Screen of Deceit (23 page)

‘Let's go chill.'

T
hey were in town, the four of them. Big mates, big pals, cruising, brushing people out of the way, Mark playing the part of the tough guy as well as the other three. Intimidating. Scaring.

In one of the arcades, Mark spotted Bradley and Katie playing the machines. His heart seemed to stop, yet there was a pounding in his head at the sight of his best friend and his girlfriend having a good time together. They were standing side by side at one of the bandits and Katie was leaning casually on Bradley, her hand resting on his shoulder in a curiously intimate gesture, laughing along with him in a way which had Mark's nostrils flaring angrily. Deep inside, something moved. Jealousy.

Jonny's quick eyes caught what Mark was seeing. He laid a hand on Mark and pulled him to one side.

‘You shagged her yet?'

‘Eh? No,' Mark said, affronted.

‘She's your girlfriend, though.'

‘Uh, yeah, suppose so … was.'

‘And he was your best mate?'

‘Yeah.' Mark shot a snarling look at them, playing oh-so-nice and friendly, Kate's hand still on Brad's shoulder. At that moment, Mark considered walking away from all this. Telling Christie to shove it. Telling Jonny Sparks to eff off, and taking the flak from them both. He just wanted to walk up to Brad and Katie and explain everything, make it all OK again. And get Katie in his arms.

Then the feeling passed.

He was in this predicament for Bethany – and if it meant losing a friend or girlfriend, then so be it. When it really was all over and they knew what it had all been about, then if they were truly his friends, they would understand and it would all be OK. If they didn't want to understand, then they weren't real mates in the first place. He'd find others …

What was it Christie said … something about the bigger picture?

‘Yeah,' Mark snorted, back in role, ‘was.'

‘Look at me,' Jonny ordered and Mark looked into his eyes. ‘I'll personally break his arm for you, if you want.' It was said in such a matter-of-fact manner that Mark almost reeled away in shock. Jonny meant every word. ‘Drag him to the kerb and stamp on it, like I did Paul Eaves. Breaks like celery.'

‘No, he isn't worth it.'

‘Did she ever wank you off?' leered Jonny.

‘No, she didn't.'

‘I think I might have a crack at her if you're not interested,' Jonny declared, and looked across at Katie. ‘Nice girl, getting nice tits.'

It was all Mark could do not to launch himself at this sick, violent bastard and pound him to a pulp. What stopped him, as much as anything, was the knowledge that Katie would probably do the same if Jonny made any advances toward her.

Jonny eyed Mark shrewdly.

Mark could see this was another loyalty test and if he reacted badly, it would be the end of him and Jonny. ‘Whatever.' Mark shrugged. ‘Can we just get out of here for now, eh?'

As the gang quit the arcade, Mark didn't notice Katie looking over in his direction. He did not see the sadness in her eyes, nor the sigh she took; nor did he pick up the desperate telepathic messages she was trying to send to him. Mark neither saw nor felt any of these things as he and the three others tumbled back on to the streets that evening.

Nor did he notice that someone was following the gang.

The ‘things to do, you and me' as promised by Jonny Sparks turned out to be nothing more than simply bumming around. Mark was getting more and more frustrated as the evening dragged on … but just after eight, Jonny got a call on his mobile.

It was the Crackman, Jonny's mysterious boss. Mark could tell by the ringtone and he wished Jonny would use another ringtone to announce an incoming call from the devil himself. He hated that his favourite tune was being used for such a thing.

Jonny held up a hand to keep the others quiet, then stuck the hand over his ear and bent to listen whilst edging away so no one else could hear.

Mark and the Flowerpot Men, as he had now permanently named them, watched Jonny with anticipation.

They were on Church Street in Blackpool, opposite the Winter Gardens complex. It was busy, lots of traffic, lots of people. Mark glanced across the road and the billboard announced that the Counterfeit Stones were appearing in the theatre that night. That meant nothing to him.

Jonny was still in deep conversation. Even though the words could not be heard, Mark sensed something was not quite right.

Eventually Jonny came off the phone, approached them wiggling his fingers to indicate he wanted them to gather round. He suddenly looked haggard and worried.

‘Wor is it, J?' Sam grunted.

‘Bad news, guys.'

Mark tensed up.

