Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  She stares straight ahead at the screen but I’m sure her elbow has inched further into her lap, further away from me, as if even that space between us is too close.

  The old girl finally speaks. ‘It’s the same news in Cromer.’

  ‘I’m talking about the news here, in Strathven,’ I say. ‘Your news.’

  ‘Why would I have any news? Nothink happens to me.’

  I lean into my corner of the couch and watch her arms fold across her chest and her right knee turn away from mine.

  ‘Ya put a padlock on ya wardrobe before ya went away. Whatcha got that’s so special?’

  This is more like it.

  ‘Nothing special,’ I reply. ‘Just computer stuff.’

  ‘So why the lock?’

  ‘Because everyone can see inside my bedroom window. Computer gear’s expensive, Mum.’

  ‘No one can look inside ya window with me blanket hangin’ up in there.’

  ‘You know, I actually had a few more of those headaches when I was away.’

  Diversion. One of my greatest skills.

  ‘Maybe ya should go see Dr Singh.’

  ‘I’ll be right.’ I run my hand across my jaw like I’m feeling the stubble. But I’m not – I’m hiding a smile. I am back in control. I am on fire. ‘So, no news then?’ I say, securing the lid on the conversation.

  I’m ready to file it away when the old girl says, ‘Ya can tell me somethin’, but. Why ya got them cuts all over your arms?’ I sense my reflexes twitch, ready to take a position of defence. But my hands stayed glued to my lap.

  ‘Hey, son? I seen ’em.’ My fingernails are scrubbed and clipped. My shirt sleeves have been rolled down and buttoned at the wrists the entire time I’ve been back. The only times I can’t vouch for is when I’m sleeping. ‘So how’d ya get ’em, son, them cuts?’

  ‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ I begin. My voice is calm, as though I’m dictating a meditation session. It’s like that because it’s in charge of keeping the situation calm. The old lady has been snooping. She has been in my bedroom but it’s when I’ve been asleep. ‘I locked my key inside my motel room,’ I hear myself go on. ‘You know, my motel room in Cromer. I had to hack my way through a few bushes to get to the bathroom window. They cut me to pieces. I was bleeding all over the place.’

  ‘I see,’ she answers. ‘So ya goin’ back there, to Cromer? On a plane?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Will you catch the plane on a Sunday, like you done this time?’

  ‘I’m not sure when it’ll be. The job will be more part-time, I think. I thought part-time was probably a better option.’

  ‘Suit ya self.’ She sticks a cigarette into her mouth and lights it. My spine curls back into the cushions. She seems satisfied.

  ‘So …?’ One last time I’ll ask and then I will rest. ‘So, everything was okay while I was gone?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t tell me because you wouldn’t want to worry me? You know, like when you first started getting those phone calls.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Anyway I’m just asking, Mum. I mean, I’m glad everything was okay.’

  ‘They find a body down by the river. If that’s what ya wanna know about, son?’

  ‘A body?’ I realise I’ve begun to edge my way down the couch. Suddenly our knees are centimetres from each other’s and the space between them is burning, almost setting us on fire.

  ‘Yeah. Down at the river. A man. Shot. Shot in the head.’

  It’s hard to be still and breathe when noise is screeching through your brain.

  ‘Do … Do they know who it is?’

  I sit here, next to my mother, in front of the national news waiting for her to answer. But she doesn’t. She’s decided to stop playing the game.

  However, I am in control. I will not surrender. So I stare into the TV screen until it blurs to black and I begin to count. The numbers appear in my head. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope. Each number has its own colour and pattern. It expands then contracts and disappears, making way for the next one.

  One thousand, three hundred and seventeen shimmers green in a background of diamonds and squares. One thousand, three hundred and seventeen is also when the advertisements come on and when I know the old girl will speak again. I am calm. I am ready.

  ‘Been there a couple of weeks, they reckon,’ she starts, without me prompting. ‘That bloke. That man they find in the river.’

  ‘Mum?’ I say, getting up from the couch. ‘Do you want anything at the shops? Cigarettes, Coke?’

  ‘Coke, thanks. They still on special at the servo.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Won’t be long.’

