Martyn Pig (2 page)

Halfway down the street I heard a shout – ‘
Mar'n!
' – and turned to see Dad leaning out of the bedroom window, bare-chested, a cigarette dangling from his lip.

‘Don't forget the bloody whasnames,' he yelled, making a yanking movement with both hands, tugging on two invisible ropes.

‘What?' I called back.

He took the cigarette from his mouth, gazed blankly into the distance for a moment, then blurted out, ‘Crackers! Get some bloody Exmas crackers. Big ones, mind, not them tiny buggers.'

In town, outside Sainsbury's, the scariest Father Christmas I'd ever seen was slumped in the back of a plywood sleigh. He was thin and short. So thin that his big black Santa's belt wound twice around his waist. Stiff black stubble showed on his chin beneath an ill-fitting, off-white Santa beard and – strangest of all, I thought – a pair of brand new trainers gleamed on his feet. When he
Ho-ho-ho'd
he sounded like a serial killer. Six plywood reindeer pulled his plywood sleigh. They were painted a shiny chocolate brown, with glittery red eyes and coat-hanger antlers entwined with plastic holly.

It was raining.

I watched the skinny Santa for a while – thirty seconds and a Lucky Bag per kid – then headed off towards the other end of town. As I walked I got to thinking about the whole Father Christmas thing. I was trying to remember if I'd ever really believed that a fat man in a fat red suit could squeeze down a million different chimneys all in one night. I suppose I must have believed it at some point. I have a very vague memory of sitting on a Santa's knee when I was about three or four years old. I can still remember the nasty, scratchy feel of his red nylon trousers, the stickiness of his beard, and a strange fruity smell. When I asked him where he lived a familiar slurred voice answered, ‘Poland ... uh ... North Poland ... in an underground igloo with twenty-two dwarves –
hic
– and a sleigh-deer.'

It was still raining when I got to The Bargain Bin. It's one of those cheap shops that sell all kinds of rubbishy stuff – cups, towels, bean bags, pencil cases. Upstairs, there's a toy department full of weedy footballs and plastic machine guns that make noises. You can test them. There's an arrow pointing to the trigger that says Press and when you pull the trigger they go
kakakakakakaka
or
dugga-dugga-dugga-dugga-peow-peow
. Ricochets. I was just looking around, looking at the racks of little toys – plastic animals, cows, sheep, crocodiles, rubber snakes, water pistols. I thought I might find something there for Alex, a present. Nothing serious, just a little something, you know, a token. The year before I'd bought her a box of plastic ants. I don't remember what she gave me.

Anyway, I was just standing there staring at the toys on the wall, trying to find something I thought she'd like, something I could afford, when I suddenly realised that I wasn't really looking at anything at all. I was looking, but not seeing. It was the noise. I couldn't concentrate because of the noise. Horrible tinny Christmas musak blaring out from speakers in the ceiling, synthesised sleigh bells and chirpy pianos, groany old singers trying too hard to be happy – it was unbearable. A great swirling mess of sound searing its way into my head. I tried to ignore it, but it just seemed to get louder and louder. And it was too hot in there, too. It was boiling. There was no air. I couldn't breathe. The sound was paralysing – chattering machine guns, talking animals, wailing police car sirens,
dee-dur dee-dur dee-dur
, parents shouting at their kids, whacking them on the arm, the kids screaming and crying, the constant
beep beep beep
of the tills, the music ... it was like something out of a nightmare.

I had to get out.

I went and sat in the square for a while. The rain had stopped but the air was moist and cold. The sweat running down my neck felt clammy and foreign. I sat on a low brick wall and watched limping pigeons peck at food scabs while the slurred whine of a beardy old busker drifted across from the nearby shopping arcade. He's always there, always playing the same depressing song.
When I'm old with only one eye, I'll do nothing but look at the sky
... Two screaming children clutching bits of bread were chasing pigeons across the square, and in the background I could hear the constant sound of thousands of people shuffling around the crowded streets, all talking, jabbering away, yammering rubbish to each other –
scuffle scuffle scuffle, blah blah blah, scuffle scuffle scuffle
. From distant streets the discordant sounds of other buskers mingled awkwardly with the hubbub – a hurdy-gurdy, the plink-plonk of a banjo, Peruvian pipes, the screaming whistle of a flute ...

