Pig Boy (10 page)

‘Good, good. You strong boy. Now hold like …' It's difficult to breathe and the Pigman's body leaning over me is blocking all the air. My hand is shaking. I know what I have to do, but I'm not sure I can. The Pigman's wrapped his fingers around mine. His grip is tight. The calluses along his fingertips scratch against my skin. ‘Hold like this, boy,' he says, and before I get to the count of three we are dragging the knife down the boar's body.

By hog number four my head is spinning and my stomach is heaving and groaning with pain. My last mouthfuls of meatlover's pizza landed in the bucket three seconds after boar number two's guts slopped in there.

Me and the pigs look like we've stumbled into the chainsaw massacre. My white overalls are splattered in every secretion known to man. The sleeves are dyed red past my elbows. But underneath all this, a layer of sweat is seeping right through my clothes, leaving me damp and cold.

It's like I'm back in the bush – lying on the cold ground, my schoolbag beside me. Flattening my body into the leaves, and swallowing the vomit that's squeezing up my throat while the man's shallow breaths disappear into the air and his blood creeps towards me.

The Pigman's boots echo through the garage. It makes me think of Billy Marshall stumbling through the bush, the twigs and leaves snapping and crunching twice as loud when his good foot hits the ground.

Quickly I slide the bucket towards number four. It's the last one and the smallest. One hand takes hold of its little tail while the other holds the knife. I count to five, bracing myself for the stab.

‘Demon?' the Pigman calls. ‘Demon!'

I drop the tail and grab onto the back leg, my hand sliding onto its pink skin. It feels warm, soft, like it's alive.

‘Demon, you must go. Now!'

‘I think, I think …' I'm trying to speak but the Pigman is reaching out to me, his fingers claw at me, undoing my buttons.

‘Go now, boy!' I have dropped the knife. The Pigman is pulling the overalls off me. I'm hopping on the spot trying to get my foot out of the pants. ‘I give to Glen,' he says, dragging me towards the door. ‘You go. Now!' But I push against him because I'm not interested in whatever illegal business they have going on, I just want to feel the pig's skin one last time.

I'm shouting. ‘It's, it's …'

‘Demon, you finish. Go! You come see me to get money. Tomorrow.'

Maybe I got it wrong? I was too afraid to touch the man in the bush. Too afraid to lean down and listen for his heart beating. Maybe he just looked like he was dead?

WHEN I GET UP THE day is warm and I stumble out looking for a drink. In the lounge room the soapies have whisked the old girl away. Waxen faces take up every centimetre of our giant plasma screen. I feel like a peeping Tom standing here in my pyjamas, a step outside the doorway, watching Mum's lips move with the actors' every word.

‘I can't do this any more, Chancellor.'

‘I know, my darling. I know.'

Mum lets out a sigh and wraps her arms around her shoulders.

‘Them two used to be married.' She says it out loud. ‘But Chancellor, he think she died in the hotel fire.'

Mum is talking to me. Her head hasn't moved but she knows I'm here.

‘You was up early this mornin'.' She takes a sip from a mug. She's still not looking my way. ‘I seen Moe's mother at the mini-mart. She says she saw you in the bush this mornin'. She was walkin' the dogs.'

‘What!' I can't help it. I've said it too loud.

‘I'm only tellin' ya what she said.'

‘Nothing's private around here,' I mutter, because I know that's what I'm meant to say.

‘What were ya doin'? Dora takes them dogs out real early, before six.'

‘I couldn't sleep. So I went for a walk.'

‘Ya see those Marshall boys arguin'? Dora says she's surprised the whole town didn't wake.'

I sink into the armchair next to her.

‘Did ya?'

I shake my head, though it hardly moves. It feels like my jaw is locked closed. ‘Where?' My voice rumbles through my teeth. ‘Where'd she see them?'

‘Down the back of the bush, near the old school.' The ads are finished. Mum is thumbing the remote trying to get the sound back up. ‘I should take this back. It never bloody works.'