  Before I go to the petrol station and buy the newspaper, I drive for a while, sticking to the neighbourhood streets, avoiding the town centre. The gentle hum of the engine and the gliding of the thick tyres against the smooth bitumen has a calming effect. At least, I’m convinced it does until I realise where it’s been leading me.

  I am outside Pascoe’s house. Right outside Pascoe’s house. If it was summer and the front door was open to catch the evening breeze, I’d be able to see Pascoe sitting at the dinner table, feasting on smug pie.

  How I’d love to walk in. Catch the little family with their mouths full, witness the shock in their eyes as they see me standing there and struggle to swallow the dinner that suddenly tastes quite sour.

  Pascoe’s green beast is parked in the driveway. I wonder how he’d feel if I sank a coin into the metal of his car? If I dragged it along the shiny green paint, messing up his pride and joy? How would he feel about the injustice of it all? Hurt? Angry? Ripped off?

  It hurt when he wouldn’t acknowledge me as the region’s finalist in the state writing competition, undermining the only thing I had to be proud of. But when he sold me out to an air compressor, refusing to take action against those arseholes who were telephoning my mother, it killed.

  There will be a day, who knows how soon, but it will come, when Pascoe and I face each other again. And if we do exchange words, what will I say? Will I tell him how it felt to be betrayed like that? Then betrayed again on my eighteenth birthday?

  Suddenly I’m striding across his freshly mowed lawn, trudging through the garden bed, kicking the spring blooms in my way. Why not tell him now? I’m here. I’ll be quick and to the point. Two minutes max.

  My hand is poised, ready to knock. I will count to three. I want to be calm. I want my voice to be strong. One, two – but I realise I can’t be bothered. The Damon Styles that Pascoe forgot has disappeared; lost somewhere in the bush near the old schoolhouse.

  Everything is different now. Pascoe doesn’t count. Not to me. Not any more. So I get back into the car and drive away.

  The petrol station is empty. I’m about to turn in when I notice that further down the road is Parker’s black Mazda. My foot slides between the brake and accelerator. I can’t work out if Parker’s car is even moving. But suddenly its engine revs like an animal roaring and the car flies past.

  ‘Wanker,’ I curse.

  I slow right down, and when Parker’s car has disappeared from my mirror I turn in and park.

  The visit at the petrol station is trouble free. My request for last Monday’s local paper is granted. The box of Cokes is tucked away in the boot and within minutes I’m disappearing into the landscape.

  I take the first turn, the old road to Mereton. The time is 7.23 pm.

  At 7.30 pm I stop the car, cut the engine and open the front page of the Strathven Telegraph. My eyes run down the print in time with my finger. It’s hard to know if the article will be big or an insignificant paragraph shoved off to the corner. Strathven’s idea of what is newsworthy often clashes with mine.

  On page five, towards the right-hand side, is an advertisement from Strathven’s only legal advisers, Wane and Parker Solicitors – ‘Experienced specialists in firearms and prohibited weapons legislation’. And,
suitably enough, what I’ve been searching for sits below.

  Body Retrieved from River

  An elderly Strathven resident walking his dog on Sunday morning spotted what he thought was the remains of a cow in the Clancy River. Closer inspection revealed it was the decomposing body of a man. Detective Scott Flannery of Mereton Police says the man, thought to be in his thirties, was shot in the head at close range. He is yet to be identified. Anyone with information regarding this matter is asked to call Mereton Police or Crime Stoppers on …

  I chuck the paper out the window and drive away.

  THE PIGMAN IS SITTING BY the water tank, his feet resting on a milk crate. Delicate spirals of smoke drift above him and into the branches of the pepper tree. He doesn’t look my way, even though Slatko is up and barking. Instead he rests his hand on Slatko’s head and stares out to the hills.

  I’m scanning the land for Sara but I can’t see him.

  ‘Where’s Sara?’ I call. ‘Miro? Where’s Sara?’

  ‘Sara is at vet doctor,’ he answers as he tucks a bit of cloth into his pocket. Finally he turns to look at me. His face is puffy like I imagine a person would look if they’d been floating in a river. ‘You were right, Demon. His stitches they make him sick. Infection, vet doctor say.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sara tough.’

