Handstands In The Dark: A True Story of Growing Up and Survival

by Godley, Janey

  ‘Let me go! I will speak if I want! This is my grandad’s house! You can’t make me stay here! I want my daddy! Daddy! Daddy, where are you?’ She struggled from his grip and ran downstairs with me still trying to catch her; she met her father halfway down the stairs.

  ‘It’s OK, Ashley. They are just here to look for stuff; no one is going anywhere. Let’s get breakfast, eh?’ and, with that, he picked her up. She wrapped her legs and arms tightly round him and stayed there until he made her sit at the kitchen table. The police brought Dick down and sat us all together in the kitchen, including Ashley. There were three policemen standing over us. The men with sub-machine guns had melted away somewhere.

  ‘We have information that there are weapons and explosives hidden here in the house and in the surrounding grounds.’

  I looked at Sean with enquiring eyes that begged him to reassure me with a smile that there was nothing to find. Sean looked at me, then looked straight down at his feet, a sure sign he could not assure me of anything. Fucking hell! I thought. There are guns in this fucking house? Where? I had let Ashley play everywhere out in the yard and all around these grounds. There are explosives?

  The plain-clothes officer continued. ‘Also there is an accusation of abduction and rape against you, Sean Storrie, from a Mrs Sandra Storrie. We will be taking that enquiry further as soon as we search the place.’

  I looked at Ashley, took her out of the kitchen and was allowed to take her into the living room to watch television.

  ‘Don’t speak to your daughter,’ a policeman told me. ‘If you want, you can get someone to come and take her away from the house.’

  I ran upstairs with Ashley and a policewoman and packed for her to go. I took out her panda bear and told her to ‘speak’ to it.

  ‘What are you saying to her?’ the policewoman demanded.

  ‘I just told her to speak to Mr Bovey if she was worried about anything.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Bovey?’

  ‘He’s her panda bear.’

  Ashley looked at me, smiled, then grabbed the bear, hugged him tight and waited for me to call Sean’s Aunt Betty to come collect her. As she kissed her dad to leave, she held up her panda bear and said: ‘Say hello to Mr Bovey, Daddy …’ Sean looked at me and laughed as we waved goodbye to her. The real Mr Bovey would be called as soon as she got to Aunt Betty’s house; the panda had Mr Bovey’s Edinburgh telephone number on its collar.

  The police took apart every box we had painstakingly packed when we moved from the Weavers. I saw, lying all over the floor, my pictures, wedding dress, Ashley’s Communion frock and loads of personal mementoes that we had carefully kept. They overturned Old George’s big work desk and pulled all the paperwork out of it. They demanded that we lock up the dogs and even Whisky got into trouble for hissing at a female officer who hated cats. My nerves jangled as they pulled out each drawer, each cupboard, and pulled up yet another mattress as they searched for the ‘weapons and explosives’.

  ‘Look, we know what this is all about,’ said Sean, standing with his arms folded, casually chatting as if he were behind the bar at the Weavers. ‘Sandra was my father’s girlfriend and she never got any money after he died and she is set on revenge. I never raped her.’

  ‘Well, we will see about all this later, Mr Storrie,’ the unsmiling officer replied.

  The officers took us upstairs to search our bedroom and, from the back of the television mounted on top of the wardrobe, one officer pulled a large padded envelope. It was placed on the bed in front of us. Mrs Storrie was typed on the front. The policeman pulled on rubber gloves, peeled the top open and felt inside. I watched his face for any clues as to what he was touching. I looked at Sean for any sign that he recognised this package, but he just shrugged at me. The policeman delicately pulled the item out of the bag and I giggled. It was a huge black ribbed vibrator and it was followed by tubes of lubricator. I threw both hands to my face in embarrassment and shouted: ‘That is fucking not mine! I would own up to the fucking weapons or explosives you seem tae think we huv – even the rape – but I do not own a black vibrator. That is Sandra’s! Remember she calls herself Mrs Storrie.’

  The policeman made a really cheap side glance at me and just threw it back in the bag.

  ‘Fuck off looking at me like that!’ I told him indignantly. ‘They are not mine – I mean it.’

