Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (11 page)

The
sight that greets me at the top of the stairs changes all that. A man lies
sprawled across the top two steps, arms outstretched in the direction of
Malkie’s room, as though trying to fend off an intruder. He is face down, the
back of his bald head a mass of dark matter and bone where a bullet has
exploded into his skull. I gag, pressing my fist over my mouth to block out the
sound. I step over the body, holding onto the wooden banister to steady myself,
careful not to step into the blood already pooling beside him.

‘Malkie?’
I manage to whimper as I round the corner to my friend’s room, hope swapping
places with fear. The door to Malkie’s room has been left wide open and he is
sitting cross-legged on his bed, a line of cocaine and a twenty pound note
beside him. The force of the bullet to his forehead has caused his head to fall
back against the wall behind him, his face frozen in a startled look as though
he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

I
have no time to think, the siren from several streets away is getting louder
and it occurs to me that I might not have been the first to discover the
bodies. I pause for a moment to consider my options. I’d come back for the cash
Malkie had scored for me, but there’s no way I can go through the pockets of a
dead man. Cursing my conscience I open the bedroom window and jump onto the
soft earth below.

Standing
on the corner of the street I watch two police cars cruise along the ring road,
occasionally pulling into the side roads, pausing at the opening of a vennel as
though looking for something. I step back into the shadows. My breathing is
erratic, as though I’ve forgotten how to do it and my body’s refusing to remind
me. I gulp air in greedily but can’t seem to let it go; my lungs feel full and
my head feels as though it wants to roll off my shoulders. I lean back into the
brickwork to steady myself. A boy on a motorbike speeds along the top road, his
baseball cap turned back to front against the wind. Behind him a smaller boy
straddles a bigger bike, eyes focussed on his pal in front, mimicking every
move.

A
gang of NEDs stagger towards the tower block at the end of the road, hands in
pockets, hoods up, they pass me in a cloud of Cannabis, the leader
acknowledging me with a nod. It doesn’t seem right that others can go about
their business, laughing and getting off their faces like fuck all has happened
while my world has changed beyond repair. The world I inhabit is still here but
it’s different now, like a photograph left out in the rain.

‘You
alright, pal?’ the NED leader hangs back, fixing me with stoned eyes.

It
is only when I touch my face I realise I’ve been crying.

I
phone Candy but her voicemail picks up. I toy with leaving a message but
there’s nothing I want to say that’s safe to be recorded. I want to tell her
what has happened, so she’s heard it from me rather than see it in the paper
but how do I begin? I want to explain that I’m laying low because I need to clear
my name and if I’m banged up inside I can’t do that.

I
want to tell her she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

It
occurs to me that she could be deliberately screening my calls but I cling onto
the hope that her father is holding her phone and an even vainer hope she’s
worried that I haven’t been in touch. Either way she must be wondering what the
hell she’s got herself mixed up with, it’s not surprising her old man didn’t
stick around long enough to make introductions. I don’t blame him; I’d be the
same if she were my daughter. An image of a tiny Candy calling me Dad forms in
my mind and I shake my head as if to rid myself of it. I don’t deserve happy
ever afters, what with everything that’s happened I don’t deserve anything at
all. I stare down at my phone. It starts to beep to tell me a message has
arrived and my hand shakes as I tap the screen to retrieve it. A message from
Tam:

Ye sacked
.

I
throw back my head to laugh but the sound is hollow. Right now work is the
least of my problems but it rankles he thinks I’ve let him down. I’d text him
back but I can’t risk it. I’ve seen enough cop shows on TV to know they’ll be
able to trace me through my mobile. Pretty soon forensics will run the prints
they find at Jude’s place and Malkie’s hostel through the police computers and
my name will flash up before them. I need help, but from someone who won’t ask
questions and can handle themselves when MacIntyre comes calling. I reckon I
can use my phone one last time before I need to throw it away. I scroll through
my contacts list, find the name that I’m looking for and hit the call button.

By the time the
cab arrives I’ve smoked through three roll ups and limped up and down the
street a couple of times in case the residents see me hanging about outside and
get the wrong idea. They won’t call the cops around here, just come at you with
a paving stone, give you a seeing to for lingering in the wrong place. I climb
into the cab tentatively, my knee is stiff now, the tendons feel tight, like
they’ll snap if I try to bend it. The cab driver watches me grimace when I
knock my leg against the dashboard but says nothing, instead he puts two
cigarettes in his mouth, lights both of them and passes one to me. I nod my
thanks, taking a deep drag.

