The Runaway (29 page)

Eamonn’s arms were around her and she instinctively snuggled into the warmth of his body. Wincing in pain, she realised that her eye was black and nearly closed. It felt too big for her face. Testing it once more, she opened it slowly and saw Eamonn looking down at her. There was a look of shame mingled with exhilaration on his handsome face.

He kissed her brow gently, small kisses interspersed with words of love and affection.

‘I’m sorry, Caroline. I don’t know what made me do it. You know I love you. I’ll always love you. There’s no one else for me.’ He hugged her bruised body to him, causing her fresh pain - though not half so much as she would have felt had she known that all the time he soothed and comforted her his thoughts were on another girl entirely. Cathy . . . his Cathy . . . safely out of his rat’s nest with the poncey Hendersons.

Part of Eamonn wanted to track them down and show them just what he thought of their cosy, do-gooding lifestyle. But another part - the part that had always envied the kids at school with clean clothes and hair and a well-fed look about them - knew that she was better off where she was. For the moment at least.

Come her sixteenth birthday, though, and he was going after her. Then she’d be free to lead her own life; free to love him as he knew he loved her. Loved her to death, in fact. Until then he’d have to content himself with this dopey slag who seemed to believe that the punishment he meted out was a sign of affection.

‘I love you, Eamonn.’

She was telling the truth. Last night Caroline had fallen in love with danger, and all her life she would worship it. As she looked up at his darkly handsome face, his sparkling eyes and thick sensuous lips, she fell even deeper in love, believing this big handsome boy-man loved her too.

He had maimed another man for her. He would kill for her, so strong was his love and devotion. Smiling through her pain, Caroline ran her hand down his body and found his erect penis. Feeling the intense heat pervading her, she opened her legs in moist expectation.

She was not disappointed.

It was the best sex she had ever had in her life, and it was addictive. She could never have too much of Eamonn Docherty.

 

Cathy, dressed in a shirt deemed too small for Desrae and a pair of black tights, watched in amazement as he put on his ‘face’. Even after watching her mother tart herself up for years, nothing had prepared her for the sight which met her eyes.

Covering his face thickly with panstick, Desrae blended it over his cheekbones expertly, subtly changing the contours and lines. Looking at her in delight, he waggled his eyebrows. ‘Clever little git, ain’t I?’

Then, making her laugh by pouting at himself in the mirror a few times and rolling his eyes, he pencilled a deep brown line around the outside of his lips.

‘This makes them look fuller, see. Mine are a bit thin. Got a man’s lips, me.’

He filled this all in with a bright pink lipstick, smoothing it by placing his lips together suggestively and pushing his tongue against the side of his face.

Cathy was roaring with laughter by then.

‘Now for the old eyeballs, girl. This really is a feat of ex-fucking-traordinary danger. First time I saw someone do this, I was nearly as sick as a bleeding dog.’

Pulling down his lower lid, he drew inside it with a kohl pencil whose blackness immediately made his eyes look wider, more open. He fluttered his eyelashes, then began to apply thick blue greasy eyeshadow with a heavy brush. It took five minutes before he was satisfied. Then, blinking his eyes quickly, he looked at her again and grinned.

‘Getting there, ain’t I?’

The next step was the false eyelashes he applied with the same care and attention as a surgeon working in an operating theatre. He glued them to both top and bottom lids then, sitting back, proudly surveyed his handiwork.

Sucking in his cheeks, he looked at himself with a grave expression on his face. ‘Now then, a brown blusher, I think - make the most of me cheekbones.’ He picked up a large brush and stuck it in a pot of loose powder.

‘Always act as if someone is watching you. I don’t know who said that, but it’s something I’ve lived by for years. They were dead right.’ He applied the blusher with long sweeping upward strokes. ‘All that’s left now is the old Barnet Fair. I never wear wigs during the day unless I’m working.’

Taking out his rollers, he brushed his hair and backcombed it strenuously before styling it around his head in a wide halo and flicking it up at the ends.

‘Eat your fucking heart out, Mandy Rice-Davis, that’s what I say! I mean, who needs a woman with me about?’

