Free Martyn Pig by Kevin Brooks Page A

nothing. A ponytailed zombie. Glazed, washy blue eyes, dark pupils shrunk to almost nothing, small black holes floating in a watery nowhere … he can’t hurt me. I stared at him, hearing my voice in my head. You can’t hurt me. You’ve got no strength, no purity. All you’ve got is cruelty and a streak of dumb cunning. That’s not enough, that’s not nearly enough. You know what your trouble is, Dean? You don’t understand. You don’t get it. You think that any of this really matters? You think I care what happens? To me, to anybody, to anything? I know it. I know. I know that nothing matters. That’s what makes me strong. Strength in my own pure weakness.
    No, I thought, you can’t hurt me. But let’s play the game anyway.
    I looked deeply into his eyes and smiled.
    â€˜Cover it up,’ he said.
    I looked down at Dad, then back at Dean. ‘I think he likes you,’ I said.
    â€˜Cover it up!’
    I let the sheet drop. Dean turned and went back into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to digest what I’d found in myself. It was good. A good feeling. Like I’d found my true self at last. What I was. I went over to the window and pulled back the curtain and gazed up into the night sky. No stars fell. The invisible piper was quiet this evening. There was nothing there, just the swoop of telephone wires hanging over the roofs of houses and a cold sliver of yellow moon. I nodded: nothing much at all, just the way it should be.
    Alex had been crying, her eyes blurred and red. She was sitting at the kitchen table pulling a paper tissue to pieces. Dean was at the sink splashing cold water onto his face.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ I told Alex. She looked up and I smiled. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry.’
    Dean turned, drying his face on a tea towel. ‘Shut up, Pig. Sit down.’
    I sat down. Dean lit a cigarette and blew smoke from the side of his mouth. Trying to look tough. What he looked like was a twat.
    â€˜I want the money,’ he said.
    I looked into his eyes, waiting for him to go on. He looked back. I looked at Alex. Alex sniffed. I looked at Dean.
    â€˜I want the money,’ he repeated. ‘The thirty thousand.’
    â€˜I haven’t got it,’ I said.
    He curled his lip. ‘Listen, Pig, it’s simple. You give me the money, I give you the tape. If you don’t give me the money, I give the tape to the police. Understand?’
    â€˜I understand. But I haven’t got the money.’
    â€˜Don’t give me that crap,’ he sneered, taking the tape recorder from his pocket. He wound it forward again, then pressed
Play
. My tinny voice came on in mid-sentence.
    â€˜â€¦ thirty thousand pounds. I’m rich. I’ll buy you a new car.’
    â€˜But the money’s in the bank, in your dad’s account.’
    â€˜I’ve got his chequebook and cashcard … I’m sure we can work something out.’
    â€˜I hope you know what you’re doing.’
    Click.
    A smug grin creased Dean’s face.
    â€˜All right,’ I admitted. ‘But I can’t withdraw the whole lot, can I? I can’t get—’
    â€˜That’s your problem,’ he said.
    â€˜How am I supposed to—’
    â€˜You’re not listening, Pig. I want the money. I don’t care how you get it.’ He flipped out the mini-cassette. ‘See this?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Alex?’
    Alex sniffed tearfully and looked at him.
    â€˜This,’ he went on, waving the cassette in his hand, ‘this will put you both away. This will ruin your lives. It’s yours for thirty thousand pounds.’
    â€˜When?’ I said.
    â€˜When what?’
    â€˜When do you want the money?’
    The question surprised him. To tell you the truth, it surprised me. A part of me felt as if I didn’t