Free Martyn Pig by Kevin Brooks Page B

know what I was doing, but another part – deep within me – was thinking things through. I was a passenger in my own mind. Passenger, driver.
It’s all right
, the driver was saying,
just leave it to me. I know what I’m doing. Look at him
. I looked at Dean.
See? He hasn’t got a clue.
    It was true. Dean was fiddling nervously with his ponytail, swishing it about all over the place, trying to think of what to say. Loose strands of lank blond hair floated to the floor.
    â€˜Monday,’ he said, eventually. ‘Noon, Monday.’
    â€˜OK,’ I said.
    Dean and Alex both stared at me.
    â€˜But—’ began Alex.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ I said.
    â€˜Right then,’ said Dean.
    â€˜Right,’ I said.
    â€˜Monday.’
    â€˜Monday.’
    â€˜Noon.’
    â€˜Noon.’
    â€˜Right. I’ll be here, Monday, at noon.’
    I nodded.
    â€˜You’d better have the money.’
    I nodded again.
    â€˜Right then.’ He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it, then picked up his crash helmet and headed for the door. I glanced at the flattened cigarette. It was disgusting. He was disgusting.
    â€˜Dean?’ I said.
    He turned. ‘What?’
    â€˜How many copies of the tape are there?’
    He paused. ‘What?’
    â€˜You’ve made copies of the tape?’
    â€˜I’m not stupid.’
    â€˜No.’ I watched his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t come round here, on your own, with the only copy, would you? That
would
be stupid.’
    His mouth twitched as he tried to laugh. ‘I’ve got copies, don’t worry about that.’
    I looked out of the window. It was quiet and empty outside, nothing moved. I glanced at the cutlery jug by the cooker – wooden spoons, potato masher, roasting fork, carving knives. I felt Alex’s eyes watching me. We looked at each other. I saw uncertainty in her face. Fear, perhaps. Or was it something else? Understanding? A silent suggestion?
    I turned to Dean. ‘I want all the copies.’
    â€˜When I get the money, you’ll get the tapes.’
    â€˜How will I know?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜How will I know you’ve not kept a copy?’
    â€˜You’ll just have to trust me,’ he smirked.
    I stared at the floor. I stared at the dead filaments of hair littering the clean linoleum. My mind was remarkably clear. I could see all the possibilities, I understood the probabilities, I’d calculated the odds. I felt alive, as if this was something I was born to.
    I raised my eyes. ‘See you later, Dean.’
    He hesitated, trying to think of something clever to say, but nothing came to him. So he just sniffed a couple of times, flicked his ponytail again, and then left. I looked across at Alex and smiled and together we listened to the irritating buzz of his motorbike as it started up and raced away. We listened until the sound had disappeared into the night.
    â€˜Bastard,’ Alex whispered.
    â€˜True,’ I replied.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Martyn.’
    â€˜It’s not your fault.’
    â€˜I knew what he was like.’
    â€˜Well …’
    She half-smiled. ‘You told me so.’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter.’
    She stood up, ran her fingers through her hair, then sat down again. ‘What are we going to do now? It won’t work. Your plan won’t work any more. We can’t get rid of the body then pretend we don’t know anything about it when it’s found. Not now Dean knows. It won’t work. What are we going to do?’
    I made some tea, and then I told her what we were going to do.
    Later, after Alex had left, I went back into the kitchen with a pair of tweezers and carefully collected the loose hairs that had fallen from Dean’s head and placed them in an envelope. Then I looked for the cigarette he’d extinguished on the floor and found it squashed beside the chair leg and I placed