Screen of Deceit (20 page)

‘You, my lad, are going down the shitter faster than a greasy rat.' He towered over Mark, hands on hips, head shaking in dismay. Mark looked directly into his eyes once, then looked away. Jack exhaled a long, pissed-off breath, then his body wilted and he sat slowly down next to Mark on the settee. He leaned forwards, elbows on knees, fingers intertwined, his body angled in Mark's direction. ‘Look, I know this is a tough time for us all, but you've got to keep yourself together for Bethany's sake. You're better than this, Mark. You're not a thief. I know that.'

‘It's all right for you – you're out of this shit hole. I'm stuck in it here by myself. Beth's gone … Mum's …
Mum
.' He frowned. ‘I'm by myself. Where's big bro when I need him to keep me on the straight and narrow? Eh? Swanning about, doing business with clients.' His head fell into his hands and he stifled a deep sob. Jack's arm slid around his shoulders.

‘Yeah, sorry, kiddo. Been all tied up with business, I guess. It's been my escape, in a way. Kept my mind off what's happening and I've obviously forgotten about you in the process. Not good,' he admonished himself bitterly. ‘Look, tell you what' – he gave Mark a reassuring, gentle shake – ‘after the funeral, then, when you've been sorted by the cops – I mean, they're only going to caution you, aren't they? I can't see you going to court. First offence and all that – so after you've answered your bail and been dealt with, we'll go away, eh? Just me and you. Let's bog off to the Costa del Sol for a week, just us guys. How does that sound, mate?'

Mark raised his head. ‘Sounds bloody fantastic, actually.'

‘Something to look forward to, eh, when all this bad stuff's over. I've been thinking about buying a place out there, anyway.' He ruffled Mark's hair, bringing a begrudging smile to the young man's face.

‘I'd really love that, Jack.'

‘Me too. But in the meantime' – Jack tapped his nose with his forefinger – ‘nose clean, OK? No more stunts.'

‘Yeah, sure.'

Jack's mobile phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the caller display. ‘Need to get this.' He stood up and left the room.

Mark answered the door.

Bradley stood on the front step. He said, ‘Long time, no see.'

Mark muttered something, then looked past Bradley and saw Katie hovering at the garden gate, her arms folded haughtily.

‘Well?' Bradley insisted.

‘Well what?' Mark's eyes half closed.

‘Well let me tell you this, matey' – Bradley poked him in the chest. Mark staggered back a step, knocked off balance at the unexpected assault – ‘I don't like thieves and I don't like people who get into fights … I know you're going through a tough time and you want to have a go at the world, but it doesn't give you the right to diss me and Katie. I thought we were friends – and you turn to friends when the going gets tough, or so I thought. But you've obviously lost your mind … so don't come crawling to us when you get your sense back, because we're not interested.'

Mark saw tears forming in Brad's eyes. He desperately wanted to say something to his best mate, his best pal. But he knew he couldn't. He had to ride out this storm alone. A casual, thoughtless word would bring it all crashing down and Mark did not want that to happen. He just had to trust that, despite Bradley's rant, these guys were truly his friends and that at the end of it all, they would still be there, whatever was said.

He slammed the door in Bradley's face.

The police had confiscated the bike, making Mark feel like he'd had some vital organ removed. He was lost without it and the only alternative he had was Shanks's pony – walking. A very strange experience, on foot on the estate. He killed time mooching along the roads and footpaths, rediscovering long forgotten short cuts. It was pretty quiet, no one about, and he found himself back at home without having achieved anything.

After filling the kettle, he sat back, waited for it to boil. He liked tea with three sugars and was looking forward to a nice brew in his big, cracked mug.

Before the kettle boiled there was a knock at the door.

Fearing a rematch with Bradley and Katie, Mark dragged his feet sullenly down the hallway and opened the door.

His senses tingled when he saw who was standing there.

Jonny Sparks.

Mark's first instinct was to slam the thing, but Jonny, obviously experienced on the doorsteps of people who didn't want him there, jammed his foot and shoulder in, preventing closure.

