Screen of Deceit (15 page)

But as soon as he spotted him, that was all chucked out of the window.

Jonny Sparks was going to die!

A surge of strength and energy ripped through his whole being, like a great beast, the Incredible Hulk, maybe. He forced his right foot down on the pedal and accelerated toward Sparks.

Eric and Sam saw him straightaway.

On their words of warning, Jonny looked up with surprise on his face.

Jonny's customer saw Mark approach too. Without any hesitation, he ran for it, not knowing who Mark was but obviously sensing trouble.

Jonny held his ground, Eric and Sam slightly behind him in their usual defensive positions.

Mark just focused on Jonny. Total concentration was on him, like a racehorse with blinkers, everything else chopped out but the target.

Three metres short of Jonny, Mark yanked on the brakes and slithered to a spectacular, grit-spraying halt. He dropped his BMX in a way he'd never done before, just letting it clatter to the ground, then on foot ran at Jonny, his head low like a rugby player, and drove his shoulder into Jonny's guts before he could work out what was hurtling at him.

He bowled into Jonny with all the force he could command, ramming into him like a runaway express. With Mark's right shoulder in his belly, Jonny bent double and emitted an unworldly gasp as every drop of air inside him whooshed out. Jonny staggered backwards, forced by Mark, arms flailing like a wind turbine, and landed on his backside, smacking down on the concrete, jarring his spine as he hit it hard.

Then Mark laid into him.

Mark had rarely been in fights, but from somewhere inside he found the strength and power to begin pummelling a yelling Jonny Sparks with blows and kicks, rained in with perfect accuracy, like he was a brilliant street-fighter. The reality was he was just a young boy driven by that volatile mix of grief and anger.

He felt like he had smashed Jonny a hundred times.

Jonny rolled into a protective ball, unable to do anything other than cover himself as much as possible from a surprise onslaught virtually impossible to defend against.

And though it seemed like the beating went on for ages, it was only seconds … long enough for Sam and Eric to react.

Suddenly Mark was yanked roughly up, kicked in the side and pushed off Jonny, who, satisfyingly from Mark's perspective, was whimpering like an abused puppy.

Eric had grabbed him. Sam had kicked him.

Mark staggered away, but that animal-like driving force inside him propelled him back toward the whining Sparks, savagely heaving Eric out of the way, pounding a fist into Sam's face and diving between the two, back on to Jonny who, with a face full of terror, was attempting to scramble away.

Arms and fingers outstretched, Mark landed on Jonny, and with the force still raging inside him, tried to drag him to his feet by the collar. Jonny screamed as Mark kicked his arse with as much power as he could muster, sending him sprawling again.

He landed hard, flipped around and like a terrified crab, scuttled backwards on all fours trying to get away from Mark.

‘No, no, no!' Jonny yelled. ‘Don't hit me, please,' he begged.

‘You killed my sister,' Mark roared.

‘I never,' Jonny began, his eyes darting this way and that, working out how to escape.

‘You …
argh!
' Mark gasped, his words getting nowhere, because Sam had come in behind him, having picked up a piece of wood as long and heavy and handy as a baseball bat from a pile of fly-tipping, and whacked Mark across the shoulder blades. It was a good job he hadn't smashed him across the back of the head, because he could have killed him. Even so, the blow was spectacularly effective. A shockwave rippled through Mark's body all the way down to his knees, weakening them to rubber. They gave way and he crashed down, suddenly all his pent-up power deserting him. He dropped on to all fours and his head sagged. Sam delivered another blow across his back at right angles to Mark's spine, smashing against his kidneys. Mark yowled like a kicked hound.

Jonny Sparks, true to form, recovered instantly. He was up on his feet in a second and delivered an almighty kick into Mark's ribs which flipped him over, leaving him open for Jonny to drop like a ton weight on to his chest, straddle him and pin him to the ground, a cruel expression on his face.

Jonny's knees fastened Mark's arms down and though he struggled he didn't get anywhere because Eric dropped on to his legs and held them.

Mark was beaten. He'd had a few moments of vengeful victory and now it was over.

Jonny wiped the snot and spit off his face with the back of his hand and caught his breath. A swelling visibly rose around his right eye.

Mark glared contemptuously at him, now unafraid, knowing he had the ability to beat him up on a one-to-one, without the two goons to protect him.

