by Kevin Brooks
‘SHUT UP!’
I’d got to my feet and was facing him across the room. ‘For God’s sake, Dad, just shut up! It’s not funny, it’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. Why can’t you just shut your mouth and let me watch the bloody television for once?’
He stared at me, stunned. I stared back at him. He put his beer can down on the table. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
My anger had gone. I turned away.
I sensed, rather than heard, the movement behind me, and I turned just in time to see him bearing down on me with his fist raised above his head and drunken madness burning in his eyes.
My reaction was automatic. As I jumped to one side the downward surge of his fist missed my head by a whisker. Then, as his momentum carried him past me, I shoved him in the back. That’s all it was, a shove. Just a shove. An instinctive defensive gesture. No more. I didn’t hit him or anything. All I did was push him away. I barely touched him. He must have been off balance, I suppose. Too drunk to stay on his feet. Legless. I don’t know … All I know for sure is that he flew across the room and smacked his head into the fireplace wall then fell to the hearth and was still. I can still hear the sound of it now. That sickening crack of bone on stone.
I knew he was dead. Instantly. I knew.
Do you see what I mean now, about The Complete Illustrated Sherlock Holmes? If I’d never been given it for my birthday, if I’d never read it, then I’d never have fallen in love with murder mysteries. And if I’d never fallen in love with murder mysteries then I wouldn’t have been watching Inspector Morse on the television. And if I hadn’t been watching Inspector Morse on the television, Dad wouldn’t have been sitting there shouting ‘Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is!’ like a madman and I wouldn’t have got annoyed and I wouldn’t have told him to shut up and he wouldn’t have tried to cave my head in and I wouldn’t have shoved him in the back and he wouldn’t have hit his head against the fireplace and died.
The thing is, though … the thing is, if you look at it that way, if you follow that line of reasoning, then it was all his fault in the first place. If he hadn’t been my father, you know, if he hadn’t impregnated Mum, then I would never have been born. I wouldn’t have existed. And he would still be alive. It was his fault that I existed. He made me. I never asked to be born, did I? It was nothing to do with me.
But then again, it wasn’t his fault that he was born, was it?
I don’t know.
Does there have to be a reason for everything?
I knew he was dead. I could feel it. The air, the flatness, the lifelessness.
I stood motionless for a minute. Just stood there, staring, my mind blank, my heart beating hard. It’s strange, the lack of emotion, the absence of drama in reality. When things happen in real life, extraordinary things, there’s no music, there’s no dah-dah-daaahhs. There’s no close-ups. No dramatic camera angles. Nothing happens. Nothing stops, the rest of the world goes on. As I was standing there in the front room, looking down at the awkwardness of Dad’s dead body lying on the hearth, the television just carried on jabbering away in the background. Adverts. Happy families dancing around a kitchen table: I feel like chicken tonight, I feel like chicken tonight … I leaned down and switched it off. The silence was cold and deathly.
‘Christ,’ I whispered.
I had to check. Even though I knew he was dead, I had to make sure. I stepped over to the fireplace and squatted down beside him. An ugly dark wound cut into the bone just above his eye. There wasn’t much blood. A crimson scrape on the fireplace wall, a smear on the hearth that was already drying. I looked closer. A thin red ribbon meandered down from the corner of his mouth and lost itself in the dark stubble of his chin. I looked into his lifeless face. You can tell. Even if you’ve never seen a dead body before, you can tell.
The appearance of death cannot be mistaken for unconsciousness. That grey-white pallor. Flat and toneless. Without essence. The skin sheenless and somehow shrunken, as if whatever it is that is life – the spirit, the soul – has been stripped away and all that’s left is an empty sack. I looked into his glassy black eyes and they stared blindly back at me.
‘You stupid bastard,’ I said quietly.
I lightly placed a finger on his neck. Nothing. No pulse. Then I loosened buttons on his shirt and lowered my ear to his chest, listening, without hope, for the sound of his heart. There was no sound.
I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I ring 999, call out the emergency services? They could have revived him. Just because someone’s stopped breathing, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re dead, does it? Why didn’t you give him artificial respiration? You studied first aid, didn’t you? Why didn’t you try to save his life?
I don’t know.
Why didn’t I try to save his life?
I don’t know. I just didn’t.
All right?
Well, anyway, that’s what happened. Make of it what you like. I don’t really care. I was there. It happened. I know it.
After I’d made sure he was dead I went over and sat in Dad’s armchair. Which was kind of an odd thing to do, because I’d never sat there before. Ever.
