The breath went out of him under the detective’s crushing weight and everything became a visual blur.
He heard the dull firing of the automatic weapon, then saw the slow-motion dance of Billy Costain under the street lights as the slugs ripped into him and tore open his chest.
Then Christie’s weight came off as Henry peered over the wall, at which point Mark took his chance. Scooping up his sleeping bag, he rolled away, up on to his feet, running hard down the side of the unoccupied house without a backward glance. He realized that distance was the most important thing for him at that moment in time.
So he ran. Vaulted fences, stumbled blindly through gardens. Powered across roads without looking until he was on the complete opposite side of the estate, where he stopped, then walked casually up someone’s footpath, down the side of the house and into darkness where he slumped down exhausted and tried to control his breathing.
Eventually, his heart rate subsided and he found he was sitting by the side of a garden shed in someone’s back garden. He crept to check the back of the house. Lights were still on and a TV blared loudly in the living room at the front. He sneaked back to the shed and tried the door. Locked. He tugged at it and it rattled in its frame. Not very secure, but Mark was no burglar, knowing nothing about locks. He could ease the tips of his fingers inside the door, which he pulled back. He paused, took a look around, then braced himself and pulled hard. The hasp and lock came away from its mounting, the tiny screws ripping out of the wood.
He went rigid, expecting the householder to appear with a machete. Thirty seconds passed. All he could hear were the sounds of the night and police and ambulance sirens in the distance.
He stepped into the shed and pulled the door closed, hoping it would not sag open. It stayed closed.
It was a fairly big shed with all the usual gardening equipment. Mark made out a set of four folded-up patio chairs stacked next to an old mountain bike. He took one and eased it open. There was just enough floor space in the shed for him to place it down and sit on it.
He leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees, then started to cry.
He’d folded the chair away, unrolled his sleeping bag and curled up inside it in the space on the shed floor where the chair had been. It was warm and almost pleasant, smelling of wood and humus, and he’d slept well for a few hours before waking up desperate for the toilet. At first he did not want to move. The floor was hard but he was comfortable and it felt safe. But he had to. Dawn was approaching and he could see light around the edges of the door. He had to be gone before the household came to life.
His bones creaked as he moved, having been in the same foetal position all night. He rolled up the sleeping bag tightly, then took a careful look through the crack in the door at the house, now in darkness. As silently as he could he opened the door and manoeuvred the old, heavy mountain bike out and propped it up against the side of the house.
He needed the toilet, could not wait. Not wanting to take the chance of being spotted by an early rising neighbour, he crept back into the shed, dropped his trousers and did what he had to do, apologizing silently for the mess someone would find in due course. He wiped his arse with an oily rag, dropped it on to his excrement and smiled proudly. There was a lot of it.
Then he was out, riding the bike away.
Shitting and thieving, boy, great start to the day, he thought.
Next he needed some food, so he pedalled furiously to the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s on Preston New Road, opposite the KFC where he’d eaten the evening before, and cycled into the drive-thru. He bought a breakfast with orange juice, then hid around the back and scoffed the meal behind two huge metal trash cans.
It was almost seven — he’d seen a clock on the wall of the drive-thru — and he had to keep hidden for about an hour and a half before he could see the next person he had to talk to.
Katie Bretherton was now sixteen and evolving into a beautiful, willowy young woman. She had good brains, good ambitions and up until about six months ago, had been Mark Carter’s girlfriend. She’d stuck with him through his sister’s death and his brother’s jail term, and for a long period of time after that she and Mark had a wonderful time together. They had been good mates to begin with. This had become a ‘relationship’ and they’d discovered sex together.
But Mark had slowly evolved. His relationship with his mother got even worse, he had no male role model to look up to, and although Katie tried to keep him on a leash she sensed he was drifting away from her, becoming wild. When he struck up a friendship with Rory Costain, she cut Mark loose. There was only one direction to go by hanging around with a Costain and that was spectacularly downwards. Notwithstanding her pleas, Mark did not listen.
That morning, as usual, she set off for school from her house on the opposite side of Preston New Road, the posh side, where she lived with her very functional family. Mum, Dad, brother, sister, dog, cat, two cars.
Mark Carter was a long way from her mind. She was looking forward to a day at school, including English, French and PE, her favourite subjects, and she excelled in them all. At her age and year, school uniform was optional, but she usually chose to wear it for most of the week, but not today. She and some mates planned to go into town after school, so she was dressed in a tiny skirt and a blouse.
She kissed her mum, patted the cat, kissed the dog — who licked her face sloppily — then she was on her way.
Mark knew her route to school well. Indeed he had walked with her there and back on many occasions. He knew she had to walk from her house to the underpass that ran under the main road, so that kids could avoid the heavy, dangerous traffic on the dual carriageway. It was a well-lit facility and well used, but it was the best place for Mark to confront her.
From the cover of a hedge, he watched her walk on to the slope leading to the underpass, then came up behind her on the stolen bike. He whizzed past and swerved in front of her, trapping her between the underpass wall and the bike.
‘I need to talk to you.’
She eyed him angrily. ‘You’re in my way.’
‘I know. Like I said, I want to talk to you.’
‘Don’t think so.’ She started to back out of the trap.
‘Katie — please.’
‘Mark, I’ve said all I need to say to you. You want to hang about with Rory Costain, that’s fine. Just don’t include me-’
‘Rory’s dead. You must have heard.’
‘What?’ Her face screwed up.
‘He was murdered — and I was there.’
‘No surprise, then.’
‘Katie — I was fucking there!’
‘I’d heard some lad got shot,’ she admitted, ‘but I’m not interested. That world’ — she pointed in the direction of Shoreside — ‘has nothing to do with me. And even though you live on the estate, it had nothing to do with you, either — or so I thought. It’s all about choices, Mark.’
‘OK, fine, whatever… but I just want to tell you they’re after me, the people who did it, and I’m leaving for good. I have to get out of town. I wanted to tell you.’
‘Mark, you live in a dream world, guns ’n’ robbers. You’re pathetic. I can’t actually believe we were ever together. I mean, look at you. You’re a mess.’
‘They killed Rory’s dad last night — Billy Costain. They were trying to get me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Check the news, I’m sure it’ll be on — but of course you don’t listen to the news, do you? It’s all friggin’ Mamma Mia and Strictly Come Dancing to you, isn’t it?’ Mark kept his voice low but harsh. People were passing. Other kids on their way to school. Adults, too.
‘I’m not interested in being a lout, Mark. Nor were you.’
‘OK, I should’ve guessed you’d piss me off. I just wanted to tell you I was going and ask for a bit of help, that’s all.’
‘Mark, we’re not even mates any more.’ She shook her head sadly, wishing the opposite were true.
‘But I still love you,’ he blurted. His bottom lip began to wobble and big tears formed in his eyes.
She grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t be embarrassing.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he blubbered. ‘Let’s go somewhere — please.’ She shook her head as if this was madness, in
