Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1)

It’s funny how the
do-gooding public think prison is the answer, like a magic wand that wipes your
criminal scorecard clean. Only it isn’t like that, the problems you leave
behind are still waiting for you when you step back out into the daylight,
except now they’re much bigger, and this time you don’t have as many choices.

I
was one of the lucky ones, moved back into my family home and into a job that
paid decent money. I should send a shout out to my probation officer; she came
up trumps, getting me in at Swanson’s rather than pretend work on a poxy job
creation scheme. OK, packing cardboard boxes is boring as Hell, but you can
have a laugh with the guys on the shop floor and turn the radio up when you run
out of things to say.

Even
so, only one day in the job and already things started going pear-shaped. I was
heading towards the bus-stop at the end of my shift when a small boy riding a
BMX bike mounted the pavement, circling round me a couple of times like a
playground bully eyeing his victim. Close up he was older than I’d first
thought, maybe thirteen or so, with shaved blond hair and a forehead that was
way too wide for the rest of his face. His eyes were sunken and further apart
than was right and a mouth that hung open as though his lips were too heavy for
his jaw.

‘You
Davy?’ it came out as a statement rather than a question, but I nodded anyway.

‘Gotta
message f’ya.’ The kid had a nasal whine, the kind that’d get on your nerves if
you had to listen to it all the time. I wasn’t worried by the sight of him
though; a boy on a bike makes a bee-line for you and says they’ve got a
message; it’s not that big a deal round here. As far as I know, Hallmark and
Interflora don’t stock ‘
Glad you’re out of chokey
’ gifts and where I’m
from your first stretch inside is a rite of passage. News of my release is
bound to have got around.

‘Mickey’s
givin’ ye till the end o’ the week to make your first payment.’

I
nodded in agreement, his terms seemed reasonable; he was hardly going to write
off my loan because of my spell inside.

‘Said
to tell ye he’s adjusted the figures.’

Ah
.
Bike Boy’s voice was beginning to grate but he had my full attention. ‘Said
something ‘bout the credit crunch an’ compound interest, or was it compound
fractures?’ the boy stated maliciously,‘Either way he said I wasn’t tae worry
if I forgot the gist, so long as I told ye how much ye payment has gone up
tae.’

I
had a feeling I wasn’t going to like this. Bike Boy paused for effect, as
though I was an X Factor contestant about to learn my fate: whether I was to
stay in the competition or return to the life I’d been badmouthing every week.

‘Two
hundred quid.’ He said firmly.

I
was confused. That was the amount of my original loan. I’d been due to pay it
off fifty pounds a week until Mickey got bored but now he seemed to be giving
me the chance to pay off the debt in full. It’d be a stretch, after tax I’ll be
clearing two fifty a week but it’d be worth it.

Bike
Boy smiled, not altogether unkindly but there was a glimmer of pleasure there,
even so.

‘Two
hundred a week until further notice.’ He clarified matter of factly.

‘Ye
havin’ a laugh!’ I began to object but the kid was already peddling away, job
done. I know my spell inside meant Mickey’d had to wait for his money but this
was some penalty. After bus fares and board I’d be working for nothing.

And
so this morning I’m trying to manage my expectations. To start my day as I mean
to go on. Good things don’t happen to Davy Johnson, never have done, never
will. I’m your original walking talking magnet for bucket loads of shit but
today I’m going to look on the bright side; the sun is shining, I have a pack
of smokes in my pocket and I have a job. I take a cigarette from the pack and
light it, drawing down hard, enjoying the sensation of the nicotine inflating
my lungs. Is it so wrong to be drawn to something that really isn’t good for
you?

The
sun’s rays beam down steadily and I roll my overalls to my waist before lying
back on the wooden bench, savouring each lungful of smoke. My upper body
tingles; already the skin on my chest is beginning to turn pink. Be good to get
some colour, get rid of the grey pallor that is the trademark of a stretch
inside. I close my eyes, lifting my cigarette for a final drag before returning
to the pallet of cartons waiting for me. All I need to top the day off is a
nice cold beer and I promise myself one at the end of the shift with a couple
of guys from the shop floor if they’re up for it.

A
cold chill across my stomach makes my eye lids snap open. There, in my eye
line, blocking out the sun like a spiteful raincloud stands a familiar but
unfriendly face. Police Constable MacIntyre arrested me six months ago and here
he is larger than life staring down at me as though I’m a giant turd. I look
past MacIntyre to the squad car parked by the factory gates and the officer in
the passenger seat picking his nose while scrolling through messages on a
mobile. I don’t think they’re supposed to use their phones on duty but I know
better than to air unasked for views. Instead, I push myself to a sitting
position, pulling my overalls up over my shoulders whilst checking across the
factory yard to see if my visitors can be seen from the main building. Candy
Staton, the boss’s PA has her back to the canteen window while she busies
herself getting drinks for the managers. Petite with long shiny hair tied back
in a ponytail she is the prettiest girl I’ve set eyes on in a long while. She
smiled at me on my first day here even though she must have seen my personnel
file. I wonder what she’ll make of the new guy not yet a week in and bringing
police to the door.

‘Heard
they’d let ye oot.’ PC MacIntyre is a prize prick with eyes that tell you he
likes a drink almost as much as he loves a ruck. Thick-set arms protruding from
a dumpy body, his Kevlar vest provides an illusion of muscle. ‘Thought I’d come
see for meself.’

I
say nothing. I learned long ago not to rise to the bait; that smart mouth
answers got me locked up for the night. Instead, I stare at the man’s forehead
as though looking for his third eye.

