Screen of Deceit

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Why there? Why not here?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘Fewer distractions. Trust me, it’ll be easier for us all.’ Christie turned to leave, hesitated, spun back. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said sincerely. He glanced at both brothers, then left with a curt nod.

  As the door closed, Jack said, ‘Like hell you are.’

  It became a madhouse, especially when his mother turned up – eventually – and began weeping and wailing and throwing herself around the house, as well as chucking ornaments and anything else she could lay her hands on that would fly and smash. People started coming and going, folk Mark hardly knew or had never seen in his life. A succession of his mother’s friends knocking on the door, coming in and entering the ‘who could cry the loudest’ contest to show they were more upset than anyone else.

  Mark despised it.

  He watched them come and go, a sneer implanted firmly on his face, his cold eyes taking it all in.

  Everyone got a big hug from his mum.

  He didn’t.

  Whether by accident or design, he could not tell. But one thing was for sure: his mum didn’t grab and squeeze him and as much as it would have repelled him, it was something he craved.

  He needed her to give him a hug. To feel her arms encircle him and hold him tight so he could sob with her. Just her. Her and Jack. No one else. Not these ‘best friends’ who were crawling out of the woodwork like worms. He just wanted it to be him, Mum and Jack. The family that didn’t exist.

  Instead it was like Piccadilly Circus.

  And he hated it.

  He gave up hoping and retreated to his room again, his haven of peace, his comfort zone; the world he had made his own. He didn’t want to see anyone, especially after having had to recount his experience with Christie down at the nick. That had taken nearly three hours and he was mentally exhausted.

  Up in his room he sat in his armchair, sunk deep in its knackered cushions and stared at nothing. That was all he did: stare and brood, deep anger and resentment boiling up inside him, building like a volcano. Much of it directed at his wayward mother. He had once seen an episode of the 1980s American TV series Dallas, about a mega-rich oil family in Texas. The episode had been on Bradley’s TV on one of the satellite channels and he’d watched it by accident, but there had been one bit in it that had always stuck in his mind. A guy having a real dig at his ex-wife, calling her ‘a drunk, a whore and an unfit mother’.

  A description fitting his own mother to a ‘T’.

  There was another knock on the front door.

  Mark looked at the clock. It was 8 p.m. now. Mark ignored the knock, so deep was he in his black thoughts.

  In the living room there was still lots of crying and caterwauling going on. More knocking: probably another bunch of his mother’s long-lost friends come to commiserate and enter the crying competition.

  He heard footsteps in the hall and the door open, then Jack’s voice booming up the stairs. ‘Mark, it’s for you.’

  Mark shook his head. He inhaled deeply and, reluctantly, pushed himself out of the armchair, no desire whatever to go down. But he forced himself on legs wobbling like jelly. The front door had been closed on whoever it was and Jack had obviously returned to the fray in the front room, leaving the caller standing outside. Very welcoming – not, Mark thought, and opened the door to find Katie Bretherton on the front step.

  They stared at each other for a few moments, before Katie’s bottom lip quivered, her face crumpled and she said, ‘Mark, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘News gets around fast,’ he responded sullenly, taking her aback.

  She composed herself. ‘I just thought I’d see how you were.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, less than graciously.

  ‘OK, fine. It’s obviously a bad time.’ She turned to go, fuming that he was being so cold and distant with her.

  But Mark reached out and grabbed her shoulder, turning her back to face him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said meekly, with a pathetic shrug. ‘Bad day all round.’

  ‘Do you wanna talk?’

  ‘Uh – no. I don’t know what I want,’ he admitted.

  ‘Do you wanna hang out with me, or something? No pressure, like.’

  He half turned and gestured down the hallway to the living room. ‘I think I’m kinda expected to stay, but actually, I wouldn’t mind someone to hang out with … d’you fancy coming in, upstairs?’

  She had never been in his house before and because of today’s tragedy, he fully expected her to refuse. She didn’t.

