Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (5 page)

When I wake the
next morning I feel as though someone has driven over my head with an
articulated truck. I’d felt quite sober by the time I’d gone to bed and my
sleep had been deep but that doesn’t stop my skull from feeling as though a
family of woodpeckers are trying to break their way out from the inside.

I
make it into work thanks to half a packet of painkillers but it’s a close call
what with the smell of fried food and the attack of vertigo every time I try to
clear a table. In the end Tam lets me go early, or rather in his words: ‘Ye may
as well fuck off hame, Davy, ye nae use to me here,’ quickly followed by: ‘but
dinnae think I’m payin’ ye tae lie in your bed.’

I’m
glad to get away. I need to think. Last night Marcus made a proposition that
was tempting but only because I’m broke. The reality of doing a one-off job and
then walking away is non-existent. I understand that, really, I do. There would
have been a time, not so long ago, where the status of being in tow with Marcus
was attractive, but my time inside is too recent, too fresh in my mind for the
shock of it to have diminished. In truth, prison doesn’t work as a deterrent.
So many young men I met in Saughton have fathers and brothers inside that it’s
become a way of life. Just as some folk take gap years, childhood in these
families is punctuated by absences of relatives that no one even questions.
There’s none of the shame that’s intended by the sentence, for many it’s
nothing more than a family reunion.

For
me it was nothing like that. I saw what it did to Mum during Dad’s frequent
spells inside and though she put on a brave face when she came to visit me I
knew it hurt her. I can’t go back there again, can’t put her through that a
second time.

I
phone Candy. Her mobile goes to voicemail as I expected it would; she’ll be in
work right now and not able to answer but at least she’ll know I tried, that I
was thinking about her. We’ve spent hardly any time together but I can sense a
connection. I feel like I’ve known her forever yet I know nothing about her,
not really. Her mother is dead and her father dotes on his only child. We’ve
spent so much of the little time we’ve had in each other’s company talking
about me that I don’t even know what bands she likes, what she likes to drink
when she’s out or what her favourite colour is, yet it almost doesn’t matter,
for I can learn all this in the future, providing, that is, I don’t fuck it all
up.

There’s
a river behind the café, accessed by a set of metal steps, which winds its way
through Edinburgh from the Pentland Hills flowing out into the Firth of Forth.
It used to power mills producing paper, fabric and flour, with the river mouth
supporting a dock and boatyard. Those industries have all gone; the common
trades now are prostitution and drugs. I make my way down the steps, holding
onto the rail as my limbs still feel shaky. Beneath the bridge a group of
jalkies argue over nothing in particular, their slurred voices carrying along
the path causing unwary joggers to give them a wide berth. I’m surprised by the
number of runners who take their chances along this river, ear plugs drowning
out the sound of approach, state of the art MP3 players strapped onto the
outside of their arm, a thin layer of lycra providing their only defence.

The
jalkie shouting gets louder and the most sober or maybe least high member of
the group acts as a human barrier between two pals hell bent on putting the
other straight. A woman with bony legs and a tattoo on her calf sits on a
broken bit of wall, chain smoking and swigging from a bottle of Buckfast; the
sovereigns on each finger catching the rays of the afternoon sun. Her mini
skirt has ridden up her thighs revealing stained pants and an ugly bruise. I
try not to stare but she catches my glance and smiles, tugging the v of her t-shirt
down to show off low slung deflated breasts.

‘Fancy
a blow job, Mister?’ she asks and the only bit of that question that I’m
surprised by is the title she’s given me. Maybe I’m looking older, or being in
debt to Mickey Plastic has put frown lines where there previously hadn’t been
any. It’s hypocritical I know but I enjoy the deference in her voice, the
acknowledgement that I am better than her somehow. Taking this route is my
guilty pleasure, as it reminds me that however bad things are there’s always
someone more fucked up than you. I straighten my shoulders but shake my head
politely, the way Mum and Aunt Jude said was kind, like it was something you’d
consider but you don’t have the time.