‘Wait!' Jonny said. Mark thought quick and hard about smacking the door against Jonny, but relented. ‘I'm alone, if that's what's worrying you,' Jonny said with a sweeping gesture, proving to Mark that his two stooges, The Kong and Rat-head, were nowhere to be seen. Mark surveyed the area suspiciously. ‘I come in peace,' Jonny said earnestly. ‘Word of honour, cross my heart and all that shit.'

‘Why?'

‘Just want to chat, eh? No violence, no fisticuffs.'

‘I don't know if I want to talk to you,' Mark said. ‘What are we going to talk about? We have nothing in common.'

Jonny gave him a knowing look. ‘That's where you're well wrong,' he said, and almost winked. ‘We've got loads in common, you and me. We just don't know it.' Jonny looked down the hallway to the steaming kettle in the kitchen. ‘You brewing?'

‘Aye.' It was said reluctantly. Deep in his chest, Mark's heart was pounding. He imagined this whole thing was like trolling for a fish. Suddenly, when it nibbled the bait and you could feel it on the line, you would have to resist the urge to just yank it in otherwise the fish would be lost. It needed to be allowed to swallow the bait, chew on it – and then! Heave back on the rod and drive the barbed hook into its upper lip so that it could never escape, no matter how much it writhed and twisted.

Trouble was, Mark had never been fishing in his life.

‘Four sugars – sweet tooth.'

Mark piled them into Jonny's mug, wishing he could have added a measure of arsenic, stirred, handed it across.

‘You need to know something right now, Mark,' Jonny said earnestly.

‘What would that be?'

‘I didn't give any heroin or nowt to Beth. I'll hold my hand up' – he held up his free hand, palm forward – ‘I did give her a bit of weed once, but never anything stronger. I swear.'

Mark regarded him, sipping his tea as he did. ‘Why should I believe you? You're a dealer, you were going out with her, she was on drugs … stands to reason it came from you, don't it?'

‘Nah … not me. Honest.'

‘OK, say I believe you – is that why you've come here, to plead innocent?'

‘Partly.'

‘What's the other bit?'

‘I want us to mate around together.'

Mark spluttered his tea and almost dropped his mug. ‘You what?'

‘I actually like you, respect you.'

Mark's face screwed up in disbelief at the admission.

‘No, it's true. You're not frightened of me and there's not many who aren't. The wheel in the balls, for example. You attacking me. Not many would have a go at what you did. I respect that. You're not like them sucky-up gits who trail around after me. I want us to be friends. We're not so different.'

‘I wouldn't be sure of that.'

‘Nah – you reckon you're all goody-goody, but you fight dirty and you steal. Qualities like I have. And … I could use someone like you.'

‘How?'

‘I lost a lot of my market when I got booted out of school. You could pick it up for me … Mr Clean, the guy no one would suspect. Fucking ideal, if you ask me! And I'm getting hassle from up above.' Jonny jerked his thumb up to the ceiling. ‘The boss, y'know? You're in a great position … and you'd get a percentage … soon buy another bike with what I'd pay you, from a proper bike shop, even.'

Mark snorted. ‘Me and you?'

‘Think about it.' He slurped his tea. ‘And not only that, I can get top whack for anything you need to sell … like stolen property, if you know what I mean? And I can lay my hands on virtually anything you might want.'

‘How about an iPod?'

‘Easy – on the house.'

‘How do you know you can trust me?'

‘Put it this way – if you ever do the dirty on me, you're dead.' Jonny held out a bony hand. ‘Deal or no deal?'

Reluctantly, Mark placed his mug down on a work surface. He did not want to appear too eager just in case Jonny sniffed something he didn't like the reek of. With a slight tremble in his fingers, he took Jonny's hand. Jonny held on longer than he should have done, his eyes beaming a sort of contemptuous victory which made Mark's skin crawl. He wanted to pull his hand away and chuck Jonny out of the house because he was certain that if this went wrong, he'd be in Jonny's debt, and there was nothing more certain … Jonny would come collecting.

‘Don't look so bloody worried,' Jonny said in a way that did not reassure Mark. ‘I don't bite.'

Mark eased his fingers out of Jonny's grip and considered the irony of the situation: both thought they had the other one hooked.

