Martyn Pig (14 page)

‘Well, I suppose. It's just ... I like to get the details right. It makes me feel—'

‘That's the jacket he was wearing, Martyn. I remember it. OK? Now, let's get this finished.' She shut the wardrobe and passed me Dad's shoes and socks. I was about to say something else about the jacket, but the look on her face said don't-you-dare, so I didn't.

After I'd got him dressed I unzipped the sleeping bag and laid it out next to the bed. Then I crossed to the other side of the bed and removed the duvet. Dad just lay there: mute, blind, unquestioning, pale, bloodless, dead. He seemed to have shrunk. Skin hung loosely from his frame, like the skin of a 100-year-old man. I imagined the skeleton beneath the covering of skin. Brittle white bones, calcium. Joined in all the right places, as if by magic.

Using a damp cloth I wiped all the make-up from his face. Underneath, his skin was the colour of wet newspaper.

Then I stooped, gripped the edge of the mattress and lifted. I didn't think he was going to move at first, I thought he was somehow stuck to the mattress. But then he began to roll. I raised the mattress higher and he fell to the floor with a dead thump.

Ouch, I thought.

I positioned him on top of the sleeping bag then crouched down and took his hand in mine. His body wasn't stiff any more, but his hand felt hard and unforgiving, just as it had when he was alive. It was a hand I'd never really seen, not up close. I didn't know it. All it had ever been to me was something I got hit with. I stared at the lines and contours in the skin, the whorls on the fingertips, the hard, dirty fingernails, the stiff black hairs on the backs of his fingers. The skin was dirty, stained with dust. A small white scar at the base of the thumb stood out bright against the grey skin. On the middle finger of his right hand a dull gold ring was embedded into the flesh. I wondered where it was from. Was it a gift? Who gave it to him? Mum?

I dug into my pocket and brought out the envelope containing the hairs and the cigarette end I'd collected from the kitchen floor. Carefully, I lodged some of Dean's hairs under one of Dad's fingernails, wrapping the long ends round the tip of his finger to help keep them in place. That should do it.

I crossed his arms over his chest.

I up-ended the envelope and scattered the rest of the hairs and the cigarette end into the bag, then zipped it up.
Zip zip zip
. I tightened the drawstring and tied it off then whipped out the stapler and stapled shut the top of the bag with a nice straight line of staples.
Chickchick chickchick chickchick
.

Gone.

I'd never see him again.

I stared down at the big green nylon cocoon and wondered if I ought to feel something. Anything.

But I didn't. There was nothing there.

‘Might as well get him downstairs,' I said. ‘You take that end.'

The nylon material hissed on the carpet as we dragged the bag out of the bedroom, into the hallway and then across to the top of the stairs where we stopped to catch our breath.

‘Heavy,' panted Alex.

I nodded, sucking in air.

The bottom of the stairs looked a long way away, a long way down.

‘There's not much point in carrying him down,' I said.

She shrugged. ‘Suppose not.'

I moved down a couple of stairs, turned and grabbed the end of the sleeping bag, took a deep breath and tugged. The bag slid slowly over the edge of the top stair, and stopped. Jammed.

‘Give it a push,' I said.

Alex bent down and pushed from behind while I reached over and grabbed a handful of nylon and pulled. The bag bent in the middle as I pulled it up into a sitting position.

‘And again,' I said.

She pushed, I pulled. The bag moved forward, tottered for a second, then suddenly lurched towards me.

‘Watch out!'

I jumped to one side just in time to watch it tumble past me and clatter down the stairs –
clump clomp clomp clomp clumpclump clump clompclump kathump
. It landed at the bottom of the stairs in a heap.

From the front room window I watched a fine sleet slanting down into the street. Alex's mum had returned ten minutes ago, I'd seen her driving past. Alex had rung her to check what time she was going out. Six o'clock. We had another hour.

Alex lay stretched out on the settee sucking an orange. ‘How are we going to get him in the car?' she asked.

It was a good question. The sort of question a good murder mystery writer ought to have an answer to. I didn't have a clue.

‘Martyn?'

‘What?'

‘How are we going to get him in the car?'

‘I don't know,' I admitted.

