Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (28 page)

Mum
nods. ‘Aye, I was beginning to think that was the only reason ye’d come.’ My
face must look confused, ‘I thought the gob-shite who told ye where ye dad was
would have given ye all the details.’ She says sourly.

‘Ye
can see her place if you stand at the front door.’ She adds, ‘look as far up
the road as you can, where the ice cream van parks every afternoon? Just up
from there. Been a coupl’a different families living in there since.’

I
walk back to the front door and open it a fraction so I can see for myself.
‘There,’ Mum says, moving behind me so she can point it out. ‘The one with the
blinds closed?’ I follow the line of her finger. ‘Christ.’ I mutter. It seemed
a trek when I was small yet it couldn’t have been more than three hundred yards
up along the street and sure enough, the ice-cream van is parked outside
although it’s more of a mobile grocers now, selling mainly fags to those too
lazy to go to the shop on the main road.

So
my memory of combining going for ice-cream and visiting Sonia are correct. I
return to the kitchen with Mum but something is puzzling me. ‘Why didn’t I run
home then?’ I say aloud.

‘What
do you mean?’ It’s obvious Mum doesn’t want to have this conversation, her
voice sounds pained, as though I’m forcing the answers out of her under duress.

‘Her
place and our place are opposite ends of the street.’ I explain, ‘Why didn’t I
run home to get away from Dad?’

‘That’s
what Jude used to ask.’ Mum mutters.

‘Say
that again.’ I ask her sharply.

‘Jude
used tar wonder why you didn’t run, said ye were smarter than staying put.’

‘Did
no one ask me?’

Mum
looks at me as though I’m being really stupid ‘That’s what I’m saying!’ she
snaps impatiently, ‘Ye were in shock for days afterwards; even when ye did
speak ye weren’t making sense, the doctors felt the best thing was tae send you
away for a while, give your memory a chance tae heal itself.’

‘You
mean forget?’

Mum
pauses, ‘If that’s what it took tae make you better, then aye.’

‘Jesus,’
I grumble, ‘on the basis I can barely remember any of this it seems to have
worked.’ Instead I’d been left with frightening dreams that no one chose to
explain to me.

‘Weren’t
you worried when I had problems sleeping?’ I ask sourly, ‘Didn’t you think I
might need help with all the nightmares I was having?’

‘All
bairns have nightmares, Davy,’ Mum says defensively, ‘you were a jumpy wee
thing right enough but no different from anyone else-’

‘-from
anyone else whose Dad kills someone right in from of them!’ I remind her.

‘Christ!’
Mum snaps, ‘De ye no’ understand how fucked up I was? I was hardly thinking
straight myself.’

‘Yeah
but ye were the “responsible adult”’ I sneer, using my fingers to make
quotation marks to show I’m taking the piss. ‘My mistake in all this has been
letting you fob me off every time I asked you for help.’

A
red flush spreads across Mum’s face and neck and her voice quivers when she
speaks: ‘I was only going off what the doctors and social workers were telling
me.’ She says. Her voice is pleading, like a defendant asking a sheriff for
mercy. ‘They said it was better to treat you as normally as possible.’

I
shut my eyes, counting slowly down from ten in my head. When I am done I open
them and get to my feet. ‘I need to go.’ I say abruptly, and make my way
towards the hall. Mum has been staring at me, studying the break along the
ridge of my nose. ‘What happened to your face?’ she asks, her hand stopping
mid-air as though frightened to touch it.

‘Life
happened.’ I say before letting myself out through the front door.

From our house I
set off towards the bus stop at the top of our road and without planning to I
find myself passing Sonia Reevie’s old home. It looks the same as ours, same
shape, same number of windows at the front, but there’s something about it
that’s not right. I stop to give it a once over, stepping back onto the edge of
the pavement, regarding the property like a mechanic might view a car. There’s
a small patch of neglected garden at the front of the house, long grass juts
out at angles beneath rockery stones that have become dislodged. Screwed up
chip paper has been dropped into an empty plant pot and a dented beer can has
been left on the door step like an offering to a Pagan God. A wooden To Let
sign has been pulled out of the ground and discarded; it lies at right angles
to a wonky gate. The yanked out sign gives me an idea and before I have time to
talk myself out of it I march up to the front door and ring the doorbell.

