Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  The log almost stretches from the tent to the ute. I lie it down and begin to kick at it but only pathetic sheets of bark loosen and shed so I boot it harder. The Pigman’s walking towards me with the shovel. He’s still laughing. It’s getting louder and he’s throwing around the word ‘Kalashnikov’ like it’s the funniest thing ever.

  ‘What’s the fucking joke?’ I hiss. ‘It’s bad manners to speak in a language the other person can’t understand.’

  The Pigman doesn’t answer. He’s busy digging a pit for the fire. He’s thrusting the shovel into the dirt and chuckling away like he’s been sucking on happy gas.

  My hands twitch. They’re searching for something to hold. It’s my fingers. I need to wrap them around something, anything. A thick branch sticks up from the base of the log. I wrap my hands tightly around it and squeeze while my foot pounds at the wood below, my toes slamming into the front of my boot. I kick and kick until the trunk starts to splinter.

  ‘Your laughing is really getting on my nerves,’ I spit.

  ‘Demon, you too serious. You should laugh.’ He stops digging and raises his hands to the heavens, like he’s some evangelical preacher. ‘Plenty, plenty to be happy about.’

  ‘How the fuck would you know!’ I shout. A chunk of wood flies off my boot like a soccer ball. Slatko and Sara drop to their haunches. ‘You know nothing about me. Not one little thing. You can’t even say my fucking name properly!’ I pick up what’s left of the tree and smash it against the ground. Then I limp into the scrub, rubbing the splinters into my palms.

  After a few minutes I stop. I’m too scared to go further, in case I get lost. Instead I walk around and around in circles until I feel like chucking up his Serbian food. I’m out here in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, where the road just keeps going and going but I’m trapped, trapped in this tiny space. I’m not living, I’m waiting. It doesn’t matter if I’m in my bedroom or out here in never-ending land, it’s all just one big waiting room.

  ‘I never counted, did I? Never, never counted,’ I hiss.

  Suddenly the hate expands through my chest. I breathe it into my nostrils, feel it swirling inside my head. ‘Fuck you,’ I say to all the faces I can see in front of me – Steven Marshall, Parker, Geraghty, Pascoe. ‘FUCK ALL of you.’

  The firewood is burning now. I stand at the edge of our camp site. The Pigman reclines on a chair, a bottle of his toxic brandy sitting by one foot, the dogs by his other. I’m not in view but already Sara is snarling.

  ‘Stoj tu,’ the Pigman says and Sara stops. But as I walk towards them I notice Sara’s fur ripple like a coat of thorns. He’s sniffed me out.

  The Pigman holds up the bottle. ‘You drink,’ he says.

  I take a long swig and the liquid glides down my throat. It’s sweeter than last time.

  ‘We eat soon. I make stew, beef and bean. I cook slowly for three day like my grandmother show me,’ he says. ‘You have one grandmother, Demon?’

  ‘No. She died when I was a baby.’

  ‘Is too bad. My grandmother, she live till one hundred year.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I mutter.

  ‘My family strong. Good Serbian blood.’

  I could ask again about the war. He’s mellow and pissed but now I’m tired. The anger has a way of sucking me dry, leaving me empty.

  The lid’s off and the Pigman’s stirring the pot.

  ‘Smells good,’ I say. I want it to be like it never happened. I want it to be like Archie and me sitting around the campfire, drinking sweet tea and watching the flames. ‘We mostly eat frozen dinners at my place. You know, the ones in the boxes.’

  ‘Your mother no cook?’

  ‘Not really,’ I answer. ‘Well, not for me.’

  ‘That why you fat.’ He leans over and before I have a chance to suck in my guts he pats the flab and says in a serious voice, ‘You no eat good food, Demon. You eat my food, you will be healthy.’

  ‘I’ve actually lost weight.’ It’s strange hearing me say it. I’ve never stayed on a diet for more than a couple of days and now I’m shedding the kilos without even trying. ‘I really have.’

  ‘I very good cook,’ the Pigman tells me. ‘I will be helping you, Demon.’

  My palms are rubbing together and I realise I’m actually looking forward to the Pigman’s food.

