Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (27 page)

‘Get
a move on Davy! Stop dragging ye feet.’ He half drags me across the road,
yanking my arm like a chain attached to a timid dog. It’s cold, he’s forgotten
to do my coat up at the top, the wind rattles around my neck making me dig my
chin into my chest. ‘Don’t ye want an ice-cream?’ he asks, ‘No!’ I shout, the
wind swallowing up my answer and blowing it in the direction we’ve come from.

‘I
want tae go hame!’ I whine, this makes him swear and he pulls harder on my arm
making me yelp. The ice-cream van is at the end of the road and he waves at the
driver who stubs out his cigarette and greets us at the window.

‘Whit
can I get yez?’ he asks, and though I point to a 99 what he actually hands over
is a cheap ice lolly that my tongue will stick to. I shoot the man a filthy look
but Dad winks at him as he hands over the money. ‘Dinnae want te get the carpet
dirty, do we Davy?’ he asks and before I can answer she is standing on the
doorstep, grinning at us both like she’s pleased we’ve come. ‘Has your horse
come in Dad?’ I ask as his pace quickens, my legs moving double time to keep up
with him. ‘Aye son,’ he says, smirking back at her.

Living
in this makeshift den is beginning to take its toll. I miss my home, even the
sound of Mum’s voice as she talks dirty to her on-line punters. Most of all I
miss the feeling of living where someone gives a shit. I know that it’s risky
but I need to see her. I need answers that only she and Dad can give and since
my attempt with him went so badly she’s my only hope. I peer out through the
window. The glass is smeared with dust making the street outside take on a hazy
glow. It’s late afternoon; passers-by are either students or unemployed. The
pavements have been divided up into lanes by a series of cones herding
pedestrians into different directions. There’s tall fencing along the centre of
the road and a bus stop less than ten metres from my door. If I wait until the
bus approaches the lights I can jog to the stop and jump on with little chance
of being seen.

I
make up my mind.

Mum
readjusts her face as she opens the door, ushering me into the hall whilst
glancing up and down the street. ‘Don’t jist stand there,’ she says gruffly,
‘There’s a police car passes by three or four times a day, away in.’

I
don’t have time to say anything before she pulls me into a bear hug. She starts
crying but they’re happy tears and I wait until she’s done before I speak.
‘Let’s go through to the kitchen,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll not be seen from there.’
She nods; wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, following close behind as
though she daren’t let me out of her sight.

The
kitchen is the messiest I’ve seen it: several days’ worth of dirty cups on the
work surface, chip wrappers sitting on the lid of the bin, an overflowing
ashtray on the small kitchen table.

The
ironing board and web cam are nowhere to be seen, and as I study her I see that
her hair is unwashed, her face free of makeup. She looks tired, she’s still in
her pyjamas and she pulls her dressing gown around her as though that makes all
the difference.

I’ve
been so busy trying to clear my name I hadn’t thought what it must be like for
her. I’d imagined somehow she’d carry on as normal, as though not knowing what
was happening to her fugitive son was no biggie. I guide her into one of the
two chairs and set about making us both a drink. I look in the fridge. There’s
a pint of milk on a shelf and I smile to myself. She goes ape if there’s never
any left for her tea so the fact she’s still popping out to buy stuff is
reassuring. ‘Neighbour gets it for me.’ She says, telepathic as always.

‘When’s
the funeral?’ I ask quietly.

Mum
shrugs. ‘They can’t release any of the bodies yet,’ she says matter of factly.
She glances up at me, ‘Need to keep them for evidence.’ She watches as I wash
two mugs, placing a tea bag in each as I wait for the kettle to boil.

‘Why
did ye run?’ she asks sharply and I blow out my cheeks while working out the
answer. I turn to look at her. ‘Mum, ye get it that I’m being framed, don’t
ye?’

I
wait while she nods. ‘But who would do such a thing Davy?’ She asks.

I
ignore her question. ‘Ye listen to the news, ye’ve heard about police tellin’
lies…’

‘Ye
mean like down south with that MP?’ I nod eagerly, ‘Exactly-’

‘-but
that’s not murder, Davy,’ she interrupts.

I
pour boiling water into the mugs and add milk, removing the bags with my
fingers before bringing both cups to the table.

‘Think
of the other cases then, where people have died,’ I remind her, ‘Hillsborough-’

‘Yeah,’
she concedes, ‘but we knew the police were lying about that for years-’

‘-They
do bad things then cover up for each other. It happens every day.’

