by J. C. Burke
Sara and I drive through the back of Mereton to the old highway that leads to Strathven. Apart from the Pigman’s place, there is only one other spot safe enough to unzip the black bag and carefully inspect the goods.
We turn into the driveway of the old canning factory. Its faded sign showing a rosy-cheeked girl biting into an apple prompts the citizens of Strathven to remember the days when house prices were high and everyone held a job. I wonder why the sign and rusted sheds still stand? Perhaps the good Council of Mereton have left it there for exactly that reason – a reminder for us of when days were golden and Strathven was the tidiest town around.
It’s all in the bag exactly as Francis said it would be. There’s no catch, no trick, which has me laughing and slapping my thighs. ‘Can you believe this? It is too good to be true, buddy!’ I announce to Sara. ‘Too good to be true.’
The glasses packet does read ‘Ammunition for the Eyes’ and below that ‘Sniper glasses ensure distortion-free sight.’
I imagine myself wearing them and looking through the rifle scope. There could be no chance of missing my target now. A few more sessions with the Pigman and no one will be able to get me.
When I have the sniper glasses on I check myself in the mirror, sucking in my cheeks until I am angled, chiselled. I look pretty smart. I even look a bit like Niko in the game. ‘It’z Darween’s survival of zee fittest in zis dump,’ I tell my reflection.
I place the bag in the boot, checking twice that it’s locked. When I get back into the car Sara’s ears suddenly stand tall and he attempts to jump up.
‘Hey boy?’ I say, trying to push him back into the seat. But his weight lifts my arm towards the car ceiling and he pastes his face against the window, yelping like a prisoner. ‘What? What is it? Sara?’
A beaten-up ute comes grumbling past and standing on the back tray, hemmed in by a chair and rolled-up mattress, is Slatko, barking at the sky.
By the time we near the turn-off to the Pigman’s, the euphoria has drained out through my toes. Yet I can’t pinpoint exactly why. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch or a word I can’t remember. It makes me hold the steering wheel too tight.
Suddenly, I over-steer into the bend that boasts the burnt-out ute as its trophy. In a split-second the car is traversing off the highway and heading towards a wire fence. I want to steer us back onto the road but something has caught my attention and my hands are locked.
It’s the carcass of a sheep. The wool and skin have peeled away to expose a rack of ribs, chalky white, perfectly arched towards the sun.
It makes me think – if I had taken care of the man and given him a burial, that’s what he’d be now: dried bones lying in a nest of leaves. Not a bloated mess of shedding tissue forgotten in the river.
But I didn’t give him a burial because I was too afraid. And they came back for him and dumped him in the water. Suddenly I find the itch. The thought that’s been nagging like a fishwife. So obvious but trying to hide way back in my brain, too frightening to be realised: they went back there, probably that night, collected the body and searched the bush for the black gym bag that they were never going to find. No wonder Dora saw them a few days later arguing down at the old schoolhouse. But have they worked out that I have more than what I saw – that I have the black bag too?
I slam on the brakes, throw open the door and vomit.
THE PIGMAN SITS BY THE water tank. Next to him is a second chair. We watch as the dogs have their reunion, which involves nothing more than a load of arse-sniffing.
‘He good,’ the Pigman says. ‘Sara happy to be home.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You no look good, Demon,’ he tells me, then slaps his palm on the other seat. ‘Sit. You maybe need vet doctor. No?’
I feel like Miro as I lower myself into the chair with a groan.
‘You like?’
‘Huh?’
‘You like? Like chair I buy. Same as mine or leettle better I think.’
‘Yeah. It’s okay.’
He ‘pfffs’ a bit then turns around to face the hills.
So that’s why I saw him on the road with the furniture stashed in the back of the ute. There was a part of me that suspected he’d been following my car, even though it made no sense – the paranoia knows no logic. Some days it’s like a shroud that covers me, thick and black, suffocating me in its hold. But it’s this fear that guides me through each day in Strathven, that keeps me alive.
‘When can we go hunting again?’ I ask, moving the chair so I can face the hills too.
‘You want to hunt some more with me?’
‘I want to go away.’
‘Away? What you mean away?’
