The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  She nodded and went through to the club to pour herself a brandy. It felt strange to be back, a different place now there was no prospect of seeing Joey stride in, shouting the odds and quelling any troublemakers with one glance of his hooded eyes.

  ‘You’d better get in touch with Tommy,’ Casper advised.

  Cathy nodded, but no one had heard from him in days. Suddenly, after the tip off about the Maltese, she was frightened.

  Eamonn was tired, but he knew he had to see Cathy. Now that everything was sorted out he had a few days to himself and she was the first thing on his agenda. As he made his way to the flat she lived in, he was whistling.

  Then he saw her.

  She was dressed simply in a cheesecloth blouse and long lemon-coloured skirt. She was braless and he could see the movement of her breasts through the thin fabric. Her long blonde hair was pulled back by two combs and her narrow waist emphasised by a thick yellow belt. She looked like every other girl in 1970s London, except she was more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen in his life. The longing for her was still there and she brought back memories he had thought buried for ever.

  As he watched her easy stride, he remembered their chaotic home in Bethnal Green, and the feeling of absolute calm she’d engendered in him then. As long as they’d had one another they were fine. He had used and abused her, and he knew that. But such was the bigness of Cathy’s heart, she had forgiven him.

  While still children they had been through more than most people would ever have to face in a whole lifetime. Yet they had found something in each other that had made them resilient, exceptionally close, fated to love because their lives were so similar and so blighted they could only ever find true happiness together. Only with one another could they really be whole.

  As Cathy caught sight of him Eamonn saw a smile light up her lovely face and his heart opened up to her. She ran to him, eyes bright and smile wide and trusting. How could he ever have hurt someone like Cathy? he wondered. Well, he was a different person now, with nothing to prove to anyone. He would treat her right this time, he swore to himself.

  ‘Were you coming round to me?’ Her voice was eager and hopeful.

  ‘Where else would I be going? But listen, Cathy, come to my hotel. We can talk properly there. I don’t think Desrae approves of me.’

  It was said jokingly but Cathy understood him and nodded. She knew she should go home and tell Desrae about the trouble at the club and her worries over Tommy’s disappearance. She knew exactly what she should do but, just like before, when Eamonn whistled she ran.

  This time he would get anything he wanted from her.

  Anything at all.

  Cathy was impressed with Eamonn’s hotel suite and it showed. The Ritz had been just a name to them as children; certainly neither of them had ever dreamed they would get to stay there one day. She was entranced by the decor, the ornamental mouldings, subtle colours and rich brocaded curtains.

  The huge double bed was also fascinating, because Cathy knew she was going to end up in it and felt both frightened and exhilarated at the same time. For all her newfound confidence, being with Eamonn once more made her feel like a naive young girl again.

  Opening a bottle of champagne, he grinned at her. ‘Real Dom Perignon, not the watered-down shit you serve in your club.’

  Cathy took the cut-glass flute from him and grinned. ‘There’s fuck all wrong with our champagne, mate. It’s real enough, it’s just no one’s ever heard of the label.’

  They both laughed.

  Sitting beside her on the brocade love seat, he hugged her to him. ‘I’ve missed you. I tried to ring but I was just so snowed under. I’ve been up to Liverpool, sorting out a few things.’

  Cathy drank her glass of champagne in one long gulp and Eamonn laughed.

  ‘I’m impressed. That’s twenty quid a bottle. I can see this afternoon is going to cost me the national debt!’

  Cathy was feeling light-headed with the unaccustomed champagne on top of the large brandy she had had earlier to calm her nerves.

  ‘Why are you in England, Eamonn? The other night you talked and talked but didn’t really tell me much.’

  She was shrewd, he already knew that. Now he debated how much to tell her.

  As he looked down into her eyes, she reached up and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Eamonn. All the feelings from before, they’re still there inside me. You’re the only man I have cared about, both as a friend and a lover.’

  As he kissed her back, the old feelings stirred inside her. The feeling of being a part of someone, of being safe. As his fingers explored her breasts and face she felt the first promptings of desire, and rejoiced.