  ‘Everyone down here now!’ someone shouted from downstairs.

  We were led down and out into the backyard; the dogs had been locked up. A plain-clothes officer was crawling under a washing machine that sat in the garage space behind a big yellow truck. I shivered in the autumn chill. I realised I had not eaten any breakfast; nerves had made me keep going but now I felt cold and faint. The shock was beginning to scratch at me, like cold claws creeping upward at the back of my legs. The policeman pulled at a black plastic rubbish sack that was half exposed with the other half dug into the soft earth directly beneath the washing machine. As he pulled, two other policemen eased it out carefully. I looked at Sean. He immediately stared at Dick, who took one long drag on his cigarette and flicked it high into the yard; then ran both his hands through his hair and kept his arms up high around his head. Their body language screamed Guilty! We have guns here! I felt my legs buckle slightly as the bag was ripped open and three big, old-style World War II rifles spilled out onto the moist grass. The policemen kept pulling at the black bag and what seemed like hundreds of bullets came out, spattering and spilling all over the earth like steel confetti.

  Holy fuck! was all I could think. I am going down. I am going to prison and some other bastard brother called Storrie will raise my child. My heart thudded hard inside my chest. I glared at Sean. Words I could not say in front of the coppers sat like venom inside my eyes. I wanted to leap across the guns and grab the useless bastard by the neck. I felt like picking up a gun and shooting the fucker. Him and his fucking brother so aptly named ‘Dick’. Now I was dragged into their shitty mess. That cow Sandra knew what she was doing. I glanced to the back of the yard where two policemen were holding a piece of paper, turning it round and round as if trying to make sense of it, while other police officers looked smug. I ran over to look at the paper the men held. As I got close, they tried to hide it, but I recognised the handwriting.

  ‘A fucking map! She drew you a fucking map! Did she draw you a picture of my husband raping her?’ I was so angry I actually gave the policemen a fright with my sudden turn of mood. They jumped back from me, looking startled by my screams.

  ‘Calm down, Mrs Storrie,’ a big, black-haired police officer said as he gently took my arm. ‘Let’s get into the house. We have to formally charge you all with possession of the weapons.’ He looked genuinely sorry for me. I had seen no compassion from anyone else that day, but he stroked my hand: ‘Look, we know this has fuck all to do with you; this is just procedure. The sooner we get it all done, the better.’

  The day dragged on as the officers kept interrogating us. My stomach dipped and churned as if it was on a rollercoaster. I knew we should never have come to this poxy bad luck house! I worried about Ashley. Was she scared? Was she crying? Did she call Mr Bovey? The timing of this raid could not have been better for Sandra. Young George and Stephen were in London, Philip was in Spain on holiday, Paul was in Thailand and Michael was probably in jail again. We were left on our own to deal with this fucking mess. Before long, they found 11 handguns, 14 long sawn-off shotguns, an automatic rifle, black balaclavas, handcuffs and hundreds of bullets and shotgun cartridges. By then, it was late into the afternoon and, after they had discovered nothing new for four hours, they decided they had thoroughly searched the place, covering all points on the Sandra Treasure Map. The police called for a van and started to carry all the stuff into it. Neighbours were hanging out of their windows watching – at least seven tall tenements looked into George’s front garden – they must have had a great view of the whole scene. We were cuffed and put into the back of a police van; I was so shocked I
just sat with my head down. Sean looked over at me, cocked his head to the side and smiled.

  ‘It will be OK, Janey.’

  ‘Fuck you, ya cunt!’ I spat at him. ‘I hope you die! My daughter will never forget this and here I am going to the jail coz yer useless fucking father cannae hide a fucking gun!’

  The policeman sitting beside me sniggered. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And he is getting charged with rape as well.’

  ‘Fuck ye!’ I screamed. ‘Rape? Sandra was never raped! Don’t ye know it is physically impossible to rape her? She shags anyone who asks! Maybe you fucked her yerself! She is a fucking, lying whore!’

  Dick looked over and said, ‘Don’t get upset, Janey. Sean didnae know aboot the guns.’

  ‘Fuck ye as well!’ I shouted.

