The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  Desrae said breathily, in his best girlie voice: ‘Coffee, please. Sweet and warm, like you.’

  Tony nodded and watched as he sat himself down. Desrae was known around Soho; he was a fixture there. Not because he was a transvestite, but because his long-time boyfriend was none other than Joey Pasquale.

  Joey was a face, a real face.

  He ran the West End through utter fear and terror. Joey was known to be hard; not hard but fair, like most successful villains, just hard. Joey’s only known weaknesses were Desrae, whom he had been with for years, and his wife and son.

  Tommy Pasquale was eighteen and had recently been introduced into his father’s business. He was getting a big reputation fast. It was also rumoured that he had called Desrae ‘Auntie’ for years, though no one had ever had the guts to ask outright if this were true.

  Desrae did not usually frequent places like Tony Gosa’s; he used the nicer places in Piccadilly where they knew him and treated him with respect. No, he was sitting in Tony’s cafe for a reason, and Tony had a feeling that whatever that reason was, it meant trouble for him.

  As Tony placed the coffee in front of him, Desrae gave a wide smile. ‘Put up any more poor little girls lately, have we?’

  Tony’s smile froze on his face.

  ‘Does a blinding breakfast your mum, so my little niece was telling me anyway. Came looking for me, she did, and I hear she spent a rather enlightening evening with you and your mother.’

  Tony didn’t say anything, he was incapable of speech.

  ‘Name of Cathy. Remember her, do you? Only I think you charged her twenty-five quid. Yes, I think that was the amount. Or no, come to think of it, could have been fifty quid.’ He pretended to concentrate, frowning deeply. ‘Yeah, fifty quid I think it was. At least that’s what she told me and my friend Joey. Very upset Joey was as well. Likes the kid a lot he does.’

  Tony felt a cold sweat break out all over his body.

  ‘Has he been in at all?’ Desrae continued. ‘I should imagine he’s looking for me by now.’

  Tony shook his head. Walking back to his till, he extracted the fifty pounds in record time and shoved it into Desrae’s outstretched hands, apologising all the while. ‘If she’d said she was your niece, I swear on my mother’s eyes . . .’

  Desrae interrupted him. ‘Shut up, you Greek ponce. You’d sell your mother’s eyesight for a few quid, and she’d sell yours. Cut the fanny and listen. As yet Joey knows nothing, but if I hear that any of my niece’s business has been discussed anywhere, I’ll bring you so much trouble you’ll wish your mother had never bothered to open her legs the night you were conceived. Do you get my drift?’

  ‘Yes . . . Listen, Desrae, if you say she’s your niece, she’s your niece. She can be your daughter for all I care, so long as I don’t get no call from Mr Pasquale.’

  Desrae laughed delightedly. ‘Daughter would be a bit strong even for me, dearie. Niece will do nicely. Make a point of mentioning her around, would you? I’d appreciate it. Maybe I’ll bring her in one day for a little chat.’

  Tony swallowed hard. ‘Your niece will always be welcome here, as you are.’

  Desrae stood up and looked down at the smaller man before him.

  ‘Frightened, aren’t you? You’re so frightened you’d suck my cock if I asked you nicely, wouldn’t you?’

  Tony was dismayed. Desrae was capable of anything, everyone knew that. His reputation was as fierce as his boyfriend’s. No one had ever had Desrae over and lived to tell the tale. Unlike a lot of the queers around Soho, he was certainly not the victim type. For all his girlish voice and exaggerated mannerisms, Desrae could throw a punch like a docker and wasn’t afraid to use a knife. Tony was trashed and he knew it. He also knew that if Desrae insisted on having his cock sucked, he would have to do it.

  Desrae laughed once more. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fussy what I fuck. Always have been. You just watch yourself, mate. You ripped off the wrong person. You must be losing your touch, old chap.’

  As he walked from the cafe in his black high heels, Tony Gosa breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. He should have guessed that little bitch would be trouble. Look at the way she’d come back in, looking for her money.

