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Overview
Fourteen-year-old Mark Carter is plunged into a world of crime following his sister's drug overdose. He agrees to become an informer for DCI Christie in order to avenge Beth's death and redeem himself. But if it all goes wrong, Mark stands to lose everything including his life. Mark's obsession for revenge leads him to a dangerous mixture of teenage street gangs, brutal murder, drug turf wars and betrayal.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781780105642 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2014 |
| Series: | A Henry Christie Mystery , #11 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 208 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Screen of Deceit
A DCI Henry Christie Mystery
By Nick Oldham
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2008 Nick OldhamAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78010-564-2
CHAPTER 1
Mark Carter knew he was going to get a battering.
'I don't do drugs,' he said. 'You know that.'
He was standing astride his Diamond Back Igniter BMX bike, staring guardedly at the three lads in front of him. They were arced around in a semicircle to prevent him from pedalling away, all noisily chewing gum, looking menacing, their heads tilted to one side as they glared at him.
Mark knew all three by name and reputation. As his eyes darted from one to the other, he kicked himself for choosing this route home. Normally he would have circled the estate, but because he was running late, he'd decided to cut through instead.
Big mistake.
Now he was going to pay for the big mistake.
Big style.
These were the most feared lads on Shoreside, even though none of them was older than him, that is to say fourteen. Their leader and biggest troublemaker was Jonny Sparks, Sparksy or JS to his mates. It was he who was standing directly in front of Mark, the front wheel of the BMX gripped securely between his legs, his bony, spider monkey-like fingers curled tightly around the handlebars. Jonny was as tall as Mark, but thinner, wiry, pale, his face pockmarked from a childhood disease. Mark would say he was as evil-looking as a weasel.
'Maybe you should start. They're good for you,' Sparks said with a sneer.
'Drugs screw you up. I don't need 'em,' Mark replied.
'Unlike your sis, eh?' Sparks taunted.
Mark's mouth clammed shut. His guts were jittering, his insides trembling. He was frightened, no doubt about that; too frightened to respond to Sparks. He just wanted to get away unscathed and as far as he was concerned, Sparks could bad mouth his family to hell and back if it meant not getting hammered.
However, Mark was canny enough to know that whatever he said, or didn't say, was unlikely to help this situation. They were out for blood. Mark could sense it.
They beat up people just for the fun of it, sometimes to rob them, sometimes for a laugh. They were into happy-slapping, too, recording their exploits on their mobile phone cameras to watch back later and post on the Internet. And they were known to use knives and hammers as well as fists and feet. The fists and feet didn't bother Mark too much. It was the possibility of weapons that terrified him.
He tried his best not to look intimidated, staring impassively at Jonny. He blinked, said, 'I don't want any drugs, thanks,' and did not rise to the nasty remark about Bethany, his older sister.
Mark wondered what was going to happen now. He knew that others had been beaten up for refusing to buy drugs off this crew. In a one-to-one confrontation, and unarmed, Mark was pretty sure he could equal any of the three, even though he didn't consider himself a fighter. But these lads never operated singly. They always ganged up, hunted in a savage pack, which was why they called themselves 'The Hyenas'.
A heartbeat of silence passed between Mark and Jonny Sparks.
Sparks leaned in closer. 'Your sister's a slag, y'know,' he hissed, with a dirty expression on his face.
Mark bit his lip hard, trying to stay cool, not get wound up. His mind raced as he tried to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess, but try as he might to hold back, he could feel that the tremble inside him was morphing from fear into anger, especially when Sparks taunted, 'She'll shag anyone just for a score.'
Sparks eyed Mark with a triumphant smirk, knowing he was succeeding in touching a raw nerve and winding him up. A twisted smile played on his thin lips, as he added, 'Shagged her meself,' really turning the screw.
Jonny Sparks had been after Mark for a long time, never missed a chance to goad him and it was well known he wanted Mark to have a dig at him, just to give him an excuse. Mark had no idea why this was because, for sure, he'd never knowingly done anything to annoy Sparks so much. He just stayed out of his way, avoided him at all costs, and maybe that was reason enough for Sparks. That's how it was on the Shoreside council estate in Blackpool, Lancashire. People often hated others for no definable reason. They just did, and that was good enough. Just like Jonny hated Mark. It was probably all about some sort of perverted 'respect' thing – fights often started because one lad had 'dissed' another by showing disrespect, often innocently. That was part of the jungle that was Shoreside.
Mark couldn't ever recall knowingly dissing Sparks. Maybe his avoidance of Sparks amounted to disrespect? Maybe that's what wound the little toad up – because he couldn't get to Mark, couldn't get his claws into him. And Jonny liked having his claws in as many people as possible.
Mark swallowed. His nostrils flared. He glanced quickly around for some help, but he knew there would be none. This scenario was nothing out of the ordinary around here – a scrap brewing between lads outside the boarded-up Spar shop. It happened all the time and you could guarantee no one would intervene or get involved in any way. Nobody would call the cops either, except maybe when it was all over and Mark was sprawled in the gutter with his head kicked in and blood gushing out of his nose and the danger was over. Nobody saw anything, nobody got involved. Everybody was scared, usually.
