Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (8 page)

‘Ye
planted that stuff on me!’ I remind him, ‘If you hadn’t you’d have been
desperate to charge me. We both know ye wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire so
don’t try and make out you were doing me any favours.’

MacIntyre
laughs, all jovial like we’re two pals shooting the breeze. ‘You’re a wee
scrote,’ he spits, ‘a nothing, a complete and utter waste of skin. I dinnae
think about ye at all, Pal, but when I do see ye, I want tae flush you away
like last night’s turd. Lads like you spend all your life waiting tae move into
the big hoose, I’m jist trying tae gi’ ye a helping hand.’

MacIntyre’s
insults wash over me, after what he’s done this afternoon he no longer has the
moral high ground and I no longer give a damn. But he won’t let up.

‘No
one could blame ye, right enough.’ He adds, ‘You’d been sacked, you’d been made
tae look small in front of that little secretary you’d got the hots for; you
wanted revenge, and it would do no harm to teach her a lesson in the process.’

And
then it dawns on me. He has no idea that Candy and I are seeing each other. He
wasn’t at the factory when I’d collected her earlier, so I suppose in his
warped imagination his little theory is plausible.

‘You
don’t know I’m going about with her, do you?’ I smile. If he’s working on
supposition his case is getting weaker.

‘What
are you talking about?’ already his eyes are narrowing.

‘I’m
dating the secretary you say I have the hots for,’ I say proudly, ‘so why would
I want to teach her a lesson? And as for losing my job, you said yourself it
was nippy. I got myself sorted with something that pays me the same money with
all I can eat fry ups thrown in – you saw me there on your way out of the
bookies. As much as it hurts me to say it, you did me a favour.
Pal.
’

The
use of that word seems to tip him over the edge.

‘Why,
ye wee shite,’ he lunges towards me but I scramble to my feet; even so there’s
nowhere I can go that isn’t within his reach. Two strides and he has me pinned
against the rear wall, his face so close to mine I can smell his sour breath.

‘Ye
think you can wriggle out of this, son?’ His left arm pins me against the wall
but it’s his right arm that’s worrying me, or more specifically his right hand.
He holds it mid-air as though we’re on some sort of raft and he’s steadying us.
I study his fingers for some outward evidence of Daz’s earlier assault, but are
were no clumps of pubes or skin beneath his nails and no give-away scratches on
the back of his hands. He’s evidence free. I’m cornered by an animal with
nothing to defend myself. If I call out the custody sergeant will suffer
temporary deafness, and if I do get the better of MacIntyre one shout from him
and there’ll be half a dozen police clambering in in record time and no one
would give a shit what he’d done first.

‘Trying
to work out if ye’ll get away with it, aren’t ye?’ I goad.

MacIntyre
looks at me non-plussed, but drops his hand to his side as though a string
holding it in place has been cut.

‘Ye’ve
got a lot to say for yerself.’ He nods.

‘I
saw ye.’

MacIntyre
has been trying to psyche me out with a stare but now he blinks. In fact he
blinks a couple of times. It’s that nervous little tell that gives me the
confidence to continue.

‘I
have an alibi for this afternoon’s robbery ye fuckin’ moron!’ I shout at him.
‘I was standing in the toilets beneath Dean Bridge watching you shove your limp
little cock into a junkie’s mouth!’

‘Why
you lying little fu-’

‘Why
don’t we put it to the test?’ I challenge, ‘I know the lad you were in there
with. You were going at it so hard I bet there’s evidence all over the poor
little fucker’s clothes, face, hair.’ I shudder at the thought. It’s a big risk
I’m taking; Daz doesn’t really know me, he certainly doesn’t owe me any
favours, but it’s all I have to get this beast away from me. Something must
convince MacIntyre that I’m telling the truth because the next minute I’m
falling, and as I land on the floor he aims a kick at my knee-cap that’s
intended to remove it. My scream is genuine, it hurts like a bastard and I can
feel it swell beneath my hands. I want to roll over and die, my knee feels like
it’s splintered into several pieces. I look up at MacIntyre and there’s a look
in his eye that tells me he doesn’t want to stop, he’s just waiting for me to
give him the reason he needs. I have to let him know that he’s won this battle
so I can get the hell out of here. I screw up my eyes and whimper and believe
me, there’s no play acting needed. MacIntyre straightens his uniform before
kneeling down beside me so that his face is just inches from my own:

‘Ye
need to watch your fuckin’ self, Pal,’ he hisses, ‘cos next time I might just
finish what we started.’