A
youth in jogging bottoms and a wife beater vest opens the door. He stares at me
suspiciously. ‘I’ve come to view the property.’ I tell him. He glances at the
wooden sign on its side then gives me a filthy look. ‘Mum!’ he yells at the top
of his voice, scratching himself while he waits for an answer.

A
voice booms down the hall at us: ‘Can I no’ have a crap in peace! Wha’d’ya
want?’

‘Someone’s
come to look at the house!’ he shouts back.

A
pause. ‘Fine! Let ‘em in!’ The reply comes back begrudgingly. The youth stands
back to let me pass, cupping himself with both hands. ‘Ye can do what ye want,
pal,’ he says menacingly, ‘we’re no’ leaving.’

I
move along the small hallway and open the first door I come to which in our
house leads into the front room. ‘
D’ye mind?
’ the voice booms out again,
peppered by a series of small farts. The boy sniggers as the toilet door is
kicked shut in my face. ‘Front room’s this way,’ he points, walking towards a
door on the opposite side of the hall. I feel out of sorts standing here. I’m
disorientated; the staircase is on the opposite wall to ours at home, the door
to the under stairs cupboard opens the other way. I stare at it, confused while
in my head a scene plays out:

Dad’s
face as it looms towards me in the dark, ‘Shut the fuck up Davy,’ he hisses. I
want to pee so am hopping from foot to foot to distract myself, squeezing my
eyes shut to blot out the dark. There’s a scuffle outside, someone is shouting
my name. I crawl into the furthest corner, wrapping my arms around my body to
make myself as small as I can.

Then
the door to the cupboard bursts open.

‘Are
ye coming or no’?’ I walk behind my reluctant host into what in our house would
be the downstairs toilet but here turns out to be their living room. The room
is cluttered with kids’ toys and a child’s buggy has been positioned beneath
the window. A one-eyed doll is lying in it, being fed a real baby’s bottle by a
toddler wearing pull up pants and a washed out Hibs football top. Three other
children are lined up on the sofa, their ages ranging from two through to nine
or ten. They’re watching a music channel, laughing as the youngest tries to
copy Miley Cyrus. The TV is the only new item in the place; everything else is
how I remember it: a square table and chairs are pushed up against the wall
opposite the window; I used to sit there when I worked on the math problems Sonia
gave to me. The chairs are covered in scratches and someone’s crayoned across
the table top but it’s definitely the same. The sofa the kids are sitting on
has seen much better days; the removable covers have never been put back. I was
sick on it once, Sonia smiling as she lifted the cushions to strip them, Dad
glaring at me behind her back. It must have left a stain; a blanket had been
thrown over the sofa the next time we went. There was no blanket now; the
children were sitting on stained yellow foam. I turn to the boy: ‘Is the
furniture included?’

‘Are
ye having a laugh?’ he snipes. ‘Who’d want this shite?’

‘Aye,
son,’ says a voice behind us, ‘are ye setting up on your own?’ It’s the woman
from the toilet, not at all embarrassed that I’ve seen her wiping herself.

‘Girlfriend’s
expecting a bairn,’ I tell her, don’t have the cash to furnish it ourselves.’

‘Aye,
I know the feeling, son.’ She sympathises, ‘It’s not up to much, and we’ve not
exactly been careful with it,’ she glares at the children on the sofa who
automatically lower their heads, ‘but it’s all included, right enough.’

‘Ye
said we weren’t going anywhere!’ the boy who’s been showing me around objects.

‘Aye,
but the laddie’s here now,’ she chides him, ‘it’s not his fault we’re in
dispute with the landlord, besides, what choice have ye left me?’

‘Why?’
I look from one to the other, intrigued, ‘what happened?’

The
woman points a thumb in the teenager’s direction. ‘Let me introduce ye to the
King o’ the ASBOs.’

The
boy smirks and she clips him across the back of the head in a way that reminds
me of Mum. ‘Don’t go thinking it’s anything to be proud of, Shit-fe-Brains.’

