Read Martyn Pig for Free Online Page A

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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Enjoy yourself?’ I asked.
    She shrugged. ‘It was all right.’
    â€˜Where’d you go?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Alex?’
    â€˜What?’
    I put the teas on the kitchen table and sat down.
    â€˜I’ve got a problem,’ I said.
    â€˜You’re not pregnant are you?’ she joked.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Sorry.’ She stopped smiling. ‘What is it? Is it bad?’
    â€˜It’s bad.’
    â€˜How bad?’
    â€˜
Bad
bad.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜It’s Dad.’
    â€˜What about him?’
    â€˜He’s dead.’
    And then I told her what had happened.
    â€˜Show me,’ she said.
    I took her into the front room. She shuddered a little and wiped nervously at her mouth.
    â€˜Cover him up, Martyn.’
    I found a sheet in the airing cupboard and laid