Martyn Pig (13 page)

I stopped. I was at the end of the beach. A finger of sand poked out into the muddy sea, and I was standing at the finger's end. There was nowhere else to go. The colourless sea stretched out endlessly in front of me, a blurred emptiness of water and snow, dark and cold and formless. I sat down on the rise of a shingle bank and stared, hypnotised, at the snow-filled sky.

If I sit here long enough, I thought, I'll die. I'll freeze to death. And tomorrow morning someone walking their dog will come along and find me sitting cross-legged at the edge of the sea, like a statue, frozen stiff. White without and white within. A snowman. Snowboy.

Would that be so bad? I wondered. Would it hurt?

I imagined the coldness eating into me, numbing my fingers, my nose, my toes, my ears, before gradually moving on to my limbs, my skin, my bones, until eventually my whole body would be frozen into a state of senselessness and I wouldn't feel anything at all.

Would that be so bad? I don't know.

Is it too late already?

Could I stand up even if I wanted to?

My legs are dead, they don't belong to me.

My thoughts are slowing.

What do you want to do?

What do you want to be?

What do you want?

I don't know.

I'm tired.

My eyes are heavy.

The snow falls.

Never-ending.

Dark and light.

Black and white.

Good and bad.

Me and Dad.

Me and Alex.

There she is. I can see her. Gliding silently across the sea in a candle-white dress. I can see her. I can see her pale face and her shiny black hair, her dark eyes flecked with green. I can see her.

She's beautiful.

What do you want to do?

I want to reach out to her, to touch her, but I can't move. I want to call out to her, to call her name, but I have no voice. All I can do is watch her as she drifts across the sea and onto the sand, floating gently towards me, smiling her smile, coming closer, smiling at me, coming closer, and closer ... and then she stops. Still smiling, she throws back her head and opens her mouth to swallow the falling snow, and white petals tumble from her hair. She looks at me again, and my heart cries. A tremor plays upon her lips and her eyelids flicker like excited wings as she holds out her hand and moves towards me ...

And then she changes.

It's not Alex. It never was. It's Dad. Staggering up the beach dressed ridiculously in size eight boots and a ragged white dress. Like a ghoulish scarecrow, deathly pale and drunk. Dad. With a can of shaving foam clutched in his outstretched hand spraying out fountains of creamy-white snow. Dad. The snow-maker. Lifeless but alive, dead eyes sunk into his wounded head, lurching up the sand with a boozy leer on his face, laughing his laugh, coming closer, laughing at me, coming closer, and closer ...

My eyes sprang open and I jerked to my feet. With a violent shiver I slapped the snow from my limbs and stood there swaying on numbed and bloodless legs.

Look! Look out there! There's nothing there, just a cold black sea in the snow. There's nothing there, you idiot. Move. Now. Go on. Get out of here before you freeze to death.

What?

Move!

I turned and ran.

It was hard work. The wind was blowing again, gusting snow into my face, and I was hurting with cold. My legs were stiff and the wet sand dragged at my feet. It was like running through treacle – sandy, white treacle. But I kept going, pumping my arms, breathing hard, sucking cold air into my lungs, and as the fresh oxygen rushed through my head the images of Dad and Alex began to crumble and fade. The eyes, the white dress, that smile ...

Was that really Alex?

Was it a dream?

Was it real?

Forget it
, the voice said.
Just run
.

Maybe it never happened at all? Maybe it was—

It was nothing. You were cold, that's all. Cold, wet, and hungry. You haven't eaten much the last few days. You're tired. You dozed off. That's all. You're cold and tired. Your mind plays tricks. Forget it, just keep running.

And I ran.

On and on, running blindly through the snow, head down, legs pounding, heart racing, running like I'd never run before. On and on through the sand and the snow and the wind and the sand and the snow and the wind and the sand ... I lost all track of time. For all I knew, I could have been running for ever. I'd forgotten why I was running in the first place. Was I running
away
from something or running
to
something? It didn't seem to matter. I was running, that's all. Just running. Through the sand and the snow and the wind and the sand and the snow and the wind ... until eventually I felt solid ground beneath my feet.