He
lifts his head back and spits at me, then wipes his saliva across my face with
his dumpy hand. Instinctively I clamp my eyelids and mouth closed but still I
can feel the warm lumpy texture against my skin, can taste his foulness on my
lips. He lets go of me and moves towards the cell door, knocking to be let out.
I wipe traces of him off my face with my sleeve, glaring at his doughy back.

‘Right,
Son,’ he says amiably as the door opens wide, ‘I’ll give ye a lift hame.’

I
can’t be sure whether he’s serious or I’m hearing things. Even so I don’t need
telling I can leave twice.

I
make my way out of the cell tentatively, my knee feels like it has exploded and
I’m scared to put my weight on it in case I do it more damage. As I limp along
the corridor out of the custody suite, one hand flat against the wall in order
to keep my balance, other officers glance in my direction. Their glances are
fleeting, followed by an approving nod at MacIntyre, the equivalent of a
Facebook ‘like’ I suppose.

The
Custody Sergeant is brisk this time, as though keen to process me and send me
on my way before someone with a conscience sees the state I’m in. MacIntyre has
been careful not to hit me anywhere that’ll show a mark while I’m dressed, but
I can’t mask the pain radiating out from my knee nor the rivulets of sweat
running from my hairline. The Custody Sergeant’s antipathy suits me; I just
want to be away from here, so I can crawl into a corner and die. It seems
ridiculous now but Mum wanted me to join the police for a while, back when I
was in school. She thought it would be a good way to channel my aggression. She
didn’t seem to get that they were often the cause of it.

Out
in the car park the glare of the low evening sun forces me to shield my eyes as
I emerge from the station building. The car park is quiet; shift change isn’t
for another couple of hours so the only people milling about are those bringing
food or clean clothes to sons or husbands held in the cells overnight, or
drivers ordered to produce their documents at the main reception.

I
wish I’d thought to phone someone. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and
remember I don’t know anyone with a car apart from Marcus and there’d be more
chance of him voting than coming to pick me up. All the while MacIntyre is
hovering around me like an expectant father, even helping me down the station
steps when my knee gives out. The touch of his hands on my arm makes me
shudder, and the thought of climbing into a car with him fills me with dread.
This is a man capable of carrying out two vicious assaults in one day – one
within earshot of his peers, the other just yards from passers-by; just what
the hell was he capable of if he knew he was totally alone?

‘John,
wait up!’ We’re nearing a row of parked squad cars and MacIntyre has unlocked
the nearest one. It’s the kiddie cop, bright eyed and eager like a new puppy.

‘Sarge
has said I’m to go with ye,’ He slows to a stop by MacIntyre’s shoulder, leans
into him so he can lower his voice. ‘Regulations an’ all that shite,’ he adds,
then quieter still:

‘For
ye own protection.’

I
bristle, the one who needs protecting here is me, not this maniac, but then if
Kiddie cop is tagging along MacIntyre should keep his hands to himself.
MacIntyre catches my eye as though reading my thoughts and I force the corners
of my mouth into a smile. We climb into the car and drive in silence bar the
cackle of their radios and an occasional wise crack from MacIntyre regarding
some of the call outs broadcast over the network.
Tosser
seems to be his
word of the day and is used for criminals and colleagues alike, along with
pedestrians stepping onto zebra crossings or small children who wave at his
car. Kiddie cop is tapping away on his smart phone like a terrorist sleeper.
MacIntyre doesn’t seem to mind, occasionally he glares at me in his rear view
mirror and I glare back at him to let him know we are even.

