by J. C. Burke
‘But, but … why can’t, why can’t …’
Miro passes the rifle through the window. ‘Here,’ he says. He’s frowning like his face is caving in, like the sheer weight of his skin is what’s squeezing the blood from his eyebrow. ‘Demon, you put him out of misery.’
The rifle feels too big and I feel too small as I walk to the edge of the circle. There’s no chance of a comeback but still the dogs keep guard.
The boar’s taken a lung shot. I stare at his thick barrel chest heaving up and down, fighting for each breath. I want it to stop; to stop on its own but it could be hours and the beast lies here suffering.
When I pull back on the rifle, the pig’s black eyes roll up to look at me. But these eyes don’t plead. They’re resigned, grateful almost.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
It has to be a head shot, quiet and quick. A clean humane kill. I point the muzzle just below his ear. ‘Breathe in,’ I instruct myself. ‘Focus, breathe out, hold.’
Bang.
MIRO ISN’T DISAPPOINTED THAT WE have no pig to make salami with – he’s devastated. It’s as though he retreats into his shell, hardly speaking, staring at the ground. Now I wish we were driving home to make salami, rolls and rolls of it.
We pull into a petrol station. Miro fills up the ute, then without saying where he’s going walks over to the bathroom. He’s in there a long time.
It’s hot. The air is thick and still like the build-up before a storm. I fill the dog’s bowls with water then decide to take a leak myself.
My hand is on the doorknob to the Gents’ when I stop. There’s a pounding echo, as if someone is thumping their fists against the wall, and the doorframe jumps with each strike.
I scamper back to the ute and am standing by the tray, my arm around Sara’s head, when Miro emerges from the bathroom.
‘Okay?’ I offer.
‘Give me key,’ Miro says. ‘I drive now. I think storm coming.’
In less than an hour we have stopped again.
‘What are we doing here?’ I call. But Miro ignores me. He stumbles into the bush, his hands pulling at his belt as though he’s not going to make it in time. Slatko obediently follows.
‘I think the old man’s got the runs,’ I tell Sara, who is sniffing and pissing around the base of every available tree. ‘There’s certainly something up with him.’
I sit down with my back against a wheel and edge into the one triangle of shade. How have I upset him, I wonder? Does he blame me for him missing the shot? Is this all to do with salami?
Sara flops down into the shade and curls up next to me. ‘Didn’t you want to go with them? Did you want to stay with me?’ I say to Sara as he nuzzles my side. ‘You didn’t used to like me, did you? But we’re mates now, hey.’ Sara lifts his sore leg like he wants me to inspect it. I run my fingers around the stitches. The new spikes of hair prickle my skin. ‘It’s still sore, isn’t it, mate? I can tell you’re not happy. I think I’ll take you home with me. Give you some special care. Hey? Would you like that?’
Soon the both of us are dozing and it’s not until we hear the bark of Slatko that we are up on our feet waiting for the master.
Slatko appears through the scrub. He is busy panting, his thick pink tongue hangs over his jaw and it’s as though he’s smiling, so pleased with himself.
‘What’s he so happy about?’ I say to Sara.
At first it’s hard to see Miro because the sun glaring in my eyes shadows his path. But as he nears it’s clear he’s carrying something over his back. It’s an animal, pale brown. Its legs dangle over Miro’s shoulders. I think it’s a calf abandoned by its mother until I notice the stockiness of its legs and I realise it’s a pig. A dead pig.
Miro’s grinning like a kid. ‘It okay. It good,’ he calls. ‘I find pig. We make salami now, Demon.’
He throws out his arms to hug me. I’m not sure what to do as I don’t fancy a face full of pig’s trotters. But Miro slides the animal off his back like a cloak he’s discarding and wraps me up in a hug. Against my ear I hear his knuckles cracking back into position.
‘We make salami now!’ He is laughing and squeezing me so tight I can feel his ribs vibrate. ‘It all good now, Demon. All good. Come, we must go. We hurry. Pig need to go to chiller box at my house.’
Miro picks up the pig and throws it in the back of the ute. Its neck’s twisted on an odd angle but there’s no blood to be seen.
‘Hey, did Slatko bail it up and get him in the neck?’ I ask.