  There’s nowhere to sit so I lean against the water tank.

  ‘You come to see if job? Or you come to shoot gun?’

  What am I doing here, I wonder? I found myself on the Mereton highway heading this way. But I tell him, ‘Just thought I’d come up and say hello. Check how Sara was doing.’

  ‘Well, now you know.’

  Miro swings back around to face the hills.

  ‘How long will he be at the vet?’

  ‘Tomorrow he be better,’ he replies. ‘He at vet in Mereton.’

  ‘The animal hospital on the main road?’

  ‘No, over other side of bridge. In industreeal area. I like vet. She Czech. Good woman.’

  I don’t tell him I have business on that side of Mereton because I want him to think I’m being helpful. ‘I can go there tomorrow and pick Sara up. If you like?’

  The Pigman raises his butt off the seat and pulls at his back pocket until his wallet is free. He counts fifty-dollar bills, flicking the corners of each one just like he did thirty-six and a half hours ago.

  I wonder if he feels awkward replaying this move? Doesn’t it remind him of our silence on the journey home? Or is that why he’s doing it: this picture perfect re-enactment is to let me know he hasn’t forgotten?

  ‘Money for vet,’ he says, handing me a wad of cash and a card. ‘And vet phone number.’

  ‘I’m not into Bon Jovi.’

  He nods, seemingly unsurprised by this random remark of mine.

  ‘Their music’s okay, if you like the big ballad,’ I continue. ‘My dad, my father played their stuff all the time. That’s why I hate them. They, they make me think of him. I’m sorry if I upset you.’

  ‘Boy, you have eaten?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The Pigman stands up, groaning as he straightens his legs and arches his back. ‘Come eat, Demon,’ he says, picking up the chair and walking towards the caravan. ‘I bake proja, is my best I think.’

  ‘Proyah?’ I say. ‘That’s bread, isn’t it?’

  ‘Good! You learning my language.’

  I follow him under the canopy of tin and into his makeshift kitchen. What I notice again is how incredibly neat it is.

  ‘Sit, boy.’ The Pigman places the chair by the table. ‘Proja, kaymak …’ he says, putting bread, cheese and a plate in front of me. ‘Pindur,’ he says passing me a jar of some type of relish. ‘You no try before,’ he says, flashing his jagged teeth into a grin that has him looking extremely pleased with himself. ‘Very, very good. Eggplant, olive oil, I use some herb and …’ I’m trying to open the jar but the lid won’t budge. The Pigman takes it from me, turns it once and pop goes the lid.

  As he gives it back, I see the tops of his fingers have dislocated themselves again. His face doesn’t move – not a frown, not a blink – as he snaps them back into position as though they were plastic clips on a container.

  I hold up my hand, pointing to my fingertips. ‘Doesn’t it hurt when you do that?’

  ‘I feel nothing.’

  ‘What happened? Were you injured in the war?’

  ‘Is long story,’ he answers.

  The Pigman takes a brown glass bottle off a shelf and shuffles away.

  ‘Where are you going? Miro?’

  ‘I go to bed.’ He waves behind him. ‘You turn off generator when finish. Good night, Demon.’

  The door of the caravan squeaks then slams. I wait, expecting to hear more, but there’s nothing.

  I make myself a triple-decker sandwich filled with cheese and eggplant relish. It’s delicious. I ignore the oil and crumbs dribbling down my chin and into my neck as I’m impatient to finish so I can make myself another.

  After four sandwiches and hardly a spoonful of relish left in the jar, I lean back into the chair and groan with pleasure. If there was a couch I’d stretch out and have a snooze before heading home. But there’s no couch. There’s not even another chair for me to put my feet up on. That must be why it feels so ordered here; there’s only one of everything. That’s all he needs. One chair, which I’m sitting on now; one plate, the one I’ve just used; one mug hanging from a hook by the sink, one saucepan on the stove; one bowl sitting on a shelf and next to it I spy one grey hunting rifle.