  ‘That is what I miss most in war. My cooking good food.’ He puts the lid on the pot and sits back in his chair. ‘No salt. No much flour. Only on black market.’

  ‘So what did you eat?’

  ‘Beans. Beans in soup. Beans in beans,’ he chuckles. ‘It took me long time to eat beans again. Now I like. But never on own.’

  ‘I bet there was plenty of farting.’

  ‘Plenty.’

  The Pigman’s eyes are closed. His hands slide across his belly then stay there. From where I sit it looks as if he’s smiling, almost laughing to himself. ‘I knew one boy,’ he begins. ‘He fat like you. His stomach would get bigger and bigger like balloon. He almost cry with pain. “No more beans, no more beans”,’ the Pigman almost sings the line. ‘“Please no more beans, Niko.”’

  ‘Who was Niko?’

  The Pigman’s eyes open. ‘He was no one.’ Suddenly he’s like an old man getting up, all groans and bent at the waist. His palms cup his lower back as he staggers to the bush and begins to piss.

  ‘There’s a Serbian guy called Niko in one of the games I play. He’s this tough fucker who came from your war and goes to America to find a better life. Is that like what you did, coming here?’

  ‘You say this man is Serb?’ he calls back.

  ‘Yeah. He’s from Yugoslavia.’

  The Pigman walks back into view, fumbling with his belt. ‘Pfff. He could be Bosniak,’ his voice grows louder. ‘Ustasha …’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s just a game, mate.’

  ‘But if American then would be Serb, for sure. Always bad guy. Always blame for everything.’

  This is how I want him talking. This is exactly where I need him. But something tells me not to go any further. It’s dark and he’s standing away from the fire but I swear his pale eyes have turned black.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ I clap my hands together. It’s something else Moe does when he’s nervous. It irritates the hell out of me, but here I am doing it now.

  ‘Plan?’

  ‘Tonight,’ I say. ‘Pig shooting.’

  ‘We no shooting pig.’

  ‘What? We’re not starting tonight?’

  ‘Yes! Of course,’ he answers. ‘We will be busy.’

  I speak slowly. ‘So we are. Going. Pig. Shooting. Tonight. Yes?’

  ‘But we no shoot, Demon.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘We no shoot pig. No waste bullet,’ he says. ‘We use dogs, then –’ the Pigman slices his hand across his throat – ‘finiiish.’

  I catch myself before I clap my hands a second time. ‘I, um, thought we were shooting the pigs? You know, with a gun.’

  ‘Pfff, no,’ the Pigman spits, wagging his finger at me. ‘Use gun only when pig for meat.’

  Without asking I lean over, take the bottle and have a long, deep drink. I open my mouth to say something but I’m just chomping on the air. What can I say? You scare the hell out of me but the whole reason I’m here is for you to teach me how to shoot without missing?

  He reaches out for the brandy. When I pass it to him he smiles. This time he doesn’t show his teeth. Instead his lips stretch into his cheeks. It almost makes him look sad.

  Maybe I could tell him the whole damn story. If he freaks out I could blame it on a translation breakdown. But where would I start? The day I killed the cat? Year 10 camp? Walking out of Pascoe’s office? Or perhaps the day I was born is the only place to begin.

  ‘What wrong, Demon?’ He walks over to me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You no happy boy. Is it your father? He make you sad all time?’

  My shoulders lift under his grip. It feels strange to have someone touching me. The Pig
man does it with such ease. My muscles can’t help but melt under his hold and I wonder who else has touched me like this? Archie? My mother? But it was a long time ago.

  ‘You listen. I will tell you something.’ The Pigman lowers himself back into the chair. ‘Demon, I make you one promise. I will teach you how to shoot. You make best shot in Strathven. Then when your dad come …’ The Pigman holds his hands like he’s got a rifle. He tips the muzzle into the air. ‘Boooom! No worries.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I swallow. He hands me back the brandy. I guzzle down the sweetness then give it back, the whole time avoiding his eyes.

  THE DOGS ARE JUMPING IN and out of the ute howling, almost yodelling. It’s a happy sound, as if they’re singing a footy anthem before a game. My hands pat along the ground to find the torch. It’s almost 9 pm. I’ve slept, again. About four hours straight this time.