Staying seated is killing me. What I'd like to do is chuck the remote to the other side of the room, grab Mum by the shoulders and shake her until she spits out every last detail. But calm is the key. So I lean over and carefully take the remote out of her hand. ‘I'll fix it,' I say.

Mum sits back into the couch.

My lips feel like plastic as they stretch over each word. ‘What
time
did Dora
see
them?'

‘What? Ya mean them Marshall thugs …? Damon!' Mum squawks. ‘I'm missin' the show.'

This time I stand up and hold the remote near the TV, keeping my finger on the mute button. ‘What
time
did Dora see them?'

‘How would I know! She said it was after she seen you.'

‘So she saw me first?' I force myself to yawn. I need to soothe my tone, give the impression I'm not that interested. ‘Yeah? And they were down by the old schoolhouse?'

‘What the bloody hell is wrong with the remote?' she whines. ‘This TV is bung. I knew I shouldn'a pay all that money.'

‘It's probably just the batteries in the remote.' I need Mum calm and focused. ‘I'll IQ it for you, okay? You won't miss a thing.' The set-up menu comes onto the screen. It settles the old girl a bit. ‘So who was fighting?' I ask.

‘Fighting?'

‘Which Marshall boys?'

‘Oh. Dunno. Can't remember.'

‘Was it the older two?'

‘Mmm, maybe. I think she said it was them two. Apparently the cops turned up,' she replies. ‘Is my show recordin'?'

‘It's recording.'

‘Damn it. I've missed some,' Mum whines.

‘So the police turned up?' I ask. ‘It must've been bad. The Marshalls have more pull around here than the cops ever have.'

‘They say some of 'em new cops are gonna clean the place up, ya know.'

‘And you're certain Dora said they were down by the old schoolhouse?'

‘Yes!' Mum screeches. ‘Now mooove!'

I'm still holding the remote. It's so clear what I have to do.

‘Mum, I think I should go down to Mereton and get G Brothers to take a look at it.'

‘So it's not the batteries? It's the whole TV? I knew it. Take it back!'

‘Yeah,' I say and go back to my room.

I'm pacing back and forth, from the wardrobe to the window, from the window to the wardrobe. I'm having difficulty making sense of what I've heard. It's all too much to swallow and now the clock is ticking louder.

I pull out the exercise book and scan the updated list.

It's time to attempt step four again – ‘look into renewing firearms licence'. I dread it. But I have to go back. The Pigman won't hire me unless I have one.

I log on to the Mereton Shooting Club website. Their safety awareness course is running this afternoon. I read the site's clumsy wording while imagining Tits on Teeth sitting on Jeff's lap, typing away. She's probably a prick tease too.

Three o'clock. That's the time, then.

My foot has started tapping on the floor. It's like it's disconnected from my body. I watch my toes bouncing up and down on the carpet yet I can't make it stop. So I look away, count to five, then in one held breath I hit ‘make booking' and enter my details. I press send and breathe again, which is when my foot suddenly stops.

A bovine groan escapes from the back of my throat. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. I've fired a rifle before and I was hopeless. But I know without a doubt that I'd be more hopeless with a semi-automatic in my hands.

I'm up pacing the room again. How am I going to make it to three o'clock? Mum's surprise piece of information has the panic churning my guts. It never really stopped, but I thought I'd salvaged some control.

This morning when I left the butcher's I was so careful. The dawn light may have aided my disguise but I still checked every street before I crossed it, every corner before I turned it.

When I reached the edge of the bush I stopped for a rest because I felt safe there. It was walking through town that I considered the biggest risk. Not in the bush. Not again. Not before the day had even started.

I'd rubbed my hands in the dirt, trying to lose the stench of dead pig from my skin, and then taken a piss. Is that when Dora saw me?

After that, I'd walked down the bush track to the old schoolhouse and sat by the stone chimney. I hadn't been back since my birthday. But the instant my fingers had touched the last pig's warm skin I knew I had to go back, had to check that the man wasn't still alive and waiting for me.

