up, and she was teetering down the front path on her high heels within half an hour, as spruced up as she would ever be.
Mark sneaked into the house by the back door. He did not turn on any lights and moved furtively through the house and upstairs, where he had a hot shower in the dark and changed his clothes. Then he went into his mother’s bedroom and helped himself to ten pounds from her secret stash tucked away at the back of one of her drawers. He let himself out of the house and moved through several adjoining back gardens before emerging on to one of the avenues.
He was famished, despite his food supply. It was intention to head to the KFC on Preston New Road for a boneless chicken feast.
Like most teenagers, he didn’t really have any plans beyond the immediate, although he did try to think through his predicament. But it muzzed his brain, and he decided to leave those thoughts until he was in the restaurant and the southern fried chicken was making him feel a bit better.
He made it to KFC without a hitch, bought food and drink and tucked himself behind a corner table from which he had a view over the restaurant and passing traffic on the road.
As unhealthy as it might have been, the hot, tasty chicken made him feel good again. He wolfed his meal down, then went back for a chicken burger that he munched at a less frantic rate, and tried to get a grip.
Fact — he’d witnessed two murders. The old man and Rory Costain. The images from both tumbled around his mind.
Fact — he’d got a damned good look at the old man’s killer — and Rory had also managed to get off some shots of the guy on the stolen mobile phone that he’d then dropped as they legged it from the scene.
The killer had assumed the boys could identify him and that was why Rory had been killed and he, Mark, had narrowly escaped with his life thanks to a bag of hot chips and a meat pie.
At first, Mark had thought no one would know who he was, but that had been a mistake. The cops obviously knew — and if they knew, there was every chance the killer would if he had anything about him.
Suddenly he stopped eating the burger and placed it down on its wrapping. The horrific realization had taken away his appetite and he wasn’t hungry any more. He now felt nauseous. His hand shook, he started to sweat and he was certain the whole world was staring at him, knowing his secret.
God, if only he could speak to Jack, his brother. But Jack was in jail for ten years, so that wasn’t an option.
Then Mark knew what he had to do — and it certainly didn’t involve the cops and being a witness.
Appetite returned, he finished the meal, drank his cola and left the restaurant. Hunched down in his hoodie, he flitted his way back to the estate, using short cuts and routes only kids would know, ending up back at his house. This time, in his mother’s bedroom, he wasn’t content to take a tenner, but took the whole amount of her hidden cash, just short of fifteen hundred pounds. He pocketed it, then in his bedroom he filled a rucksack with clothing and a spare pair of trainers, before going to the kitchen for a couple of packets of biscuits, crisps and some cheese from the fridge. He also found a rolled-up sleeping bag under the stairs.
He was in the house less than five minutes, going out the back again and making his way through the nooks and crannies of the estate, keeping low in the shadows, to Bradley’s. He didn’t dare knock on the front door of his friend’s house, but sidled around to the back, scaring the life out of Bradley’s mum who was working away in the kitchen, oblivious.
Still hooded, Mark tapped on the condensation streaked kitchen window. She looked up and Mark immediately saw her eyes widen with shock at the figure at the window. He quickly yanked off the hood to show his face. Her shoulders slumped with relief and she opened the back door, shaking her head.
‘You scared me.’
‘Sorry. Is Brad in?’
She regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why? I thought you two weren’t friends any more.’ She knew of Mark’s decline and wasn’t best pleased to have him on the doorstep. Bradley was a good, honest, hard-working lad, as Mark had once been, but now she didn’t want her son associating with him, even though deep down she quite liked him. She peered more closely at him. ‘You don’t look well.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Right,’ she said cynically, making the assumption his pallid complexion was a result of drug taking.
‘So, is he in?’
She sighed, relented, allowed him inside. The aroma of her cooking almost knocked him out. It smelled wonderful. He knew she made a meat and potato pie to die for, and although he had just eaten Mark suddenly had a craving for it. Bradley’s mum went to the kitchen door and called upstairs. ‘Bradley, someone here to see you.’ There was a muffled response, then a door closed and footsteps came downstairs.
When Bradley appeared, he was stunned to see Mark.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Just a chat. That all right?’
‘What about? We’re just going to have tea.’
Bradley’s mother was back at the oven.
‘Bit late, innit?’ Mark commented.
‘My mum and dad work late, and we always have tea together. You know that.’
Mark’s nostrils flared at the thought of a family eating together. Neither concept, the family or eating together, was a part of Mark’s life and he felt a surge of jealousy at Bradley’s normal existence. ‘I just want a few minutes,’ Mark said, trying to keep a pleading tone out of his voice.
‘Mum, how long before tea?’
‘Ten minutes, love.’
Mark swallowed. His mother had never called him love. Bradley twitched his head and turned upstairs. Mark followed.
Bradley’s room was cosy and decorated nicely, done by his dad. He had all mod cons, including the obligatory TV, Xbox and laptop, all bought and paid for. There was a small desk and office chair on which Brad sat, swivelled and motioned Mark to perch on the bed. He swung his rucksack and sleeping bag on to it, then sat.
‘You off somewhere?’ Brad sniggered.
‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you,’ Mark said. He sat squarely on the bed, clasped his hands between his thighs. ‘I know we’ve not been proper mates for a while, and I know it’s all my fault. But I need to tell someone…’
Brad’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Tell someone what?’
‘I’m going, I’m leaving,’ Mark blurted. He angled his face to Bradley’s and said, ‘I’ve witnessed two murders and I think I’m the next victim.’
‘Shit,’ Bradley said, stunned by Mark’s story. At first he hadn’t believed a word of it, thought it was just some fantasy playing out in Mark’s increasingly convoluted mind. But as he spoke and Bradley linked it to what he’d heard on the news and at school, his bottom lip sagged even further and further. He snapped his mouth shut. ‘You need to go to the cops, Mark.’
‘No, effin’ way.’
‘They’ll protect you.’
He shook his head derisively. ‘They can’t even protect old people from yobbos; how are they going to protect me from a killer?’
‘We need to talk this through.’ Bradley leapt from his chair. ‘You fancy some food?’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ll see if mum’ll plate up a couple of dinners for us — meat and potato pie, peas, red cabbage. You know you love it.’
In spite of his earlier KFC, Mark almost salivated. He said yes please. Brad dashed out of the room and returned bearing two dinner plates crammed with steaming, heavenly smelling food. ‘She always makes too much,’ he said, putting the plates and cutlery from his pocket on the desk. He disappeared again, returning with brown sauce, salt and pepper, and two cans of Coke.
‘Thanks, mate,’ Mark said. He edged along the bed and wolfed the food down. It tasted superb. Simple but exquisite.
‘What exactly are your plans?’
