Pig Boy

by J. C. Burke

  Now, here between two policemen, a handcuffed wrist sitting on my lap, Parker’s ‘prophecy’ takes on a whole new meaning. Even though it’s too ridiculous to contemplate.

  ‘Do I get a phone call?’ I suddenly ask. ‘That’s my right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peels answers. He’s still not looking at me, still determined to enjoy the drive. ‘You get one call. I advise you make that to a lawyer.’

  ‘I don’t know any lawyers.’

  ‘You can phone Wane and Parker Solicitors when we get to the station.’

  ‘Call Mr Parker? You’re kidding, right?’

  Peels shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Through the space between the two front seats I watch the main street of Strathven. Up ahead I see Glen the butcher having a smoke out the front of his shop. He’s got more right to be in this police car than me. The fluoro lights are on outside the mini-mart. The weekly special painted on the window reads ‘Buy your lunch here and get a drink half price.’ I can’t see who’s behind the counter because a line of customers blocks my view.

  Then I spot it, up ahead, parked outside the Clancy Hotel. Miro’s ute.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘Stop!’ I’m trying to get a better look but Peels’s elbow seems to pop up from nowhere and pins me against the seat. ‘You need to speak to him,’ I’m saying. ‘Miro. You know, the Pigman. He can vouch for me. He knows, he knows the gun’s not mine.’

  The cop driving mutters but I know he means for me to hear it. ‘I don’t think the magistrate’d find the Yugo a reliable witness.’

  ‘What!’ I’m struggling under Peels’s hold. ‘I heard what you said!’

  I am told to ‘settle down’ and just in case I haven’t understood Peels’s elbow stays in place for the rest of the journey.

  I am smuggled in through the back door of the Strathven Police Station. I wonder if that’s standard or if it means the crowd has got here first. Peels unlocks his side of the handcuffs then snaps it around my other wrist.

  My mobile, wallet and keys were taken at the house. But I am patted down again, which seems like overkill. Then I have to remove my shoes, shake my head and open my mouth. There’s no fingerprinting or mug shots taken like on the TV, which makes me wonder if they’re doing their job properly or if they’re part of some conspiracy.

  ‘Isn’t there another lawyer I can call?’ I ask the officer at the desk. He’s been at Strathven Police Station for so long that I recognise him from the stranger-danger talk he gave to us in primary.

  He shakes his head and says, ‘Nah.’

  ‘But with Wane and Parker I wouldn’t get a fair …’

  ‘The duty solicitor’s sick,’ he grumbles. ‘So it’s Wane and Parker or no one.’

  ‘I’ll pass,’ I mutter.

  I’m taken to Interview Room 1 and told to wait while the paperwork’s completed. The door slams and an automatic lock clicks into place. The clock on the wall says 3.40 pm.

  The room is bare, just like on a TV show. There’s a table, two chairs and a camera wedged into a corner in the ceiling. The only option is to sit here listening to the clock tick and concentrate on putting my thoughts in order.

  My fingernails pick at the dried mud on my jeans. There’s something bugging me. Why did my mother care about me wearing dirty clothes? What difference did it make to her? She was about to sell me to the cops and yet all she could tell me was to have a shower and put on clean clothes.

  Did she worry that it may be a long wait before my next shower or was it to give the police a certain impression of her maternal care?

  The police were her visitors. That’s why she was cleaning the house and wearing her teddy jumper. It had occurred to me that it seemed too hot to be in it, especially when she was vacuuming and the steam from the rain was fogging up the windows. But I was hungry and must’ve been distracted by the question of what I was going to eat.

  I breathe in and hold it for the count of five. The camera’s watching me. I am not going to cry.

  A tiny sticker below the camera reads ‘Interview Room 1’. I wonder if the rooms are numbered in order of the seriousness of the crime? One is an innocuous numeral, the harmless number that starts off the count. Perhaps that means Interview Room 1 is where the petty matters are discussed. Perhaps it houses the suspects they know aren’t really suspects, those who will be released after an hour of conversation. But then this room is the closest to the office, which might mean the most dangerous criminals are interrogated in here.