‘What’s
this…..fancy dress?’ MacIntyre smirks at my overalls and work boots while at
the same time taking a step closer, all the better to intimidate. Slowly I push
myself up from the bench, making us equal in height though we both knew which
man has the upper hand. Over the officer’s shoulder I can see Candy pause by
the window, watching us.

‘Look,’
I reason, arms outstretched to let MacIntyre know he’ll get no trouble from me,
‘I need to get back, we only get ten minutes for a break.’

The
officer sniggers as though this is the funniest thing he’s heard in ages. ‘“We
only get ten minutes for a break!”’ he mimics, ‘Who ye trying tae kid, son?
Work’s no’ good enough fe the likes o’ you.’ He snipes, ‘I know for a fact
ye’ll not last the shift.’

Not
for the first time I wonder whether there is a section in the police training
manual called
Easy steps to Provoking and Needling
only this is a skill
MacIntyre really works hard at. Each meeting is like an Olympic pissing contest
except there can only ever be one winner. I stay silent, yet still there’s only
a slim chance of me coming through unscathed.

‘What
they got ye doing then, sweeping the floor?’ MacIntyre smiles but his eyes are
cold and hard.

‘Packing
boxes.’ I mutter, wondering if this simple answer can incriminate me in some
way, although for what, I can’t imagine. MacIntyre nods as though he already
knows this answer and I’ve merely been sitting some kind of test. ‘Ye don’t
have to be Einstein then, eh?’ He smirks.

I
shrug, I’ve been told I was thick by every teacher in school, if this insult is
intended to wind me up he’s way off beam; you can’t be offended by a fact.

‘Then
again, with your pedigree….’ MacIntyre taunts. Here it comes, the bit about my
Dad being an alkie and handy with his fists, especially where Mum was
concerned. How come his jibes always end up with my Dad?
He was a wrong ‘un
so I’m destined to be one too? Is that it?

‘I
mean,’ MacIntyre grins as though he’s second guessed my thoughts and has
deliberately chosen to change tack, ‘I mean, what with ye mum being on the game
and all, not exactly going tae come across many great male role models are ye?’

I
keep my mouth clamped shut but it’s getting really hard not to rise to his
bait. Digs about me or my old man I can cope with, but there’s not a soul on
this earth who’ll get away with saying anything bad about Mum. She put food on
the table every day of my childhood, made sure I had decent clothes and a roof
over our heads. In fact life improved once Dad was no longer around and Mum was
grateful to have a job that meant she was there for me when I’d been small.
Ye
gotta roll with the punches, Son,
was the way she explained it,
ye have
to deal with the hand ye’ve been dealt.
It wasn’t her fault I’d got in with
a bad crowd. Yes, my bravado cost me a stint inside, but it was a mistake I had
no intention of repeating.

‘Cat
got your tongue?’ MacIntyre’s sly little eyes follow my gaze toward the office
window and Candy, a knowing look flitting across his face. ‘Way out of your
league, Sunshine,’ he smirks, nodding in her direction, ‘Especially when she
hears about your pedigree.’

‘Go
fuck yersel’.’ The words shoot out before I can stop them and in that moment I
know how the rest of the day will pan out. Even at that point, there is little
I can do to change the pattern of events.

PC
MacIntyre’s eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning, ‘What did ye say,
ye lanky streak o’ piss?’

‘Ye
heard me.’ I say, in for a penny, in for a pound. I pull myself up to my full
height, which I know will look to the copper in the car like I’m squaring up but
by now I no longer give a shit.

I
turn towards the wedged open fire exit I’d emerged from fifteen minutes
earlier. The prefab building which has been my place of work for two whole days
had offered endless possibilities; even the vain hope that Candy Staton would
notice my existence. I look back to the canteen window; she’s noticed me now,
right enough, but for all the wrong reasons.

I
turn to MacIntyre. ‘They’re expecting me.’ I say simply.

‘They’re
expecting ye to fuck up,’ he says scornfully, ‘Why don’t you do everyone a
favour and crawl back under your stone?’

Ignoring
him, I walk towards the open factory door; I figure putting some space between
us might stop him feeling the need to intimidate.

‘Not
so fast, Pal,’ He warns, putting his hand on my chest to prevent me from moving
but I brush it aside, the sooner I get back indoors the better. A crowd has
gathered beside Candy at the canteen window, watching as MacIntyre’s bulk
blocks the entrance into the building, a smile plastered across his face.

A
car door slams and I turn to see the other copper hurrying in my direction,
handcuffs released in readiness. I don’t need to tell you how the rest pans
out.

Three
hours later I emerge from Gayfield station charged with Breach of the Peace and
Resisting Arrest. MacIntyre had made me wait for two whole hours after booking
me in, left me sitting in a cell while he went for his break, pretending to
catch up on paperwork. I bite back a wave of anger: Breach of the Peace is
handed out to people like me for merely having an opinion, and resisting arrest
– who in their right mind climbs into a police car willingly when they’ve done
nothing wrong? I know how it works though. The public never question these
charges; always assume there’s no smoke without fire. A young guy getting
tugged must’ve done something wrong; it’s a view that makes everyone sleep
better at night.

Except
for the boy and his family of course.

So
here I am not a week out of jail and already I’ve been lifted, it doesn’t look
good I know. I’d had to endure a lecture from the Custody Sergeant before they
let me go, reminding me they could make me sit out the remaining three months
of my sentence banged up if they wanted, and it was all I could do to keep my
mouth shut and say how sorry I was. I jump on the next bus back into Leith,
running the remainder of the way from the bus stop to the factory, hoping that
news of my arrest hasn’t reached my supervisor, or that maybe he’d be willing
to hear me out before jumping to any conclusion. I know my luck has run out
when Candy stops me as I’m clocking in, brown envelope in hand and a look of
pity on her face.

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