Read Online Martyn Pig by Kevin Brooks - Free Book Online

it. I had to get a bus. On the way back, the next bus wasn’t for over an hour, so I decided to start walking. About half a mile up the road I came across this narrow track. Thinking it might be a shortcut I climbed the gate and followed the track down, but after a few minutes I realised it didn’t go anywhere, just ended at this old gravel pit half-filled with stagnant black water.
    â€˜See,’ I explained to Alex, ‘even if they do find him, they’ll assume he was in the pub, got drunk, then got lost walking home and fell into the gravel pit ... bashed his head on something when he fell.’
    We were in my room, sharing a plate of cheese sandwiches. Stormy light filtered in through the window, highlighting clouds of dust particles that danced in the air as I walked to and fro.
    â€˜We’ll need a car,’ I said. ‘Or a van or something.’
    Alex was quiet. Thoughtful.
    â€˜What about your mum’s car?’ I suggested. Alex wasn’t old enough to drive but she sometimes ‘borrowed’ her mum’s car. It was one of those old Morris Traveller things, a muddy-brown van held together with rust and dirt.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’ She was sitting on the bed putting some kind of cream on her lips. She put the tube back in her bag and reached for a sandwich. ‘The car’s at the garage until tomorrow,’ she explained, taking a bite.
    â€˜Tomorrow night, then.’
    â€˜It might not be ready. If it needs a lot of work ... I don’t know if Mum can afford it.’
    â€˜You’re forgetting something,’ I said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’ve got thirty thousand pounds. I’m rich. I’ll buy you a new car.’
    Alex sighed. ‘But the money’s in the bank, in your dad’s account.’
    I shrugged. ‘I’ve got his chequebook and cashcard ... I’m sure we can work something out.’
    She shook her head. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
    â€˜Don’t worry about it.’ I reached for a sandwich. ‘So, what about the car?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I’ll have to find out what Mum’s doing. Friday, maybe Saturday. I’ll have to let you know.’
    We ate in silence. I liked to watch her eat. She took tiny little bites and chewed each mouthful about a hundred times before she swallowed it.
    â€˜What?’ she said, noticing me staring.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    I went to the bathroom. When I came back Alex was still working on the same sandwich. I stood at the window. Heavy black clouds were looming in the distance, heaving themselves slowly through the sky like walruses crawling up a beach. Across the road, the woman from number seven was coming back from the shops, struggling up the pavement with a carrier bag dangling from each hand. She was about sixty. She always wore bright pink lipstick that smudged all over her teeth, and her dim eyes were decorated with thick daubs of purple eye-shadow. Dad brought her back to the house once, after they’d met down the pub. She was drunk, laughing like a hyena at everything Dad said. She’d started dancing at one point, doing the can-can, pulling up her skirt and flashing her long grey knickers ...
    â€˜Damn,’ I said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Aunty Jean.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Aunty Jean’s coming round tomorrow. I just remembered.’
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜Four o’clock.’
    â€˜Can’t you put her off? Say you’re ill or something?’
    â€˜She’s not on the phone – well, she is, but she never answers it. She only uses it for making calls. The ringer’s always switched off.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜I don’t know ... it’s just one of her mad little ways. I think she’s probably scared of talking to strangers.’
    â€˜You’re not a stranger.’
    â€˜But she wouldn’t know it was me, would she?