Screen of Deceit (22 page)

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Money for old rope. I mean, don't get me wrong. I get a percentage and the rest goes upwards to the big guy. From my percentage I got to pay my runners, like those two idiots, Bill 'n' Ben, the Flowerpot Men.' He thumbed at Sam and Eric, both hysterically knuckle-cracking again and not keeping nicks like they should have been. ‘But I need someone with a bit of nous to get back into the school because the bastards won't let me in again. I can only do so much from the gates. You'd be ideal, mate. A goody-goody who'd never be suspected in a million years. Piece of piss.'

‘I'm up for it,' Mark said seriously, hoping he hadn't jumped too quickly.

‘Glad to hear it … but first' – he sucked on his straw and made a noise like a drain – ‘you need to do some errands for me, just to show willing, like.'

H
e didn't look back. Just turned out of McDonald's and went for it, needing to get away, needing to get his head together, wondering – not for the first time – just what the hell he'd got himself into. He knew it wouldn't be the last time he wondered that either.

Two hundred metres south of the restaurant, he stopped and looked into the window of a shop selling rock and other teeth-rotting sweets. He pretended to look, anyway. In reality he was checking to see whether or not he'd been followed. It would not have surprised him to see one of Jonny's Flowerpot Men ducking and diving behind him. After all, this was his first assignment, and whatever Jonny might say, he would remain highly suspicious of Mark until the job was done without any hitches.

No one seemed to be there.

Mark walked on quickly and turned left into Yorkshire Street, then increased his pace even more – almost, but not quite, legging it, wishing like hell he had a mobile phone. Was he the only kid in the world without one? He had never really seen the point of them until now – because he needed to make an urgent call and standing in a bloody telephone box in broad daylight was asking to get spotted.

He dinked quickly through the streets, weaving his way on to Lytham Road, which ran more or less parallel with the prom. Here he found a phone box which worked and quickly tabbed in the number he had memorized.

It was answered on the second ring.

‘I need to talk,' Mark uttered. ‘Now.'

The car was there within five minutes. Mark, who had been hovering like a burglar casing up a joint, was glad to throw himself through the back door, which had been opened for him, to prostrate himself across the back seat.

‘Keep your head down,' said the man at the wheel as he accelerated away.

Mark didn't need telling twice. He lay face down in the leather upholstery and covered his head with his hands, wishing the world would open up wide and swallow him whole.

‘I don't have much time,' Mark ranted. ‘This is insane. I'm not sure I can do this. In fact I know I can't do this. These are dangerous people. They are wary people. If I let anything slip, I'm dead. I swear it, I'm dead – or worse, a bleedin' cripple for the rest of my life.'

DCI Christie, the man responsible for getting Mark into this mess, let the boy have his say without interruption.

‘And as for this!' Mark ripped the MP3 player out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Christie's face. ‘You can keep it. You know what they did? Eh?'

‘No.'

‘Made me strip to see if I was wearing a wire. The only place they didn't search was my arsehole.'

He shook the MP3 player under the detective's nose. ‘And the thing is – I was wired! With this, wasn't I?'

Christie looked at the MP3 player, the one Jonny Sparks had given to Mark and which the police Technical Support Unit had opened up, then replaced its innards with some new gubbins which turned it into a voice-sensitive recorder with the capacity to hold over three hours worth of conversation at the touch of the ‘on' button.

‘I'd've looked well good if he'd wanted to listen to Green Day, wouldn't I? I'd've been stuffed – probably into a mincing machine. Jonny Sparks makes the Godfather look like Santa.'

‘But they didn't find it, did they?' Christie shrugged. ‘Didn't even suspect it.'

‘That is not the point.' Mark shook his hands angrily as though he wanted to wring Christie's neck with them.

‘Can I just say something, Mark? I've been there. I know what it's like and it's nerve-shattering … but the thing is this – you came through it unscathed. With shining colours. You held your nerve, and that's brilliant. OK, it's only right to let off steam, only natural, but just think what you've achieved in such a short space of time.'