I sat there for a long time.
A long time.
I suppose I must have been thinking. Or maybe not. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I just remember sitting there, alone in the evening silence, enshrined behind closed curtains, alone with the careless tick-tocking of the clock on the mantelpiece. I think that was the first time I’d ever heard it.
The harsh clatter of rain jerked me out of my trance. It was ten o’clock. I stood up and rubbed my eyes then went over to the window and pulled back the curtain. It was pouring down. Great sheets of rain lashing down into the street. I closed the curtain again and turned around. There he was. My dead dad. Still dead. Still buckled over, sprawled across the hearth like a broken doll. The buttons on his shirt were still undone where I’d listened at his heart. I stooped down and did them up again.
An image suddenly flashed into my mind – one of those chalk outlines that detectives draw around the murder victim’s body. It amused me, for some reason, and I let out a short strangled laugh. It sounded like someone else, like the sound of laughter echoing in a ghost town.
I sat down again.
What are you going to do? I asked myself.
The telephone on the table by the door sat there black and silent, waiting. I knew what I ought to do.
Wind-blown sheets of rain were rattling against the window. The room was cold. I was shivering. I shoved my hands deep down into my pockets.
This was a sweet mess.
Then the doorbell rang.
It was Alex, of course. No one else ever came round to our house, no one except for debt-collectors and Mormons. And Aunty Jean once a year.
I let Alex in, closed the front door, and took her into the kitchen. She looked wonderful. Her hair was bunched up on the top of her head, tied with a light-blue ribbon, and one or two fine black strands hung rain-wet and loose down the pale curve of her neck. Her face … Alex’s face. It was so pretty. Fine. Perfect. A pretty girl’s face. Her teeth were white as mints. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing that afternoon at the bus stop – combat jacket, white T-shirt, old blue jeans. All wet through.
She put her bag on the table and wiped a mist of rain from her brow. ‘Where’s your dad?’
‘In the front room,’ I said. ‘Do you want some tea?’
I put the kettle on and sorted out the mugs and tea things while Alex sat down at the kitchen table, rubbing some warmth into her arms. ‘It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?’
The kettle boiled and I filled two mugs.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘It was all right.’
‘Where’d you go?’
‘Nowhere. Dean was fiddling about with some stuff from the shop, tape recorders, computer stuff, I don’t know.’
; I fished the teabags from the mugs and threw them at the bin but they missed and splatted onto the lino. I added milk to the tea.
‘Alex?’
‘What?’
I put the teas on the kitchen table and sat down.
‘I’ve got a problem,’ I said.
‘You’re not pregnant are you?’ she joked.
‘No.’
‘Sorry.’ She stopped smiling. ‘What is it? Is it bad?’
‘It’s bad.’
‘How bad?’
‘Bad bad.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s Dad.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead.’
And then I told her what had happened.
‘Show me,’ she said.
I took her into the front room. She shuddered a little and wiped nervously at her mouth.
‘Cover him up, Martyn.’
I found a sheet in the airing cupboard and laid it over the body.
‘Come here,’ she said gently.
I moved over to her and she put her arms around me. Her skin smelled of rain.
That moment, when she held me … it was as if nothing else mattered. Nothing. Everything would be all right. Her soft hand on the back of my head, the comfort of her body close to mine … everything else just faded away into nowhere. This was where I wanted to be.
But nothing lasts for ever.
Back in the kitchen she just sat there looking at me. Flecks of green dappled the brown of her eyes, like tiny leaves. I had to look away. My tea was cold. Everything was cold.
‘You have to tell somebody,’ she said quietly.
The fluorescent strip light hummed and stuttered on the ceiling. A small puddle of rainwater had formed on the floor at Alex’s feet, dripped from the sleeves of her jacket. The harsh white flickering light reflected in the surface of the puddle. It bothered me. I wanted to turn it off. To sit in the dark. To do nothing.
‘Martyn, you have to tell somebody about it. You can’t just sit here and not do anything. You have to call the police.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too late.’
A frown wrinkled her brow. ‘I don’t understand. Too late for what?’
‘They’ll know.’
‘Who?’
‘The police. They’ll know he died over an hour ago. They can tell. They’ll want to know why I didn’t ring straight away.’
‘So? Tell them.’