‘What’ve
ye been doing?’ I ask him. I don’t recall any wild parties at this end of the
street, I’ve seen MacIntyre drive along the road right enough but only long
enough for me to get out of sight.

‘Having
a go at the neighbours one by one till none of ‘em will speak to us.’ The boy’s
mum answers, ‘If it’s not his BB gun it’s his fitba’, only gobshite here
carries it a stage further and does it all the more to get a reaction, bloke
across the road had a heart attack.’ The woman pauses but I doubt for one
minute it’s because of that. ‘Council got in touch with the landlord,’ she
shrugs ‘that’s us out on our arses.’

The
boy’s been studying my face. ‘Ye from round here, aren’t ye?’

I
nod. ‘I live across the road with my Mum just now, I can’t stay there though.’

The
mother and son nod in sympathy. It’s common around here to get thrown out by
your parents, like a rite of passage I suppose. I need to change track, I don’t
want either of them working out the real reason I might seem familiar. ‘I
thought these houses were the same as ours but they’re different,’ I say to
them.

‘Same
builder,’ the woman explains, ‘just built in a mirror image. I’m friendly with
a woman across the street and it’s weird going in there ‘cos everything’s the
other way round.’

I’m
running down the stairs. I’m swallowing my sobs as Dad has warned me to be
quiet. I yank open the living room door only it’s the toilet. Confused, I start
to whimper.

‘Davy!’

I
turn; Dad is standing at the top of the stairs. His eyes are wild and scary.

He
runs towards me.

‘You
OK, Son?’ the woman is eyeing me with concern and I realize I’ve been gripping
onto the bannister. ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. They are waiting for me to go
upstairs to check the bedrooms - it’ll look suspicious if I don’t. I take the
stairs two at a time, keen to get out of there. The landing is small with four doors
leading off it; I open each door randomly, going through the motions. The first
door takes us into a tiny bedroom, crowded with small toys and discarded
clothes, there are two sets of bunk beds pushed against opposite walls and a
window with a permanently closed blackout blind. The next door opens into the
bathroom, revealing a tired green bath suite with threadbare towels discarded
on the floor. The boy and his mother are standing behind me. ‘Go in if ye want
to,’ the woman offers.

I
shake my head, ‘I’d better be going in a minute.’ I tell her. ‘I just wanted to
get a rough idea.’ I open the third door and the smell of sweaty boy and weed
causes the woman to slap her son once more. ‘Ye been nicking my gear?’ she
accuses him, and I’m forgotten as they start shouting at one another. As I turn
the handle into the main bedroom my heart begins to quicken and I try to slow
my breathing as I push open the door.

The
curtains are drawn, plunging the room into darkness. The bed is unmade, the
crumpled sheets tumble halfway onto the floor; items of clothing are scattered
around. I’m looking for Sonia; I can’t work out the answer to the math problem
she’s set me. She’s lying on the bed but she doesn’t seem to see me. As I call
out her name I lock eyes with my father and in that instant I know I’m in
danger.

I
stumble backwards out of the room causing mother and son to stop bickering.
‘Seen enough?’ the woman asks me.

Shaken,
I try to muster a smile. ‘Aye,’ I say darkly, ‘more than.’

As
I step out into the street I try to put what I’ve learned into some sort of
order: I was with Dad when Sonia was murdered. I ran into her bedroom and found
her lying on the bed. I realise now she was dead or dying but back then I must
have thought she was asleep, or cross with me, either way the look on Dad’s
face made me run from the room but I didn’t run home which is odd. Instead,
cornered like an animal, I cower in the under stairs cupboard waiting for Dad’s
anger to subside.

Yet
the significance would have been lost on me, for a while longer at least, if I
hadn’t asked the people living in Sonia’s house who they rented it from.

The receptionist
at the hospital smiles at me warmly. It’s a different woman from this morning
and I can see her trying to fathom whether I’m a visitor or an outpatient.
Hedging her bets, she smiles professionally. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I
need tae see Dr Abbott,’ I say urgently, ‘She saw me earlier today,’ I add,
‘tell her it’s important!’

‘What’s
your name?’

‘It’s
Donnie Johnson’s son, tell her.’

