by J. C. Burke
I’d rubbed my hands in the dirt, trying to lose the stench of dead pig from my skin, and then taken a piss. Is that when Dora saw me?
After that, I’d walked down the bush track to the old schoolhouse and sat by the stone chimney. I hadn’t been back since my birthday. But the instant my fingers had touched the last pig’s warm skin I knew I had to go back, had to check that the man wasn’t still alive and waiting for me.
He wasn’t there. Of course he was dead just like hog number four was. Still I walked around in circles, kicking at leaves and lifting branches that skimmed the ground. Searching, searching, in case he was somewhere in the forest slowly dying. By then I was past caring if the old girl was up when I got home. If she questioned me I’d just shout at her till she retreated back into her shell. This was also for her. One day she’d understand that.
Is that when Dora saw me?
She couldn’t have. There were no ladies walking dogs. There was nothing. The bush was still asleep and I assumed everyone else was too.
Back home, I’d showered and scrubbed till my skin was red. I’d made toast while the old lady’s snores rocked the house. My limbs had felt loose, almost relaxed, as I’d crawled under the doona. It seemed things were working out. Finally I had the situation under control. I’d even slept.
Now I slump onto the bed and bury my head in the pillow to silence my panic. One thought keeps coming back to me.
I know what the Marshall boys were doing in the bush this morning.
A good fight is what I’m after. My fingertips throb with desire. Lucky for Mum the opportunity is lost. She relents and agrees the television doesn’t need to go to Mereton with the remote, especially not on a Friday afternoon.
I’m disappointed I didn’t get to flaunt my rage. But I’m relieved she has surrendered. Having a 200-centimetre plasma TV on the back seat is as good as having topless girls with loudhailers jogging after the car.
‘Yeah, I remember that bloke,’ I imagine someone telling the cops. ‘He was at the Mereton Shooting Club. I parked next to him. He had a mammoth plasma on the back seat.’
Anonymity is as important as getting my gun licence. I cannot afford to be complacent. I must be one step ahead.
Back on the highway again and the same promise of freedom and space fills my lungs with air. If I had the guts I’d keep driving. The further from Strathven I went, the easier it would be to breathe. I’m sure of it. But there are things to do.
The two o’clock news plays on the radio. I listen, but not so carefully that panic about what I could hear overtakes me. I’ve searched through every newspaper but found nothing. Would that be me, I wonder? Would I be so forgettable? If I disappeared off the earth would someone come looking for me?
‘I went back and he wasn’t there.’ I say it out loud like I need to convince the universe. ‘He definitely wasn’t there.’
My foot presses deeper into the accelerator. If I miss the start of the course I’m not sure I could bundle my nerves back into the car and head to the Mereton Shooting Club for a third time.
But I’d have to. There’s no choice any more. Now I am one of them. There’s no point lamenting that once I hovered above the filth. However small it was there was always a distance between it and me. Now that space has gone. The filth has spread its wings. It taints everything.
Choice, freedom, peace – it’s the things I took for granted that I crave. Like sleep, especially sleep.
I’m afraid to close my eyes. Not only because I need to keep guard but also because I may see the man in my dreams. Yet keeping them open scares me just as much.
The car radio is as loud as it will go. The ad for erectile dysfunction is preferable to the interrogation going on in my brain. It’s asking me: ‘Why did you leave the man there? You know what they were doing in the bush, don’t you?’
How I long to sleep like I did this morning, even for an hour – an hour with the noise turned off, an hour to forget, an hour less in this world.
At the Mereton Shooting Club, Tits on Teeth isn’t at reception to offer her greeting. Instead a lady with a long chain of keys that dangles inside her sweaty cleavage rolls a pen towards my hand and tells me the safety course is in Room 3 and is about to start.
‘Do you know where to go?’ She hasn’t looked up from her newspaper.
‘Yeah,’ I answer, slinking away without being seen, the fingers on both hands crossed inside my pockets.
One bloke turns around when I slide into the back row of room three. Straight away he turns back like I’m the last person in the world he wants to see. I wonder what’s brought him here? What makes him shift around in his chair while the others stay glued to a video on gun safety.