  Well, if she had the protection of Desrae and Pasquale, she was one lucky little girl. Quite frankly, Tony hoped he never clapped eyes on her again.

  Desrae walked around Soho, treated like visiting royalty wherever he went. As he swayed through the market he waved at whores and bouncers alike, greeting them all with his high voice and breathy, over-feminine laugh.

  ‘I got me niece staying. Wait until you all meet her, she’s a right little darling.’

  Everyone feigned pleasure for him and waved happily as he passed by.

  But Desrae knew exactly what he was doing, telling this story. Once Cathy was accepted as his niece, however incongruous that might sound, she would actually become his relative in everyone’s mind. Any questions about her would then be met with a blank wall of silence, which was exactly what he wanted.

  He loved taking care of people, and now he had found a person he could care for who didn’t already know his reputation and lifestyle. He wanted to make sure that when Cathy found out about them, she would already love him for himself.

  As he made his way to Oxford Street with the fifty pounds in his bag and Cathy’s measurements in his mind, he had an amusing thought. He would dress her like a little queen. She’d be a big queen’s little princess!

  He laughed out loud at his little joke.

  What Joey would say when he saw her, Desrae didn’t have a clue, but knowing Joey, he wouldn’t say much. Which was a major part of his attraction. Joey trusted him implicitly. They trusted one another. There was more to their relationship than anyone had ever guessed and that suited them both right down to the ground.

  Desrae’s eyes misted over as he thought of his first meeting with Joey Pasquale. He always liked to think it had been fate that had brought them together.

  Fifteen years before, one cold rainy night, he had been dressed in his finest and cruising the streets of Soho looking for a likely lad. A punter. Instead he had been dragged into a car and taken to waste ground over Notting Hill way. An old bombsite had been the place where he had learned what gang rape was.

  When his kidnappers had realised he was not a woman they had gone mad, pulling at his penis, slashing at it with knives. Finally, after he had performed oral sex on them all, they had systematically raped him in the roughest of fashions, all laughing and enjoying themselves.

  Desrae had been amazed at how young they were, only his own age. They were probably respectable types at heart who would forget the events of tonight and go on to lead perfectly normal lives. He knew already that many so-called he-men were some of the worst shitstabbers going. So many people lived a double life. The clubs he cruised had taught him all he needed to know about that.

  Now he had been abused and humiliated by five young men who doubtless believed their actions were justified because Desrae wasn’t one of the lads. He pulled himself to his knees and felt the sting of tears against the black eye he had received when they’d still thought he was a female.

  One of the boys was doing up his flies. The flick knife still in his hand was making this very difficult.

  Blood was dripping down Desrae’s own thighs, and feeling the knife wound in his testes open up with his sudden movement, he made a dive for the knife. As he snatched it away, he brought his arm up with as much force as he could into the boy’s neck.

  The eight-inch blade sliced through the skin and severed the windpipe.

  The others stood and watched in horror.

  A hissing sound invaded the night, blanking out for them the rumble of trains passing by in the distance. The boy fell backwards, eyes staring up at the night sky.

  One of the lads, the smallest, a puny type with thickly greased hair and a cheap leather jacket, kept saying over and over: ‘Jesus fucking Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!
’

  Staring at the knife in his hand, Desrae looked at the others in amazement. A gurgling noise came from the boy on the ground and they all knew instinctively that he was dead.

  Within seconds Desrae was alone.

  The lads ran off, terrified and ashamed of what they had seen and done.

  Tidying himself as best he could, Desrae tried to stand. His anus was raw, throbbing with pain and bleeding heavily. He knew he had to get to a doctor; had to get away from the dead boy before him. As he staggered off, the high heels he had slipped on so proudly hours before impeded his movements, and he stopped and took them off.

  It was then that he saw a man coming towards him. His fear was so great he dropped to his knees and began to wail loudly. He was caught, found out. His life was over. Once they realised what he had done there would be hell to pay. No one would believe a word he said in his defence. He would be portrayed as a sexual deviant who had cold-bloodedly murdered an innocent young boy.

