Screen of Deceit (25 page)

‘I need a drink,' he said. ‘Throat dry.'

He pulled himself up on to his knees and, from the darkened room, took a quick peek into the street outside. He could see nothing, but he dropped quickly back down when a bullet shattered the window just above his head and embedded itself in the wall above Mark's bed head. The streetlight outside the house was then shot out, pitching that portion of the street into blackness.

‘Still there,' Jack said unnecessarily.

‘Why doesn't anyone call the cops?' Mark whined.

‘Because this is Shoreside,' Jack said cynically. He placed the pistol down by his side and fumbled for his mobile phone in his jeans pocket. He began to thumb through it, glancing up at Mark as he did so. Perspiration teemed down Jack's face and his breathing was harsh and rattly. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Drink?' he repeated. ‘Good lad.'

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry.' Mark scuttled out of the room on all fours and slithered down the stairs head first on his belly, crawling like a reptile. He kept low in the hall and crept into the kitchen.

Upstairs he could hear Jack's muffled voice on the mobile. Probably calling those reinforcements he'd been talking about.

Mark froze. A dark shape moved across the kitchen window, then a hooded figure pressed his face up to the glass, covering his eyes with a hand, trying to peer into the kitchen. Mark lay on the floor, too terrified to move, certain he was going to be spotted. The man – Mark assumed it was a man – had his hands against the glass and in his right was the ugly black shape of a gun. He moved away and tried the handle on the back door. Mark held his breath, suddenly unsure whether he had locked it or not. A gunman at the door tends to give you those sorts of doubt. It was locked and the man put his shoulder to it and tried to force it, but it held. Then he took a step back and flat-footed it. Mark cringed every time the foot connected. But again, it didn't budge. Mark knew the man would have problems forcing it open in such a way. It had been tried before when one of his mum's boyfriends who she'd fallen out with had tried to batter his way in. He'd been one hell of a big guy, pissed up and enraged, but the door had held firm from his onslaught. So unless the guy outside shot the lock off, like they did in films – which Mark always suspected was an iffy way of opening a door – he was going to struggle.

The man cursed. Then he was gone … but Mark knew he would be back.

He released his breath then waited a few seconds before crawling across to the fridge and getting out a bottle of pop.

Upstairs, Jack was still on the phone.

Mark took his chance at that point and did something he hoped he would not regret … then, that done, he edged his way back upstairs into his bedroom and handed the pop to Jack, who drank from it like a man in a desert.

‘Cheers, mate.' He put the bottle on the carpet beside him and picked up his phone again. ‘Not long now and we'll be out of here … one more call to make.'

He pressed a button on his phone.

There was a short delay.

Then Mark felt the vibration from the mobile phone in his jeans pocket, then heard his favourite Green Day tune which was its ringtone: ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams'. Jonny Sparks's phone was ringing.

At first neither of them could work it out, one of those surreal moments.

Mark fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the display.

Jack took his own phone away from his ear. His look of pain evaporated, replaced by one of shock. He thumbed the end call button.

‘Jonny Sparks is dead,' Mark said simply. ‘This is his phone.'

‘Did you kill him?'

Mark shook his head. ‘I was there when he died. Somebody stabbed him, one of your enemies, I'll bet.' His voice was calm and controlled. ‘Before he died, he asked me to phone the Crackman and tell him what had happened. I guess I don't have to do that now, do I, Jack?'

‘Don't know what you mean.' His voice sounded frail. ‘I must've misdialled.'

‘Did you know I was working for Jonny?'

‘I don't know what you're on about,' Jack said faintly. He picked up the pop and gulped down a few mouthfuls.

Mark snorted a gush of derision. ‘Liar,' he said bluntly. Without warning he grabbed Jack's phone and wrenched it out of his weak grasp. ‘Let's see, eh?' Jack tried to snatch it back, but Mark twisted away, now very much in charge. He held up the phones side by side. They were the exact same models.

‘Mark,' Jack said pathetically, reaching out, twiddling his fingers.

‘There's only one number in Jonny's phone, because this is the phone he used when he was out dealing drugs. He used it exclusively to contact the man he worked for – the Crackman – and this was the only phone the Crackman ever contacted him on. Let's see, eh?' Mark pressed the appropriate button on Jonny's phone.