‘I'm gonna get you,' Mark snarled.

Jonny gave a cruel laugh, then lunged at Mark's face and grabbed it in his right hand so that his fingers dug painfully into Mark's cheek, his ragged nails cutting into the soft skin, distorting his face and mouth as he squeezed hard. There was a feral grimace on Jonny's harsh, weasel face.

‘I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, boyo, but you're barking up the wrong tree here.'

‘Liar,' Mark managed to say through his misshapen mouth. ‘You're a dealer, you gave her the stuff.'

‘Lad,' Jonny said, ‘you're talking shit. I didn't give her owt, got that?' With that he smacked Mark's head down on the ground. Mark braced himself for what was about to come – the biggest battering of his life. His eyes took in Sam and Eric itching to kick the shit out of him. But something incredible happened. ‘Now you just sod off and leave me alone, you mad twat,' Jonny said, rising off his chest. ‘And consider yourself lucky we're not gonna beat the living crap outta you, cos you well deserve it, Carter.'

Jonny stood up, taking a step back to give the, metaphorical, gobsmacked Mark room to stand.

‘We're not gonna kill the twat?' Sam whined in dismay.

‘No, we're not,' Jonny said, wiping his face with his sleeve.

‘But why …?' Sam continued.

‘Because we're not, OK?' Jonny said, infuriated at being questioned by a lesser mortal.

‘What?' Sam sneered, not getting this at all. ‘Dun't make sense.'

Mark clambered to his feet. Surely this was a wind up. Jonny Sparks letting him go?

‘Now piss off,' Jonny spat, ‘before I change my mind.' Mark hesitated, was about to ask why, too. ‘Just 'effin' go.'

Mark turned to get his bike – but didn't get chance to go anywhere.

Before he knew what was happening, the four lads were surrounded. Four vehicles screamed on to the car park, tyres screeching, engines revving, and screeched to a halt around them. Two were marked police cars, their blue lights flashing, one was a police van and the other was a plain car. Like well-drilled ants, six uniformed cops shot out of the vehicles shouting like mad men (even the woman) and with a blur of speed, the four lads were slammed face down on the ground, hands pulled behind their backs and handcuffed painfully. They all demanded to know what was going on.

Mark was pinned face down by a uniformed cop, his face crushed into the gravel.

Jonny had the same, but was heaved to his feet by a burly cop, whilst Sam and Eric were held down like Mark.

Mark twisted his head and saw two plain-clothed cops getting out of the unmarked car, the uniformed lot obviously having done the dirty work for the detectives. Mark instantly recognized DCI Christie. He took a moment to work out where he'd seen Christie's colleague – then it hit him: it was the lad who'd just bought some smack from Jonny Sparks!

Sparks had been set up. An undercover cop had just bought drugs from him and now he was being locked up for it. A sting.

Mark tried to keep watching the proceedings from ground level and only really with one eye as Christie sauntered up to Jonny, who was being manhandled by a cop.

‘Hi, Jonny.'

‘Mr Christie,' Jonny responded morosely, obviously knowing him.

‘Let's have a look-see what you've got on you, shall we?' Christie stepped up to him and patted him down, chatting pleasantly while he searched. ‘You look a bit of a mess. Someone give you the slapping you deserve?'

Jonny's mouth sneered. ‘He came off worse – anyway, what the hell's going on? I ain't done nowt. This is an illegal search. You haven't even told me who you are.'

Christie obviously couldn't resist it. ‘Your worst nightmare, that's who I am.' He grinned as a hand slid into Jonny's back jeans pocket. ‘Ooh, what's this?' The hand came out bearing a tightly packed roll of banknotes. ‘Nice amount,' he said appreciatively. ‘Where did this come from?'

‘It's mine,' Jonny said, then for the first time got a proper look at Christie's companion and recognized him as the person he'd just sold drugs to. Jonny's shoulder's fell as though his lungs had just been taken out. ‘Shit.'

Christie smiled at him, a smile of triumph. His hand went into another of Jonny's pockets and emerged with several wraps. Christie blew out his cheeks, tutted and shook his head sadly. ‘Jonny, Jonny, Jonny,' he said sadly. ‘You're under arrest on sus of supplying controlled drugs – oh, and suspicion of murder, too.'

‘What you talking about?'