‘I just mean away.’
‘I no understand.’
‘Away! Like away on a …’
‘Yes, Demon,’ the Pigman answers in the gentlest voice. ‘I know what away mean. But you tell me why you want to go away for hunting? You no like to shoot pig. I know this.’ His pale eyes have settled their gaze on my face. So often it feels as though he looks straight through me – like he’s not really seeing me. But now, under the branches of the pepper tree, the Pigman’s eyes are connecting with mine. My hands slide under the chair searching for something to grip. ‘Demon.’ He is almost whispering. ‘Why you want to come work for me?’
‘I told you why.’
‘Speak up.’ He nudges my foot with his. ‘I no hear what you say. Too many Kalashnikov, pow pow in earses.’
The opportunity is there. It’s almost irresistible, beckoning me … like a woman with her legs splayed. My lips part to say the words … but I can’t.
‘I said, I told you why.’ The lie comes, as always, with me hardly having to open my mouth. ‘I know my father will come back for us one day. That’s why I want to work for you. I don’t care about the money. The money’s an added bonus but that’s not why I’m doing it.’
Miro nods but he is busy rubbing Sara’s ears and I cannot see his face.
‘You know is strange we talk this way,’ he says. ‘Yesterday or maybe day before, I speak with big bully, Steeven Marshall. I no like this man. He think he king of Strathvaan. Biiig bully.’
I want to lean forward, listen closely to the Pigman’s words but my breath is sucking me back into the chair.
‘He with cripple brother and he say to me, “Yugo” – that what he call me. Big idiot! “Yugo”,’ the Pigman repeats it, ‘“I hear you make rid of Godon. Who is doing dirty work for you now?” I tell him to mind his businesses.’
‘So you – you didn’t tell him?’
‘No! I no want to know his businesses and he not knowing mine.’
My arms flop by my side. I want to lie down, right now, next to the dogs on the red dirt and sleep forever.
‘But of course Mr Steeven would know,’ he adds.
I’m up, like I’m suddenly in a hurry to leave.
‘Mr Steeven know everything in this town,’ the Pigman continues. ‘I no like him,’ he says, as he grabs my hand and pulls me back into the seat. ‘You sit on new chair. I want you to enjoy, Demon. Is comfortable, yes?’ The Pigman starts the ‘pfff’ sound yet the cigarette doesn’t move from his lips. ‘Pfff, you know, Demon, I think big bully maybe friend with Godon. Godon take drug. I no like. I no want drug man work with me. He even more stupid with pig than you, Demon. One day he say –’
‘You’re right. Of course he’d know,’ I say aloud. ‘This town knows everything about everyone. Sometimes they know things about you that you don’t even know yourself.’
‘Demon? What you saying?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I answer. ‘I think I’m saying I’m an idiot.’
‘You no take drugs? Please, no.’
‘No, Miro, I don’t take drugs.’
‘Good. Good boy. I am happy.’
My knees straighten, my legs stretching out in front of me while my sigh echoes across to the hills. There is much to think about and I fear time is running out.
&n
bsp; ‘You like my view?’
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘It’s pretty nice sitting out here looking over at the other side.’
‘It is.’
‘Wouldn’t it be good if life was that simple?’
‘I no understand?’
‘I mean, wouldn’t it be good if you could just sit out here all day staring at the hills.’
‘Yes, Demon. It would be nice life.’
‘They’re pretty, those yellow flowers. I wonder what they’re called?’
‘Maybe they weed. I not know.’
‘Well, I like them.’
‘Demon, what day today?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Saturday, we go hunting. Just for two, three day. We hunt for meat. For fun.’
‘Yeah? We can go away? You mean it?’
‘But we shoot pigs not like before,’ he says. ‘We shoot like in my country. No moving. Like sniper sitting on rock …’
I almost want to hug him.
‘… because we want best, best meat. So very, veeery quiet.’
‘Okay.’
‘One reason we be needing best meat is because you and me, Demon, make salami. You wait, I will teach you cooking and you will like. I promise. We make best salami ever!’