  So what category have the police placed me in? My fingertips slide back and forth across my forehead. Little balls of dirt and grime drop onto the Rolling Stones t-shirt I’m still wearing. I have to stop my mind from trailing off to the ‘what ifs’ and ‘hows’ and ‘whys’. My thoughts need to be in order. Any minute now, Peels and an offsider could barge in, ready to ask their questions and flaunt their theories. I need to be ready too. I have to be one step ahead. Come on, I think, you’re good at this, remember?

  I have been arrested for the possession of an illegal firearm, the AK-47, which they obviously believe is mine. So why have they taken my computer and games? Why did they empty the drawers of my desk? What possible connection can they make of it all? But Parker’s words fight their way back into my mind and now, sitting here in Interview Room 1, they don’t seem quite as ridiculous.

  At 6.20 pm Peels and a man dressed in ordinary clothes walk through the door of Interview Room 1. They take a seat and start shuffling papers in and out of manila folders. They haven’t said ‘hello’ or ‘would you like a cup of tea?’. They don’t even notice there’s no water in the room. I don’t count. I’m the bad bloke with the AK-47 in the wardrobe.

  Peels looks up at the camera then turns on a tiny recorder that he’s placed on the desk.

  ‘The camera’s running okay.’ I think he’s asking a question but he keeps talking. ‘The time is 6.23 pm on Wednesday 3 October. My name is Senior Constable Ashley Peels of Strathven Police Station, where this interview is being conducted. All other persons please state their name for the camera.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Neil Graham of Strathven Police’ is how the other man introduces himself.

  Both men nod my way. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um, Damon Styles.’

  ‘Full name for the record, please,’ Peels tells me.

  ‘Damon John Styles.’

  ‘Please state your age.’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Please state your address.’

  ‘Nineteen Tarena Place, Strathven.’

  ‘Is this your signature?’

  Across the desk, Peels shows me the form I signed stating that I understood my rights. Which of course I didn’t, but submission seemed to be the easiest way to play their game.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘That’s my signature.’

  Peels is looking at something in a folder.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ I say.

  ‘Hmm?’ Peels is flicking through the pages and making a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘What’s the question?’

  ‘Has anyone … has anyone come to the station to see if I’m here?’

  Graham speaks. ‘Like who? A lawyer?’

  ‘No. No, like …’ Peels and Graham exchange a look that makes me uncomfortable. ‘Don’t worry,’ I mumble.

  ‘So let’s talk about this, Mr Styles.’ Peels is sliding my most recent book of lists towards me. ‘Tells us about these lists you keep.’

  My hands, which had been politely clasped on my lap, slide across my jeans and grab onto the sides of the chair. ‘They’re nothing,’ I say, concentrating on keeping my voice even. ‘They’re just something I do, I do for myself.’ I swallow and I’m sure Graham has his eyes on my Adam’s apple like it’s the guilty or innocent meter. ‘The lists don’t mean anything. Really.’

  ‘You have seven exercise books,’ Peels continues. ‘Seven exercise books filled with people’s names. Seven exercise books that’ve been written over a five-year period. And y
ou’re telling us they mean nothing. Come on.’

  ‘Yes. They mean nothing.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ Peels says, pulling one of my exercise books out of another folder. ‘The first entry five years ago clearly says: “The 4 people in the world I would most like to die. Steven Marshall, Billy Marshall, Curtis Marshall, Joe Marshall”,’ he reads. ‘You agree that’s what it says.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘But I wrote that when I was very upset. Those guys had been torturing a cat and, and –’

  ‘And to you that meant they deserved to die?’

  ‘I said I was upset. Look, sir, you’ve got this all wrong. The reason the AK-47 was in my –’

  ‘We’re not talking about the AK-47,’ Peels snaps. ‘I am asking you about the lists and what you intended to do with them.’

  ‘They’re ratbags, the Marshall brothers. I know, I’ve had enough dealings with them.’ Neil Graham speaks softly. He leans over the desk towards me. ‘Torturing a cat sounds like the type of activity they’d enjoy.’

  I nod.

