The Runaway Read Online Free PDF Page A

dinner. Mrs Cartwright at school says that drinking during the day means you’ve got a problem with—’
    Madge cut off her daughter’s voice with a bellow. ‘Bollocks to Mrs know-it-all fucking Cartwright! If I want a drink on Christmas Day, I’ll have one. All right?’
    Cathy’s face paled at the vitriolic attack and Madge felt a second’s shame. It was her old man she was angry with, not her daughter. As Cathy walked back into the kitchen, the suppressed tears spilled over on to Madge’s cheeks.
    Where was her Irish boy, the bastard? Christmas Day and he was nowhere to be seen.
    In the kitchen Cathy sipped her coffee and pulled on her cigarette. At twelve she looked fifteen and knew it. Acting as if she were older was something she had done ever since she could remember. Now she got herself wolf whistles with her walk, and the nickname of ‘Jailbait’ roundabouts.
    ‘Do you know where your old man is, Eamonn?’
    The boy, who at fifteen already topped six feet, shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell her anyway. What would be the point? You know what me dad’s like - he’ll be home eventually and they’ll have a fight and that’ll be it until the next time.’
    Cathy nodded. Putting out her cigarette, she checked on the small chicken in the oven.
    ‘That smells handsome, girl.’
    Cathy smiled. ‘I know! Eamonn, can I ask you something without you laughing at me?’
    The boy nodded, a smile already curving his wide mouth. Like his father, he had the black-haired good looks of the Irish.
    ‘Would you ever get married?’
    He shook his head vigorously. ‘Not in a million years, Cath. Have this all me life? I don’t think so! I’m off, mate, as soon as I can earn me own dosh.’
    She lit another cigarette. ‘I want to get married, and I want a nice house and a couple of kids. I want to have a garden with nice flowers in, and a husband who adores me and goes to work regularly. And I’ll cook him lovely dinners and he’ll kiss me all the time . . .’
    Her voice was wistful, and instead of laughing Eamonn put his arm around her shoulders and cuddled her. ‘And that’s exactly what you’ll get, love.’
    Cathy pulled on her cigarette and shook her head. ‘No, I won’t. Any decent bloke would run a mile from her in there, and I don’t blame them. Do you know what Desmond Blackburn’s dad said to me the other day? “You’ll soon be pulling your skirts up like your mother, girl, and I’ll be first in line.” The dirty old git! I told him to fuck off, I was so annoyed, and he laughed and said: “You’ve already learned the language. What else has Eamonn Docherty taught you?” I didn’t know if he meant you or your father.’
    ‘Oh, he did, did he?’
    Cathy pushed her heavy blonde hair away from her forehead. ‘Don’t get all het up, they ain’t worth it. Anyway, you can’t blame the neighbours, the way our two go on. Look at last Friday - me mum and Betty fighting in the bloody street! I’m sick of the lot of it. She could get a proper job, Christ knows there are enough of them about, but no, not her. We could move away where no one knows our business. When I suggested it to her, she went barmy. I hate her sometimes. I know it’s wicked, but I can’t help it.’
    Eamonn nodded sympathetically. ‘At least you’re not the namesake of a fucking lunatic Irishman. I hope he don’t come back. I hope he’s dead somewhere. It’s the only way I’ll ever be shot of him. Anyway, Merry Christmas.’
    He smiled at her then and they both began to laugh for no reason.
    ‘Do you know the funniest thing of all?’ Cathy said, looking up into his merry blue eyes. ‘I love me mum really and I don’t know why. She sits on her arse all day, and then flogs it all night. She won’t do a hand’s turn in the house and yet she expects clean clothes miraculously to appear from nowhere. She’ll eat herself unconscious and yet she wouldn’t cook a boiled egg! But, despite all that, I