The instructor gives me a booklet and forms. ‘G’day, matey,’ he says.
I’m trying not to grin but it’s too good. This bloke isn’t Jeff. Like the lady at reception, he doesn’t recognise me.
After the video is a multiple choice exam followed by a practical test on safe gun handling that has us dry-firing and pretending to climb fences while armed. It’s almost fun. If I wasn’t so intent on being forgettable I may’ve cracked a few funnies. The man who checked me out when I walked in looks like he could do with a laugh.
By 3.20 pm I am walking out of the Mereton Shooting Club with all the paperwork needed to renew my firearms licence. The Pigman can’t say no. I feel like the cat that got the cream.
Decisive, direct and in control – I can feel it in my stride. I am pumping with confidence. I am in charge. I am one step ahead.
At G Brothers I buy a padlock, a new headset and a pack of batteries. I don’t need the headset. But I need to hand Mum the remote back in a bag with G Brothers stamped on it. ‘Didn’t I look a dummy,’ I’ll tell her. ‘After all that, it was just the batteries.’
The Pigman is sitting on the chair by the water tank. His feet rest on the milk crate. He doesn’t stand up or wave. He simply takes off his hat and watches me walk towards him.
I’ve had a win at the Mereton Shooting Club. I feel it in my steps: it’s like I’m anchored to the ground. Nothing can knock me over.
I hear my voice. It’s strong and friendly. ‘Where are the dogs?’
‘Sara at vet doctor,’ the Pigman answers, the cigarette balancing on his bottom lip.
‘Oh?’
‘Stupid bastard think he know everything.’
‘Huh?’
‘Sarajlije, he big dog. He know all.’
‘But he’ll be fine?’
The Pigman shrugs like he couldn’t care either way and says, ‘Maybe.’
‘Where’s the other one?’ I ask, using my hand to show I mean the smaller one.
‘He put away.’
‘Hey?’
‘In cage. I no want Slatko chase kangaroo. Only pig.’
‘Is that the little dog’s name? Slatko?’
The Pigman bears his jagged teeth and laughs. ‘Slatko is word from my country, means “sweet”. Is joke for dog name. Slatko is jum we give to people that come to our house. Is like special welcome.’
‘Jum?’
‘For the bread. Bread and jum.’
‘Jaaam.’
‘Is what I said.’
The afternoon has suddenly disappeared. Now the night air comes like icy hands reaching out to you. I zip up my jacket and shift from foot to foot.
‘You like dog, Demon?’
‘Yes. I do.’ It’s going to be a cold night. I can feel it rising up from the ground and into my shoes.
‘You have dog at your home?’
‘No. I always wanted one though.’
The Pigman nods and looks me up and down. ‘Is good,’ he says.
I have no idea what he means so I shuffle my feet on the ground and make some noises about what a chilly night it’s going to be.
The Pigman digs into the pockets of his coat. I think it’s because his hands are cold but one hand reappears holding a hundred-dollar note like it’s a magic trick he’s perf
ected. It dangles from his fingers. He watches it with reverence and I get the feeling he’s not quite ready to give it to me.
I don’t flinch. Instead I straighten my back and put my hands in my pockets. He doesn’t know I’m not doing it for the money.
‘I have other job,’ the Pigman begins to tell me. ‘Killing pigs. Is job for farmer, not for meat. Okay?’
‘Are you asking me …?’
‘Yes, Demon. You and me and Slatko and Sara will go.’
I press my sweaty palms onto the lining of my pockets. Everything’s falling into place.
‘This money,’ the Pigman says, rolling the note like a cigarette. ‘Is too much for pig gutting, is one and half hour only. This also for shooting, say for one day. I pay fifteen dollar for one hour.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ I reply. From inside my pockets my fingers are pinching the skin on my thighs. It’s to stop me from laughing with joy and shrieking, ‘I don’t care about your money. Just teach me how to shoot without missing!’ I am focusing really hard on sounding casual. ‘So, when’s the job?’
‘Sunday.’
I wait for him to ask about my shooter’s licence, but he doesn’t.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘We go Sunday morning to Cromer.’