Cathy was still laughing. ‘You look great, not at all like a . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

Placing one well-manicured hand over hers, Desrae said happily, ‘Don’t worry about what you nearly said, love, I take things like that as a compliment. I spend hours trying to look like a woman. Why should I be upset when you say I don’t look like a bleeding bloke, eh?’

Cathy shook her head, unable to answer.

‘You ever seen a bloke’s tackle before?’

She nodded, unsure what was going to happen next. Desrae saw the look and laughed. ‘Lovely you may be, but I think we’ve established that you’re not my cup of tea, eh? No, love, don’t worry. All I’m going to do is put on me body now. Nothing more. You’ll see it for a split second, if that.’

Stripping off his nightwear, he stood naked before her for an instant. Then, picking up a pair of tiny shorts, he slid them up his legs. Taking his penis, he pushed it as far back between his thighs as he could. In the mirror Cathy saw it disappear completely as Desrae quickly pulled up the padded shorts. Arching his back, his long lean body posed like a ballet dancer’s, he grinned.

‘Clever, eh?’

Cathy giggled with delight.

‘Now for the falsies and then we’re cooking with gas!’

Ten minutes later he was dressed in a red jumper, thrusting false breasts pointing to the ceiling above it, and a black knee-length skirt. Black tights and high heels finished off the outfit.

‘So what do you think, eh?’

Cathy sat back on the bed and shook her head in amazement. ‘You look brilliant, Desrae. Blinding.’

He preened in mock admiration of himself. ‘Not bad for an old sod even if I say it meself.’ Then, smiling widely, he bellowed: ‘Now let’s get you some decent clothes.’

As they left the bedroom together it occurred to Cathy that this was the happiest she had ever been in her whole life. She felt safe, loved and secure.

It also occurred to her that it didn’t really take much to make people happy. Not as much as they thought, anyway.

 

Desrae walked into Tony Gosa’s cafe with a wide smile and a very determined look in his eye. Tony, noticing him instantly, smiled warily back. ‘Hello, what can I get you?’

Desrae said breathily, in his best girlie voice: ‘Coffee, please. Sweet and warm, like you.’

Tony nodded and watched as he sat himself down. Desrae was known around Soho; he was a fixture there. Not because he was a transvestite, but because his long-time boyfriend was none other than Joey Pasquale.

Joey was a face, a real face.

He ran the West End through utter fear and terror. Joey was known to be hard; not hard but fair, like most successful villains, just hard. Joey’s only known weaknesses were Desrae, whom he had been with for years, and his wife and son.

Tommy Pasquale was eighteen and had recently been introduced into his father’s business. He was getting a big reputation fast. It was also rumoured that he had called Desrae ‘Auntie’ for years, though no one had ever had the guts to ask outright if this were true.

Desrae did not usually frequent places like Tony Gosa’s; he used the nicer places in Piccadilly where they knew him and treated him with respect. No, he was sitting in Tony’s cafe for a reason, and Tony had a feeling that whatever that reason was, it meant trouble for him.

As Tony placed the coffee in front of him, Desrae gave a wide smile. ‘Put up any more poor little girls lately, have we?’

Tony’s smile froze on his face.

‘Does a blinding breakfast your mum, so my little niece was telling me anyway. Came looking for me, she did, and I hear she spent a rather enlightening evening with you and your mother.’

Tony didn’t say anything, he was incapable of speech.

‘Name of Cathy. Remember her, do you? Only I think you charged her twenty-five quid. Yes, I think that was the amount. Or no, come to think of it, could have been fifty quid.’ He pretended to concentrate, frowning deeply. ‘Yeah, fifty quid I think it was. At least that’s what she told me and my friend Joey. Very upset Joey was as well. Likes the kid a lot he does.’

Tony felt a cold sweat break out all over his body.

‘Has he been in at all?’ Desrae continued. ‘I should imagine he’s looking for me by now.’

Tony shook his head. Walking back to his till, he extracted the fifty pounds in record time and shoved it into Desrae’s outstretched hands, apologising all the while. ‘If she’d said she was your niece, I swear on my mother’s eyes . . .’

