Screen of Deceit (7 page)

‘Way to go, mate,' the lad said. ‘Respect to you. The twat deserves all he gets.'

‘Cheers,' Mark responded dully.

‘New-found fame,' Bradley smirked when the lad had gone. ‘How you going to handle it?'

‘Mm,' Mark mumbled doubtfully. Thing was, though, as he thought about it, the respect was pretty cool and he was beginning to enjoy the notoriety a little, even if the story of what really happened had been twisted. Trouble was, it could all go wrong once everyone got to know the real truth, or when another lad found the courage to challenge him and discovered that Mark wasn't really much of a fighter. So, as much as it was a good feeling to have guys cowering under his gaze, Mark wasn't foolish enough to believe in his own press. He knew he had to put an end to this – and fast. Particularly before Jonny Sparks found out and got extra mad at him for embellishing the truth, even though he wasn't the one who had. It had just happened.

But … just for a few more minutes, maybe even for a few hours, Mark decided to bask in the glory.

He pretty much kept his head down for the rest of the day: maths and science, his two poorest subjects. A few people gave him sidelong glances which were a mixture of awe and respect and not a little fear.

Thinking about it, Mark could perhaps see where they were coming from.

Jonny Sparks had been – still was – one of those kids beyond anyone's control. His background made Mark look as though he'd been brought up in a wealthy, caring family with all the privileges imaginable. Jonny's parents were smack-heads, real heavy-duty drug addicts who were in and out of the police station on a weekly basis for stealing stuff to feed their habits. The only bit of luck Jonny'd had was not to be born a heroin addict. He'd been brought into this world before his mother, who was seventeen when he was born, had staggered down that path.

Jonny had grown up into a hard, streetwise kid with no social skills whatever. He terrorized other kids and disrupted lessons (when he was actually in school); when he beat up the PE teacher, ambushing the guy in the changing rooms, attacking him with a dumb-bell and putting him in hospital, he'd finally been excluded for good. Most of his life had been spent in and out of children's homes, being chased by the courts and social services.

But – in Mark's estimation – none of this excused Jonny's violent behaviour.

It had been a good day for the school when he was kicked out, but rumours still abounded, as rumours did, that Jonny might come back because that was the way the ridiculous system worked. If you were out of control, it seemed, they bent over backwards for you.

So, yeah, Mark could see why he was a bit of a hero. Few people liked Jonny, most were scared of him, and anyone who got the better of him was to be applauded. Unless they became like him, which Mark had no intention of doing.

He was relieved when the bell rang: 3:30 p.m.

Mark hurriedly packed his books into his shoulder bag and did a runner.

Even though it seemed a cliché to Mark, the bike sheds tucked away at the back of the school were where lots of iffy things happened. Pre-arranged fights, for instance, smoking, snogging and one of Mark's mates even claimed he'd once had a hand job here from the girl known as the school bike, appropriately enough. A used condom had even once been found and the school idiot, a dim, bespectacled boy called Fosdyke, had blown it up when encouraged by the crowd who had gathered to gawp. He had then managed to get it on to his head like a swimming cap. Mark had witnessed this and the thought still made him shiver with disgust. A used condom? It would have been bad enough using one straight out of the packet.

Mark's BMX was in the shed, secured by two thick chains with sturdy padlocks.

He was hunched over unlocking it when he became aware of someone standing behind him. Dread moved inside him, like a reptile. He rose slowly and turned, his fears being realized, that fear emptying his mouth of all moisture. He knew his tenure as king of the castle had just come to an end.

The Kong and Rat-Head, Jonny Sparks's lackeys, aka Eric King and Sam Dale, aka the Hyenas, were towering there with menace.

Mark stood up on weak, creaky knees, the bike chains in his hand.

They looked tough and ferocious.

‘Jonny wants to see you,' Sam said. For the first time Mark noticed that Eric had an occasional twitch, which made the left hand side of his face jump about, his eye wink and his lip curl like Elvis. Mark supposed it was the first time he'd ever been this close to Eric. It wasn't a regular twitch. It was sporadic, but quite noticeable once you knew it was there.

