Screen of Deceit (24 page)

Then he ran back to the shops, fast, as though he was being chased by evil spirits.

The only shop open was the chippy. He ran to the door and screamed, ‘Call an ambulance – there's a lad been knifed out back.'

Then, before the evil caught him, he spun on his heels and ran for his life.

T
he sight in the mirror in the hallway terrified him.

Mark Carter: fourteen years old; sister dead from drugs overdose, possibly murdered; basically living alone in a house because his mother is either out working or shagging; a boy who knows right from wrong; a boy who thought – wrongly – that he had the ability to work undercover for the cops, who now knows the game in which he is involved is way too tough, too dirty, too horrendous for him to handle; a boy in way over his head; a boy who has witnessed a cold-blooded, brutal murder.

Mark Carter, fourteen, schoolboy.

Mark Carter, idiot.

Mark Carter – blood splattered all over his face, hands and clothes.

Maybe the devil
had
caught him.

His eyes looked drawn and he had a hunted, panicky expression on his face. His lips curled back into a snarl of contempt as he dragged off his bloodstained denim jacket and threw it furiously down on to the hall floor.

He took one last look at himself, despised what he saw, and ran upstairs, tearing his clothes off as he went so that by the time he reached the bathroom, he was in his underpants.

It took for ever for the shower to warm up, but he didn't care. He stood under the needles of cold jets and shivered, rubbing Jonny's blood off his hands. Then as the water heated up, he soaped himself thoroughly from head to toe whilst wondering what the hell he should do next.

He knew he had to call the cops, but some niggle inside told him to wait with that one.

Also, he now had Jonny's phone and the precious number of the Crackman on it – unless of course the Crackman had already changed it because of the troubles.

But he couldn't know about Jonny, not yet, could he?

Jonny Sparks, dead on a car park, heart skewered like a kebab.

The image of the murder in the shadows stayed with Mark as he towelled himself off and then wrapped another bath towel around his middle whilst he picked up his discarded clothing and dropped the blood-stained items into an ASDA carrier bag. The cops would need them. Forensics, he thought.

Next he changed into a clean set of clothes and made himself of mug of tea which, with a packet of biscuits, he carried up to his room.

As he sipped the hot, sweet, brown tea, his hand quivered. But it tasted good. Something special, something soothing, about tea.

It settled him. Slightly. Stopped him from dithering like he had the flu. Allowed him to get his mind ticking over again.

Maybe Jonny wasn't dead, he thought. Maybe it was just a bad wound. Maybe an ambulance had come and he had been saved.

‘Yeah, sure,' he said with a sniff, knowing he was dead all right. And as for those two useless goons, Sam and Eric … already, part of Mark's mind was contemplating some poetic retribution for those two cowards … he picked up Jonny's mobile and inspected it.

Though Mark had never owned one, he knew his way around them; Bradley had one, as did Katie … his two friends – his ex-friends, to be exact.

Jonny's keypad was locked. Mark pressed the required combination of buttons and the wallpaper display came up, an animated, naked woman, with huge breasts wobbling obscenely. Mark winced, but wasn't surprised. Jonny had been a disgusting git. He thumbed the keypad and displayed the list of the last ten numbers Jonny had dialled from the phone.

Only there weren't ten numbers, there was just the one.

Mark looked at it carefully. There was no name with the number to identify who it belonged to. Just the number. It had to be that of the Crackman.

Mark's thumb hovered hesitantly over the keypad, over the redial button.

If he dialled, the Crackman would think it was Jonny calling him, but as soon as Mark said anything, he would know different. Because the Crackman was so careful, Mark doubted if he would get chance to say much. What he blurted out would have to be pretty quick and to the point and worded in such a way that the Crackman wouldn't hang up, would listen and respond to Mark.

Mark's heart beat solidly. Visions of the knife disappearing up to the hilt into Jonny's body were still vivid in his mind.

Surely he had to be dead. Certainly the Crackman would want to know and if Mark could just say the right words and hook him – maybe by claiming he knew or could ID the killers – then perhaps he could arrange to meet the Crackman face to face.

