Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’ I need him to be more specific.

  ‘You come back at four o’clock. I think there be job.’

  ‘What? Four o’clock tomorrow?’

  ‘Four o’clock in morning.’

  ‘Like, in thirteen hours?’

  ‘Yes. I pay good money.’

  I nod, feigning that 4 am is the most normal of times to meet.

  ‘You know butcher in main street?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Is that where I meet you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Part of me wants to know what we’re doing at the butcher’s at 4 am, the other part doesn’t.

  I start to make ‘time to go’ actions; a bit of a wave and pulling the door towards me. I’m wondering if I should pay Moe a visit and grill him on his theory about the Pigman and Glen. But that would be too obvious. ‘Well, okay. I’ll see you at four.’

  I start the engine. The Pigman doesn’t move away from the car. Instead he leans his head into the window and whispers tobacco breath into my face. ‘What name you have, boy?’

  ‘Damon.’

  ‘Demon?’ he says loudly.

  ‘No. Damon,’ I correct. ‘Like, it’s a nice “day”.’

  ‘Daaymon.’

  I nod. He nods back. ‘I am Miro,’ he says. ‘Good name.’

  He pulls his head out of the window yet we’re both still nodding, our heads bobbing up and down like it’s a battle to see who can go the longest.

  ‘I better go.’ My hand fumbles with the gears. ‘Four, at the …’

  But the Pigman and his dog are walking away.

  FROM OUTSIDE COMES THE SOUND of Mum puffing then the key turning in the door. She staggers in, her arms weighed down with plastic shopping bags.

  ‘There’s more in the car,’ she rasps. ‘An’ I picked up some pizzas for our tea.’

  ‘Yeah, all right.’ I turn the volume up. It’s my favourite M*A*S*H episode.

  Mum takes a step towards the television. Once she would’ve turned it off but these days she wouldn’t dare to. ‘Damon!’ she shouts at me instead. ‘Get off ya lazy backside and bring some of that shoppin’ iiiiin.’ Her abuse ends in a cascade of coughing.

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ My hands are shooing her away. ‘Later.’

  The old lady stomps into the kitchen. A minute later a symphony of slamming cupboard doors begins.

  I turn the volume up some more. She’ll stay in there sulking and chucking packets of food around. Already a box of cereal has flown past the doorway. But there’s no rush. She won’t go back out to the car for the rest of the bags. The old girl’s already thinking she’s a saint for doing the shopping.

  There’s another episode of M*A*S*H after this. So I settle back into the cushions and let my mind go numb.

  It’s not until I extract myself from the couch that I realise the house is dark and silent.

  The light in the kitchen is off. I switch it on to discover the entire room has fallen victim to Mum’s wrath.

  Green plastic bags are strewn all over the floor, every cupboard and drawer is open, there’s milk dripping through the fridge door, biscuit packets have been ripped open – some are empty, others are half-missing – and the bench is a mountain of crumbs.

  Mum’s sitting at the table. Her head is cradled in her hands and a burning cigarette balances on the edge of an ashtray, already spilling over with butts.

  ‘O-kay,’ I mutter. I resist joking, asking if Aunty Yvonne had called. Instead I say, ‘You’re not happy. You could’ve just said it.’

  The pizza boxes are sitting on the stove top. They’re still warm thanks to Strathven Family Pizza’s oven-nuking capability.

  ‘You got meatlover’s,’ I say, peeling the top layer of salami off one of the slices. I slurp the meat up into my mouth. ‘Itsh good.’

  Not even the aroma of cheese and spicy sausage makes Mum lift her face.

  I shove the remainder in my mouth and carry the two pizza boxes to the table. ‘Mmmm.’ I start to lick my fingers, purposely making long, devouring sucking sounds. ‘Mmmmmm,’ I say again. ‘Deeee-licious.’

  Mum’s never refused pizza and all the biscuits she’s eaten wouldn’t have touched the sides. Still she doesn’t move.

  ‘Come on,’ I croon. ‘Aren’t you going to have some?’

  Her head wobbles a ‘no’. So she’s breathing.

  I step over the plastic bags on the floor and take out two plates.

  ‘Let’s enjoy it like we’re in a restaurant.’ I sound like a crazy wanker talking to myself. ‘Two paper towels and some cutlery,’ I tell the back of her head. I place the knife and fork down so that the handles touch the skin on her arms. ‘Shame we don’t have a candle, hey Mum?’