  ‘So I can understand how you must’ve felt about it,’ Graham says. ‘Damon, how did you want them to die?’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘You said yourself, you were very upset. Did you make plans to kill them?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you make plans to kill them?’

  ‘Hang on!’ I say. ‘I said I wanted them to die. I didn’t say I was going to kill them.’

  ‘Are you saying that you didn’t want the Marshall brothers to die?’ Peels asks.

  ‘I’m saying I didn’t intend to kill them. A simple thought and actually acting it out are, are two very different things.’

  ‘So you’re saying you didn’t intend to kill the Marshall brothers. But you wanted them to die?’

  ‘The Marshall brothers are the fucking reason I’m here!’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Peels groans.

  ‘What was the question?’ I mutter.

  ‘That you wanted the Marshall brothers to die but that you weren’t intending to kill them yourself?’ repeats Graham.

  ‘No. I mean, yes,’ I answer. The sweat is building up on my face. The droplets itch at my skin and I contemplate asking for a tissue.

  ‘Mr Styles, make up your mind.’

  I wonder where sweating sits on the guilty or innocent meter.

  ‘No, of course I didn’t plan to kill them,’ I say. ‘I was angry and I wanted them to suffer for what they’d done to the cat. Shit,’ I utter, gulping down the tears like they’re grapes stuck in my throat. ‘I – I was thirteen years old.’

  ‘But what about when you were sixteen years old?’ Peels asks. Graham’s sitting back in the chair. ‘You took a pistol to a school camp and patrolled outside one of the girls’ rooms.’ He flicks through some papers. ‘Bridie Tebble,’ he says. ‘One of your classmates from English. Apparently you claim that you were protecting her but you couldn’t say what from.’

  ‘I was never charged with that.’

  Peels stares at me like I’m the scraps on his dinner plate. ‘Maybe you should’ve been.’

  ‘Bridie’s one of those goody-goody girls, yeah?’ Graham chimes in. ‘I know the type, Damon. Always trying to put you in your place. Use you when you’re needed and ignore you when you’re not. Those kinds of girls can make you feel so bad.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘Bridie’s on the list,’ Peels says. ‘Just a couple of times. Not like Mr Pascoe, the headmaster of Strathven High, who of recent times is the main name.’

  ‘Look, I never meant to hurt anyone at camp!’ I slam my fist down on the desk. Peels and Graham observe me as if the guilt meter has just started to screech. I begin again. Slowly. Counting to three between each sentence. ‘Taking the gun there was stupid.’ One, two, three. ‘Totally stupid.’ One, two, three. ‘I had no idea what I was doing.’ One, two, three. ‘The gun was an antique. It probably didn’t even work.’ One, two, three. ‘Ask Moe. Moe Ayten from the mini-mart. He’s a good friend. He knows me well.’ One, two, three. ‘He’ll tell you how, how pathetic I am around guns.’

  ‘Moe Ayten’s name appears on your lists,’ Peels says. ‘How could you call him a good friend?’

  ‘I told you, the lists don’t mean anything. They’re just people … people who’ve pissed me off in some way.’

  ‘Just people who’ve pissed you off in some way.’ Peels repeats my exact words. ‘Mr Ayten has expressed some concern for you. So perhaps it’s a one-way friendship.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Peels is digging around in another folder. Whatever’s written on those files seems to catch Peel’s attention more than anything I’ve got to say. ‘Mr Ayten reports that you told him you were planning on giving Strathven “a drama”.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘His statement says that the weekend after you were expelled from Strathven High, you came into the mini-mart very agitated. Mr Ayten said that he told you your expulsion had caused some drama in the town and you replied, and I quote: “I’m glad I could oblige. I’ll keep working on it.” Do you agree?’

  ‘Moe said that? Moe’s been here and made a statement about me? Why?’

  ‘Mr Styles, do you agree that you said this to Mr Ayten?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Surely you remember the weekend after you were expelled?’ Peels taunts.

  ‘You must’ve been angry,’ adds Graham. ‘Six weeks before your final exams and you’re told to get out.’

