Martyn Pig (18 page)

Alex seemed a little distracted when she arrived. I studied her face as she removed her fur hat and hung up her coat. The way she moved her lips, the shape of her mouth, her eyes – distracted or not, I could watch her for ever. She wiped at her brow with a finger, half-smiled, then adjusted the ribbon in her hair. It was a black one today, as black as her hair. Her faded denim shirt was black, too, worn loose over tight black jeans. Framed in black, the pale oval of her face shone with perfect simplicity. Like a china doll.

‘What?' she said.

I was staring. ‘Nothing. Sorry.'

She gazed down at the floor, licking her lips, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't remember what it was. I waited. Then, to my surprise, she looked up at me with a sparkling smile, reached over and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Sorry, Martyn.'

‘What for?' I said.

‘Yesterday. For not coming round.' She hesitated. ‘I just needed to get away from it all for a while.'

‘From what?'

‘Everything. Your dad. Dean. You. I mean, this whole situation ... it's pretty crazy. We disposed of a
body
, for Christ's sake. And now, today ...'

‘But we talked about that—'

‘I
know
we did. I'm not saying I've changed my mind, I'm not backing out or anything. I just needed some time away from it. That's all.' She touched my arm. ‘I'm just telling you why I didn't come round yesterday, why I didn't ring.'

I nodded. I didn't know what to say.

After a moment she took her hand away.

‘OK?' she said.

‘Yeah.'

‘Good.'

‘Right. What's the time?'

She looked at her watch. ‘Ten o'clock.'

‘We've got two hours before Dean gets here. Let's go over it again.'

We went over it again.

Afterwards, over tea and toast, I brought up the subject of money.

‘I've been thinking about it,' I told her. ‘We don't
have
to wait for the cheque to clear before we go spending. We could go into town this afternoon.'

‘But the cheque won't clear until tomorrow,' Alex argued. ‘You won't be able to get any cash out until then.'

‘Who said anything about cash?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've got a chequebook. I could buy stuff with cheques, I can forge Dad's signature.'

‘But—'

‘Look, I'll show you. Hold on.' I went upstairs and got Dad's cashcard from the bureau, and a pen and piece of paper.

‘I was always signing things in his name,' I explained, as I dashed off a series of signatures. ‘Delivery notes, letters to the Social Security, prescriptions ... it's easy. See?' I showed her my forged signatures, then the real one on the back of the cashcard. ‘You can't tell the difference, can you?'

I did another one.
W. PIG.
A big droopy W, like a pair of graffiti breasts, a dot, then a pathetic
PIG
, three scrunched up little capital letters that looked as if they were written by a six-year-old. A six-year-old with a broken hand. ‘You've got to do it quick,' I said, showing her again. ‘If you start to think about it, you lose it.'

‘That's very good, Martyn.'

‘Thank you.'

‘The only thing is—'

‘What?'

‘Who's going to take a cheque from a fourteen-year-old boy?'

I stopped signing and looked at her. ‘The man at the off-licence always does. He even lets me sign them in Dad's name.'

‘Well he would, wouldn't he?'

‘I don't see why—'

‘Yes you do.'

I paused, looking at her.

‘Come on, Martyn,' she said. ‘Don't be stupid. Even if someone
did
take a cheque – not that they would – but even if they did, cheques are traceable. Cheques are dangerous. Just wait until tomorrow, wait for the cheque to clear, then use the cashcard. One more day isn't going to hurt, is it? Stick to the plan.'

She was right, of course. It was a stupid idea, embarrassingly stupid. I wished there was a hole I could sink into.

I tried a grin. ‘What would I do without you?'

‘You'd think of something,' she smiled, then stood up. ‘I have to go to the bathroom. Give me the cashcard and I'll put it back in the bureau.' I passed her the card. She picked up the paper with the forged signatures on. ‘You don't want to leave this lying around, do you? I'll flush it.'

‘Thanks, Alex,' I said. ‘For everything.'

She looked at me and laughed.

I smiled. ‘What? What's so funny?'

‘Nothing,' she said, controlling herself, ‘nothing's funny.'