After having picked Mark up, Christie had driven them to Fairhaven boating lake on the sea front at Lytham and they were walking around it, stepping carefully over duck and goose shit.

‘It's going well,' Christie cooed soothingly. ‘You've got results already. He trusts you and now he's given you a job to do.'

‘Which I'm not happy about.' Mark was so charged up he was almost dancing on the spot.

Christie stopped, turned to him and laid two hands on his shoulders. ‘Calm down. This'll all be over soon – and then you can walk away from it.'

‘Pardon me for being cynical.'

Christie chuckled. ‘Trust me.'

‘You mean like in, trust me I'm a cop?'

‘So you're going to carry on?'

Mark took a breath and got a grip. ‘Suppose so.'

‘Good lad … once you've identified the Crackman, we'll work out some sort of exit strategy for you so that you can bow out without anyone suspecting you of anything – promise.'

‘And that strategy would be?'

‘Er … not quite sure yet. Depends on how the whole thing pans out.'

‘That's reassuring – not!'

‘Don't worry.'

Mark eyed Christie and shook his head. ‘I'm only doing this for Beth.'

‘I know you are.'

‘So drop me off somewhere and I'll go and collect this package. Knowing my bloody luck, there'll probably be a gun in it.'

He was sweating heavily as he turned in to Ashburton Road in North Shore and found the address he'd memorized – one of many similar houses on the street, converted into a rat-run of seedy flats. There was a panel of doorbells by the front door, each with a name sticker on; at least, they'd all had name stickers on at some time and they were all now either scratched away to obscurity or had been ripped off. He knew he wanted flat number three, but didn't know which button referred to it.

Instead he tried the big, paint-peeling front door. With a push, it creaked open and he stepped into the ground-floor hallway.

The place reeked. Mark instinctively covered his nose. Urine, vomit, shit – a nice combination of odours. Not a million miles away from the way the cells had stunk at Blackpool nick.

Underfoot, the soles of his trainers stuck to the bare carpet.

Flats one and two were at this level. He went upstairs and found number three on the first-floor landing. There was no one around, but he could hear sounds of habitation through the doors. Music. Shouting. A kid skriking. He hesitated, then knocked timidly and waited. No one came. The baby, somewhere else in the building, cried even louder. Standing in the dingy, dank landing made Mark feel vulnerable. He knocked again, harder, wanting to get this over and done with. This time he heard movement from inside. Footsteps approaching. Mark braced himself as he heard someone on the other side of the door. A key turned, a bolt slid back with a metallic crack. The handle twisted and the door opened a fraction, a thick security chain hanging in view and an eye inspecting him.

‘I've come for the package,' Mark whispered the words he'd been told to say.

‘What?'

‘The package – I've come for the package,' he said more audibly.

The door slammed shut, making Mark jump. Then nothing. Mark considered doing a runner, but hovered uncertainly by the door. After a good two minutes, the door opened again and this time the chain was slid off. A hand bearing a big, padded envelope, A4 size, shot out. Mark took it, the door closed.

He headed back down the stairs immediately.

The envelope was thick, heavy, bulky and fastened securely with masses of parcel tape wound round and round it.

Now, Mark knew, he was on a timer.

‘Once it's in your hand, you've got exactly fifteen minutes to deliver,' Jonny had told him. ‘As soon as you've got hold of it, a phone call is made and the person you're supposed to deliver it to will be counting. One minute over – mission aborted. You're dead on the street. But don't worry, fifteen minutes is plenty time.'

Mark ran, and then, as instructed by Jonny, went to a nearby phone box and placed a call to a number Jonny had made him memorize, not being allowed to write it down under pain of death. ‘C'mon, fuck!' he breathed. The phone was answered and an undistinguishable male voice gave him an address that he had to repeat. He hung up and started running. Twelve minutes to make it – and that included another stop on the way – into Henry Christie's waiting car on Dickson Road.

He jumped in, kept his head down and recited the address to Christie who was at the wheel – then almost jumped out of his skin when a voice from the back seat said, ‘Give me the parcel, lad.'

