Martyn Pig

by Kevin Brooks

  The truth.

  Face it.

  Whatever remains is the truth. They’ve gone. She’s gone. Taken the money and gone. Ripped you off. Conned you. Used you. Betrayed you. It was all an act. She’s an actress. How could you ever have thought anything else? You, Martyn Pig, with Alex? Beautiful Alex. No chance. Not in a million years. What have you got to offer? Dean was right. She’s a woman. Know what I mean?

  Dean. She was in it with Dean all along. Doughboy. Not as dumb as you thought. The two of them. They just used me to get Dad out of the way ...

  No.

  She wouldn’t have let me frame him. If she was in it with Dean, she wouldn’t have let me frame him.

  No.

  It was just her and her mum. Mother and daughter. Has-been and wannabe. I’d been had by a has-been and a wannabe.

  Yes.

  When?

  When did she plan it? Right from the start? And whose idea was it? Her mum’s? Or hers?

  No.

  How could she?

  She couldn’t.

  No.

  So, where’s she gone?

  Where is she?

  What’s she doing?

  What am I going to do?

  What can I do?

  Did I ever mean anything to her?

  Alex?

  Answer me.

  Tell me what happened.

  Tell me what you’ve done.

  Tell me it’s impossible.

  Tell me.

  Please.

  I was still sitting there at midnight when the doorbell rang.

  Everything bad I’d thought about her disappeared in a flash. I was wrong. I was stupid. I was an idiot. How could I ever have thought she’d do such a thing? Betray me? Alex? We were friends. Best friends. Maybe more. I raced to the door and flung it open.

  ‘We’re looking for Mr Pig.’

  The police. Two of them. The one who spoke was a silver-haired man with a weathered face and sharp eyes. Medium height, stout, round-shouldered. He had a crumpled look about him. Beneath his raincoat he wore a dark blue suit that didn’t seem to fit properly.

  ‘Mr William Pig,’ he continued. ‘Is he in?’

  I shook my head.

  He held out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Breece. This is Detective Sergeant Finlay.’ Finlay flashed his card. Tall, sad-faced, about thirty, he looked a bit dim but probably wasn’t. Breece looked past me into the hall. ‘Where’s your dad, son?’

  House lights clicked on across the street, bedroom curtains twitched.

  Breece looked at me. ‘Are you on your own?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘What about your mum?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Can you speak, son?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Martyn,’ I said. Martyn Pig. Martyn with a Y, Pig with an I and one G.

  ‘Where is he, Martyn?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He sighed. ‘Do you think we could come in?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because it’s bloody freezing out here, that’s what for.’

  I hesitated. Breece just stood there waiting.

  ‘Have you got a search warrant?’ I asked him.

  ‘A search warrant?’

  I shrugged.

  Breece sighed. ‘Look, Martyn. We just want to have a chat. About your dad. It won’t take a minute.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘If you want a search warrant,’ he continued in his dead-pan voice, ‘Sergeant Finlay will wait here while I drive all the way back to the station. Then I’ll have to wake someone up to sign the warrant. Then I’ll have to drive all the way back and by the time I get here I’ll be in a foul mood. Is that what you want?’

  I didn’t even know if they needed a search warrant. I’d only said it because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  What could I do? I stepped back and let them in.

  Breece followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table while I started to make some tea. I heard Finlay clomping up the stairs.

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘Bathroom,’ Breece answered.

  I took three mugs from the cupboard and rinsed them in the sink. Breece’s reflection shimmered in the kitchen window. He hadn’t taken his raincoat off. His hair was wet. A notepad was open on the table.

  ‘Do you know Dean West?’ he said.

  I nearly dropped a mug. ‘What?’

  ‘Dean West,’ he repeated patiently. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk about my dad?’

  ‘Just answer the question, please. Do you know Dean West?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘I know who he is.’

  Breece flipped through the pages of his notepad. ‘Tall, blond hair, ponytail? Rides a motorbike.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  The kettle boiled. I filled the mugs. ‘I don’t really know him,’ I said. ‘He’s a friend of a friend, you know.’

  Breece stared at my back. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Months ago, in summer. In Boots.’

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘The chemists.’

  ‘Not since then?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, not that I can remember.’ Breece scribbled something in his notepad. ‘What’s Dean got to do with anything?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  Footsteps sounded from the stairs, then Finlay popped his head round the kitchen door. ‘Guv.’

  Breece rose and went out into the hall. He had a slight limp, as if one foot was heavier than the other. Voices muttered briefly and then Breece came back in and sat down at the table again.

  I heard Finlay move into the front room.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Where’s your dad, Martyn?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about your mum?

  ‘She doesn’t live here.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He shook his head. ‘When did you last see your dad?’

  I spooned teabags from the cups, threw them at the bin and missed. ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. He went out.’

  ‘Where was he going?’

  I poured milk into the teas, stirred them and passed one to Breece. ‘To the pub, probably.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

  I sat down at the table. ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘He often stays away for days. He drinks.’