As
we turn down Leith Walk I see Aunt Jude with the twins outside Majestic Wines.
They are walking arm in arm, Aunt Jude in the middle, heads tilted back to
catch the last of the sun as they laugh and swing their shopping bags about
them. They turn into the vennel that leads to their home, heads together as
they share a joke. ‘Can ye take me down here?’ I ask quickly, pointing to the
narrow entrance.

‘We’re
no’ City fuckin’ Cabs,’ Kiddie cop snipes, but MacIntyre ignores him. ‘Aye,
it’s nearer than your place,’ he agrees amiably, ‘Whereaboots?’ I point to the
back entry where I want to be dropped off, knocking on the car window as we
pass the women.

‘Ye
know ‘em, like?’ Kiddie cop enquires, and I hear the meanness in his voice, the
way he’s judging them because their clothes are shabby. A sly smile spreads
across his face as he turns to look at me and there’s a glint in his eye like
he has my measure. He wants to know if I’ve fucked them but isn’t sure he can
get away with asking in front of MacIntyre. The car comes to a stop some twenty
yards or so in front of them and the older cop studies them in his wing mirror.
The girls have spotted me and nudge Aunt Jude; all three are now smiling and
waving like it’s a limo I’m about to step out of rather than a patrol car.
Their pleasure at seeing me makes me feel wanted. ‘They’re my family,’ I say
proudly, before climbing out of the car.

Jude’s
smile fades as I move gingerly towards them. ‘What the hell happened?’ she asks
urgently, simultaneously unhooking herself from the girls and rushing to my
side. ‘Lorella! Quickly, help him!’ she motions with her free hand for Lorella
to move to my other side and help Jude carry my weight. Lorella’s twin, Marcia,
takes her sister’s shopping bag, stepping in front of us so that she can undo
the latch on the gate which leads to the back of their home. The girls make
sympathetic noises and Lorella pats my arm every time I suck in my breath, Jude
is already in practical mode, saying she’ll have a proper look and strap it up for
me.

An
old memory floats into my mind’s eye, Jude in a starched uniform, picking me up
from school when Mum’s work ran on. ‘Didn’t ye used to be a nurse when I was
little?’ I ask, eager to confirm or deny the picture in my head. Jude throws
her had back and laughs, ‘Aye, Davy, right enough,’ she splutters, ‘I was also
a French maid and a dominatrix the other days of the week, only your teachers
asked me to keep my coat on if I was wearing those get ups when I came to pick
you up.’

The
girls, relieved I wasn’t going to pass out on them, join in: ‘Ye get asked to
wear all sorts now though, Davy,’ Lorella begins, ‘I’ve got a traffic warden’s
uniform I wear for one punter,’ ‘an’ I’ve got a lollipop lady’s uniform for one
o’ mine!’ Marcia adds. ‘Including the lollipop?’ I ask mischievously and she
nods, ‘Too right!’

I
play along with the banter as a way of reassuring them I’m OK, although in
truth it couldn’t hurt more if my leg had been hacked off with a blunt
instrument. To their credit, despite seeing me climb out of a police car,
injured, no one asks me any questions, although I’m not yet sure what answers I
can give. As we pass through the gate into the girls’ back yard I look back
towards MacIntyre’s squad car, still parked at the end of the close where he’d
dropped me off. The kiddie cop, oblivious in the passenger seat, picks his nose
with his index finger before transferring it to his mouth.

And
MacIntyre, rigid in the driver’s seat beside him, stares at me as though
planning how to wipe me off the face of the earth.

Once indoors I
drop the bravado and let Marcia help me into a chair in the shared front room
while I mutter every swear word I can think of to describe the pain.

