by Kevin Brooks
We’d checked through all Dean’s tapes again, just to make sure, but there was nothing of interest on any of them. The original and the copy of the blackmail tape we’d burned in a metal bucket. I’d put the burnt remains along with the tape recorder and all the other tapes in a carrier bag, topped it up with kitchen refuse then nipped out and stuffed it into a wheelie bin outside someone else’s house a couple of streets away.
Now, sipping tea, staring out into the afternoon darkness, I was thinking about tomorrow. The Plan. Part 2. There wasn’t much to it, really. Alex would come round in the morning, we’d go into town, draw out two hundred and fifty pounds, and get spending. The only thing was ... we hadn’t really talked about what we were going to spend it on. I felt a bit awkward about it, to be honest. I didn’t want to appear too pushy, you know, too forward. But then I didn’t want Alex to think I wasn’t prepared to do whatever she wanted, either. If she wanted to spend the money on presents, clothes, that kind of stuff ... well, that was fine. As far as it went. But what I really wanted was to get out of here. I wasn’t expecting us to just jet off somewhere immediately, but a trip to the travel agent would be a start. They might have something on short notice, a country cottage in Scotland or Wales, something like that. We could get on a train, maybe even take the car. Anywhere would do. Anywhere but here.
But, as I said, I didn’t really know how to bring it up.
‘We’d better start early tomorrow,’ I said. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, places shut early.’
‘Hmm?’ she said, without looking up from her letters.
‘Tomorrow. It’s Christmas Eve. Places shut early.’
‘No they don’t.’
‘Some do.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Banks, travel age—’
‘But we don’t need a bank, do we?’ she smiled. ‘Just a cashpoint. Cashpoints don’t close.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
She went back to staring at her letters.
What we could do, I thought, if she didn’t want to go anywhere right away, we could go to the travel agent just for a look, maybe get some brochures, find out how much things cost, then spend the money on presents and stuff and have a nice quiet Christmas here. I don’t suppose another day or two would hurt. I could get some really expensive food in, cook us something tasty. Maybe hang around for a couple of days. It’d give us enough time to get a load of money together, and then after Christmas we could really go somewhere.
‘You could come here for dinner, if you like,’ I suggested. ‘Bring your mum.’
She looked up. ‘What?’
‘You and your mum, I’ll cook you a Christmas dinner.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘She’s not a vegetarian or anything is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Your mum.’
‘Why should she be?’
‘I don’t know. I was just asking. What do you prefer, chicken or turkey?’
‘Anything, really, it doesn’t matter. We’re not fussy. As long as it’s not that horrible thing you got from the market.’ She grinned. ‘Now, let me concentrate on these letters.’
After a minute or two of silence, she went to put a word down, then changed her mind. I smiled to myself. When we’d first started playing Scrabble together it used to really annoy me how slow she was. Unbelievably slow. Sometimes she’ll take as long as five minutes before putting down a word. Then, when she does, it’s something stupid like CAT or IT. But I’m used to it now. I don’t mind. I just like to watch her play.
‘What do you normally do?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘For Christmas. What do you normally do?’
‘Nothing much.’
She started tapping a finger lightly on the table. Tap tap tap. Meaning: shut up, Martyn, I’m trying to think of a word. So I shut up and looked out of the window. Nothing but darkness and snow. I looked at Alex. Staring. Thinking. I tried to imagine what she’d look like when she was old. But I couldn’t do it. It was a face that could only ever be young. Me, I could see myself as an old man. Short and bony, bald, covered in moles, face caved in. I’d be a miserable old git, always moaning, waving my walking-stick in people’s faces – get out of the way, can’t you see I’m old? I’d have bad teeth and a permanent dribble stain on my chin and I’d wear the same clothes all the time—
‘Sag,’ said Alex.
That was her word. SAG.
Tapping each letter with a fingertip, she totted up the score, marked it on the score pad, reached for the letter bag, closed her eyes and drew out two more letters, placed them in her letter tray and immediately commenced staring. That’s how she plays. Lost in her own little world. It never ceased to amaze me.
I looked at my letters. A, C, H, T, J, I, H. I thought for a moment then added a word. AITCH, the A tagged onto the bottom of SAG making SAGA.
Alex glanced up. ‘Aitch? What’s that?’
‘Aitch,’ I said, taking the last five letters from the bag. ‘The letter H. Aitch. As in HP Sauce.’
‘That’s not a word.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it was haitch.’
I laughed.
‘What?’ she scowled.
‘Nothing. It’s aitch. A-I-T-C-H. Aitch. Trust me.’
She glared at me for a moment, shook her head, then went back to her letter-staring. She couldn’t win. I was already about 100 points ahead and there were no letters left. The game was almost over. She never wins, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She always concentrates right up to the end, taking ages over each word, thinking things through, not making her move until she’s absolutely sure. And that’s probably what was worrying me about bringing up the idea of going away together. She’d want to think it through. She’d want to weigh up the options, decide what was best. She’d want to make sure it wasn’t a mistake. Anyway, I knew I’d have to say something soon. It wouldn’t wait for ever.
What’s wrong with now?
Now?