  Finlay came back in and stood by the window. He looked bored.

  I didn’t understand what was going on. What did they know? Did they know about Dad, or not? Why were they asking about Dean? I couldn’t work out what to say, whether to lie or just say nothing. It’s hard to lie convincingly when you don’t know how much the other person knows.

  Breece drained his cup, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some papers. He unfolded them and laid them out on the table for me to read.

  Dear Mr Pig, Further to our meeting on 1st December, I write to confirm that, as requested, a cheque in the amount of £30,000 was paid into your account this morning, being full payment ...

  I looked up and met Breece’s gaze. Pale blue eyes drilled into mine, unblinking. Wordlessly, he placed another sheet of paper on the table.

  Signatures. W. PIG. W. PIG. W. PIG. W. PIG ... Big droopy W, scrunched up little PIG.

  I heard Alex’s voice in my head – You don’t want to leave this lying around, do you? I’ll flush it.

  ‘Letters addressed to William Pig,’ Breece said simply. ‘Your father.’

  ‘I don’t know anything—’
/>
  ‘And forged signatures. These were found at Dean West’s flat this morning.’

  ‘Dean’s?’

  ‘He was killed in a road accident yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘His motorbike went under a bus. Just down the road, at the roundabout at the bottom of the hill. The brake lines failed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Failed. Snapped. Possibly severed. Intentionally.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Breece stared at me for a moment then reached into his pocket again and removed a clear plastic envelope which he placed on the table. Inside it was a folded blue cloth. Like a face flannel. It was a face flannel. Mine.

  ‘Sergeant Finlay just found this in your bathroom,’ said Breece.

  There was a black smear smudged on the flannel.

  Oil.

  Brake lines.

  Dean.

  Alex.

  No, I thought. It’s not real. Severed brake lines? Not in real life. That’s the kind of thing that only happens in books. It’s ridiculous.

  ‘I—’ I began.

  ‘Where’s the oil from, Martyn?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What was Dean West doing here?’

  ‘He wasn’t—’

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon at twelve-thirty?’

  ‘I was here!’

  ‘Guv,’ Finlay interrupted.

  Breece looked up, annoyed. Finlay just looked at him. Some kind of warning. Breece sighed and turned back to me, his voice calm. ‘Is there anyone you can call? A relative. An aunt, uncle?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We need to ask you some more questions. You’re a minor. There has to be an adult present.’

  ‘I don’t have any relatives.’

  ‘Friends? Neighbours?’

  I shook my head.

  Breece stood up. ‘Get your coat, Martyn.’

  ‘What for?’

  He ignored me and turned to Finlay, buttoning up his raincoat. ‘Call Social Services, Don.’

  I don’t know what kind of car it was, but it was a nice big one, warm and comfortable and quiet, with a dashboard full of softly lit dials. Finlay drove while Breece sat in the back with me. Up close, I could smell his sweat and the sour tang of whisky on his breath. We drove down through the High Street, the car purring almost silently through the night. The snow had turned to a black winter rain. A single wiper scythed effortlessly across the rainswept windscreen, slicing back and forth like a thin black sword. Shoosh-shush, shoosh-shush, shoosh-shush ...

  Although it was late the streets were still busy. Pockets of revellers swayed drunkenly along the pavements, shouting and laughing in the rain, their faces shining with alcohol. Some of them wore tinsel in their hair and Santa hats, others sprayed Silly String or blew tunelessly on party squeakers. Office parties, nightclubs, Christmas celebrations.

  Finlay swore quietly as he swerved to avoid a drunk-eyed girl in a short sparkly dress tottering on high heels in the gutter. Breece didn’t seem to notice, he just sat there rigidly with his arms crossed, staring out at the rain. Fed up, probably. Working late. Christmas Eve.

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard – one o’clock in the morning.

  It was Christmas Day.

  The police station was clean and brightly lit. A low, pale brick building at the edge of town, it was surrounded by sparse lawns and smooth sloping driveways. A calming place. It was quiet. An oasis in a desert of small-town noise.

  Inside, dark blue carpets covered the floors, deadening the sound of our footsteps as Breece led me past reception, through security doors, up a spiral staircase and then along a series of long narrow corridors. Keyboards clacked softly behind half-open office doors. Muted telephones rang. The hiss of radio static crackled intermittently from unseen radios.

  I was taken to a little room, like an office, at the end of a corridor. Breece sat me in a chair and told me to wait, then he left. A uniformed policewoman stood by the door with her hands behind her back, staring at the far wall. She was short and dumpy with a bob of mousy brown hair. A stern woman. I looked up at her and smiled but she didn’t smile back.

  It was a poky little place, no more than a cubicle, really. A desk, filing cabinets, two hard chairs against the wall, a water dispenser, bits of paper pinned to a wallboard. The desk was a cheap-looking thing made of fake black wood and cluttered with all kinds of stuff. Computer screen, keyboard, mugs full of pens, a telephone, a framed photograph of two young kids with a dog, unwashed coffee cups, empty sandwich wrappers, files, folders, sheets of paper scattered all over the place. I wondered how anyone could work like that. It was a mess.

