The Runaway (30 page)

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 Harvey’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.

Five minutes later they brought in Eamonn and watched smugly as he was beaten black and blue by Dixon. As a finale, he requested his baseball bat from his car and hammered the boy’s legs until he were sure they were fractured at least. Leaving Eamonn bloody and unconscious on the warehouse floor, he walked out unsteadily.

‘Take him to the quack and when he comes round, explain it was nothing personal, just sound business. If I hear what I want from him, his job’s still there.’

A heavy nodded. Then, loading the boy into the back of a van, he drove him to the doctor’s, all the time whistling along to the radio and wondering what his wife had got him in for tea.

 

The punter was small, so small he made even Cathy seem like a giant. Handing him a drink, gin with a splash of lime cordial, she smiled at him pleasantly and said she would see if Miss Desrae was ready to receive him. The man smiled at her, showing pristine white false teeth and a small pink tongue.

Walking through to the bedroom, Cathy said to Desrae in a stage whisper: ‘It’s Mr Middleton. I’ve given him a drink and taken his coat. He pays by cheque, doesn’t he?’

Desrae, in the middle of putting on his stockings and suspenders, nodded. ‘Yeah, give him a large drink, won’t you? He can keep at it for bleeding ages and it’s so boring. It’s the clothes that do him, you see. Likes to see me tackle hanging by me stocking tops.’

At the moment, his tackle was concealed by a pair of black silk panties. Mr Middleton also liked to take these off with his very precarious teeth.

Desrae knew he sold fantasy and did his job every bit as well as any actor or actress. His customers really thought he was enjoying himself. Which, he believed, made him a performer in every sense of the word.

Cathy went back to the living room and topped up the man’s drink, all the time smiling and chatting.

Mr Middleton was a banker, a very successful one. He was also married with four grown-up children, two daughters married in their turn and two sons doing very well in the City. His wife was a petite woman whose life revolved around her family, shopping and cooking. For her a regular sex life consisted of once every few months, whether they needed it or not. She had no idea that her husband preferred men. Grown men if possible, not girlie boys like many of the men who came to Soho. He had been visiting Desrae for nigh on twelve years and they even exchanged Christmas gifts.

They were friends, confidants, and best of all they were both men who liked a laugh and some good company. The arrangement worked well.

Two minutes later Cathy led him through the flat and into Desrae’s pink and gold bedroom. Shutting the door firmly behind her, she went to the lounge and picked up the used glass. Maiding was the easiest job in the world and in the six months she had been at Desrae’s she had learned a lot. Like: never discuss anything personal with a customer. And never use their first name unless they request that you do. In fact, never presume anything, especially with the older men. And never, ever refer to what they were there for.