by Martina Cole
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.
In many respects he was right.
The boy before him reminded Danny very much of himself. Eamonn Docherty Junior, as he was known, lived life with the express wish of accumulating money and spending it. He wanted the best and wanted it as quickly as possible. He would also do anything to further his own ends. Unlike most of Dixon’s heavies this boy would never, ever draw a line. Had no boundaries.
Dixon admired this, even though he knew the lad would one day be dangerous because of these very qualities.
One day, Eamonn would want what he had. It was a simple fact of life. When that day came, he would deal with it. Until then he would use the boy, be his mentor.
Dixon believed in the old adage: It takes one to know one. In this case he was pretty sure he had met, if not his match then the nearest he would ever get to it.
Eamonn left ten minutes later two hundred pounds richer and unsure exactly what he had done to earn it other than beat a man nearly to death.
That beating had been bought and paid for already.
He wouldn’t understand for a little while that the unexpected gift had been nothing more than a publicity exercise for himself and Dixon.
The beating would be talked of, naturally, but the two hundred pounds would be discussed everywhere. In every pub, club and drinking establishment.
Even his own men would discuss it.
It was sound economics.
Lessons would be learned.
For the moment, Dixon could sleep easier in his bed and Eamonn Docherty could bask in the kudos Dixon’s largesse had afforded him.
Mary Barton was deeply concerned. Taking one look at the girl in the bed, she turned on Hodges ferociously.
‘Get the doctor, you bloody fool of a man!’
As he lurched from the room she looked at her friend and colleague and raised her eyes heavenwards.
Miss Henley shook her head sorrowfully. ‘No one was here with her. I thought he would have let it go after a couple of hours. I had no idea he had left her for the whole night.’
This was a lie and they both knew it. It was all part and parcel of the game they played. Everyone pretended that what they did was perfectly normal. No one actually admitted out loud that their treatment of the children in their care was abominable.
Nor would anyone ever admit that the money they skimmed from everything, from heating to food to clothing, was ever used for anything other than the most righteous and just of causes. It was a cruel and cynical game and they were all experts at it.
‘What the hell will we say?’ Miss Henley’s voice was frightened.
Mrs Barton shrugged as if this were a normal day in a normal home. ‘Why, the truth, of course. One of the other girls did this to her and we found her like it. What else can we say?’
Brown’s voice came from the back of the room. ‘Or we could say that the sadistic old bastard in charge of the place tied her up, nearly killed her, and came in during the night to have a look at his handiwork. Because you can guarantee that he did, ladies. And I bet he loved it! Especially when she was still lucid and knew what was happening to her. He could’ve done anything to her!
‘Or we could say that she isn’t actually supposed to be here, because she hasn’t actually done anything wrong - unless we count the fact that you took one look at her and decided she should be locked up, Mrs Barton. I mean, that’s why she’s really here, isn’t it?’
The two older women stared at June Brown in amazement.
‘Have you gone off your head, woman?’ Mrs Barton’s voice was scandalised.
The heavy-set woman before them shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep me trap shut, but I warn you all now: this place has got to sort itself out. Me and Jonesey are sick of it. Our job is to police the girls, not the bleedin’ staff. Look at the pair of you! A dried-up old stick and a raving lesbian. And as for Hodges . . . he’s a sick-minded fucking pervert! By Christ, how the hell you sleep at night, I don’t know.’
Miss Henley’s face was red and shiny with nervous perspiration. ‘You can talk. What abo—’
June Brown interrupted her. ‘Me and Jonesey have been together for years, lady. We ain’t after little girls. Look at you and Denise . . . you think we don’t know? She describes it all in graphic detail to give the other inmates a laugh and you think no one knows? You’re really that fucking stupid? They talk about everything, and when they leave they take it with them, in their hearts and in their minds. One day it will all come out and I can’t fucking wait to see the shit hit the fan then.’
She walked from the room, a fundamentally decent woman who, because of sexual preferences, was reduced to living a life of shame and humiliation in an institution where her so-called strangeness was more or less normal compared to the peccadilloes of the people in charge.
