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Did I hate him? Of course I hated him. But I never meant to kill him.

With his father dead, Martyn has a choice. Tell the police what happened – and be suspected of murder. Or get rid of the body and get on with the rest of his life. Simple, right? Not quite. One story leads to another. Secrets and lies become darker and crazier. And Martyn is faced with twists and turns that leave him reeling. Life is never easy. But death is even harder.  

Winner of the Branford Boase Award 2003.

Reviews:

'An immensely clever murder mystery. LITERARY REVIEW

'… dark, funny and with a neat twist in the tale. This is very good stuff indeed. Watch this guy, he’s good.' MELVIN BURGESS

'… will keep you gripped.' OBSERVER

'This could become a cult novel.' INDEPENDENT

Shortlisted for the CILIP Carnegie Medal 2002. The extraordinary, ground-breaking debut novel from Kevin Brooks is darkly humorous, strangely moving and completely riveting. The new-look cover coincides with release of Kevin Brooks’ fifth novel The Road of the Dead, and Candy in paperback.

It’s hard to know where to start with this. I suppose I could tell you all about where I was born, what it was like when Mum was still around, what happened when I was a little kid, all that kind of stuff, but it’s not really relevant. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. Most of it I can’t remember, anyway. It’s all just bits and pieces of things, things that may or may not have happened – scraps of images, vague feelings, faded photographs of nameless people and forgotten places – that kind of thing.

Anyway, let’s get the name out of the way first.

Martyn Pig.

Martyn with a Y, Pig with an I and one G.

Martyn Pig.

Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me any more. I’m used to it. Mind you, there was a time when nothing else seemed to matter. My name made my life

unbearable. Martyn Pig. Why? Why did I have to put up with it? The startled looks, the sneers and sniggers, the snorts, the never-ending pig jokes, day in, day out, over and over again. Why? Why me? Why couldn’t I have a normal name? Keith Watson, Darren Jones – something like that. Why was I lumbered with a name that turned heads, a name that got me noticed? A funny name. Why? And it wasn’t just the name-calling I had to worry about, either, it was everything. Every time I had to tell someone my name I’d start to feel ill. Physically ill. Sweaty hands, the shakes, bellyache. I lived for years with the constant dread of having to announce myself.

‘Name?’

‘Martyn Pig.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Martyn Pig.’

‘Pig?’

‘Yes.’

‘Martyn Pig?’

‘Yes. Martyn with a Y, Pig with an I and one G.’

Unless you’ve got an odd name yourself you wouldn’t know what it’s like. You wouldn’t understand. They say that sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you. Oh yeah? Well, whoever thought that one up was an idiot. An idiot with an ordinary name, probably. Words hurt. Porky, Piggy, Pigman, Oink, Bacon, Stinky, Snorter, Porker, Grunt ...

I blamed my dad. It was his name. I asked him once if he’d ever thought of changing it.

‘Changing what?’ he’d muttered, without looking up from his newspaper.

‘Our name. Pig.’ He reached for his beer and said nothing.

‘Dad?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’