  All this was going through his mind as he felt a heavy hand clamp down on his mouth. He wanted to scream in terror but could not. Then a voice whispered heavily in his ears, ‘If you stop struggling for one bloody second I’ll try and help you, love. Now, where’s your wig and have you got a bag?’

  Desrae looked up into the most handsome face he had ever seen. Swallowing down the tears, he answered the man’s questions. ‘I’ve lost them. Please help me! Please . . .’

  The man was kind. He helped Desrae up and picked up his shoes for him.

  ‘Listen, son, I’ve seen the body and I’ve guessed what happened. Now try and calm yourself down and I’ll get your bits and bobs then take you home, OK?’

  Desrae nodded. The man had said ‘son’; he knew what he was and didn’t care.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting uncomfortably in a classy car, blood dripping all over the leather upholstery. The man was still talking, trying to calm him, and his deep voice was having the desired effect.

  His rescuer took him to a doctor in Barnes. As he limped up the path Desrae wondered what the hell he was letting himself in for. The man must have guessed his feelings because he said gently, ‘He’s a proper doctor, stop worrying. An abortionist. I use him sometimes in my work, OK? There’s not going to be any Old Bill called, so relax.’

  Desrae didn’t really have much choice.

  He stayed with the doctor for three days, after being stitched up and sedated. His rescuer came every day and after introducing himself, made the boy a proposition.

  He would take care of him, be friends with him, and every so often would want a favour in return. They both knew what the favour was, and both were quite happy with the arrangement. Desrae had been grateful to Joey Pasquale ever since.

  Friendships like that were few and far between for men like him and he was wise enough to know it - because it was Joey’s friendship he appreciated more than anything else. He had been provided with a flat and introduced into the best queer clubs London could offer. He had a blinding clientele and he had protection. His relationship with Joey guaranteed that. Their sex life was mutually satisfying and now a deep bond of affection and respect kept them together. Desrae knew how lucky he had been and thanked God for Joey every day of his life.

  He adored his friend and protector. He only hoped that little Cathy would feel the same way.

  When he finally let himself back into his flat he smiled to hear laughter coming from the kitchen. Cathy had met Joey and they were obviously hitting it off. Desrae had had a feeling they would.

  If anyone would understand his feelings for the girl, and his reason for taking her in, Joey would. He had after all, done practically the same thing.

  Laden down with his purchases, Desrae walked into the kitchen and said heavily: ‘What’s this then, a bleeding mother’s meeting?’

  Cathy and Joey looked at one another and grinned.

  Joey raised his deep brown eyes to the ceiling and said, equally as heavily, ‘Not more fucking shopping, Des! What boutique you cleaned out now?’ Looking at Cathy, he shook his head sorrowfully. ‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a bloke’s ear.’

  Still chuckling, she began to make another pot of tea and the atmosphere in the kitchen became almost festive.

  After kissing Joey on the cheek, Desrae looked into his eyes and said: ‘I couldn’t leave her on the streets, could I?’

  Joey shook his head. ‘’Course not. But I hope for both your sakes you got me some breakfast, girl, I’m starving.’

  Desrae winked at him and smiled. Joey smiled back.

  Cathy looked at the two of them and thanked God for leading her in the direction of Desrae and his boyfriend. If she had known their reputation she would still have thanked God, but it was to be a while before she really found out anything.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eamonn was white-faced with shock, and he knew that he was in big trouble. All the time he had been working he had known that to upset his boss would be a very foolish thing to do. Now he had not only upset Dixon but had made the further mistake of boasting openly that he did not care.

  Eamonn knew that this was the worst sin he could have committed and cursed Caroline and the drink, both of whom he held responsible for his own predicament. He’d been showing off in front of her, but without the drink would never have dreamed of saying what he’d said.

  Namely that his boss was a silly old bastard who needed Eamonn a damn sight more than he needed Dixon. The words spoken in bravado, in a pub full of people, had instantly been reported back and more than likely exaggerated in the process.

