The Runaway by Martina Cole Read Free Book Online Page A

lot, Cath. That says it all, don’t it? After all these years, you’re frightened of me. Well, don’t worry, I won’t be coming back, love.’
    As he made for the door, she ran to him, her unbuttoned tartan skirt hanging loose around her waist and threatening to slip to the floor.
    ‘I’m sorry, Eamonn, really I am. Don’t go.’
    He turned and looked at her hard. ‘Does that mean you’re going to let me then?’
    She dropped her gaze and concentrated on the old scarred dresser in the corner of the room. She heard his sharp intake of breath.
    ‘I can’t, Eamonn.’ Her low voice was barely audible.
    ‘Not can’t, Cathy. Won’t. See you sometime.’
    He turned from her and left the room. At the front door he waited a few seconds, sure that she’d beg him to come back. But she didn’t, and feeling the temper rise within him, he slammed out of the door.
    Cathy heard his footsteps clattering downstairs as she was pulling on her panties, and swallowed down the urge to cry. Sex was a major part of her mother’s life and Cathy had always accepted that. But sex for herself was something else altogether. She wanted to be a virgin when she got married, and even at thirteen she understood exactly what Eamonn was offering her: the chance to get pregnant, the chance to be used, the chance to become what her mother was. She adored Eamonn but years of living with him had left her with no illusions as far as he was concerned. That, coupled with the fact that she still adored him, was the root of all her problems.
    The worst of it was, she wanted to do what he asked, but was too frightened.
    After tidying herself, she began washing the glasses and straightening the furniture. Then she went to her room, lay down on the bed and took deep breaths.
    She was lulled to sleep by images of Eamonn and herself, in a nice house, with a wedding ring on her finger and a baby in her arms. Respectability was all-important to Cathy because it was something to aspire to. Most people wouldn’t understand that. But then, most people weren’t the child of a dock dolly like Madge.
    Since her Irishman had married, she had even started to bring her work home.
     
    It was the shrill laughter of drunkenness that woke Cathy. Rubbing her eyes, she realised she was still fully dressed. She sat up on the bed and glanced at the small bedside clock. It was three-thirty in the morning. Her head ached from the cider and her mouth felt as dry as the Gobi Desert. Yawning heavily, she walked from the bedroom into the narrow hallway. As she made her way to the kitchen she heard a man’s voice.
    ‘Pour out more drinks, Alan.’
    ‘Yeah, large ones!’ Betty’s voice was slurred and Cathy closed her eyes in distress.
    If it was a foursome, the noise level was likely to increase and she wasn’t in the mood. Hearing the clink of glasses, she poured herself some milk and tiptoed back to her room with it. Inside she drank the milk and undressed hurriedly, hanging up her skirt and smoothing out her jumper. Pulling on a large flannelette nightie, she pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. But she was wide awake now.
    By the light of the streetlamp she could make out the furniture in her room, even the damp patches on the wallpaper. She replayed the scene of earlier in her mind and sighed heavily. In her young life only two people had remained a constant fixture: her mother and Eamonn.
    Now he wanted something from her, and she knew she would eventually let him have it. Putting her hands behind her head, she comforted herself with wild imaginings: Eamonn waiting for her at the altar, the moment he slid the ring on to her finger, Madge all respectable in a navy blue two-piece wiping away tears of pride.
    She was smiling slightly when the bedroom door was thrust open and the harsh light from the hallway dazzled her.
    ‘Well, well! What have we here?’
    The man was tall and thin, with a beaked nose and thick lips. He smiled at her but there was a gloating