Kirsty’s
brother, Daz, is a few yards ahead of me. I wonder if he’s still scoring and if
so, whether I know his dealer. The face of dealing has changed though; even in
the short time I was involved. Time was you’d need a bent medic to access
prescription drugs; now whatever you need is available on the internet. Many
drug syndicates trade online, too. Want to try Ketamine or snort Ritalin up
your nose? There are hundreds of fake medical sites happy to oblige. The truth
is the biggest dealer in the country is Royal Mail.

Daz
doesn’t have the junkie swagger of the other evening, his movements are more
self-conscious, more self-contained somehow. He’s walking close to the bridge
wall as though he’s trying to blend in. Instead of calling out to him I decide
to keep my distance; he looks decidedly shifty and I want to know why.

The
river bed along here has become a tourist attraction over the years. The
council spent thousands raising the profile of the area, moving on the tramps
and investing in some serious pieces of art – lifesize metal men placed along
the path of the river, rising out of the water like an amphibious army. I doubt
Daz is here for cultural purposes and there are other attractions along this
stretch, albeit for those looking for their kicks below the belt. The public
toilets below the Dean Bridge have long been used by rent boys and prozzies,
but I hadn’t put Daz into either of those categories and yet here he is turning
into them sharply as though he’d been caught short and was too modest to pee
behind one of the bushes that border the path. I slow my step, deliberating
what to do next. If I walk into the toilets now it would be hard to make out I
hadn’t been following him, but then it is a public place and though no one in
their right mind would use it for its intended purpose there’s no reason why I
couldn’t.

I
make my way quietly towards the entrance at side of the building which is
littered with condoms and manky knickers. The floor tiles are sticky underfoot;
the urinals have been blocked up with clumps of toilet roll, the once white
porcelain now the colour of smokers’ teeth. There are three cubicles in the
block; each heavy wooden door has been left open revealing toilets with broken
seats, every shade of shit pebble-dashed around the sides as though there’s a
prize for the best pattern. Semen and other stains splatter the wall tiles with
occasional smears of blood. If Daz is waiting for a trick he’s come to the
right place, it’s a popular cottaging haunt used by rent boys and their married
punters, the squalor adding a level of danger I can only imagine is missing
from cruising the gay bar up on Leith Street.

Daz
has bypassed the toilets and gone beyond the cubicles to the row of wash basins
just out of sight. He’s not taking a leak then. I slip into the cubicle nearest
the entrance and quietly bolt the door. The partition walls are greasy as
though many hands, knees and other body parts have slapped against them over
the years; the graffiti is predictable, someone has drawn a set of cock and
balls and several girls have been outed as ‘slags’. There’s no toilet lid to
sit on and there’s no way I’m going to lean against the smeary walls so I stand
up straight with my hands in my pockets, my ears alert to everything going on
around me – water running through the cistern next door, a tap dripping into one
of the washbasins out front and the sound of a match being struck followed by
the first hungry drag on a cigarette. A series of farts punctuate the silence
and I discover I’m not the only one who likes to eke out a tune if I can.

A
year ago it would have killed me to keep so still, but in prison you learn not
to draw attention to yourself. You learn about patience too. Each night I would
count down the months and weeks and days to my release, converting my sentence
into hours, for that way large chunks of it would be wiped from the total each
morning.

Prison
life was hard enough during the day but it’s the nights that are worse, for
there are no distractions, and all too often you’re left with nothing but your
conscience to keep you company. At the beginning of my sentence I would lie
awake for hours out of fear, but as time progressed the fear turned to anger as
I realised the sheer futility of what I was doing, and worse still that I was
the cause of it. At night there is no escape from the mistakes you have made,
the memories that tug at you and mock you in the early hours; the people you
miss, the ones you wish you’d never met. Amid the snoring and the coughing and
the frantic wanking grown men wept silently, others dreamt of a parallel
universe where they lived life out in suburban bliss; others still dreamt they
were harder, faster and meaner, that next time they wouldn’t get caught.

Me,
I counted.

The
months, the weeks, the days, converting them into hours.

Hiding
from my demons through multiplication.