A sneer spread over Mark's face.

But then again, maybe not. The Crackman would be far too canny to even listen to a stranger's voice. He would hang up immediately and that would be the end of it. The Crackman would ditch his phone and everything would be back to square one, or even further back than that because of Jonny's murder.

Mark's thumb clicked the exit button on the keypad and the screen returned to the wobbly-chested woman. Put simply, Mark did not know what to do for the best.

His decision, when it came, was simple: phone the cops and speak to Henry Christie. He was the puppet master, he would know what to do. Let that manipulative bastard make the decision.

He tabbed in Christie's number and was about to press call when the phone rang in his hand, vibrating and pumping out Green Day's number, now so ironic: ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams'.

Mark almost dropped the phone in surprise. Eyes popping out of his skull, he stared at the screen aghast. A withheld number. Must be the Crackman.

Panic struck him like an electric shock, but instead of throwing him across the room, he froze.

Then the ringing stopped and the screen came up, ‘Missed call'.

‘Shit.'

He lowered himself to the floor and looked at the phone and for no reason, other than he did not know what to do, he began thumb tabbing through the menu whilst he considered his position.

‘Why don't I know what to do?' he whined plaintively.

Under the heading of ‘Gallery' he pressed ‘Select', then, again, for no particular reason, he chose ‘Video Clips'.

There were about six clips stored in files, each with a name.

One that stood out was ‘Bethdeth'.

Cold dread coursed through his mind as he pressed ‘Open'.

At first he hardly heard the pounding on the front door. His mind was in a far distant place, shocked beyond anything he'd ever known. Then the desperate knocking permeated and he dashed to the window, expecting to see the cops at his door. But looking down, he saw Jack, holding his shoulder, kicking at the door. For a moment Mark wondered why Jack didn't just let himself in. He had a key, after all. Then he remembered locking the door from the inside when he'd returned home, blood-soaked.

Jack looked up and saw Mark at the window. ‘Let me in,' he screamed.

Relief flooded through Mark at the sight of Jack at the door. Now he could spill the beans to his elder brother, seek guidance from him. He would know exactly what to do.

Pushing the phone into his pocket, Mark ran downstairs, trying to work out where the Cayenne was, Jack's car. It wasn't parked out front.

He leapt down the stairs in one bound, using the banister, and dropped into the hallway.

Jack hammered on the door, not letting up.

‘I'm coming,' Mark muttered impatiently.

As he got to the door, one of the four-inch square windows in the frame shattered and there was a terrifying whooshing sound just to the side of Mark's head, making him spin and duck.

He knew a bullet when he heard one.

‘Open the fuck up!' Jack yelled.

Another window smashed as another bullet crashed through, narrowly missing Mark's forehead and imbedding itself with a thud into the kitchen door jamb.

Mark dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the front door and reached up to the Yale lock, which he thumbed open and unlocked.

As the door opened, Jack crashed through, tripping over Mark, then turning and slamming the door closed behind him.

Mark stared up at him, petrified.

There was a gun in Jack's hand and blood pouring from a wound in his left shoulder.

A
nother bullet slammed into the front door, making a sound like a cricket ball striking a bat for six.

‘Get down, keep down,' Jack said. ‘Come on.'

He started crawling down the hallway towards the kitchen, but his left arm couldn't hold his weight. It folded weakly under him and he hissed in agony.

‘What's going on?' Mark asked fearfully, totally mystified and terrified by the events of the last minute.

Jack managed to ease himself painfully into a sitting position, propping himself against the wall, smearing blood on the wallpaper.

‘Put the light out, Mark, otherwise they'll pick us off.'

‘What?' Mark asked incredulously. ‘Who … eh?' He was dismayed and disorientated.

‘Just do it!' Jack ordered him, then winced.

Mark complied, but not before he had seen the mess that was Jack's left shoulder. Jack had started to peel the leather jacket off to get a look at the wound. Under the jacket he was wearing a white tee-shirt which was now soaked in crimson blood.

‘Oh God,' Mark gasped. ‘What the hell's happening, Jack?'

