Free The Runaway by Martina Cole Page A

closed their eyes in fright and the South Londoners opened theirs to see if the bullet was aimed at them.
    James Carter seemed to fall to the pavement in slow motion. Half his face flew into the air, bits of skin and eyeball spraying his friends and causing them to step back involuntarily.
    Eamonn’s low laughter was clearly heard by them all. A stunned silence reigned, the sense of shock almost tangible.
    Looking at the boy on the ground, Eamonn felt as if the bullet had hit him. There was a tight feeling in his chest, he was fighting for breath. Shock at what he’d done ballooned up inside him.
    One of the South London boys knelt by his friend. Seeing the single staring eye and the position of the boy’s body, he looked at Eamonn. With tears in his voice, he said hysterically: ‘You’re fucking mad, Docherty! He’s an Irish like you. You don’t shoot people, don’t kill people . . .’ His voice trailed off as they heard the sound of police cars in the distance.
    Everyone began running away, fear lending wings to their feet.
    Titchy pulled on Eamonn’s jacket. ‘Come on, Eamonn, the Old Bill will be here any second. Come on, man, for fuck’s sake.’
    Eamonn heard the anguish in the other boy’s voice. After one last look at James Carter, he turned away and began running. His heart was hammering in his chest and his blood ran cold.
    He’d done it.
    Jesus help me , he thought. I’ve actually done it. I’ve killed someone .
     
    Madge was in her element. A drunken gambler had won a game and given her ten pounds. After telling her she was his lucky mascot, he had then offered her another ten to ‘do the business’ for him. So in less than an hour she had earned herself twenty pounds and had actually enjoyed herself.
    She loved the heady atmosphere of the gambling room, and also the unaccustomed comfort of the ‘business’ room. To ply her trade with a mattress under her back seemed the height of sophistication so far as she was concerned.
    After deciding she would live with Jessie’s taunts in order to keep this job, she sipped a large rum and Coke, staring around the gambling room.
    It was relatively small and windowless. Police raids made that inevitable. You got into the club through the one narrow door and if ever there were a fire, the chances were you’d burn to death in the stampede to get back out the same way. Anyway, gamblers didn’t need natural light. Electric was fine, they needed no reminder of the time of day. People had been known to come in on a Thursday and leave on a Saturday morning, wondering where Friday had gone. From Thursday to Sunday the club was open literally all day and all night.
    It was a good earner, and Jessie made sure that it reached its full potential. Most of the police force was paid off, except for the die-hards, the punters were happy and the drink was never watered - three good reasons to use the place.
    The girls were all of a certain age, guaranteeing no trouble with the men. Young girls wrought havoc in gambling clubs, their youth distracting the men from the serious business of gambling. Jessie knew that the punters who frequented her club would sleep with the Pope if the lighting was right. It was gambling that brought on their sexual rush, not a pretty face or a shapely leg. Sex was just another high, another bit of fun.
    As Madge listened to the noise and breathed in the foetid air of the place, she felt a moment’s exhilaration. After a bad start the night was turning out better than she’d expected. One of the other girls smiled at her and she nodded in a friendly fashion. At the end of the day, whatever Jessie had said, whores all looked out for one another.
    They had to.
    As a man sidled up to her and offered to buy her a drink, she grinned at him coquettishly and stifled a yawn. The drink, the sex, the excitement and the heat had all made her tired. Grinning, she accepted the drink, and told herself to liven up. This could be a lucrative little earner