Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (4 page)

The
interior of the flat is cleaner than I expect with a narrow hallway leading to
a kitchen on one side and a small lounge on the other. I follow Bike Boy into
the narrow room and stand in the doorway while he makes his way over to where
Mickey Plastic is sitting in front of a large plasma TV, playing an on-line war
game via a PlayStation. Bike Boy plonks himself beside him on an oversized bean
bag and picks up a set of controls. They both wear identical headsets and it
strikes me their mannerisms are identical too, the way they screw up their eyes
when they are under attack and their laugh has the same hollow bark to it, like
a sea-lion following castration. I wonder if they are father and son, or maybe
brothers at a push, though Mickey has been peddling his loans across the city
for as long as I can remember. He hasn’t changed much over the years: hair
slightly longer than is fashionable, with a colour that can only come out of a
bottle – a cheap one at that. The screen flashes as though signifying the end
of a battle and Mickey throws down his controller and glares at me as though
I’m the reason he hasn’t progressed onto a higher level.

I
pull Aunt Jude’s roll of cash from my pocket and hold it up for him to see.
‘I’ve got your repayment, Mickey.’ I add feebly, as though an explanation were
necessary. Bike Boy sniggers as though I’ve said something funny and is
rewarded with a clip round the back of his head from Mickey for his trouble.
‘Go take the money and log it in the book, then.’ he barks at him, watching
while the boy scrambles to his feet and scampers in my direction, snatching the
money out of my outstretched hand. He takes the cash over to a small table by
the window, counting it out before entering my details into a ledger. I haven’t
moved an inch during this time and Mickey continues to look at me as though I’m
littering his home. Bike boy, enjoying my discomfort shouts over ‘Ye can go
now!’

Before
turning for the door I make the mistake of asking for a receipt, only to be met
by hysterical laughter from both Mickey and Bike Boy, which attracts attention
from the minders outside who come and remove me from the flat.

As
I head towards the bus stop I feel as though a great weight has been lifted
from my shoulders. In one day I’ve managed to make my first loan repayment,
land myself a job and get Candy Staton’s mobile number. I’m still on cloud nine
about the last part, I mean, one minute she’s someone I fantasise about, the
next she’s sat beside me in a café laughing at my jokes as though I was the
funniest guy on the planet. We exchanged mobile phone numbers before we parted
and agreed to ‘do something’ the following week, not that I have a clue right
now what that something will be. I can’t believe my luck. Not even the sacked
waitress spitting in my coffee has spoiled the roll I’m on.

A
squad car pulls up alongside me. ‘Afternoon, Shit for Brains.’ PC MacIntyre and
his sidekick smirk through the squad car window. It’s weird, considering I
don’t have a car, how he feels the urge when he sees me walking anywhere to ask
what I’m doing, as though the hard up aren’t allowed outdoors, that we should
be content watching
Cash in the Attic
and surfing shopping channels
selling stuff we don’t need.

‘Not
your usual neck o’ the woods eh Davy, got ye passport ready?’

I
pull out my mobile and pretend to check for incoming texts, anything to avoid a
confrontation. ‘I’m talkin’ to ye, laddie,’ MacIntyre persists, opening the car
door. I try to process the extent of our conversation.

‘I’m
not aware you’ve asked me anything yet,’ I say quietly, ‘I thought your
question about the passport was rhetorical, I mean, I may not be very bright
but even I understood you weren’t being serious.’

‘Oh,
even you
understood eh, laddie?’ MacIntyre stoops to eyeball his
sidekick in the passenger seat and without a word being said the other officer climbs
out of the car and walks around the front of their vehicle till I have one of
them either side of me. Jeyzu, I’ve been here before, right enough. It’s a
different sidekick but they all seem to follow his lead. I guess it’s not worth
the hassle in the locker room if they don’t. OK, I’d tried to get smart which
although isn’t difficult I see now was a bad idea. I make a decision to suck it
all up, not let him provoke me.

‘Empty
your pockets.’ MacIntyre instructs.

‘What?’
I’m not expecting that. In fact so much so that I start to laugh. Maybe he’s
hoping I refuse so he can bring me in anyway, well, if that’s the case I’ll
call his bluff:

‘No
problem, Officer.’ I reply sweetly, placing both hands in the pockets of my
cotton joggers to pull out the white lining. I place the contents across both
palms so they’re easy to make out: mobile phone, Rizzla papers and a small
pouch of tobacco; cigarettes are a luxury I can no longer afford.