Jonny hung around for another hour. They talked about the cops, and Mark's bike, with Jonny loving it that the bike Mark had so jealously guarded, said was straight, was – apparently – stolen. A belief that Mark did nothing to dispel.

‘You'll never see that again,' Jonny declared confidently.

‘I'll have to start saving – unless I nick another,' Mark said glumly.

‘What is the dosh situation?'

‘I've got bugger all,' Mark admitted. ‘That's why I was trying to sell those games and stuff.'

‘Police got 'em?'

Mark shook his head and grinned. ‘No, they missed them when they searched the house. Still got 'em.'

‘Let me see.'

Mark climbed on to the kitchen sink and reached up on top of a cupboard, his fingers stretching until they found the carrier bag. He jumped down and handed it to Jonny, who appraised the contents. ‘Good stuff here. What did Tonno offer you?'

‘Forty,' Mark exaggerated slightly.

Jonny winced, then thoughtfully raised his eyes as he calculated things. ‘I'll get fifty-five out of him,' he guessed. ‘If I give you thirty now, then another fifteen when I sell 'em … a tenner for me. How does that sound?'

Mark pretended to consider the offer.

‘Take it or leave it,' Jonny pushed, ‘but I'll throw in an MP3 player, not an iPod.'

‘All right,' Mark said slowly.

Jonny reached into his back jeans pocket and eased out a wad of folded bank notes. Lots of them. Mark's eyes widened. He peeled off three tens and handed them across wedged between his first and middle finger. Mark eased the money off him.

Jonny beamed. ‘I think we're in business.'

Mark was relieved beyond belief when Jonny eventually left his house and almost collapsed behind the front door after he'd locked it. He felt as though he had just got into bed with Satan.

M
ark and Jonny were seen out and about together on several occasions over the next few days and it was disconcerting for Mark suddenly to become Jonny's biggest mate. Only a matter of days before they had been trying to rip out each other's throats.

They didn't get up to much and Mark wondered what Sparks did with all the spare time he had on his hands. Mostly, it seemed, very little. Didn't get up till late then dossed around; Mark was even invited around to Jonny's house where there was no sign of any parents; here they watched DVDs (mostly ultra-violent ones which made Mark squirm), played games on a brand new Xbox 360, ate rubbish, then in the afternoon wandered down to town. Here, with Sam and Eric in tow, they meandered around the arcades, striking poses, looking tough and mixing with the other kids doing much the same thing: bunking off school and living an aimless life with one eye over the shoulder for cops or Education Authority officials.

Mark hated it, but stuck at it. He missed his old life desperately. School. His bike, of course. His mates … Katie; he was really pining for her and could not rid his mind of the point they'd reached together. Mark wondered if he'd blown it completely with her, or whether he'd be able to pull it back when this was all over.

Yes, he hated it, but he did a damned good job of convincing Jonny that he was born for this life.

Bethany's funeral, which loomed ominously over Mark like a storm cloud for days, put a bit of a dent into this new lifestyle, at least for a day.

On the morning of the event, Jack turned up in the Porsche Cayenne, suited and booted and bearing a suit, shirt, tie and black shoes for Mark, and a sombre new dress for mum. Mark dressed in his new clothes, pulling them on as though he was a death row prisoner getting ready for the trip to the electric chair. They fitted him well. Then, with the others, he waited for the arrival of the hearse and funeral car.

It was the second worst day of Mark's life: sat in the back of a long, black limo with his Mum and Jack, following the hearse to the crematorium.

Shite
, he kept telling himself.

Tears began to roll. He could not contain them. He turned to his mother for a hug, but she sat there cold and brittle, staring dead ahead, making no move to take Mark under her arm and hold him tight.

Mark blubbered when he realized that there would be nothing there. He sat bolt upright between his mum and a sombre-looking Jack, trapped his hands between his knees and attempted to get a grip of himself.

He couldn't remember the rest of the morning.

When it was over and they were back home, he retreated to his room and lay on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with the fact that his sister was now just a pile of ashes. Which made him even more determined to finish off what he'd started.