Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  The Pigman starts walking. The red dust swirls around each boot as he strides back towards the camp.

  ‘Miro?’ I call. The Pigman stops and waits for me to catch up. I can’t say it until I am right there standing still and next to him. ‘Miro? Did, did you ever think you were going to die?’

  He wraps his arm around my shoulders. ‘No, Demon,’ he answers. ‘But sometime I want to.’

  ‘But you must’ve been scared?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Did you ever wonder that if you were killed maybe nobody would notice? That’d you just be forgotten as if you never existed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m scared of dying,’ I whisper. ‘It’s the second before I die,’ I say, ‘when I know I’m about to die, that’s what scares me the most.’

  ‘Yes, you are right, Demon. Is darkest moment. For everyone.’

  He drops his arm and starts walking.

  From behind I watch him – his big strides, the straight back, the enormous hands swinging by his side. It would be easy to tell him. If I could spill my secret to just one person, how much easier my job would be.

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Sara is mellow. He’s not interested in playing big boss to Slatko or following us into the bush while I practise target shooting. Most of the time he lies on the towels, licking at his stitches or resting his chin on his paws and watching the big sky float by.

  He hunts with us but the Pigman keeps him close, which means Slatko and I have more work to do. So far, we’ve killed thirty-four pigs. At least eight of them have been young, somewhere between a piglet and a pig. It’s a tough gig. I don’t like it. If we ‘stick’ their mum or aunties first it’s not so bad. But if we don’t, they charge in to the mosh pit ready to fight for their young.

  The noise is the worst. First a high-pitched squeal that escalates in pace until it’s one constant shriek. Then into the mess rumbles the baritone grunts and snorts of the senior members. It grows stronger and louder until it hits a hectic crescendo and the panic and despair is palpable. But it’s not so much the noise that bothers me. It’s the silence afterwards. I hear that the loudest.

  Tonight is the second time we’ve brought a young pig back to camp for the Pigman to roast. It shames me, but the first one I devoured; even helped myself to seconds. All it took was sitting where I couldn’t see its little face.

  But the mother of this pig, the one that spits and crackles over the fire now, got away. She was heavy with milk and her teats almost dragged along the ground but she outsmarted Slatko and me and escaped into the trees.

  Now I sit here wondering if the sow is roaming the scrub searching for her child.

  The Pigman passes me a plate of steaming white meat that I know will be tender and melt in my mouth. I put it down between my feet and stare away from the fire.

  ‘Why you not eat?’ The Pigman asks through a mouthful. ‘What wrong, Demon? You sick?’

  ‘I feel bad about the mother,’ I say.

  ‘Your mother? You miss her, yes?’

  ‘No, not my mother, the pig’s mother.’

  ‘I no understand.’ The Pigman rubs his hands together as he chews and swallows. ‘Mmm. Is very, very good, Demon. Try for me. Please.’

  ‘That’s her kid or her teenager or whatever. The point is we killed it. We killed her kid.’

  ‘I no understand?’

  ‘The mother pig’s kid.’ I point to the carcass on the fire. ‘Oh, forget it!’

  ‘Argh. Now I understand, Demon.’ He nods while his jagged teeth clamp onto the first piece of crackling. ‘But this is job.’

  ‘So? That doesn’t make it any better.’ I push the plate further away with my boot.

  ‘You kill animal, Demon? Before you come with me, you no shoot pig before. I know this.’

  I stare down at my hands. The fingernails that aren’t split or broken are stuffed to the brim with mud and dirt.

  ‘Demon?’

  I peel the nail off my thumb and begin to smear the black sludge along my skin.

  ‘Demon? Why you come to work with me?’

  ‘I killed a cat once.’

  ‘I no hear you. You speak louder, boy.’

  ‘I said –’ I look up at him –‘I killed a cat once.’

  ‘Cat?’

  ‘Yes. A cat,’ I whisper. ‘Someone had hurt her. She was going to die anyway. I just stopped her suffering.’

  The Pigman leans under his chair for the rakija. He jiggles the bottle then holds it close to his face. ‘Many bubbles,’ he mutters. ‘Is my best brew for sure.’ He wraps his lips around the bottle and drinks.