  I’m not sure if this head wobble means a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.

  ‘Here’s one for you,’ I announce, plonking a heavy, fat-packed piece on her plate. ‘And two for me.’

  Her forehead lifts and two little eyes peep out at me.

  ‘I knew that’d get you!’

  She stubs out the burning butt and I notice two thumb marks indented on the skin of her cheeks. I wonder how long she’s been sitting like this. ‘Hey, I’ll bring in the rest of the shopping after dinner. I promise,’ I tell her. ‘You know I love that episode. Archie did too. Remember it’s the –’

  She mows me down. ‘You don’t even know what day it is, do ya?’

  I could tell her I don’t even know what day of the week it is. I could tell her my head is a mire of fear and paranoia. That I’m choking on the filth and sinking so fast that what day it is or what time it is has no meaning to me any more. I could.

  ‘It’s September 12,’ she says, placing the slice of uneaten pizza back onto the plate like it’s infested with maggots. ‘Me and Archie’s anniversary. That’s what day it is.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It woulda been five years today. Five years is wood. Archie most probably woulda made me somethink. I did think about buying meself a bunch of roses today.’ Mum’s chins are tucked up on her shoulder and her voice is whispery and shy. It’s irrelevant that I’m even sitting here. She’s not talking to me. She’s off in her make-believe world. The problem is I’m not and it’s unpleasant having to watch it. ‘It didn’t matta that we wasn’t married, Archie liked to make things all proper. Our first anniversary, he got me a Bedroom Bliss voucher down at Mereton, ’cause that’s paper. That’s when I buy my silk pillowcase. Second is cotton,’ she tells me, using her fingers to track the years. ‘Arch get that lovely white tablecloth with the green flowers.’

  I can’t watch her face any more. Instead I study the stringy mozzarella clinging to my plate like starfish tentacles.

  ‘And when we make the third anniversary he buy me them lovely china cats in the cabinet.’

  ‘Archie bought you those?’ I’m looking straight at her now.

  ‘Yeah ’cause three years is crystal.’ She whispers the next bit. ‘They’re only glass but what’s the difference, eh?’ Mum’s fingers edge towards the pizza slice on her plate. She takes a giant bite. A hunk of cabanossi slips into the folds on her neck. ‘Get us a bourbon and Coke, love,’ she mumbles. ‘Didn’t ya know Archie buy me them cats?’

  ‘Bought me those cats,’ I reply, getting up to play barman. ‘Buy is present tense. It means it’s happening at the time. Bought is what …’

  Mum interrupts. ‘Sorry I’m not smart like you,’ she says. ‘See, that’s why I gone and met Mr Pascoe. I know ya don’t like talkin’ about it and I know how unfair them bastards down at the school was to ya and how let down ya feel. But son, you got potenshall, big potenshall. Ya said ya was going down to the TAFE in Mereton but ya’ve said nothink about it since.’ I keep my mouth shut. All I’m thinking about is the next problem, which isn’t leaving the house at 4 am but not knowing what time I’ll be back. The longer I’m away the more time she has to snoop. I pour an ext
ra measure of bourbon. Maybe she’ll sleep through to the afternoon. ‘Pat, she reckons ya should take a break. What do ya think? Maybe work for a bit. I said to her I’m not sure if the mini-mart will take ya back. But they need me as a customer. Why don’t ya talk to Moe?’

  I wait until she’s had a good slug of drink, then I say, ‘I’ve actually been thinking about getting a job, taking some time off. I can sit my finals next year. In fact, I’ll probably do better next year. What happened at school has really,’ I pause while she has another guzzle, ‘unsettled me.’

  ‘Love, I know. I can tell. You’re so jumpy.’

  ‘It’s probably ’cause I’m not doing anything,’ I reply. ‘You know I’ve got all this energy I need to use. I suppose it used to go into my assessments and …’

  ‘Mmm.’ She takes another sip. ‘I suppose it did, hey.’

  ‘I’m not sure about going back to the mini-mart. It’s not physical enough. I don’t want to be cooped up inside all the time.’ My eyes flick up to Mum. She’s draining the last drops of bourbon. ‘Would you like another one?’ I smile at her. So far, so good. ‘I’ll have one with you,’ I suggest. ‘We haven’t had a drink together since I’ve been legal.’