It’s as good a time as any. You said it yourself – it’s no good wishing things were different, wishing you could turn the clock back, wishing you had another chance, because things aren’t different, you can’t turn the clock back, you don’t get another chance. The only thing to do is say to yourself: what’s the worst that can happen? And then do it.
Right. What’s the worst that can happen?
Go on, then. Just open your mouth and say it.
I took a deep breath. ‘We could be out of here by Christmas Day.’
Alex didn’t move. I thought for a moment she hadn’t heard me. Then she raised her head and looked me in the eye. ‘What?’
‘We could go somewhere,’ I said. ‘Just jump on a train, anywhere you like.’
‘What do you mean?’
I cleared my throat. ‘You and me, you know. We could go away somewhere.’
‘A holiday?’
I shrugged. ‘Yeah ... a holiday. Or maybe—’
‘Me and you?’
‘Why not?’
‘When?’
‘Now, tomorrow, after Christmas. Whenever you like.’
She didn’t say anything, just stared at me, gazing deep into my eyes. I couldn’t stand it. I had to look away. I looked down at the letters in my rack. H, U, J, S, A, D, T. Stupid little words jumped out at me. SAD. Come on, Alex. HAT. Say something. HUT. Anything. SHUT. Yes. DUST. No. DASH. Anything. JUST. Don’t laugh ...
‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ she said eventually.
I looked up. ‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘We don’t want to leave it too late. Things’ll get booked up.’
‘I know. Let me think about it, all right?’ She stood up. ‘Look, I have to go now. I promised Mum I’d help her prepare for her audition.’
‘But—’
‘We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’
‘I know, Martyn. I know. Anywhere. I said I’d think about it. OK?’
‘OK.’
We’d talk about it tomorrow.
She kissed me again before she left. Just a peck on the cheek, and then she was gone. I watched her cross the empty street and follow the pavement down towards her house, a slight dark figure stooped against the falling snow. The touch of her kiss on my cheek grew colder with every step she took.
There she goes, I thought. Just an unknown shape of a girl disappearing into a shroud of snow.
Did I ever know her?
I stood in the doorway for a while, waiting, but she didn’t look back.
She never looked back.
That was the last time I ever saw her.
Tuesday
I wasn’t that worried when she didn’t show up the following morning. Not at first anyway. Annoyed, maybe. But not worried. Alex was often late. She could never understand why it bothered me. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ she’d say. She was right, in a way. If you like someone enough, it doesn’t matter how long they keep you waiting – as long they turn up in the end, it’s all right.
I can’t help it, though. I hate waiting for someone to turn up. I can’t understand why anyone should be late for anything. Unless something disastrous happens there’s no reason for it. No reason at all. I’m never late for anything. I always make sure I’m early, then if something does happen, I’ve still got time to get wherever I’m going.
If I can do it, why can’t everyone else?
It was Christmas Eve, I’d told her that. Places shut early. I wanted out of here. Now. Just go, get on a train, a boat, a plane, get on and go. Anywhere. I’d told her that.
It was nine-thirty. Where the hell was she?
I waited. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour. I rang her. No answer. I waited some more, pacing up and down, looking at the clock every two minutes. I rang again. No answer. I made some tea, I swore, I paced up and down some more. By ten-thirty I couldn’t wait any longer. I put on my hat and coat and went over to her house.
A thick layer of snow covered the ground, crunching under my boots as I hurried down the road. The snow had stopped falling but it was still freezing cold. The street was gloomy and deserted. Darkly quiet. Heavy grey snow clouds hung low in the sky, covering everything in a cold dark smog. The flat snow-crunch of my footsteps sounded bleak and lonely in the dull air.
The car was gone from outside her house. No tyre tracks, so it must have left some time ago. I stood at the gate peering up at the windows. Curtains open, lights off, no movement. It looked empty. It felt empty. I knew it was empty. I stepped up and rang the bell anyway. The distant ring had no effect. No footsteps, no doors opening, no muffled voices. I stepped to one side and looked in through the porch window. Nothing. Just an empty hallway, blurred through the patterned glass, and the vague shape of the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall, the door half-open, revealing a distorted triangle of black and white floor-tiles. Empty. As I stepped back my foot brushed against a milk-bottle. The bottle wobbled and I reached down in time to stop it toppling over. Two milk-bottles, both full. Unwanted.
There was no one home.
I turned back into the gloom.
Where was she? If she’d had to go somewhere, why hadn’t she rung? It was eleven o’clock now. Where the hell was she?
Halfway along the street I stopped and looked over my shoulder. I don’t know what I was expecting to see. That dirty old Morris van turning the corner, Alex leaning out of the window, smiling and waving, calling out to me, Martyn! Hey, Martyn ... but there was nothing there. And I could tell by the look of the street that there wasn’t going to be anything there. It had a non-expectant look to it.
Maybe ...
Maybe I was waiting in vain?
Maybe ...
No.
She wouldn’t do that. Don’t even think about it.
I carried on home.