Mark and Jack eyed each other. The gunmen outside were forgotten in those moments.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, then Jack's phone rang out with a crazy voice which declared, ‘
Here's Jonny!
'

‘Was it a misdial?' Mark asked cynically. ‘I don't think so.' A feeling of rage began to burn fiercely inside him, coupled with one of betrayal. ‘You're the man, aren't you, Jack?'

His big brother looked away.

Mark desperately wanted him to deny it, but the words never came.

‘Jesus, you are, aren't you?' Mark blurted, still not wanting to believe, all churned up inside. He threw down Jack's phone in disgust.

‘Mark, look,' Jack said reasonably, ‘we've got to get out of here. Help'll be here soon. Let's get out and then we can talk, OK?'

‘This … this' – Mark gestured towards Jack's shoulder, then the window – ‘this is a turf war, isn't it?'

‘Mark, you don't know what you're saying.'

Suddenly he saw Jack in an altogether different light. Now, as far as he was concerned, he was no longer his brother … his brother was as dead as his sister. It was all beginning to fall into place.

‘
That day at KFC!
They were after you, weren't they? Not those two lads who I thought were drug dealers. It was you, wasn't it? You were the bloody drug dealer!'

‘Mark, not now, eh? More important things to get through.'

‘And you supplied the drugs that killed Bethany and that other girl, Jane Grice, didn't you? Those deaths … Bethany … that other girl, you supplied the heroin and all the other drugs, didn't you?'

‘No, you're wrong, mate … look, can we just—?'

‘Just what?' Mark interrupted. ‘Pretend it didn't happen?' Mark's voice rose. ‘I looked up to you, respected you. I thought you'd dragged yourself away from this shit. But' – he gestured desperately with his hands – ‘but you're one of the people who make it shit living here. You're a drug dealer, Jack.' Tears formed. ‘And Beth died because of you, and so have others – even Jonny Sparks. All because of you!'

‘No, you're talking rubbish, mate … this is all a misunderstanding.' Jack would not relent.

‘Getting shot is a misunderstanding? And stop calling me “mate”, and stop denying it.'

Mark's face was a smear of tears and snot as he started to cry.

‘Come on, let's just get out of this and I can explain it all.'

Mark wiped his face. ‘No … the cops are coming. I called them.' He held up Jonny's phone. ‘When I was downstairs.'

‘
You did what?
' Jack exploded and moved suddenly, sending pain rocketing through him. ‘I said no cops.'

‘Tough, they're coming – and whoever's out there can just fuck off.'

‘You idiot,' Jack snarled. His hand dropped on to the pistol which was at his side. He picked it up and pointed it at Mark. ‘I said no cops,' he growled. ‘I can't afford cops.'

‘Your problem, not mine.' Mark stood up. ‘I'm going to walk out of here and then out of the front door and I'm going to shout that the cops are coming and if they want to wait, then it's up to them, whoever they are … if they want to shoot me, that's up to them, too, cos at this moment in time I don't feel like I've got very much to live for.'

‘Mark!' Jack aimed the gun. Mark could see the ‘O' of the muzzle pointed directly at his chest. He would now have bet his life that this was the gun he'd delivered for Jonny. Part of a chain of events that led to Jack now holding it.

‘Shoot me then, then you'll have killed your brother and your sister. Good going.'

Jack's aim did not waver. His finger curled on the trigger. Sweat dripped off his forehead, through his eyebrows and on to his eyelids, making him blink. The effort of holding up the weapon was taking its toll. It began to shake.

‘Shit,' he gasped, and lowered his gun.

The brothers stared at each other for a timeless moment, then Mark spun out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time, switching the house lights on as he went, and unlocked the front door.

As he opened it, the first police car screamed into the street, blue lights flashing … many more followed.

T
hey were in a sealed and secured visiting room, Mark on one side of a screen, Jack on the other. A thick Perspex window separated them.

Mark looked at his brother through the scratched pane.

Jack had been pretty close to death and the surgeons at Blackpool Victoria Hospital had battled to save his life because the bullet that had skewered down through his shoulder into his chest had nicked a major artery. He was patched up now and, six days later, though weak, was well enough to be in custody at the Blackpool cop shop.