  Perhaps the Pigman has conspired with the powers above, because the night has suddenly turned wild, just like his mood. The wind is howling, its whistle ripping through the trees like a screeching banshee.

  A saucepan, a milk crate, two plates fly across our camp and into the back of the ute. They are not leaving the way they arrived, neatly packed in a specially marked box.

  My job is to dismantle and pack up the tent. I haven’t made good progress. For the last few minutes I’ve been sprawled, spread-eagled over the canvas, trying to fold it away before it’s airborne and lost forever in the trees.

  ‘Time to go. Time to go!’ The Pigman is shouting these three words and nothing else. It’s not quite 4 am. He’s given no explanation as to why it’s time to go and there’s no point asking.

  ‘Time to go. Time to go!’ I look up from my prone position to see the Pigman storming towards me, the shovel in his hands. I have no idea what he’s contemplating. I shut my eyes, hear the metal of the spade smash against the ute, then feel the Pigman’s weight on top of me as he helps to wrestle the tent into submission.

  ‘You take dogs!’ he yells right in my ear. ‘And water bowls get too.’

  I’m up; relieved to be away from his brandy-stained breath that heaves and rasps, ‘Time to go. Time to go.’

  Sara and Slatko are huddled behind the back wheel. I scoop up Sara and lie him in the front seat.

  The Pigman’s fist bashes the floor of the tray. Slatko jumps up and a cloud of green canvas lands in behind him.

  ‘Time to go,’ the Pigman growls as he starts the engine, slamming the gear stick into reverse. ‘Time to –’

  ‘But the tent,’ I interrupt the madness. ‘We need to secure it. We’ll lose it or Slatko will get caught up and …’

  He thumps his fist on the wheel. ‘No time! We must go.’

  ‘But there’s nowhere to go!’ I yell back to remind him that I can get loud too. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like there’s a cosy house to shelter in and, and a fat lady with red cheeks to make us hot chocolates and …’

  But there’s no point continuing. The Pigman isn’t listening. He’s on a one-way mission, gripping the steering wheel, his nose almost squashed against the windscreen and driving for his life.

  ‘I reckon the storm was going to pass anyway. It wasn’t that far inland.’ I know I’m the only one listening to me but it would be nice to know what the rush was about. ‘That’s my opinion. Not that I’d know anything about my own country’s weather patterns. Oh no, not me. The foreigner would know more, of course!’

  I must be wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak because as far as the Pigman’s concerned, I’m not here. So I might as well finish my night’s sleep.

  I yawn and stretch my legs as far as the boxy ute will let me, then wrap my arm around Sara while he nuzzles into my lap. I feel his heart racing against my thigh. I try to count the beats but it’s so hard with the ute bouncing and swaying this much.

  ‘I don’t think Sara’s well,’ I say.

  No answer.

  So I say it again, louder. ‘I don’t think Sara’s well.’

  ‘Sara?’

  ‘Yeah, Sara. He’s sick. You should probably take a look at his stitches. Maybe he’s got an infection. I’m worried about him, Miro.’

  The Pigman’s eyes flick away from the windscreen a
nd onto me. They are growing wide like he’s seen something terrifying and for a second time he smashes his fist against the steering wheel, then raises it up for another go.

  ‘He’s not well!’ I spit. ‘What is up with you?’

  ‘Ti si isti kao on!’ He’s not smashing the wheel in anger. He’s slapping it with joy, over and over like he’s just heard the best joke of his life. ‘Ah, Demon, Demon, Demon. Ti si isti kao on! Ti si isti kao on.’

  ‘You’re fucking crazy,’ I mutter.

  He reaches out his arm and begins to squeeze my shoulder until I want to yelp. ‘I play music for you,’ he’s saying. ‘Maybe you like it too.’ Now his arm stretches over me while he digs around inside the glove box. ‘This one is my country singing.’ As the Pigman pulls the CD out of the glove box, his wallet tips over the edge and lands between my feet.