  Archie’s hunting fatigues are stuffed in the side of my swag. Still lying down, like some sort of contortionist I manage to undress and put them on. I have lost weight; some of the shirt buttons are doing up nicely.

  It’s a shame I can’t check myself out in a mirror. Tonight I’ll get the Pigman to take some snapshots of me. The camera hates me, always has. I will need a good selection to choose from, an image fit for Cleopatra666’s eyes.

  I emerge from the tent to see the dogs in thick studded collars and vests that make them look like a pair of bondage queens. Balls like Christmas lights flash purple on Slatko’s collar and green on Sara’s.

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘It’s a tracking mechanism, is it?’

  The Pigman is stripped down to the waist. A towel hangs around his neck as he bends over a bucket, splashing water over his hair then shaking it out like a dog that’s just bathed. ‘You sleep, boy?’

  ‘Yeah. I did.’

  ‘Is because you have good full stomach after my cooking.’

  ‘Excuse me. When you’re finished there, can you take a photo – please?’

  The Pigman turns around, hooking the towel onto the side of the ute. A massive tattoo is sprawled across his chest. ‘That’s a beauty,’ I tell him. ‘What’s it of?’

  But the Pigman is looking me up and down like I’ve grown an extra head. ‘What?’

  ‘You no wear that!’ He almost spits it.

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Those clotheses.’

  ‘What? My fatigues?’

  ‘Whatever. I lose you in dark. We hunt on foot, not ute. Is very dangerous, Demon.’ The Pigman chucks a council issue fluoro shirt at me. ‘You must wear. I insist.’

  ‘But, can you take a picture of me first?’ I hold out my phone. ‘Maybe one with the dogs and, and the rifle?’

  ‘Is for your mother?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good boy. She will like.’

  ‘Can you take a few? She might want some to send to her friends.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  My hands shake while they hold the rifle, which is the kind of thing Cleopatra666 would spot in a photo. So I crouch in between the dogs and rest my elbow on Slatko as if he’s a table. The shaking doesn’t stop but it’s not as obvious.

  The Pigman’s stuffing around with my phone like he’s got no idea.

  ‘Don’t you know how it works?’ I call.

  ‘I no have phone. Why? Who ring me?’

  ‘You have to look through the little hole.’

  He holds it up to his face.

  ‘Can you see me?’ I call.

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Be careful not to put your finger over the lens.’

  ‘Smile, Demon.’

  ‘Are the dogs in the photo?’

  The Pigman is nodding. ‘Yes. You, dogs, gun. Very very good picture. Your mother will like very much.’

  I suck in my gut, tilt my chin up and narrow my eyes. This is the exact photo I want.

  I feel like the fat guy the Pigman was telling me about. Half the bean stew is swishing around in my guts, the other half wobbling in my throat. I feel like I’ve doubled my weight yet I’ve never had to run so hard in my life. I’ve got a head torch and the stars, yet it’s all up hills and down into gullies with branches sticking out waiting to gouge out your eyes and burrows the size of craters hidden in the ground ready to trip you up and I’m trying to keep up with the dogs because they’re chasing the pig and when I get there I’ve got to grab the pig’s back legs and some are big bastards and they are pissed off with the world and hollering harder than the old girl ever could.

  Slatko’s job is to round it up while Sara goes for an ear. Then Slatko takes the other ear and I dive into the mess grabbing the hind legs so that the pig is immobilised. Next is the fun bit; like I’m some muscle man from Belarus I have to chuck the beast on its side and keep my boot on it while it attempts to flip itself to freedom, and let me tell you, the pig has done this many more times than me.

  In his own good time the Pigman emerges holding a knife with a blade so long and straight you could carry a melon on it. That signals my next job, to somehow sit on the hog while the Pigman sticks in the knife and soon, but not soon enough, everything goes quiet.

  Me and the dogs are quite a team. I reckon we could manage without the Pigman. By the time Sara’s had his way the pig’s not going anywhere in a rush. If I had Slatko and Sara with me I could probably take on the whole population of Strathven.

  At last we’re walking up the gully back to where the ute is. At least, the Pigman’s walking, strolling almost. The dogs are buggered, their panting breath heaves through the night air. I’m struggling just to put one boot in front of the other. My clothes are covered in burrs that prickle my skin with every step. I can hardly see straight and the musky smell of pig is pasted all over me and what’s worse is that I know I won’t be showering any time soon.