  As soon as we got into the Police Office we were led to the bar – the counter – to be formally charged. Sean asked if he could share a cell with me. ‘No!’ the policeman behind the counter told him. ‘It’s no’ the fucking Hilton, ya stupid bastard!’

  After the charging procedure I was taken alone into a small white cell about 20 feet square with a bench running alongside one end and a small window that looked into a central observation office. It was the first time I had been on my own since this shit day started. My head was racing. Wait a minute! They never found the explosives! I started to go over the backyard in my head, trying to imagine where the explosives could be hidden. I didn’t even know what explosives looked like! It was at this point I realised that the ‘various miscellaneous materials’ Old George had referred to in his taped will were these guns and explosives. My head ran round in circles. Stress was getting to me and I felt sick. I decided to do the breathing technique that helped me when I was running. I sat on the floor and took long deep breaths. I could feel my pulse slowing down. I could feel my heartbeat becoming more regular. This felt better. I did not want to hyper-ventilate in a fucking police cell. I stood up and looked at the bench. I went and stood at the furthest wall, ran forward and slammed both my palms down on the bench then threw my body up into a handstand. I could see everything upside-down. The blood rushed to my head, my breasts hurt a bit. It had been a long time since I had done a handstand. At that exact moment, a detective opened the door. I stayed upside-down.

  ‘What the fuck are ye doing?’ he asked. ‘Are ye a junkie?’

  I threw myself off the wall, off the bench and did a perfect landing on both feet with my hands raised in triumph in the air, like some Olympic champion. ‘How many junkies de you know who can do that, ye fuckwit?’ I laughed.

  He lifted his hand up to slap me in the face.

  ‘You fucking hit me, ya cunt, an’ I will report ye!’ I shouted as loud as I could. His hand stopped in mid-air, as a female detective came to the door. He dropped his hand.

  ‘He tried to slap me there,’ I pleaded to her. ‘That cannae be right.’

  ‘Yes and we care deeply,’ she sneered. ‘A woman who has been charged with possession of guns.’

  I knew this was not going to be a good day. I was taken to another room to be interviewed. I was worried that they would beat me up badly. I sat at a table as two detectives came in. One was the officer from the back garden who had calmed me down. I smiled at him as he sat beside me.

  ‘Janey, we have to tape everything for the record – OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied.

  The other dark-haired man leaned over the table and stared as he smiled. I felt slightly uncomfortable now; he was staring right at me.

  ‘Just confirm your name and details then, please,’ he said quietly.

  I gave my name and address.

  ‘How long you been married, Janey?’

  ‘Fourteen years now.’

  ‘Why were there guns at the house?’

  ‘I don’t know. I huv never seen them before, honest.’

  I sat with my hands on my lap and started to pick at my nails. This dark-haired man was making me feel very uncomfortable. He would stare and smile and reach over and touch me gently on the hand and then stare at me blankly, without emotion, as I answered.

  ‘Who owns the house?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, to be honest,’ I replied. I knew that whoever owned the house owned the guns. That was Scottish law, for sure, so I had to get my head around this.

  ‘You live in a house and you don’t know who owns it? Who pays the bills for gas and electricity?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am a woman. If bills are being paid, I don’t question it.’

  ‘Liar!’ he suddenly shouted, leaping across the table at me. The edge of his hand hit me full force on the side of my head. I had no time to duck. My ears rang with pain.

  ‘Fuck you, ya big arse!’ I screamed back at him. ‘D’ye like hitting women? Eh? Do ye hit yer wife?’ I rubbed my ear and looked at the tape machine hoping it had caught all that noise on it. But the spools on the tape recorder were not moving at all. My heart started to thump wildly and I tried hard to breathe slowly; I knew now that they were going to beat me up badly. The other detective sat impassively and stared as I cried, holding my ear.

  ‘Janey,’ the dark-haired man spoke. ‘Just tell us everything and you can go home, eh?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know anything and that belt to my head has just given me real mental problems. Now I am in shock, so I cannae speak.’ I didn’t care if they kicked me to death now, the pair of bastards. I am not being scared by anyone any more, I thought to myself. They got me up from the table and led me to the other side of the room, where all the guns and stuff they had recovered from Toad Hall was lying on the floor. I noticed for the first time that two of the handguns were very old and ornate; they had pearl inlaid handles and fancy-looking metalwork on them.