Mark Carter was on his own.
'Can I go now?' he asked.
The Hyenas cackled with laughter, more like a coven of witches than a gang of hoodlums. It was like Oliver Twist asking for more.
Not a hope in hell.
Sparks released the bike's handlebars, sort of eyed Mark as if weighing him up and, amazingly, said, 'Yeah, sure you can go, Mark, mate.' But he didn't move. The front wheel of Mark's BMX stayed firmly trapped between Sparks's legs. He was lying, surprise, surprise; obviously there was a condition to Mark's release. Mark didn't even try to cycle away. Jonny Sparks did not just let people off the hook. He looked at the BMX, leaning from side to side, admiring it. 'Nice bike.' He winked, creasing his whole face as he did so.
Mark remained silent. His heart was slamming in his chest.
'You can go, but the bike stays. Like a pressie, from you to me.' He arched his eyebrows, licked his lips and eyed his gang members, Eric King, known as The Kong, and Sam Dale, known, without explanation, as Rat-head. They were Jonny Sparks clones in the way they dressed, spoke and treated folk; nasty devils, but with no independent thought processes of their own. They relied on Sparks to lead the way and jumped at his command.
'Nice one,' The Kong said enthusiastically. He had a lazy left eye and sometimes it was hard to know which one was looking at you. It didn't stop him being a hard swine, though. He took a drag of the rolled–up ciggie he always seemed to have dangling from his bottom lip, hacked up and gozzed revoltingly on the ground. Then he sniffed up disgustingly.
'Yeah, we can get a few quid for it down at Tonno's,' Rat-head piped up. He was a broad-shouldered lad, good-looking, with a shock of blond hair, but he had even less up-top than The Kong, which was saying something. Sam Dale was Jonny's powerhouse. The guy he could wind up and set off to do the heavy battering. He had big fists with lots of scrapes on the knuckles, and he used them well. When he talked about Tonno's, he was referring to a second-hand shop in town through which most of the estate's stolen goods ended up being sold on.
'What d'you think?' Jonny asked Mark.
'It's my bike and you're not having it,' he said, feeling a tightness across his chest. Things, he thought, are about to get out of hand.
'Whoa! Tough words from a soft kid,' Sparks spat. 'Tell you what, then – you pay me for your bike and I'll let you keep it. Ten quid now, ten at the end of the week. That's fair, innit?'
'Like I said – it's my bike.' Mark was fiercely proud of the Diamond Back. He'd worked hard on a double paper round in the mornings before school, one after school and a Sunday round for nine months to get the dosh together. In fact, he thought it was probably the only bike on the whole estate that wasn't stolen, or didn't have any knocked-off bits on it. 'You're not having it, Jonny,' he squeaked.
The 'look' came down on Jonny Sparks's face. The look that didn't need words, that itself said, 'Game's over, business is just about to begin.'
Except this was no game – not for Mark, anyway – and the business was violence.
Mark braced himself. As frightened as he was, there was no way he was going to let go of the bike – they'd have to prize it out of his fingers; nor was he going down without a fight.
Sparks flicked his head at his two mates. They stepped forward menacingly, but halted suddenly as Jonny's mobile phone rang. He held up a hand to stop the attack, looked warningly at Mark and said, 'Don't move, or else. I need to get this.' He shuffled the phone out of his trackie-bottoms pocket, the polyphonic ring tone being Green Day's 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams', which Mark recognized instantly. Green Day was his favourite band and that was his favourite track. It made him feel sick that scumbag Sparks liked it too.
'Me,' Sparks said into the flashy phone, his eyes still intently on Mark. 'Yeah ... yeah ... understood ...' He adjusted his position slightly as he talked, his feet moving a couple more inches apart so that the wheel of Mark's bike was no longer trapped between his legs. He probably didn't even realize he'd done it – but Mark did. 'Yeah, so it'll be there? I'll sort it ... yeah ...'
To Mark it sounded as though the conversation was coming to an end.
This was his chance.
He took in the scene: Sparks standing dead ahead of him; Eric and Sam a couple of feet either side of Sparks's shoulders. Mark could tell they were interested in the phone call, trying to earwig. He realized this would probably be the only opportunity he'd get. His fingers tightened on the handlebar grips. He tensed up.
'How much?' Sparks asked down the phone, listened to the answer, his eyes still fixed on Mark. However, when he got what was obviously a good reply from his question, he could not resist looking around at his chums with a big snigger on his face and a thumbs-up with his left hand.
Now!
Mark yanked the front wheel of the bike upwards. He knew the bike well, intimately, could reel off every fact about it, including its weight, and because he spent so much time playing moto-x in the fields behind his house, knew exactly how much effort was needed to yank the wheel upwards to best effect.