‘We'll chat down the nick, eh?' He cautioned Jonny and told the cop holding him to bung him in the back of the van, then he quickly searched Eric and Sam, found wraps on them both and arrested them, too. They were bundled into the back of a car each.

Christie turned his attention to Mark, still flattened on the ground. ‘Let him up.' The cop on top of him heaved him to his feet. ‘Running with a bad crowd, eh?'

‘I don't run with them.'

‘Yeah, right,' the detective said disbelievingly.

‘Honest, I don't.'

‘As if.' Christie's face showed even more disbelief. He searched Mark and found nothing.

‘See,' Mark said, ‘and anyway, ask your undercover cop. He knows I wasn't here when Jonny was selling stuff.'

Christie shrugged, indifferently. ‘But you did turn up.'

‘Yeah – to hammer him.'

‘And why would that be?'

‘None o' your business.'

‘Everything's my business – you're under arrest, too.'

‘What for? What for? I haven't done nothing.'

‘Drug-dealing and shoplifting. How's about that for starters? I'm sure once I get into your ribs, there'll be more. Much, much more.'

Mark's gut did a classic back flip. He was shoved into the back of the plain police car and all four vehicles then drove off the car park at a sedate pace, past the group of gawping onlookers who'd gathered to watch proceedings. It was a group of people that included Katie Bretherton and Bradley Hamilton.

Mark looked out of the back window of the cop car as it drove past. The expressions on the faces of his friends told Mark all he needed to know. He sunk into the seat and stared dead ahead, wishing he could be sucked into a black hole, never to reappear.

T
he inside of a police cell. Eight feet by six feet, Mark Carter estimated, maybe a tad bigger, but not much. It had a thick steel door with a hatch in it that slid up and down, perhaps a foot square. The door was locked and bolted – slammed shut, actually – and the hatch had been snapped shut. Above the hatch was a spy hole. Nothing high-tech, just a round hole about the size of a two pence piece with a cover on the other side. The cell walls were painted a sickly cream colour and had names and obscenities carved into them, such as ‘Kev', ‘Rocky', ‘Moose ere 12/4' (Mark knew Moose), and four-letter swear words. The toilet was stainless steel, fitted to the wall with hidden screws, designed for use without a normal toilet seat, just two curved raised ridges of wood on either side of the bowl on which your bum rested. Mark hadn't been anywhere near the bog. It stank, hadn't been flushed, was blocked with tissue, looked disgusting. There was a full-length bed, built as part of the cell structure, and high in the wall above it was a window made of thick, translucent, but not see-through, blocks of glass, a kind of green colour. There was a thin plastic mattress on the bed and a folded, thick blanket which looked itchy and flea-ridden.

God, the smell. The whole cell complex hummed, not just this cell. Mark guessed there were about fifty cells altogether and the reek was a combination of urine, sweat, alcohol, vomit and fear: the aroma of caged human beings. It hit Mark as soon as he was marched from the custody office into the cell corridor, an odour that sent a shiver down his spine, made him afraid and disorientated, too. He had been taken into the custody office and booked into the system so quickly and efficiently that he had lost track of everything, his head in a spin. When he'd been put into the cell, he could not work out where he was. Geographically he couldn't fathom out where the cells were in relation to the exterior of the police station, which he'd seen a million times. Mentally, he was zombified.

He sat on the bed, elbows on knees, facing the cell door.

‘Don't normally put kids into adult cells,' the less than friendly, harassed gaoler had explained as he'd propelled Mark into the cell, ‘but needs must when we're full to brimming. Just be thankful you're not sharing.' That was when he slammed the door shut with a gut-sickening finality.

Mark had also lost track of time. Couldn't work out how long he'd been banged up. Minutes, certainly. An hour, possibly. More … he wasn't sure.

Being arrested had had a gigantic effect on him, completely blown his mind, having his liberty taken away from him. What a power that was, to take someone's freedom away from them. He knew kids who revelled in being locked up, a big kudos thing, something that built up their status amongst their dumb, like-minded mates. Mark had always thought of them as futureless idiots. Kids who would never get jobs, who would spend most of their young adult lives in and out of nick, living a hand-to-mouth existence with no end in sight; growing up to be drunks, wife-beaters and drug-takers. Mark couldn't work out when he'd actually seen through the futility of this kind of life and decided against going down that path. He had seen it for what it was, what it did to people, and he wanted far more from life.