Desrae interrupted him. ‘Shut up, you Greek ponce. You’d sell your mother’s eyesight for a few quid, and she’d sell yours. Cut the fanny and listen. As yet Joey knows nothing, but if I hear that any of my niece’s business has been discussed anywhere, I’ll bring you so much trouble you’ll wish your mother had never bothered to open her legs the night you were conceived. Do you get my drift?’

‘Yes . . . Listen, Desrae, if you say she’s your niece, she’s your niece. She can be your daughter for all I care, so long as I don’t get no call from Mr Pasquale.’

Desrae laughed delightedly. ‘Daughter would be a bit strong even for me, dearie. Niece will do nicely. Make a point of mentioning her around, would you? I’d appreciate it. Maybe I’ll bring her in one day for a little chat.’

Tony swallowed hard. ‘Your niece will always be welcome here, as you are.’

Desrae stood up and looked down at the smaller man before him.

‘Frightened, aren’t you? You’re so frightened you’d suck my cock if I asked you nicely, wouldn’t you?’

Tony was dismayed. Desrae was capable of anything, everyone knew that. His reputation was as fierce as his boyfriend’s. No one had ever had Desrae over and lived to tell the tale. Unlike a lot of the queers around Soho, he was certainly not the victim type. For all his girlish voice and exaggerated mannerisms, Desrae could throw a punch like a docker and wasn’t afraid to use a knife. Tony was trashed and he knew it. He also knew that if Desrae insisted on having his cock sucked, he would have to do it.

Desrae laughed once more. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fussy what I fuck. Always have been. You just watch yourself, mate. You ripped off the wrong person. You must be losing your touch, old chap.’

As he walked from the cafe in his black high heels, Tony Gosa breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. He should have guessed that little bitch would be trouble. Look at the way she’d come back in, looking for her money.

Well, if she had the protection of Desrae and Pasquale, she was one lucky little girl. Quite frankly, Tony hoped he never clapped eyes on her again.

 

Desrae walked around Soho, treated like visiting royalty wherever he went. As he swayed through the market he waved at whores and bouncers alike, greeting them all with his high voice and breathy, over-feminine laugh.

‘I got me niece staying. Wait until you all meet her, she’s a right little darling.’

Everyone feigned pleasure for him and waved happily as he passed by.

But Desrae knew exactly what he was doing, telling this story. Once Cathy was accepted as his niece, however incongruous that might sound, she would actually
become
his relative in everyone’s mind. Any questions about her would then be met with a blank wall of silence, which was exactly what he wanted.

He loved taking care of people, and now he had found a person he could care for who didn’t already know his reputation and lifestyle. He wanted to make sure that when Cathy found out about them, she would already love him for himself.

As he made his way to Oxford Street with the fifty pounds in his bag and Cathy’s measurements in his mind, he had an amusing thought. He would dress her like a little queen. She’d be a big queen’s little princess!

He laughed out loud at his little joke.

What Joey would say when he saw her, Desrae didn’t have a clue, but knowing Joey, he wouldn’t say much. Which was a major part of his attraction. Joey trusted him implicitly. They trusted one another. There was more to their relationship than anyone had ever guessed and that suited them both right down to the ground.

Desrae’s eyes misted over as he thought of his first meeting with Joey Pasquale. He always liked to think it had been fate that had brought them together.

Fifteen years before, one cold rainy night, he had been dressed in his finest and cruising the streets of Soho looking for a likely lad. A punter. Instead he had been dragged into a car and taken to waste ground over Notting Hill way. An old bombsite had been the place where he had learned what gang rape was.

When his kidnappers had realised he was not a woman they had gone mad, pulling at his penis, slashing at it with knives. Finally, after he had performed oral sex on them all, they had systematically raped him in the roughest of fashions, all laughing and enjoying themselves.

Desrae had been amazed at how young they were, only his own age. They were probably respectable types at heart who would forget the events of tonight and go on to lead perfectly normal lives. He knew already that many so-called he-men were some of the worst shitstabbers going. So many people lived a double life. The clubs he cruised had taught him all he needed to know about that.

Now he had been abused and humiliated by five young men who doubtless believed their actions were justified because Desrae wasn’t one of the lads. He pulled himself to his knees and felt the sting of tears against the black eye he had received when they’d still thought he was a female.