Screen of Deceit (19 page)

Mark stopped in his tracks, turned slowly, a shiver of dubious anticipation shimmying through him. ‘What would that be?'

Tonno's eyes caught his. ‘I think you know … ten minutes at most … fifty dabs … what about it?' He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and jerked it up and down.

‘Fuck off you fat perv,' Mark snarled, grabbing his bike and pushing it hurriedly though the shop door.

He heard Tonno call from behind, ‘You'll be back, you little slut. Lads like you need me.'

‘Not this one,' Mark muttered. His face was a mask of disgust and he couldn't get his bike to go fast enough to put distance between him and Tonno.

H
e pedalled furiously until he practically fell off his bike outside KFC on the Prom at South Shore. There was no queue, so he went in and bought a two-piece meal and a Tango orange with his fruit machine winnings. He crossed the road and sat on a bench looking out towards the sea whilst eating the food, settling his nerves as he digested the mini-feast. It had been bad enough trying to sell stolen property, but then to get sexually propositioned by someone who looked like that! And a bloke.

He blew out his cheeks and chomped on his chicken and chips. When he'd scoffed them, he wandered to a public phone box just down the prom and dialled a number he'd memorized. The call was answered immediately and after a short, clipped conversation, he hung up.

The next thing was a matter of timing.

It was a pleasant enough day weather-wise to doss around on the bike and whilst he would have preferred to go down to the quarry with the BMX to do some stunts, there wasn't the opportunity. Instead, after dumping the bag of stolen games and other gear at home, Mark mooched on two wheels round Shoreside and its environs, checking the place out, seeing who was hanging around.

He almost ran slap-bang into Jonny Sparks and his two oppo's on one of the estate roads, but they were walking away from him and didn't turn or clock him. He ditched the bike behind a wall, hoping no one would notice and nick it, and played a bit of cat and mouse with them. Eventually they came to rest in the place where Mark had accidentally bumped into them a few days before when Jonny had tried to sell Mark drugs, then decided he wanted the BMX, then got the front wheel rammed up into his goolies. Mark remembered that well. It seemed such a long time ago. Smacking the front wheel into Jonny's nuts had been a sweet sensation.

Mark ducked out of sight and kept surreptitious nicks on Jonny and Co. for a few minutes. It looked like they were settled there for the duration. Mark knew it was a location they liked to hang out in because it was a bit of a crossroads on the estate and plenty of people passed by.

Then, confident they weren't on the move, Mark legged it back to his bike and tried to recall where the nearest phone box was. He could have done with a mobile. It would have made things much easier … but then again, a mobile could be checked, whereas a public call box could not.

The nearest he could think of was outside Aziz's newsagent's and though he didn't particularly want to show his face there, he would have to.

He propped his bike against the phone box and made the call. When he stepped out, Mr Aziz was waiting for him, a glowering look on his face.

Mark's heart sank. ‘What?' he asked meanly.

‘Where've you been?'

‘None o' your business,' Mark replied, feeling dreadful. Aziz had been good to him and behaving like this towards him made Mark feel shitty.

‘I know you've got problems, but you should keep me informed. I've a business to run and I've had to do your deliveries myself.'

Mark shrugged, keeping up appearances. ‘Tough.' He mounted his bike.

‘Mark,' Aziz said plaintively, ‘this is not like you.'

I know, Mark thought. I know it's not like me, because it isn't really me.

‘I can only keep your job open so long, then someone else gets it. There's plenty of other kids, you know.'

‘Do what you have to do.' Mark rose and powered away.

‘Don't become like the others,' he heard Aziz shout as he put some distance between them and gulped back a tear.

Mark swore to himself. This was getting a bit too much now – running into people he would rather have avoided – as, out of nowhere, a stony-faced Katie Bretherton stepped into his path and defiantly stood her ground, causing him to brake and swerve at the same time, almost propelling him over the handlebars.

‘You nearly bloody—!' he began angrily.

‘Nearly what?' she demanded.

‘Nuthin'.'

‘What's going on, Mark?'

‘Dunno what you mean.'

‘You got arrested with Jonny Sparks. I saw you get carted away.'

Mark hesitated, said, ‘And?'

‘What're you doing, hanging around with him?' Katie pleaded. ‘I thought you hated him.'

‘Nothing to do with you.'

Katie was glaring at him, a mixture of incomprehension, annoyance and frustration. Her hands were shaking. She tried to maintain eye contact with him, but he kept dropping his gaze sheepishly, unable to give her a direct look.

‘Yes it is … and what about us?'

Mark quickly looked her up and down, his young heart fluttering, his breath shallow. She looked really good, stunning, slim, long-legged, boobs and all, skin soft as silk, on the verge of turning into a gorgeous young lady. A quick memory of her touch made his lower guts stir. God, he just wanted to get hold of her and kiss her and pick up from where they'd left off.

Instead, a sort of disconnected voice came from his mouth. ‘What about us?'

Her eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Have you cut me out of your life? You been avoiding me? I thought we were friends … more than friends.' Her bottom lip quivered. ‘Mark, can we at least talk? I know Beth's death has hit you hard, but don't push me out of the way, don't go off the rails.'

Mark forced a horrid sneer on to his face. ‘You don't know anything … I–I can't tell you anything … Look, just sod off out of the way, eh?'

‘Don't do this, Mark,' she said desperately.

‘You have no idea what I'm doing,' he said, rising on his right pedal and forcing it down. Katie reached for him. He ducked, avoided her, and sped away, not even glancing back when he heard her call his name.

He held his head up in the wind. He knew if he weakened, he would not be able to do what he had to do. Only when he had done it, would people start to understand and, he hoped, forgive him. He also hoped that Bradley, his best friend, wouldn't suddenly appear from nowhere. He was surprised he hadn't turned up yet as it was.

Jonny was still there, sitting on a low wall outside the dilapidated Spar shop, Sam and Eric crowded round him, hanging on to his words, laughing uproariously at some crap joke he'd told.

When Mark caught sight of him, he knew Katie had been right.

He hated Jonny.

It was an emotion with which he was uncomfortable. He did not want to hate anyone … but for what he believed Jonny had done to his sister, he hated him. But he hated the Crackman even more.

His instinct was to turn and fly in the opposite direction. He fought that battle and hoped for the best, taking a deep breath and setting off slowly in Jonny's direction.

He was spotted immediately. Jonny said something out of the corner of his mouth and rose to his feet. All three of them angled toward him, saying nothing, but even from a hundred metres Mark saw the expressions on their faces. It was as if all their dreams had come true and payback time had arrived. Mark was cycling right into their arms and there was nothing to say that Jonny would show any mercy
this
time. Mark was convinced that last time was just a blip.

Each time the pedal went round, Mark intoned the word ‘Shit' to himself, repeating it with every beat of his cycling.

He was getting closer and closer.

Fear was starting to grip him now. Icy fear, clawing his innards.

Time seemed to slow right down.

From behind he heard the approach of a vehicle.

‘Please, God,' he said.

He was twenty metres from Jonny and the Hyenas and closing. Eighteen metres … fifteen metres … Jonny raised the level of his eyes to look beyond Mark, and took a cautious step back … twelve metres … still a vehicle coming up from behind … ten metres now … please, God … then the vehicle was alongside Mark, then in front, then it had stopped.

A police van.

Two cops jumped out – the same two Mark had encountered in the amusement arcade, chasing the gang of lads.

Mark yanked his brakes on and screeched to a stop, eyed the cops, then tried to haul his bike away, but the two officers moved on him in a pincer movement.

‘We want a word with you, sunshine,' one called.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw Jonny relax, sit back on the wall to watch. He pulled his two buddies back, a restraining hand on each of their arms as one cop came up behind Mark, the other in front.

‘Stop right there,' cop number one said. Mark saw that the number on his hi-viz jacket epaulettes was 810 and a name badge on his breast pocket declared he was called Dave Briggs. He was a squat, muscular and powerful-looking guy, with no hair, a round, cheerful face, but with watchful eyes that intimated years of cynical experience.

‘What's up?' Mark asked. He looked nervously around like a trapped dog looking for a means of escape.