‘I don't want to see Jonny,' Mark retorted.

Sam gave a ‘Don't care what you want' gesture. ‘Get your bike and push it and don't try anything funny.' He twitched, but with the twitch he stepped suddenly forward, quicker than Mark could react, and drove his fist hard into Mark's guts. The move, the blow, took him entirely by surprise. The breath shot out of him like from a steam pipe. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, knees bending, head drooped low.

Sam stepped back and flat-footed the side of Mark's head, sending him crashing against his bike, knocking it over, then falling on his side in agony. Sam stood over him. ‘That was just for fun, mate,' he snarled. ‘Now get up, get yer bike, stand between us and walk out of school nice 'n' easy as though you love us.'

Teeth clenched, Mark rolled on to his knees and, using the frame of the bike shed, heaved himself painfully to his feet, reluctantly standing up and pulling his bike up with him. He wrapped the steel chains around the neck of the saddle and put his hands on the handlebars.

‘Ready,' he said.

Eric and Sam smiled wickedly at him. Sam grabbed an arm and they began to walk out, one either side of him.

Tears of pain welled in Mark's eyes.

‘I got a Stanley in my pocket,' Eric hissed into Mark's ear. ‘A three-blader. You try anything and I'll slash your face with it, just the once. You won't even feel it for a few seconds, but the doctor won't be able to sew it up. Understand?'

Mark nodded, blinking back the tears. He knew about triple-bladed Stanley knives and the damage they could do.

Most kids had gone home, but there were a few left dotted around the school. There were no members of staff around who could've helped him.

Mark's girlfriend, Katie Bretherton, was waiting at the school gates. She always did and they usually walked to the newsagent's together, where Mark did his paper rounds. Katie was a year older than him and, to be honest, not really his girlfriend in the truest sense. She was a girl and they were friends. They had a laugh together and that was about it. They'd had a kiss once, but nothing more. Mark lived in hope.

Katie and Mark's eyes locked as he approached her flanked by his escorts. Her expression betrayed that she was appalled by what she saw – on the face of it, Mark and two bad lads in cahoots. Her face, wordlessly, asked him what the hell was going on.

He replied with a little shake of the head, diverting his eyes from hers.

‘All right, fittie?' Sam leered at her.

‘Sod off,' she responded. She was exceptionally pretty, but the look she was pulling screwed up her little nose like a scrimped-up piece of paper, as if there was a stink on her top lip. She looked worriedly at Mark.

‘It's OK,' he said, trying to reassure her, though his own face told a different story. ‘Can you tell Aziz I might not make it?'

The trio walked past her, Sam continuing to leer. She held his gaze, trying to appear unafraid.

They paused at the front gates where Sam and Eric exchanged a look across Mark.

‘Down by the Swannee,' Sam said.

‘Oh yeah,' said Eric.

The Swannee was a piece of boggy, derelict land on the outskirts of Shoreside where kids often met and played. How it had got its name, no one knew, but it was a great place to hang out because it was not overlooked by any houses and it wasn't far away from the motorway. It was a pretty desolate place where someone could easily get beaten up and have their bike stolen from them without any witnesses.

Mark quickly weighed up the chances of legging it, ditching his precious BMX and just running … but his guards seemed to read his mind. They stepped in closer and Sam said, ‘No chance.'

Mark's shoulders sagged. He started to shake as a wave of terror washed over him. His head spun and he looked back imploringly at Kate, who shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands helplessly.

Face facts, Mark Carter, you are definitely going to get a battering this time.

His saviour came in a black Porsche Cayenne, one of those big four-wheel drive monsters with smoked glass windows, huge tyres and a big attitude – fifty grand's worth of attitude.

Mark, Sam and Eric had walked about a hundred metres – slowly – at the pace of a condemned man being led to the gallows. Things were not helped by the evocative description Sam was gleefully relaying to Mark about the extent of the beating he was about to get from Jonny.

‘He's gonna kick yer 'ed in,' he said with relish.

Eric added his own salt to that particular description. ‘Even yer own mum won't be able to recognize ya.'