The steps.

I hardly dared believe it. I stamped my feet, cautiously at first, then harder, grinning with mad delight at the reassuring clump of boots on concrete. Ha! Real, solid ground. Wonderful. Hard, shiftless. Concrete. Tarmac. A
sensible
surface. A surface made for walking. I grabbed hold of the handrail and pulled myself up the steps and on to the road.

Here, everything was calm and quiet again. The sea was silent in the distance, the wind had dropped to a whisper, and the voice in my head had gone.

I looked up at the sky. The snow had stopped. It was just a sky.

I glanced back at the beach, but there was nothing to see. Just a grey-white haze. Nothing. Just a beach.

I headed slowly up the coast road.

The village was even more deserted than it had been when I'd arrived. No old women, no old boatman, no dog. It could have been a ghost village. Wet, dark, and deserted. I looked around for a shop. I needed food, a hot drink. A cup of tea and a Mars bar. But there was nothing. Everywhere was closed.

I wished I'd never come here.

The snow was already starting to melt on the road, oozing into the gutters like mashed potato swimming in gravy. I walked on through the mush up to the bus stop and sat down.

Wet feet. Wet bum.

Wet bus-stop bench.

I settled down to wait for the bus.

I didn't know what time it was.

It was time to go home, that's what time it was.

I remember it now. Most of it. I think. I remember the snow. I remember the cold, but I don't
remember
the cold, because you can't remember stuff like that, can you? Cold, pain, fear – you can't remember feelings. You can remember the idea of something, you can remember that you
were
cold, you
were
in pain, you
were
afraid, but you can't actually
remember
the feeling of it.

It did happen, though.

I'm sure it did.

Believe it.

Or don't. It's up to you. I don't really care. I know what happened.

The light was low as I stepped off the bus and hurried home through the sludge. It felt like early evening. I wondered if Alex had been round yet. Had I missed her?

I should never have gone to the damned beach, it was a stupid idea in the first place. I should have stayed at home. Why did I go? What was I thinking of? Today was the day,
the
day. The day we planned to lose a body. And I go swanning off to the beach in the middle of a snowstorm. Good thinking, Martyn. Good idea. Very smart.

My clothes were still wet, shrunk so tight to my body I had to fight to get the door key out of my trouser pocket. My fingers were all numb, too, white and wrinkled like I'd been lying in the bath too long.

Inside, the house was cold. I turned on all the lights, peeled off my coat, pulled off my wet boots and socks and switched on the fire.

Five past two, the clock said. Surely it was later than that? It must be wrong. I checked the clock in the kitchen. It
was
five past two. I couldn't believe it. I thought I'd been gone for ages.

Never mind.

Forget it, I told myself. Forget the whole thing. Just start again, pretend the day's just beginning.

I put the kettle on, made myself a big mug of tea and got a packet of chocolate biscuits from the cupboard. Then I went upstairs and ran a bath. A hot, hot bath. As I undressed I noticed myself in the mirror. Bleached-white with a hint of blue. Red ears, red nose, watery eyes. I looked like a newborn baby.

Blissfully, I sank down into the steaming hot water. The snow and the cold and the dirt and the bad memories just melted away. I gulped hot strong tea and munched chocolate biscuits. I turned the radio on. I peed and farted and grinned at the bubbles.

I was home.

Home is home, I suppose. No matter how much you hate it, you still need it. You need whatever you're used to. You need security.

I almost didn't hear the doorbell at first. With my head under the water and the radio on it was just a muffled
brrrr
. I sat up, turned off the radio and cocked my head to let the water out of my ears. This time it was clearer.
Brrring
. I jumped out, wrapped a towel round my waist and sped downstairs. Wet footprints trailed behind me on the carpet.

‘Alex!' I said, opening the door.

She looked me up and down, surprised. I tightened the towel, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

‘I was in the bath,' I said, letting her in.

She touched a finger to my face. ‘You've got chocolate on your chin.'

