Pig Boy (14 page)

THE DOGS ARE JUMPING IN and out of the ute howling, almost yodelling. It's a happy sound, as if they're singing a footy anthem before a game. My hands pat along the ground to find the torch. It's almost 9 pm. I've slept, again. About four hours straight this time.

Archie's hunting fatigues are stuffed in the side of my swag. Still lying down, like some sort of contortionist I manage to undress and put them on. I have lost weight; some of the shirt buttons are doing up nicely.

It's a shame I can't check myself out in a mirror. Tonight I'll get the Pigman to take some snapshots of me. The camera hates me, always has. I will need a good selection to choose from, an image fit for Cleopatra666's eyes.

I emerge from the tent to see the dogs in thick studded collars and vests that make them look like a pair of bondage queens. Balls like Christmas lights flash purple on Slatko's collar and green on Sara's.

‘Cool,' I say. ‘It's a tracking mechanism, is it?'

The Pigman is stripped down to the waist. A towel hangs around his neck as he bends over a bucket, splashing water over his hair then shaking it out like a dog that's just bathed. ‘You sleep, boy?'

‘Yeah. I did.'

‘Is because you have good full stomach after my cooking.'

‘Excuse me. When you're finished there, can you take a photo – please?'

The Pigman turns around, hooking the towel onto the side of the ute. A massive tattoo is sprawled across his chest. ‘That's a beauty,' I tell him. ‘What's it of?'

But the Pigman is looking me up and down like I've grown an extra head. ‘What?'

‘You no wear that!' He almost spits it.

‘Hey?'

‘Those clotheses.'

‘What? My fatigues?'

‘Whatever. I lose you in dark. We hunt on foot, not ute. Is very dangerous, Demon.' The Pigman chucks a council issue fluoro shirt at me. ‘You must wear. I insist.'

‘But, can you take a picture of me first?' I hold out my phone. ‘Maybe one with the dogs and, and the rifle?'

‘Is for your mother?'

I nod.

‘Good boy. She will like.'

‘Can you take a few? She might want some to send to her friends.'

‘Yes. Yes.'

My hands shake while they hold the rifle, which is the kind of thing Cleopatra666 would spot in a photo. So I crouch in between the dogs and rest my elbow on Slatko as if he's a table. The shaking doesn't stop but it's not as obvious.

The Pigman's stuffing around with my phone like he's got no idea.

‘Don't you know how it works?' I call.

‘I no have phone. Why? Who ring me?'

‘You have to look through the little hole.'

He holds it up to his face.

‘Can you see me?' I call.

‘Yes. Yes.'

‘Be careful not to put your finger over the lens.'

‘Smile, Demon.'

‘Are the dogs in the photo?'

The Pigman is nodding. ‘Yes. You, dogs, gun. Very very good picture. Your mother will like very much.'

I suck in my gut, tilt my chin up and narrow my eyes. This is the exact photo I want.

I feel like the fat guy the Pigman was telling me about. Half the bean stew is swishing around in my guts, the other half wobbling in my throat. I feel like I've doubled my weight yet I've never had to run so hard in my life. I've got a head torch and the stars, yet it's all up hills and down into gullies with branches sticking out waiting to gouge out your eyes and burrows the size of craters hidden in the ground ready to trip you up and I'm trying to keep up with the dogs because they're chasing the pig and when I get there I've got to grab the pig's back legs and some are big bastards and they are pissed off with the world and hollering harder than the old girl ever could.

Slatko's job is to round it up while Sara goes for an ear. Then Slatko takes the other ear and I dive into the mess grabbing the hind legs so that the pig is immobilised. Next is the fun bit; like I'm some muscle man from Belarus I have to chuck the beast on its side and keep my boot on it while it attempts to flip itself to freedom, and let me tell you, the pig has done this many more times than me.

In his own good time the Pigman emerges holding a knife with a blade so long and straight you could carry a melon on it. That signals my next job, to somehow sit on the hog while the Pigman sticks in the knife and soon, but not soon enough, everything goes quiet.

Me and the dogs are quite a team. I reckon we could manage without the Pigman. By the time Sara's had his way the pig's not going anywhere in a rush. If I had Slatko and Sara with me I could probably take on the whole population of Strathven.

At last we're walking up the gully back to where the ute is. At least, the Pigman's walking, strolling almost. The dogs are buggered, their panting breath heaves through the night air. I'm struggling just to put one boot in front of the other. My clothes are covered in burrs that prickle my skin with every step. I can hardly see straight and the musky smell of pig is pasted all over me and what's worse is that I know I won't be showering any time soon.