  ‘When did you last see that gun?’ one of them asked as he saw my interest in the weapon.

  ‘In a fucking Dick Turpin film. You are joking, eh? Can that actually fire bullets? It looks like something Rabbie Burns carried when he was a customs official. Fuck, it must be ancient.’

  ‘Look, you,’ the dark-haired detective said, grabbing me roughly by the arm and spinning me round to look at him. ‘I am fed up with your fucking behaviour. Do you know your husband at all?’

  ‘Aye, I know him,’ I snapped back. ‘I have known him since he was 16. I know he never raped Sandra. I know this because he helped me cope with a rape I had suffered. I know he would not touch that mad cow and I know anything you say will probably be shite to get at me because I married a Storrie!’

  ‘Your lovely wonderful husband – that quiet man, as you think he is – has been fucking other women. Did ye know that, eh? We huv been watching him for a while. What do you think of that, eh?’ He smirked at me.

  ‘I could not give a fuck if he was shagging your wife!’ I shouted into his face. ‘I huv other issues to worry aboot here – like all these guns and stuff! My man fucking other women is the last thing I care aboot! I am worried aboot the fact he let me and my daughter live in a hoose wi’ guns in it, mate!’

  The detective grabbed me and threw me roughly back into my seat. ‘You think you are a fucking smart one, eh?’ Then he stormed out of the room. I was led back into the small cell and left alone with my thoughts. I wondered how long it would be before Mr Bovey got here. I had not been offered the phone call I was legally obliged to be offered. I started to bang on my cell door and scream, ‘I’m entitled to a phone call! I’ve seen it in the movies! I saw it on The Sweeney!’

  The door opened and – as if by magic – Mr Bovey was standing there in front of me. He waved away the desk sergeant and came into my cell. I rushed to him and hugged him, I was so happy to see the wee Lithuanian man dressed, as usual, in stiff pinstripes and starched collar, holding a cane and bowler hat.

  ‘Mr Bovey, how is Ashley? Did you see her?’

  ‘Yes, I chatted to Miss Storrie on the phone,’ he answered in his clipped, fast-talking tone. ‘She did call me, you know. She is fine and staying with Aunty Bett
y. She is clearly worried. You know nothing of these weapons and I will try to get you released. There is no reason to keep you here other than spite. Forensics are looking at the weapons to see when they were last fired and they have ascertained that Sean did not rape Sandra, although he did have to go through the forensics for that just half an hour ago, poor boy.’

  ‘Poor boy, my arse, Mr Bovey! I hate him for putting me in this position. He must have known the stuff was there and yet he let Ashley and me live there. That is fucking unforgivable.’

  ‘Janey, he was brought up living like that, so it was not unusual for him or dangerous. Don’t give him a hard time; he is a good boy and a decent father.’ He stared at me with his hard, glassy blue eyes. ‘Look, the main thing is, let me sort this out. You stay tight and don’t talk about anything.’ He straightened his shirt and jacket as he stood up.

  ‘They slapped me, ye know.’

  ‘Bastadds!’ he said, his Lithuanian accent coming out as he swore. ‘I will arrange for food to be brought in.’ With that, he left, his cane tapping on the floor as he went.

  I sat and waited for what seemed like hours.

  Eventually, a policeman came in and told me I was to be taken to an overnight cell.

  Overnight? Why? Had Mr Bovey not sorted it out?

  I felt my heart sink as I was taken to a wide, square room with a metal toilet and flat bed with one stinking cover. I felt exhausted and scared. There was an eyehole on the door and I needed to go to the toilet but was scared in case someone started watching me. I worried how Ashley was coping without us. She would be very worried if we had had to leave her overnight with someone. She would know that meant real trouble. I did not want her going to school tomorrow and having to explain that her parents were in prison for hiding guns in their house. I lay on the hard bed and refused to pull the skanky cover over me at any time. It got very cold and I lay there thinking about how the hell I had ended up in London Road Police Office.