Hidden Witness (24 page)

Eventually, his heart rate subsided and he found he was sitting by the side of a garden shed in someone's back garden. He crept to check the back of the house. Lights were still on and a TV blared loudly in the living room at the front. He sneaked back to the shed and tried the door. Locked. He tugged at it and it rattled in its frame. Not very secure, but Mark was no burglar, knowing nothing about locks. He could ease the tips of his fingers inside the door, which he pulled back. He paused, took a look around, then braced himself and pulled hard. The hasp and lock came away from its mounting, the tiny screws ripping out of the wood.

He went rigid, expecting the householder to appear with a machete. Thirty seconds passed. All he could hear were the sounds of the night and police and ambulance sirens in the distance.

He stepped into the shed and pulled the door closed, hoping it would not sag open. It stayed closed.

It was a fairly big shed with all the usual gardening equipment. Mark made out a set of four folded-up patio chairs stacked next to an old mountain bike. He took one and eased it open. There was just enough floor space in the shed for him to place it down and sit on it.

He leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees, then started to cry.

He'd folded the chair away, unrolled his sleeping bag and curled up inside it in the space on the shed floor where the chair had been. It was warm and almost pleasant, smelling of wood and humus, and he'd slept well for a few hours before waking up desperate for the toilet. At first he did not want to move. The floor was hard but he was comfortable and it felt safe. But he had to. Dawn was approaching and he could see light around the edges of the door. He had to be gone before the household came to life.

His bones creaked as he moved, having been in the same foetal position all night. He rolled up the sleeping bag tightly, then took a careful look through the crack in the door at the house, now in darkness. As silently as he could he opened the door and manoeuvred the old, heavy mountain bike out and propped it up against the side of the house.

He needed the toilet, could not wait. Not wanting to take the chance of being spotted by an early rising neighbour, he crept back into the shed, dropped his trousers and did what he had to do, apologizing silently for the mess someone would find in due course. He wiped his arse with an oily rag, dropped it on to his excrement and smiled proudly. There was a lot of it.

Then he was out, riding the bike away.

Shitting and thieving, boy, great start to the day, he thought.

Next he needed some food, so he pedalled furiously to the twenty-four-hour McDonald's on Preston New Road, opposite the KFC where he'd eaten the evening before, and cycled into the drive-thru. He bought a breakfast with orange juice, then hid around the back and scoffed the meal behind two huge metal trash cans.

It was almost seven – he'd seen a clock on the wall of the drive-thru – and he had to keep hidden for about an hour and a half before he could see the next person he had to talk to.

Katie Bretherton was now sixteen and evolving into a beautiful, willowy young woman. She had good brains, good ambitions and up until about six months ago, had been Mark Carter's girlfriend. She'd stuck with him through his sister's death and his brother's jail term, and for a long period of time after that she and Mark had a wonderful time together. They had been good mates to begin with. This had become a ‘relationship' and they'd discovered sex together.

But Mark had slowly evolved. His relationship with his mother got even worse, he had no male role model to look up to, and although Katie tried to keep him on a leash she sensed he was drifting away from her, becoming wild. When he struck up a friendship with Rory Costain, she cut Mark loose. There was only one direction to go by hanging around with a Costain and that was spectacularly downwards. Notwithstanding her pleas, Mark did not listen.

That morning, as usual, she set off for school from her house on the opposite side of Preston New Road, the posh side, where she lived with her very functional family. Mum, Dad, brother, sister, dog, cat, two cars.

Mark Carter was a long way from her mind. She was looking forward to a day at school, including English, French and PE, her favourite subjects, and she excelled in them all. At her age and year, school uniform was optional, but she usually chose to wear it for most of the week, but not today. She and some mates planned to go into town after school, so she was dressed in a tiny skirt and a blouse.

She kissed her mum, patted the cat, kissed the dog – who licked her face sloppily – then she was on her way.

Mark knew her route to school well. Indeed he had walked with her there and back on many occasions. He knew she had to walk from her house to the underpass that ran under the main road, so that kids could avoid the heavy, dangerous traffic on the dual carriageway. It was a well-lit facility and well used, but it was the best place for Mark to confront her.

From the cover of a hedge, he watched her walk on to the slope leading to the underpass, then came up behind her on the stolen bike. He whizzed past and swerved in front of her, trapping her between the underpass wall and the bike.

‘I need to talk to you.'

She eyed him angrily. ‘You're in my way.'

‘I know. Like I said, I want to talk to you.'

‘Don't think so.' She started to back out of the trap.

‘Katie – please.'

‘Mark, I've said all I need to say to you. You want to hang about with Rory Costain, that's fine. Just don't include me—'

‘Rory's dead. You must have heard.'

‘What?' Her face screwed up.

‘He was murdered – and I was there.'

‘No surprise, then.'

‘Katie – I was fucking there!'

‘I'd heard some lad got shot,' she admitted, ‘but I'm not interested. That world' – she pointed in the direction of Shoreside – ‘has nothing to do with me. And even though you live on the estate, it had nothing to do with you, either – or so I thought. It's all about choices, Mark.'

‘OK, fine, whatever . . . but I just want to tell you they're after me, the people who did it, and I'm leaving for good. I have to get out of town. I wanted to tell you.'

‘Mark, you live in a dream world, guns 'n' robbers. You're pathetic. I can't actually believe we were ever together. I mean, look at you. You're a mess.'

‘They killed Rory's dad last night – Billy Costain. They were trying to get me.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Check the news, I'm sure it'll be on – but of course you don't listen to the news, do you? It's all friggin'
Mamma Mia
and
Strictly Come Dancing
to you, isn't it?' Mark kept his voice low but harsh. People were passing. Other kids on their way to school. Adults, too.

‘I'm not interested in being a lout, Mark. Nor were you.'

‘OK, I should've guessed you'd piss me off. I just wanted to tell you I was going and ask for a bit of help, that's all.'

‘Mark, we're not even mates any more.' She shook her head sadly, wishing the opposite were true.

‘But I still love you,' he blurted. His bottom lip began to wobble and big tears formed in his eyes.

She grabbed his arm. ‘Don't be embarrassing.'

‘Sorry, sorry,' he blubbered. ‘Let's go somewhere – please.' She shook her head as if this was madness, in two minds as to what to do. A big part of her said dump him and walk away. The other part knew she still really liked him and that, underneath it all, he was a good guy.

She led him back up the slope, away from the underpass, on to her estate. The little row of shops on this estate was thriving, unlike its counterpart on Shoreside. A newsagent, hairdresser and a small bakery in which was a tiny area set aside as a cafe, about ten seats. It was here she took Mark, sat him down and ordered a couple of Cokes.

Then, with growing horror, she listened to his story, snippets of which she had heard on the news and from friends, never realizing Mark was in any way involved.

‘To me, and anyone else with a brain, the answer's simple. Go to the police. You haven't done anything wrong, except rob three people.' She pulled a disapproving face at this. ‘They'll protect you, it's their job. Speak to that Christie guy, the one who dealt with Beth . . .'

Mark was already shaking his head. ‘No, he's a twat, they're all twats,' he spat.

‘Stop swearing,' Katie admonished him with a hoarse whisper, looking around embarrassed.

‘OK, OK. I'm going. I just wanted to let you know, that's all.'

‘Why?'

‘You know. Sorry I was a dickhead. I just wanted to let you know before I left.'

‘Have you seen Bradley?'

‘Yeah.' Mark ran the back of his hand under his nose. ‘I let him know.'

Katie sat back and regarded him, her mouth tight.

‘Look, will you do me one last favour?' he asked.

She sighed. ‘Depends.'

‘Use your phone, call me a taxi to take me to Preston railway station.'

‘Why not Blackpool? It'll cost a fortune to get to Preston.'

‘They'll be on the lookout for me around here.'

‘Mark – who's they?'

‘Cops, crims, killers . . . everyone. I've got enough to pay for the taxi. Preston's on the mainline, so I can go anywhere from there.'