‘Very bad news … one of his dealers' – and by ‘his', Jonny meant the Crackman – ‘has been attacked up in Bispham. Been flattened by a car – and it doesn't look good.'

‘Shoulda watched where he were going,' Eric ventured.

‘Tit!' Jonny sneered. ‘It were deliberate. Somebody run him over, tried to kill him.'

‘Oh.'

‘That's not all.' He paused for effect, having got their undivided attention. ‘Another's been shot at in Fleetwood … missed, like … a drive-by … looks like there's a turf war starting and we need to get off the streets. We could be targets, too.'

‘And what's the great Crackman doing about it?' Mark asked cynically.

‘Sortin' it, OK? But we need to move. We could be next,' he said dramatically and a little scarily.

They hurried across town and up to Shoreside on foot. Mark's mind whirred, wondering what the hell it all meant. Turf war? He knew what such things were and not long ago, although it seemed a distant memory now, he'd witnessed a drive-by shooting. His thoughts stopped abruptly and his eyes narrowed, but he still kept up with Jonny and Co. Surely not, he thought.

‘Come on, nearly home,' Jonny urged. He had obviously been rattled by the news from the Crackman and was desperate to get holed up. Even though Mark was also a bit scared by the warning, he secretly revelled in seeing how it affected Jonny. He was shit-scared by it and the way in which he'd set off across town with the others at his heels doing their best to keep abreast of him, was almost comical.

Mark jogged up and came alongside him.

‘Did he say anything else?'

‘No, just that he was sorting it.'

‘What's that mean?'

‘He's got lieutenants, I think. Guys who do the real rough stuff for him. They'll be workin' hard tonight. Reckon there'll be bloodshed.'

‘Shit,' Mark gasped, not happy that he was now linked to the Crackman. Not happy at all.

It took twenty pretty hard minutes to get up to Shoreside and all four of them were knackered by the time they reached the row of shops on the edge of the estate, the row behind which was the car park where Mark had attacked Jonny, where Jonny had been arrested for pedalling drugs.

‘Made it,' Jonny said happily.

Two good words, making all four of them feel better and safer. The town centre might well have been their stomping ground, but Shoreside was their home and even Mark felt secure here, as much as he disliked the place. The town was an ambiguous place; Shoreside, on the other hand, had its boundaries. The town could throw up nasty surprises; Shoreside was under their control.

There was a chippy in the row of shops.

Jonny's bravado had returned now and he said, ‘Bag o' chips each, I'll buy,' magnanimously.

‘Great,' enthused Eric.

‘I'll have that,' said Sam.

‘Cheers,' said Mark, still desperate to get home.

‘We can crash at Eric's place,' Jonny said. ‘It'll be empty, won't it?' – Eric nooded in agreement – ‘We can watch
Tokyo Drift
on DVD.'

‘Yeah,' Sam said, well up for it.

Jonny turned to Mark. ‘You?'

‘Yeah, OK.'

‘Good man.' Jonny whacked him on the back. ‘Chips all round.'

They had them in a tray each, covered in viscous, but fabulous curry sauce, and ate them with two-pronged wooden forks – and gusto. They tasted fantastic, especially after the tiring haul across town. A few minutes were spent standing in the light from the chippy window before they set off walking, going to the end of the shops and across the unlit, litter-strewn car park towards Songthrush Walk to cut on to the estate proper.

Suddenly the darkness of the night seemed to envelop them.

Suddenly it seemed a long way from the back of the shops to the alley.

Suddenly they all instinctively put on a spurt.

The shadows were dark, very, very black.

As they approached the mouth of Psycho Alley, the shadows were no longer still. They moved. Three black shadows came towards them and Mark knew they were in big trouble. This was an ambush.

It happened quickly, faster than anything he had ever experienced. It also happened quietly.

It was over in seconds, yet Mark's brain recorded everything in minute detail because as soon as he knew it was an ambush, his senses heightened and suddenly he could see everything more clearly in the darkness, hear everything with amazing clarity and feel his own terror coursing through his veins.

Three of them. Emerging from the shadows. Like Ninja warriors. All in black. Ski masks with eye-holes. Black wind-jammers, black jeans, black trainers.