  And obviously, she had never been in his bedroom. It was a strange feeling having a girl in the room, even if it was Katie.

  ‘Nice room,’ she said appreciatively, eyeing everything.

  ‘All my own work,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Could do with new wallpaper and some nice curtains, though.’ She glanced at Mark with a slight grin. ‘Girl thing. Not keen on the green.’

  ‘Fancy a go on the PlayStation?’

  ‘What games you got?’

  Mark reeled them off and Katie chose a racing car game they both could play. Ten minutes later, they had both squeezed on to the armchair and were well into the game. They were side-by-side, legs crossed over each other, the closest Mark had ever been to her for any length of time.

  It felt very good when he got used to it. He could feel all her bumps and curves and bones and the longer he sat there, the better it became.

  ‘Beat you again,’ Katie said.

  ‘Yep.’ His throat was dry and his neck and face were red with the heat. He balanced the controller on the chair arm, Katie did likewise with hers. Their faces were only inches apart, so close it was almost impossible to focus. Especially when your heart was thumping like something going crazy and there was an amazing sensation deep and low inside.

  ‘You’re easy,’ she smirked.

  ‘Yep,’ he croaked.

  In the distance the sounds of anguish still emanated from the ground floor. People came and went. The noises seemed a long way away, as the beat of Mark’s heart made his ears pound.

  Katie budged up a bit and twisted slightly so that they were no longer side to side, but wedged in the armchair in a ‘V’ shape, facing each other properly without having to crick their heads. Mark’s left arm was trapped underneath him.

  He could smell her breath. He could smell her skin. He could see her complexion close up and it was smooth and flawless. His breathing was short and stuttery.

  She blinked and angled her face downwards slightly so she looked up seductively at him through half-closed eyes, her pupils wide.

  Mark shifted slightly, very uncomfortable, yet wonderful, because of what was happening to him as his jeans became tight and constricting.

  Katie’s lips parted slightly. ‘I’d like you to kiss me.’

  They had kissed once before, nothing more than a rushed playground snog in front of other kids, a messy clash of teeth, nothing really.

  This was altogether on another plane.

  ‘How do you kiss?’ he asked daftly.

  ‘Slowly and softly,’ she murmured, as though highly experienced. Her right arm was wedged down between them, but with her left hand she touched Mark’s face, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him.

  ‘You an expert?’ he asked.

  She shook her head and moved her head nearer.

  Their lips came softly together at first, then started to mash as the kiss grew with ferocity and young passion.

  Both groaned, their hormones working overtime.

  Mark grabbed her with his free hand and pulled her tight to him, lost in the moment, the death of his sister – for the time being – a zillion miles away.

  Katie had quite short-cropped hair, but Mark managed to muss it up well. She was as red-faced as he was, short of breath, and after ten minutes of intense kissing, just about ready for a breather.

  She pushed herself away from Mark, rotating her jaw, and stood up.

  Mark sprawled o
n the armchair, his eyes – slightly mad – following her every move.

  She brushed herself down, straightening her clothing and patting her hair flat.

  Mark felt like he was on the verge of bursting. He swallowed and caught his breath, more exhausted than after a hard session on the BMX.

  ‘Wow,’ Katie said with a smile. ‘So you do know how to kiss.’

  ‘So it seems,’ he preened.

  She held out her hands and twinkled her fingers. He placed his hands in hers and she eased him to his feet and dragged him towards the bed, turned him around and backed him against it and, with a hand at his chest, pushed him on to the edge and stood in front of him between his legs.

  ‘Can you lock the door?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Use your imagination.’ She gave him a smile and went to the bedroom door, which had an inner bolt on it. She flicked it across with a click. Next she crossed to the window and drew the curtains before returning to Mark, who sat there mesmerised, his mouth sagging open.

