The Runaway (33 page)

Eamonn had moulded her into what he wanted: a watered-down version of the Madges and other dock dollies he had grown up with. Like his father he needed a woman to keep him, not financially, not yet, but keep him on top. Keep him the master. As she sat in the chair vacated by Cathy and listened to him curse the female race, Caroline shuddered.

She placed a hand over her belly. If she was right, there was a baby inside her and she knew that because of the child to come she was trapped.

Until today, seeing Cathy Connor and listening to the girl give Eamonn as good as she got, Caroline had felt as if she had it all. She had Eamonn, the hard man, the worker. She had a home with him, and a baby on the way. Now she knew all she had was a troubled boy with a vicious streak and an almost psychotic jealousy.

Slumped in the chair, she wondered how the hell it had happened to her. She looked into the mirror on the dressing table, saw her reflection and shook her head. She looked awful. Morning sickness had drained her face of any colour and her hair needed a good wash. Yes, Eamonn had brought her down with him, and down he was. At rock bottom. He had even fouled the nest at work. Dixon had savagely beaten him, and now she was waiting for him to go back to being an enforcer, waiting for the money to come in again.

Caroline was turning into her mother.

That thought terrified her more than anything. Her mother stood by Jack because she dare not do anything else. He had murdered his mistress and his employer. After that his wife had had no choice but to wait for him. If she had taken up with another man, Jack would have seen her scarred for life. He still had connections who would do the job for him.

Standing up, Caroline began to gather her things together. She would go home to her mother and try and sort out everything from there. It took Eamonn a while to realise what she was doing. He thought at first she was finally cleaning up. But as she packed her bag, he started to shriek at her.

‘You can fucking stop all that now! I ain’t in the mood for hysterics, girl. Get me a drink and something to eat, and hurry up.’

Caroline ignored him and carried on getting her things together.

Eamonn pulled himself to the side of the bed.

‘I mean it, Caroline. I’m telling you now, don’t fucking wind me up today or I’ll hammer you to within an inch of your bloody life. Now stop aggravating me, woman, and do what you’re told. I mean it.’

She slipped off her dressing gown and pulled a jumper over her head. As she smoothed it down over her swollen breasts, she said, ‘Bollocks, Eamonn. I’m out of here.’

Her voice was loud, firm. He looked at her in total amazement. ‘What did you just say?’ He narrowed his eyes as if this would enable him to hear her better.

‘You heard.’ Her voice was strong. It was as if she had turned into a different person. ‘I’ve had enough, I’m going home to me mum’s.’

Eamonn shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, lady. You’re staying right here.’

Smiling smugly, Caroline said, ‘You don’t own me, Docherty. Never did. Go and chase your little mate, ’cos it sounded to me like you was more interested in her than in me. So, instead of wasting my time, I’m off. There’s plenty of men out there, and I think I’ll take a leaf out of Cathy Connor’s book and go out and get meself one.’

She wanted to hurt him like he had hurt her. The blow as it connected with her face sent her reeling across the room. Lights exploded inside her head and she was nearly knocked out by the force of his punch.

Lying across the bed, she lifted her head. Still smiling, even through the blood that was pouring from her mouth, she said: ‘You’re not stopping me. I’m off, mate.’

Eamonn stared at the girl in total shock. Her lip was split and the inside looked like a piece of raw liver. There was blood everywhere: all over the bed, her face, her clothes. Yet still she was insisting she would go, leave him.

He punched her in the head, connecting with her ear. His heavy signet ring split the flesh. More blood. A lot of it.

Then he began to beat her, really beat her, putting all his strength into the blows, enjoying the yielding of her body beneath his fists. It was all her fault he’d lost the girl he really loved. If she hadn’t been here, flaunting herself in front of Cathy, he could have talked her round, he knew he could. Cathy had to have guessed he’d get himself some female company while she was away, but guessing and seeing were very different. It was all Caroline’s fault that Cathy had flown off the handle and said those terrible things. And now he’d lost her, lost his Cathy, because of this worthless bitch . . .

He was still punching Caroline when the door was kicked open and the two men from above came in and pulled him off her.