MOE HAS HIS BACK TO the counter as he makes Bridie a cappuccino. The sound of steaming milk seems to heighten the silence between them. I made sure the bell on the door jingled loudly with my entrance. Now I stand here waiting to be seen because I don’t want to give Bridie a fright, even though the mention of my name probably scares her to death.
She glances my way. I go to smile but she’s already turned around and is picking up a magazine off the rack.
‘Hey,’ I say.
She doesn’t answer.
I have to go and stand right behind her, so that she understands there’s no avoiding me. She has to answer my questions.
‘Hey,’ I say again.
This time Moe looks behind him.
Bridie steps to the side, making the space between our bodies grow.
I ignore Moe’s dumb-arse stare and continue with our conversation. ‘How are you, Bridie?’
‘Fine.’
‘How are all the morons in English?’
‘Fine.’
Moe’s head’s down, he’s busy securing the lid on her cappuccino so she doesn’t burn her sweet, pink lips. ‘Damon, my mum told me you’ve got a job,’ he says, handing the cup to Bridie. I stare at him until he’s forced to look up. Moe claps his hands. ‘So what is it exactly? I heard it’s got something to do with computers.’ I’m certain Moe shares a smirk with Bridie as he adds, ‘I suppose that’s the perfect job for you.’
‘What’s that meant to imply?’
‘Nothing, mate.’
Bridie is placing coins on the counter.
‘Let me buy your coffee,’ I say, sliding the coins back towards her.
‘Yeah, he’s a working man now.’
‘No, thank you,’ replies Bridie.
I still haven’t seen her face. ‘Why not?’ I edge closer. ‘Isn’t my money good enough?’
Bridie spins around. Her cappuccino is poised in one hand as though it were a glass of champagne. For a second our eyes fuse, then she glides past, hissing some words in my direction before opening the door and vanishing.
Moe’s shaking his head. ‘Harsh.’
‘What’d she say?’
He’s giving me that dumb-arse look again and starting to giggle.
‘Moe? What did she say?’
‘Moe?’
‘Moe!’ I grab the collar of his shirt. The top row of chocolate bars jump as I slam him into the counter. ‘Fucking tell me what she said.’
Moe’s face is red or maybe it’s purple. ‘She said, “Maybe you’re a pussy chicken”.’
‘A pussy chicken?’
‘Yeah,’ he croaks. ‘Like, when she saw you coming in she said to me, “Andrew thinks he’s a pussy but I think he’s a chicken.” So, pussy chicken I guess …’
‘I know what the fuck it means!’ I yell into Moe’s face. His eyes squeeze shut so I give him a shake until he opens them.
‘Pussy chicken!’ I spit. ‘Well, you tell the stuck-up bitch from Mereton and anyone else that comes in here that I’m the one working for the Pigman.’ I’ve said it and it’s too late to take it back. ‘That’s my new job. That’s how pussy chicken I am.’
I release Moe back onto his feet. His hands touch his neck and he begins to cough, dragging the saliva up his throat like an old man.
‘Oh, shut the fuck up!’ I shout. ‘It wasn’t that bad. Give me a packet of your most expensive tobacco.’
‘It’s true? You are working for the Pigman?’ Moe’s trying to yell like he’s suddenly all tough. But it comes out sounding like he has tonsillitis. ‘No! you’re joking, right?’
‘No joke! I’m working for the Pigman.’
‘Are you for real? How could you? He’s an evil prick, Damon. I’ve told you that before.’
‘Well, I guess that makes us two evil pricks,’ I answer.
Moe flicks the pouch of tobacco across the counter as though passing it to me would risk our skin touching. ‘If you’re working for the Pigman then you are seriously more fucked in the head than I thought.’
‘Big words, Moe.’
‘What are you really up to, Damon?’ Moe says. ‘I heard you were prowling around in the car last night. I’m hearing all kinds of things.’
‘Yeah?’ I scoff. ‘There must be some pretty bored dick-heads in Strathven if they’ve got nothing better to do than follow me …’ As I hear my voice say ‘follow me’ it suddenly takes on a different meaning. ‘Who? Who said they saw me? Who was following me?’
‘Bridie mentioned that Andrew Parker and Geraghty saw you out and about.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Why? Are you expecting someone else?’