  Katie sat down slowly next to him and before he knew what had happened they were lying side by side on the bed, kissing like mad again, but Mark was totally unsure as to how things should progress. He had never been this far with a girl before.

  Somewhere in the background he heard a knock at the front door, which he dismissed from his mind – more of Mum’s bloody mates, he guessed – as Katie took the initiative, as ever, grabbed his hand and placed it on her tee-shirt over her left breast, causing Mark to shudder with pleasure.

  Still in the background – voices in the hallway.

  Mark’s hand on Katie’s boob did not move.

  ‘Squeeze it,’ she insisted breathlessly. ‘Gently.’

  He did. And, oh God, it was wonderful.

  A door slammed.

  Something incredible was building up inside him.

  Downstairs – more talk, voices, urgency.

  ‘Touch me here,’ Katie gasped. She lay back and moved Mark’s shaking hand from her breast and guided it down towards her tummy.

  ‘Mark! Mark!’ a voice from the real world yelled.

  A look of horror broke on his face. ‘Oh, hell no!’ he uttered desperately.

  ‘Mark – get yourself down here now,’ Jack’s voice boomed.

  The deflation for both teenagers was instantaneous.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Mark grunted unhappily, pushing himself off the bed and standing up, his legs wobbly with a lack of blood which had surged to other, more demanding parts of his body.

  Katie lay there panting, dishevelled, frustration visible in her face.

  ‘Mark!’ Jack shouted again.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he replied. He looked despairingly at Katie, who gave him an expression that summed up both their feelings. ‘Sorry,’ he said meekly.

  ‘It’s OK. Bad day anyway.’

  Mark turned away from her and adjusted himself in his jeans before opening the door and stepping on to the landing. At the top of the stairs he could see down into the hall where Jack stood.

  ‘That cop’s come back, Christie, so get your arse down here. He has something for us all to hear.’

  Nine

  Detective Chief Inspector Christie spoke sombrely and very seriously. Mark saw and felt that the man had a certain authority, something about him that made everyone in the living room listen to him, hang on to his every word, despite their grief.

  Mark’s mum was in one of the armchairs. Jack leaned back into the settee, steepling his fingers underneath his chin, watching the detective with a degree of cold calculation, as though trying to weigh him up. Mark’s eyes kept flicking back to Jack, wondering what was going on in his head.

  There was also a woman in the room who Mark’s mum referred to as her cousin Ellie, but Mark wasn’t sure whether or not she was a relative or just a boozing buddy. She was just slumped on the floor, sitting back against the wall with a bottle in her hand – supporting his mum in her hour of need.

  Mark watched Christie, the detective dealing with Bethany’s death, the one who had interviewed him earlier that afternoon at Blackpool nick in the presence of Jack, the adult, and taken a statement. It had been a pretty painless, if exhausting, experience, as much as it could be in the circumstances, but Christie had been deep and probing at the same time. There was definitely something about this Christie guy. On the face of it he seemed to accept everything that was said to him, but underneath there was an undercurrent that suggested he didn’t believe a bloody word anyone said. He was someone, not to be frightened of, but to be very wary of … which was maybe why Jack was scrutinising him so closely.

  Cigarette smoke hung thick and still in the air. Mark’s mum and her alleged cousin were chain smoking, clogging the atmosphere. There was a bottle of gin on the little table next to his mum’s chair and an empty bottle of whisky laid out on the carpet. She’d been hitting the bottle and was watching Christie through watery, blood-shot eyes. Her head kept sort of bobbing around, too, as though she’d lost control of her neck muscles.

  Mark glanced at her contemptuously, then looked back at Christie.

  He was saying, ‘And the post-mortem was carried out late this afternoon …’ He stood in front of the fireplace, having decided not to sit as he delivered the news. With all the smoke in the room, his head was just above the clouds, like the tip of some mountain or other. ‘As a result of the examination, the pathologist has determined that Bethany died of a massive drug overdose, but’ – he paused – ‘further tests are going to have to be carried out to identify the drugs and see if what she had in her body was contaminated or cut in any way, or not. I intend to fast-track these tests.’