‘
Your
name. Please.’ She’s not as smiley now; in fact she seems hell bent on
reminding me I’m on her turf. She’s wearing a name badge.
Patience,
it
states in bold type.
I stifle a smile.

‘It’s
Davy,’ I say as calmly as I can manage.

‘Surname.’
She’s telling me she doubts I’m from a stable home, that it’s unlikely I’ll
have been given my father’s name, that he probably sired hundreds of kids
before going mental.

‘
Johnson
.’
I tell her, drumming my fingers on the counter top, looking around for someone
more helpful to come along.

‘I
need
to see her.’ Resisting the urge to snatch the phone from her hand
and make the call myself I pull my lips into a smile and I realise it isn’t a
name badge she’s wearing but a user guide.

Patience
picks up the switchboard phone then dials a number before speaking quietly into
the receiver. After a moment she replaces the handset before staring me down.

‘I’m
sorry,’ she can’t wait to tell me, ‘she’s in a meeting at the moment.’

‘How
long will she be?’ I ask reasonably.

The
receptionist shakes her head. ‘Hard to tell.’ She says authoritatively.

I
try appealing to her better nature. ‘Patience,’ I say quietly, ‘I have some
information for Dr Abbott relating to a murder that took place 16 years ago.’

‘It’s
hardly life or death then is it?’ she states drily. ‘The best I can offer you
is….’ she looks at the monitor in front of her, clicks her mouse a couple of
times, ‘…. an appointment Thursday week.’ I could laugh but am fearful I’ll
sound crazy and crazy is not good in a place like this. ‘What time does she
finish?’ I ask instead but this makes Patience reach for the phone.

‘I’ll
call security if you don’t leave.’ She threatens.

‘Jeezo,’
I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face as though checking for stubble. I’ve been
trying not to show how panicky I feel in case someone carts me off to a side
room but I’m rapidly running out of ideas. ‘If I canny see the doctor can I see
ma Da then?’ I ask.

Patience
purses her lips as though I’ve asked her something inappropriate.

‘What’s
your father’s name?’ she demands.

‘Johnson!’
I say, biting back my irritation, ‘Donnie Johnson.’ I watch as she stabs her
fingers across the keypad then lifts the phone to her ear once more.

The
automatic doors of the main entrance behind me open and I turn to watch a woman
enter the reception area carrying a couple of carrier bags filled with clothing
and toiletries. Her hair has been scraped back into a pony tail it’s too short
for and strands of it are sticking up at angles. Her eyes are red and wild
looking and her breathing comes in rapid little bursts. She takes her place
behind me at the desk.

‘I’m
back, Patience,’ she says in a sing-song voice. Patience glances over at her
and nods, ‘Right enough Chelsea,’ she says amiably, ‘ye canny keep away, hen.’

‘Can
ye tell Calum I’m here,’ Cheslea asks in a pantomime voice, as though there’s a
room full of toddlers listening. ‘He said I could come back any time things
got………
too much
.’ Her voice catches at the end and I turn to smile at her
sympathetically.

‘Will
do hen, jist wait there.’ Patience replies, cancelling my call and dialling
another number. My concern for Chelsea evaporates: ‘What the f-’

‘They
dinnae want ye topping yerself on their conscience,
’
Chelsea informs me
in a stage whisper. This gives me an idea. I eye Chelsea’s shopping bag and see
something that could be useful. ‘Can I have your hairspray?’ I ask her nicely.

She
looks at me warily, ‘I need it.’ she says, pulling the bag closer.

‘Do
ye?’ I ask, looking at split ends breaking free from the elastic band at the
back of her head. ‘Really?’

‘Aye….’
she claims, less certain now. ‘Ye can borrow it, though,’ she adds shyly,
reaching into the Aldi bag and pulling out the large green canister which she
hands to me solemnly.

‘Calum’s
on his way for ye.’ Patience informs Chelsea, then turns to look at me as
though wondering why I’m still here.