‘Roll
down your jeans Davy,’ Jude instructs and I lift myself gingerly off the seat
as she helps pull my jeans down over my hips, halting mid-thigh. Lorella goes
into the kitchen returning with what looks like a bottle of cough medicine and
a blister pack of pills. She hands me two tablets: ‘Co-codemol,’ she says
authoritatively, ‘swill them down with this,’ The bottle is labelled
Oramorph
and the patient’s name beneath it does not belong to anyone in the house. I
unscrew the bottle cap and tip my head back to swallow the pills in two large
gulps. Jude lifts the bottle from my hands and replaces the lid, placing it on
the table beside me. Marcia, the quieter of the twins, steps forward: ‘Can I
get you something, Davy?’ She asks. I nod slowly; already my senses seem
dulled. ‘Drink,’ I gasp. Marcia fetches a bottle of brandy from a makeshift bar
in the corner of the room and pours me a large glass.

‘You
were lucky Davy,’ Jude says sternly as she cuts through the denim on my right
leg so she can access my knee. I’m not sure I would describe today as one of my
luckiest, but the morphine/brandy combo has started working its magic and I
can’t be arsed contradicting her. In fact, I start to feel giddy, like
everything’s a blast even when I see the extent of the damage: my knee has
swollen to three times its original size. The women are frowning, which makes
me want to laugh. Ignoring me, Jude continues:

‘This
could’ve been a lot worse. The fact that you had jeans on meant the damage has
been limited. The denim held your knee in place, providing support. You’ve been
a lucky wee sod, Davy.’

She
looks over at the twins who are standing like sentries by my side. ‘Get an old
sheet,’ she instructs them, ‘cut it into wide strips………and find me some safety
pins.’ The girls set about following Jude’s instructions, which gives her the
privacy she’s looking for.

‘What
the hell happened?’ She asks quietly.

‘The
cop did it.’

‘Which
one?’ she asks sharply, taking the glass I’d been drinking from and re-filling
it with brandy which she knocks back in one go. ‘You mean the one who’s been
causing trouble for you?’

I
nod. ‘It was him that drove me here.’

‘Ye
mean he did this tae ye then was going to take ye hame?’ Jude shakes her head
angrily. ‘Shit, I wished I’d known, I was too busy looking at the state of
you,’ she mutters, adding, ‘I didn’t pay him any mind.’

Jude’s
looked out for me ever since I was a kid, threatening school bullies who made
my life a misery, making sure Mum’s boyfriends didn’t pay me the wrong sort of
attention. She means well but I doubt there’s little she can do to MacIntyre,
other than give him an STI.

I
give her the headlines, starting with MacIntyre’s assault on Daz, the robbery
at the factory and my subsequent arrest. I leave out my car drive with Marcus;
there’s nothing to be gained by revealing I’m now in debt to him, besides, there’s
a limit to how much Jude will help me before deciding that Mum has a right to
know. Don’t get me wrong, I think the world of Mum, but she’s always been
useless in a crisis; Jude’s the one that I’ve turned to over the years and she
seems to know instinctively what support Mum is grateful for her giving and
what she’d resent.

Jude
has been listening to me carefully as I tell her about the assault on Daz, her
eyes darting to the front room door in case one of the twins walks back in.
‘Jesus Davy,’ she sighs, puffing out her cheeks like a mechanic assessing the
work required on a damaged car. ‘Are you sure that’s what you saw? I mean,
junkies’d sell the steam from their piss if they could get it in a bottle, if
this Daz needs money he’ll not be fussed who he fucks, if it wasn’t your man….
it could easily have been someone else.’

Jude
isn’t interested in the fact that MacIntyre is a cop; she’s serviced enough of
them – both in and out of uniform – to know they’re as partial to a guilt free
leg over as the next man. She’s shocked by my naivety: ‘You’ve accused a copper
who hates you of having sex in a toilet-’

‘-against
Daz’s will!’ I interrupt, reminding her.

‘Ye
know
that?’ she demands, ‘You’ve actually asked this boy to confirm he
was there against his will?’

I
shake my head: ‘I haven’t had a chance yet-’

‘-But
still, you thought you’d rake it up without checking your facts first?’ I
forget Jude has also serviced several lawyers over the years; her knowledge of
legal argument brings a whole new meaning to on the job learning.

