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

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