  Taking her into the bedroom, Eamonn closed the heavy drapes and watched as she undressed. She was so shy, so obviously inexperienced, and this endeared her to him even more. Eamonn was used to predatory women by now. His wife, convent girl and devoted mother, was an aggressive lover. But Cathy, who worked in Soho and lived her daily life surrounded by sex, was timid.

  Slipping naked into bed, she waited for him. The sheets were cold and her body was tingling with goosebumps, making her more aware of it than she had ever been before. As he undressed she watched him; the champagne was making her feel more relaxed, warm inside.

  Practically leaping into bed, Eamonn ripped the covers from her and stared at her in the half-light. ‘You’re beautiful, Cathy.’

  He touched one breast very gently. Kneeling beside her on the bed, he stared down at her in fascination. Cathy watched his face as he touched her then his mouth was closing around one nipple. She moaned. He was biting her now, very gently, making her want him more.

  Opening her legs, he moved down her body and began to caress her with his tongue.

  Eamonn was expert at oral sex, he knew that. Many women had squirmed beneath him and he loved it when he made them come, felt their orgasm. He used all his considerable skill on Cathy, rousing her to fever pitch until eventually he entered her. Riding her now, he watched her full breasts bouncing with each of his thrusts. Her tiny waist made them look bigger and he felt all the excitement of the visual aspect of sex, observing her as she moved beneath him.

  Her eyes were closed, lips parted, long hair trailing over her face. He felt her orgasm build and encircle him, finally casting her adrift on the hard rhythmic thrusting that brought him swiftly to a shattering climax.

  As he collapsed on top of her, she gathered him into her arms, hugging him to her. He kissed and nuzzled her. ‘Oh Cathy, Cathy. That was wonderful . . . I’ve wanted you so much . . . you wouldn’t believe.’

  She lay beneath him, face buried in his neck, her body tingling still, revelling in the touch of his skin on hers.

  Pulling himself up, he gazed down into her face and said gently, ‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

  Cathy smiled tremulously and nodded. He gathered her to him once more and they lay together in silence as he waited for his heart to stop its erratic beating and his breathing to return to normal. She wasn’t lively, like his usual women, but then this was his Cathy, the girl he loved.

  Hugging her a final time, he finally withdrew from her, and being Eamonn Docherty, his father’s son, hoped he had given her a child. That would have been a real kick, made her his even when he wasn’t here. As it was he had to go back to New York, and soon. Deirdra was making restless noises and threatening to arrive in London if he didn’t hurry back.

  After his wife’s heavy body and sexual demands, Cathy was like a breath of fresh air. He loved the smell of her, the feel of her, everything about her, and intended to come to London often to see her.

  He was holding her tight, trying to figure out how he was going to tell her about his wife and family yet keep her sweet enough to wait until the next time he was over.

  She had told him about the threat from Maltese Victor, and he suddenly realised how he could walk away and still keep Cathy’s good opinion. He had a little plan and would ac
t on it as soon as possible. That way he could come out of this with her undying love and affection.

  He told himself he would do anything to keep that.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cathy was on cloud nine and it showed. It was as if the girl had been lit up from inside and in a way Desrae envied her.

  He remembered how it felt to be young, in love, and also in lust. For him it had been Joey, who had been worthy of that regard. He wasn’t so sure about this Docherty who was too smooth by half. He was convinced Eamonn was going to leave Cathy’s life as suddenly as he’d entered it and could do nothing to prevent that hurt. All he could do was stand by the girl as best he could.

  For now, though, he had the worry of the predatory Maltese, the fact that Tommy was apparently on the missing list, and threats to the club hanging over his head.

  ‘Do you think anything can have happened to Tommy, Desrae?’ Cathy asked him in a small voice.

  ‘I really don’t know, love. I even rang his mum’s, pretending I was a business associate looking for him. She hasn’t seen him either, only she didn’t sound too bothered about it. She was pissed as usual.’