He’d
passed his business card to me the day he’d driven Candy home after the robbery
then dropped me off at Gus McEwan’s:
Ken’s Cabz, available day or night.
I’d
keyed his number into my phone then forgot all about him. It’s always useful
having a cab number on your speed dial and one that submits a monthly invoice
to local businesses has the opportunity to bump up their fares here and there,
to take account of any pro bono work they might do, or at least that’s how I
put it to Ken when I phoned him this evening.

‘You’re
a cheeky wee chancer, I’ll give ye that.’ He says to me as we head along Leith
Walk followed by Leith Street and into the city centre, past a tram making its
long awaited journey down Princes Street. It’s all I can do to shrug my
shoulders. It doesn’t matter that Ken’s going to fiddle someone’s invoice;
it’ll be a month before he submits it and probably twice that before he gets
paid. This small act of kindness, that he’s willing to drive me across town
when he could be earning proper cash is almost too much.

‘I
have some money.’ I confess, ‘Sold a few bits to a mate o’ mine. I can pay ye.’

Ken
considers this. ‘Keep ye cash, Son. We’ll stick tae our agreement, but thanks
anyway.’

I
smile at him gratefully. I’ve only half the cash I expected to make, and if my
plan fails it may have to last me a long time.

‘How’s
your girlfriend?’ Ken asks.

I
sigh so deeply it feels like air is coming from the soles of my feet. At least
my lungs are working again. ‘You tell me,’ I shrug, ‘I hav’nae seen her since
the other day.’

‘The
day I picked yous both up?’

I
nod.

Ken
smiles in sympathy, ‘That’ll be her auld fella then!’

I
nod once more. ‘He seems hell bent on keeping us apart, right enough. I
wouldn’t mind but he disnae even know me.’

‘Aye,’
Ken nods, ‘that’s Dads fe ye. I’ve a daughter mesel’, mind, sixteen like.’ He
says no more, as though her age sums up the attitude, the battle he fights
daily - and loses.

‘This
guy’s made his mind up about me before we’ve even met.’ As I talk I try to look
at it from Candy’s dad’s point of view.

‘I’ve
been in prison,’ I say aloud, ‘I’ve done mesel’ no favours.’

‘We
all make mistakes, Son,’ Ken offers kindly, ‘not like you’re Jack the Ripper is
it?’ I wonder if he’ll feel the same once MacIntyre’s false evidence makes it
into the papers. I decide to leave that worry for another day.

‘Can
ye no’ go tae her work?’

If
only. ‘Don’t think she’d thank me.’ I say truthfully.

‘Seems
such a nice wee lassie, too,’ he says brightly, ‘always has a smile on her face
when I go round there.’ I turn to look at Ken as he speaks; notice for the
first time the pock marks on his cheeks, the bulbous nose that says he likes a
drink when he’s not working. His hair stands on end, a bit like a sweeping
brush with hard bristles and there are random flakes of dandruff round his
collar. When he turns to look at me his eyes are kind, decent. It strikes me
that there haven’t been enough men like him in my life.

‘Ken,’
I say carefully, ‘are you saying ye see Candy a lot?’

‘Aye.’
Ken acknowledges, ‘that boss o’ hers is the captain o’ the local golf club,
spends more time there than he does at work. Likes a wee tipple too, if ye know
what I mean,’ Ken jiggles his hand in the universal sign language for a pint,
‘got a ban last year, didn’t he?’ he chuckles like a dog who’s found a second
dick, ‘can’t go anywhere without me now, I’m like his personal bloody
chauffeur.’

‘So
you’re in there every day?’

Ken
nods. ‘Just said so didn’t I?’

An
idea hatches in my head. ‘Ken,’ I say simply, staring at him with renewed admiration,
‘I could fuckin’ kiss ye.’

‘Only
if ye want tae shit through ye teeth for a week’, he says good naturedly, ‘why,
whadd’ya want?’