Footsteps
echoing on the hard tiles signal the arrival of the person Daz is meeting,
either that or it’s a potential punter, and there’s still nothing to say they
can’t be one and the same. Instead of a greeting there are sounds of a scuffle
and a body being slammed against the walls repeatedly. The violence doesn’t
alarm me, I know what rough sex sounds like; normally I’d be at school or out
playing when Mum brought men back to the house but there was one time when I
was ill and she’d kept me home, settling me into bed with the TV on low. I
must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being startled
awake by the sound of furniture smashing and I tip-toed onto the landing to see
her bedroom door had been knocked off its hinges and Mum leaning back awkwardly
against an oversized wardrobe, eyes bulging because the man who was fucking her
had his hands around her throat.

I
wish I could say I did the heroic thing and picked up something hard to whack
him over the back of the head with but even then I knew when the odds were
stacked against me and men like this thought nothing of battering a child.
Besides, there was something about the look in Mum’s eye that told me she
wasn’t scared, that this wasn’t the first time she’d found herself in this
situation and it wouldn’t be the last. I returned to my room and burrowed
beneath my duvet, terrified to come out again until I knew the man had gone.

I’d
counted to six hundred by the time Mum came through to check on me. Her make-up
was heavier than it had been earlier and she wore a scarf around her neck. Her
eyes, which to me were beautiful, were unusually shiny and her voice sounded
brittle. If she knew what I’d seen she never let on, she simply snuggled
beneath the duvet, holding me close while I clung on like a limpet, soaked in
piss and shivering.

The
slamming outside the toilet cubicle stopped as abruptly as it began, followed
by heavy breathing and Daz’s docile ‘Wha’ was that fe?’ Even his junkie outrage
has no substance to it.

‘Fe
being a fuckin’ wee shite.’

The
reply makes my chest thud so loudly I have to hold my breath to compensate.

MacIntyre.

What
the hell is he doing in here of all places, meeting Daz? I don’t know which bit
of that my brain is finding hard to compute. Could he be undercover or trying
to pull down some sort of trap using a junkie as an informer? The idea doesn’t
make sense. MacIntyre is a lardy cop with no more ambition than playing cat and
mouse with the local Neds. He’d planted the weed on me just to show he could
but what more is he capable of? Every tingling nerve ending tells me I’m on the
brink of something; I’m just not sure what.

‘You
owe me money.’ he barks.

‘
Julie
found it!
’ Darren’s voice comes out in a whimper; as though he knows
whatever he says will be useless. I feel sorry for him; I sure as hell know
what it’s like to be on the losing end of an argument with MacIntyre.

‘You.
Owe. Me. Money.’ Each word is punctuated by the sound of MacIntyre’s fist
meeting different parts of Darren’s body, some bony, some cavernous, followed
by a groan or sharp intake of breath.

‘
Honest!
’
Darren protests during a brief pause, ‘Julie went through ma clothes and found
the envelope! Ah could’nae tell her it wis’nae mine,’ he reasons, ‘she’d know I
was up tae somethin’.’

‘So?’

‘I
said it wis a bonus from work, that it wis for her and the wean.’

‘Aw,’
MacIntyre groans, ‘Dinnae tell me I’m gonna have tae go after your mangy skank
now.’ If that is meant to rile Darren, it fell way short.

‘She’s
spent it.’ Daz adds quickly, ‘Bought food and clothes fi the bairn, an fe
hersel’’.

‘I
knew the moment I clapped eyes on you you’d be fuckin’ trouble.’ MacIntyre
grumbles. His voice is calmer now, as though he’s resigned to the fact he’ll
not be seeing this money any time soon. I wonder how much is involved and where
it’s from and more importantly what MacIntyre is going to do next. Darren has
more chance of repaying him if he stays in one piece. MacIntyre obviously
thinks the same.

‘OK,’
he sighs, ‘Ye’ve got forty eight hours to pay me back.’

I
know I don’t have a clue how much is involved but I’m surprised that rather
than showing gratitude Daz starts to protest. It’s only when MacIntyre orders
him to get down on his knees and I hear a zip being opened that I understand
why. Moments later the air fills with animal-like grunts and I have to bite
down on my hand to stop feeling sick. In that moment I feel a connection with
Daz, the way victims of crime often do, yet there is precious little I can do
for him that won’t make a bad situation worse. So while MacIntyre’s groans of
pleasure reach their peak, I slip out from my hiding place and get the hell
away.