  Lists of green numbers glowed faintly from the computer screen. I studied them for a while but they didn’t make any sense.

  The policewoman cleared her throat and I turned to look at her, thinking she was about to say something, but she wasn’t, she was just clearing her throat. She carried on staring at the wall. She was good at that.

  Breece returned after about ten minutes looking tired and irritated. Apparently, there was a problem getting hold of someone from Social Services. They were going to have to question me tomorrow.

  ‘Does that mean I can go home?’ I asked.

  Breece smiled humourlessly and shook his head. ‘No.’

  I thought they were going to put me in a cell for the night, which would have been interesting. A cold empty room with white walls and a concrete floor, a bunk bed, a lidless toilet, a spyhole that slides up and down in the cell door. I could’ve sat on the edge of the bed holding my head in my hands, staring down at my feet, with moonlight from the barred window casting prison shadows across my face. But I was too young for that, it seems. So they put me in this odd little windowless room with a proper bed, a carpet, a couple of chairs, a separate toilet and wash-basin, pictures on the walls, there was even a little portable television. Very nice. It was like a cheap hotel room. Not that I’ve ever been in a cheap hotel room, but that’s what I imagine one would be like.

  The policewoman showed me into the room and stood by the door while I looked around.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ she said coldly.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and took off my shoes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  She closed the door.

  I should have known. I would have known. If it was a story, a murder mystery, I would have spotted the clues, I would have worked out what was happening. It was obvious.

  Alex had killed Dean.

  The footprints in the snow, leading across the street to Dean’s motorbike – they were hers. On Monday. She must have hurried back from Dean’s flat while he was at my house, cut the brake lines on his motorbike, then sneaked across the road, walked down to the roundabout at the bottom of the hill and waited for him. Hiding behind a parked car or something. Waiting for the sound of his brakeless motorbike to come hurtling down the road. Watching, making sure. Witnessing his death. That’s why she’d acted so strangely when she came back, rubbing her hands, listening to the ambulance siren. She’d just seen him die.

  I should have known. I’d heard it. I’d heard Dean’s motorbike crash. Well, I hadn’t actually heard it crash. But I’d heard it stop suddenly. At the bottom of the hill, at the roundabout. I’d heard it and I hadn’t thought anything of it. Acoustic illusion.

  Idiot.

  The black smear on Alex’s fingers, it was oil. I saw it. She must have wiped it off on the flannel when she went upstairs to the bathroom. And that’s probably when she’d taken the chequebook and everything, too. Pretending to be sick so I’d stay downstairs, same as when she took Dad’s clothes.

  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.

  It was embarrassing.

  But cutting the brake lines? That was
unbelievable. Like something out of a comic strip. How did she know what to do? Where to cut? How to cut? What to cut? Unbelievable. She was an assassin. Alex the Assassin, cold-eyed and calculating, a hunter, a killer ...

  That was it, I think. That was when the reality suddenly hit me. ‘Hey,’ it said, ‘this isn’t one of your stupid childhood games. This isn’t make-believe. It’s not a murder mystery or something out of a comic strip. This is real. Think about it. She killed someone in cold blood. Your precious Alex actually murdered someone ...’

  And as the truth sank in I felt my blood draining away.

  Alex had killed Dean. Killed him. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t unintentional. It wasn’t just one of those things. It was a premeditated act of revenge. He’d humiliated her, he’d made her feel like nothing. He’d used her. And he had to pay. I could understand that. I’d felt the same way myself. But killing him ...?

  No.

  It was too much. Too real. It was real real. Not just ... well, not just whatever other real I’d been living in for the last week. It was outside real.

  And it was too much to take.

  As I sat there thinking about it my hands started shaking and then my stomach heaved and the next thing I knew I was kneeling in front of the toilet being sicker than I’d ever thought possible.

  I’ve thought about it since, and I still don’t quite understand it. I mean, I never liked Dean. I hated him. He was nothing, a stupid, worthless slob. He meant nothing to me. If he’d fallen off a cliff or died of a disease or something I wouldn’t have shed any tears, so why did I feel so bad about Alex killing him? Why did it frighten me? What made it so wrong? The pain? The violence? The intention? The guilt? Did I feel sorry for him? Did I feel sorry for his parents, his brothers, his sisters ...?

  I really don’t know.

  But something gripped me that night, and whatever it was it turned me inside-out.

  After I’d cleaned myself up and walked around the room for a while, my stomach began to settle and my hands eventually stopped shaking. I still didn’t feel too good, though. My legs were hot and tingly, I was covered in sweat, and my head was throbbing. I couldn’t think clearly. Disturbing images kept flashing through my mind: Dean’s motorbike crashing into the side of a bus; the sickening crunch of metal on metal; Alex rubbing her hands together, over and over again, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing ...