Screen of Deceit

by Nick Oldham

  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.

  Twenty-One

  Another 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.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘Throat dry.’

  He pulled himself up on to his knees and, from the darkened room, took a quick peek into the street outside. He could see nothing, but he dropped quickly back down when a bullet shattered the window just above his head and embedded itself in the wall above Mark’s bed head. The streetlight outside the house was then shot out, pitching that portion of the street into blackness.

  ‘Still there,’ Jack said unnecessarily.

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone call the cops?’ Mark whined.

  ‘Because this is Shoreside,’ Jack said cynically. He placed the pistol down by his side and fumbled for his mobile phone in his jeans pocket. He began to thumb through it, glancing up at Mark as he did so. Perspiration teemed down Jack’s face and his breathing was harsh and rattly. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Drink?’ he repeated. ‘Good lad.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sorry.’ Mark scuttled out of the room on all fours and slithered down the stairs head first on his belly, crawling like a reptile. He kept low in the hall and crept into the kitchen.

  Upstairs he could hear Jack’s muffled voice on the mobile. Probably calling those reinforcements he’d been talking about.

  Mark froze. A dark shape moved across the kitchen window, then a hooded figure pressed his face up to the glass, covering his eyes with a hand, trying to peer into the kitchen. Mark lay on the floor, too terrified to move, certain he was going to be spotted. The man – Mark assumed it was a man – had his hands against the glass and in his right was the ugly black shape of a gun. He moved away and tried the handle on the back door. Mark held his breath, suddenly unsure whether he had locked it or not. A gunman at the door tends to give you those sorts of doubt. It was locked and the man put his shoulder to it and tried to force it, but it held. Then he took a step back and flat-footed it. Mark cringed every time the foot connected. But again, it didn’t budge. Mark knew the man would have problems forcing it open in such a way. It had been tried before when one of his mum’s boyfriends who she’d fallen out with had tried to batter his way in. He’d been one hell of a big guy, pissed up and enraged, but the door had held firm from his onslaught. So unless the guy outside shot the lock off, like they did in films – which Mark always suspected was an iffy way of opening a door – he was going to struggle.

  The man cursed. Then he was gone … but Mark knew he would be back.

  He released his breath then waited a few seconds before crawling across to the fridge and getting out a bottle of pop.

  Upstairs, Jack was still on the phone.

  Mark took his chance at that point and did something he hoped he would not regret … then, that done, he edged his way back upstairs into his bedroom and handed the pop to Jack, who drank from it like a man in a desert.

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ He put the bottle on the carpet beside him and picked up his phone again. ‘Not long now and we’ll be out of here … one more call to make.’

  He pressed a button on his phone.

  There was a short delay.

  Then Mark felt the vibration from the mobile phone in his jeans pocket, then heard his favourite Green Day tune which was its ringtone: ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’. Jonny Sparks’s phone was ringing.

  At first neither of them could work it out, one of those surreal moments.

  Mark fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the display.

  Jack took his own phone away from his ear. His look of pain evaporated, replaced by one of shock. He thumbed the end call button.

  ‘Jonny Sparks is dead,’ Mark said simply. ‘This is his phone.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  Mark shook his head. ‘I was there when he died. Somebody stabbed him, one of your enemies, I’ll bet.’ His voice was calm and controlled. ‘Before he died, he asked me to phone the Crackman and tell him what had happened. I guess I don’t have to do that now, do I, Jack?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ His voice sounded frail. ‘I must’ve misdialled.’

  ‘Did you know I was working for Jonny?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ Jack said faintly. He picked up the pop and gulped down a few mouthfuls.

  Mark snorted a gush of derision. ‘Liar,’ he said bluntly. Without warning he grabbed Jack’s phone and wrenched it out of his weak grasp. ‘Let’s see, eh?’ Jack tried to snatch it back, but Mark twisted away, now very much in charge. He held up the phones side by side. They were the exact same models.

  ‘Mark,’ Jack said pathetically, reaching out, twiddling his fingers.

  ‘There’s only one number in Jonny’s phone, because this is the phone he used when he was out dealing drugs. He used it exclusively to contact the man he worked for – the Crackman – and this was the only phone the Crackman ever contacted him on. Let’s see, eh?’ Mark pressed the appropriate button on Jonny’s phone.

  Mark and Jack eyed each other. The gunmen outside were forgotten in those moments.

  Nothing happened for a few seconds, then Jack’s phone rang out with a crazy voice which declared, ‘Here’s Jonny!’

  ‘Was it a misdial?’ Mark asked cynically. ‘I don’t think so.’ A feeling of rage began to burn fiercely inside him, coupled with one of betrayal. ‘You’re the man, aren’t you, Jack?’

  His big brother looked away.

  Mark desperately wanted him to deny it, but the words never came.

  ‘Jesus, you are, aren’t you?’ Mark blurted, still not wanting to believe, all churned up inside. He threw down Jack’s phone in disgust.

  ‘Mark, look,’ Jack said reasonably, ‘we’ve got to get out of here. Help’ll be here soon. Let’s get out and then we can talk, OK?’

  ‘This … this’ – Mark gestured towards Jack’s shoulder, then the window – ‘this is a turf war, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mark, you don’t know what you’re saying.’

  Suddenly he saw Jack in an altogether different light. Now, as far as he was concerned, he was no longer his brother … his brother was as dead as his sister. It was all beginning to fall into place.

  ‘That day at KFC! They were after you, weren’t they? Not those two lads who I thought were drug dealers. It was you, wa
sn’t it? You were the bloody drug dealer!’

  ‘Mark, not now, eh? More important things to get through.’

  ‘And you supplied the drugs that killed Bethany and that other girl, Jane Grice, didn’t you? Those deaths … Bethany … that other girl, you supplied the heroin and all the other drugs, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, you’re wrong, mate … look, can we just—?’

  ‘Just what?’ Mark interrupted. ‘Pretend it didn’t happen?’ Mark’s voice rose. ‘I looked up to you, respected you. I thought you’d dragged yourself away from this shit. But’ – he gestured desperately with his hands – ‘but you’re one of the people who make it shit living here. You’re a drug dealer, Jack.’ Tears formed. ‘And Beth died because of you, and so have others – even Jonny Sparks. All because of you!’

  ‘No, you’re talking rubbish, mate … this is all a misunderstanding.’ Jack would not relent.

  ‘Getting shot is a misunderstanding? And stop calling me “mate”, and stop denying it.’

  Mark’s face was a smear of tears and snot as he started to cry.

  ‘Come on, let’s just get out of this and I can explain it all.’

  Mark wiped his face. ‘No … the cops are coming. I called them.’ He held up Jonny’s phone. ‘When I was downstairs.’

  ‘You did what?’ Jack exploded and moved suddenly, sending pain rocketing through him. ‘I said no cops.’

  ‘Tough, they’re coming – and whoever’s out there can just fuck off.’

  ‘You idiot,’ Jack snarled. His hand dropped on to the pistol which was at his side. He picked it up and pointed it at Mark. ‘I said no cops,’ he growled. ‘I can’t afford cops.’

  ‘Your problem, not mine.’ Mark stood up. ‘I’m going to walk out of here and then out of the front door and I’m going to shout that the cops are coming and if they want to wait, then it’s up to them, whoever they are … if they want to shoot me, that’s up to them, too, cos at this moment in time I don’t feel like I’ve got very much to live for.’