‘I can’t, can I?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down, a little embarrassed, as if she’d suddenly realised there was something wrong with me. She had that don’t-know-what-to-do look on her face; the kind of look you get when a mad person sits next to you on a bus. But it didn’t last long. After a moment’s thought she wiped her nose and said, ‘Well, all right, but you’re not going to get arrested just because you don’t know why you didn’t do something, are you?’
‘No, they’ll probably just put me in a loony bin.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Or a home, or something.’
‘Martyn—’
‘They won’t let me stay here, will they?’ And then it dawned on me. ‘Oh, God. Aunty Jean. They’ll make me go and live at Aunty Jean’s.’
‘No they won’t.’
‘Of course they will! What else can they do? Christ! I can’t live with her, I can’t stand the woman. She’s worse than Dad.’
‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’
‘How would you know?’ I snapped.
She looked hurt. ‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘Yeah, I know … I know. I’m sorry. It’s just … I don’t know.’
It was still pouring down. Rain streamed on the kitchen window. The shaving foam snow had melted. All that was left was a murky trail on the glass and a grubby white residue hardening on the sill. Alex scratched absently at the table top with a teaspoon, chewing her lip, while I just sat there thinking. It was one of those if only situations. If only no one knew about it. If only I had time to think. If only I could make things disappear. If only …
‘Look,’ Alex said calmly, ‘why don’t you let me call the police. I’ll explain what’s happened. I’m sure it’ll be all right. I mean, it’s not like he’s been lying there for weeks, is it? It’s only been an hour or so. They’ll understand, they’re not monsters.’
I shook my head.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve already told you, they’ll want to know why I didn’t tell them about it immediately, and I won’t have an answer. It’s bound to make them suspicious. They’ll think I’ve got something to hide.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t, have you? It was an accident.’
‘They don’t know that.’
‘But you can’t just leave it, Martyn. You’ve got to do something. You’ve got to tell somebody.’
I thought about it. I tried to follow it through – what if this, what if that – but there was nothing there. All I could see was a black hole. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘whatever I do, I’ll still end up at Aunty Jean’s.’
‘But you won’t have to stay there for ever, will you? You’ll be sixteen soon enough, you can get your own place.’
‘I’ll be in a straightjacket by then.’
‘And what do you think’s going to happen if you leave your dad’s body in the front room?’
I looked at her. ‘I don’t know.’
She took a deep breath and sighed.
And that’s how it went on for the rest of the night. Alex saying call the police and me saying no. Alex saying why not and me saying I can’t. Why not? Because. Yes, but. No. Why not? Because. Yes, but. No … Round and round in never-ending circles. We weren’t getting anywhere. By the time it got to midnight we were both too tired to carry on.
‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ I said finally.
‘It’s already tomorrow. The longer you leave it—’
‘I know. Let me think about it, OK? I’ll sort it out in the morning.’
She sighed again, looked at her watch and nodded wearily. ‘All right.’
I got up and went over to the back door. On the path outside, wet black bin-liners sagged by the wall. Cats had got into one, scattering the path with sodden tissue and chicken bones.
‘What about tonight,’ Alex said. ‘You can’t stay here.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘You can come over to my place if you want. I’ll get Mum to make up a bed in the spare room.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, locking the door. ‘But I’ll be all right here.’
We were standing in the doorway. The rain had stopped. A crescent moon hung high and white in the black sky. The street was empty, the surface of the road wet and black in the sodium glow of streetlights. Alex buttoned her coat.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ she asked again.
I nodded.
She put her hands in her pockets. ‘I’d better go. I’ll come round in the morning. OK?’
I watched her cross the road back to her house. Back to her home, her mother, her warm bed.
She didn’t look back.
I shut the door.
The house was still cold. And quiet.
I went upstairs and got into bed.
Lucas
Published by Scholastic Australia
Pty Ltd PO Box 579 Gosford NSW 2250
ABN 11 000 614 577
www.scholastic.com.au
Part of the Scholastic Group
Sydney • Auckland • New York • Toronto • London • Mexico City
• New Delhi • Hong Kong • Buenos Aires • Puerto Rico
SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First published by The Chicken House, 2003
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited, 2014
&n
bsp; E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 9781925063677
Text © Kevin Brooks 2003
Cover design by Steve Wells
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.
Martyn Pig
Text © Kevin Brooks 2002
First print edition published in Great Britain in 2002
Electronic edition published in 2013
The Chicken House
2 Palmer Street
Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS
United Kingdom
www.doublecluck.com
Kevin Brooks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of the publisher.
Produced in the UK by Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Cover design by Steve Wells