Mum
says nothing.

‘Even
so, Davy,’ she sighs, ‘It’s a lot to take in. I mean, you know they found the
gun here, the one used on that boy in the hostel?’

‘Yes!’
I nod my head vigorously, ‘but they would, wouldn’t they, when the bastard who
killed him was conducting the search!’

She
considers this but I can see it’s too much for her. ‘Mum,’ I say calmly,
although my heart is pounding, ‘It boils down to this: I’m telling ye I didn’t
do it. I’m telling ye I saw the person who did, and that he’s a cop. Can ye see
now why giving myself up is like signing my own death warrant?’

‘You’ve
changed, Davy,’ she says sadly, ‘but then that’s no surprise, we all have I
suppose.’

‘You
haven’t answered my question, Mum.’ I remind her, ‘Do ye believe in me, or
no’?’

Mum
reaches across the table, placing both hands on mine. ‘Aye, of course I believe
in ye.’

I
nod, satisfied. ‘Then ye need to tell me everything about Dad.’

You
can know someone all your life yet in an instant you learn you didn’t know them
at all. Mum’s response to my request is to withdraw into herself; the relief
she displayed earlier at seeing me is gone, replaced by an undercurrent of fury
which she’s trying to hide. She reaches for her cigarettes but the packet is
empty. I offer to make her a roll up but she declines. ‘Can’t stand the bits
getting in your mouth,’ she grumbles. ‘I’ve got filters,’ I tell her but she
shakes her head.

She
falls silent so I wait her out. I stare at my tea, blowing across the top of it
before placing my hands around the sides to warm them, taking small sips, just
for something to do.

‘What
makes you ask about your Dad after all this time?’ she asks casually but I’m
having none of it.

‘Because
I just learnt ye lied to me,’ I say sharply, ‘that he didn’t run off and leave
us; he was carted off to a mental hospital after killing some bird.’

Mum
flinches, despite what she does for a living she brought me up to be respectful
to women and wasn’t averse to slapping me if I stepped out of line. There was a
time when I admired that, now I just see it as a knee jerk reaction to me
seeming too similar to Dad for her liking.

‘Who
told you?’ she demands.

‘Does
it matter?’

She
shrugs half-heartedly, ‘Mebbe not.’

‘He
had a short fuse on him,’ she says, ‘always did, I suppose. I was like any
stupid woman in love though. I thought I could calm him down, that I’d be
enough for him.’

‘Perhaps
he thought he wasn’t enough for you!’ I snap, ‘I mean, you’re the one going off
with different blokes left right and centre.’

‘Alright,
enough!’ she yells.

‘Alright?’
I yell back, ‘You’re kidding me, eh?’

Mum
pushes herself to her feet, leaning across the table towards me she places one
hand flat onto the top of it for balance, the other she clenches into a fist
which she bangs on the table’s centre to make her point.

‘It’s
no’ fuckin’ Disney!’ she says harshly, ‘I wasn’t the local gala queen fallen on
hard times, I had a drug habit I was trying to keep.’ She sees my eyes widen
but carries on anyway: ‘I was on the game when I met your Da’, Davy, work that
out for yersel!’

‘He
was a punter?’ I whisper.

Mum
nods. ‘Aye! Only he kept coming back.’ She laughs at something she’s not about
to share with me and I’m grateful.

‘Probably
thought he’d get a discount,’ I say bitterly, ‘or better still get it fe
nothing if he took up with ye!’

The
slap when it comes doesn’t have its normal sting; she’s weaker now, whether
physically or mentally I don’t know for sure but it feels like a slow motion
slap and the execution of it seems to bring more pain than pleasure.

‘I’m
sorry,’ she gasps, burying her face in her hands as she collapses back into her
seat, her body shakes with the anguish of it; these are not happy tears.

‘Mum,’
I whisper, as I begin my second apology to a parent in one day but my words are
drowned out by her sobs. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say genuinely, ‘I didn’t mean to make
you cry.’

She’s
not a pretty crier, when she lifts her head her eyes are swollen and her face
is red and blotchy. Her nose is streaming and when she wipes it with her sleeve
a string of snot stretches to her wrist like a trip wire. Her chest heaves with
each sob and I’m scared that I’ve undone something that can’t be put back.

