Screen of Deceit by Nick Oldham Page B

wrong,’ Mark said quietly.
    â€˜I know that … rumours grow. The real story gets twisted. Y’know – the fact that what you actually did was hit him and run for your life. Somehow that seems to have got lost in the mists of story-telling.’
    Mark was thoughtful as he collected his tray and moved across the serving hatch, picking up his Jamie Oliver-inspired dinner of healthy stuff. Mark desperately needed a burger and chips, not rabbit food. He chose lasagne and boiled potatoes and sticky toffee pudding for dessert, which was the unhealthiest thing on the menu.
    He ate in silence. The buzz, chatter and laughter of the other kids in the room was just background. He didn’t even hear it. Bradley sat opposite him, knowing it best not to disturb his pal’s thinking.
    Mark was brought back with a bump when a year ten lad walked past him, again, someone he hardly knew, and gave him a slap on the shoulder.
    â€˜Way to go, mate,’ the lad said. ‘Respect to you. The twat deserves all he gets.’
    â€˜Cheers,’ Mark responded dully.
    â€˜New-found fame,’ Bradley smirked when the lad had gone. ‘How you going to handle it?’
    â€˜Mm,’ Mark mumbled doubtfully. Thing was, though, as he thought about it, the respect was pretty cool and he was beginning to enjoy the notoriety a little, even if the story of what really happened had been twisted. Trouble was, it could all go wrong once everyone got to know the real truth, or when another lad found the courage to challenge him and discovered that Mark wasn’t really much of a fighter. So, as much as it was a good feeling to have guys cowering under his gaze, Mark wasn’t foolish enough to believe in his own press. He knew he had to put an end to this – and fast. Particularly before Jonny Sparks found out and got extra mad at him for embellishing the truth, even though he wasn’t the one who had. It had just happened.
    But … just for a few more minutes, maybe even for a few hours, Mark decided to bask in the glory.
    He pretty much kept his head down for the rest of the day: maths and science, his two poorest subjects. A few people gave him sidelong glances which were a mixture of awe and respect and not a little fear.
    Thinking about it, Mark could perhaps see where they were coming from.
    Jonny Sparks had been – still was – one of those kids beyond anyone’s control. His background made Mark look as though he’d been brought up in a wealthy, caring family with all the privileges imaginable. Jonny’s parents were smack-heads, real heavy-duty drug addicts who were in and out of the police station on a weekly basis for stealing stuff to feed their habits. The only bit of luck Jonny’d had was not to be born a heroin addict. He’d been brought into this world before his mother, who was seventeen when he was born, had staggered down that path.
    Jonny had grown up into a hard, streetwise kid with no social skills whatever. He terrorized other kids and disrupted lessons (when he was actually in school); when he beat up the PE teacher, ambushing the guy in the changing rooms, attacking him with a dumb-bell and putting him in hospital, he’d finally been excluded for good. Most of his life had been spent in and out of children’s homes, being chased by the courts and social services.
    But – in Mark’s estimation – none of this excused Jonny’s violent behaviour.
    It had been a good day for the school when he was kicked out, but rumours still abounded, as rumours did, that Jonny might come back because that was the way the ridiculous system worked. If you were out of control, it seemed, they bent over backwards for you.
    So, yeah, Mark could see why he was a bit of a hero. Few people liked Jonny, most were scared of him, and anyone who got the better of him was to be applauded. Unless they became like him, which Mark had no intention of doing.
    He was