‘Slatko help,’ Miro tells me. ‘But I kill.’
‘How?’
He holds up his enormous hands. ‘With this,’ he says.
Before I get in the ute, I take one last look at the pig’s head. It’s rotated so far it faces its tail.
Miro starts the engine, pulls at the top of the middle finger that’s not quite clicked into place and drives away singing Bon Jovi in his broken English.
‘You okay, Demon? You no scared?’ Miro asks as we make the turn into Strathven. ‘You have nothing to worry about. You know this now?’
‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Of course I am,’ I answer. ‘I can’t unwind just like that. Not when I’ve been so wound up. So paranoid.’
‘Steeven Marshall no bother you.’ Miro begins to chuckle. ‘Ahhhh, I think he too busy wondering where AK-47 gone! He never neeever think it in Demon Styyles’s wardrobe!’
Looking at it that way, it is funny. But I only nod and attempt a grin because I’m nowhere near ready for a side-splitting, knee-slapping session. When Miro and I figure out what to do; when the whole thing’s over and no one knows that I had anything to do with it, then and only then I’ll join him in a laugh. It’ll be a good laugh too.
Miro squeezes my shoulder. ‘It will be okay, Demon. I promise. We tell polices. But first we wait.’
The clouds have been sucked up by the sky and now the air is light, carrying the softest breeze with it. It suits my mood. I have no need for the aggro of the storm that was building up before. Calm is still the key and calm is almost how I feel.
Miro turns down the piano accordion and the ute grumbles into the main road. It feels like a peaceful Monday afternoon in Strathven too. A handful of blokes are gathered outside the Clancy Hotel sharing an ale and a chat. I’m certain if it were Thursday or even Wednesday, the customers would be spilling out the door and fists would be flying.
But Monday is the start of the week. It’s always a Monday when good intentions abound. Monday used to be the day I’d start a diet or the day I’d pledge to control my temper. As far as I can recall, I never made it past Wednesday. The smell of hot chips would be too tempting and Mum would always do something to make me mad. In the end, I failed to see the point of Monday promises and gave them up. Or maybe it was because Archie left. I can’t remember.
But I could go back to them now. Give them a second try.
‘Can you stop at the mini-mart?’ I ask Miro. ‘I want to buy something for my mother.’
‘You good boy, Demon.’
My hands slide across my thighs. ‘I haven’t been a good son.’ I tell a truth because I feel I owe it to Miro. ‘I’ve been a real moody bastard. But I’m going to be better. At least, I’m going to give it a go.’
‘Of course you will, Demon. Of course you will.’
Miro watches me take a conscious few seconds to breathe and reassure myself that everything is fine. When I reach the count of three, I look back to the ute and Miro gives me the thumbs up. Gently I open the door to the mini-mart.
So what if Steven Marshall is in here doing some shopping, I say to myself. What’s the worst than can happen? He calls me Damoink and squeals like a pig. But I know this confidence is really fuelled by Moe’s announcement that Steven and Billy Marshall are out of town.
I haven’t mentioned it to Miro because every time I say ‘Marshall’ he yells at me about devil whispers. But now I wonder if they’ve gone away because of the body found in the river.
&
nbsp; Moe’s elbows rest on the counter as he reads a book. I can’t see what it is but it looks thick, like only a super-brain could handle it. ‘That’s a big read! What is it?’ I call to him.
He sees it’s me, closes the book and walks around the counter. I think he’s coming towards me to say hi but instead he gives a limp wave and walks towards the back of the shop. ‘Miranda?’ Moe’s call is almost a bark. ‘Customer.’
‘Hey?’ I call. ‘Moe? Where’re you going?’
‘Too busy,’ he answers, clapping his hands together.
‘Moe?’ Miranda appears from behind the shelves. She wedges herself behind the cash register. ‘Moe!’ she calls. I put a few packets of Tim Tams on the counter. ‘Probably time to call a truce,’ I say to her with a wink. But her eyes have popped as though I’m a headless man waving a machete in her face. ‘Maybe not, then,’ I mutter.
‘Ten ninety-five. Would you like a bag?’ She’s speaking so softly I can hardly hear her.
‘No.’
But she’s snapping one off the holder anyway.
‘A packet of the Ships tobacco too,’ I say. ‘The large one.’