‘I
was a junkie, son.’ She says simply, her shoulders heavy with the shame of it.
‘Your Dad got me off it. He kept coming back because he really loved me back
then,

told
me he couldn’t stand by and watch me kill mysel’. We had a deal: if I got clean
he would marry me.’

‘The
deal worked then,’ I say gently.

Mum
nods. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ she confesses, ‘none of it was. In fact I reckon I
pushed him away too many times during my recovery and had too many relapses for
him to keep any shred of respect he had for me. I think we would have gone our
separate ways if you hadn’t come along.’

No
wonder Dad resented me then.

‘He
wasn’t a saint.’ She concedes, ‘He had his own addictions, although it turns
out gambling
wasn’t
one of them. He was letting me think one thing when
he was really, like all men, up to the other.’

I
wait for her to continue.

‘He
was feckless, and he was shagging another woman, Davy,’ she sums up, ‘and it
turns out he was a murderer too, but for all that he got me off Smack and I’m
grateful.’ She says simply.

‘He
tried to kill me.’

‘So
they say.’

‘Ye
don’t believe that?’

Mum
lifts her shoulders in a lethargic shrug. ‘He was a moody bastard, and he had
no time for bairns, right enough, but he wouldn’t have harmed ye.’

‘Ye
sure of that?’

‘Well,
no, obviously,’ she shakes her head to make sense of it, ‘I mean, you were
traumatised when the police brought you home, wouldn’t speak for days
afterwards, you wouldn’t have been like that over nothing. And well, after
killing Sonia I reckon he was capable of anything.’

‘What
actually happened?’

Mum
sighs as she casts her mind back. ‘They got into a fight, I heard afterwards
that she wanted to end it, he didn’t; you heard them shouting and ran up the
stairs tae see what was going on. Turns out ye got there in time to see him
strangle her and started screaming your head off. He went mental and chased
after ye.’

A
cold feeling runs over me; something isn’t right, I just can’t put my finger on
it. ‘Ye had a lucky escape.’ I say.

‘What
d’ye mean?’

‘He
used to hit you, he could have snapped any moment, same as he did with Sonia.’

‘Wasn’t
a bruise on her, so I believe.’ Mum remarks, ‘I remember being jealous at the
time, wondering what made her so special that he didn’t raise a hand to her.
Hah,’ she laughs, but there’s a hollow ring to it, ‘imagine being jealous of a
dead woman.’

She
sees the look on my face. ‘What is it?’

‘I
don’t know,’ I say truthfully, ‘Something isn’t right, that’s all.’

‘Ah,
none of it was right Davy, ye Da’ shouldn’t have been seeing some tart behind
my back, he certainly shouldn’t have killed the poor cow, and tae do it in
front of you, well, that was unforgiveable, it’s no wonder ye had problems
sleeping after that.’

‘I
could get tae sleep, right enough,’ I correct her; ‘it was the nightmares I
couldn’t cope with.’

‘It
took every bit o’ strength I had to stay clean,’ Mum says sorrowfully, ‘Jude
would stay up with me when I was going through the worst of it.’ She looks in
my direction, ‘That’s why ye were sent away tae school,’ she admits, ‘the
social workers said it was either that or foster care and I wasn’t standing for
that.’

‘I
thought I’d done something bad,’ I tell her, ‘It was a school for bad kids.’

‘Mixed
up ones too,’ she says, ‘and you were certainly that. The council offered to
rehouse us but word travels fast, we were better among people who knew us, I
was sure about that.’

‘Why
didn’t we ever go tae see him?’

‘He
never denied his guilt, Davy, but he couldn’t remember anything. Medical
reports said he’d had a mental breakdown, so his lawyer got him into The
Orchard Clinic.’ She sees the look on my face. ‘It was no place for a child,’
she said, repeating pretty much what Dad had said earlier. ‘never mind one who
was still coming to terms with everything that had happened. Doctors were worried
you’d get flashbacks every time ye saw him and that was enough for him tae make
me promise tae keep you away. I owed him that Davy.’

I
mull this over. ‘So he was happy tae kill me but he didn’t want me remembering
it every time I saw him?’ I ask.

‘He’s
a deeply disturbed man Davy, we all thought it was for the best.’ An image of
him rocking back and forth on the clinic’s garden bench comes to mind and I can
see her point. Even so…

‘Did
this woman live close by?’ I ask.