Martyn Pig (11 page)

‘Hmmm,' she said.

The tape recorder was beginning to slow down – the batteries must have been worn out. The snores were getting slower and slower and the tape mechanism was starting to whine laboriously.

‘What's that noise?'

‘Pipes,' I said. ‘There's something wrong with the plumbing.'

‘Drains, pipes, what else doesn't work in this house?'

The tape was really struggling, now. It sounded like the dying groans of a sea monster.

‘I think we ought to go now,' I suggested. ‘Let him sleep.' As I moved from the bed, removing my hand from Dad's neck, his head lolled back and clonked against the headboard.

‘What was
that
?' asked Aunty Jean.

‘Nothing. Come on,' I said, ushering her out. ‘I'll make us some tea.'

‘Your hands smell,' she commented as I led her to the door.

‘
Vaporub
,' I explained, breathing a silent sigh of relief as

I closed the bedroom door.

I'd made some tea and opened up a packet of shortbread biscuits and there we were, aunt and nephew, sitting in the kitchen, munching, sipping and chatting. At least, Aunty Jean was chatting. I was just munching and sipping and staring at the table.

‘… and, of course, when he was your age, your father was
always
getting into trouble – playing truant, thieving, smoking, drinking. Oh yes, he was drinking even then – cider, sherry, whatever he could get his hands on. Made life a misery for our poor mother, I can tell you. A misery. It's no wonder she couldn't cope. Father, mind, your Grandpa, God rest his soul, he tried his best. Discipline, that's what he used to say, discipline, that lad needs plenty of discipline. And he got it, too. Father beat him within an inch of his life sometimes, but he still never learned. Never had any respect, that was his trouble, never learned respect for his elders. Why can't you be more like your sister, they used to tell him. Like chalk and cheese, we were, chalk and cheese. I don't know. He was an embarrassment, that's what he was, an embarrassment to the family. I remember once …'

As she jabbered on I wondered if she'd still be talking like this if she knew he was dead. Jabber, jabber, jabber … just look at her, her mouth never stops moving. What a sight. Ha, she's got biscuit crumbs stuck on her lip. Yakkety yakkety yak. Your father this, your father that. On and on. How many times have I heard all this? How can she blame him, anyway? None of us has any control over what we do. If you're good, you're good – if you're bad, you're bad. That's all there is to it. You can't change the way you're made. And even if you could, it wouldn't be down to you. It's your genes. It's all in your genes, your DNA. Asking someone to change how they are is like asking a rock to change colour – it can't be done. Simple as that. You don't blame a rock for being rock-coloured, do you? You don't say – come on now, rock, you can do better than that, you can be bright blue if you try. No, you are what you are and there's nothing anyone can do about it. I mean, take Aunty Jean, for example. It's not her fault she's a blue-haired, bow-legged dragon-lady. She can't help it. Of course, that doesn't mean I have to
like
her, but I have no right to judge her, either. In the same way I have no right to judge anything – a fly, a rat, a tapeworm, whatever. You can hardly blame a fly for being a dirty little buzzy thing, can you? That's just what it is, it didn't make a choice. No one said to it, what do you want to be? A pony? A flower? A nun? Or how about a dirty little fly? It had no options. Just as we have no options. You get what you're given. Like it or lump it.

‘… ruined your poor mother's life and he's going to ruin yours too if you're not careful. Martyn?
Martyn?
Are you listening?'

‘Yes, Aunty, I'm listening. More tea?'

She glanced at the clock. ‘Goodness, is that the time? I have to be going.' She rose from the table, brushing at the steel-like folds in her dress.

‘I'll get your coat,' I said.

‘Just a moment, I have to use the facilities.'

‘Wha— Pardon?'

‘The lady's facilities.'

The bathroom.

‘The … uh … the facilities are out of order, Aunty.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘It's the plumbing.'

She just snorted at me and marched off towards the stairs. I chased after her. ‘Aunty! No, you can't. It doesn't work. Honest. The cistern's broken.' But she was already halfway up the stairs, she wasn't going to stop. All I could do was try and warn Alex. ‘You can't use the bathroom, Aunty!' I yelled. ‘You can't go in the
BATHROOM
!'