How would it be done in a story? I racked my brains, trying to remember if I'd ever read anything similar. The only thing I could think of was a story about a man who'd murdered his wife and hid the body in the woods, but that was out in the wilds somewhere, in America, a log cabin or something, up in the mountains, somewhere deserted. This was slightly different. A terraced house in a cramped side-street in a nosy neighbourhood.

‘At least it's dark,' Alex said.

I gazed through the window. Sleet shone in the glare of the streetlamp across the road. It's never dark round here, I thought. There's lights everywhere you look. Streetlights, bright white security lights, car headlamps, so much light you can hardly see the stars at night.

‘We'll just have to take a chance,' I said. ‘Bring the car up as close to the door as possible then bundle him in quick and hope that no one sees.'

‘Hope that no one sees?' Alex repeated incredulously.

‘Unless you've got a better idea?'

She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Her hair was tied back, and beneath it her neck was pale and slender, like a sleek white tube. As she reached around to adjust her ponytail I suddenly thought of Dean. An image of his pudgy face floated into my mind. Slack features, loose mouth, lizard eyes, stupid hair. Dean ... I hadn't forgotten about him, I'd just put him to one side for the moment. One thing at a time. That's the way to do it. One thing at a time. Once this business was over I'd get back to Dean. Oh yes.

I wondered what Alex thought of him now? How did she feel about what he'd done? Angry? Humiliated? Embarrassed? It was impossible to tell with Alex. She liked to keep her emotions to herself.

‘Well?' I said.

She sat up and wiped her fingers on a tissue. ‘I can't think of anything.'

I smiled. ‘We'll just have to take a chance, then, won't we?'

It doesn't really matter, I thought, as I dragged the bagged Dad to the front door and waited for Alex to bring the car round. If someone sees us, they see us. If they don't, they don't. That's all there is to it. It's that mysterious tune again, the invisible piper. He plays, we dance – what happens, happens.

I still had the rubber gloves on, but not the mask. I thought that might be just a bit
too
suspicious. Over the rubber gloves I wore another pair of woolly fingerless ones. I also wore my old parka, with its fur-lined hood, a thick jumper, woolly hat, boots and long thick socks. I'd had more than enough of being cold and wet today, thank you very much.

I heard Alex starting up the car down the road. It whined, chugged for a bit, then coughed and died. She tried it again –
urrurrurr ... urrurrurr ... urrurrurreeow ...
then silence. Why couldn't her mum have a proper car? Something Japanese. Something that worked properly. I cringed as the whining started up again, but this time, after a couple of seconds, the engine roared into life. Well, not roared, exactly, but it started. Alex revved up the engine, pumping it like a maniac, keeping it going, then I heard a crunching sound as she looked for the right gear, followed by the squeak of the handbrake, then more revving, more crunching ... why did she have to make so much noise?

A couple of minutes later I heard the car pull up outside the front door. Handbrake on, engine idling. I opened the door and there it was – Dad's hearse: a dirty old van covered in rust and coughing out smoke.

It seemed strangely appropriate.

Alex was standing by the open back doors. In her snow-covered fur hat and big fur boots she looked like an eskimo. Eskimo Alex.

‘Do you think there's enough room,' she shouted out over the noise of the engine.

‘Shhh!' I said, holding a finger to my lips.

‘What?' she shouted.

I beckoned her to the door.

‘Keep your voice down.'

‘Sorry,' she said, lowering her voice. ‘Do you think there's enough room?'

I looked in the back of the car. ‘Easy.'

Headlights swept around the corner and a car full of loud music and tough-guys drove past, swooshing too fast through the fresh snow. I went to close the door but it was too late, they were gone. It didn't matter anyway, there was nothing to see. A couple of young kids and a beat-up old car ... so what?

‘Come on,' I said. ‘Let's get him in and get going.' One last glance up and down the street. ‘OK?'

‘OK.'

I reached down and grabbed the head end of the sleeping bag, Alex got the other end and we shuffled out the door as quick as we could. Now that the body had loosened up a bit it wasn't quite so awkward to manoeuvre, but it was sagging a lot more, and that seemed to make it even heavier. The weight strained at my back and I kept reminding myself to take small steps. It's best to take small steps when you're carrying something heavy.

The car was parked half on and half off the kerb, tilted at a slight angle.