  Mark had a quick flashback to yesterday’s school assembly and the dour message delivered by the headmaster about another drug death, that of Jane Grice.

  ‘Are there some bad drugs going about?’ Jack asked.

  Christie looked at him. ‘It’s a possibility, one we need to check out – something we always do in cases like this. Thing is, two people have now died from drugs overdoses in a short space of time. It’s public knowledge that Jane Grice overdosed by taking a very unusual concoction of drugs, including heroin. A fatal cocktail, I think the local press called it. She’d taken the drugs in such a way that made it look like she could’ve been force fed them, which of course makes that murder.’ Christie paused to let the words sink in. ‘Therefore forensic analysis of the substances in Bethany’s body will possibly link to Jane’s death. If that is the case, and there is a connection …’

  ‘Whaah ya mean?’ Mark’s mum slurred, interrupting Christie and then flopping back into the chair drunkenly.

  ‘I mean, Mandy, it’s possible Bethany may have been forced to take a concoction of drugs and that then means I’m conducting a murder investigation until I find out different.’

  ‘The Crackman!’ Mark uttered under his breath.

  Both Jack and Christie turned quickly to him. ‘What, Mark?’ the detective asked sharply.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, his face set hard and determined.

  ‘So what happens next?’ Jack asked Christie.

  Mark saw himself as tough and streetwise, but he had to admit he didn’t know much about drugs, didn’t want to either; he just knew they were bad news, which is why he had to ask Jack to explain what Christie was talking about when he mentioned ‘cutting’ drugs, even though he knew his brother didn’t know much about drugs either.

  ‘What it is, is this,’ his elder brother patiently put into plain words. ‘Drugs usually start off in a foreign country a long way from here. Heroin, for example; quite a lot of it comes from Afghanistan. Gets carried on the backs of donkeys, over the border into Pakistan. It starts off as opium from the poppy, then gets converted to heroin, then it finds its way across Europe and gets into this country through a huge network of dealers and some folk who don’t even know what they’re carrying. Then it gets cut down and bulked out, usually with something like milk p
owder, and gets sold on the streets. Somebody makes a profit at every stage of the journey.’ Jack wiped his tired face, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands. Mark could see it was all getting to him. ‘Thing is, though, sometimes it gets bulked out with something not so nice, such as scouring powder, for example. Something that if it gets into your bloodstream will kill you, even if the heroin doesn’t.’

  ‘So that’s what happened to Beth?’

  The two brothers were sitting on the front garden wall of the house. It was getting late, after nine now, and Mark had been up for over sixteen hours. He was wasted and drained, but knew he couldn’t have slept even if he’d wanted.

  Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Probably she just put too much into herself, y’know, misjudged it. It’s what junkies do occasionally,’ he said blandly. ‘Anyway, the police tests’ll tell us.’

  Silence fell between them.

  ‘I’m gonna find out who gave her the drugs,’ Mark declared suddenly, ‘and then I’m gonna get them.’

  Jack slowly turned his face to him and eyed him sardonically, shaking his head sadly. ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Oh yeah I am, and I know where I’m going to start.’

  ‘Mark – don’t be silly. If there’s anyone to find, the police will do it. So let them. It’s their job, not yours. I know that’s what you feel you should do. I feel it too, but it’s not going to happen.’

  Mark pushed himself off the wall and began pacing around, building up inside, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘No, it’s what I have to do, Jack. For Beth. I let her down in life, let her get hooked on drugs and didn’t even notice. You don’t have to be involved and I understand that. This is something for me, something for the streets here in Blackpool. I know you’ve no connection here anymore, so it’s OK.’ The idea was blossoming inside him, like it was the most important thing he had ever decided in his life. Something he had to do for his dead sister: investigate her death relentlessly and track down the person who sold or gave her the drugs.