Martyn Pig (10 page)

So I showed her. I snorted, snored, breathed heavily, mumbled. ‘Like that,' I said, ‘only in Dad's voice.'

We practised for a while. She got it almost straight away.

‘What do you think?' she asked.

I nodded, smiling. ‘Brilliant.' I held out the mike. ‘Ready?'

She breathed in and nodded, and I pressed
Record
.

Five minutes later we had what we needed. The sound of a sleeping, snoring, snuffling Dad. Alex even added an incoherent mumble here and there for extra authenticity.

When I put the tape recorder under the duvet and played it back it sounded even better – muffled, realistic.

‘First take, too,' I said. ‘You've got this acting business sorted.'

‘That's not acting,' she said, panting slightly, ‘that's just breathing.'

Dad's bedroom had always been pretty gungy. Smelly, dirty, kind of sticky everywhere. A bit spooky, too. It was like a cave, a secret hideaway, a grotto. Even on a sunny day it was cold and dark. Now, though, with Dad's body laid out in disguise – perfumed, made-up, artificial – and the afternoon light filtering in through closed curtains, it was an incredibly eerie place to be. Chilling, macabre, like something that belonged in a different world.

‘Come on,' I said. ‘Let's get out of here.'

At the door I turned and looked back. There he was. Not dead, just sleeping.

It would have to do.

My room was like a palace compared to Dad's. Clean and white and odourless. Everything in its place. It was three-thirty. Just enough time for a quick rest before Aunty Jean showed up. I breathed in and relaxed.

‘How do you feel?' I asked Alex.

‘Not too good, actually,' she said, rummaging through her bag. ‘In fact … I feel a bit ill. I think …' She put the bag down and put a hand to her stomach.

‘Are you going to be sick?'

She looked at me, nodding her head.

‘All right,' I said, going over to her. ‘It'll be all right. Use the bathroom. Come on.' As I led her out of the bedroom she started gulping, holding her hand to her mouth.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I thought … uh …'

‘Don't worry about it.'

‘It's embarrassing …'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘But I don't want to … uh … it's so embarrassing … being sick … would you mind going downstairs? … I don't want you to hear me … you know …'

‘That's OK. You can shut the door. Lock it if you want. I'll be in the front room. Don't worry, I won't hear anything.'

I got her into the bathroom, shut the door and went downstairs. In the front room I opened the curtains and smiled as the sunlight crept in for the first time since … since when? Since Wednesday. Two days ago. I swept the fireplace, wiped it down with a damp cloth, dried it, then gave it a thorough polish. The smell of Autumn Flowers filled the room, almost hiding that other smell. Almost, but not quite. Cigarettes, I thought. That would help, the smell of cigarettes. I found a pack on the mantelpiece, took one out, lit it and placed it in an ashtray, letting it burn. I sniffed in deeply – not bad. Maybe it would be all right.

Shuffling sounds from upstairs. Taps running. The roar of the toilet flushing. Alex. Being sick.

I crossed to the window and looked out. The same old grey day looked back at me. A fat Jack Russell padded across the road and peed on the back wheel of a white Fiesta, then ambled away. A couple of minutes later Slobman from up the road slouched past the window, mindless indifference hanging from his face. Where was he going? I wondered. Nowhere, probably. He never went anywhere. He just slobbed around. He was ageless. Sometimes he looked like a young man, sometimes he looked fifty. With his tatty old coat hanging open, his Garfield T-shirt tucked into army surplus jogging pants, and his wispy hair waving in the wind, he turned the corner and was gone.

Main road traffic droned in the distance, humming, whooshing, moving. Always moving. Cars, people in cars, going places. But the street outside was still. My street. It branches off the main road, loops around, then rejoins the main road again at the bottom. Like the curved bit of a letter D, the straight bit being the main road. That's why it's relatively quiet here, the street doesn't go anywhere.

The clock was ticking. Quarter to four. Come on, Alex, I thought. Hurry up. Aunty Jean will be here soon. The toilet flushed again. A door closed. I listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs – nothing. Come
on
.

