The Runaway (66 page)

Shaquila’s beautiful eyes were filled with tears. As she opened her mouth to answer him, Richard’s pager began to bleep. He stood up and took it from his pocket. ‘There’s a phone in the hall, may I use it?’

Shaquila shrugged nonchalantly. She knew he was going to use it, with or without her permission. He was that kind of man, she had already sussed that much out for herself.

Alone with the girl, Cathy stared at her in morbid fascination. ‘Richard’s right, you know, we really do need your help with this.’

Shaquila wiped a hand across her face wearily. ‘I don’t speak to the police. Surely you understand that?’

Cathy grinned. ‘I’m not the police, love, I’m a Soho club owner trying to find out why an employee of mine committed suicide. It seems your brother was very much involved. I also have a stake in a couple of sex shops - nothing exotic, all legal and above board - but I have to know if my employee was selling your brother’s contraband stuff through my outlets.

‘It’s not just the nicking I care about, it’s the content of your brother’s home movies that bothers me,’ she went on. ‘I was on the streets meself, a long time ago. I know what’s waiting for a lot of the kids out there. Your brother, whatever he may be to you, is the cause of a lot of heartache and degradation. He’s the cause of young girls and boys dying, do you know that? He cruises the streets looking for vulnerable kids, offers them the earth and then abuses them. All for money.’

Cathy’s next words were spoken softly, with much emotion.

‘I have a child myself, a teenage daughter, all budding breasts and long legs. Her name’s Kitty. I wasn’t well cared for when I was young. My mother was a dock dolly, an old pro. The worst kind. I wanted better for my child, and I’m sure you do for yours.’

Shaquila stared into her face and burst out passionately: ‘Sometimes I look at my kids and I hate them - I hate them because they were forced on me! I stick up for Terry, but I can tell you have never met him. He is one bad motherfucker. Always was. I can’t leave this house - I even have to have food delivered. I have to sit here, day in and day out, and wait on his calls. And then I have to act as if I’m the happiest woman alive. I have to suck my brother’s cock because if I didn’t he’d slit my throat without a second thought.

‘I know my brother, I know him better than anyone. I’ve been at his mercy all my life. My mother hates me because he’s forcing on me what she wants really. I was used by my father and then by my brother. We came from a weird household and I know I can never be rid of him until he’s dead. Putting him in prison wouldn’t answer my prayers because all the time he breathes I’m in danger. So, as much as I’d like to help you, I can’t.’

The words were spoken with a sincerity that made Cathy want to cry with despair. Because this beautiful, articulate woman was trapped in a situation where she could not help herself or her children.

‘I’m truly sorry,’ Cathy told her.

Shaquila laughed tearfully. ‘Not half so sorry as I am. But, you see, for me there’s no escape. None whatsoever.’

Cathy took a card out of her handbag and placed it on the arm of the chair next to Shaquila’s hand. ‘That’s my number. Ring me, please, and I’ll help you. I promise you, I’ll help you.’

Shaquila looked into her eyes and said, ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

‘Of course I mean it, Shaquila. I’ve been there, I know what other people are capable of. Really capable of. Not many people find that out in this life. But I’ll get you away. I promise I’ll get you away from him.’

‘If only life was that easy.’

Shaquila’s voice was once more weary and dead-sounding. Cathy put her hand on the woman’s cheek and smiled at her. ‘Life’s never easy, Shaquila. People like us know that only too well, but every now and then it throws us a lifeline and we have to take it.’

She picked up her handbag and walked to the front door. ‘Ring me, OK? And I’ll make sure you’re taken somewhere even Richard Gates won’t find you.’

With that she hurried him from the flat. Shaquila needed to think, and Cathy had accepted that fact. She herself was silent all the way home.

Chapter Forty-Two

Once back at her flat, Cathy relaxed. She made a pot of tea and as she poured it, gave Richard a shaky smile.

‘That was one of the worst experiences of my life. I have never felt such empathy, such a feeling of total understanding, with another human being.’

Richard didn’t speak; he knew she had to talk and get whatever was troubling her off her chest.