‘I didn't think you'd come,' Jack said. He shifted on his plastic seat, gritting his teeth with pain.

‘Nor did I,' Mark responded flatly. ‘What's happening with you?' He felt distant and unresponsive to anything, recent events continually washing over him like a tidal wave.

‘I've been charged with some offences,' he said vaguely. ‘I'll be up at court in the morning and then the cops want to talk to me here for another couple of days. After that I'll probably be remanded in custody until my case comes up.'

‘When's that?'

‘Who knows?'

‘Guilty or not guilty?'

Jack didn't answer, just stared at Mark.

‘So,' Mark said, taking a breath, ‘you are the Crackman.'

Jack gave a barely perceptible nod.

Mark shook his head in disgust. ‘How long?'

Jack gave a short laugh. ‘Started when I was your age … it was the only way to survive, specially after Dad left … it just got bigger and I got further and further away from the streets.'

‘And I thought you were a legit businessman,' Mark snorted. ‘What a fool I was.'

‘I was – am – a businessman,' Jack said defensively.

‘Don't kid yourself, you're nothing of the sort. You're a death dealer,' Mark said, keeping a tenuous grip on his anger. ‘And you killed Beth, didn't you?'

‘No – don't try to lay that one on me. I'm not having that.'

‘But Jonny was one of your dealers and he gave out the drugs you supplied, some to Bethany and she died. Do not try to wriggle out of that.' Mark jabbed a finger at Jack's face. He would have liked to punch him hard and repeatedly. He was glad there was a screen between them.

His brother remained silent.

‘I have nothing more to say to you,' Mark said, rising from the seat and turning out of the visiting room without looking back.

‘My head's a shed,' Mark complained, using the quaint northern term to describe emotional turmoil.

On the table in front of him was a toasted bacon sandwich – filled with really crispy bacon – and a mug of sweet tea courtesy of DCI Christie. The two of them, Mark and Christie, were seated in the canteen on the top floor of Blackpool Police Station.

The food looked and smelled appetising, but whilst Mark may have been famished, he didn't feel like eating.

‘You did good,' Christie said. ‘You were brave, a bit cunning, and you did the right thing.'

‘Why the hell does it feel so bad, though?'

‘Because it was a tough call.'

‘My head's still a shed,' Mark admitted.

‘I'd be surprised – nay, astounded – if it wasn't.' Christie, hunched over the table looking at Mark, had his back to the dining room door. He turned to glance over his shoulder when a noisy group of people barged in and formed a ragged queue at the counter.

Mark's lower jaw dropped and his mouth popped open in astonishment. ‘They're the lads who …' he spluttered.

‘Yeah, they are,' Christie confirmed with a smirk. ‘Christie's little helpers.'

Mark had immediately recognized the four youths who had entered the room, all about his age, all wearing the same sort of ID badges around their necks that he'd had to put on and sign for before being allowed into the inner sanctum of the cop shop. They were the four lads, the ‘thieves' who'd hurtled past him whilst he'd been in one of the arcades, chased by the police; the ones who'd dropped their ill-gotten gains in a plastic bag at Mark's feet – the Xbox games, CDs and DVDs – and then legged it, hotly pursued by the two uniformed cops on their tails.

‘They work for me occasionally,' Christie said to the gobsmacked Mark Carter, who couldn't keep his eyes off them.

‘I knew it was all part of the set-up,' Mark said, ‘but it was all so real.'

‘It had to be,' Christie said, indicating the lads with a gesture of his thumb. He went on, ‘They're all in some sort of care, but they're straight, dead-ahead, honest kids and perform a valuable function. Sometimes we need the help of youngsters like that' – he paused for effect – ‘like yourself. Anyway, like I said when you eventually agreed to help, everything you did from that moment on, everything that happened to you and around you, had to be totally realistic, including your response as much as possible – which is why your arrest for stealing the bike worked so well. It was something you weren't expecting and you reacted just right and in a way that drew Jonny Sparks in.' Mark couldn't help but beam a little at that. ‘We just had to ensure you were in the right place at the right time … and what could be more realistic in Blackpool than four little scallies legging it from the police, or someone on Shoreside being locked up for nicking a bike? Happens all the time.'