Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  I decide it’s a routine leftover from communist days; some exercise regime he was forced to do every morning in large, drab squares. No wonder he’s a cranky bastard, coming from a place like that. He probably bends down and kisses our Aussie soil every day.

  Finally the Pigman stops. I follow him in the car mirrors as he walks behind the ute. The dogs are up and panting. Their wagging tails look like the rear windscreen wipers. The Pigman feeds them something and the tails go faster.

  He holds his enormous hands in front of him, pushing each finger back towards his wrist. Then he shakes his hands and the ute jolts as both dogs drop to their haunches and begin to howl. I lean in closer to the mirror to check that what I’m seeing is right. On his right hand the top of his three middle fingers point in the opposite direction like they’re not attached but floating freely in the skin.

  I sink into the seat. ‘You’re a weirdo,’ I mutter.

  The Pigman bangs on my door. ‘Out, boy.’

  ‘Say please,’ I mumble.

  On the way around to the other side I give Slatko a pat. I still don’t trust Sara and I think the suspicion’s mutual.

  The freight train has almost passed. The Pigman starts the engine then begins to pull off his jumper. His arms take up most of the cabin.

  ‘Watch it,’ I say as an elbow just about knocks me out.

  ‘Godon not take so much space.’

  ‘Gordon’s pretty tall.’

  ‘But not fat,’ he answers. ‘You fat.’

  ‘Gee thanks.’ I squash my jacket into a ball and curl into the window. I don’t need to make friends with this man.

  The Pigman puts on music. Suddenly it’s like I’ve dropped acid at a folk festival and can’t escape. It’s an excruciating hullabaloo of piano accordions and out of tune guitars. I sneak a glance at the Pigman. He’s staring straight ahead like he can’t even hear it.

  ‘Can you turn it down,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a nap.’

  ‘You no like?’

  ‘Never been a fan of the piano accordion,’ I answer.

  ‘Ah! Harmonikah.’

  ‘Harmoneekah,’ I mimic. ‘Don’t think so. Here we call it a piano accordion.’

  ‘Peeano accordeeon is for making good music. Yes?’

  ‘You reckon?’ I refold my jacket and curl back into the passenger door.

  Even if I could still my mind enough to sleep, it’d be impossible anyway because the music’s blaring, there’s hardly any leg room and the window is rattling like there’s an impatient child wanting to get into the car.

  I try to remember pig shooting with Archie so I don’t blow my cover and look like an ignoramus with a rifle.

  I packed Archie’s hunting gear. Cleopatra666 wants a photo of me with a ‘four-legged victim’ as she put it. She sounded impressed when I told her why I was going to be offline for the week. Usually she doesn’t hang around the forum after a game but last night she did, just talking to me for ages.

  ‘Prophet, I didn’t know you hunted,’ she’d said. Her voice had a whole new bounce to it. The sarcasm and barking had gone.

  ‘It’s not technically hunting,’ I replied. ‘It’s work. I’m culling some wild boar for one of the big station owners up this way. He pays me a shitload.’

  ‘Do you shoot them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What do you use?’

  ‘It depends,’ I say, stalling for time. ‘A … twenty-two – usually.’

  ‘What are they, piglets?’

  ‘I’m a good shot.’

  ‘I bet you are. Well, have fun, Prophet. Bring me back a set of tusks.’

  She wants it. It’s obvious.

  Somehow I fall asleep. One minute I am thinking about Cleopatra666, the next a big hand is shaking my shoulder and I have no memory of the time that has passed. A trail of dribble sits on my chin and the piano accordion is still playing its hectic tune.

  ‘We have coffee,’ the Pigman says.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nine. Come on, boy. Stretch leg.’

  We’ve pulled up on the side of the road. The Pigman, the dogs and I are the only sign of life. The highway is a never-ending stretch of black and a mottled haze sits on the horizon.

  I feel calm. My mind is quiet, the rabbiting has stopped. But what I feel the most is the space around me. It’s light. It’s endless.

  The dogs jump off the tray. The Pigman is getting out a beaten-up plastic box. Through the cracks I can see mugs and a thermos.