She sat down wearily.

‘Why are women always at someone’s beck and call, eh? What is it with us? We spend our whole lives waiting for a man either to love us or fuck us. Or else we end up with someone we don’t want but can’t get rid of. Men these days have no respect for women at all. None whatsoever. Terry Campbell wants his sister and he gets her because she’s too frightened not to do as he says. And there’s millions of women in that position, maybe not with their brothers - which just makes Shaquila’s situation even worse - but with husbands, boyfriends, lovers. You read about it all the time in the papers. A man killed his wife and kids because she wanted a divorce. A man killed his girlfriend because she met someone else. It’s as if women have become as throwaway as the society we live in.

‘I’ve had men try and take advantage of me all my life. Even as a little kid I had “uncles” who wanted me to sit on their laps, wanted me to touch them. One bloke me mother had used to pretend he was tickling me just to cop a quick feel off a four year old. By the time I started school I knew more about the male psyche and sexual needs than most women do on their wedding day. And the worst thing of all is, because child sex is so horrible to think about, people tend to avert their eyes from it. They ignored the fact that I was at risk and they ignore it now just when it’s becoming the biggest business in the world.’

Richard placed his large hand over her small one.

‘I know that, love, you don’t need to tell me - I see it every day. I’ve dealt with little boys of ten or eleven who are HIV positive. I’ve seen them asleep on the Embankment, wide open to whoever wants to prey on them. If it were down to me I’d have the kerb crawlers’ and the nonces’ names put in all the papers with their photos, I’d have their wives and families contacted. I’d fuck them good and proper. I’d have a convicted paedophile’s name put in a local paper together with his picture so his new neighbours would be able to keep a tight rein on their kids. Instead, these bastards are let out and move districts, get council priority because they are so “vulnerable” - I mean, for some unknown reason everyone wants to kick their head in! - and so they settle in a new community where they start watching the kids swimming or fishing or up the park, and begin their games all over again. So, believe me, darling, you’re preaching to the fucking converted.’

Cathy looked at him closely. His deep-set eyes were hurting; he saw too much, knew too much. Richard Gates was a kind man who cared, really cared, about people, but his intimidating physical presence sent out a completely different message. He looked like a thug, he knew it and used it. The reality was something much more complex.

‘Let’s get over to Dunmow or whatever the place is called. See Peter’s sister, find out what she can tell us, eh? Maybe she’ll be able to shed some light on his whereabouts,’ Cathy suggested.

Richard agreed. As he stood up he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and once more she was reminded of his physical strength.

‘We’ll sort this out, I promise. Just keep telling yourself that at least Kitty is safe. You have done a blinding job with that girl and should be proud of her. Next time we read all that old pony and trap about abused people being abusers, you and I can laugh, because we know it’s not true. People abuse because they want to, because there’s a fucking weird kink in their make-up that makes them want to own and control other people. That’s all it is: control. Kitty has you and Des and me and Susan - all classed as strange by most people. But you see, Cathy, unlike us lot, most people haven’t been let in on the secret yet.’

‘And what’s the secret then?’

He stared down into her eyes, his heart breaking with the want of her as he answered: ‘We know that deep down some people are evil because they want to be. No matter how they dress it up, how the social workers and the goodie two shoes word it,
we
know the truth. The abusers are getting more and more prevalent and no one is helping the victims. All the energy is directed to the perpetrators, the nonces, the rapists, the fucking scum. But you and me, Cathy, we know it’s a waste of time. The best we can do is help the little people, the abused kids and the runaways, to fight back.

‘So come on, girl, Little Dunmow is calling. Let’s get our arses in gear and see what else we can find out.’

 

Trevale ‘Terry’ Campbell was upset.

He had just had a call to tell him about a visit from a Vice officer called Richard Gates. He had arrived at Trevale’s mother’s home - her
home
, for Christ’s sake! - with a tiny blonde, and that bitch had actually threatened Trevale’s mother with physical violence. Within fifteen minutes of the call he knew who the little blonde was, and that she was involved because that stupid cunt Casper had topped himself.