‘Eighteen-fifty.’
‘Aren’t you going to talk to me?’
Miranda shakes her head.
I pull out a twenty-dollar note and flick it towards her. ‘Keep the change,’ I say, expecting a ‘thanks’ or at least a smile. But she looks as though she’s about to burst into tears.
‘See, no problem,’ Miro says, as I climb back into the ute. ‘I tell you everything is good. It all in imagination.’
‘That bitch is so rude. She can’t even manage a thank you,’ I say, tugging at the seatbelt.
‘Aah, you talk of fat girl with long nose,’ Miro replies. ‘I know her. She rude to me every time I go there. She pretend she no understand my English.’
‘She’s not really fat,’ I say. ‘Just a bit cuddly.’
‘Nooo. She fat!’ Miro blows out his cheeks to show how fat he really thinks she is. ‘And boy, Moslem boy.’
‘You mean Moe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Moe’s a good bloke. He’s a mate of mine,’ I tell Miro. ‘Turn left, not this street but the next one.’
Miro doesn’t know where I live. He’s never picked me up or dropped me home before. This is a first and I almost feel like we’re a clandestine couple finally ending the secrecy. In a way we have been. But tonight I’m telling the old girl the truth. Not everything. She doesn’t need to know everything yet. Obviously she will by the time we get the police involved. For now, I’ll start with my job, what I’ve really been doing these past few weeks. I’ll see how that goes and then I’ll take it from there. Timing is everything with my mother.
We stop outside the house. Miro doesn’t cut the engine. Instead it rumbles and spits away while he discusses arrangements one more time.
‘So we make salami tomorrow,’ Miro says.
‘Yes, yes.’ I keep checking the front door.
‘And you take Sara? That would be nice for him, like holiday.’
I’m opening the door and getting out. ‘Yes, thanks. It’ll be good for his leg to have a few quiet days.’
‘And your mother happy for this? To have dog?’
‘All good.’
‘I know, maybe I come in to meet your mother and …’ Miro’s hands are unclipping the seatbelt.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘She sleeps in the afternoon. Believe me, she won’t want to be disturbed.’
The half-truth or half-lie seems to satisfy Miro. So, trying not to rush, trying to look as casual as possible, I unlock the tailgate to let Sara down, get my bag and call, ‘See you tomorrow.’
I watch Miro drive away but my thoughts are on the front door.
THE TV IS UP SO loud it sounds like the host is running the game show from our living room. The scent of stale urine wafts around the couch where the old girl is sleeping. Three mugs and an empty bottle of Coke sit on the carpet and a fingertip away is her address book open on Aunty Yvonne’s name.
It’s like I can’t move, can’t tear myself away from the sight. This woman lying here is my mother. She gave birth to me. She gave me half of what she has. Yet the distance between us is immeasurable. You could start at the beginning but you would never find the end.
When I pull the blanket off my bedroom window the banished light spills into my room. I spread the fabric out on the floor for Sara to sleep on.
I sit on the bed and wait, although I’m not sure what for. My room has been a waiting room and nothing else. It’s just like I left it, untouched, like I’ve died.
I stand up, turn my face to the ceiling, and stare as if I’m seeing it after a long absence.
The paint around the light fitting is cracked. In the corner near the window hang threads of a spider web. Black splotches where I’ve squashed mosquitoes with a pillow stand out in the afternoon sun. I stare and stare until my neck aches.
I walk over to the wardrobe and touch the padlock. The anger awakes in my blood. I’m not expecting it. It burns my skin like I’ve been dipped in acid and hung out to dry in the wind.
But today is Monday and I have made a pledge. There’s only one thing to do to keep myself calm, to keep my intention inside, to keep a lid on what wants to explode and get out.
I go to the bottom drawer, take out my book of lists and press so hard that the nib of the pen makes a hole through the paper as I write:
OCTOBER 3
Steven, Billy, Curtis, Joe Marshall
Andrew Parker
Darren Geraghty
Pascoe
Moe
Miranda
Bridie
In your own way you’re all to blame.
‘Damon! There’s a dog in’a kitchen!’
I walk out of the bathroom to see Mum pressed up against the fridge. ‘What the hell is a dog doin’ in the kitchen? Is it yours? Did ya go’n buy a dog?’