‘Ye
think I like the men who fuck me?’ she challenges, not waiting for me to
answer, ‘I hate most of ‘em, for their double standards and their nice lives,
not forgetting the bastards who want to hurt you because their mummy didn’t
love them or loved them too much. Most of the time I put on a brave face but
sometimes they want to see me flinch, they’ll even pay me more if I do - are
you sure that isn’t what you saw?’

I’d
forgotten how much she could lambast you when she wants to make a point, I’m
beginning to regret saying anything when she goes for the jugular: ‘I mean, you
didn’t even see any of this did you? You heard it, from a toilet cubicle, but
it may have sounded a lot worse than it actually was.’

I
can’t think of anything worse than sucking MacIntyre’s dick but I have to
concede she has a point. I’d been looking at this from my point of view; I’m
not a junkie and I hate MacIntyre. How would I feel if I was desperate for
money, for my next fix? Wouldn’t he just be a means to an end?

Then
I remind myself he’s a cop and if word gets back to his superiors he’ll be up
shit-street and he knows it. He also knows that no-one’ll believe
me
.
Each time I’m arrested I become less reliable as a witness and making an
allegation against the officer who arrests you is hardly original. Now I’ve
shown my hand to MacIntyre all he has to do is keep pulling me off the street
me until something sticks. Christ, I’ve been stupid, I can see Jude’s fear for
me: I’ve handed him a reason to declare an all-out war.

Jude
pours herself another brandy. Her hand is shaking slightly, causing the liquid
to form little tears down the side of the glass. She catches me staring and
turns her back to me.

‘Davy….’
The return of the twins stops her mid-sentence which is just as well as I’m
starting to get tired. A cloudy haze starts to come down as the painkillers
kick in and the room takes on a sepia glow. The women’s voices waft over me
like a balm and my eyelids become impossibly heavy: Jude is instructing Lorella
to hold my leg steady while she bandages it, ignoring Marcia’s questions about
how my injury has come about. As I listen their voices become distant, like
they’re coming from another room. Someone puts pressure on my knee as they pull
my jeans back up but this time there is no pain. They’ve been cut mid-thigh
showing off milk bottle legs which I find really funny. I try to join in their
conversation but the words I say come out as a daft gurgle; Jude dabs the
corner of my mouth with a tissue before continuing her task regardless.

When
I awake it is gone midnight. I am still in the chair I’d collapsed into several
hours before but a blanket has been placed across me and my legs lifted onto a
stool. A glass of water has been left on a small table by the chair, together
with the Oramorph and codeine. The house is dark and silent; the living room
door has been left open but I see no lights coming from upstairs. I’m alone.
The girls will have gone back to work; it’s early in prozzie terms, another hour
of knee tremblers before they need call it a night. I lift my legs off the
stool and tentatively place my feet onto the floor. As I try to put my weight
on them the pain explodes in my knee like a detonated bomb.

‘Fuck.
Fuck. FUCK!’ I grab the Oramorph and take a couple of gulps before breaking
into the blister pack of codeine and swilling two tablets down with the tumbler
of water. I lean back in the chair while I wait for the drugs to kick in,
checking my mobile for messages. There’s a text from Jude to say she’s told Mum
I’m staying at hers for the evening, and one from Tam reminding me to open up
for him tomorrow.

Some
chance.

My
heart pumps with hope as I scroll through the remainder, and along with it, the
dread of disappointment.

There
is nothing from Candy.

The
pain in my legs starts to subside and I push myself out of the chair as I need
to take a leak. I stumble across the room, steadying myself against the door
jamb as my head thickens. The toilet is upstairs and I find myself facing the
staircase trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get there. I turn and
sit on the bottom step, pushing myself up each stair by my hands, resting
midway before dragging myself up the final steps. Using the bannister to pull
myself back onto my feet I feel euphoric once more as the pain ebbs away, my
movements are less wooden as I hobble the last remaining steps to the bathroom.
The pain begins to ebb but I start to feel dizzy and need to concentrate to
make sure as much of the stream goes down into the pan as possible. A wave of
nausea engulfs me as I lean forward to flush the toilet and I am sick several
times. I try to move but the floor feels uneven beneath my feet. I can feel
myself sliding further and further down the wall as though my legs have turned to
jelly. I lean back and close my eyes.