‘Let him down a second,' I whispered as we got to the back of the car.

I adjusted my hold, got underneath the bag so I could lift it up easier.

‘I'll get this end in first then we'll swing the rest up after.'

Alex nodded, although I'm not sure she heard me. The engine was chugging away, exhaust fumes billowing out into our faces, snow tumbling down, both of us struggling with the weight, gasping for breath. I heard a door slam somewhere but didn't dare to look. Just get him in, I thought, just get him in and go. I heaved with all my strength and threw my end of the sleeping bag into the back of the car.
Thump
. Alex lost her grip on the other end and the whole thing started to slide out but I grabbed it just in time and then together we just about managed to shove it back in.

I slammed the doors shut.

‘All right?' I asked breathlessly.

She nodded, tight-lipped.

‘Let's go.'

On the way round to the passenger's door I had that stupid feeling that if I kept my head down I couldn't be seen. I fought against it and raised my eyes from the ground to risk a quick look up the street, then down. Nothing. Empty. Snow. Streetlights. Curtains closed. No one looking. I got in the car and pulled the door shut.

Alex was reaching beneath her seat, tugging a lever, trying to pull the seat further forward. It wouldn't move.

‘Shit!'

She pulled harder and the seat shot forward jamming her legs up against the steering wheel.

‘Shit!'

She pushed it back, got it where she wanted it, then grabbed hold of the gearstick with both hands and started shoving it around, cursing intently, her cold breath misting in the air.

‘Get in, get in, bloody thing—'

‘Take it easy,' I said, ‘there's no hurry now.'

‘Bloody stupid bloody thing ... there!' She whacked the car into gear and grabbed hold of the steering wheel.

‘Alex!' I said.

‘I can't see anything!'

Snow covered the windscreen.

‘Alex!' I grabbed her arm.

‘What?' Her face was red and her eyes panicky.

‘Calm down. There's no need to rush. Put the wipers on.'

She flicked a switch and the headlights went out.

‘Shit.'

She flicked them on again, mumbling to herself. ‘Wipers, wipers, wipers ...'

I reached across and pulled a lever and the wipers scraped slowly across the windscreen, clearing a hole in the snow.

Alex turned to me, her face cold and frightened.

‘It's all right,' I said. ‘Just take it easy.'

The iciness melted and she smiled. ‘Sorry.'

‘We don't want to get stopped,' I said. ‘It might be a bit hard to explain what we're doing.'

She wiped a hand across her face. ‘Yeah, I'm sorry. I'll be all right now.'

The snow was really coming down now, which was both good news and bad news. Good, because it meant there wouldn't be many people around; and bad, because I didn't fancy driving through a snowstorm in a wreck of a car, with a dead body in the back, driven by an underage wreck of a driver, with no licence and no insurance.

‘Nice and easy,' I said. ‘Not too fast and not too slow. OK?'

‘No problem.'

We pulled away with a jerk, accelerated down the street then slid round the corner at the bottom, missing a parked car by inches.

We were on our way.

We kept to the back roads as much as possible. Alex was grim and silent, concentrating on her driving, her head pressed right up close to the windscreen, squinting out into the blurred white blackness. Every now and then she'd press her head even closer to the windscreen and say, ‘Where's the road? Where's the bloody road gone?' I couldn't tell, it all looked the same to me: road, snow, sky, hedges, trees. It was all just
outside
. I didn't have a clue. Alex seemed to manage, though, jerking the steering wheel this way and that, braking, juggling gears, cursing quietly to herself.

I just sat there and stared through the windscreen, letting my mind wander.

Four days to go until Christmas. I tried to imagine what I'd be doing on Christmas Day. In the house, watching television on my own? Watching all those terrible Christmas Specials and the same old stupid films, eating too much, making myself sick? No, I thought. Not this time. By Christmas Day I'd be somewhere else. Somewhere else. Another town, another country, even. Somewhere hot, a beach, palm trees, blue skies. With Alex. She'd be strolling around in a bikini, sipping from a cool drink, and I'd be lounging around doing nothing, getting a tan, dressed in an old straw hat and a pair of long baggy shorts. Then later on I might mosey out along the beach on my own, go for a swim, maybe a bit of surfing—