  Instantly I’m on the count. One, two, three – the music’s started, he’s humming and fiddling with the volume, but I’m paralysed as if it’s a ticking bomb sitting by my boots. When I get to ten, I tell myself, I’ll do the obvious thing: lean down and pick up the wallet. Flick through it like it’s the most normal thing to do. Six, seven – be cool. Calm is the key. Remember.

  But I can’t hear myself any more because the Pigman’s cranked up the song. ‘Nearly best bit,’ he shouts above the singing. He’s hugging the steering wheel, wailing at the top of his voice.

  Suddenly I’m sitting forward like I need to get close to the sound. ‘Hey? Hey, I know this song. That’s, that’s …’

  ‘Let’s go, Demon!’ The big hand comes down, whacking me on the back as he sings. ‘Bon Jovi!’ he yells. ‘“Beds of Roses”, yeah!’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Is singing in my language. But same song. You like too?’ He sings the next line in his language. ‘Jer nochas ja spavam … od klina …’

  And I whisper in mine. ‘… on a bed of nails.’

  ‘You like? You like Bon Jovi, Demon? Yeah?’

  My fingers jab the off button and suddenly the air is silent. I curl into the door and close my eyes. Now all I have to listen to is the ute rumbling through the bush.

  Almost thirteen hours of not saying a word. But the old girl and I once went six days without speaking. This is piss easy. The only motivation to start talking is that it might kill the manic piano accordion that’s been blaring since we hit the tar road. But that’s only when he’s driving. When I drive he sleeps and I enjoy the silence.

  But I’m not sure I could speak anyway. With each hour I feel my chest tighten, strangling my breath, making me want to hit the panic button. We’re heading home. We’re heading back to Strathven.

  I FEEL LIKE A TOURIST as we drive along the main road; perched up in the front seat looking this way and that out the window. Of course, it’s faces I’m looking for. But the streets are empty. The good citizens of Strathven are still tucked up in bed.

  The Pigman pulls into the curb outside the Clancy Hotel.

  ‘What? Is this where you’re dropping me?’

  The Pigman doesn’t answer. He’s busy leaning over the wheel and pulling at his jeans. Suddenly there’s his wallet sitting in his hand.

  ‘One, two, three.’ The Pigman plucks out fifty-dollar notes, flicking their corners, making sure two aren’t stuck together. He thinks I need his money. Probably reckons I’d steal from him; that’s why he moved his wallet while I was sleeping.

  But I know now that what’s inside my wardrobe is of no use to me regardless of how many times I study step one: how to reload an AK-47 in eight seconds. Only a hunting rifle will make my job easier. So I will have to buy one myself. At least when the day arrives I will know what it feels like to squeeze its trigger.

  I take the handful of sweaty bills and mumble a ‘thanks’.

  The Pigman tosses his wallet onto the dashboard then sits there, his fingers tapping a tune on the steering wheel.

  I wait. Wait for him to say something. But it’s not going to happen so I slide Sara off my lap, open the door and lower my soles onto Strathven soil.

  ‘Okay,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll see you later, I guess.’

  It takes a second before I can actually stand up and start moving. I get my bag and give Slatko a pat. In return he licks my hand.

  I’m throwing my bag over my shoulder and stepping onto the curb when the rattling of glass gives me good reason to stop.

  The Pigman is winding the window down.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want something?’ I ask.

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘You were winding down the window,’ I explain. ‘Did you want to say something?’

  ‘No,’ he answers. ‘I getting air.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  I shrug – or do I wince? I’m not sure.

  The Pigman drives away and it feels like something’s draining from my body until I’m just a frame of bones standing here on the road.

  ‘M-mi–’ I go to call, but his name sticks in my throat.

  My hands swing by my sides, they tug at my shirt, slam against my thighs, wring themselves together until the friction burns my skin. ‘Well, what was I meant to do!’ I say it aloud. ‘Drive the whole way home with Bon Jovi blaring in Serbian?’

  My head is shaking as though I can’t believe the absurdness of the situation. But that’s not true. And I know it.

