Read Online Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) by Emma Salisbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Emma Salisbury
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sentence
into hours, for that way large chunks of it would be wiped from the total each
morning.
Prison
life was hard enough during the day but it’s the nights that are worse, for
there are no distractions, and all too often you’re left with nothing but your
conscience to keep you company. At the beginning of my sentence I would lie
awake for hours out of fear, but as time progressed the fear turned to anger as
I realised the sheer futility of what I was doing, and worse still that I was
the cause of it. At night there is no escape from the mistakes you have made,
the memories that tug at you and mock you in the early hours; the people you
miss, the ones you wish you’d never met. Amid the snoring and the coughing and
the frantic wanking grown men wept silently, others dreamt of a parallel
universe where they lived life out in suburban bliss; others still dreamt they
were harder, faster and meaner, that next time they wouldn’t get caught.
Me,
I counted.
The
months, the weeks, the days, converting them into hours.
Hiding
from my demons through multiplication.
Footsteps
echoing on the hard tiles signal the arrival of the person Daz is meeting,
either that or it’s a potential punter, and there’s still nothing to say they
can’t be one and the same. Instead of a greeting there are sounds of a scuffle
and a body being slammed against the walls repeatedly. The violence doesn’t
alarm me, I know what rough sex sounds like; normally I’d be at school or out
playing when Mum brought men back to the house but there was one time when I
was ill and she’d kept me home, settling me into bed with the TV on low. I
must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being startled
awake by the sound of furniture smashing and I tip-toed onto the landing to see
her bedroom door had been knocked off its hinges and Mum leaning back awkwardly
against an oversized wardrobe, eyes bulging because the man who was fucking her
had his hands around her throat.
I
wish I could say I did the heroic thing and picked up something hard to whack
him over the back of the head with but even then I knew when the odds were
stacked against me and men like this thought nothing of battering a child.
Besides, there was something about the look in Mum’s eye that told me she
wasn’t scared, that this wasn’t the first time she’d found herself in this
situation and it wouldn’t be the last. I returned to my room and burrowed
beneath my duvet, terrified to come out again until I knew the man had gone.
I’d
counted to six hundred by the time Mum came through to check on me. Her make-up
was heavier than it had been earlier and she wore a scarf around her neck. Her
eyes, which to me were beautiful, were unusually shiny and her voice sounded
brittle. If she knew what I’d seen she never let on, she simply snuggled
beneath the duvet, holding me close while I clung on like a limpet, soaked in
piss and shivering.
The
slamming outside the toilet cubicle stopped as abruptly as it began, followed
by heavy breathing and Daz’s docile ‘Wha’ was that fe?’ Even his junkie outrage
has no substance to it.
‘Fe
being a fuckin’ wee shite.’
The
reply makes my chest thud so loudly I have to hold my breath to compensate.
MacIntyre.
What
the hell is he doing in here of all places, meeting Daz? I don’t know which bit
of that my brain is finding hard to compute. Could he be undercover or trying
to pull down some sort of trap using a junkie as an informer? The idea doesn’t
make sense. MacIntyre is a lardy cop with no more ambition than playing cat and
mouse with the local Neds. He’d planted the weed on me just to show he could
but what more is he capable of? Every tingling nerve ending tells me I’m on the
brink of something; I’m just not sure what.
‘You
owe me money.’ he barks.
‘ Julie
found it! ’ Darren’s voice comes out in a whimper; as though he knows
whatever he says will be useless. I feel sorry for him; I sure as
into hours, for that way large chunks of it would be wiped from the total each
morning.
Prison
life was hard enough during the day but it’s the nights that are worse, for
there are no distractions, and all too often you’re left with nothing but your
conscience to keep you company. At the beginning of my sentence I would lie
awake for hours out of fear, but as time progressed the fear turned to anger as
I realised the sheer futility of what I was doing, and worse still that I was
the cause of it. At night there is no escape from the mistakes you have made,
the memories that tug at you and mock you in the early hours; the people you
miss, the ones you wish you’d never met. Amid the snoring and the coughing and
the frantic wanking grown men wept silently, others dreamt of a parallel
universe where they lived life out in suburban bliss; others still dreamt they
were harder, faster and meaner, that next time they wouldn’t get caught.
Me,
I counted.
The
months, the weeks, the days, converting them into hours.
Hiding
from my demons through multiplication.
Footsteps
echoing on the hard tiles signal the arrival of the person Daz is meeting,
either that or it’s a potential punter, and there’s still nothing to say they
can’t be one and the same. Instead of a greeting there are sounds of a scuffle
and a body being slammed against the walls repeatedly. The violence doesn’t
alarm me, I know what rough sex sounds like; normally I’d be at school or out
playing when Mum brought men back to the house but there was one time when I
was ill and she’d kept me home, settling me into bed with the TV on low. I
must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was being startled
awake by the sound of furniture smashing and I tip-toed onto the landing to see
her bedroom door had been knocked off its hinges and Mum leaning back awkwardly
against an oversized wardrobe, eyes bulging because the man who was fucking her
had his hands around her throat.
I
wish I could say I did the heroic thing and picked up something hard to whack
him over the back of the head with but even then I knew when the odds were
stacked against me and men like this thought nothing of battering a child.
Besides, there was something about the look in Mum’s eye that told me she
wasn’t scared, that this wasn’t the first time she’d found herself in this
situation and it wouldn’t be the last. I returned to my room and burrowed
beneath my duvet, terrified to come out again until I knew the man had gone.
I’d
counted to six hundred by the time Mum came through to check on me. Her make-up
was heavier than it had been earlier and she wore a scarf around her neck. Her
eyes, which to me were beautiful, were unusually shiny and her voice sounded
brittle. If she knew what I’d seen she never let on, she simply snuggled
beneath the duvet, holding me close while I clung on like a limpet, soaked in
piss and shivering.
The
slamming outside the toilet cubicle stopped as abruptly as it began, followed
by heavy breathing and Daz’s docile ‘Wha’ was that fe?’ Even his junkie outrage
has no substance to it.
‘Fe
being a fuckin’ wee shite.’
The
reply makes my chest thud so loudly I have to hold my breath to compensate.
MacIntyre.
What
the hell is he doing in here of all places, meeting Daz? I don’t know which bit
of that my brain is finding hard to compute. Could he be undercover or trying
to pull down some sort of trap using a junkie as an informer? The idea doesn’t
make sense. MacIntyre is a lardy cop with no more ambition than playing cat and
mouse with the local Neds. He’d planted the weed on me just to show he could
but what more is he capable of? Every tingling nerve ending tells me I’m on the
brink of something; I’m just not sure what.
‘You
owe me money.’ he barks.
‘ Julie
found it! ’ Darren’s voice comes out in a whimper; as though he knows
whatever he says will be useless. I feel sorry for him; I sure as
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