Screen of Deceit by Nick Oldham

hallway. What he saw scared him. There were changes he’d not noticed before that moment.
    Beth used to be on the chubby side. Not fat, but some of Mark’s mates had passed lewd comments about the size of her boobs. As Mark quickly scanned her, he now saw a thin, pasty ghost of the girl who had once been a picture of health. She looked like a skeleton. Her cheekbones stuck out against her skin and her face had deep valleys in it, with gloomy shadows on it. Her eyes were sunk in, surrounded by unhealthy bags. Her mouth had become thin, almost lip-less and her neck was like a scrawny turkey. She looked dreadful. Mark knew intuitively that her condition was not because of smoking a few spliffs or going on a diet. Cannabis alone did not do this to a person. She was into hard drugs.
    Why hadn’t he seen the change?
    He swallowed. ‘Please.’ It was all he could think of to say. The word was barely audible.
    It had no effect on Bethany. She shook her head. ‘Do me a favour – piss off and leave me alone. I’m old enough to know what I’m doing.’
    â€˜Yeah, right.’ His tone was sarcastic.
    She ran upstairs and banged into her room, leaving Mark standing in the hall, staring after her. He sat down on the second step, elbows on knees, head in hands. He began to cry softly, somehow believing all this was his doing, his fault. If only he’d seen the signs.
    The tears lasted maybe five minutes before he crept quietly upstairs. On the landing, he paused outside Beth’s door, listening but hearing nothing. A few steps further and he was outside his mum’s room. He tapped gently on the door and pushed it open, poking his head inside.
    Her big double bed – unmade – was empty. He knew it would be. She was probably out at her latest boyfriend’s. Mark would be lucky to see her even in the morning. She’d most likely be out all night. He slid into her room and perched on the edge of her bed, running his hands over the sheets, thinking about her. He had vague recollections of sneaking into bed with her when he was a lot younger. He had felt warm and protected and she had held him close against her in those days. That was just after his dad had done a runner. Those days hadn’t lasted long. Soon, there was no chance of getting into bed with her unless you wanted to curl up with the latest ‘uncle’.
    But now, sitting there, Mark wasn’t too upset about the dim, distant past.
    It was the here and now that terrified him.

Four
    N ext day, school was a bit of a haze.
    It began solemnly, with assembly, when the whole school was asked to stand for a minute of silence to show respect for a sixth-former – a girl called Jane Grice who had died from a drug overdose a fortnight earlier; today was the day of her funeral. The head teacher said a few words about her, warned everyone of the dangers of drugs and then led the school in an incantation of the Lord’s Prayer after the minute’s silence – during which there was a lot of farting, pushing and giggling going on. Some respect.
    Mark went along with it, the little tirade about the dangers of drugs hitting a chord within him. He didn’t know the girl who had died, though, and wasn’t really affected by her demise. But he could see others who were. Some of her friends were openly weeping. He had a vague sort of memory of seeing her knocking around with Jonny Sparks before he got excluded.
    After assembly, the kids all trooped to their classes as if nothing had happened.
    Mark actually enjoyed school, couldn’t understand anyone who didn’t. He had some good mates here, had a laugh and sometimes even knuckled down and did some work and usually enjoyed the subjects. He was half-good at maths and sciences, not so brilliant at metalwork, adored Spanish, was ace at English – literature and language – and history … and, of course, sport. His perfect day would have been a