The Runaway (49 page)

As he slammed out Caitlin mentally chalked up one to herself. Men were shite except for her father, and he was of a different stamp entirely from that eejit Docherty.

The scum of the earth, and an English accent to boot.

 

Susan P was just returning from the hairdresser’s when she saw Cathy Duke walking towards her Knightsbridge flat. She stopped her black cab and called out to her.

‘What’s wrong, has anything else happened?’ She could see that Cathy’s face was white and strained.

‘Can we go inside please, Susan? I need to talk to you.’

Five minutes later they were ensconced in Susan’s flat with large Irish coffees and cigarettes. Cathy waited until they were both settled before she said with controlled fury: ‘Why have you and Desrae kept me in the dark about my mother? What right did either of you have to do that to me?’

Susan listened to the girl in silence. She sipped her coffee and wondered what course of action to take. She could feign innocence but her days of even feigning it were long gone. She could take the easy way out and attack the girl, make her see that what she was saying was unfair. Or she could just tell her to piss off out of it.

Cathy stared into the eyes of the woman she had come to trust, even love, as a friend. It was seeing the girl’s pained expression that made Susan P decide what she was going to do. For the first time in years she would speak from the heart.

‘I was twenty when I came to Soho,’ she began. ‘That’s old by today’s standards, I know, but back in the early 1950s it was still the age of innocence for many women, myself included. I had had a baby a few weeks before, a boy. He had been adopted and I went a bit funny. The unmarried mothers’ home kept me for three weeks and then gave me the arse kick. I was told I had sinned grievously and not to do it again. But, you see, my child was the product of rape.’

She stared at the girl opposite her and drew once more on her cigarette before continuing.

‘The father of my child was also its grandfather. My father had been raping me since I was fifteen. My mother was dead and he was lonely, I suppose. Anyway, when she died he began to get closer to me and I accepted it, as you do. I was innocent about the world then, and when my father climbed into my bed I thought he wanted comfort, which of course he did. Only the comfort that he wanted was sexual. I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that it was wrong and told him so. I had no knowledge of sex, had never even talked to a boy let alone kissed one.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I’ve made up for it since.

‘Anyway, the bottom line is he forced me and after that it was a nightly thing. It went on for four years before I got pregnant. I was working in Woolworth’s then in Bath where I was born. I was so fucking naive I didn’t even realise I was pregnant until one of the women at work asked me if I was in trouble. When she saw my look of absolute wonderment she asked me if I had had my periods lately.

‘Anyway, the long and the short of it was, I was in the club, five months gone, and with my own father to blame for it all. He feigned surprise and outrage when the woman took me home and voiced her suspicions, and I ended up in a home for unmarried mothers. He swore to me that if I told anyone the truth, he would dig up my mother and tell her I was a temptress. Oh, by the way, the pair of them were religious fanatics. I had had God rammed down my throat morning, noon and fucking night. That’s how I learned what real sinners were. Not the criminals and the thieves but the lying bastards who hide behind a veneer of respectability - like the MPs and the do-gooders I cater for these days. But that’s another story too.

‘The boy was born and adopted, I saw him for one week only. He was beautiful but I had no feelings for him. I had learned by then about incest and everything else. Those places are a mine of information - but I expect you know that from your own experiences. Anyway, I came out of the Home and went to my father’s house. He had a woman living there with her two daughters and I just knew, I knew in my heart, that he would harm them as well. He’d acquired a taste for it, you see. I saw the frightened look in their eyes, and I could tell. He had known the woman for a while and then just upped and married her. She was like my mother, a cold-hearted sort, all religion and swift kicks. It’s funny, you know, but I’ve noticed that about the religious nuts - they love meting out punishment in the name of the Lord.

‘Well, I left them all to it and came to London. I was on the game in a week and under the protection of a pimp called Johnny O within ten days. I got on with Johnny O and he liked me. Together we founded a house and made our dosh, and after we’d parted company I went on to do my thing and Johnny was murdered by a black man who decided he wanted what Johnny had, namely a seventeen-year-old girl who would do literally anything for money. Johnny O had a knack of finding that type, you know. A year later I had my father killed by a supposed hit-and-run driver. It was all I could do to avenge myself and protect the other young girls he might come into contact with.