I let go of the towel, wiped at my face, then grabbed the towel again as I felt it slip. Alex grinned. She was wearing an old fur hat with the earflaps hanging down, big fur boots and a long black coat. All lightly frosted with sleet.

I shut the door.

‘Look at you,' Alex said, removing her hat.

I didn't know what she meant. I felt uncomfortable. Standing there, half-naked and wet. I must have looked like a freshly plucked chicken, scrawny and pale, bony legs hanging out from beneath the towel like knotted strings. Pigeon-chested, too. I was a birdman. Birdboy.

I slicked back my hair and it fell limply to one side. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I'd never stood half-naked in front of a girl before. Beneath the towel I felt ... vulnerable. I think that's what I felt, anyway.

‘I'll go and get dressed,' I said. Alex laughed. ‘I think you'd better.'

I was just zipping up my trousers when she waltzed into the bedroom pulling a couple of strappy-looking things from her bag.

‘I brought these,' she said.

What?
I thought. Brought what? Don't you ever knock before you come in? I could have been naked.

‘What are they?' I asked, as she dangled whatever it was in my face.

‘Surgical masks,' she explained. ‘To keep the smell out.'

She put one on. It was one of those masks that surgeons wear when they're operating.

‘See?'

I was impressed. ‘Where did you get them from?'

‘Mum's nursing stuff. I found them in her drawer. Here.' She handed me one and I put it on, tying it at the back of my head. I looked in the mirror. Doctor Pig.

‘It suits you,' Alex said.

‘Thanks.'

‘Covers up your face.'

‘Funny.'

I went into the bathroom and got two pairs of rubber gloves from the cupboard under the sink, then went back into the bedroom and offered them to Alex.

‘Pink or yellow?' I asked.

She looked confused.

‘Fingerprints,' I explained.

‘Oh.'

I smiled. ‘The downfall of many a criminal mind.'

‘Right.'

‘So, pink or yellow?'

She took the yellow ones and we gloved up.

‘Where's the car?' I asked.

She looked at her watch. ‘Mum's not back yet. Another hour or so.'

‘That's all right. We've got to get him downstairs yet, anyway.'

She sighed. ‘Look, Martyn, are you sure about all of this? Isn't there some other way—'

‘Don't worry about it,' I said. ‘I've got it all worked out. Come on, I'll show you.'

Dad's bedroom still smelled pretty rank, even with the masks on. There was a clamminess about the place – the bedclothes, the carpet, the air – everything felt cold and untouchable.

I went to the bed, reached underneath and tugged out a sleeping bag. Green, nylon, smelly. I unrolled it and laid it out on the floor.

‘It zips up nearly all the way round,' I said, showing her.

She knelt down beside me. ‘There's a gap at the top. His head'll poke out.'

I pulled a stapler from my back pocket, grinning. ‘Click click.'

Alex still wasn't happy. ‘What if they find him? The police. They could trace the sleeping bag back to you.'

I shook my head. ‘It's never been used. Dad won it in a game of cards, years ago. He shoved it under the bed and forgot about it.'

‘A game of cards? How do you win a sleeping bag in a game of cards?'

‘Don't ask me. Anyway, it's clean. Dirty, but clean, if you know what I mean. I know these things, Alex. I read murder mysteries.'

‘If you say so.'

‘I do.'

We stood up and studied each other. Masked-up and rubber-gloved. Alex looked good in the mask, mysterious. Her eyes glinted darkly.

‘Right then,' I said. ‘Let's get him dressed. Where did you put his shirt and jacket?'

‘I'll get them.' She went briskly over to the wardrobe and opened it. ‘White shirt?'

I nodded. She passed me the shirt.

‘And jacket.'

I took the jacket from her, a grimy black thing. ‘Hold on.'

‘What?'

‘I thought he was wearing his other one?'

‘What? What other one?'

‘The brown one.'

‘Which brown one?'

I looked at her. ‘He's got two jackets. This one, and a mucky old brown one. I'm sure he was wearing the brown one. Have another look in the wardrobe, see if it's there.'

She hesitated. ‘What does it matter? I mean, it doesn't make any difference which jacket he's wearing, does it? Who's going to know?'