  Cathy looked worried. ‘I’ll get the boys out on the street, shall I? See if they can come up with anything.’

  Desrae shook his head. ‘No, love, not yet. We don’t know for sure that anything’s happened and if we go looking for him then word will get round. Leave it for another twenty-four hours and see what develops, OK? I’ll have a word with Gates, see what he can come up with.’

  ‘Fair enough. Eamonn will know what to do anyway. He’ll be round soon.’

  Desrae forced a smile on to his face. ‘That’ll be nice for you.’

  Cathy knew how much it had taken for him to say that. She hugged her friend. ‘Oh, leave it out, Desrae, I’ve known him all my life.’

  He shook his head sadly and grabbed her hands. ‘All I’m saying, love, is be careful, that’s all. But I’m here for you when you need me, you know that.’

  His voice said he thought that would be sooner than either of them knew.

  Maltese Victor was pleased with himself. No one had seen hide nor hair of Tommy Pasquale for days and the Soho community was agog, waiting to see who the new baron was going to be.

  Never had there been such excitement and speculation in the West End. Joey’s death and Tommy’s sudden disappearance, coupled with the death of O’Hare, had made even the laziest whore interested in what was going on around her.

  As Victor stepped out of his club on to Old Compton Street, he hailed a couple of touts who worked for him. When he crossed over to walk into Dean Street he was smiling after the respect they had shown him.

  It was early evening, the place was coming alive and all the garish lights were being turned on ready for the night’s business. Victor loved Soho, loved every part of it. He had liked old Joey, but now he was gone the place was open to anyone with a bit of nous. And Victor had that in abundance.

  When the car pulled up beside him and he was hailed, he turned happily, knowing the voice and feeling safe. His old associate Demetrious Scalpie smiled at him, and Victor smiled back. Scalpie was a small-time villain, a Greek with a Maltese wife and a Maltese mentality. Victor was waiting for the man to give him his due respect. He could hear the strains of Blue Mink’s Banner Man coming from a nearby bar, smell the onions and offal sold by a street vendor.

  Life was good, and Victor was happy.

  When the shot hit him in the chest, at first he thought he was imagining it. There was no pain at all, just a heaviness as he was forced backwards. The second shot hit him in the shoulder, nearly taking off his arm. As the blood flowed he stared at it, amazed. Then he looked up at Scalpie. The man’s face was creased into a smile as he aimed the gun at his friend’s head.

  Then Victor knew no more.

  Scalpie was back inside his car and off down Dean Street before the screaming hostess who had witnessed it all was back inside her club to tell the tale.

  Victor lay on the dirty pavement, his eyes still registering shock as they stared blindly up at the night sky.

  By the time the police arrived, two clubs in the vicinity were closed and in the others no one had seen anything.

  No one had heard anything.

  And no one gave a shit anyway.

  Desrae smiled at Eamonn and he smiled back at him. Neither smiles quite reached their eyes but it was the best they could do. Cathy, pleased that there was no real animosity, was happy enough. As she poured them all drinks, she felt a warm glow inside her. Eamonn looked so handsome this evening. She drank him in with her eyes as he made small talk with Desrae.

  The phone rang and Desrae answered it, eyes widening with surprise as he took in what had just been said. Putting down the receiver, he looked at Cathy and shook his head in amazement. ‘Maltese Victor is dead, can you believe it?’

  Eamonn, the big man, happy with his role in everything, grinned. ‘Gunned down in Old Compton Street, about one hour ago, yeah?’

  Desrae stared at him, eyes now registering a grudging respect. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I made it happen. Now I’ve asked around about you, Desrae, and I know that you’re sound, so anything I say is not to leave this room, OK?’

  Cathy and Desrae nodded.

  ‘I wiped him out as a favour to Cathy. I know Joey’s death was a blow and that you will need a bit of muscle. I’ve arranged that muscle for you. I also had a hand in the murder of O’Hare, but that was personal, nothing to do with Joey. I just did you all a favour without knowing it.’ He was smug, enjoying their attention.