  It’s not like touching a ticking slippery bomb any more. By now I’m quite familiar with it. I know where the safety catch is and how it loads and re-pumps.

  Even so, I notice the tiniest of trembles in my hands as I take the hunting rifle off the shelf and gently lay it on the table.

  ‘You’re a beauty,’ I whisper. ‘Tomorrow I’m getting myself one just like you, baby.’

  SARA LIES ON THE CAR seat next to me. The fur has been shaved around his stitches. When he hobbled into the waiting room, he reminded me of an old man, all thin and lopsided. But when he saw me his back straightened and his tail started to wag.

  ‘Hey boy!’ I crouched on the floor, my arms open. Sara didn’t knock me down. Instead he nuzzled into the curve of my underarm while the rumble in his throat gently rocked us.

  ‘Okay mate, I hope this doesn’t take long,’ I say to Sara now, leaning over him and taking my to-do list out of the glove box. ‘The longer I’m in there, the more questions she can ask and we don’t want that. So you have my word I’ll be speedy.’

  The exercise book lies open on my lap.

  TO-DO LIST

  1. Google for info

  2. Check newspapers etc

  3. Get a padlock

  4. Look into renewing firearms licence – book safety course, call rifle club re rejoining and course availability

  5. Visit Pigman re job

  6. Hunting rifle

  Points 7 and 8, the two new ones I added last night, are the tasks to complete today.

  7. Collect from Mereton

  8. Take up to Miro. ?? leave at his place??

  Last Tuesday’s classifieds, the faded sheet I so innocently stuffed into my bag the morning I got home, is carefully folded inside the page of my exercise book.

  How random that this was the one sheet that blew towards me like it wanted to be found. A simple scan of this page and the ad would be missed. It sits at the bottom left-hand corner and appears to be in the ‘Used Goods’ rather than the ‘Sporting Goods’ column. Maybe it’s a sign that this is meant to be. Perhaps for once I am doing the right thing.

  FOR SALE – NEW! Never used Remington Pump 7600 centre-fire rifle/10 shot magazines + bullets/plus riflescope/sniper grey glasses. All still in box. $1000 ONO. Enquiries to Francis phone …

  ‘Decisive, direct and in control.’ I say it aloud and Sara’s head lifts from its rest. ‘That’s what I ha
ve to be, boy. I have to look like I know what I’m talking about.’

  I slip the folded piece of newspaper into my pocket, give Sara a pat for luck and set off in search of Francis in Flat 9.

  On the phone, Francis had sounded like she was speaking from the bottom of a stormwater drain and when she opens the door I understand why.

  Flat 9 is almost empty. No carpets, no blinds, one lounge chair and a glowing bar heater are the only items to furnish this room.

  ‘You must be Andrew?’ she says, unlocking a security door before I’ve even answered. ‘I’m Francis. Quick, don’t want to let the warm air out.’

  The spring weather hasn’t made its way to Flat 9. The air is cold, sharp like you’d expect to see icicles hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘Did you bring cash?’ she asks me.

  I nod. My goal is to say as few words as possible. Anonymity is again the aim of today’s game.

  ‘My son, Rodney, passed on five months ago. It’s his stuff I’m selling. Never even got to use it. The big “C” snatched him in a matter of weeks.’

  Again I nod.

  From behind the lounge chair she produces a black zip-up bag, almost identical to the one in my wardrobe, except this one looks more official.

  ‘Check if you want,’ Francis says, handing me the bag. ‘It’s all in there. None of it used. Rodney said he wouldn’t wear the glasses anyway, that they were for sissies. I bought them for his forty-fifth birthday. Thought they looked smart. Apparently they help you see through the rifle better. “Ammunition for the eyes”, that’s what the packet said. But he always had his views, didn’t he? Would you like a cup of tea, Andrew?’

  My wallet is out and I’m flicking through the cash, Pigman-style.

  ‘A thousand,’ I say handing her the money.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I reply. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Now, Andrew, you know about registering the rifle with an authorised …’

  ‘All sorted,’ I say. ‘Doing that now.’

  When I step out, the spring warmth soaks through to my bones and again I think: maybe this is meant to be.