Martyn Pig (4 page)

‘Yeah!'

‘OK. And who do
you
want to be?'

She thought about that for a while, then said, ‘The murderer's beautiful mistress.'

‘Why?'

She shrugged and smiled. ‘Why not?'

One thing we didn't talk about much was Dean. A few weeks after she'd started seeing him, after I'd met him for the first time, I asked her why she was going out with him.

‘What do you mean?' she said.

‘Well ...'

‘Well what?'

‘Well ... he's a bit of a dope, isn't he?'

She went mad. ‘How the hell would you know what he's like! You've only met him
once
. Christ!'

‘I didn't mean—'

‘You didn't mean
what
? What's it got to do with
you
, anyway? Who the hell d'you think you are?'

I apologised as best I could but she didn't want to know. She sulked for a couple of days, kept out of my way, didn't come round for a while. I thought I'd blown it. Then, all of a sudden, she just seemed to forget all about it. She came round one night and everything was back to normal, as if nothing had ever been said.

Still, we didn't talk about Dean much after that.

Dad was drunk when I went downstairs, which was no surprise. He was drunk every night. Sometimes he went out and sometimes he stayed in, but it didn't make any difference, he was drunk wherever he was. He drank during the day, too, kept himself topped up with beer, but he never really got going on the hard stuff until the evening. Beer in the morning, beer for lunch and beer in the afternoon. Then beer and whisky for tea, and finally, whisky for supper. A balanced diet. He drank so much that even when he wasn't drinking he was drunk.

In the evening, after he'd started on the whisky, there were four distinct stages to his drunkenness. Stage One, the first hour or so after he'd started, he'd make out like he was my best pal – cracking jokes, ruffling my hair, asking how I was, giving me money.

‘An'thing you need, Marty? 'Ere, 'ere's a coupla quid, go on, get y'self a book or something.'

I hate being called Marty. And I hated him giving me money. He'd always ask for it back the next day, anyway. When he was like this, trying to be funny, trying to be Mr Nice Guy, I think that's when I hated him the most. I preferred him when he got to Stage Two. At least it was honest. Stage Two was mostly self-pitying misery. There'd be a silent interval between Stage One and Stage Two, then the occasional grunt at something on the television or something in the newspaper, then he'd gradually build up steam, cursing his ugly luck, cursing the injustices of this world, cursing this and cursing that, cursing Mum for deserting him, cursing Aunty Jean for being such a witch, cursing me for tying him down with responsibilities, cursing just about everything that wasn't him, basically. Then, all at once, he'd just stop, and for the next hour or so he'd just sit there slumped in his chair, smoking his cigarettes and pouring whisky down his neck until he got to Stage Three. Stage Three was incoherence with an unpredictable hint of violence. It didn't bother me too much, the violence, not once I'd learned how to cope with it. It wasn't difficult, really. It usually started with a question. The trick was to give the right answer, but that wasn't always easy because it was almost impossible to understand what he was saying.

‘I tellya, I tellya, lissen, amadoin' the bessacan or amanot? Y'thingiseasy? Y'thingiseasy? Y'thing I donwunna gi'y'thebess? Eh? Lissen. Y'thing I donwunna?'

If I gave the right answer he'd just leer at me for a second then start on about something else. But if I gave the wrong answer – like, ‘What?' – then he'd more than likely swing for me. But, like I said, it didn't really matter. Most times he was so incapable that all I had to do was step to one side and he'd miss ... most times. I remember once, though, we were sitting at the table eating dinner and Dad had a cigarette smoking in the ashtray. The smoke was getting all over the place, stinking up the food, getting in my eyes, making me cough. I kept on asking him to move it, but he just sat there reading his paper, ignoring me, so finally I reached across to move it myself – and his fist came down like a hammer. Whack. Broke my wrist. I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen him move so fast in my life. When he realised what he'd done and that I'd have to go to the hospital, he started getting really worried.

‘Was a acc'dent, Mar'n. Was a acc'dent. Y'gotta tell'em. Was a acc'dent.'