‘Is the back door locked?' Jack asked as though he hadn't heard Mark's question.

‘Yeah – think so.'

‘Good. I don't think they'll try to get in, least I hope not.'

They were close to each other. Mark was on his haunches, Jack leaning against the wall. In the half-light coming through from the streetlights, they could see each other clearly.

Jack coughed. Spittle flecked across Mark's face.

‘Sorry, pal,' Jack apologized, wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand – the one in which he held the gun.

‘Jack, I'm scared … what's going on?'

‘Don't be, don't be … it's me they want … I …' His words of explanation were cut short as two more bullets slammed into the door. What was really scary was that there was no sound of a gunshot to accompany them as whoever was shooting had a silenced gun. Mark ducked instinctively at the sound of the thuds.

‘We need to call the police,' Mark declared.

‘
No!
' It was almost a scream from Jack, who pointed the gun into Mark's face, creating a terrible queasy feeling inside the youngster. ‘No … no cops, OK?' he said more gently.

Jack glanced at his damaged shoulder and Mark's eyes turned to it also. Blood was constantly oozing out of it.

‘You need a hospital.'

‘No,' Jack said again, waving the gun dangerously. ‘Get me upstairs to the bathroom. Need to clean it, then I'm gone. Come on, help me, pal.' He gasped painfully as he moved, his eyes searching Mark's face desperately.

Mark was speechless, torn between a plethora of conflicting emotions, but the one which overrode all was the love for his brother. In spite of not understanding anything and once again feeling he was in the vortex of something he had no control over, his gut instinct took over.

‘Tear it off, tear it off.'

Hesitantly, Mark took hold of the blood-soaked piece of clothing and, using all his strength, ripped Jack's tee-shirt apart to expose the ugly, gaping wound, making him feel woozy at the sight. It was horrible, like some bloody black hole, just in the fleshy part of Jack's shoulder, near to the breastbone.

Jack twisted his head and peered at it. His mouth contorted with the immense pain he must have been experiencing.

‘Looks bad,' he admitted. ‘I think it's gone down into my chest. Ahh!'

‘Is it a bullet wound?' Mark asked ridiculously.

Jack managed to give him a withering look. ‘No, I caught it on a thorn bush.'

‘Sorry.'

They were in the bathroom, having made it up the stairs, no more bullets having been fired. Jack had used up a lot of energy and was weak from loss of blood. Uncovering the wound and seeing it clearly had confirmed their fears.

‘Ambulance,' Mark said.

‘No,' Jack insisted.

‘Look, Jack, I don't know what's happening here. I'm not sure I want to, but you're my brother an' I don't want you to die. I've already lost a sister, OK? If nothing else, an ambulance turning up'll see them away, whoever they are.'

‘No, no ambulance, no cops.' Jack picked up his gun. It was a pistol, one with a magazine of bullets up the handle. Looked very similar to the X-ray picture Mark had seen of the gun he'd delivered for Jonny. Jack thumbed a lever and the magazine slid out and clattered on the tiled floor of the bathroom. ‘Back jeans pocket.' He sat forward with a groan. ‘There's another mag in there. Get it out for me, will ya?' He lifted one cheek of his arse as Mark, once more, did as he was told, and fumbled in the pocket to bring out a fully-loaded magazine. Jack handed the gun to Mark. ‘Just slide it in and slam it into place.'

Mark took the pistol, his hand dithering. He slid the magazine into the butt and rammed it into place.

‘Now you need to put one into the chamber.'

‘How the hell do I do that?'

‘Get hold of the top of the gun between your thumb and forefinger, then slide the breech back, then let go.'

Mark complied.

‘Good lad. Armed and dangerous.' Jack took the weapon back. ‘Now, get a towel and wrap it around the wound, then get me some painkillers, then I'll call in some reinforcements and we'll keep low and wait for the cavalry.' Jack smiled crookedly, then winced and gasped and his face went the colour of puce.

Jack positioned himself on the floor just below the window in Mark's bedroom. He was still losing blood and now sweating profusely and shaking uncontrollably. The towel was already soaked in blood. Mark wondered if this was Jack going into shock.