BooksBarbecue
Back The Game
Chapters (68)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. NOW
  4. One
  5. BEFORE
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. NOW
  26. Twenty-One
  27. BEFORE
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. Twenty-Four
  31. Twenty-Five
  32. Twenty-Six
  33. Twenty-Seven
  34. Twenty-Eight
  35. Twenty-Nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-One
  38. Thirty-Two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. Thirty-Eight
  45. NOW
  46. Thirty-Nine
  47. BEFORE
  48. Forty
  49. Forty-One
  50. Forty-Two
  51. Forty-three
  52. Forty-Four
  53. Forty-Five
  54. Forty-Six
  55. Forty-Seven
  56. Forty-Eight
  57. Forty-Nine
  58. Fifty
  59. Fifty-One
  60. NOW
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. Fifty-Three
  63. Fifty-Four
  64. Fifty-Five
  65. AFTER
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Acknowledgements
  68. About the Author

Mark turned to where John’s mother was standing and smiled at her. She still seemed perturbed by the disturbance, but he knew what she was going to do. She would slip back downstairs and go into full British middle-class form and grumble to herself. Mark closed the door and felt for the light switch, turning it on. John was sitting fully clothed on the edge of his bed.

‘You know, don’t you?’ John said, his shoulders slumping a little. ‘I knew it wasn’t going to be kept quiet.’

‘Know what, John?’ Mark replied, taking in the young lad sitting on the single bed. The room was almost exactly like Charlie Burns’s had been – teenage angst seeping out of every surface of it. Only John Redwood was eighteen now, so really should have known better. John looked younger though – sixteen at most, Mark thought. His face was still pockmarked with acne, red and angry. His entire body seemed to be bearing a heavy load. Mark had heard the phrase carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but realised it could be true in this case. John seemed to be collapsing from the strain. Mark tried to breathe through his mouth to mask the smell emanating from him. Sweat and self-abuse. ‘Do you want me to tell you who I am first?’

‘I heard you talking to my mum downstairs,’ John said, rubbing a sleeve of his jacket across his nose. His eyes were as red as the scars on his face. He’d been crying, Mark thought. Dark bags under his eyes, as if sleep was a distant memory.

‘You know I’m a detective then,’ Mark replied, watching him carefully. He was hoping to have had the upper hand in bursting inside, but he could see that John had almost been waiting for him. Like he knew he was coming, even before he’d knocked on the door. Lying in bed, fully clothed, waiting for the inevitable. ‘You know what case I’ve been working on?’

John frowned, but then nodded his head. ‘The dead girl. Emily Burns. And the other one. And you’re here now because of her.’

Mark felt his heart quicken, but kept a straight face. ‘Because of who, John?’

‘Holly,’ John said, then stood up. He looked at Mark, blinked a few times, as if he was making a decision. Then, he put his head down and started barrelling towards him.

Forty-Seven

It was hardly a fair fight.