‘Now, if a Desrae had come along - and this is the reason I’m telling you my story, Cathy - I would have been a better person. All he wants is what’s best for you. By his own lights he’s trying to make you into a decent person, a kind person. In Soho girls aren’t normally as lucky as you’ve been. They’re used and abused by people. Someone else would have taken you off the street that night and put you back on it good and proper by the next morning. Now even you know that’s true, don’t you? As far as your mother is concerned, he was just trying to protect you. He knew it wasn’t going to make things any easier for you if you knew of Madge’s problems inside. You would have done the same for Desrae if the boot had been on the other foot, I know. To protect the people you love is crucial in a relationship of any kind, whether it’s as a parent, a lover or a friend.’

Cathy listened and watched as Susan P bared her soul. In all the time she had known her, Susan had seemed the least vulnerable person she could imagine. But sitting there now, her big expressive eyes pained by the memories she had conjured up, Cathy sensed the depths of sorrow inside her.

‘Desrae loves you like his own child. No other man will ever give you that - so remember it all your life. Love with no limits is very hard to find. He thought he was doing the right thing by keeping you in the dark. Don’t hold that against him, just be grateful that he saved you from so many years of worry.’

Cathy finished her Irish coffee and sighed. Her face was so beautiful in the afternoon light that Susan P, without a second’s thought, worked out just how much she could charge for Cathy with one of her clients. She put the thought out of her head as soon as it had arrived, but still she did it. It was a habit with her now.

‘I loved me mum, you know,’ Cathy said quietly. ‘For all she was, Susan, I cared about her.’

Susan P laughed then, lightening the mood. ‘Of course you loved her, she was your mother.’

Cathy stared around the pristine white room. It reminded her of a hospital, all glass, chrome and white brightness. Susan P in her deep red suit looked so at home in it. It was exactly like her: cold and clinical.

‘Will you tell me the truth in future?’

Susan P nodded. ‘I’ll tell you it all now: she doesn’t want anything to do with you. I’m sorry but it’s the truth, she blames you for everything. She is a selfish, miserable old bitch, but I expect you already guessed as much. Still, I see she’s OK because Desrae asked me to. Otherwise I wouldn’t give Madge a second’s thought. She’s treated with a bit of respect because of me, and can do her time in peace. She was attacked by a woman prisoner called Barnes, Dilly Barnes, and I had her sorted out. Your mother is on the lock-up wing, the psychiatric wing, but she doesn’t really need to be there any more. I paid through a friend who owes me a favour to keep her there. The regime is less strict and the food is much better. She can wear her own clothes and smoke as much as she likes, so stop worrying about her. Your mother is as right as rain, I promise you.’

Cathy stood up and walked to the window, her face closed. ‘I used to hate her when I was small,’ she confessed, ‘but now I just pity her. I felt she should have helped me and she did in the end. I know she always had a fear of being banged up. But she did it for me, so I have to be grateful for that. I can’t visit, though, in case people put two and two together.’

She turned and faced her friend. ‘Could you get something in there for me - a letter? I suppose I could write to her and use a different name or something. You could let her know it was really me . . .’

Her voice was hopeful suddenly as she tried to think of ways to make amends to the woman she felt she had abandoned. In her heart she acknowledged that it had been easier to listen to news from Desrae about her mother than to have to find out anything for herself. As an adult she realised that people like her mother drained you dry in the end. Madge would have had her dancing to a different tune every week if she’d been able to. She would also have made sure that her daughter had paid for each and every day Madge spent in prison because of her. It was this knowledge that was so difficult to take.

As a woman Cathy realised she didn’t like her mother. Madge would never see that if she hadn’t brought men home to earn money, then this whole sorry affair might have been avoided. She would take no blame on herself because Madge wasn’t capable of taking blame. Not for anything.

But if Cathy didn’t like her mother, she still loved her. In a strange way she knew that, as bad as Madge was, she had done the best for her child that she could. Self-destructive, amoral and selfish, Madge was someone who should never have had children.

Susan P watched the different expressions crossing the girl’s lovely face and half guessed what they were for.

‘Your mother is OK - stop worrying about her,’ she said kindly. ‘Now how about I get you a cab and you go home and make your peace with Desrae?’

‘I was a bit hard on him, I suppose,’ Cathy admitted, more cheerful now.