‘No, but I thought you might’ve meant …’ The lie edges its way to my lips. ‘… might’ve meant one of the Marshalls. I think the Pigman owes them some money.’
‘I’ve heard Billy and Steven have gone away for a while. So yet again, the Pigman gets away with it.’ Moe just about spits out the words. ‘Anyway, Damon –’ he claps his hands – ‘I’ve got work to do.’
MAD BULL IS THE ONLY other player I know who owns Independence Day at Liberty High, one of the hardest games to get your hands on. It’s supposedly prohibited here and has an 18++ rating in the UK and USA.
There was a copy floating around on eBay a week before the old girl raked it in on Powerball. Each night I’d follow its progress just out of curiosity, never thinking that I could ever actually afford to own it.
Then Mum won. Putting in the same numbers every week of every month finally paid off. The old girl ran around the lounge room screaming until she landed in a heap on the couch panicking that it was going to affect her pension payments. That twenty-four hours saw a real swing of moods.
The bidding for Independence Day at Liberty High had twenty-one hours to go. I knew it wouldn’t be enough time for her winnings to be paid. So I turned it on. I nagged and hassled that the auction was about to end and it was the only thing I really wanted; that she could give her month’s pension to me as she was about to get her hands on a big wad of cash. Unfortunately she was a bit slow on the uptake, so I was forced to unhinge the front door to let her know how serious I was.
Independence Day at Liberty High was the biggest disappointment. I may have played it twice. I plan on selling it one day but it’ll be complicated due to its classification.
Graphically it’s a masterpiece but it’s a boring game because there’s not enough tactical planning in it and it falls to pieces at the end of each level. It’s about some half-brained whiney loner from Liberty High who has enough one day and decides to shoot up the school.
But it’s 3 am and Mad Bull wants to play as a double. I agree because I can’t sleep and there are good sniping rifles in the weapon selecti
on.
‘Hey Prophet, hey dude, why don’t you trade in that rifle and …’
‘No time,’ I say to Mad Bull. ‘Game starts in four seconds.’
‘But man …’
‘Shut the hell up and play.’
‘Well, you can’t just camp, dude, not in this game.’
If I want to I’ll camp. I’ll sit on the verandah that looks down into the Science labs and get acquainted with my sniper rifle because that’s the only reason I’m playing this pathetic game.
It seems my situation is clearer, as if what I’ve been staring at has finally come into focus, the blurred outer lines now sharp and defined. Perhaps the day is imminent or perhaps I’m trying to bring it to a head? Maybe it’s the waiting that causes this impetuous behaviour? Is that why I told Moe that I’m working for the Pigman? Confirmed all his suspicions?
Of course Steven Marshall would know that I’m Gordon’s replacement. So why did Marshall play dumb? Was he questioning the Pigman because he senses something? Is this why the Marshalls have left town for a while? Are they trying to lure me into a false sense of security, trick me into thinking no one’s eyes are fixed on me?
‘Stop camping, Prophet!’ Mad Bull is shouting through the headphones in his American drawl. ‘Go down the stairs, you pussy.’
Or is it my paranoia that makes me think this?
I told Moe that I was working for the Pigman because Bridie called me a ‘pussy chicken’. And no one calls me that name. Not Damoink. Not pussy chicken. Not anything any more. Their games, all their games with me are over.
‘Down the stairs!’ Mad Bull shrieks. ‘The bitch’s there behind the door, Prophet.’
The Prom Queen is cowering behind the exit to the gymnasium. I spy her golden ponytail through the crack of the door. I line up my target and let it rip.
Mad Bull is roaring with laughter. ‘That sure gave it to her, dude! Worked a treat!’
Yes, this sniper rifle worked a treat just like mine will. Three days of sniper-like hunting with the Pigman and no one will be able to fuck with me again.
‘Coming up on the right side,’ Mad Bull yells. ‘Right side. Right side, Prophet!’ One hand taps away at the keyboard while the other wipes the moisture from my face. ‘You can’t hide from the Prophet. Go dude, go!’ Mad Bull’s ranting fades as I slip my headphones off and gently place them down.