Mark's head jerked and he looked from Jonny, to Eric, to Sam. They were still engrossed in stuffing their faces with chips and curry. Not even a flicker that anything was amiss. They were on home territory, so they thought they were safe and sound.

The black shapes burst silently out of the shadows where they had been hiding.

Mark tossed his banquet away, opened his mouth to give a warning. No sound came, nothing.

The shapes were only metres away.

Still no reaction from Jonny and the boys, other than to give Mark a puzzled look. Their relief at arriving on home ground had dulled their senses.

‘Why've you chucked your—?' Jonny started to say.

Mark wanted to scream a warning.

Then he saw the glint of a blade in the black-gloved hand of the dark figure in the lead.

It shimmered, just caught the available light.

A thin blade, maybe five inches long.

Jonny was just ahead of Mark, who stood slightly to his right, maybe a step behind. Eric and Sam were behind Mark.

The rushing sound of footsteps, padded trainers.

And then they were face to face.

No words were spoken.

The figure with the knife was directly in front of Jonny.

There was a moment of stillness, before Jonny tried to utter a warning.

Then he sagged to his knees, dropped his chips and both his hands clutched his body.

The knife had been plunged into him at an upwards angle, under his ribcage, piercing his heart. One hard thrust. That's all it needed.

Nothing said.

Mark stood transfixed, knowing he would be next.

Sam and Eric – Bill and Ben – hadn't even reacted.

Then the shapes were gone as quickly as they had appeared, surged past, sprinting towards the shops, having carried out their allotted task.

Mark span, watched them go, too terrified to give chase. A car screamed on to the car park and they hurled themselves into it. Even in the darkness, Mark knew where he had seen the car before – KFC. The drive-by shooting. The Subaru Impreza. The one he and Jack had witnessed. Doors slammed, the engine revved and it screeched away, lights out.

Mark turned back to Jonny, who was still on his knees, doubled over, holding himself, a horrible gurgling, gagging sound coming from him.

‘He's been stabbed,' Mark yelled. He looked desperately round at the two others, who simply hadn't got a clue what had happened, their mush-filled brains not computing any of it.

‘What do you mean?' Eric demanded, looking quizzically at Mark and Jonny.

Mark twisted down to Jonny, still balancing on his knees. His hands were cupped under his chest and he was staring down at them, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend anything other than a dreadful numbing sensation in his chest. He looked back at Mark. ‘Help me,' he said pitifully.

‘Guys, come on,' Mark said, ‘we've got to get him back to the shops and get help.' He didn't know what else to do. He put his hand under Jonny's elbow. ‘Come on, get up.'

Somehow Jonny rose to his feet, assisted by Mark and giving the latter the hope that maybe this wasn't so bad. Neither of the other two reacted, watching stupidly. ‘He's been fuckin' stabbed, you idiots, help me, help him.'

The Kong and Rat-head exchanged a glance with each other as though they were feeding off one another's brainwaves, if they had any to share.

‘Looks bad,' Mark said, holding on to Jonny as he staggered on rubbery legs.

Only then did the big guys react. Both tossed away their chips and ran for it, leaving Mark open-mouthed and astounded and with a seriously wounded Jonny who could hardly stay upright.

‘Bastards.'

‘Yeah, bastards,' Jonny agreed. His legs crumpled under him and Mark could not hold him, but managed to prevent him hitting the ground too hard. Jonny folded down and lay on his back. Mark knelt next to him.

‘I'm gonna call an ambulance, OK?'

Jonny's mouth opened and closed like a carpeted goldfish as words tried to leave his lips. Mark leaned closer, his ear next to Jonny's face.

‘Mobile phone,' Jonny managed to utter, ‘call him … warn him … tell him they got me …'

‘Tell who?'

‘Crack—'

Jonny convulsed and coughed. Mark felt the splat of warm, thick liquid across the side of his face causing him to rear back and wipe it off disgustedly, knowing he had been sprayed with Jonny's blood.

Suddenly Jonny creased up in agony. ‘Jesus!' Then he relaxed.

And died.

Mark knew it, but somehow, something in him forced him to pat down Jonny's pockets and find his precious mobile phone which he then stuffed into his own pocket. He took one last look at Jonny's face. In the poor light he could see a faint reflection in the still-open eyes.