I stared out at the mid-afternoon emptiness. Terraced houses with faded doors and faded curtains, alleyways, low brick walls and chipped pillars, paint-peeled gates, raggedy hedges – the look of deadness in the air like nothing-ever-happens. I knew it so well it didn't look like anything.

Ten to four. The toilet flushed again.

I went over and sat down in the armchair. The armchair. Dad's armchair.
My
armchair.

Footsteps creaked on the ceiling. I looked up. What is she
doing
?

Come on, Alex.

Come
on
.

At five minutes to four I couldn't wait any longer. I went to the foot of the stairs and looked up. The bathroom door was still closed. ‘Alex?'

No answer.

‘Alex! Come on, she'll be here—'

The door opened and Alex popped her head out – head and bare shoulders. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I won't be a minute. I got some sick on my shirt, I was just wiping it off.'

I didn't know where to look. ‘Oh … right … OK. It's just that … you know …'

‘I won't be a sec—'

And then the doorbell rang.

I could tell it was Aunty Jean by the tone of the bell. It sounded terrified. I glanced quickly at the door then looked up at Alex. Despite the sudden race of panic I couldn't help noticing how different she looked. There was nothing … you know … nothing
improper
about it. Just a hint of bare shoulder and one bare arm. But somehow it made her look so graceful, like an actress. Like a film star dressing for her big scene.

‘Martyn!' she hissed.

‘Stay there!' I hissed back. ‘Keep the door shut and don't make a sound. I'll try and get rid of her as quick as I can.'

The bell was ringing again, demanding to be answered. I waited for Alex to shut the door, took a couple of deep breaths, then went and opened the front door. And there she was – Aunty Jean. Stiff, upright, scowling, standing on the step as if she'd been waiting there for a thousand years.

‘Well?' she said.

Pale winter sunlight had broken through the patchy clouds, glistening weakly on the roofs of parked cars across the street. Aunty Jean's pancaked face soaked up the sun like blotting paper.

I stepped back and motioned her in with a nervous smile.

‘Thank
you
,' she said.

Her shiny brown coat rustled as she entered the hall. She was a ludicrous person. Bony, leathery, with sticky-out elbows and bow legs, she looked like a cartoon woman. A crazy old spook.

She removed her coat and passed it to me without looking.

‘Dad's sick, Aunty,' I said, hanging up her coat. ‘He's in bed.'

‘Sick?' she snorted. ‘So that's what he calls it now, is it?'

She looped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and adjusted the hang of her dress. It was the same dress she always wore, a stiff cream-coloured thing with shiny brass buttons. Stiff enough to stand up on its own.

‘No, he really is
sick
,' I said. ‘Flu or something, a virus.'

She snorted again. A phlegmy, back-of-the-throat noise, complete with flared nostrils and a curled upper lip. Her teeth were remarkably small, like baby's teeth. Small and square. I'd often wondered if they were false. She marched into the front room and I followed her, like some kind of weird offspring following its mother.

‘
Whooof
,' she exclaimed. ‘What on
earth
is that smell?'

‘Drains,' I spluttered, ‘the drains up the road are being fixed.'

‘I didn't see anything.'

‘No, they
were
being fixed, a couple of days ago, the waterboard were digging up the road. They can't have mended them properly.'

‘Hmmm,' she said.

Then she was pacing round the room, looking into every corner, checking for dust, beer cans, bottles. I stood there watching her, hoping she was as mad as she looked. Her hair sat on top of her head like a blue Brillo pad, rigid and unmoving. Why does she do that to it? I thought. Does she think it looks nice? What does it
feel
like? A nylon brush? A hedgehog?

‘How's school?' she said.

‘What?'

‘Don't say
what
, say
pardon
.'

‘Pardon?'

‘School, Martyn. How are you doing at school?'

‘OK,' I shrugged.

‘OK? What's that supposed to mean?'

I rubbed at the back of my neck. ‘Everything's fine, Aunty. Thank you.'

She came towards me and stopped about an inch away, staring into my eyes. She smelled of lemon and bleach and awful old-woman perfume.