  ‘Well, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it.’

  I jump up to play barman again. Mum’s watching me. I can feel it. I turn around.

  ‘On the rocks?’ I ask her.

  ‘Why not.’

  I take the ice container out of the freezer and stand it in front of the glasses. That way Mum can’t see the two healthy nips of bourbon going into the one glass.

  ‘Cheers.’ Standing in front of her I take a mouthful of my straight Coca Cola. ‘Whoa, a bit on the strong side,’ I lie. ‘But it’s not like we’re going anywhere.’

  ‘I feel like I should be sayin’ somethink like a speech.’ Mum takes a sip. Her eyes blink a few times but she recovers quickly. ‘Ya know, ya loved that silk pillowcase of mine. One night Arch and I come home late from the club and ya was on the couch with it. Ya said it was the softest thing ya ever felt.’

  ‘You let me take the pillow to bed that night.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Mum shakes her head. She doesn’t remember what Archie whispered to her. ‘Let him take it, love, it probably makes him feel like he’s with you.’

  ‘Do you think Archie ever thinks about us? Mum?’

  ‘I don’t know, love.’

  I want to ask why she let him go. But this peace between us is so rare and I know it only hangs by a thread.

  The old lady sighs and reaches out her glass. ‘To my boy, eighteen years old now and havin’ a tipple with his mum. It probably don’t get better than this.’

  We clink the glasses together with a ‘cheers’.

  It’s low what I’m doing. I know that. But it’s called survival of the fittest. Darwin’s theory has elbowed its way into everything.

  My door’s open but every few minutes I take the headphones off to check that Mum’s bourbon-tinged snores are still floating down the hallway.

  It’s almost 3 am. For the last four hours I’ve been playing Rage of the Mercenary. I’m not on my game. My heart feels like I’ve sculled twenty cups of coffee, but my brain and fingers won’t cooperate and I’m pathetically slow on the keyboard. Every time Cleopatra666 shouts at me my pulse rate shoots further through the ceiling and won’t come back down.

  ‘Fucking look behind you, Prophet!’ Another of Cleopatra666’s warnings shrieks through the headset. ‘What is up with you tonight? Just kick the door open, you jerk. You are getting owned!’

  Cleopatra666 crouch-jumps and kicks the door open herself. ‘There! Mummy did it for you.’

  ‘You love it,’ The Executioner, our team captain, tells her. ‘You’re a dominatrix and you know it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she laughs. It’s husky and dirty. ‘So you better do what you’re told too.’

  I spin around and unload on a sniper. He’s jerking on the ground and the blood’s spurting up his throat. ‘Am I a good boy now?’ I ask her.

  ‘You’re a very good boy.’

  ‘What do you do with good boys?’ The Executioner whispers into his microphone.

  Cleopatra666’s laugh is at full throttle. ‘Oh, wouldn’t you like to know!’

  Their breath is coming through my headphones hard and heavy.

  ‘Leave it for the lobby!’ I yell. Cleopatra666 is prick-teasing him just to piss me off. She’s been trying to get a rise out of me all night. I can’t handle it when she gives attention to the other guys and she knows it.

  ‘Coming up on the right side,’ calls Cleopatra666. ‘Fucking do him, Prophet, or we’ll never get to “The Assault”!’

  I miss and get hit.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ she screams. ‘Can’t you kill someone, Prophet? You useless, dumb shit.’ Cleopatra666 sprays the enemy with her M16, scoring a record kill. ‘That’s how you do it, baby.’

  ‘Oooooh, she’s good.’ The Executioner sounds like he’s about to come.

  ‘Back out of there or you’ll get owned too,’ she commands. ‘Go up the stairs and watch the door.’

  ‘Hey, I thought I was captain. But I like a bitch who gives orders.’

  ‘Would you stop masturbating in my ear!’ I bark at The Executioner.

  The enemy’s throwing ’nades smack bang where I’ve just respawned. Now I’ve been killed twice in two minutes.

  ‘What? What!’ Cleopatra666 yells. ‘Can’t you respawn out of enemy fire?’

  ‘She’s pissed with you, Prophet.’

  ‘Prophet only knows how to use one hand.’ Cleopatra666 is mocking me. It’s not funny. She knows she shouldn’t do that. She knows it upsets me. ‘Don’t you, Prophet?’