‘We're … all … done?' I say. My voice is flatlining like I'm not really asking a question because I'm terrified the answer may be ‘no'.

‘How many, Demon – six?'

‘Eight if you include the piglets,' I pant behind him.

‘Piglet grow up to be big, so yes, eight. Is good hunt for one night.'

The ute comes into view. It's perched at the top of a ridge. Now I think I know how Edmund Hillary must've felt when he sighted the top of Everest. I'm tempted to drop to my hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way. In my mind I see my swag. I'm climbing into it. I don't care about the smell any more. All I want is to snuggle down and feel every muscle melt into the ground like wax.

One step before the top, Sara stops, his ears prick tall and with a yelp he is charging down the hill again with Slatko at his heels.

‘I thought maybe one more,' the Pigman laughs. ‘Come, Demon!'

Judging by the noise it's making, this hog is big. I'm trying to think of a reason why I should stay with the ute. But the barks of Sara and Slatko are drowned out by the beast and my feet pick themselves up like they're suddenly battery driven.

I can't stop myself. My breath is shooting through my lips like a steam train as I run down the hill straight into the cacophony. I check behind; the Pigman's not in view. My head torch is on the wrong angle and I'm leaping over things that aren't even there. The noise is getting louder and I'm not sure the dogs are winning.

A yelp that jumps through every decibel known to man pierces the sky. I feel my legs go faster; it's like I'm someone else, not the fat kid at the athletics carnival who could never finish the race.

At the edge of a dam, stumbling in and out of the mud, are Slatko and Sara, hanging onto a pig that I reckon weighs almost as much as me.

‘Jesus Christ!' I shout. ‘Good, fellas, that's the way. Hold on.'

I run down to them. I want to get close but I'm almost shitting myself. The dogs don't seem to be in sync this time. It looks as though Sara's caught himself between the pig's front legs. He's getting a beating as the boar tosses his head around like an armless prick with a fly on his nose.

Slatko's in a better position. His jaw's locked onto the side of the pig's face; its grey skin twists and stretches under his grip. I know I have to get in there and make a dive for the back legs. The dogs are tired. I can tell they don't have much left in them.

The three of them look like a jerking ball of fur and skin. The boar's totally dominating. He shakes his head and now his tusks toss Sara into the air like a plaything. Slatko's only just managing to hold on. His teeth are clamped and tearing at the pig's face but it's not enough to slow him. They need me. I'm part of the team.

I dart in as close as I dare while counting the space between when the beast's head is up and when his tusks are down. Two and a half seconds, that's all I've got. My heart is pounding overtime but when I reach the count I dive in with wide arms, collect the hind legs in one swoop and Sara lands back on his feet.

‘That's the way.' I'm shouting, roaring. ‘Wooooo! That's the way! That's the way!'

Now the challenge is to steady my footing and anchor myself to the ground but the bastard's trying to kick me off and land me in the water. My grip is slipping as his hooves beat and kick like a crazy child.

‘Miro!' I call. ‘Miro?'

Instead Sara answers the call and comes charging back towards us. The boar's head goes to butt him again but this time Sara's jaw yawns like a lion and he pounces, clamping himself onto the other side of the pig's face.

‘Hold on. Hold on.' My voice, the dogs, the snorts and squeals, all the raging sound of our battle bounce off the banks, ricocheting into the stars, shaking and piercing this tiny piece of earth that is otherwise surrounded by stillness.

Finally the Pigman appears, wandering down the side of the hill.

‘Where the hell have you been?' I yell to him. ‘Fucking get in here. Nooow!'

‘You shoot, Demon,' he calls. ‘I get gun. Is all ready, Sara and Slatko will hold for you.'

‘I'm not letting go! The bastard's almost done Sara and me. Get down here!'

‘Yes, but you shoot this one and I take photo for your mother. She will like. He big bastard, good tusk.'

I cannot believe the Pigman and I are having this conversation.

‘Don't you get it?' I bark. ‘This's not the time for a photo opportunity! Just kill the fucking thing and bloody hurry up. My arms are about to break.'

‘No,' he answers. ‘You will shoot, Demon.'

‘No! Okay. No. N. O!' I shout. ‘All right? Now do it. I can't hold on forever and neither can the dogs. Get on with it!'