At the top of the stairs she turned and looked down at me as if I was crazy. I didn't know what to do, so I just grinned like an idiot and shrugged. She shook her head, then opened the bathroom door.

What could I do?

I held my breath and waited for the scream. My heart was thumping like a bass drum –
d-dum, d-dum, d-dum
. One second, five seconds, ten seconds … nothing. I started breathing again. After a minute or two I heard the sound of flushing, followed by taps running. Then the bathroom door opened and Aunty Jean came out clutching her handbag. She looked down at me. I was standing rigidly at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the banister in both hands, staring up at her with wide-open eyes.

‘What
are
you doing?' she said.

‘Nothing,' I said, relieved. ‘I'll get your coat.'

‘What was all that nonsense about?' she said as she started down the stairs. ‘Plumbing? Broken cistern? There's nothing wrong with it at all.'

‘I forgot,' I said. ‘It was fixed. The plumber came round when I wasn't here. Here's your coat.'

She turned to let me help her on with her coat. ‘I'm worried about you, Martyn. Seriously. You're getting as bad as your father. Your memory is hopeless. It's no wonder your schoolwork is suffering.'

Schoolwork suffering? ‘I'm just a bit tired, Aunty. Looking after Dad while he's ill, you know …'

‘You want to get this house seen to,' she said, hitching up her coat. ‘It stinks in here.'

‘I'll give it a good clean,' I said.

‘Yes, well … it's not just the house that needs a good clean.'

I opened the front door. ‘Thanks for coming, Aunty. I'll tell Dad you were here, he'll be sorry he missed you.'

‘I bet he will,' she said.

I leaned out and looked up at the sky. ‘Looks like rain again.'

‘Hmmm,' she answered, pulling on a pair of white gloves and stepping out into the street. ‘I'll be back soon. You tell your father, I'll be back soon.'

‘I'll tell him, Aunty. Mind how you go.'

She didn't say goodbye, thanks for the tea, or anything, just marched off down the street, her sensible shoes clumping on the pavement. I watched her turn the corner at the bottom of the road, watched a little more to make sure she wasn't coming back, then I shut the door and sank to the floor with a huge sigh. I felt drained.

‘Has she gone?'

Alex was standing at the top of the stairs, fully dressed.

‘She's gone,' I said.

‘That was close.'

‘Where
were
you?'

‘In the bathroom.'

I got to my feet. ‘I know
that
. Why didn't she see you?'

‘I guessed she'd need a wee so I hid behind the shower curtain.'

I smiled. ‘Good thinking.'

‘I'm not just a pretty face, you know.'

That was true.

‘I nearly gave myself away, though,' she said. ‘You should have heard the noises she was making, like a balloon deflating.' We both giggled as she imitated the sound of Aunty Jean farting. ‘I had to stuff a flannel in my mouth to stop myself laughing. I thought I was going to die.'

‘I'll mention it next time I see her,' I promised. ‘Are you all right now? You look a lot better.'

Alex hooked her bag over her shoulder and came downstairs. ‘Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that.'

‘No harm done.'

‘No.' She smiled. ‘It was close, though, wasn't it?'

‘Close enough.'

‘What would she have done if she'd seen me?'

‘Exploded, probably.'

Early evening. Alex had gone home. I was alone in my bedroom. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, trying to rest, but I couldn't. There was too much stuff racing around in my head.

I got up and crossed to the window. The winter-black night was still. Arrows of orange light lasered out from the streetlights, illuminating the dim surroundings of my world. Parked cars, busted pavements decorated with cakes of curled-up dog mess, lanky urban weeds sprouting from the crumbled gaps in a dirty brick wall. The weeds were colourless in the dark.

Where does the colour go?

In the distance I could see imperfect rows of a thousand other houses, all the same. Pale yellow lights winking in the windows. In every house, I realised, there'd be a story of some kind: a family drama, a tragedy, a love story, a comedy. Right now, scenes were being acted out, plots followed, stories told. Fights, arguments, sex, betrayal, revenge, boredom, cunning, evil, bad luck, laughter, desire, delight, death …

What did I care? None of it had anything to do with me.