  ‘We go here.’ The Pigman points into the bush. ‘Is nice place.’

  The dogs trot off. They seem to know where they’re going. They weave their way around and through us. They sniff and piss and bark at the shadows.

  The further in we go, the denser the scrub becomes. We’re walking uphill. There’s no path so I have to keep my eyes on the ground to stop myself from tripping on the rocks and fallen trees. Staring at my boots and stepping one foot in front of the other is starting to annoy me. My stomach is rumbling and I’m dying to take a leak but I don’t want to stop or I’ll lose sight of the Pigman and then I’ll never find my way out of here. I don’t know why we couldn’t have coffee in the ute. But he’s on a mission, striding through the bush, karate-chopping the vines and branches like a regular Tarzan.

  ‘How much further?’ I call.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘How much further?’ I call louder.

  The Pigman and the dogs stop.

  ‘This better be the bloody place,’ I mutter.

  I come up behind them. ‘Whoa.’ The land suddenly drops away. We are standing on the very tip of a ledge. Below is a sea of green treetops and on the other side is a band of mountains, craggy and jagged, leaning into each other like they’re exhausted from being such a spectacle of nature.

  ‘Predivan.’ The Pigman is saying the word over and over. ‘Predivan. Predivan.’

  ‘This is quite nice,’ I say.

  ‘Is beautiful,’ the Pigman utters.

  Slatko and Sara look like lions sitting at the edge of the platform. Sara’s ears twitch and prick with the slightest noise.

  ‘Predivan,’ he says again, shaking his head.

  ‘What’s that mean? Predeevahn?’

  ‘Beautiful.’ The Pigman flashes his jagged teeth. ‘Up here is like my country.’ He is smiling at me – or is it that I’m in the way of his pale-eyed gaze? I turn and look at the mountains too but I’m not seeing what he is.

  ‘Where are you from?’ My voice has come out soft, almost inaudible. I clear my throat and the sound breaks the spell. His eyes return to me and the lines in his forehead cave into his skin.

  ‘Where are you from? I ask again. ‘It’s not called Yugoslavia any more, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they change the name after the war?’

  The Pigman nods.

  ‘So what’s it called now?’

  ‘I live in Bosnia but I am Serb.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘It mean nothing.’

  ‘Did you fight in the war?’

  As he pours mud-like coffee into two mugs, he makes a noise which I take as a ‘no’.

  ‘Drink,’ he says. ‘Still long time to go.’

  It’s my third shift behind the wheel. We are driving into the west as the sun begins to sink. The sky has entertained me with endless costume changes. Now it simply glows like a wall of fire.

  The Pigman and I haven’t talked much. I’ve been waiting for the questions about my shooter’s licence and shooting experience but so far there have been none. We are more like a hitchhiker and driver simply crossing paths for the length of the journey.

  My head is still deliciously numb. I feel like I’m on automatic pilot. My body is doing the work while my mind is away. It’s how I knew it would be. The further we get the less I care about the Marshall brothers. The plan seems almost irrelevant, as though it’s someone else’s problem. But there is the old lady to
consider. She is still back there. I hope no unwanted visitors have called on her today.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Yes. When are we going to stop for tea?’ I ask.

  ‘Is no need to stop. I have food.’

  ‘Isn’t there a roadhouse or something coming up?’

  ‘I have better food,’ the Pigman answers. ‘You will like.’

  I wonder if his food is like his coffee. Completely unpalatable.

  ‘I make burek. Is good. Is spicy meat in little pie,’ he says. ‘Then some rakija to wash down. Not too much.’

  ‘What’s rakija?’

  ‘Is brandy. Very, very good.’

  ‘What does ohproh …?’ I try to remember the words he said in his sleep. ‘Ohprohstee mee, something like that. What does it mean?’

  The Pigman turns and looks out the window like he hasn’t heard.

  ‘It sounded like you were saying it in your sleep. Ohprohstee mee? I’m sure that’s how you said it,’ I repeat.