It all sounded like madness to me. Too many people, too many buildings, too much noise, too much everything.

It's there all the time, the sound of too much everything, but no one ever listens to it. Because once you start to listen, you can never stop, and in the end it'll drive you crazy.

A wild-haired loony munching a greasy pasty sat down next to me and grinned in my direction. Bits of wet potato clung to his teeth. I decided to move on. My bum was cold and wet from sitting on the damp wall and it was starting to rain again. I walked up through the backstreets then cut down through the multi-storey car park, across the road bridge, then down past the library to the street market where dodgy-looking men in long nylon overcoats and fingerless gloves were standing at their stalls drinking steaming coffee from styrofoam cups. More noise – crappy rock 'n' roll music, loud Christmas carols, marketmen shouting out above the clamour:
Getchur luvverly turkeys 'ere! ... Plenny a luvverly turkeys! ... Wrappin' papah! Ten sheets a paand! ... Getchur luvverly wrappin' papah 'ere!

I bought the first turkey I came across. A wet-looking white thing in a bag. In a week's time it would probably taste even worse than it looked, but it didn't matter. Dad would be so drunk on Christmas Day he'd eat anything. He'd eat a seagull if I dished one up. Raw.

I got sprouts and potatoes, a fruitcake, crisps, a box of cheap crackers and a bargain pack of Christmas decorations. Then I lugged it all home.

It was dark when I got back. My arms ached from carrying the shopping, my hands and feet were frozen and I had a stiff neck. And I was getting a cold. Snot dripped from the end of my nose and I had to keep stopping to put down the shopping bags so I could wipe it.

Alex was waiting at the bus stop. She waved and I crossed over.

‘Your nose is running,' she said.

‘Yeah, I know,' I said, wiping it on my sleeve. ‘Where're you going?'

‘Dean's.'

‘Oh.'

‘What's in the bags?' she asked.

‘Christmas stuff.'

‘Anything for me?'

‘Maybe.'

‘More ants?' she grinned.

‘You never know.'

When she smiled I'd sometimes get this sick feeling in my stomach, like ... I don't know what it was like. One of those feelings when you don't know if it's good or if it's bad. One of those.

I rested the shopping bags on the ground and watched cars droning up and down the road. Metal, rubber, fumes, people, all moving from place to place, going somewhere, doing something. The inside of the concrete bus shelter was depressingly familiar: a glassless timetable poster, torn and defaced, bits of wet muck all over the place, mindless scribbles on the walls –
Dec + Lee ... YEAAH MAN! ... Duffy is nob
... I sat down on the folding seat beside Alex.

‘Fed up?' she asked.

‘I'm all right.'

She leaned over and peered into the carrier bags, nudging one with a foot. ‘Nice looking chicken,' she said, smiling.

‘It's a turkey,' I said.

‘Bit small for a turkey.'

‘It's a
small
turkey.'

‘I think you'll find that's a chicken, Martyn.'

She grinned at me and I grinned back. Her eyes shone like marbles, clear and round and perfect.

‘Did you see the Rolf Harrises?' she asked.

‘What?'

‘In town, at the precinct. There was a load of people all dressed up as Rolf Harris. You know, with the glasses and the beard, the curly hair. Didn't you see them?'

‘No.'

‘They had didgeridoos and everything.'

‘Why were they dressed up as Rolf Harris?'

‘I don't know. For Christmas, I suppose.'

‘What's Rolf Harris got to do with Christmas?'

‘They were singing carols.'

I looked at her. ‘A
choir
of Rolf Harrises?'

She shook her head, laughing. ‘It's for charity.'

‘Oh
well
, that's all right then.'

She looked away and waved at a girl across the street. I didn't know who it was, just a girl. I rubbed the back of my neck. I was still sweating, but not so bad any more. The bus shelter stank. My sleeve was caked with frozen snot and my feet were getting more numb by the second. But despite all that, I felt OK. Just sitting there, chatting, doing nothing, watching the world go by—

‘Here's the bus,' Alex said, digging in her bag for her purse. ‘I've got to go. I'll see you later.'

‘OK.'

The bus pulled in, the doors pished open and Alex stepped on. ‘About ten?' she called out over her shoulder.

‘OK.'