In the street below, two shaven-headed kids were swaggering down the road swigging from cans of lager. Their raised voices echoed in the backstreet silence, a hooded, primitive sound:
ainfackengonnatellya … I tellya … 'e'safackendeadmaninnit
… Vacant animal eyes, looking for something, anything, nothing. One of them spat through his teeth as they passed beneath the window, then they were gone.

Alcohol. It sucks the life out of a face and replaces it with its own dumb shine of inanity. It's up to you. If you want to lose yourself, have a drink.

Look at this place. These squalid houses, dirty little streets, dead skies. Nothing. No life, no point. Too many people with nothing to say and nothing to do and nowhere to go. Grey souls. Waiting for it all to end. This is it, this is what I have. This. This place where tiny things mean so much to tiny people. Where nothing does anything, where we eat, drink, breed, age and die. This is it. A new millennium. The Age of Technology. The end result of millions of years of evolution. Me, alone in a dirty little house, in a dirty little street, in a dirty little town.

I closed the curtains, turned off the bedroom light and lay down in the dark.

I thought of Alex and I thought of Dean and I thought of thirty thousand pounds. It was my money. It was my inheritance. My right. Mine. No one else was going to have it. I still hadn't figured out exactly how I was going to get it, or what I was going to do with it, but I was working on it. According to Alex, the cheque wouldn't clear until Tuesday. Using the cashcard I could take out two hundred and fifty pounds each day. Thirty thousand divided by two hundred and fifty is ... a lot of days. How many days did I have? How many weeks? What would happen if ... too many questions. Think of something else. I thought of all the things we could do, me and Alex. Young and rich. Free. We could go anywhere, do anything. I could set up my own private detective agency – me and Alex, gumshoes, private eyes. We could rent one of those run-down offices in a shady part of town, with my own desk, filing cabinets for my files, one of those big slow fans on the ceiling, venetian blinds, a waiting room for clients, the smoked-glass door panel lettered in flaked black paint:
Martyn Pig – Investigations
. That'd be all right. Alex could drive me around, I'd buy her a sports car ... or I could buy a small island. Right out in the middle of the sea where no one else could get to. We could live there, make friends with the animals, build a little cabin, spend all day talking, walking on the beach. And at night-time we'd light a fire and watch the sun go down over the sea and listen to the sound of waves breaking gently on the shore ... or we could go to Australia, or America, find some remote place out in the desert where Indians used to live. The badlands, miles and miles of nothing. Hot, dry wasteland, shifting sands, towering red mountains, canyons, ghost towns. We could ride horses ...

I drifted into a shallow sleep and my thoughts shimmied into fragile dreams. Scraps of images fluttered in my mind: Dad, Mum, Alex, Dean, Morse, Holmes, Aunty Jean, detectives, islands, deserts, horses ... all floating around in meaningless circles. As I half-slept in the curtained darkness, stray sounds from the street outside darted in and out of my semi-consciousness, merging with the disjointed thoughts, weaving reality into dreams.

When I woke my mouth was dry and my eyes were sticky with sleep. It was nine o'clock in the evening. I was still tired.

I didn't know what to do.

For the moment, there was nothing more to think about. All I had to do was wait.

I went to the bathroom and peed. I washed my hands, washed my face. I cleaned my teeth, trying to get rid of that furry feeling in my mouth. I changed clothes, put on a clean T-shirt, clean underwear, clean jeans. I went downstairs and made a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. I watched television. An American cop show, I don't know what it's called. That man from
Miami Vice
was in it, the blond one, cracking jokes and chasing crooks down alleys with a dirty great gun in his hand. That was all right. When it finished I changed channels and watched some stand-up comedians swearing and telling rude jokes for half an hour. It wasn't funny. At eleven o'clock I turned off the television and sat for a while in the dark listening to the sound of Friday night drunks going home – slurred shouts, cold laughter, cars revving, doors slamming. I sat there until the early hours of the morning when the silence was complete, and then I listened. I was listening for the hidden sounds that tell the story of this house. They must be there somewhere, in the walls, in the bricks, under the floor. Memories. But I didn't hear anything.