‘I think you know,' Briggs retorted.

‘Nah.' Mark shook his head.

‘A lad fitting your description's been into Tonno's trying to get rid of nicked CDs, DVDs and games.'

‘Ain't me,' he said cockily.

‘And you were the one in the arcade when those lads we were chasing ran through, weren't you?'

‘So what?' Mark could see Jonny straining to hear the conversation.

‘They dumped their stash with you, didn't they, laddie?'

‘Don't know what you're on about.'

Briggs eyed Mark. ‘And not only that, the bike's nicked, isn't it?' He nodded down at the BMX between Mark's legs.

Mark was outraged. ‘This is my bike and it's not stolen.'

‘Yeah, well we checked the frame number on our computer system when you were locked up the other day. This bike was nicked over a year ago from outside a house in Bispham – so you're either the thief, or you've bought stolen property … whichever, you're coming with us.'

‘No way.'

‘And we're going to your house to have a look round that on the way to the nick, where I'm sure we'll find those stolen discs.' Briggs leaned into Mark's face. ‘Won't we, mate?'

Mark's upper lip reared into a snarl. ‘You're so wrong,' he protested.

‘And you're so nicked,' Briggs said loudly. ‘Suspicion of theft of this bike and handling stolen property – namely those discs that came your way. Now get off the bike and get into the back of the van.'

The other cop, who had been hovering behind Mark, took a firm grip of his left bicep. Mark dismounted, apparently acquiescing to the officers, but without warning, he wrenched free of the grip, ducked low, did a back kick which sent his bike clattering against the police van – and started to run for it.

He'd managed to get maybe three metres when the full weight of the law, literally, crushed him to the ground. Briggs moved a whole lot faster than his bulk suggested he would have been able to do. He dragged Mark down on to his knees, then slammed him face down on to the pavement, knocking all the wind out of him.

‘If that's the way you want it to be, sonny – no problems.' His big hands wrestled Mark's arms behind his back as Mark struggled and cursed underneath him.

‘Hey, cop! Watch it!' Jonny Sparks shouted. He and his little gang were on their feet, bouncing on their toes, approaching the scene of the arrest, ready to intervene and have a dig at the cops.

Mark twisted his head round, his cheek misshapen as it was crushed against the concrete.

Briggs, the big cop, who had a friendly face, suddenly turned aggressive. ‘Don't even think about mixin' it, Sparks,' he warned. He cuffed Mark and dragged him painfully to his feet, one big hand gripping the solid bar of the rigid handcuffs, the other on Mark's shoulder, his fat fingers digging into the flesh. He spun his prisoner round and frogmarched him to the van, whilst the other cop warily eyed the Hyenas with a warning hand wrapped round the handle of his still holstered baton. A clear gesture that, if necessary, it would come out and be used.

The rear door of the van was pulled open, the internal cage door opened, and Mark was shoved in roughly. He staggered to the front, bent double, turned and glared at Briggs, who said, ‘Siddown.' Mark complied and perched on the bench seat.

The two cops heaved Mark's bike into the cage as well, slammed both doors shut with a metallic finality and jumped back into the cab, driving quickly away from the scene.

Breathing heavily, wrists restrained, knees sore from being dragged to the ground, Mark peered out of the rear window of the police van through the steel mesh cage and saw Jonny Sparks by the kerbside, watching with great interest.

Once out of sight and off the estate, Mark leaned back against the side of the van, his head tilted on the metal panel. ‘What the hell have I done?' he said stutteringly. ‘What the hell have I got myself into?'

‘Y
ou complete arsehole!'

‘Don't, OK?'

‘You told me that bike was kosher.'

‘I thought it was, OK?'

‘But it was nicked.'

Mark shrugged. ‘Whatever.'

‘And what's the story behind the games and DVD's? How the friggin' hell did you happen to get them in your possession?'

‘I found them, OK? By accident.'

Jack Carter, Mark's older, respectable brother, had been going on at him, brow-beating him, strutting up and down the carpet, gesticulating angrily, for what seemed an eternity. Mark had pretty much had enough.