‘Fucking hell, mate, you’ve killed her!’

His neighbour’s voice was high with fear and distress. Eamonn stared down at the bloody mess on the bed then looked around him, bewildered.

His fists were covered in blood and bits of bone. Caroline Harvey was unrecognisable. Her hands were still across her stomach. She had died trying to protect her baby instead of herself.

The two men took in the scene and one of them began to retch, the dry sound the only noise in the room.

It was this that snapped Eamonn back to reality. Putting his head in his hands he whispered, ‘What have I done? Oh God, what the fuck have I done?’

Jimmy Salter propelled Eamonn to the sink and washed his hands for him. Then, pulling him from the room, he made the other man lock the door. He put his own jacket around Eamonn’s shoulders and said to his friend, Barry Callard, ‘I’ll take him to Dixon. Don’t let on what’s happened. People will think it’s just one of their usual rows.’

Barry Callard was shocked to the core. Nodding, he went back up to the flat above. All he could see was Caroline Harvey’s face, or rather the lack of it.

It would haunt him for the rest of his life.

 

Cathy went into a coffee bar in Brewer Street and ordered herself a large pot of coffee and a cake. Settling herself in the window, she stared out at the people passing by. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, everyone seemed to have a place to go. It was a beautiful April day and the sun was still shining even though it was cold.

As she sipped her coffee she wondered how she was going to get on with her life now.

Eamonn had been in her mind so much, more so even than her mother; he had always been the most important thing to her. When she thought of poor Madge locked up in Holloway, and how she herself had been more worried about Eamonn, her heart felt sore. Yet he had been everything to her once.

Seeing him with Caroline in that awful flat, with his face battered, his clothes dirty, had opened her eyes. She had always felt that she needed him - without him would be only half alive. She had assumed he felt the same way about her. He had been her reason for living for so long, and now she was seeing him as her mother had seen him, as Betty had seen him, as his own father had seen him.

She thought of the lies she had told him and was glad that he thought she had found someone else. Had someone who cared for her, wanted her, needed her. The tragic part of it was she doubted it would ever be so. That part of her life, the ability to love and trust a man, had gone for ever. Eamonn was the only man she had ever lain with and at this moment she felt he would also be the last. She would never be a Caroline for anyone.

A shadow passed over her and she said desultorily, ‘More coffee, please,’ thinking it was the waitress.

‘It’s all right, love, I’ve ordered it already.’

Cathy looked up into Desrae’s face. He was dressed in his straight gear, Sta-prest trousers and a black polo neck. His hair was tied back and he had on only a minimal amount of make-up. Dressed like this on a Saturday night? That told her how worried he was about her.

‘I’ve cancelled all me customers,’ he said now. ‘Thought we’d have a nice girlie night in. What do you say?’ As he spoke, a woman at a nearby table picked up her bag and coat. Looking at them both furiously, she moved to the other side of the coffee shop.

Desrae stared at the woman and smiled, saying loudly, ‘Oh, thank fuck she moved away. The smell was simply horrendous!’

Wiping away the tears, Cathy gave him a smile she would have sworn she did not have in her. ‘Oh Desrae, things can’t be that bad if I’ve got you.’

‘Joey’s coming round later tonight, so we’ll have a right laugh with him anyway,’ he consoled her. ‘Life’s what you make it, girl, always bear that in mind. It’s what you, me or that old bag at the other table with the face like a well-slapped arse, make it - dig? As those bleeding hippies say.’

Cathy laughed again, a small hurt sound. ‘I loved him, Desrae. I loved him so very much.’

‘You’ll have a few more before you’re ready to settle down, you mark my words, love,’ he said gently. ‘With your looks and nice ways, you’ll have your pick of men.’

Cathy looked into his eyes and said seriously, ‘Not for me, Desrae. Never again.’

Her voice was so sure, so serious, that for a moment he forgot that she was just a young girl. She sounded for all the world like an old, old woman.

 

Eamonn Senior was half drunk and could not take in what he was being told. Jimmy Salter was trying to tell him that his son had got himself into more trouble.

