone out of her pocket and began texting someone.

  I asked how she got it, knowing we would never normally get anything as good as that given through social services or The Willows, and my first thought was that she’d stolen it. Sarah had laughed at my worried expression and told me it was a gift from Tariq’s friend, Farid. She said he was in Tariq’s car when he had given her and Beth a lift back to The Willows. She told me he was really friendly and had asked for their mobile numbers so he could call them and take them to the fair that was coming to the next town.

  When they told him they didn’t have mobile phones he said he felt sorry for them, but because he liked them and wanted to be friends, he gave them both a phone from a bag he'd had in the boot of Tariq’s car. He said he fixed and sold mobile phones, so he happened to have them going spare. Both Sarah and Beth were thrilled, and had listened eagerly when he told them how to work the phones. Farid had programmed a few numbers in them so they’d be able to contact him and Tariq. He'd even credited the phones with ten pounds. I remember Sarah sighing and saying how sweet and kind he was, and while not as good-looking as Tariq, his kindness and generosity more than made up for it.

  I’d exhausted myself telling Sarah it was a bad idea to meet up with this Farid guy, but both her and Beth were adamant they wanted to see him again, even if it was only to thank him for the phones. As promised, he picked them up and took them to a travelling fairground in Conisborough.

  She came back late that night, happier than I’d seen her since we lived at Jean’s house. Farid and two of his friends had treated Sarah and Beth to a go on every ride at the fair, and
each had an armful of soft toys that the men had won for them.

  Sarah said she'd told them how much she hated being at The Willows and how she missed Jean so much. She had also told them that, as her best friend, I was worried about her meeting them. They’d said that she should bring me with her next time so I could see they were only trying to be friends. I declined that invitation and every other one they offered over the next few weeks.

  Farid and another guy called Hassan, spoiled Sarah and Beth with gifts of clothing and CDs. I watched helplessly as my only friend drifted away from me as she fell in love with both Farid and the new lifestyle she was living.

  It was nine weeks after she first met Farid that Sarah came to me really upset. She cried for what seemed like half an hour before she told me what had happened. She’d been having sex with Farid at least twice a week for the last couple of weeks, but now he said because he loved her, and was proud of her and how sexy she was, he wanted to show her off to his friends.

  She went along with him to a house about an hour’s drive away in the Nottingham area—from what she could gather by the road signs. When they got inside, there were at least seven other men waiting for them. Beth and Hassan were already there, and Hassan asked if Beth would kiss some of the other men—which she did. But, when Farid asked Sarah she refused.