A truck stop, just on the outskirts of Slough, is only five minutes from our house. Minutes away from the motorway. A bus ride into town. The perfect place to talk properly without him getting spooked by someone overhearing our conversation.
Graham is quiet in the car, so am I.
He wraps his hands around the steering wheel, mesmerised by the window screen wipers. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I wipe condensation from the glass, not wanting to start a conversation. My only concern now is finally getting some answers. True to those around him, he doesn’t matter. As long as they supply him with cheap drugs, he is useful.
Until he isn’t, that is.
The car park, if you could call it that is a mess of stones and potholes. Graham parks as close to the cafe as he can without being seen. There are a couple of HGVs. Their drivers sleeping before the long journey north.
As I look around, there is no other car in sight. It’s just us, alone, amidst the vast expanse of the road. Silence is palpable, broken only by the distant hum of the engine. The soft glow of the streetlights illuminates our surroundings, casting long shadows on the empty streets. We are the sole travelers in this deserted landscape.
On the windows are red posters, advertising some band I’ve never heard of, cancelling their gig. It’s obvious to me what they are, what they normally use this place for.
A cancelled meet, possibly drugs, where they think the police are watching them.
I walk inside, searching the room for other customers. If we are the only ones in here, Scott will be more likely to talk. Twenty plastic tables and chairs loiter around the room. There are no tablecloths, and there is only one person serving.
Tall as he is wide, the day old stubble attaches to his weathered face. He glances in my direction and shuffles over to the counter. His expression of surprise hidden beneath folds of fat.
‘Coffee, two burgers, a portion of chips and a normal coke,’ I say.
The server slaps two raw burgers on the hotplate, and the blazing hot griddle sizzles. Cooking in minutes, he crushes the thin slabs of meat between two stale burger buns. They smell like cooked dog food, but Scott will be hungry enough to eat them.
Apart from a lorry driver in the far corner, there aren’t any more customers. He is scrolling on his phone. Working his way through a dodgy-looking omelette. I sit at a corner table, away from the window. The chances are he’ll get spooked if he thinks we are being watched.
There is a hint of lemon cleaner still lingering on my table. It contrasts with the sweet chilli sauce I have just put on my chips. I pick one up, squashing it between my fingers, before I eat it in one go.
Crackle, spit, hiss–the coffee machine cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I send a text to Richard. Getting close, meeting Scott, will ring when I have more information. Walls have ears, or so they say. I’m not even sure I can trust the person serving.
My mobile is now set on my lap, all set to record this meeting.
If I can steer him to somewhere safe, a homeless shelter Dad works in, I might turn his life around. Although, the chances of that are slim. He hasn’t got an advocate on his side.
He is living in squalor, while those in charge, with fat bank accounts, are living the clean life.
There is money in misery.
No doubt they will have kept their own hands as white as ice. A family man, or woman. Their money dragged out of those addicted to misery. They wouldn’t want their own children reliant on drugs, but are more than willing to make their money on the desperation of others.
Crossing county lines, using teenagers to do it, is a big problem, not just in the cities, but in the little seaside towns. Amongst the candyfloss and fruit machines, drugs are rife.
Shaking more sauce on my chips, I take another bite. The spice is not bothering me in the least. Graham always jokes if I want a career change, I should become a food critic.
The door opens, a brief, momentary chill pulls at the hairs on my arms. I shiver, like someone has walked over my grave. It disappears as quickly as it started; the door shutting with a soft thud.
Five minutes, ten minutes–the burgers have gone cold. I’m about to leave when I hear the door open. I glance up to see Scott at the door.
Wearing a tracksuit combo and looks like he is ready to go to the gym. On the streets, they call them paper men–if there is a fight, they will crumple. This is the one part of being a journalist. I lose sleep over, but there is no other way.
We have to get closer to the monster behind the mask.
There is a sweet, sickly smell, which overpowers the overcooked meat. Observing him stumble towards the table, I take a deep breath.
Old enough to drive, but too young to be an addict.
‘Hi Scott, didn’t know what you like, but I’ve ordered you a burger.’
Head down, he eats it, pursued by the second burger. Only after his plate is empty, he faces me.
‘I still gets the cash, yea … whatever information I gives you?’
‘Of course, I promised.’
‘It’s like, I still don’t believe I’m in any danger man, but I needs to get away, that Chelsea kid, I knew her like. I ain’t shitting you. She looked deathly pale, man.’
‘She was only sixteen, Scott.’
I feel a rustling inside my womb, only a few weeks old. The dodgy cafe I find myself in is low with dim lighting and faded pink paint, serving as a visual reminder of my fresh start.
‘Nah man, I want out now, but I need protection yea, they don’t like you going against them.’
‘I’ll keep you safe,’ I say, not sure I have the right to say that. ‘You said on the phone you had information.’
His mobile rings. Almost dropping it into his drink, as if it is going to explode, it fumbles around in his hands.
‘Yea man, yea, I’m okay right, I can do you that favour like, yea, no worries, but I’m at my old ladies, she’s a bit nosey innit. I’ll ring you back.’
He is sweating and drops it to the table like it’s burning hot metal. ‘They know I’m here, I’m sure of it, nah, can’t talk to you, they’re into dangerous shit man. If I get caught snitching to you, I’m dead fam.’
‘It’s the only way Scott, or you will be expected to do more than you want to do.’
‘You don’t get it. They’ve eyes everywhere man . . .’ His head twists back and forth, like there is an imaginary monster lurking in the corner.
‘Scott, it’s okay, and besides I can find you a great doctor, someone that will help you with your addiction.’
‘I’m not like them skanky, homeless piss heads on the street,’ he says. It is a high-pitched whine. He is genuinely scared, has every right to be. The people with whom he is dealing are dangerous, drugs a lucrative business worth millions. Those in charge aren’t willing to give up that sort of pay day.
‘I’m not saying you are Scott, but you want out, I can tell.’
‘They want me to lie to my old woman, tell her I’ve got some stupid school trip or something . . . but it’s sus man, and I don’t want to spend time around those druggies.’
My stomach churns, his movement to another level, and there will be no way he can climb out.
Just another teenager, lured in by new mobile phones, money, expensive trainers. Nobody misses them. If caught, they will go back into a system, which lets them down again. Even what we’re doing isn’t considering what he really needs. Greed! Drugs. Money. Power, but not for those like Scott.
Writer Ravenclaw 