I watched her pay. I watched the bus driver click buttons on his ticket machine and I watched the bus ticket snicker out. I watched the way her eyes blinked slowly and I watched her mouth say
Thank you
and I watched the coal-black shine of her hair as she took the bus ticket and rolled it into a tube and stuck it in the corner of her mouth. I watched her hitch up the collar of her combat jacket and I saw the bright white flash of her T-shirt beneath the open folds of her jacket as she strolled gracefully to the back of the bus. And I watched and waited in vain for her to turn her head as the bus lurched out into the street, juddered up the road and disappeared around the corner.

She never looked back.

I first met Alex about two years ago when she and her mum moved into a rented house just down the road from us. I remember watching from my bedroom window as they unloaded all their stuff from a removal van, and I remember thinking to myself how nice she looked. Nice. She looked nice. Pretty. Kind of scruffy, with straggly black hair sticking out from a shapeless black hat. She wore battered old jeans and a long red jumper. I liked the way she walked, too. An easy lope.

What if ... I'd thought to myself. What if I went over and said hello? Hello, I'm Martyn, welcome to the street. Something like that. I could do that, couldn't I? It wouldn't be too hard. Hi! My name's Martyn, how's it going ...

Don't be ridiculous. Not in a million years.

She was fifteen then, and I was fourteen. Nearly fourteen, anyway. All right, I was thirteen. She was a young woman, I was just a gawky-looking kid.

It was a ridiculous idea.

So I just watched from the window. I watched her as she climbed up into the back of the van. I watched her as she lugged the stuff out and passed it to her mum. I watched her jump down from the van and slap the dust from her jeans. I watched her as she bounced up the path carrying a big green vase in both hands, and I watched as she stumbled over a loose paving stone and the vase went flying into the air and landed on the doorstep with a big hollow smash. Now she's going to get it, I thought. But when her mum came out they just stared at each other for a second, looked down at the shards of green glass strewn all over the place, and then started laughing. Just stood there giggling and hooting like a couple of mad people. I couldn't believe it. If that was me, Dad would have screamed blue murder and thumped me on the back of the head.

When they eventually stopped laughing Alex's mum started clearing up the broken glass, carefully picking up the big bits and putting them into a box. She was quite tall, for a woman. Sort of dumpy, too. Medium-tall and dumpy, if that makes any sense. Her hair was black, like Alex's, but short. And her face was sort of grey and tired-looking, like her skin needed watering. She wore faded dungarees and a black T-shirt, long beady earrings, and bracelets on her wrists. As she hefted the box of broken glass and turned to go back into the house she glanced up in my direction. I looked away. When she came back out, carrying a dustpan and brush, she sneaked another look up at my window, then stooped down and started to sweep up the rest of the broken vase. She must have said something because, just as I was about to disappear from the window, Alex turned and flashed a big grin at me and waved.

‘Hey!'

I gave an embarrassed half-wave.

‘Are you busy?' she shouted.

‘What?'

‘Are you busy?' she repeated. ‘Come and give us a hand if you're not.'

I stuck my thumb up and immediately regretted it. Dumb thing to do.

Forget it.

I quickly changed into a clean T-shirt then tiptoed down the stairs so as not to wake Dad, who was sleeping off his lunch in the front room, and went out into the street. Walking across the road towards the removal van my legs felt like rubber bands. I'd forgotten how to walk. I was a wobbling fool.

Alex smiled at me and my legs almost gave up.

‘Hello,' she said.

‘Hello.'

‘Alexandra Freeman,' she said, ‘Alex.'

‘Martyn,' I said, nodding my head up and down like an imbecile. ‘Uh ... Martyn.'

‘This is my mum.'

‘Hello, Martyn,' her mum said. ‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘Ditto,' I said.

Alex giggled.

It felt all right.

Now, after Alex had left on the bus, I trudged across the road feeling even worse than I'd felt before. The OK feeling from the bus shelter had evaporated. Glum. That's how I felt. I felt glum. Glum as a ... whatever. Something glum. I always felt bad when she was seeing Dean. Dean was her boyfriend. Dean West. He was eighteen, he worked in the Gadget Shop in town – computers, sound systems, electronic stuff. He was an idiot. Ponytail, long fingernails, bad skin. His face was all the same colour – lips, cheeks, eyes, nose – all rotten and white. He rode a motorbike and liked to think he was some kind of biker, but he wasn't. He was just a pale white idiot.