Read Online Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) by Emma Salisbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Salisbury
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hell know
what it’s like to be on the losing end of an argument with MacIntyre.
‘You.
Owe. Me. Money.’ Each word is punctuated by the sound of MacIntyre’s fist
meeting different parts of Darren’s body, some bony, some cavernous, followed
by a groan or sharp intake of breath.
‘ Honest! ’
Darren protests during a brief pause, ‘Julie went through ma clothes and found
the envelope! Ah could’nae tell her it wis’nae mine,’ he reasons, ‘she’d know I
was up tae somethin’.’
‘So?’
‘I
said it wis a bonus from work, that it wis for her and the wean.’
‘Aw,’
MacIntyre groans, ‘Dinnae tell me I’m gonna have tae go after your mangy skank
now.’ If that is meant to rile Darren, it fell way short.
‘She’s
spent it.’ Daz adds quickly, ‘Bought food and clothes fi the bairn, an fe
hersel’’.
‘I
knew the moment I clapped eyes on you you’d be fuckin’ trouble.’ MacIntyre
grumbles. His voice is calmer now, as though he’s resigned to the fact he’ll
not be seeing this money any time soon. I wonder how much is involved and where
it’s from and more importantly what MacIntyre is going to do next. Darren has
more chance of repaying him if he stays in one piece. MacIntyre obviously
thinks the same.
‘OK,’
he sighs, ‘Ye’ve got forty eight hours to pay me back.’
I
know I don’t have a clue how much is involved but I’m surprised that rather
than showing gratitude Daz starts to protest. It’s only when MacIntyre orders
him to get down on his knees and I hear a zip being opened that I understand
why. Moments later the air fills with animal-like grunts and I have to bite
down on my hand to stop feeling sick. In that moment I feel a connection with
Daz, the way victims of crime often do, yet there is precious little I can do
for him that won’t make a bad situation worse. So while MacIntyre’s groans of
pleasure reach their peak, I slip out from my hiding place and get the hell
away.
My
head is reeling. I knew MacIntyre was a thug but I can’t believe what he’s just
forced Daz to do. I thought all he was guilty of was throwing his weight
around, but forcing himself on someone makes him sink to a whole new depth. And
the money, what the hell is that about?
How
is it possible to be disappointed in someone that hates you and you hate back?
Yet that’s how I feel. When someone has a go at you for as long as you have
known them, for being inferior, for being worthless, for being a general waste
of skin, there’s some part of you that believes the truth of it, that there
must be some flaw inside of you that others can see. And even though you hate
the way that makes you feel, you believe these people are better than you, that
even though they treat you like shite you deserve it. The teachers who wrote me
off at school were entitled to because they were educated. The bank managers
who’d refuse Mum an overdraft then fuck her on a Friday night could do so for
the very same reason. They were better than us. Bad teachers and horny bankers
were better than prozzies and needy kids, and the police, though heavy handed,
were on a continuum of good that justified what they did. Or so I’d thought.
But police on the take? Committing assault? No reason could ever justify that.
My
phone vibrates in my pocket and I realise I haven’t turned the sound back on
since finishing work – Tam doesn’t like my mobile going off when we’re serving
customers, not that my phone is a hot bed of communication, unless you count
recorded messages from legal firms asking if I’ve been miss-sold PPI. I look at
the screen and my heart does a little flip when I see that it’s Candy. ‘Hey’ I
practise before hitting the talk button, wanting to get the tone just right. I
want to convey keen not lonely, don’t want my voice to smack of desperation.
‘Hey’
I say again, deciding the pitch was a couple of octaves higher than I would
have liked, more Graham Norton than Vin Diesel. In the end
what it’s like to be on the losing end of an argument with MacIntyre.
‘You.
Owe. Me. Money.’ Each word is punctuated by the sound of MacIntyre’s fist
meeting different parts of Darren’s body, some bony, some cavernous, followed
by a groan or sharp intake of breath.
‘ Honest! ’
Darren protests during a brief pause, ‘Julie went through ma clothes and found
the envelope! Ah could’nae tell her it wis’nae mine,’ he reasons, ‘she’d know I
was up tae somethin’.’
‘So?’
‘I
said it wis a bonus from work, that it wis for her and the wean.’
‘Aw,’
MacIntyre groans, ‘Dinnae tell me I’m gonna have tae go after your mangy skank
now.’ If that is meant to rile Darren, it fell way short.
‘She’s
spent it.’ Daz adds quickly, ‘Bought food and clothes fi the bairn, an fe
hersel’’.
‘I
knew the moment I clapped eyes on you you’d be fuckin’ trouble.’ MacIntyre
grumbles. His voice is calmer now, as though he’s resigned to the fact he’ll
not be seeing this money any time soon. I wonder how much is involved and where
it’s from and more importantly what MacIntyre is going to do next. Darren has
more chance of repaying him if he stays in one piece. MacIntyre obviously
thinks the same.
‘OK,’
he sighs, ‘Ye’ve got forty eight hours to pay me back.’
I
know I don’t have a clue how much is involved but I’m surprised that rather
than showing gratitude Daz starts to protest. It’s only when MacIntyre orders
him to get down on his knees and I hear a zip being opened that I understand
why. Moments later the air fills with animal-like grunts and I have to bite
down on my hand to stop feeling sick. In that moment I feel a connection with
Daz, the way victims of crime often do, yet there is precious little I can do
for him that won’t make a bad situation worse. So while MacIntyre’s groans of
pleasure reach their peak, I slip out from my hiding place and get the hell
away.
My
head is reeling. I knew MacIntyre was a thug but I can’t believe what he’s just
forced Daz to do. I thought all he was guilty of was throwing his weight
around, but forcing himself on someone makes him sink to a whole new depth. And
the money, what the hell is that about?
How
is it possible to be disappointed in someone that hates you and you hate back?
Yet that’s how I feel. When someone has a go at you for as long as you have
known them, for being inferior, for being worthless, for being a general waste
of skin, there’s some part of you that believes the truth of it, that there
must be some flaw inside of you that others can see. And even though you hate
the way that makes you feel, you believe these people are better than you, that
even though they treat you like shite you deserve it. The teachers who wrote me
off at school were entitled to because they were educated. The bank managers
who’d refuse Mum an overdraft then fuck her on a Friday night could do so for
the very same reason. They were better than us. Bad teachers and horny bankers
were better than prozzies and needy kids, and the police, though heavy handed,
were on a continuum of good that justified what they did. Or so I’d thought.
But police on the take? Committing assault? No reason could ever justify that.
My
phone vibrates in my pocket and I realise I haven’t turned the sound back on
since finishing work – Tam doesn’t like my mobile going off when we’re serving
customers, not that my phone is a hot bed of communication, unless you count
recorded messages from legal firms asking if I’ve been miss-sold PPI. I look at
the screen and my heart does a little flip when I see that it’s Candy. ‘Hey’ I
practise before hitting the talk button, wanting to get the tone just right. I
want to convey keen not lonely, don’t want my voice to smack of desperation.
‘Hey’
I say again, deciding the pitch was a couple of octaves higher than I would
have liked, more Graham Norton than Vin Diesel. In the end
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