  Eamonn knew that in the last seven months he had made himself more than a few enemies, with his loud mouth and his ruthless ways. He acted the hard man all the time, from the moment he got up in the morning until he went to bed at night. He knew this, cultivated it. He wanted to be the most frightening face in the East End and was gradually achieving his wish. Other firms had tried to poach him. He was well known as a nutter, a head case - an up and coming man for the future.

  Now he was terrified. As the two known hard men stood in the doorway of his flat, he felt a slackening of his sphincter muscle. Danny Dixon was a lot of things, but he was no fool. Now he would have to take Eamonn down a peg or two. If he didn’t, he would lose his street credibility overnight.

  Feeling the fear in his guts, Eamonn looked into Caroline’s wide-eyed face and said heavily; ‘I won’t be long.’

  The two heavies laughed gently. ‘Don’t wait up, love. We’ll see he gets back safely.’

  She watched as they took him from the house before giving way to helpless tears. Eamonn was everything to her, and she needed him now more than ever since she’d begun to suspect she was pregnant.

  All she needed was for him to get wasted by Dixon; ‘wasted’ in the East End did not necessarily mean killed. Dixon could just as easily have him crippled; he had done that to people before. If anyone took money from him, he had their fingers chopped off with secateurs or had them tipped into baths of boiling water. He was not a man to upset, and even Caroline understood that what Eamonn had said was tantamount to mutiny.

  She sat by the fire and waited.

  There was nothing else she could do.

  Danny Dixon was upset.

  He had liked the boy Docherty and had enjoyed being his mentor. It was a funny thing that he had taken to Eamonn because normally he didn’t take to anyone. Even his own kids, whom of course he loved, had never really endeared themselves to him. He had guessed that his feelings for the Irish boy were because he had seen in Eamonn himself as a young man. Seen himself reflected in the boy’s hungry blue eyes and swaggering walk. He was full of bullshit and bravado, just seventeen after all. Yes, Eamonn reminded him so much of himself at that age that he’d allowed sentiment to cloud his judgement.

  A few times in the past the boy had spoken carelessly and Dixon had let it slip. Now, though, Eamonn had pushed his luck too far.

  Dixon knew that the boy had been giving H
arvey’s daughter a hammering. It was common knowledge that he battered the girl on a regular basis. This had disturbed Danny. He might not have a lot going for him in life but he had never, ever touched a female in anger, not even his wife who could try the patience of the Good Lord Himself when she had the hump.

  Eamonn Docherty had to be taught a lesson and he had to be taught it soon.

  People were talking about him, about what he’d said and how he’d said it. It annoyed Dixon to find some of his own hard men acting like fishwives, gossiping about the boy and his lifestyle. Telling Dixon other little things they felt he should know. He had realised long ago that Eamonn was not generally liked. Well, he wasn’t too bothered by that; knew very well he wouldn’t win a popularity contest himself. His role was not to be liked, it was to terrify. And so was the boy’s.

  Now Dixon had to terrify him, and frankly he wasn’t feeling up to it at the moment.

  He had broken his cardinal rule: he had begun to like an employee.

  Cracking his heavy knuckles, he looked around the small warehouse. It was full of stolen booty and smelled of tobacco and whisky. He opened a box and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Opening it, he took a long swig.

  His two minders exchanged glances. Surely Danny didn’t need a drink before doing this little job? He noticed the looks and filed them away for future reference. These two men were like all the others: they were pretenders to the throne of Danny Dixon. Well, like the others, he would sort them out.

  Maybe this session with Eamonn Junior would help with that. He would give the boy a good hiding, teach him a lesson and make sure it was well publicised.

  A hiding would keep him in place, and all the others too. Satisfied with himself, he took another long swallow of the whisky. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shouted at his two minders: ‘Had your fucking look, you two? Like a pair of fucking tarts, standing there watching me every move.’

  The two men looked down at the floor and kept quiet. When Danny was in this mood the best thing to do was to keep your head down and your mouth shut.