  He raises his shoulders in the lamest attempt at a shrug. He knows. He’s just not going to tell me. I bet it means ‘fuck me, whore.’ That’s probably what the Pigman dreams about.

  It’s too cold to get out of the ute so we stay in our seats and eat dinner. Burek are the triangle pies I saw in his makeshift kitchen. They’re delicious. The pastry dissolves in my mouth leaving the taste of warm butter on my tongue.

  ‘These are good,’ I say.

  ‘You take more,’ the Pigman answers. ‘I bake many, many.’

  I help myself to a handful. ‘Thanks.’

  The dogs are having their tea too. From my seat I can see their heads buried in the food. Their collars clang against the metal bowls in time with each mouthful.

  Sara finishes first. He turns to Slatko’s bowl. Slatko growls at him but Sara is undeterred. The Pigman opens the window and bangs his fist on the door. ‘Sarajlije!’ he calls, shaking his freaky fingers at the dog. Sara immediately falls to his haunches. Slatko goes on eating.

  ‘How do you do that?’

  The Pigman is studying his hand. Again the fingertips splay in the opposite direction. One by one, he begins to push them back into place. ‘What you say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I mumble.

  ‘Sarajlije think he better than everyone. He in love with himself. He think always he boss. But he makes danger for us. He always getting injury. Not good.’

  ‘Have you had him longer than Slatko?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what it is,’ I say. ‘Sara probably thinks he is the boss because he was around first.’

  ‘Boss is bully. That only thing that make him boss.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I mutter, shoving another burek in my mouth. The Pigman has a knack of having the final word. I imagine him being in the same room as my mother. What a circus that’d be.

  The Pigman takes a long-necked bottle from under the seat. It’s the same brown-coloured glass as the ones stacked into a pyramid at his place. He shakes the bottle and smiles.

  ‘Is my best, I think,’ he says. ‘See bubble, mean is good.’

  He takes off the lid, inhales the fumes then passes it to me to sniff. It’s sweet yet it also burns the hairs in my nose.

  ‘I bet that’s lethal,’ I say. ‘What’s the alcohol content?’

  The Pigman takes a long sip and his face breaks into a smile. ‘Very good. Very, very good.’ He hands me the bottle. I hold it up to my mouth. A few sips will make the trip less painful. It burns my throat but the aftertaste is sweet, warm, almost comforting. ‘Not bad,’ I tell him. ‘It’s sort of tastes like plums.’

  ‘In my country rakija is for welcome. So welcome, Demon.’

  Welcome to what, I want to say. But I don’t. I smile and hand the bottle back.

  ‘In this country you no have thing like this. Welcome with the rakija; slatko when guest come to house. You Ozzies just drink beer, all time. Not special.’

  ‘If your country’s so good then why are you here?’

  He takes a long sip, puts the lid back on and shoves the bottle back under the seat. So that’s my punishment, no more brandy for me. My fingers start to tap the steering wheel. The Pigman just sits there staring out the window, so I tap louder and faster.

  THE SPOTLIGHT ON TOP OF the ute’s cabin throws a harsh white light over the road and surrounding bush. I wish the Pigman would turn it off. I don’t want to see what moves between the trees. My fingertips curl around the edges of the seat.

  ‘You shouldn’t have it on,’ I say. ‘What if a car comes the other way? You’ll blind them.’

  ‘No car.’

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  ‘No car,’ the Pigman says, hitting the accelerator, veering off the road and onto the dirt.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, you freak?’

  ‘Kangaroo.’ The ute is swerving around the scrub, missing bushes and rocks by a fingertip. I’m leaning into the dashboard to stop our shoulders from slamming into each other. ‘Get gun behind seat.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Gun, behind seat, Demon.’

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘Hurry, boy.’ He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. ‘There.’

  I turn around but the seatbelt is tight and I can’t reach behind. The Pigman’s hand pulls at the sash across my chest, while the other steers.

  ‘I no want to stop,’ he is shouting now. ‘Get, get.’ His fingers fumble around my side while the ute skids across the dust. ‘Take off …’ The Pigman unclips my belt. ‘Get gun.’ His arm is flapping behind him. ‘Is back there … I can’t get and drive!’