‘Cromer? As in Cromer, next to the border?’ I stop myself, then count to three. ‘That’ll take all day and half the night, you know.’
‘We take turns for driving. Is faster this way.’ The Pigman’s palm swallows the note so that it disappears altogether. ‘Is problem, boy?’
‘No. No not at all,’ I say. ‘How long will we be away?’
‘One week. Maybe.’
‘One week? Okay.’ I am stepping backwards towards the car. It’s all do-able but there are obstacles to be dealt with. ‘Sunday morning, what time?’ I ask.
‘Four o’clock, before sun up. Is best time. You be outside Clancy Hotel. I wait for you there.’ The Pigman smoothes the hundred-dollar bill between his fingertips then tucks it back into his pocket. ‘You get money then.’
The car window has been left open and the steering wheel feels like a block of ice. As I navigate my way down the track the high beam spotlights the burnt motorbike, the rusted bath and washing machine. I can’t help thinking, how the hell did it get to this? But there’s no point analysing. Analysis won’t protect me. It won’t stop the inevitable. This is it and I am ready.
I stop at the servo to buy the old girl a few packets of Tim Tams. The conversation we are about to have needs a sweetener before I even open my mouth. Then a bourbon to kick it off and a top-up to soften the landing. That should do the trick.
Of course, it doesn’t matter what she says. Her words can’t stop me. It’s what she doesn’t say that could be the problem. It’s a long shot but I can’t be sure her antenna won’t twig. That is the obstacle.
‘How’d ya go with the remote, love?’
Mum is walking out of my bedroom with the blanket folded in her arms.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I ask her.
‘Huh?’
‘The blanket,’ I spit. ‘I didn’t say you could take it off the window.’
‘It’s goin’ be a cold night,’ she says. ‘The weva –’
‘Weather,’ I grunt.
‘… report say it might go down to zero.’
‘Well, use another one, then.’ I am blocking the doorway to the lounge room. She’s not going anywhere until she surrenders the blanket.
‘I don’t have another blanket.’
‘What do you mean you don’t have another blanket?’
The old girl shrugs. She looks like a pathetic child standing there in her blue slippers clutching the blanket to her chest.
‘What is the point of winning all that money if we don’t even have a spare blanket in the house?’
‘Love, I’ll buy ya curtains on the weekend.’
‘I don’t want fucking curtains!’ I shout. ‘I want the blanket.’
I reach in between her folded arms and yank the blanket from her hold. She stumbles backwards. I see the way she flings herself against the wall. It’s a dramatic show.
‘How dare ya touch me,’ she gasps. She’s playing the victim, her favourite role. ‘I warned ya, next time ya touch me I’ll call the cops. Or maybe I should do it now. They’d get here in three seconds. I just saw ’em driving past.’
She’s bluffing, I’m certain of it. But I can’t take the risk. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’ve been getting really bad headaches, that’s why I’ve had the blanket covering the window.’
The hallway is dark because I haven’t changed the wasted globes. Mum’s curled into the wall under the only light that still works. She’s posed like the frightened rabbit terrified to move. It’s all part of the act.
‘Mum?’ I hold out my hand. Today she wins because I need her onside. ‘I’m sorry. It was uncalled for. Please, please accept my apology.’
The old girl peels her back off the wall, pushes past me and stomps into the kitchen. I follow her. Thirty-six hours and I’m out of here.
‘Did ya buy them Tim Tams?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
I light her cigarette. She fixes her eyes on me and takes a long drag. ‘Why?’
‘Because you like them.’
‘Hmph,’ she snorts. ‘I also like diamond rings.’
‘Hey, the remote’s fixed. It was just the batteries. How stupid did I look.’
‘You was gone a looong time.’ Her breath heaves as she manoeuvres her body into a chair. ‘Did ya go and see Moe or somethink?’
Without knowing it the old girl has opened the door for me. I barge in before she closes it. ‘No, but I did go and see someone about a job.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It involves a bit of travelling.’
‘Travelling like where?’
‘I’m going to Cromer on Sunday.’
‘You’re goin’ to Cromer on Sunday?’