I
lift up the hairspray can, turning the nozzle so it’s pointing at my head and
push down on the ‘press’ button, moving the can about me so that every inch of
my hair, neck and shoulders are covered in a flammable cloud. Patience looks at
me unimpressed; Chelsea, who’s on the same wavelength as me, stifles a giggle.
The air around us has become thick and toxic; the receptionist starts to cough,
dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Can
you stop that please!’ she splutters, pulling a face because she can taste the
chemicals in the air. I pull out the lighter Dad dropped earlier and cover the
broken barrel with my hand so that all Patience can see is my thumb on the
hammer. ‘If you don’t get me Tanya I’m gonny set myself alight!’ I yell at her
and for a moment I think she is going to call my bluff but as the spray settles
onto my clothing she jumps into action. Jabbing at the switchboard she punches
in a number, looking up at me worriedly, ‘don’t do anything rash, Son,’ she
says gently and I wish I could flick the switch just to teach her to be nicer
to people in future. She speaks hurriedly into the phone and for a moment I
wonder if she’s calling security after all.

‘I
mean it!’ I say as menacingly as I can and she nods as though she’s in no
doubt. ‘Someone’s going to interrupt her,’ she says, lifting her bag onto her
knee and pulling out an inhaler. ‘She’ll be here as quick as she can,’ she adds
between wheezy breaths, ‘I promise.’

I
watch as she sucks on the inhaler greedily. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, still
holding the can and lighter in the air in case someone’s watching on CCTV. ‘I
didn’t know you had Asthma,’ I tell her, ‘but this is important.’ The woman
jerks her head in a choking equivalent of a nod. ‘Though you were being a
twat,’ I say in mitigation.

‘Don’t
use it all, I need it!’ Chelsea warns me, a sulky tone creeping into her voice.
My eyes are streaming and my lips feel as though they’ve been glued together so
I begin to depress the canister just as Tanya runs along the corridor in my
direction, her face creased into a worried frown.

‘I
hope you’ve got a damn good reason for turning up unannounced, threatening my
staff like this!’ she hurls at me and I’m thrown for a moment, I was expecting
touchy feely and a fast track entry to the cushion room.

‘He
wisnae threatening Patience!’ Chelsea offers up in my defence, and we all look
in the receptionist’s direction for corroboration.

‘I’m
fine!’ Patience confirms, her cheeks flushed with over-coughing. Her breathing
has returned to normal and her inhaler lies on top of her desk, spent. ‘Jist
got caught in the cross fire, I suppose.’

‘And
that’s the reason I’m back.’ I say to Tanya, desperate for her to hear me out.

‘How’s
Dad?’

We’re
sitting in a consulting room, not the one Tanya took me into earlier today but
a smaller room with just a table and two chairs. Not a single squashy cushion
in sight. Before Tanya was willing to speak to me I had to hand my personal
possessions to a nurse (including the broken lighter which was a little bit
embarrassing) and take a shower to remove the flammable liquid from my hair and
upper body. When I stepped out of the shower my outer clothing had been removed
and in its place a clean white t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms had been left
for me to change into.

Tanya
pauses as though weighing up how honest she can be. ‘Today wasn’t a good day.’
she says simply.

‘Will
he be OK, though?’ I don’t want to be responsible for his set back; I need to
know that any damage I’ve caused can be reversed in some way.

‘Davy,
it’s very hard with mental illness to say for certain that someone is well,
it’s not like treating a broken leg. We
can
say that your father is
responding to the support he is being given,’ she says slowly, ‘and that is a
good sign.’

‘Will
he be here forever then?’ I ask her, ‘is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m
not saying that, no,’ Tanya says hesitantly, ‘although for some release isn’t
all it’s cut out to be.’ I only have to think of Chelsea to see her point.

‘Davy,
what is it?’

I
stare at my hands spread out like starfish on my lap. I want to put my feelings
into words but it doesn’t come naturally. Emotions and conscience aren’t for
people like me. And yet.

‘It
sounds daft I know, but I feel cheated of the life we’d have had together if
Dad hadn’t killed his lover. Is it wrong of me to wish they’d never met?’

Tanya
says nothing, waiting for me to continue. ‘I’m not blaming Sonia,’ I add
quickly, ‘how could she have known what would happen that first time she set
eyes on him?’ But still.

‘From
what Mum has said this afternoon he was a better man than I gave him credit
for,’ I admit.

‘And
you feel guilty about that?’ she prompts.