‘You were feeling guilty, love - guilty because you don’t really give a flying fuck about Madge. You’ve got a new life, a good one. And you’ve nothing to feel guilty about, believe me. People make their own lives in the end and if they fuck them up, and fuck other people’s lives up in the process, then they don’t deserve anything, especially from their children. I found my boy. You’re the only person who knows this. He’s a GP in Basingstoke of all places. I drove to his house and waited till I could see him. He looks just like my father. But I had no urge to touch him or talk to him. What good would it do to tell him his origins, eh? Let him have his life, and I hope it’s a happy one. Take the same advice about your mother. Let her have her life now, she’s had her chance. You have yours, and take the lessons you’ve learned here today to heart. In the end life is what you make it, love.’

Cathy embraced the other woman gently. ‘Thank you, Susan. Thanks for everything.’

Susan P pushed her away with mock annoyance and said loudly, ‘Well, keep the story of my son to yourself. Even Desrae doesn’t know about that. Only you and Gates know. Richard and I go way back.’

Cathy nodded solemnly. ‘I would never pass on anything you said, you know that.’

Susan stared thoughtfully at the girl before her. ‘Do you know that Richard Gates is besotted with you, love?’

She saw the startled look in Cathy’s eyes, and grinned. ‘He’s mad for you, I’ve seen it many times. Make him into a friend, love - you might find you need him one day. Richard is a fucker in many respects but he’s a good friend. I know that from experience. Cultivate him. It’ll be all to the good, you mark my words.’

Cathy smiled then.

‘And when you open the next club, give me an option - I’ll put money into it. I’ve already told Desrae. Once he starts to get over Joey, work will be the best thing for him,’ Susan advised. ‘And like I said, cultivate Richard Gates. An Old Bill in the pocket is worth two in the station.’

‘I’ll take your word for that.’ They both laughed.

Chapter Thirty-One

Eamonn and Tommy met in a small bar off the Roman Road. It was a spieler where they were both guaranteed protection from sightseers - pavement grasses - and the police. In a small back room, the two men faced each other warily.

‘So, what can I do for you?’ Tommy’s voice betrayed no fear of the IRA’s messenger and Eamonn respected him for that.

‘It’s more a case of what I can do for you, actually.’ Sitting at the table, Eamonn broke the seal on a bottle of Paddy and poured them both a good measure. They sipped their drinks, each weighing up the other, unsure exactly how to proceed.

Eventually Eamonn spoke.

‘I despatched O’Hare. He tucked us up and had to be removed. I’m telling you this because as your father’s successor, and the rightful heir to the West End, I want to work with you. Once you hear the terms I’m offering, I think you’ll be amenable. However, you must understand that in passing on some information I am putting myself at risk. If you decide to throw my goodwill back into my boatrace, I may have to despatch you the same as I did O’Hare.’

Tommy laughed sardonically. ‘Suddenly everyone’s a fucking hard man.’

Eamonn grinned. ‘I know what you’re saying, but you haven’t listened to me yet, have you?’ He threw back his drink and explained the situation. He could see shock, horror, an almost feral reaction on Tommy’s face as he listened to the story.

‘I was already arranging talks with your father, though with respect I don’t think he was really the man for the job. Italian-born, he saw the IRA as the British see them: terrorists and murderers. Whereas we see ourselves as an army, pretty much like Arafat saw himself and the PLO once. All we’re asking is a fair crack of the whip in the North, no more and no less.’

‘And O’Hare was under your protection, was one of your so-called army?’

Eamonn nodded. ‘A mistake, I realise that now, but we have to deal with people who we know are not easily intimidated. O’Hare was a lot of things but a shitter he wasn’t. Even when I gave him the capture, he was frightened, yeah, but not scared shitless - which he should have been. He was one mistake I won’t be making again, I can tell you. And that’s what brings me to you. Between us we could run the West End and Liverpool, the whole of fucking Britain if we wanted to. Once we win in the North, think of the opportunities you’d have to extend your operations there. Tommy Pasquale could become the main man - with our backing, of course. I can guarantee you an income of over one million a year, and believe me that’s no exaggeration. If O’Hare had kept his side of the bargain he’d be alive and well, living the life of Riley, as my old dad used to say.’