  I’m trying to make myself small, hunching my shoulders while I twist around in the seat like a crab that’s too big for its shell. A grey rifle like the one I saw on his kitchen table lies snug between the seats and the back window.

  My hands cradle it as though it’s a newborn. As carefully as I can, I manoeuvre my body back around.

  The muzzle is pointing towards the Pigman’s side and I’m trying to remember what they told me in the safety awareness course, but my mind is empty.

  ‘Is loaded, boy?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You see bullet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bullet? Inside.’

  I open the action and there in the chamber is a mother of a bullet.

  ‘What the!’ I hear myself shout. ‘It’s fucking loaded!’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  My hands are up in surrender. ‘I’m not fucking touching it!’

  Behind my shoulder I can see the shadow of Sara’s big head; nose pointed, ears alert. The rifle is rolling back and forth on my lap while silver tree trunks fly past the windows with a flash.

  I’m going to die, that’s all I’m thinking. The words are rushing at me faster than the clearing up ahead. I’m going to die. I’m going to die and suddenly I realise that dying here would be preferable to dying in Strathven.

  ‘Get ready, boy,’ he is shouting.

  My head is shaking. ‘What? What!’

  ‘I need one kangaroo. You cannot miss. Plenty, plenty.’

  The Pigman is yelling something about the window and the spotlight.

  ‘No. No. No …’ That’s all I’m saying.

  We burst through the trees and into the open space. The spotlight haloes a group of kangaroos. They stand there stunned, statues against the night sky.

  ‘Hurry, boy!’

  ‘No. No. No. No …’

  The ute is jumping. Suddenly I am falling forwards. My palms slap against the glove box, a second later my spine slams back into the seat and the Pigman’s arm is reaching over, opening the door and pushing me out of the ute.

  ‘What? What the fuck …?’ I’m stumbling backwards, my feet skidding on the dust. My hands are pressed against my mouth and a bitterness is scalding the back of my throat. Then bang! The Pigman fires the shot. The roo’s body drops just like the man’s and so do I. I am lying on the ground. I can smell the dirt. I can s
ee the earth turning to crimson. It’s just the same.

  MY LIMBS HAVE SUNK INTO the vinyl. I cannot move. I wonder if I can just stay in the ute for the next seven days.

  The Pigman is securing a peg in the tent. The spotlight silhouettes his body down on one knee, his back making a perfect arch. His hand lets go of the hammer. It rolls to the ground. The Pigman doesn’t lift his head. Instead his hand covers his face and there he stays.

  I look away. He is wondering what kind of a loser he has brought with him. I begin to count. When I reach fifty, I will open the door and get out.

  The swag I’m sleeping in is infested with Gordon’s weed-scented sweat. The only reprieve is when I lie on my back, my nose pointed to the tent’s ceiling. Outside, the dogs snore in rhythm until the fire snaps, then it takes a moment for them to find their beat again.

  The Pigman still hasn’t spoken. He’s built a fire, made tea and offered me a sip of his brandy – but no words about what I am doing here with him. What am I doing working for a pig shooter when I can’t even hold a gun?

  I peer out through the gauze window. The Pigman’s swag is rolled out by the fire which has me, inside the snug canopy of the tent, feeling like a pussy. I prefer being on my own, but I can’t figure out what his reasoning is. Maybe it’s simple, maybe he’s an insomniac, maybe Brokeback Mountain scared the shit out of him. Maybe it’s me.

  The Pigman’s back is to the fire. Suddenly he drops to his knees and bows his head. I roll over onto my side. It’s hard to look at someone kneeling; all I see is the man in the bush and my bones turn so cold that I think they will snap. How did he feel, that’s what I wonder. Nothing could be worse than knowing you are about to die. That’s the moment I’m most afraid of.

  THE MUSIC EXPLODES INTO THE air like a car backfiring in a mosque. I’m sitting up, trying to work out where I am and what’s happening. The sound of the Pigman’s voice breaking into song has me sinking back into the swag.