Screen of Deceit by Nick Oldham Page A

morning reading and an afternoon playing footie.
    He knew he would have liked school even if he didn’t have any ambitions, but even at the age of fourteen he was planning ahead and saw school as the best way to cut free from Blackpool. He didn’t want to end up in a dead-end job. He could easily have got work around the resort when he left school, even without any qualifications, but he had a different life planned.
    First off, he was going to stay on for ‘A’ levels, then he was going to go to university. Part of what he earned from his paper rounds was already going towards those costs. Yes, university, in a town or city far, far away.
    Then a job in London, or New York, or Madrid.
    At that moment he wasn’t sure what sort of job. That would come, he thought.
    For now, he was dreaming with his eyes open.
    Except, in Mrs Fletcher’s history class, he was actually
day
dreaming with his eyes open, staring out at the football pitch. And he wasn’t thinking about London and the future. Nor was he thinking about the Victorians and the past, which he should’ve been doing. He was thinking about Bethany. And Jonny Sparks. And how to split them up.
    A nasty crack on the head made him jump back to the reality of the classroom. Mrs Fletcher’s ‘dink’ with a pencil on the skull – her favourite means of getting someone’s attention. His head spun around and he looked stupidly up at her, rubbing his head and saying, ‘Ow.’
    â€˜Away with the fairies, Mark Carter?’
    The rest of the class giggled.
    â€˜Sorry, Mrs Fletcher.’
    She regarded him warmly. She quite liked him. ‘So,’ she asked, ‘what did the Victorians ever do for us?’
    â€˜Brought sanitation?’ he responded hopefully.
    She blinked. ‘Yes, you’re right. They got rid of poo.’
    Inwardly, Mark was relieved, thinking he’d got off lightly. He shuffled cockily on his chair. But Mrs Fletcher wasn’t to be put off by a lucky answer – even a good one. ‘And what else?’
    He groaned and shifted in his uncomfortable chair, his mind now a blank.
    â€˜Jet engines?’ he guessed – an answer that received another pencil crack on the bonce.
    Word travelled fast. Before he knew it, Mark Carter was a bit of a celebrity, albeit an infamous one.
    He picked up the vibes during lunchtime as he walked with Bradley from the form classroom towards the dining room. Some year eight girls saw him and started giggling and whispering behind their hands; next a couple of year nine lads moved quickly out of his way, giving him more respect than he’d ever had before.
    In the dinner queue, some guys behind him, who were in the year above him, scrutinized him strangely.
    In the end, Mark gave up, turned and said, ‘What?’
    They backed off a couple of steps.
    â€˜What?’ Mark demanded more fervently.
    â€˜Sorry,’ one of them said. He had real fear in his eyes. Mark didn’t even know the lad’s name, just knew he was a head taller than Mark was and pretty hard with it.
    â€˜What you sorry for?’ Mark shook his head and turned away.
    Bradley laid a hand on Mark’s arm.
    â€˜What’s going on?’ Mark asked.
    The dinner queue moved on a few feet. Mark and Bradley made up the distance, but not before a couple of year tens had seen the opportunity and cut rudely in.
    â€˜Oi!’ Mark snarled.
    They spun with ferocity, ready to put him firmly in his place. Then they saw who he was, who they’d just transgressed. They mumbled some sort of pathetic apology and scurried away like mice.
    Mark looked askance at Bradley, who had an amazed grin on his face. Mark gestured with his hands as though he was trying to grab something that wasn’t there. ‘Help me here.’
    â€˜Word is you battered Jonny Sparks, mate.’
    Mark blinked.
    â€˜Word is, he dissed you and you leathered him.’
    â€˜Word is