‘Now then, Martyn,' she said in her very serious voice, ‘I want you to tell me the truth.'

I stared back into her face, avoiding her eyes. A long black hair twisted from a mole on her chin. The pores of her skin were stained, like small blue stars.

‘How
are
you?' she breathed. ‘
Really
.'

I licked my lips and tried to swallow. ‘Fine, Aunty. Really. I'm fine.'

‘What about
him
?'

She said
him
as if it was the vilest word in the English language.

‘He's OK … he's doing his best. Really. It's all right, we're all right.'

She gazed deeper into my eyes, trying to read my mind, then turned away and said something that sounded suspiciously like
pah
!

‘Where is he then?' she said dismissively, ‘Where's the
patient
?'

As I led her up the stairs my heart was pounding and my stomach felt like it was full of wasps. She kept sniffing all the time, not saying anything, just sniffing. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Like a labrador searching for a bone. I couldn't help glancing at the bathroom door as we passed, imagining Alex in there, imagining …

We stopped outside Dad's bedroom. ‘He's probably still asleep,' I said. ‘He was up most of the night.'

Aunty Jean rolled her eyes.

‘I mean he didn't get any sleep,' I explained. ‘He was up, you know, being sick all the time, in and out of bed.'

She gave me a sceptical look. ‘Open the door, then.'

There are moments in your life when you have to do things you really don't want to do. You
have
to do them, you have no choice. It's no good wishing things were different, wishing you could turn the clock back, wishing you had another chance, because things aren't different, you can't turn the clock back, you don't get another chance. So, there I was, about to present Aunty Jean to her dead brother, hoping I could get away with pretending that he was ill in bed, asleep. Not dead, just sleeping.

I had no choice. Do you understand? I had
no choice
.

The only thing to do when you're faced with something like that is to say to yourself: what's the worst that can happen? And then do it.

I opened the door and we went in.

‘
Phewf
! There's that smell again. Goodness me!'

I ignored her and moved cautiously into the dim and fetid room. ‘Dad?' I whispered. ‘Dad? It's Aunty Jean.'

‘Why is it so dark in here?' she moaned. ‘I can't see where I'm going.'

‘The light hurts his eyes,' I explained as I hurriedly removed the pound coins from Dad's eyelids. I'd forgotten all about them. Luckily, his eyes stayed shut. I reached under the bedclothes and switched on the tape recorder. Muffled heavy breathing growled from beneath the sheets. Snores. Too loud. I fumbled for the volume control and turned it down.

Aunty Jean was standing in the middle of the room tutting. ‘Look at the state of this place, look at it, it's
disgusting.
'

I reached my hand in under Dad's head, shuddering. It was cold, lifeless.

‘He's fast asleep, Aunty,' I said.

‘Is he, now?'

She approached the bed with some menace. Rasping snores filled the room. Had we overdone it? I moved Dad's head in time with the snoring.

Aunty Jean stopped a few feet away, a look of surprise on her face.

‘Oh,' she said.

She bent forward for a closer look. I held my breath.

‘He's a bit … off-colour.'

‘He's not been eating much,' I said.

‘What happened to his head?'

‘He walked into the door during the night. Got a nasty cut.'

She stepped closer, sniffing. ‘What
is
that smell?'

‘He's had a bit of … you know, a bit of stomach trouble.'

I was starting to worry if we'd recorded enough snoring on the tape. What was I going to do if the tape ran out?

My heart raced as Aunty Jean moved a little closer.

‘
Will
-yam?
Will
-yam?' She reached out her hand.

‘Better not, Aunty,' I said. ‘It might be catching.'

She snapped her hand away.

A puzzled look wrinkled her features. ‘He looks … he certainly doesn't look well, Martyn. Have you called the doctor?'

I almost laughed out loud. ‘Tomorrow,' I said. ‘The doctor's coming tomorrow.'

‘His eyes … there's something strange about his eyes,' she said, squinting in the dark. ‘Perhaps I ought to call the doctor now.'

‘No, no, really. I … I telephoned the doctor earlier. They said it was probably this virus that's going around. It makes your eyes go funny, apparently.'