It bothered me sometimes, the way she changed. One second this; the next second that. It was hard to keep up. But then we all have our odd little ways, I suppose.

At eleven o'clock I walked her to the bus stop. The dark sky looked as if it had never been anything else but dark. Icy winds whipped through the alleyways between houses, scattering ragged arcs of loose snow across the road.

Dean was due in an hour.

‘What time will he leave his flat?' I asked.

‘Probably about eleven-thirty, eleven forty-five.'

‘You've got the key?'

She nodded, patting her pocket. ‘It was funny, really, when he gave it to me. It was as if he thought it was a really
loving
thing to do, you know, like he was asking me to marry him or something. I think he expected me to swoon.'

‘Did you?'

‘All he really wanted was someone to clean up his flat while he was at work.'

The bus shelter offered little protection against the wind. We sat shivering on the folding seats. Alex clutched her bag close to her body, staring straight ahead.

‘It'll be all right,' I said.

‘Yeah.'

We sat in silence. There was nothing else to say.

Five days ago we'd sat here. The picture was clear in my mind. Wednesday. Alex waiting for the bus, going to Dean's. Me with bags full of Christmas shopping and a runny nose. Alex making fun of the turkey, leaning over and peering into the carrier bags, nudging one with a foot.

Nice looking chicken.

It's a turkey.

Bit small for a turkey.

It's a small turkey.

I think you'll find that's a chicken, Martyn.

Grinning at each other. Her eyes shining in the gloom of the bus shelter, like marbles, clear and round and perfect. Just sitting there, chatting, doing nothing, watching the world go by—

‘Here's the bus,' she said, digging in her bag for her purse.

Was that then, or now?

The bus pulled in and the doors pished open. Alex stepped on. I watched her pay. I watched the bus driver click buttons on his ticket machine. I watched the bus ticket snicker out. I watched the way her eyes blinked slowly and I watched her mouth say
Thank you
and I watched the coal-black shine of her hair as she took the bus ticket and rolled it into a tube and stuck it in the corner of her mouth and walked gracefully to the back of the bus. And I watched and waited in vain for her to turn her head as the bus lurched out into the street and juddered up the road and disappeared around the corner.

She didn't look back.

Back home I tidied up. Without Dad around, the place was easy to keep clean. I used to hate the mess he made. Stuff all over the floor, dirty plates and cups, glasses, bottles, newspapers, cigarette ash, clothes, shoes – it was a tip. As soon as I'd cleared it all away there'd be more. A never-ending supply of rubbish. I couldn't stand it. All that jumble and dirt, it made me so I couldn't think straight. I need to see clean surfaces, flat and uncluttered. I need to see the true shape of things, the lines, the angles. Mess messes me up. Dad couldn't care less. He'd just sit there in his armchair, surrounded by his own debris, smoking and drinking, happy as a clam. Not a care in the world. Lord Muck. King of the Dump. Sometimes I think he did it on purpose. Messed the place up just to annoy me. He enjoyed it. Thought it was funny.

Now, although I couldn't do anything about its overall shabbiness, the house was as clean as a whistle. Clean and clear. No mess. No rubbish. No debris. Clean floor, clean kitchen, clean tables, clean everything. Clean and staying clean. And it was a pleasure to keep clean. There was nothing to it. Strolling around, flicking a duster here and there, pecking a stray piece of cotton from the carpet, adjusting the settee cushions. Whistling as I worked.

When I was done, satisfied that everything was spick and span, I settled down in the armchair to wait for Dean.

Calm, relaxed, my head unjumbled.

I was ready.

Five minutes later I heard the faint insect buzz of Dean's motorbike. Down at the bottom of the main road –
bzzzzz
– round the mini-roundabout –
bzbzzzz
– up the hill –
bzzzzzz
– the high-pitched whine getting louder and more desperate as it struggled up past the church, then –
nnn-nnn-nnn-nnn
– changing gear and slowing to take the corner into the street –
bzbzbzzzz
– closer and louder –
BZZZZZ
– like a giant wasp inside a tin can –
ZZZZZZ
– and then –
ZZZZzzz chugga chugga chugga
– as it slowed to a halt and parked across the road. The engine revved uselessly a couple of times and then died.