As she had remarked to her long-time friend, Gillian Jones: ‘The price we have paid for our friendship is much too high. If we’re unnatural, what the fuck does that make this lot?’
Life could be very unfair, as the Two Misses knew to their cost.
If they blew the whistle, it would be their word against everyone else’s and they both knew that they wouldn’t stand a snowflake in hell’s chance of ever being believed.
After a strong coffee laced with Scotch, Miss Brown let the doctor into the Home and played the game as she was supposed to. Ergo: she lied through her crooked teeth.
Chapter Twelve
The doctor was shocked and disgusted at the treatment meted out to the girl in the bed. He was on the verge of taking her to hospital when it was pointed out to him that she was a violent offender and had to be taken everywhere under guard.
The doctor, who only a few months previously had been brought in to help save a child who had mutilated herself and her dorm-mate, was not as shocked as he made himself out to be. Indeed, he dined out on his stories of this female institution, and in fact wished he were called there more often.
An actual tying up would be a very good story for his cronies and professional colleagues alike.
He had the girl lucid and sufficiently recovered to be spoken to and understood within one week - a feat he was proud of and which earned him the heartfelt gratitude of the authorities at Benton.
The doors, however, remained closed to him after that and he had to wonder at the fate of that particular girl as he did about others he had treated there. In his heart he knew he was part of a conspiracy of some sort, but wrongly believed it was to keep the good name of Deal as a holiday centre spotless. Mrs Barton knew human nature and sussed out the good doctor from the off, while he congratulated himself on the fact that the girl would have lost at least one limb, if not for him.
As it was she had a full complement of arms and legs and was making an excellent recovery.
Cathy was a silent and stoical patient.
He put the quietness down to the ordeal she had been through. He never dreamed it was Miss Henley’s presence that kept the child so tight-lipped.
It would take twenty years and the admission of tie down practices by the care authorities before he would piece together exactly what had gone on right under his nose.
Until that time he would congratulate himself on a job well done.
Denise was allowed to visit the sick girl on a regular basis. The fear everyone had experienced at Cathy’s near demise had communicated itself to the residents of the Home and all were aware that, for once, they had the upper hand.
Food was plentiful, warmth was an everyday thing and the excessive punishments meted out were a thing of the past. Everyone knew it would not last and everyone was enjoying the respite while they could. No one more so than Denise.
As she looked down at the girl in the bed, she felt a tightening in her chest and realised it was a form of love.
Miss Henley and the others knew that Denise was the linchpin of the whole Home. That in her own way she worked with them to keep some kind of order; one word from her and there could be murder committed before their very ey
es. Suddenly, the boot was on the other foot and, realising this, Denise milked it for all it was worth.
What Denise didn’t know was that the guilty members of staff were already conspiring between them to remove both Cathy and herself from the Home as soon as was humanly possible.
Cathy opened her eyes and smiled gently. ‘Me hands are still killing me.’
Denise winced. ‘I bet they are, girl. They look painful even now.’
The tight bonds had cut off her circulation from the wrists. Eventually her hands had swollen badly and now, a week on, Cathy was losing her nails. The strange thing was, this was the most painful part of the whole ordeal.
‘I hate having to be fed as well, I feel a right prat.’ Cathy’s voice was harder than before, her eyes more wary, but her small-boned body had an indomitable air that was obvious to any onlooker.
She had been through so much, in such a short space of time, that anything the world threw at her now would be as nothing. Unwittingly, Benton School for Girls had shaped the rest of her life.
Denise sensed this and was both elated and sorry. ‘How long do you reckon then?’ Denise’s voice was low. Even though they were alone, neither was going to take any chance of being overheard.
‘Another week and I’ll be back on me pins. And then I want out.’ Cathy’s voice was wistful, the need to escape so strong she could almost taste it.
‘Unlike me, see, you won’t be pulled back in because you’re not really supposed to be here anyway,’ Denise whispered to her. ‘I’ll have to go right on the trot, me. South London is the last place I can go. I was thinking of Up West or even the North. Those twins, Maureen and Doreen, reckon I could make a good living up at a place called Lumb Lane in Bradford. Apparently it’s really lucrative and all the women who work there look the business and have good pimps and everything.’