‘What
about your jacket?’ MacIntyre asks a little too calmly for my liking and he
proceeds to put his hand into the jacket pocket nearest to him, pulling out a
small plastic bag containing tiny green stalks. The bag has a printed picture
of a cannabis leaf on the front in case there is any confusion over the
contents. I laugh again, louder this time. I’m laughing because I’ve never even
smoked the stuff; sold it yes, but that made me see close at hand the damage it
can do. MacIntyre’s planted it on me, pure and simple. There’s no way he can
make this stick, but then as he cuffs me and drags me towards the back seat of
the squad car, I realise that’s not his intention; he just needs an excuse to
pull me in for a while, cause maximum disruption just because he can.

Harassment,
the sport of most bored cops.

There’s
nothing to be gained by resisting arrest, yet they still manage to drag me even
though I’m compliant, as though a suspect coming willingly is no damn fun at
all.

The
bus I’d been waiting for chooses that moment to make its appearance. At the
sight of the squad car the passengers look my way, a mixture of curiosity and
excitement on their faces. Apart from the young woman sitting at the back of
the bus, who turns in her seat to get a better look, and as I stare back into
Candy’s eyes I see no curiosity at all, just utter disappointment.

It’s
late evening by the time they let me go, MacIntyre insisting on driving me
home, just to prolong the humiliation. It doesn’t matter that our neighbours
are no strangers to the interior of the local cells, it’s how Mum feels that
worries me most.

‘It’s
me,’ I call out, as I let myself in. There’s no answer as I close the door
behind me but I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. There are no
theatrical ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ followed by the occasional reference to the size
of someone’s knob, instead I hear what sounds like normal conversation. Mum’s
using her telephone voice though; I don’t mean her premium rate voice that she
uses when speaking to paying punters, but the one she used to use when school
rang or anyone she thought was better than us. I listen briefly at the door but
it gives no hint at who is with her. My curiosity getting the better of me I
push the door open and I don’t think it’s possible for me to be any more
astonished.

Candy
is sitting at our kitchen table drinking from a proper cup and saucer. Mum,
having brought out the tea set she saves for best, is sipping from a matching
cup, her finger covering the chip on her saucer from the time when I was ten
and asked if I could help her pack it away one Christmas.

‘Speak
of the Devil.’ Mum observes as I stand in front of them as though waiting to
hear my fate. ‘Sorry for calling in unannounced,’ Candy apologises softly, her
eyes never leaving mine, ‘Only I thought your mum would be worried, what with
you being waylaid and everything.’

I
don’t know whether to be relieved that Candy’s still prepared to speak to me or
worried that she’ll wonder why Mum’s dressed like Jodie Marsh in the middle of
the day, or worse still be alarmed by the cluster of sex toys lying on the
windowsill.

‘How..?’
I begin, uncertain which question to ask first.

‘I
saw your address on your personnel file,’ Candy fills in for me, ‘I’ve a cousin
who lives nearby…’ I nod, remembering she’d mentioned some relative or other
when we were in the café but I’d been so made up at her sitting with me and
getting a job all in one day I hadn’t the capacity to take in all she was
saying.

‘Never
mind all that!’ Mum interrupts impatiently, gathering the crockery towards her
in case I lunge for them in a moment of madness, ‘what the helluv ye done now?’

‘It’s
that cop, I swear!’ I know stating I haven’t done anything wrong is lame but
it’s the truth, so surely they’ll believe me? I decide to give it a go: ‘He’s
got it in for me! He’s never left me alone since I got out of prison.’ I shrug
helplessly; each time I’m lifted a seed of doubt is left behind in the minds of
the people I care about. It’s tough on them, too, I get that.

I
take a deep breath, ‘Look, he found a bit of weed on me-’

‘-You’re
a stoner?’ Candy’s voice has raised an octave, the accusation that I hadn’t
been honest with her earlier hangs between us.

‘Oh,
Davy,’ Mum sighs, ‘what the hell are ye doing getting mixed up wi-’

‘I’m
not!’ I snap impatiently, shaking my head angrily as if to demonstrate how
wrong they both are. ‘Mum,’ I look across at her, ‘for Christ’s sake, ye know
I’ve never taken anything like that,’ and to Candy: ‘I just wouldn’t! It’s a
mug’s game. I should know, I used to work for a dealer-’

‘Oh,
Davy,’ Mum says again, more weakly this time. She looks as though she doesn’t
know me, or maybe she’s trying to show Candy that this is all news to her. ‘I
only did it for a while!’ I say more sharply than I intended: Candy’s looking
at me with alarm while Mum pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and
lights one, drawing heavily on the filter before fixing me with a glare,
blowing the smoke in my direction. We aren’t allowed to smoke indoors so now I
know how pissed she is with me.

