The Runaway by Martina Cole Page B

said quietly, ‘I told you over and over again, Dad - I ain’t fucking Irish, I’m English!’ Before his father could retort he had pulled Cathy from her seat and they were out the back door and up the path to the lane.
    ‘I hate that bastard at times.’
    Cathy grinned. ‘What with him and me mother, it’s a wonder either of us is even remotely normal.’
    Eamonn pulled her against him, and pushed his hand up her skirt. ‘Give us a kiss, Cathy.’
    She kissed him then, smelling Coal Tar soap and Park Drive cigarettes.
    ‘Me mate has a bedsit. He says we can use it tonight.’
    Eamonn’s eyes were a deep sea blue. Looking into them, she felt herself drowning. He was half smiling, his face already showing signs of five o’clock shadow. He was as dark as the gypsies he was said to descend from.
    Seeing her expression he said softly, ‘Come on, Cathy. What you got to lose? I want you.’
    Shaking her head, she sighed heavily. ‘No, Eamonn. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready yet. I told you - I’m frightened.’
    She was pleading with her eyes. Eamonn stared hungrily into her pretty heart-shaped face and felt the pull of her then. Closing his own eyes, he said through gritted teeth: ‘For fuck’s sake, Cathy, you’re thirteen going on thirty! You’re not a kid, none of us is. Never bleeding well had the chance! I promise you, I’ll be really nice to you. You’ll love it.’
    Cathy felt something inside her give way. Burning her boats, she said: ‘All right then, Eamonn.’
    He crushed her to him tightly, feeling the strong steady beat of her heart against his ribs. She was so tiny, yet so female. He loved the smell of her, the feel of her. They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the alley.
    ‘Eamonn! You’d better come, mate.’
    Titchy O’Mara was a small stocky boy of sixteen. He had the roundness of his mother and the harsh features of his father. Out of breath, he put his hands on his knees and steadied himself.
    He smiled briefly at Cathy before gasping: ‘There’s a big fight tonight, Bethnal Green against Bermondsey Boys. There’s been fucking murders today! Harry Clark got a hammering in Bermondsey market - he’s in the Old London being stitched and all sorts. They’ve really pushed it this time. We’re going over the water at ten tonight, but we’re tooling up beforehand. You coming or what?’
    Eamonn’s face was stiff with anger. ‘Harry Clark? But he’s only a kid, no more than fifteen. The dirty bastards! Have you told the rest of the firm?’
    Titchy nodded. ‘’Course I have. We need to get everyone for this. I’m telling you now, this is the big one, mate. We’ve got to sort the fuckers once and for all.’
    Eamonn nodded, all thoughts of Cathy forgotten. ‘I’m coming. Wait here while I get me gear.’
    She rolled her eyes heavenwards as he disappeared through the back gate into his house. Titchy smiled at her shyly. He liked Cathy Connor, they had a lot in common. His mother was a dock dolly as well.
    Five minutes later Eamonn was dressed in his battle clothes: black trousers, black shirt and black leather jacket. His fashionable elephant’s trunk hairstyle was freshly Brylcreemed and he carried a bicycle chain and an iron cosh in a tool bag.
    Kissing his cheek, Cathy watched him disappear with Titchy and sighed with relief that the inevitable had been put off for a few days by the actions of the Bermondsey Boys.
     
    Eamonn was easily the tallest of his cronies and they looked to him for guidance. Even the older boys looked to him, because Eamonn had the edge. Unlike his pals, who just liked to act it, Eamonn was really hard. He didn’t just fight, he set out to maim. His name was synonymous with real fear in the East End. It wasn’t just his size, impressive though that was. He had a coldness about him that the others picked up on.
    At fifteen, he had beaten unconscious a North Londoner called Teddy Spinelli, a loan shark of Italian descent.