I
nod, ‘All these years I’ve called him every name under the sun but it turns out
he wasn’t all bad.’

‘None
of us are, Davy.’ Tanya concurs.

Yet
everything’s turning full circle now and I’m finding answers to questions I
didn’t know existed. I meet Tanya’s gaze. ‘Do ye know the Police are after me?’

Tanya
hesitates before nodding. ‘It’s pointless lying,’ she shrugs, ‘I looked you up
on the internet when our benefactor rang asking if we could grant him a wee
favour. As I’m sure you are aware, Gus isn’t a man you say no to, so the next
best thing was to find out who I was dealing with.’

‘And
what did ye find?’

Tanya
looks away then back at me again. ‘That you’re wanted for murder. Multiple
murders in fact.’

‘Does
that scare ye?’

She
shrugs, ‘A little, maybe.’ She says truthfully, ‘You have to remember I work
with killers every day.’

‘But
I’m not a patient.’ I remind her.

‘True.’

‘I
didn’t do it.’ I tell her.

Tanya
raises an eyebrow. ‘Why is it important to you to tell me that?’

‘Because
ye need tae know I’m not a bad person.’

‘But
we’ve just established that we’re not all bad.’ Tanya says patiently, ‘Do you
think I grade my help depending on someone’s level of guilt?’ she smiles. Now
it’s my turn to shrug. ‘It would be understandable,’ I tell her.

‘Understandable,
but not professional.’ She tells me.

‘It
doesn’t matter,’ I say simply, ‘I didn’t do any of what I’m being accused of. I
was set up.’

‘By
whom?’

‘A
cop.’

Tanya
sighs, ‘Well,’ she says slowly, removing her glasses to give them a wipe with
her scarf. ‘it wouldn’t be the first time.’

I
tell her about MacIntyre, how he hounded me for months before killing Jude and
the twins then later killing Malkie and his case worker. Each time planting
evidence that points directly to my door. Tanya listens intently, studying my
face as I talk; this must be her way of separating the truth from the lie. When
I finish she remains silent.

‘I
know it’s hard to believe.’ I say.

Finally
Tanya speaks. ‘You know, Davy, I’ve found over the years that the more
unbelievable a story, the more likely it is to be true.’ Her head is nodding as
she says this, as though to emphasise the point. ‘But the question is why? Have
you any idea what would make him single you out like this?’

I
try to speak slowly for fear of not making sense but the words come tumbling
out anyway:

‘That’s
just it!’ I tell her, ‘I didn’t have a clue until today! Then our conversation
this morning made me think about what I’d been told about my past – and Dad’s
past – and I realised I had tae go and find out for myself. I hadn’t known I
was there when Sonia Reevie was killed until today, yet after talking to Mum
and going to find Sonia’s place I’ve started to remember things.’

‘You
went to the victim’s house?’ For the first time I hear surprise in Tanya’s
voice.

I
nod. ‘I must have passed by it thousands of times over the years but it didn’t
mean a thing to me.’

Tanya
leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her lap, chin resting on
knuckles. She studies me. ‘Our brains are designed to close down where
distressing memories or images are involved,’ she explains, ‘it’s not unusual
for victims of trauma to be oblivious of their past until some sort of trigger
reactivates it.’

‘What
can act as a trigger?’

‘Lots
of things, physical impacts, such as a blow to the head, or something equally
traumatic like a bereavement.’

‘Jude’s
murder?’

Tanya
nods.

‘There’s
been something bugging me,’ I admit, ‘but until today I couldn’t work out what
it was, but I need tae speak to Dad again to help me work it out.’

‘I
don’t know if I can let you do that.’

‘But
ye have tae!’ I insist, ‘I know why that cop’s had it in for me all these
years! Sonia Reevie was his girlfriend! When I asked the people living in her
house who they rented it from they told me their landlord was John MacIntyre.
There can’t be two of them surely?’ Even the thought of it makes me shudder.

‘He
could have bought the property subsequently.’ Suggests Tanya.

I
breathe in sharply. I hadn’t thought of that.

Tanya
eyes me sympathetically. ‘We can check,’ she adds gently, ‘just to be sure, but
I can see your point…Are you sure it could be him?’