I
tell him I want to sneak Candy a second phone so I can contact her. He must be
an old romantic at heart as he seems taken with the idea. ‘Ye can invite me tae
the weddin’, Son!’ He laughs when I thank him once more, then I remember I’ve
not even been out on a date with her yet.

The
cab slows outside a row of Victorian villas opposite Portobello beach. They are
double fronted with large windows looking out onto the sea. Some have been
converted to flats, others are B&Bs, with signs out front saying
vacancies
and
wifi
are available. One villa is set apart from the others by
carefully planted shrubs which obscure it from its neighbours. There’s a Merc
people carrier parked on the pink gravel driveway, a row of pot plants either
side of the imposing front door. A discarded child’s bucket contains a
selection of sea shells which have spilled out onto the gravel. There’s a light
on in an upstairs bedroom, the sound of children’s laughter wafts down through
the open window.

‘It’s
like another world.’ I say simply.

‘Yup.’
Agrees Ken. Then, ‘Are ye sure ye want tae do this?’

‘I
don’t have any choice.’ I reply.

I
step out of the car, hoping that no one spots me from the front windows; the
element of surprise will make all the difference. I hear the Skoda’s passenger
window lower behind me and I turn around to see Ken watching me anxiously.

‘Let
me wait for ye.’ He pleads. He looks genuinely worried.

I
shake my head, shooing him away with my hand. I need to be on my own for this.
Besides, I’ll not be thanked for bringing witnesses; it’s in Ken’s interest to
get away.

Walking
up the driveway feels like the walk of shame, but I can’t think of anywhere
else I can turn. I slow my breathing down to steady my nerves. The doorbell is
one of those fancy chimes, it goes on for ages yet at first no one answers.
Then I remember the children laughing upstairs; kids from these houses probably
get changed after school, bathed even, and I suppose their parents like to help
them. As if on cue the door opens and a woman greets me jiggling a chubby
little boy with curly black hair and dark eyes. The boy wears bright coloured
pyjamas and wriggles on his mother’s hip. The woman is slim with shoulder
length hair and a creamy complexion that contrasts with the child’s dark skin.
She wears make up but not heavy like the women I’m used to, her clothes cling
to her but not because they’re too tight. The child is bored already and tries
throwing himself onto the floor so he can join his brothers who are beckoning
him from the landing. Two boys like carbon copies of the toddler only taller
and slimmer stand on the landing watching us and they laugh when their mother
clamps both arms around the little one’s body. The woman smiles distractedly
but I can see her assessing me: my pallid skin and unkempt hair, the swelling
around my knee and Malkie’s dirty hoodie. Her smile begins to slip and she tightens
her grip on the child. What she makes of me is anyone’s guess as a voice booms
out from the belly of the house: ‘Who is it, Hun?’

She
tilts her head waiting for my answer.

‘Tell
him it’s Davy.’ I smile back at her.

Marcus
stares at me. He looks like he wants to rip my head from my shoulders but he is
trapped because his wife is standing in the hallway, watching to see who blinks
first. I remain on the doorstep, Marcus hasn’t invited me in and I don’t expect
him to. I say nothing, waiting to see how he wants to play this out. I’ll pay
dearly for this, but I can’t see any other way.

‘Are
you going to introduce me, Mark?’ His wife’s tone is light but curious. I don’t
fit the demographic for this neighbourhood, for their lifestyle for that
matter, and she’s trying to suss out where I do fit. The tension in the air is
palpable; already I’m beginning to regret coming, or at least coming empty
handed. I should have brought a bag of dusters to sell which would have given
me a reason to be knocking on their door. Marcus laughs as though he’s
forgotten his manners, turns a full beam smile onto his wife. He’s wearing a
close fitting t-shirt and long baggy shorts, his feet are bare but there are
traces of sand around his toes.

‘Sorry
Gem, this is Davy.’ He offers. His voice is different, free of patios. He
sounds educated, like her. ‘I meant to tell you he was going to call round this
evening. He’s just started with us, doesn’t have his own suit yet, I said we’d
got a couple of spares in the office that he could borrow.’

Marcus’s
official business is security. His firm provides doormen to most of the pubs
and clubs along Edinburgh’s George Street, employing around 250 bouncers. He
has a small office in Dublin Street but it’s for show really. A book keeper
comes in once a week to do the payroll; the rest of the time if anyone rings
they get an answer machine.