‘Mum,
I was an idiot.’ I shrug once more to indicate I’m running out of words and
patience, ‘and I didn’t mean to snap at you, but I promise you,’ I look over at
Candy once more, ‘both of you, that I didn’t have anything on me today when
MacIntyre came over, so he planted some on me.’

‘What?’
The question, in stereo, is disappointing but just shows how those who don’t
have a run in with the police have no idea how much cops prod, poke and provoke
to get the results they want, and if that includes fitting people up then
that’s what they’ll do. If I was telling this story to my mates they’d get it
straight away, wouldn’t bat an eyelid at my claim of unfair treatment. It’s my
turn to sigh.

‘Funny
how he let me go when we got to the cop shop.’ I reason, ‘Didn’t even bother
giving me a caution. He knew I’d scream blue murder if he tried to charge me.’

Mum
raises her eyebrows as if to convey she isn’t done yet, then gets to her feet
so she can begin clearing away the tea things.

‘I
expect you two need to talk.’ She says to no one in particular. I smile
hopefully at Candy but she’s already pulling her jacket around her shoulders
and slipping her bag over her arm. Standing, she’s about five inches shorter
than me, yet as I look down into those smoky eyes I’m filled with fear. I walk
her out into the hallway and open the front door. ‘It was nice meeting ye!’ Mum
chirps over her shoulder, trying as ever to bring normality to her fucked up
little world.

‘Are
we still on for that drink then?’ I position myself between Candy and the open
door although I realise that looks kind of threatening. I shift a little so she
can run past me if she feels the need. I really hope she doesn’t.

‘I
know it doesn’t look good,’ I say softly, ‘but I’m really not a bad person.’

Candy
studies me as though trying to work out where my batteries go. ‘Just an unlucky
one, then?’ she challenges, ‘‘Cos every time I see you, you’ve got a police
escort in tow.’

‘He’s
a twat.’ I explain.

‘So
you keep saying.’

‘Will
ye give me a chance to prove ye can rely on me?’ I ask ‘Come for that drink.
Please?
’
I give her my best smile, the one that usually works on Mum and Aunt Jude.

Candy
doesn’t even blink. ‘I need to go,’ she says simply.

I
stand back to let her slip through the door and out of my life, but then she
pauses at the gate and turns, ‘Call me.’ She says simply, and I swear I can see
a smile.

When I arrive on
Monday morning the café is locked; a metal shutter covers its large front
window. I knock loudly on the main door, lighting a roll up to pass the time
while I wait to be let in. Next door to the café is a betting shop, beside that
a pipe shop selling every size cannabis bong imaginable. The police turn a
blind eye to its clientele: the school kids shuffling in with pocket money,
leaving half an hour later with a carrier bag full of glass pipes and rubber
tubing. Jude tried complaining about it once; the officer she spoke to couldn’t
have shown less interest if he’d tried. The shopkeeper isn’t doing anything
illegal, apparently. Holyrood may be hankering for a multi-cultural Scotland
but along this stretch of road the residents are all the same colour: grey, the
pallid indoor complexion of the jalkie, out of their brains on dope and booze,
whatever they can lay their hands on for the price of a morning roll. They
shuffle along the pavement with the hospital gait of the medicated, as though
their skeletons have become too heavy to move. The bright lights of Princes
Street are less than a mile away yet for many it’s a trip they’ll never make.

The
sound of a key in the lock prompts me to turn round and I stub out my cigarette
before stepping inside. The café owner throws me a dirty apron and motions for
me to turn the sign on the door round to ‘Open’.

‘The
name’s Tam,’ he says, a little brighter than the other day, ‘so what do I call
you?’

‘Davy,’
I tell him.

‘OK
Davy, I’ll pay ye minimum wage and we share any tips. I can give ye five hours
a day, do we have a deal?’ We shake hands and Tam shows me into the kitchen
where I will spend my time washing dishes and prepping food unless I’m called
into the front to help when it gets busy. ‘Usually breakfast and lunch time, so
dinnae be late.’ Tam adds.

It
won’t be enough to make my loan repayments but if I can get a couple of shifts
in a bar somewhere it’ll just about cover it and I can manage on my benefit if
Mum waives my rent. Tam’s main business comes from passing tradesmen who want
no frills fast food they can eat in their van, those who eat inside tend to
work in the local shops and offices; people who know the food tastes better
than the impression given from the shop front.

After
the morning rush we have a fry up together which will keep us going for the
rest of the day. We map out a routine: I’ll come in early and open up; Tam’ll
come in after he’s taken his son to school. His son, Jamie, has cerebral palsy
and attends the local special school, Tam mentions several carers but no wife,
by the sound of it he looks after the boy on his own.