Mark began to feel that Eric and Sam were interchangeable, two peas out of the same pod, their thought processes almost identical. They could've been brothers, but Mark knew they weren't related … but, then again, maybe they were and they just didn't know it. Stranger things than that had happened on Shoreside. Same dad, different mums.

Mark's face had set like concrete. He didn't hear the car at first, just became aware of its presence behind, hovering like a ghost. Mind, the engine was quiet, purring away, almost inaudible.

His captors didn't notice it either, not until the horn blasted out and made all three of them leap out of their skins. They all spun around.

Mark's eyes widened.

The Porsche drew up alongside and stopped. A man climbed out.

He was wearing designer shades, covering eyes which Mark knew were as keen as an eagle's. The man's hair was close-cropped, but styled all the same, trimmed with scissors by a hairstylist, rather than just with a mini lawnmower. There was a square chin and a tanned face. He wore a pure white D&G T-shirt underneath a superbly cut leather jacket, complementing his expensive jeans and loafers, his feet sock-less.

‘What's going on?' the man asked. His voice was soft.

‘What's it to you?' Eric sneered defiantly, though with a bit of hesitance.

‘I asked what's going on.'

Eric stepped aggressively forward. ‘An' I said, what's it to you?'

Wrong move.

It was just a blur of speed. So fast. A kind of double-punch to the face and Eric went down as though a ten-ton weight had smashed into him. He hit the ground hard.

Sam moved at the man then – launched himself with a scream at this mystery attacker.

Wrong move number two.

The man pivoted and drove his fist into Sam's stomach, making Mark go ‘Oooh!' and wince, even. Then he twisted Sam around and shoved him head first against the school railings. As Sam's head made contact with the iron, the man let him go and he flopped uselessly to the ground.

The Porsche driver cast a critical eye over his handiwork and rubbed his hands. He then looked at Mark with a wry smile and slowly removed his sunglasses.

‘Can you not keep out of trouble?'

‘Thanks, you saved my skin.'

‘I know.' The man's attention turned to the two defeated miscreants on the ground. Eric was sat up on his backside, knees up, hands covering a crunched, bloody nose. Sam was on his knees, both hands covering the top of his head. The man gave Eric a tap with his toe just to get his attention. ‘Get lost, unless you want more – cos I'd be happy to dish it out.'

They clambered unsteadily to their feet, but before they hobbled off, the man said in a low voice that was really a growl, ‘You leave Mark Carter alone, OK? If I ever hear you've even been near him, I'll be back and you'll be dangling by your feet from a motorway bridge – now piss off.'

They ran, or shuffled, away, like the beaten dogs they were.

Jack Carter turned to his younger brother and gave him a look of deep affection. ‘They won't bother you again – promise.'

‘Thanks, mate.'

It was one of those rare moments in Mark's life. It didn't happen often, but it still felt very, very good to have a big brother who could look after you now and again.

J
ack was wearing that sardonic smile he had perfected so well. It sort of hovered on his lips. That, coupled with one raised eyebrow – something else he'd perfected – and his easy good looks had the effect of making Mark squirm under his gaze – but not uncomfortably so – and go, ‘Whaaat?' before chomping into his chicken burger and savouring a real treat, unlike Ray's pieces of cardboard that doubled as burgers. It was something Mark could rarely afford – a three-piece meal. Bliss, and bless Colonel Sanders.

They were in the Kentucky Fried Chicken near to Preston New Road. Jack shook his head with twisted amusement. ‘You don't half get yourself into some scrapes,' he chuckled.

‘Yeah, yeah I do,' Mark admitted through his munching, revelling in Jack's attention, even though the truth was he actually did his best not to get into scrapes.

‘And big bro has to come along and bail you out.'

‘Yep.' Mark shoved a bunch of salty chips into his mouth.

‘What was that all about then?'

‘Oh, nowt,' Mark said, trying to play it down. ‘Just trod on some tough guy's toes. Nowt really. Big mistake.' To be honest, Mark didn't want Jack to get involved. Jack's life had no connection with what went on at this low level on the streets of Blackpool. Jack was a high-flyer, a businessman who always had bits of computers and paperwork strewn around the inside of his car.