‘Trouble? Fecking trouble? The boy’s middle name is trouble,’ he said airily, and belched. ‘Now away from me door and leave me to meself.’

Jimmy Salter felt as if he would explode from annoyance. Danny Dixon had told him to bring the older man to him, and he had to do it. He didn’t want to get involved and yet he was. Seriously.

Pushing his bullet head towards the large Irishman, he said through his teeth: ‘Your boy has murdered Caroline Harvey. Now Danny Dixon wants to see you and you’re going. He told me to bring you to him and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

Somehow Eamonn grasped that this was trouble so grievous it would make the Lord Himself worried. Grabbing his coat, he followed the man down the path and climbed into his mini-van. Jimmy Salter was glad to see that shock had sobered up the big man beside him.

‘He’s killed that little girl Caroline, then?’

Jimmy nodded. ‘Battered her to fuck, mate. Couldn’t even recognise her.’

Eamonn shook his head, stunned by what he was hearing. ‘Sure she was a sweet little thing, what would he want to be doing that to her for?’

Jimmy carried on driving. There was no answer to that kind of question.

‘Jumping Jasus Christ and all the angels! Has the boy gone fecking mad? Are you sure that’s what he’s done, not just given her a dig like, a smack in the jaw?’

Jimmy pulled the car to the side of the road. He looked at the man beside him and said seriously, ‘I dragged him off the poor little mare. He’d beaten her to a fucking pulp. Now will you just let me drive you to Dixon’s then get meself home for me bleeding tea? Not that I’ll have much appetite, knowing that poor little whore is underneath my kitchen, dead as a fucking doornail.’

Eamonn Senior was quiet for the rest of the journey. He was by now as sober as a judge.

 

Danny Dixon was in a quandary.

Eamonn had killed the daughter of a man known throughout the East End as a raving lunatic. Even from Broadmoor Harvey had a big rep. He kept in contact through visits and letters. He was a great letter writer, by all accounts, and still classed himself a man to be reckoned with.

If Danny helped the boy out then Harvey would hear of it, and a lot of other people too would turn against him over a thing like that. A man could murder other men, maim them, blow them up. But if the same man harmed a woman or a child, then public opinion would turn against him straight off.

For himself, Danny thought that Caroline had most probably asked for what she got. Most women like her did. She’d used her name and her father’s notoriety to get things and to open doors. She was a slag, like a lot of the East End girls. He preferred the women of his own youth who’d been good girls, lived cleanly and didn’t shack up with every Tom, Dick and Harry who had a big cock and a bit of wedge.

But this was a sign of the times. With loose morals came loose behaviour in other ways. If she had been Eamonn’s wife he would have had respect for her. As it was, she’d been his fancy piece and so Danny felt nothing.

It was that clear-cut to him.

Now he was going to hand the boy over to his father. He’d see him all right with a few quid and tell him to get away, as far away as he could before Harvey made his presence felt. There was no way that nutter would let the murder of his daughter go unavenged.

No way in the world.

 

Father Seamus Jensen had heard Eamonn’s confession and was now drinking a large Irish as he listened to the boy’s father droning on about the old country and their associations with it. The priest did not really want to be reminded that he came from an extended family of villains and rebels. Didn’t really want to be reminded that they were cousins on his mother’s side, and certainly didn’t want to be reminded of the times they had got drunk together as young men.

Seamus Jensen had entered the priesthood because he had been forced into it. His father was a well-known IRA man and before his execution by the British in Mountjoy Jail, had seen to it that his youngest son had been set on a different course. He had entered the church, and after a few months had thanked God every day for the chance to serve Him. He also served himself, but didn’t dwell on that fact too much.

Now, in his late-sixties, he enjoyed his life very much. He had his drink, his housekeeper - a fine woman who could cook white pudding like a native of Cork - and he had his parish house to live in. Most of all he had respect.

He didn’t want Irish scum in his home. He liked to think of his fellow countrymen as poets and singers and hard done by, hard-working men. The Dochertys and their ilk were like a form of cancer in the body politic. Yet, he knew he had to help them.