Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) by Emma Salisbury Page A

‘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