Although his handsome face was impassive, his mind was working like a computer. How dare they go to his family? How dare they visit his mother’s home? Now the spy he paid to watch his sister, a small Asian called Gunil, had told him that she also had received a visit from the same people who had been to his mother’s house. They were going to pay for that but first he had to speak to Shaquila.

He stormed up the pathway to his sister’s flat. Shaquila had the door open before he reached it, her face stretched into the parody of a smile.

‘Terry darling, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’

He pushed her into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind him. ‘Have a nice little visit, did they, the Old Bill? Thanks for letting me know they were here, Shaquila. Thanks a fucking bunch for that, girl.’ His high cheekbones looked as if the skin had been pulled tight over them. He was talking through his teeth, a sure sign of trouble to come.

Shaquila licked her lips, brain racing to find an excuse for her errant behaviour. ‘I tried to ring you, but I just kept getting the Orange answerphone. I assumed you’d turned your phone off for business. I was going to try you again in a minute, I swear, Terry. Why would I lie to you? Where would that get me?’

Her voice was full of panic and he watched her, savouring her fear and confusion for a few seconds before he relaxed. Shaquila wouldn’t dare cross him. She didn’t have the guts.

‘There’s fuck all wrong with my phone, love. Everyone else has got through OK.’

She could feel the hysteria building inside her. Her brother was vicious if crossed; he would make her hurt, make her hurt badly, and feel he had been just and honourable in teaching her a lesson.

‘I swear on the kids’ lives, Terry, I would never let you down. Why would I want to spoil what we’ve got? How would I ever cope without you, baby?’

He was relaxing, she could feel it. He loved it when she begged him, it was part of his make up. He needed to be sweet-talked, to be cosseted, to be in control.

He could see her hands shaking, hear the tremor in her voice. He could afford to play the big man.

‘All right, Shaquila. Relax, girl. I have to make sure you’re in line, you know that. Now what did they want?’

He followed her through to the kitchen, and as she put the kettle on he sat at the scrubbed pine table and looked out at the long, perfectly tended garden. His daughter was playing on the swing. Her hair was neatly braided in pigtails; her almond-shaped eyes dull and devoid of life. She gave him a dutiful little wave and carried on her aimless swinging.

‘They were asking me if I knew where you were, and I told them no. I asked them what they wanted you for and they wouldn’t tell me. I just sat it out until they went. I didn’t know what else to do.’

Getting up, he went to her and slid his arms around her from behind. He caressed her breasts as he talked. ‘That’s my girl. Me and you against the world, eh? Fuck them, they can’t prove nothing. I tell you - that fucking Pasquale bird has pushed her nose into something she shouldn’t have! But I have an idea that’ll sort her out. I’ll teach that white bitch to try and put the hit on me.’

Shaquila turned to face him. ‘What are you going to do?’ She tried to sound excited at the prospect of something bad happening.

‘Never you mind. Make me that tea then I think me and you will retire for a quick half hour of fun. What do you say?’

Shaquila felt her heart sink down into her boots, but she plastered a wide smile on her face as she said gaily, ‘All right then, Terry, if you’ve got the time.’

He stared into her black eyes and said hoarsely, ‘I’ve always got the time for you, darling.’

 

Cathy knocked on the door of the cottage in Little Dunmow. They had both admired the scenery on the way down, having forgotten how beautiful the Essex countryside could be. The cottage was down a lane, and looked like something out of a magazine. It even had roses round the green-painted front door.

There was no answer and Cathy knocked again, this time louder. Richard looked through the window at the front and then beckoned her to follow him round the back of the cottage. It was so small, like a doll’s house. Roughcast, it was painted a dull white, and the windows were leaded lights, painted black. It stood on half an acre of land and as they walked round the side of the cottage, they both admired the beautifully tended garden.

The sun had sneaked out from behind a cloud and now lit the scene before them as if it were a painting. Cathy half expected Peter Rabbit to scamper across the grass towards her.

‘Ain’t it gorgeous, Cathy?’