Read Online Martyn Pig by Kevin Brooks - Free Book Online Page A

I could be anyone.’
    â€˜You could ring first to let her know.’
    It was hard to tell if she was joking or not. Her face looked serious, but she could have been putting it on, acting stupid to trap me into correcting her. She did that sometimes. Then when I did correct her she’d smile to show me she was putting it on, and I’d feel stupid for having believed she could be so stupid ...
    I wasn’t in the mood for all that.
    â€˜She doesn’t answer the phone,’ I said simply. ‘That’s all there is to it.’
    â€˜Well, you’ll have to do something, she can’t come round here with your dad lying dead in the front room.’
    â€˜No.’
    Things don’t just happen, do they? They have effects. And the effects have effects. And the effects of the effects have effects. And then the effects of the things that happen make other things happen, so the effects of the effects become reasons. Nothing moves forward in a straight line, nothing is straightforward.
    The thought of Aunty Jean made my stomach turn. Christ, I thought, imagine it. Imagine living with
her
. She wouldn’t leave you alone for a minute. There’s no way she’d put up with your odd little ways.
What odd little ways
? You know what I mean. And you can forget about Alex, too.
A girl
, Martyn? A girl?
How
old? Not in
my
house.
    â€˜I’m not going there,’ I said.
    â€˜What? Where?’
    â€˜Aunty Jean’s. I’m not going there.’
    Alex looked puzzled. ‘I thought she was coming here?’
    Through the window I watched a bus pull away up the road. For an instant I thought I saw Alex sitting on the back seat. I thought I saw her turn and wave, smiling at me. Then the bus turned the corner and disappeared and I blinked and realised where I was. In this house. In this bloody house. I didn’t have to stay here, did I? I could go somewhere else. Get the money, get out of here. We could go somewhere, me and Alex. Together. Anywhere. We could—
    â€˜I have to go,’ said Alex. ‘I’m meeting Dean at two.’
    Dean, Dean, Dean. Always bloody Dean.
    â€˜OK,’ I said.
    â€˜I’ll try and think of something—’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜I’ll come round later. We’ll talk some more. This evening. All right?’
    â€˜OK.’
    After she left I just kind of moped around for a while. Dad was starting to smell a bit. Kind of musty. The sort of smell you don’t like but can’t help sniffing at. Mind you, he always did whiff a bit, even when he was alive, so I wasn’t quite sure whether this musty smell was just an ordinary dirty-drunk-person-who-hasn’t-washed-and-has-spent-the-night-lying-in-the-fireplace kind of smell, or if it was the start of something worse. I just didn’t know. Not that there was much I could do about it, anyway. I gave the room a good going over with air freshener, but that only made it worse. The whole house stank of musty flowers. I didn’t want to open the windows in case the smell wafted out. Someone might notice it, someone who might recognise the smell of a dead body. You never know, do you? An undertaker might be walking past.
    I went upstairs and put this morning’s letter in the bureau with the others. While I was there I picked up Dad’s cashcard and took a good long look at it. There was a hologram in the corner, a little silver square with a 3-D mug-shot of Shakespeare on it. At least I think it was Shakespeare. A baldy-looking man with a beard and a big white collar. His head zipped around when I moved the card. It was weird. The slightest tilt and his expression changed. From a jolly old chap with a twinkly smile – to a vicious madman with a cut-throat glare. Jolly old chap – cut-throat glare. Jolly old chap – cut-throat glare. Jolly old chap – cut-throat glare ...
    I got bored with that after a while and turned the card over. Dad’s ID