It’s probably something stupid, I told myself. She’d had to go out with her mum, they’d had a row, she’d forgotten to ring me. Maybe the phone wasn’t working? But then all she’d have to do was pop across the road and tell me. Two minutes. Or maybe they’d gone out earlier, shopping or something, visiting friends, and the car broke down? They could be stuck somewhere, stuck in the car. And she couldn’t ring to let me know because there wasn’t a phone box nearby. Or perhaps they’d had an accident? The roads are bad, covered in ice. They’re driving along somewhere, chatting, they take a corner too fast, slide off and smack into a hedge, or hit another car ... yes, that could be it. An accident. They were in hospital. That would explain it.
Believe it. It fits. It’s a good solution. It explains everything.
Anything else, don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about it.
But as I entered the house and climbed the stairs I already knew what I’d find. The truth has a way of shining through, no matter how hard you try to ignore it.
Dad’s room felt cold and abandoned. Like a room that no one had ever lived in. I pulled back the curtains and opened the window but the air refused to come in. Pale morning shadows whispered memories into the void.
Staring eyes. Nothing like eyes. Mute, blind, unquestioning. Pale, bloodless, dead. Not dead, just sleeping.
Dad.
Are we bad?
Alex.
Look at her, look at that girl. Who else would do that for you?
I walked slowly across the room.
You’ll have to close his eyes.
I opened the wardrobe.
Tell me what you want me to be and I’ll be it.
Acting.
Anything; a situation, an emotion, a person, anything. I will act for you.
She was an actress.
Perfumed, made-up, artificial.
Her mum was an actress.
She can do anything: voices, the way people walk, their posture, anything. She’s brilliant.
No jacket. There was no jacket in the wardrobe.
What are you doing? Nothing. Just putting his clothes away.
Gone.
I thought he was wearing his other one?
The brown one. Not the black one.
That’s the jacket he was wearing, Martyn. I remember it. OK?
No, not OK.
She can do anything: voices, the way people walk, their posture, anything. She’s brilliant.
Her bag.
A big old rucksacky thing with pockets and zips all over the place, big enough to carry a small horse.
I went over to the bureau.
Just a bit queasy.
Opened it.
Would you mind going downstairs?
No chequebook, no cashcard.
The roar of the toilet flushing. Taps running. Footsteps on the ceiling. What is she doing?
No birth certificate, no marriage certificate, no medical card. No solicitor’s letters.
Give me the cashcard and I’ll put it back in the bureau.
How did she know?
Excuse me.
Why, Alex?
I’m not just a pretty face, you know.
Gone.
I’m not just a pretty face, you know.
Why?
I’m not just a pretty face, you know.
Why?
I’m not just a—
‘SHUT UP!’
I walked downstairs in a daze and sank into the armchair, devastated. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. Whatever it was, I didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t do that. Would she? She wouldn’t. No, there must be a simple explanation. Think about it.
I thought about it.
Alex at the wardrobe. Tense and fidgety, eyes darting all over the room. Alex at the bureau. Reality. Laughter. Alex being sick. Poor Alex. Pretty Alex. Smart Alex ... I thought about it until my head hurt, and then I thought about it some more – What about this? What about that? Yes? No? Maybe this.
Maybe that. How? When? Why? What? Where? – but all it did was send me spinning round in circles. I couldn’t think straight. It was like trying to get an octopus into a box: every time I got one leg in, another leg wriggled its way out. I wasn’t getting anywhere. And then I remembered something Sherlock Holmes had said. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. So that’s what I did. I made myself some tea, cleared my mind, then sat down and eliminated as much of the impossible as I could. And what I was left with was this: Alex took the chequebook, the cashcard, Dad’s identification, and the letters. She also took the jacket. And probably some other clothes, too. A shirt, pair of trousers, maybe a coat. Stuffed them all in that damn great bag of hers and just walked out. Why? Think about it ... her mum. Of course! Her mum. She’s about the same size as Dad, same age, same general appearance. She can act. Stick her in a dirty old shirt and jacket, bit of theatrical make-up ... she’s got ID ... she dresses up as Dad, goes to the bank first thing this morning and draws out the thirty thousand. No one’s going to know the difference, especially a bank clerk. It’s not impossible. Improbable? Maybe. But it’s not impossible, is it?
Yes, it is.
It’s impossible.
But then again ...
I don’t know.
Maybe.
Yes.
No.
The octopus was getting out again. I was losing it. I even started thinking that it was all just a joke. A surprise. All right, supposing Alex had taken the chequebook and clothes and everything, that her mum had gone to the bank and drawn out all the money ... it didn’t necessarily mean they were cheating me, did it? Maybe they were just trying to help? To save me the bother of getting the money out bit by bit. After they’d got the thirty thousand pounds Alex was going to turn up at the front door with a big smile on her face and a pocket full of cash – ta daah! But something had gone wrong. At the bank. Yes, that’s it. Something went wrong at the bank. They got caught. That’s where they are now, at the police station, being interrogated ...
Don’t be stupid.
If Alex’s mum had been arrested disguised as William Pig, carrying a chequebook and birth certificate in the name of William Pig, trying to draw out thirty thousand pounds from the account of William Pig, the police would have been round here hours ago. You don’t need Inspector Morse to work that one out.