Silence.

Through the window I watched the black globe of Dean's crash helmet bobbing across the street. I listened to the clump of his boots as he mounted the pavement and stopped outside the door.

The doorbell rang.

I didn't move.

It rang again, longer this time.

I let it ring, then rose slowly from the chair and went out into the hall. Dean's dark figure loomed behind the door, his bulbous black head and lame body twisted out of shape by the moulded glass, like some kind of thin-legged, long-armed, dome-headed alien.

I stepped forward and opened the door. ‘Yes?'

He glared down at me for a second, eyes hidden behind the dark visor of his helmet, then strode past me into the hall. I shut the door.

‘Wha Alf?' he said, struggling with the straps of his crash helmet.

‘What?'

He pulled the crash helmet off his head. ‘Where's Alex?' he repeated, smoothing his ponytail.

I shrugged. ‘She's not here. Does it matter?'

‘No,' he sniffed. ‘You on your own, then?'

‘No.'

He peered into the kitchen. ‘Who else is here?'

‘You.'

Watery eyes stared down at me. ‘You think you're funny?'

‘Funnier than you.'

He curled his lip, trying to look hard. It didn't work. He wouldn't look hard if he was dipped in concrete. His ill-fitting black leather jacket and black leather trousers looked as if they belonged to someone else. The skin of his face was loose and shineless, pale and puffy from long hours gawping at a computer screen, like a lump of raw dough. Doughboy.

Standing there like a lummox, he lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my direction.

‘You can put that down if you want,' I said, nodding at the helmet dangling from his hand.

He almost said thanks, then remembered he was supposed to be hard, so he sneered and dropped the helmet on the hall table.

What had Alex ever seen in him? I thought. How could she ... with that?

‘Do you miss her?' I asked suddenly.

‘Who? Alex?' He laughed coldly. ‘Miss her? I'm glad to see the back of her. Snotty little bitch. There's plenty more where that came from.' He stroked his ponytail and smirked. ‘Why? D'you fancy your chances, then, Pigman?'

‘Alex is just a friend.'

‘Yeah?'

‘You wouldn't understand.'

He puffed on his cigarette. ‘She's too much for you, I know that. Too much of a woman. Know what I mean?'

‘She's just a friend.'

‘I'd stick to someone your own age if I were you. Snogging behind the bike sheds, that kind of stuff.
Kid's
stuff. Alex, she's something else.' He winked. ‘She'd wear you out.'

Idiot.

I went into the front room and sat down in the armchair. Dean followed hesitantly, cautiously examining the room as he entered.

‘Where is it?' he said.

‘What?'

‘You know what.'

‘The body?'

He nodded.

‘Gone,' I said.

He said nothing. Standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with the zips on his jacket, smoking his cigarette, unsure how to react.

‘Sit down,' I said, indicating the settee.

The cushions slouched forward as he sat down and he had to grab the armrest and cross his legs to avoid sliding off. He flicked his ponytail to one side and tapped cigarette ash on the floor in a futile attempt to regain his poise. He was a useless slob. A sad human being, hardly worthy of the name. Six feet of wet dough.

‘Well?' I said.

‘What?'

‘Did you bring the tapes?'

‘Have you got the money?'

‘Show me the tapes.'

‘Show me the money.'

I glanced out of the window. Sparse snow was falling gently, drifting leisurely in the air.
Big, fat, lazy flakes, fluttering, see-sawing, circling, taking their time, riding down slowly through the cold thickness of the air. Soft white crystals
...

‘You're not getting any money,' I said.

He opened his mouth then shut it again. He sniffed and rubbed at his mouth. ‘What?'

‘You're not getting any money.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it's mine.'

We stared at each other. His eyes were blank. I could see right down into his soul; there was nothing there. He sucked hard on his cigarette, blinked, then jerked the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a long stream of smoke that drifted up to the ceiling and settled in a blue-grey cloud. Tough-guy.