The
buzz as the strip light in the kitchen is turned on wakes me. I hear voices,
laughter. A light goes in the hallway; music starts to filter up the stairs,
current chart stuff that I don’t imagine is Jude’s choice. Cupboard doors are
opened and closed; the clink of glasses being carried and of cans being opened.
Jude’s 40-a-day voice, clearer than the others, concerned:

‘I’ll
check the bedrooms.’ Her steps up the stairs are hurried.

‘Davy?’
she finds me huddled around the toilet as though we’ve become bezzie mates.

‘You
OK?’ Her words are softened with drink but her eyes are full of concern.

‘I’ve
been better,’ I say truthfully. Jude offers me her hand and I grip onto it
gratefully as she helps pull me to my feet. Then, from nowhere I admit: ‘I
thought Candy would ring.’

‘This
girl you told me about?’ Jude raises an eyebrow, ‘Sometimes you don’t really
know a person till you see them in a crisis,’ she advises, ‘problem then of
course is it’s too bloody late.’

I’m
worried that word of my arrest has got back to her. Without me there to
explain, to reassure her that I’ve been released without charge, how will she
know it was just another figment of MacIntyre’s imagination?

I
lean my head back against the wall to get my breath back. ‘I wouldn’t put it
past that bastard to call round her place just to tell her I’d been arrested.’

Jude
sighs irritably,
‘Christ’s sake Davy, get a grip! There’s no reason he’d
even know where she lives.’
She’s right of course. Maybe the drugs are
fuelling my paranoia, either way I know I’ve got to put my deadlock with
MacIntyre into perspective – he hates me, but is he so petty he’s willing to
drag everyone around me into his pathetic little web?

I
shudder as I try to ignore the answer that’s forming in my head.

Jude
wraps her arm around me as she steers me to a bedroom at the rear of the house.
It’s a box room really, just big enough for the single bed that’s been pushed
up against the wall. She helps me onto the bed before pulling a thin sheet over
me. She turns and looks at me brightly. ‘Things’ll look better in the morning.’

I
hold her gaze. ‘Bollocks.’

We
look at each other, then start sniggering like schoolkids. I’ve never
understood the trite phrases people come out with in times of trouble and Jude
feels the same. Sometimes we quote them just to wind each other up:

There’s
light at the end of the tunnel
.

It’s
always darkest before dawn
.

This
too, shall pass
.

The
things people say to make a shit situation bearable. To remind themselves they
might have it bad but it could have been a damn sight worse. Well, if life has
taught me anything it’s that things usually do get worse and trotted out
platitudes don’t make them any easier to bear. Jude has never tried to shield
me from the truth; she’s always been willing to tell it like it is.

I
ran away from home once, not long after that bloke beat the shit out of Mum. I
waited until the middle of the night before slipping out, ending up on Jude’s
front step as I had nowhere else to go. ‘Christ Davy, ye gave me a fright!’ she
gasped when she opened the door, ‘Ye’d better come in then, eh?’ She led me
into the kitchen, told me to sit myself down while she poured me a glass of
milk.

‘So
what is it then?’ She turned towards me so that I had her full attention.

I’d
told her what I’d witnessed at home, Mum nearly having the life throttled out
of her by a punter. She listened patiently, when I started to cry she rinsed a
dishcloth under the sink and wiped my face with it.

‘What
do you want to happen, Davy?’ she asked me softly.

I
thought about her question. It’s easy to know what you don’t like or don’t
want, but how could I describe an alternative if I’d no experience of it?

‘I
want to live somewhere else,’ I said simply.

‘Where?’

‘With
you.’

‘But
then you’ll see me get hurt by angry men, too. How will that be any different?’

I
thought about that. ‘I could tell my teacher.’ I answered reasonably. The
teaching staff must’ve had me down as ‘at risk’, for I was always being taken
to one side at school and asked how things were at home.