‘And what will you do?'

‘I haven't worked that one out yet.'

‘Have you spoken to your mum about this?'

‘That bitch.'

‘She's still your mum.'

‘Sod her, I'm going and that's that.' He looked longingly at Katie. She was very, very pretty. ‘Will you come to the station with me and say goodbye?'

And although her senses told her no, the fact was that she was still a young, romantic lass, still in love with Mark, and what could be more beautiful than saying a tearful goodbye on a cold railway platform? It was an offer her immature mind could not refuse.

Despite the time of day, busy for taxi drivers, one arrived in ten minutes, lured by the length of the journey and its earn-ing potential. But when the lady driver saw her fares, she balked.

‘You sure you have enough money?' she sneered at the kids.

Angrily Mark almost stuffed the roll of notes he'd stolen from his mother into her face. ‘Does that look enough?'

‘Yeah, OK, just asking,' she said defensively.

The two teenagers got into the back and their twenty-mile journey began.

At first they were silent, engrossed in their thoughts.

‘My mum'll kill me if she finds out about this,' Katie said.

‘Why should she?'

‘Cos the school will phone her up eventually when they realize I'm not there.'

‘Oh, yeah, that's what they do, isn't it? I think they've given up on me.'

‘You fool, Mark, you bloody fool,' Katie said almost in the style of one of the heroine's she had just been reading about in an Austen novel.

Next thing, the two were in a clinch. Their teeth clashed, their lips mashed together and groans of ecstasy emanated from their throats. The taxi driver saw the embrace in the rear view mirror and gave them an ‘Oi'.

They disengaged. Katie looked seductively at Mark and he looked lustily at her, feeling himself tight against his zipper. They sat close together for the remainder of the journey and using Katie's school bag and Mark's rucksack for cover, Mark slid his hand up her skirt and she hers down his jeans. But they fooled no one, especially at the point of climax when Mark howled loudly.

The taxi driver tutted disgustedly.

There were problems on the west coast mainline, delays in both directions and the next train, north or south, wouldn't pass through for at least another hour. Going east wasn't a problem, but Mark had set his mind on London. Homeless and hungry in Leeds didn't have the same ring to it, somehow.

‘This is so wrong,' Katie breathed into Mark's ear. They continued to embrace on the platform at Preston railway station. ‘Please don't go. I didn't realize I missed you so much.'

The young, virile Mark's resolve was weakening. He was hard again, his cock feeling like it was on fire, straining against his damp clothing.

‘I need to disappear, otherwise they'll kill me.'

She pushed him away. ‘If that's what you want.'

‘You've got Bradley,' he said, hurt.

‘Bradley's nice enough, but he isn't you.'

‘I do want to be with you, but I can't.' He looked up at the overhead arrivals monitor. A train from Manchester for Blackpool was due in shortly.

Katie's mobile phone rang. She checked it. ‘My mum, jeez. The school must have contacted her already.' She pressed the disconnect button.

‘They won't know you're with me,' Mark said confidently. ‘Just get on the train and waltz back into school. Say you felt ill or something – but please don't tell anyone you've seen me, or know where I'm going.'

‘I won't,' she promised him. She kissed the tip of her forefinger and placed it on his lips, then turned and crossed the platform as the Blackpool train drew into the station.

‘No reply. Her phone must be turned off.' Katie's mother, a mid-forties version of her pretty daughter held up the home phone to prove her point.

Henry Christie held up his hands to reassure her as he spoke. ‘It'll be nothing to worry about.'

‘Nothing to worry about? She hasn't missed one day of school since she was five years old. If that little brute has anything to do with this, I'll wring his neck.' Her own neck and jaw were tensed as she spoke.

‘It may not be anything to do with Mark. It might not be anything to do with anything,' he stressed, ineffectually.

‘Ma'am, has she seen Mark Carter recently?' Karl Donaldson asked Mrs Bretherton, pronouncing the surname as ‘Carduh' and utilizing his slow Yankee twang as a soothing device. Her eyes came up to him seductively. Henry thought he heard her gasp.