  Desrae was intrigued. ‘But you’re living in New York. What the fuck was O’Hare to you? Where did he fit into the picture?’

  ‘I’m involved in a lot of organised crime in the States, and that business extends to England. I obviously have other interests in New York, but my main enterprise is here, in dear old Blighty.’ He smiled to take the edge from his next words. ‘I’m involved with the IRA.’

  Cathy’s mouth dropped open. ‘But they’re terrorists! They’re just a load of fanatics . . . What the fuck are you doing with them? You hated being half Irish. You would never admit to it. When your dad used to spout off about them, you used to do your nut. What’s changed?’

  Eamonn looked down at the carpet as he answered. ‘Over here they’re terrorists. In New York, in the Irish community, they’re fucking heroes, a real army. I collect for them, Cath, it’s big business and only the strongest are good enough to work for them.’ He was having to defend himself and it was annoying.

  Cathy’s face drained of blood; even her lips were pale. ‘They’re murderers, that’s all. Innocent people died in the last bombing . . .’

  Eamonn laughed gently. ‘Oh, and Joey and people like him aren’t murderers too? I never took you for a hypocrite, Cathy.’

  She stood up and paced the room.

  ‘I don’t care what you say. Joey and his sort stick with killing their own; I’m not saying that’s right, not at all, but Joey Pasquale would never have planted a bomb where women and children could be maimed and harmed. He would never have done anything like that. He lived as a criminal and, God love him, died as one but I was proud to know him. I wish he’d been my father for all they say about him.

  ‘But this . . . no way can I accept this, Eamonn. They’re not an army, they’re terrorists, and you can tell all your new friends in New York that I think they fucking stink! You should have seen the papers here a while ago when they bombed an army barracks. It was carnage. That’s not war, not real war. That’s just killing for killing’s sake, and in the name of God as well - as if He had anything to do with it!’

  Eamonn was stunned. Where was the adulation, the thanks for a job well done? In America he was treated like visiting royalty - even the Mafia gave him respect. Yet here in London, and his Cathy was talking to him like they were still little kids.

  ‘My God, Cathy, you’ve got a fucking nerve!’ he exploded
. ‘I took out a man for you today, one who was a danger to you, and what thanks do I get, eh? I get a lecture off a young girl with the brains of a fucking amoeba and the nous of a dead cat. I had a man killed for you, to keep you safe, and you turn on me like this? I can’t fucking believe it!’

  Cathy saw the bewildered look in his eyes and felt the first stirrings of sorrow. He really could not see what he had done. It had always been the same with him. Eamonn never could see that he was wrong. It was like the night he’d killed for the first time. All he’d been interested in was getting an alibi. All he had ever really been interested in was himself.

  ‘Do you remember that Christmas, Eamonn, when your dad dumped me mum for the little widow and we went round there, me and me mum . . .’

  Desrae interrupted her. ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  Cathy turned on him and roared: ‘If you listen, you might learn something. Now, do you remember that, Eamonn?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course I remember. What about it?’

  ‘Well, when we got back that day, you’d eaten all the chicken. Every bit of it, picked the fucking bird clean.’

  Eamonn shrugged. ‘So what?’

  Cathy looked into his face, her eyes pained and flat. ‘That’s you all over. You took what you wanted and didn’t give a toss about me, me mum, no one. And that’s how you’ve always been. You’ll never change all the time you’ve got a hole in your arse. Don’t talk to me about causes and armies, I’m not interested. If you’re involved it’s for personal gain and nothing else.’

  Desrae watched the two antagonists wide-eyed.

  ‘Well, you got that much right anyway. I ain’t a screamer for the Cause, but I earn a good fucking wedge from it and that’s how I’ll stay. I don’t tell you what to do, how to earn your living, so don’t you ever try and tell me, lady. My wife doesn’t tell me what to do, no woman ever will, and a few of them have tried . . .’ And then he realised just what he had said.