  ‘Yeah?’ The Executioner sniggers. ‘Hey Prophet, you shoot over Cleopatra?’

  Cleopatra666’s shriek is blasting through the headset like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

  ‘Piss off,’ I snarl.

  ‘Me and Prophet? Get real.’ Her game hasn’t finished. The mocking tone still dances in her voice. ‘Prophet couldn’t handle me. He’s too much of a pussy. Aren’t you, Prophet?’

  My fingers slip and thump on the keyboard. I charge down the staircase into enemy territory. I can hear my breath heaving through the headset as every jerk in view goes down in my shower of fire. I finish them off with the chainsaw until their blood and innards are splattering on the screen.

  ‘So who’s the pussy now!’ I shout as I buck myself out of the chair. I yank off the headset and chuck it to the other side of the room. It hits the blanket covering the window then bounces across the floor.

  I’m tired of people fucking with me.

  THE BUTCHER’S IS CLOSED UP and dark, exactly as it should be at 3.55 am. I sit on the edge of the footpath and wait. It’s cold but not unbearable like it would’ve been just a couple of weeks ago. White vapour floats between my lips as if I am harbouring a mouthful of dry ice. I hollow my cheeks and feel my jaw click as I try to form smoke rings like the old girl’s.

  When I left the house, Mum was still mouth open, hand dangling off the arm rest, her snorts and snuffles vibrating along the couch. I took the doona from her bed and laid it over her. It wasn’t because I didn’t want the cold to wake her. It was because I didn’t want her to get cold. I’m certain.

  The old girl will never know that part of why I’m doing this is that I have to protect her as well. Teasing me about my mother ‘the sow’ was new territory Curtis Marshall and Darren Geraghty stumbled on by chance, way back at the start of Year 8. It put her on their radar and she’s still on it.

  ‘Damoink oink oink oink oink oink!’ Curtis Marshall had chanted from the top of the Strathven pool diving board.

  I’d been trying to train myself to ignore the taunts regardless of whose mouth they came out of. Instead, I’d imagine whichever offender it was tied up and sitting before me, while Archie’s power drill whirred across their face.

  But that strategy didn’t work this
February day, when it was 44 degrees Celsius, because my mother had to go and dip herself into the piss-infested local pool.

  The ‘oink oink’ suddenly stopped as Curtis spotted Mum behind me.

  ‘Hey, take a look,’ he announced to Darren Geraghty. ‘The sow is here. Everyone, the sow has arrived …’

  It didn’t sound that bad to the untrained ear. Curtis could have got away with it. But I heard him. I knew what he meant. The tips of my fingers burned. I needed to wrap them around his throat and choke the words, and his big brothers weren’t around to stop me.

  Patiently I waited for his toes to lift off the edge of the diving board. I jumped in after him, then kicked up until I floated just below the surface. I watched while his body rose slowly from the bottom of the pool. I concentrated on my bubbles as I counted to five, positioning myself so that my hands would catch him on the way up.

  It was so easy. He didn’t see me or, under the hazy blue and tangle of other swimmers’ arms and legs, didn’t realise who it was. Like a hungry shark my fingers locked themselves around Curtis Marshall’s throat. He tried to push me away but my grip only tightened. By the time we reached air we were like a rolling ball splashing across the surface of the pool. Within seconds, the lifeguard and Darren Geraghty were on top of me. That night I thought about telling Archie what’d happened. But what good would that do? He didn’t have the size, or guts, or back-up, not against a Marshall. No one did.

  So it was over, for Curtis Marshall that is. Just another day of fun at the pool. But for someone like me it’d never be over. All it did was give me one more reason to hate.

  ‘I did the sow last night. You should’ve heard her squeal,’ was the message Curtis Marshall passed around class on Monday morning. Every dirty pair of Year 8 Strathven hands fingered that bit of paper before it got to me.

  Then four years later the phone calls started. I’m not sure if Curtis Marshall was involved. But what I did know was that, regardless of whether they were the wannabes or the real deal, none of them would show my mother any more mercy than they’d show me.

  ‘Boy? You have come.’ The Pigman is standing at the corner. Under the streetlight I see that he’s wearing a black felt hat that dips in the middle, the corners standing up on either side like cat’s ears. ‘I am at back of shop. You hear noise?’ he asks.