During
the afternoon it’s busier than I expect, there’s always a customer to see to or
a table to clear. I’m in the middle of serving someone when MacIntyre’s squad
car pulls up outside. Tam has gone out the back for a smoke and a couple of
city types have wandered in who seem to have lost their way – the only people
round here in suits are defence lawyers and these men are dressed sharper than
that. All pin-stripes and waistcoats, a far cry from Tam’s down-at-heel
regulars. They ask for panninis which is ambitious given the state of our décor
so I persuade them to try the house special of fried egg and haggis roll
instead.

As
I bring the cutlery and napkins to their table MacIntyre climbs out of the
passenger seat and heads into the bookies next door. I manage to manoeuvre
myself so that I have my back to the window; the last thing I want is for him
to clock that I’m working here now. But then a funny thing happens: As I bring
the men’s coffees to their table my movement must’ve caught MacIntyre’s eye as
he makes his way back to his car, just as his appearance at the window caught
mine. We stare at each other for several seconds and my heart sinks at the
prospect of losing another job. I’m tempted to quit right this minute just to
save him the pleasure, yet he goes all shifty looking and slinks quickly into
the passenger seat as though he’s the one who can’t wait to get away. What’s
more a flash of something crosses his face, something I never expected to see
when he looks at me:

Fear.
Or something like it.

By
3pm my shift has finished, so there’s plenty of time to try for bar work. I
decide to call into the Volunteer Arms first on the basis it’s the one nearest
to home and if I have to work late at least I won’t have far to stagger to my
bed. There are a handful or so drinkers propping up the bar, it’s the normal
crossover lull between daytime boozers who shuffle home once they’ve run out of
benefit and those winding down after work, hanging around till the kids are in
bed. Kirsty waves at me as she pulls a pint and it seems sensible to sound her
out first. She’s the landlord’s niece, so she should be well placed to know
what my chances are.

‘I
doubt it, Davy.’ She frowns, ‘unless he’s planning on getting shut o’ me, we’re
just not as busy as we used to be, people are making their drinks last longer.
A full bar doesn’t mean the till’s rattling every ten minutes.’ I can see her
point; I’d been known to make a drink last all evening when I had to. I thank
her anyway.

The
punter Kirsty has been serving must’ve overheard our conversation as he looks
over at me giving a sympathetic shrug. A broad shouldered man with a shaved big
head, DIY tattoos on the back of each knuckle indicating he’s spent time
enjoying the hospitality of Her Majesty. He spies the self-styled swallow on
the back of my hand and raises his glass in salute at another fellow resident.
I nod briefly then turn away so that he’s no longer in my eye line. It would be
easy to go over and strike up a conversation, swap stories about our time
inside, comparing cons we’ve got in common. Before long we’ll be complaining
how life on the outside is hard for us, which can only lead to one thing:
planning another job. I concentrate on my glass so I don’t appear unfriendly.

‘Arright
Daz,’ Grinning, he salutes a pasty faced boy who’s just entered the bar clutching
a couple of twenties. The boy looks happy, his tracksuit top is flapping open
as he bounces on the balls of his feet. ‘Horse made it passed the finishing
line then?’

Daz
replies by placing one of the notes on the bar, ordering a Jäger bomb for
himself and ‘whatever these guys are havin’’ meaning myself and the big man. I
know it’s hypocritical of me to take a drink but hell, I’m not perfect. Kirsty
nods and goes about setting up the round but there’s concern in her voice when
she asks quietly, ‘Ye’ve remembered to put the electric money back this time,
Daz?’

Daz
blinks. The sentence contains too many words and he’s unsure whether he’s been
asked a question or given an instruction. His gaze slides from Kirsty back down
to the folded twenty on the counter top, waiting for her to repeat what she’s
said in words of one syllable.

‘Daz,’
more urgently now, ‘has Julie got money for the wean’s milk?’

‘Aye,
they’re all fine, hen.’ He responds with a slow motion smile. ‘Dinnae stress
yersel’.’

Kirsty
says something I can’t quite catch then starts to clear away stale glasses from
the bar counter, wiping spills with a j-cloth. She smiles as she brings my pint
over but I can tell she doesn’t mean it, that something is bugging the hell out
of her and that something has now turned to watch a match on the big screen.
The sound is turned down low but Daz stands mesmerized, watching the ball pass
from player to player like he’s seeing it for the first time.

‘What’s
with him?’ I venture.

