Deadly Deceit by Hannah, Mari
1
Twelve forty-five a.m., Thursday, 24 June 2010. Another hot and sticky night. Standing in the shadows, the girl peered into the darkness. Not a soul about. Several streetlights were out thanks to a couple of local yobs who possessed an air rifle each and no more sense than they were born with. She had to admit, the conditions were perfect for someone with murder in mind.
Just metres away, in scenes reminiscent of the end of World War Two, the scruffy back lanes of Newcastle’s West End had been transformed. Red-and-white bunting blew in the breeze, criss-crossing Victorian terraces. Beneath it, trestle tables laid end to end stretched the full length of the lane where she lived.
If anyone could actually call it living.
With the eyes of the world on South Africa, the Brits were behaving like wankers celebrating a one–nil win over Slovenia after a piss-poor start to their World Cup. The party had begun at noon, a knocked-off flat screen rigged up outside so everyone could watch the match and get smashed in the sunshine. Paper plates were piled high with enough sandwiches and crisps to feed a small nation, crates of cheap booze stacked against one wall, a barbeque as big as Texas built just for the occasion, a karaoke system laid ready and waiting for the really sad fuckers.
One of the guys had organized a mini football tournament, clearing wheelie bins away and drawing makeshift goalposts on the gable end of the next terrace down. Before coverage of the big game began, he’d exhibited his ball skills with an impressive number of keepy-ups to the delight of the kids. As they ran towards him cheering, he’d dribbled the ball past one, past two, and scored a goal before running off celebrating through a rotting wooden gate that was hanging from its hinges, returning minutes later with prizes: water pistols and catapults. Perfect choice for the next generation of fuckwits unlucky enough to grow up round here.
But that was nearly twelve hours ago.
Leftover food, gone stale in the heat of the day, littered the ground, blown there by the wind. Kids were tired and fractious, many of their parents drunk and incapable – none of them remotely interested in putting their bairns to bed. They’d spent the last few hours with beer goggles on, bigging up the game: Terry was awesome, Upson too, Milner outstanding – we can go on and win the tournament now. Bring on Germany!
Yeah right: only yesterday they were accusing the England team of bottling it, choking under pressure – their manager, Fabio Capello, of ill-considered tactics. In the pre-match build up, TV commentators had talked of the courage required to play for your country. Bollocks. Her brother was in Afghanistan fighting for his. That took courage. Not kicking a ball round on a patch of grass for an hour and a half, a group hug at the end to show their solidarity. Footballers were only good for two things: shagging or fleecing – and not necessarily in that order.
The smell of barbequed food reached her. That would be the kid three doors down – twenty-two years old and thirty stones in weight – never more than three metres from a burger, two if there were chips and curry sauce on the go. It seemed like everyone was involved in the street party.
Except one.
A raised voice broke through the laughter. A bottle flew through the air and landed in the street a few metres away, smashing into a million pieces. They were off, the neighbours from hell. It would all end in tears, probably at the General Hospital, their second home. Pissheads, both of them. Deserved each other. Wouldn’t know a good time if it ran up and bit them on the arse. Still, with neither of them working, there was a whole day ahead to sleep it off. Or so they thought.
But then they didn’t know what she knew.