What it was, he was worried they'd send the social worker round again. You see, earlier in the year, one of the teachers at school had noticed a particularly nasty bruise on my arm. She started asking all these awkward questions – How did it happen? Is everything all right at home? Why are you so tired all the time? – that kind of thing. I tried to put her off but she wouldn't leave it alone, and in the end this social worker came round poking his nose into everything. Dad was shaking like a leaf. He thought they were going to stop his benefit. But when the social worker talked to me I made out like everything was OK – which it was, in a way – and he seemed happy enough when he left. Of course, Dad put on his
ideal father
act for the next couple of days – smiling at me, talking to me, trying to be nice – but once he realised he was in the clear he was soon back to normal. Thank God. The way I looked at it, things weren't perfect, but at least I knew where I was with Dad. Better the Devil you know than the Devil you don't, as they say.

Maybe everything would have turned out different if I'd told the truth. But I didn't. When I went to the hospital with my broken wrist I told the doctor it was an accident, I fell off my bike.

So, anyway, that was Dad in Stage Three – incoherent with an unpredictable hint of violence. Stage Four – the final stage – was when he collapsed into a drunken coma. Anywhere would do. In his chair, on the floor, in the bathroom, on the toilet, lying wherever he fell, snorting out great snotty snores, all kinds of dribbly muck oozing out of his mouth. The scariest thing was when he stopped snoring, just lay there as quiet as a dead man. Unwakeable. I poured a pan of cold water over his head once. He still didn't wake up. That's why I took a first aid course at school. So I could tell whether he was dead or just dead drunk.

That evening, either I'd misread how much he'd had to drink or else he'd jumped straight from Stage One to Stage Three. Or maybe something else happened. I don't know. I don't think about it much, to be honest.

All I was trying to do was watch
Inspector Morse
on the television. Is that too much to ask? I hardly ever watch the television.
Morse
,
A Touch of Frost
,
Wycliffe
, that kind of thing.
The Bill
, sometimes. That's all I watch, that's what I like. Detective stuff. Mysteries, murder mysteries. I love them. Especially Morse. I'm not too keen on the books, but the television series is brilliant. Two hours each. Brilliant. What more could a budding murder mystery writer ask for? Two hours of twisting plots, red herrings, strange vicars, spooky murderers and good old Morse always getting it right in the end.

Now, with Morse, you have to really watch it. From start to finish. It's no good just having the television on in the background, watching a bit here and a bit there, you have to concentrate all the way through. Otherwise you won't have a clue what's going on. And if you don't know what's going on, there's no point in watching it.

So, Wednesday night. Eight-thirty. In the front room. The curtains were closed. A cold orange light was flickering behind the false coal of the electric fire. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the settee and Dad was in his armchair, drinking. I didn't know how many he'd had, but I didn't think it was that many because he kept on making stupid jokes about Morse, trying to be funny. Stage One. It was annoying, but I just sat there trying to ignore him in the hope that he'd get bored and shut up, or go down the pub and leave me in peace. But he didn't. He kept on. Piping up every other minute with his pathetic comments.

‘Look at the state of him! He's getting a bit fat, isn't he?'

‘Coppers don't drive Jags!'

‘No wonder he's so miserable, listening to that bloody awful music all the time.'

He just wouldn't stop. On and on and on. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't hear what was going on. I was losing the plot.

Then he started with his Lewis thing.

I expect you know who Lewis is, but, just in case you don't, he's Morse's sidekick. Sergeant Lewis. A bit of a plodder, in contrast to Morse's unconventional genius. Once or twice in every episode Morse calls out Lewis's name: ‘
Lewis!
' Kind of a catch phrase. For some inexplicable reason, Dad always found this hilarious, and whenever it happened he started calling out too, calling out in a stupid imitation-Morse voice: ‘
Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is!
' And then he'd laugh like mad at his own incredible wit. The first time he did it, it was almost amusing. Almost, but not quite. But after hearing it about a hundred times since, it just made me sick. Why? Why did he do it? Over and over again.
Why?

So there I was, sitting on the floor, leaning towards the television, trying to keep track of what was going on. Morse was in his office, sitting at his desk, pondering, frowning, trying to work out whodunit. Dreamy music was playing in the background. Suddenly he sat up straight and blinked. Something had occurred to him. Something crucial. He got up and opened his door and called down the corridor for Lewis: ‘
Lew-is!
' And then Dad started. ‘
Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is
!' He wouldn't stop. ‘
Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is
!' And all the time he was snorting with laughter as if it was the funniest thing in the world. On the television Morse was talking to Lewis, explaining his crucial idea, but I couldn't hear a thing. All I could hear was Dad's crazy braying in my ear: ‘
Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew-is! Lew
—'

‘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.