  ‘We’re … all … done?’ I say. My voice is flatlining like I’m not really asking a question because I’m terrified the answer may be ‘no’.

  ‘How many, Demon – six?’

  ‘Eight if you include the piglets,’ I pant behind him.

  ‘Piglet grow up to be big, so yes, eight. Is good hunt for one night.’

  The ute comes into view. It’s perched at the top of a ridge. Now I think I know how Edmund Hillary must’ve felt when he sighted the top of Everest. I’m tempted to drop to my hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way. In my mind I see my swag. I’m climbing into it. I don’t care about the smell any more. All I want is to snuggle down and feel every muscle melt into the ground like wax.

  One step before the top, Sara stops, his ears prick tall and with a yelp he is charging down the hill again with Slatko at his heels.

  ‘I thought maybe one more,’ the Pigman laughs. ‘Come, Demon!’

  Judging by the noise it’s making, this hog is big. I’m trying to think of a reason why I should stay with the ute. But the barks of Sara and Slatko are drowned out by the beast and my feet pick themselves up like they’re suddenly battery driven.

  I can’t stop myself. My breath is shooting through my lips like a steam train as I run down the hill straight into the cacophony. I check behind; the Pigman’s not in view. My head torch is on the wrong angle and I’m leaping over things that aren’t even there. The noise is getting louder and I’m not sure the dogs are winning.

  A yelp that jumps through every decibel known to man pierces the sky. I feel my legs go faster; it’s like I’m someone else, not the fat kid at the athletics carnival who could never finish the race.

  At the edge of a dam, stumbling in and out of the mud, are Slatko and Sara, hanging onto a pig that I reckon weighs almost as much as me.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I shout. ‘Good, fellas, that’s the way. Hold on.’

  I run down to them. I want to get close but I’m almost shitting myself. The dogs don’t seem to be in sync this time. It looks as though Sara’s caught himself between the pig’s front legs. He’s getting a beating as the boar tosses his head around like an armless prick with a fly on his nose.

&
nbsp; Slatko’s in a better position. His jaw’s locked onto the side of the pig’s face; its grey skin twists and stretches under his grip. I know I have to get in there and make a dive for the back legs. The dogs are tired. I can tell they don’t have much left in them.

  The three of them look like a jerking ball of fur and skin. The boar’s totally dominating. He shakes his head and now his tusks toss Sara into the air like a plaything. Slatko’s only just managing to hold on. His teeth are clamped and tearing at the pig’s face but it’s not enough to slow him. They need me. I’m part of the team.

  I dart in as close as I dare while counting the space between when the beast’s head is up and when his tusks are down. Two and a half seconds, that’s all I’ve got. My heart is pounding overtime but when I reach the count I dive in with wide arms, collect the hind legs in one swoop and Sara lands back on his feet.

  ‘That’s the way.’ I’m shouting, roaring. ‘Wooooo! That’s the way! That’s the way!’

  Now the challenge is to steady my footing and anchor myself to the ground but the bastard’s trying to kick me off and land me in the water. My grip is slipping as his hooves beat and kick like a crazy child.

  ‘Miro!’ I call. ‘Miro?’

  Instead Sara answers the call and comes charging back towards us. The boar’s head goes to butt him again but this time Sara’s jaw yawns like a lion and he pounces, clamping himself onto the other side of the pig’s face.

  ‘Hold on. Hold on.’ My voice, the dogs, the snorts and squeals, all the raging sound of our battle bounce off the banks, ricocheting into the stars, shaking and piercing this tiny piece of earth that is otherwise surrounded by stillness.

  Finally the Pigman appears, wandering down the side of the hill.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I yell to him. ‘Fucking get in here. Nooow!’

  ‘You shoot, Demon,’ he calls. ‘I get gun. Is all ready, Sara and Slatko will hold for you.’

  ‘I’m not letting go! The bastard’s almost done Sara and me. Get down here!’

  ‘Yes, but you shoot this one and I take photo for your mother. She will like. He big bastard, good tusk.’