‘Sara!’ I sing and obediently he walks over to me. ‘Were you introducing yourself to my mum?’
The old girl sits at the table now, ripping the cellophane off a new carton of cigarettes.
‘Sarah, is that its name?’ she asks.
I say ‘yes’ because at the moment that’s the simplest answer.
‘Did ya buy’a?’
Obviously Mum hasn’t noticed she’s a he. But she’s not stupid so I tell her. ‘It’s a boy. He’s called Sara. He’s not mine. I’m just looking after him for a while. He’s got a bad leg.’
‘Yeah, I can see.’ She takes a Ventolin puffer out of her bra and sucks on it.
‘So, how are you?’ I ask, taking a seat at the table. ‘How was the weekend?’
Mum doesn’t answer. Sitting opposite her with only a towel around me and no conversation makes me self-conscious. I take a cigarette out of the packet, light it then pass it to her. ‘Here,’ I offer.
She takes a long drag. The end sizzles and sparks orange.
‘Did ya buy me them Tim Tams in the fridge?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t eat the dark chocolate ones, they give me a tummy ache. See, ya don’t even know what I like.’
‘Oh? I meant to buy the milk chocolate. Sorry, Mum.’
‘Must have stuff on ya mind?’
‘Not really. Just a bit tired from the trip.’
‘I seen ya taken the blanket off the window,’ she says. ‘Is the dog gonna sleep on that?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t know why ya askin’ me now.’
‘How about I get some pizzas for dinner,’ I say. ‘My shout.’
When I stand up she stands up too. I walk down the hall to my bedroom and she follows, her nylon stockings squeaking behind me. She comes right into my room and sits on the bed. Mum being here isn’t right. It’s been more than ten years since I’ve got dressed in front of her.
Her eyes flick over to the padlock on the wardrobe and she asks, ‘Ya got clean clothes?’<
br />
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ I pull the edge of the towel tighter around my gut. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of privacy. I don’t want to shock you!’ I force out a half-chuckle but she doesn’t smile back. Instead she cocks her head and looks at me. Looks at me the way Pascoe does, like she can’t believe a thing I say.
‘Mum?’
‘Ya know I wanted to clean ya room while ya was away …’ My hands feel for the desk behind me. ‘… cause I found half ya clothes dirty unda the bed.’ I start to count my breaths. One, two, three. Less than an hour ago my fingers touched the padlock. Ten, eleven, twelve. It was locked, secure. I am certain of it. ‘But I couldn’t get into ya wardrobe, could I …’ Twenty-three, twenty-four. ‘Is there anythink ya wanna tell me, ’cause now’s the time not next week …’ Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four. ‘Hey? I’m not happy. I’m just not happy! What’s goin’ on? I know …’
Suddenly I see black and the numbers jar in my head. Mum’s off the bed slamming her fists into my chest, slapping her palms against my cheeks and screeching, screeching. ‘There is no plane that go to Cromer on a Sunday. So ya tell me what the hell’s goin’ on. I’m not happy …’
I nudge my bum onto the desk so I’ve got something to hold me up while she hits and grabs at my shoulders. Of course the old girl’s been snooping but just not in my room. What an idiot I am. I should’ve checked if there was a Sunday flight to Cromer.
‘Ya know what they sayin’? Ya know what they sayin’ around the town? Do ya?’
This is not the way I wanted to tell her. But it really doesn’t matter any more.
‘Yes! Okay! So you’ve heard,’ I say. Mum’s hands fall to her side. ‘Yes, it’s true. It’s true I’ve been working with Mi–, the Pigman.’
She drops onto the bed, crosses her arms and huffs like a cranky girl.
‘So ya are? When was ya goin’ to tell me?’
‘I was planning on telling you tonight, Mum. I was.’
‘He’s a creep, that man,’ she says. ‘And ya don’t like huntin’. So what’s the story?’
‘Mum.’ My hands cover my face. I’m trying to put my thoughts in order. Now is definitely not the right time to tell her everything. It’s better to feed her bit by bit. She digests things better that way. ‘Mum, I really needed to get away from Strathven. I, I can’t explain. But that’s why I was working for him. It’s nothing. Nothing.’