He wasn't there. Of course he was dead just like hog number four was. Still I walked around in circles, kicking at leaves and lifting branches that skimmed the ground. Searching, searching, in case he was somewhere in the forest slowly dying. By then I was past caring if the old girl was up when I got home. If she questioned me I'd just shout at her till she retreated back into her shell. This was also for her. One day she'd understand that.

Is that when Dora saw me?

She couldn't have. There were no ladies walking dogs. There was nothing. The bush was still asleep and I assumed everyone else was too.

Back home, I'd showered and scrubbed till my skin was red. I'd made toast while the old lady's snores rocked the house. My limbs had felt loose, almost relaxed, as I'd crawled under the doona. It seemed things were working out. Finally I had the situation under control. I'd even slept.

Now I slump onto the bed and bury my head in the pillow to silence my panic. One thought keeps coming back to me.

I know what the Marshall boys were doing in the bush this morning.

A good fight is what I'm after. My fingertips throb with desire. Lucky for Mum the opportunity is lost. She relents and agrees the television doesn't need to go to Mereton with the remote, especially not on a Friday afternoon.

I'm disappointed I didn't get to flaunt my rage. But I'm relieved she has surrendered. Having a 200-centimetre plasma TV on the back seat is as good as having topless girls with loudhailers jogging after the car.

‘Yeah, I remember that bloke,' I imagine someone telling the cops. ‘He was at the Mereton Shooting Club. I parked next to him. He had a mammoth plasma on the back seat.'

Anonymity is as important as getting my gun licence. I cannot afford to be complacent. I must be one step ahead.

Back on the highway again and the same promise of freedom and space fills my lungs with air. If I had the guts I'd keep driving. The further from Strathven I went, the easier it would be to breathe. I'm sure of it. But there are things to do.

The two o'clock news plays on the radio. I listen, but not so carefully that panic about what I could hear overtakes me. I've searched through every newspaper but found nothing. Would that be me, I wonder? Would I be so forgettable? If I disappeared off the earth would someone come looking for me?

‘I went back and he wasn't there.' I say it out loud like I need to convince the universe. ‘He definitely wasn't there.'

My foot presses deeper into the accelerator. If I miss the start of the course I'm not sure I could bundle my nerves back into the car and head to the Mereton Shooting Club for a third time.

But I'd have to. There's no choice any more. Now I am one of them. There's no point lamenting that once I hovered above the filth. However small it was there was always a distance between it and me. Now that space has gone. The filth has spread its wings. It taints everything.

Choice, freedom, peace – it's the things I took for granted that I crave. Like sleep, especially sleep.

I'm afraid to close my eyes. Not only because I need to keep guard but also because I may see the man in my dreams. Yet keeping them open scares me just as much.

The car radio is as loud as it will go. The ad for erectile dysfunction is preferable to the interrogation going on in my brain. It's asking me: ‘Why did you leave the man there? You know what they were doing in the bush, don't you?'

How I long to sleep like I did this morning, even for an hour – an hour with the noise turned off, an hour to forget, an hour less in this world.

At the Mereton Shooting Club, Tits on Teeth isn't at reception to offer her greeting. Instead a lady with a long chain of keys that dangles inside her sweaty cleavage rolls a pen towards my hand and tells me the safety course is in Room 3 and is about to start.

‘Do you know where to go?' She hasn't looked up from her newspaper.

‘Yeah,' I answer, slinking away without being seen, the fingers on both hands crossed inside my pockets.

One bloke turns around when I slide into the back row of room three. Straight away he turns back like I'm the last person in the world he wants to see. I wonder what's brought him here? What makes him shift around in his chair while the others stay glued to a video on gun safety.

The instructor gives me a booklet and forms. ‘G'day, matey,' he says.

I'm trying not to grin but it's too good. This bloke isn't Jeff. Like the lady at reception, he doesn't recognise me.

After the video is a multiple choice exam followed by a practical test on safe gun handling that has us dry-firing and pretending to climb fences while armed. It's almost fun. If I wasn't so intent on being forgettable I may've cracked a few funnies. The man who checked me out when I walked in looks like he could do with a laugh.