‘Ach,
dinnae get me started.’ Kirsty moans. ‘He’s a smackhead, married too young to
an identikit junkie, three kids to his name already although only two with his
wife. He was always trouble as a kid, ended up in young offenders where he got
addicted to Heroin, before any of us knew how bad things had got he graduated
into big boy prison, decided he couldn’t hack it so now spends his days doing
dead end jobs to pay for a gambling habit he can’t afford and grabbing a drink
or two here when things are rough at home. Shall I go on?’

I
pull a sympathetic face. ‘Sounds personal.’

‘He’s
ma brother.’ Kirsty sighs, ‘He’s a wee shite, always has been, but what can ye
do? He’s off the smack now like, gets prescribed methadone and diazepam. But
it’s the weans I worry about; they’ve got more brain cells than both their
parents put together, God help ‘em. Two are already in care, shortly to be
joined by the youngest if things don’t improve at home.’

I
remember working for the dealers, keeping look out as they doled out supplies
to kids on street corners. Tiny wrappers of escape that deadened the pain of
gormless teenage parents too poor to buy food for their children; too far-gone
to see the link. Kids with nothing but a string of disappointments to look
forward to, it was little wonder so many found escape through the companionship
of a shared needle. I used to justify in my head that if it wasn’t the men I
worked for doling it out there’d be others, all too keen to step in their
shoes. The truth is that dealing is easy cash for very little effort, and the attraction
of money for nothing is compelling for many. If Daz’s supplier was taken off
the street he’d go find another one. I feel sorry for people like Daz, for
choosing oblivion over living, but I feel sorrier for their families.

It
occurs to me that I could clear my debt with Mickey Plastic in one fell swoop
if I got hold of some gear but the fear of returning to old haunts, seeing old
faces fills me with dread.

‘Who’s
the other guy?’ I motion towards my drinking companion across the bar, eyes
darting around the room in an attempt to strike up conversation.

‘Brad?’
Kirsty asks, ‘He’s harmless enough. Big and daft is his trouble. Gets used a
lot to provide muscle, not bright enough to talk himself out of the shit that
comes with it.’

Seems
we’ve got more in common than I thought. It’s hard to reinvent yourself if you
continue to move in the same circles, living cheek by jowl amongst men with so
little aspiration they judge each other by the number of drinks they can hold
or the damage they inflict. Maybe Brad and I are kindred spirits for altogether
different reasons. I move over to his end of the bar, pointing to his empty
glass.

‘Another?’
I offer, whilst surreptitiously checking that Daz’s attention is still caught
up in the game, I’m not sure I can stretch to a third drink. Brad nods, pushing
his empty glass away to make way for the new one. My gaze falls onto his
heavily nicotine stained hands. ‘Can sit outside if ye want a smoke?’

‘Nut.’
Brad replies hastily, casting a glance back at the entrance, ‘Keeping me head
down, ye know how it is.’ I think of MacIntyre and smile sympathetically,
‘Pretty much.’ I agree.

‘Haven’t
seen ye around here recently.’ Brad observes, making conversation.

‘Been
away.’ To his credit Brad doesn’t ask for details, nor to my shame does he use
it as an introduction to his own story. Instead we lift our drinks to our lips,
drinking and focussing on our own thoughts. Our silence is shattered by Marcus
Dreyton striding in with a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He’s giving someone
a bollocking as every other word is a swear word followed by a threat. The
pub’s decibel level drops instantly as everyone attempts to listen in to his
one way conversation:

‘Yi
know what wi’ happen if it isn’t done by den….’ he says menacingly.

At
first I thought he’d ventured out without a minder but three strides later two
men emerge behind him like smoke from a gun. By the time Marcus has ended his
call his pint has been poured and placed at a table by the jukebox where the
original occupants finish their drinks and gather their coats in record time.

Two
pints are placed in front of us causing Brad to catch my eye. ‘For services
rendered.’ I mutter, and we dutifully raise our glasses to Marcus.

If
only he gave me cash instead of keeping me topped up in drink I could make
Mickey Plastic’s next repayment without needing a second job. Of course I know
it doesn’t work like that. Marcus is a gift horse you certainly don’t take for
granted. I’m not daft. He’s oiling me for a reason, there’ll be something he’ll
want doing, a wee favour, something someway along the line. Brad, it seems, is
way ahead of me on this one. He gulps down his pint, wiping the froth from his
mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, inclining his
head in the direction of Marcus and his cronies, ‘I’m off.’

I
feel exposed now he’s gone. A Billy-Nae-Mates nursing a drink can’t pretend he
doesn’t see what’s going on around him, can’t avoid the conversation of a stranger
without it looking like a snub. I start to take larger gulps of my drink so I
can be on my way too when my eye accidentally catch’s Marcus’s. He pushes an
empty chair back from the table he’s sitting at then motions for me to sit
down.