Gem’s
smile slips. ‘You’re not going in now, are you?’ It seems getting the kids
ready for bed is something they do together; she looks at me now like I’m a
nasty bastard that’s interrupted their routine and I feel myself redden. Marcus
pulls a silly face which seems to be an in-joke between them for she laughs and
turns her face so he can kiss her on the cheek. The baby raises his arms and
chunners, so Marcus takes him from his mammy and lifts him in the air, spinning
him around while making aeroplane noises. The boy’s pyjamas have been ironed
and he flies through the air leaving a scent of freshly washed skin. He’s
squealing with laughter and clapping his hands and I see all at once what I
missed out on growing up. Marcus blows a raspberry onto the top of the
toddler’s head before handing him back.

‘Sorry,
Babes,’ he pleads, ‘won’t be long, I promise.’ His eyes as he waves to his
family are laughing; when he turns back to look at me they are flint.

Marcus
strides across the gravel, pressing a button on his key fob to open the garage
door. His X5 is inside and it’s the only thing I recognise of the Marcus I
know. He unlocks the car and we climb in silently. I wonder if he can hear the
thud in my chest and whether it would make any difference if he could. We pull
out of the garage and the shutter door lowers behind us.

‘Marcus,
I’m-’

‘-Shut
it!’ He hisses, ‘Don’t say a fuckin’ word!’

His
fists are clenched tight around the steering wheel and I image them around my
neck, pressing harder and harder. He’s the only one who is able to help me and
I’ve broken his sacred rule:
Never approach him on his home turf.
I
close my eyes, remind myself that I’m part of his crew again and that alone
must count for something. When I open them again the seafront is behind us and
we’re moving along a road that leads to Gus McEwan’s lock-up at the scrap yard.

The
yard looks deserted and Marcus has to climb out of his car to unlock the padlock
around the tall wire fence. As he does so two large Dobermans move towards him
then turn back as though sensing his mood. He returns to the car, drives into
the compound then stops the car once more to lock the gate behind him. This is
the first time I’ve seen Marcus do anything for himself; he pays men to drive
for him and open his doors then lock them; having to do these tasks himself
compounds his anger. When he returns to the car he opens the glove compartment
and retrieves a phone, punches a button and waits for the recipient to answer.
When he speaks his patios has returned, turned up a notch as though making a
point. I don’t understand all what’s said but I get the gist right enough:
Devlin has been told to get his arse here fast.

Marcus
drives as far down into the yard as we can get, we are surrounded now by broken
cars piled upon each other, some have been stripped down into smaller parts for
resale, others remain intact, awaiting their fate.

A
bit like me, I suppose.

Marcus
stops the car. Without uttering a word he reaches down between his legs,
pulling out a gun from under the driver’s seat. He turns the gun over in his
hands as though this is the first time he has ever held one and he’s fascinated
by the feel of it. The breath catches in my throat and I am aware of time
slowing down as I watch him decide what to do with it. Out of nowhere his left
hand shoots out and grips the back of my head, slamming me down face first onto
the dashboard. I feel a crunch as my nose breaks; the warm sensation of blood
spilling into my mouth. Lights explode across my eyes and when my vision clears
I see that Marcus is pointing the gun at my right temple.

‘Don’t.
You. Ever. Come. To. My. Home. Again.’ Marcus moves so close to me I can feel
his breath on my face. His face is twisted and I know there is nothing I can
say now, nothing I can do to stop him from killing me if he wants to. I’ve seen
enough destruction over the last forty eight hours to know that survival has
nothing to do with the victim’s strength or will, just how angry or mental the
killer is. As I look into the barrel of the gun something inside me snaps and I
know that I’m not afraid of it, that this gun is my one true friend, for it can
take me away from the hell my life’s become.

Death
is easy.

It’s
living that’s fucking hard.

‘Kill
me!’ I yell at Marcus, spitting out broken teeth and stringy blood. ‘Go on
then!’ I urge, my fist banging onto the dashboard over and over. ‘Do us all a
fuckin’ favour!’ My response shocks Marcus and his grip on me loosens but I
don’t move. I don’t want to move. Suddenly it’s OK to be bent over like this,
waiting for my head to get blown off because that’s all I deserve.