  I stand outside our place and stare down the path to the front door. I’m watching the house, the blanket still hangs in my window and I’m telling myself I’m home. Hot showers, a toilet, privacy, my PC, Cleopatra666 – shouldn’t all that make it easier to be here? I always knew I’d be coming back.

  Is it because being home means back to watching everything I do? It wasn’t like that in the bush with Miro. Out there was a taste of freedom, space to breathe. Now it’s gone. Gone. It’s time to put my armour on again and return to the fight.

  Faded copies of the Strathven Telegraph are scattered across a lawn that looks more like a shaggy pile of thistles and burrs. One sheet blows towards me. I pick it up and stuff it in my bag like I’m suddenly houseproud. I’m sure we had a garden once but I can’t find the pictures in my head. I know we sat down to meals – real food cooked by my mother and Archie and served at a table draped with the tablecloth he gave her.

  I walk past my bedroom to the side of the house. The first task today is to head straight to the laundry, ’cause I’ve been on ‘sales training’ in Cromer. Not sticking pigs and drinking brandy by the fire.

  Each step of the plan flicks through my brain, like an efficient filing system. Now there’s a new one: step six – buy a hunting rifle. It’s back to the business of sneaking around and covering up and watching my back – the exhausting task of being one step ahead.

  My mother’s clothes, damp and stinking, sit in a twisted mess inside the washing machine. I breathe through my mouth as I pull the musty load free. Some lands in the basket, most of it on the ground, including a pair of my mother’s stockings. I pick them up, reaching my arm through the black weave. But a mask won’t help me when that day comes. They know me and I know them. So I drop the stockings onto the floor. Jeans, shirts, even Archie’s fatigues I empty into the machine, followed by a handful of every available washing powder. Every stain, every smudge of dirt and smear of blood needs to dissolve and vanish. The exhausting business of being one step ahead.

  GAME, EAT, SLEEP. GAME, EAT, sleep plus a bit of furniture moving. That’s all I’ve done. I haven’t left the house. The old girl hasn’t asked me about the trip. She’s barely come near me. Her lack of interrogation has me climbing the walls.

  Three times in the last day and a half I have dragged my desk to different corners of the room, trying to decide which position gives me optimum cover yet still provides a clear view out the window and along the street. Not once did Mum knock on the door to see what I was doing.

  There’s no sign of her snooping in my room. The thread still sits perfectly across th
e wardrobe doors. The space between each coathanger measures the required fifty-two centimetres. Yet I can’t rest my mind.

  This morning I sat on the loo seat for fifteen minutes, ears peeled, waiting for the squeak of her stockings rubbing against her thighs as she crept down the hall. But there was nothing. I flushed the loo, turned on the tap and walked out to find her still sitting on the couch watching TV.

  Chip packets, cans of Coke and empty frozen meal containers with bits of cheese still clinging to the sides have been balancing on the edge of my desk for the last thirty-four hours.

  The silence is doing my head in. Where are the questions about the new job? Why hasn’t she interrogated me about the padlock on my wardrobe? Why isn’t she watching me, studying my every move like after Year 10 camp? We’ve had a few trite conversations about the weather and what meal to defrost for dinner but she’s holding out on me. I know. I can tell.

  Until an hour ago, the other woman in my life was playing with my head too. But I can handle her. Cleopatra666’s silence is her method of prick-teasing. It’s obvious. She’s an easy one to read.

  I scroll down to the photo I sent. I captioned it ‘Prophet at Training Camp’. All Cleopatra666 could be bothered to write is ‘cool dogs’. There are still more photos to download from my phone but I’ll make her wait for them.

  The six o’clock news starts. From my room, I hear the earnest voice of the newsreader, who’s more concerned with the inflection of each word than the day’s events.

  Yes, it’s my turn to be in control.

  I’m not going to wait in my bedroom for my mother to come to me. So for the first time since being back, I take a seat on the couch next to her and feign interest in our nation’s bipartisan cooperation.

  The old girl doesn’t move, as though she’s unaware of the weight that’s just sunk into the cushions. I finger the padlock keys in my pocket and wait for the first ad break.

  ‘Doesn’t look like I missed much,’ I say.