  I’m not sure who to look at. It’s clear for them who they’re directing their words to but for me it’s like watching a tennis match. ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’ I stare at the wall ahead. But then I quickly turn to Graham because, as everyone knows, avoiding eye contact is the tool of the liar. ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘Let’s talk about this book, shall we?’ Peels is holding up the exercise book that I’d hidden under my mattress. ‘Your poor mother found it when she was making your bed.’

  ‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’

  It comes as a surprise but Peels stands up. ‘Senior Constable Ashley Peels is leaving Interview Room 1 at 7.17 pm to get the prisoner a bottle of water.’

  When the lock’s clicked back into place, Graham leans over the desk again, like he wants to tell me a secret. ‘That’s quite a plan you have in there,’ he whispers. His fingers tap the cover of the book. ‘You’ve obviously had a hard time here in Strathven. I only moved here seven months ago, so I don’t know you as well as Ashley. But I can read between the lines. You’ve been the victim of bullying.’

  ‘I don’t know Senior Constable Peels,’ I answer.

  ‘But they’ve given you a hard time, haven’t they, Damon? All the blokes at school, they’ve tortured you just like the little cat,’ he says. ‘You’re the perfect target. A loner, overweight, from a single-parent family and you’re too smart to just fade into the background. It must’ve been tough. I can understand that you got fed up. As you wrote in this book, you didn’t want to be pushed around any more. So you decided to do something about it. Can you really reload an AK-47 in eight seconds? That’s impressive, you know. It’s incredible the things you can learn on YouTube.’

  ‘The AK-47 isn’t mine.’

  ‘Then how did it get inside your wardrobe?’

  ‘I found it.’

  ‘You found it then put it inside your wardrobe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you hand it in to the police?’

  ‘Because, because I thought …’

  ‘Because you thought …’ Graham is leaning so far over the table that our faces are just centimetres apart. ‘… you thought you might use the AK-47 to get back at all those people who’ve pushed you around.’

  ‘No!’ I shout. ‘No. No. No. No.’

  ‘So you weren’t planning on using it?’

  ‘I know what you’re trying to suggest but y
ou’ve got it wrong. It’s not like what you think.’

  ‘So you took it home, watched and replayed “how to reload an AK-47 in eight seconds” over a couple of weeks, bought a padlock and locked it away in your wardrobe. Then you got yourself a job with the Pigman. Let’s see, that was step five – it’s all in this little book,’ he says, almost shoving it in my face. ‘But as you say,’ he drops it back on the desk, ‘you weren’t planning on anything and you definitely weren’t going to use the AK-47.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Not like what?’

  ‘Can I get some fresh air, please?’ The air is so thick I can almost see it, like a fog. ‘Please. I’m finding it really hot in here.’

  ‘You tell me what you were planning to do with the AK-47,’ Graham answers. ‘Where and when and to whom. And then you can get your fresh air.’

  Peels returns with a bottle of water. ‘Senior Constable Ashley Peels has walked in at 7.22 pm,’ Graham tells the tape recorder.

  I am gulping down the water. It dribbles out the sides of my mouth. I wipe the dregs over my face and through my hair.

  ‘Thirsty,’ Peels says.

  I nod, suddenly self-conscious. Perhaps thirst is a factor on the guilt meter.

  ‘Damon – Mr Styles,’ Graham corrects himself, ‘was about to tell me what he was planning to do with the AK-47. Where and when and to whom. I guess that’ll mean we can call it a night, don’t you think, Senior Constable Peels?’

  ‘It’s not what you think it is,’ I say to them. ‘I know what you’re trying to get me to say.’

  ‘And what’s that, Mr Styles?’ asks Peels.

  ‘You’re trying to trick me, trick me into saying I’m planning some, some Virginia Tech shoot-out thing.’

  ‘Are you?’ says Graham.

  ‘No!’ I’m up on my feet. I can’t sit still any longer. They don’t stop me. Instead they watch as if they’re bored: checking the time, recrossing their legs. Peels taps a pen on the desk and Graham yawns. I take my seat again and say, ‘It’s. Not. What. You. Think. It. Is.’