In The Dark

Another round of editing.

CHAPTER TWO

A truck stop on the outskirts of Slough is a short drive from our house. Minutes from the motorway and a bus ride into town, it is the perfect location for a private conversation.

He grips the steering wheel, mesmerised by the windshield wipers. I wipe condensation from the glass, not wanting to cause a row. My only concern is my informant. His information is priceless. True, they would consider him a minnow in a pond full of sharks, but those in charge never notice the pile of clothes in the corner of a room.

The car park is a mess of potholes trampled by heavy tyres. He parks close to the entrance. There is no other vehicle in sight. Alone, amidst the vast expanse of the road, any attempt at reconciliation would be useless.

I grip the metal of the handle, and the blast of cold air attacks my lungs. Shutting the door with a soft thud, I venture through the semi-dark. The radiance of the streetlights brightens my surroundings. It casts sleeping shadows across the truck stop entrance.

On the windows are red posters, advertising some band I have never heard of, cancelling their concert. Once inside I search for other customers. If we are the only ones in here, he will be more likely to talk.

Tall as he is wide, the fresh stubble attaches to the cashiers weathered face. He glances in my direction and shuffles over to the counter.

‘Coffee, two burgers, a portion of chips and a normal coke,’ I say.

The server slaps raw slabs of red meat on the hotplate, and the blazing griddle sizzles. Cooking in seconds, he crushes the thin excuse for a meal between stale buns. They have the aroma of the Mars factory; chocolate mixed with dog food.  

Crackle, spit, hiss–the espresso machine cuts through the ringing in my head. There is a hint of lemon cleaner lingering on the counter. It contrasts with the bitter aroma of coffee now in a polystyrene cup.

I sit near the window, and wipe a section of the dirt. It helps to know Graham is waiting for me. Sending a text to Richard, I wrinkle my nose against the harsh taste battering my taste buds. ‘Getting close, I am meeting Scott now.’ 

My mobile is in position on my lap, all ready to record. 

If I could steer Scott to somewhere safe; a homeless shelter Dad works in, I might gouge out my guilt. He is living in squalor, while those in charge, with fat bank accounts, are living the clean life. 

There is money in misery. A family person, or individual with no problem with increasing their wealth in the desperation of others.

Crossing county lines, using teenagers to do it, is a big problem, in the cities, but also in the little seaside towns. Amongst the candyfloss and fruit machines, addiction is rife.

A brief, momentary chill pulls at the hairs on my arms. It disappears as quickly as it started. Wearing a double tracksuit combo, Scott 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 move closer to the monster behind the mask. 

There is a sickly aroma, which overpowers the overcooked beef. Observing him stumble towards me, my breaths are too shallow to care. 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. 

‘Still get the cash, yeah … whatever I tell you?’

‘Of course, I don’t break my promise.’

‘It’s like, I still don’t believe I’m in any danger, man. I need to get away, that Chelsea kid, I knew her like.’

‘She was only sixteen.’

I feel a rustling inside my womb, only a selection of cells and body parts. Low, with dim lighting and faded pink paint, it serves as a reminder of my fresh start.

‘Nah man, I mean it, I want out. I’m not like them skanky, homeless piss heads on the street,’ he says. It is a high-pitched whine.

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. 

‘Of course you’re not.’

‘They want me to lie to my old woman, tell her I have got some stupid school trip or something … but it’s sus, and I don’t want to spend time around those druggies.’

Another teenager, lured in by new gadgets, cash, expensive trainers. Nobody misses them. If caught, they return to 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.