Which he did.
He caught Sparks off guard and rammed the wheel up into his unprotected groin.
Sparks emitted an unworldly howl of pain, dropped his mobile and staggered backwards as both hands went instinctively downwards to cradle his nuts. The surprise attack also caught the other two off guard, giving Mark the fraction of a second he needed.
Without a pause, Mark did a quick reverse, dropped his left leg and skidded the bike round spectacularly, making grit shower the three lads like a hailstorm. With as much power as he could muster – that's to say, every ounce of it – he drove his right foot hard down on to the pedal, rose high on the bike and shot away from the scene, leaving the two goons clucking fussily around their wounded ringleader like mother hens.
Mark pedalled like hell, head down, bum right up in the air, and aimed for the narrow alleyway that ran behind the old Spar shop. Just before he reached the gap, his head flicked round to get one last look at the three troublemakers.
If it hadn't been so scary, it would have been hilarious.
The Kong and Rat-head had been brushed roughly aside by Sparks as he stomped around, doubled over, cupping his most precious assets. Mark's wheel had hit him slapbang on target and the agony was clear to see on Sparks's scrunched-up face – but he did manage to look up at the same moment Mark glanced back over his shoulder and, though the two lads were fifty metres apart by then, their eyes locked.
'You're dead!' Sparks screamed furiously. 'You're gonna get ...' But Mark skidded expertly into the narrow ginnel and heard no more of what was a long bout of ranting, raving, effing and blinding, and threats by Jonny Sparks.
Mark pushed himself hard, head down, face up into the wind, the air pounding his eardrums, his lungs hurting with the combination of relief and escape.
He stopped for nothing, emerging at the far end of the alley on to the road, not even pausing to check for traffic. He just shot across – fortunately there was nothing coming – avoided a couple of little kiddies on their bikes, though he did manage to drench them as his BMX cut through a dirty puddle. He went on at this relentless pace until he reached home on the far side of the estate, an end quasi-semi council house that had recently been partly renovated by the council.
He rode up the garden through the non-existent front gate and up to the front of the house, where he applied the brakes for the first time and screeched to a swervy halt. He sat astride his machine, panting, desperately out of breath. It took a couple of minutes for him to come back down to earth from his exertion, but even then he was sweating like a demon.
The bike was kept in the hallway, together with loads of other stuff. There was an old coalbunker at the side of the house, big enough to walk in, and though there was a lock on it, it had been broken into so many times that nothing was kept in it at all. Now it was just a den for Mark and his mate Bradley. The inside of the house was the only safe-ish place for the BMX and he kept it there despite the occasional outburst from his mum and sister when they tripped over it. But it was too valuable to lose, as had just been demonstrated.
He bounced it up the front step, in through the front door and rested it against the radiator in the hall. The house seemed quiet, but that didn't necessarily mean there was no one home. He didn't bother shouting 'I'm home' or anything like that, because nobody really cared if he was, or wasn't.
Instead, he went into the kitchen, found some bread without mould on it and made a jam butty. With a glass of orange squash and a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch, he ran up to his room, locked himself in, sat on his creaky wire-framed bed and swigged down the drink in one.
He was parched after his little adventure.
Just then, as he placed his cup down on the old TV stand he used as a bedside cabinet, it dawned on him what he'd done.
He'd basically kicked the hardest lad on the estate in the knackers. Well, not kicked, but 'wheeled' – yes, 'wheeled' the hardest, baddest, meanest, cruellest lad on the estate in the goolies and in so doing he'd converted Jonny Sparks from someone who had been just 'after him' in a fairly leisurely way into a deadly enemy with a grudge.
Nothing was more certain. Jonny Sparks had been humiliated and he would want revenge. Lots of it. With icing. And cherries.
Mark's hot sweat turned into a cold one as he realized the enormity of what he'd done.
CHAPTER 2Mark liked his room, his refuge from the real world. It was lockable from the inside and he could go into it, close the door behind him, slide the big bolt across so no one else could get in, and retreat to his own inner space.
Everything in it was his. Whilst he knew that some of the things might have been a bit 'iffy', he'd paid good money in good faith for most items and found the others.
His bed had always been there. Everything else in the room he'd got for himself. He'd painted the walls a sort of grass-green from a tin of paint he'd found dumped by the roadside, using a brush he'd also found. It was a good colour, like the Man U pitch. The old TV stand that doubled as his bedside cabinet had been chucked out by a neighbour, literally dumped on the street outside, and Mark had helped himself to it. Someone else had dumped a three-piece suite (people on the estate didn't usually bother with council collections if it meant it might cost them something) and Mark had snaffled one of the armchairs. With Bradley's help he'd managed to squeeze it up the stairs into his room. It had taken ages and both lads had struggled to see how the chair could even get into the room, but they'd done it with much huffing, puffing and muscle.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Screen of Deceit by Nick Oldham. Copyright © 2008 Nick Oldham. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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