No Tim Tams have been eaten and it’s too late for a bourbon. It’s up to me to soften the blow. ‘I’m catching a plane from Mereton. It’s an early flight.’
‘Oooh, a aeroplane,’ she crows. ‘You’ve become one of ’em rich and famous, eh?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘What’s the job?’ Her antenna is on high beam and the bullshit detector is screeching.
It’s time to tackle the obstacle head on. I turn my lips into a wide smile.
‘I hope it’s going to be a job,’ I say. ‘It’s a training course in Cromer for an internet selling job.’
‘What are ya sellin’?’
The G Brothers bag is sitting on the table. ‘Gaming equipment,’ I say. ‘Headphones, controls, all those sorts of accessories.’
‘Well, ya certainly the man for the job.’
‘I am, aren’t I? But there’s a downside too. I’ll be in Cromer a whole week,’ I tell her. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘I’m used to bein’ on me own.’ Mum butts her cigarette out. I watch the colour drain from her fingertips as she twists and turns it until it’s just a flattened stub of yellow lying in the ash. ‘All the men in my life have left me. What’s the big deal? Ya only gone a week. And don’t bother ringin’ here ’cause I won’t answer the telephone.’
‘It’s for you too, you know.’ I’m not sure why I say it. It’s like telling someone the answer when they don’t know the question.
‘What’s for me too?’ she asks.
‘The job. It’s to help you as well.’
‘I got me Powerball winnings.’
‘Okay.’ I swallow. ‘Well, just wish me luck then.’
It’s the confusion washing across her face that makes me look at what I’m doing. But it’s too late: my hand has already landed on top of hers. ‘Please don’t answer the door while I’m away. Promise you’ll be careful, Mum?’
I mean it, too.
THE PIGMAN VOLUNTEERS ME FOR the first shift behind the wheel. He doesn’t ask if I mind, there’s no discussion. It’s s
imply, ‘You drive, boy.’
He’s curled up against the passenger door. At every bend his head flops like a rag doll’s then is still again. His lips quiver, purse, then blow out his breath like he’s snoring silently. The Pigman’s got himself into quite a rhythm. I begin to count along. One, two, three as his lips search for the air; then one, two, three as they purse and blow.
One, two, three … one, two, three … it’s like I’m the conductor and he’s making the music. Our timing is impeccable. One, two, three, one, two, three …
The rhythm snaps. My foot fumbles for the brake. The Pigman looks like he’s waking. The lines across his forehead deepen. But he’s not. He’s talking, talking in his sleep. I lean over to catch the words. ‘Ohprohstee mee. Ohprohstee mee’ is what it sounds like.
Silence, his lips twitch, his forehead softens and the rhythm returns.
‘Ohprohstee mee,’ I repeat. ‘Ohprohstee mee?’
It’s just past 6 am when we approach the railway crossing that leads to the Cromer road. For the next twelve hours it will be one straight line.
The crossing lights are flashing red and the bells are clanging. I stop. Sara and Slatko pace the tray, their paws drumming across the metal. It’s a total racket but the Pigman is only just stirring. How I wish I could sleep like that.
‘There’s a train coming.’
‘You have plenty time,’ he grumbles.
‘The boom gate’s coming down.’
‘We waste time.’
‘I don’t know about in your country.’ I’m spitting the words through my teeth. I’m not sure he can hear and I don’t care either way. ‘But in this country the railway crossing is to stop us from getting hammered by a train.’
The engine rumbles towards us.
‘He so slow!’ Now the Pigman is sitting up, wide awake. ‘Why we not go, Demon?’
I’m pointing. ‘See that thing that’s like a long white arm? It’s called a boom gate. I don’t think you or the dogs would appreciate me driving through it.’
‘Pfff.’ The Pigman climbs out of the ute and lights a cigarette. It sits between his teeth while he jumps on the spot, swinging his arms in circles. I sit here waiting for him to settle but he doesn’t. Instead the jumping and arm swinging build momentum. I count: ten seconds of frantic movement, five seconds of rest. Another ten seconds of jumping with arms swinging like a windmill, but this time in the opposite direction. On and on it goes until I’m almost seasick from watching him.