‘Jeez!' Mark almost laughed. He handed the envelope over and saw some sort of cool hi-tech contraption on the seat next to the guy in the back. It looked like a portable grill. There was also a laptop computer hitched to it.

‘That's John, my technical support guy,' Christie explained, jerking his head.

‘And this, in case you're wondering, is a portable X-ray machine,' the officer called John said proudly. ‘And as you can't obviously open the package and reseal it without giving the game away, we'll have a clandestine look instead.'

He placed the envelope inside the mouth of the machine, the bit that looked like the grill, and pressed a few keys on the laptop.

‘Don't we need some protection or something?' Mark said worriedly. He'd once had an X-ray on a bust wrist and remembered everyone else getting behind lead screens and loads of warning signs about radiation and stuff.

‘I have,' John, the tech-man said, tapping something on his chest like a bullet-proof vest, then pulling a ski mask down over his face. ‘You don't need anything, though. The rays are pretty weak.'

He tapped the ‘enter' key. There was a bright flash of light from inside the machine, then an A4 size sheet of plastic spewed out of the top of it, which he held up to the light. Mark immediately saw what was in the envelope.

‘It's a pistol and two spare magazines and a lot more spare bullets in a bag,' John said to Christie.

Up to that point Christie'd been concentrating on his driving, but the news caused him to swerve and swear simultaneously.

‘This is what is known as an ethical dilemma in the trade,' Christie said. ‘Do we let you deliver this gun and ammunition, thereby taking the chance that someone could get killed? Or do we seize it now and put you in danger? Hm?' Christie touched his chin contemplatively. ‘Which is the lesser of the two evils, and does the bigger picture count more than the little one?'

‘You're going to have to make up your mind real soon,' Mark said quickly, ‘otherwise I'm dead anyway. I've got six minutes to get it delivered!'

‘I know,' Christie said tetchily, his mind obviously racing.

‘Shit – come on, man,' Mark urged him.

Christie blew out his cheeks, decision made: ‘Deliver it.'

The address was just off Talbot Road near the town centre, another building with a rat-run of flats. This time he was after number six, top floor. He knocked hard this time and as soon as the door opened, he thrust the parcel through and legged it as fast as his legs could manage.

Next thing he had to go and meet Jonny Sparks again outside the entrance to North Pier. He had half an hour before this and spent this time walking quickly through the town, trying to pull himself down from the heights of panic.

He had just delivered a gun and bullets to someone, though he wasn't supposed to know that.

But he did know.

And he knew the muck he was in was creeping inexorably upwards. Soon it would be filling his wellies. Next stop it would be lapping around his chin, just before he sank and drowned in it.

‘Good job,' a beaming Jonny Sparks remarked, handing Mark a screwed up £10 note, the fee for the delivery. Mark took it. It was the least he deserved. ‘No hitches?'

‘Nah.'

‘Sure?'

‘Yep – sure.'

‘You didn't peek?'

‘No, I didn't, OK?'

‘Fine, fine.'

‘I need to get home,' Mark said – but didn't add it was in order to lock himself in his bedroom, where he planned to curl up in a ball and stick his thumb in his mouth and cover his head with a pillow.

‘Why, what's there for you?'

‘Just need to get home.'

‘I never hardly go home.'

‘Well, that's up to you, but I'm going.' He turned. ‘See ya.'

Jonny grabbed his arm. ‘No you're not.'

Mark spun back and shook Jonny's grip off his bicep. ‘Why?'

‘We have things to do, you and me.' His eyes were challenging. ‘You work for me now, Mark Carter. I tell you where and when you can go and right now, you're staying with me.'

Mark's bottom lip drooped open as his eyes surveyed Jonny. He closed his mouth, which became a tight line of anger, and realized the power Sparks possessed, the fear he engendered, and how, just by delivering something for him, he had come under Jonny's control.

Mark swallowed dryly. He set himself firm, then nodded. ‘OK,' he said quietly, bringing a wide smile of triumph to Jonny's cruel, mean, rat-like face.