‘Demon, I think …' The Pigman is standing behind me, chatting as though I'm holding a ladder or some other inanimate object, not the back legs of a kicking, snorting, pissed off 100-kilo boar whose hoofs are narrowly missing putting a hole through my chest. ‘… I think he in many fight this boy, look at him, Demon. Bullet hole, many, many mark on skin. But I no think he so old. You shoot. Please. Please? It great photo.'

The Pigman holds out a pistol that resembles John Cannon's Remington revolver.

‘You're joking?'

‘Take.'

‘No! No.'

‘Take and shoot, Demon.'

‘No.'

The Pigman sucks in his breath, then pushes me out of the way. Within a second his massive hands have thrown the beast to the ground. He serves it a single shot in the head. Then without a word he storms off back up the hill.

‘What's your fucking problem?' I'm staggering away from the boar, which is now convulsing like an overweight epileptic. ‘Hey?' I yell. ‘Would you like to tell me what the fuck your problem is? You're the pig shooter, not me.'

Slatko collapses onto his haunches and pants. Sara wades into the waterhole and that's when I notice he's limping.

SARA IS CURLED UP IN the Pigman's arms while I attempt reincarnation on the simmering coals in the fire pit.

‘Dig pot into heat,' the Pigman tells me. ‘You make water warm. We wash and I sew injury.'

There's a gash that starts at the end of Sara's neck and travels down to the top of his left front leg. Through the matted, muddied fur it looks almost like a paper cut, but the wound is deep. The boar's tusk could almost fit in there.

Slatko is guzzling a bowl of water, oblivious to his mate's condition. Carefully, almost with fairy steps, I carry Sara's water bowl over to him. His head, flopped in the crook of the Pigman's arm, looks small and frail.

I place one palm over the other, making the shape of a cup, then I scoop up a fistful of water and hold it to Sara's mouth. His tongue uncurls into my hand and slowly he begins to lick.

‘That's a boy,' I say, tilting my palms to make it easier for him. ‘Drink it up.'

‘He like, Demon,' the Pigman whispers. ‘Try one more.'

Again I scoop a handful and hold it for Sara to drink. It tickles, his tongue dry and prickly against my skin.

‘The pot should be heating up,' I say.

‘Good. Good,' the Pigman replies. ‘Water only bit warm, not hot. Hot is bad.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘You hold Sarajlije. He will be cross. I get ready.'

I crouch next to the Pigman while he transfers the dead weight of Sara into my arms. His fur feels cold, as if he's been sitting in a fridge.

‘There's a blanket in the tent,' I say. ‘Can you get it?'

Gently I lower Sara into my lap where I can nurse him better. A tiny yelp escapes before his body sinks into mine.

The Pigman returns with the blanket and drapes it over my shoulders.

‘Not for me!' I snap. ‘Put it over Sara.'

‘Oh. I thought you cold.'

‘Yeah, I'm freezing but I'm not the one who's lost the blood.'

‘Yes. Yes.'

‘Idiot,' I mutter under my breath. Then I feel the Pigman's coat land over my shoulders and his palms patting the fabric across my back.

‘Now you not be cold.'

I open my mouth because I want to say ‘thank you' but the Pigman is walking over to the ute and getting in. He starts it up. ‘Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't, I …' The gears make the crunching sound they do when in reverse. ‘… I didn't.' My knees jerk against Sara's head and he yelps. But I sink back into the ground when the gears change again and the ute rocks forward. He's not going anywhere. He's just changing the angle. ‘I, I didn't mean to be rude,' I whisper.

I watch, careful not to disturb Sara, as the Pigman reverses, changes gear and rocks forward again. Inch by inch moving the ute around.

Suddenly the spotlight throws its beam over the ute's cabin and across the dirt until it's so perfectly aligned on Sara and me that it's blinding.

‘Is okay, Demon?' The Pigman calls.

I give him the thumbs up and the engine's cut. My hand covers Sara's face like a shield and he noses his way deeper into my arms.

‘Hey boy. You were awesome with that pig. You held the big bastard tight for me. Thank you, buddy. I owe you,' I say to him. ‘In the end, he came off worse than you. We should've cut out those big tusks, made a trophy with them. I know a girl who'd like it.'

Sara's breath is light and fast. I count it, willing for him to be all right.

The Pigman carries half the contents of the ute with him – a metal box under one arm, a bag and bucket in the other. An assortment of ragged towels are draped over his shoulder. ‘I am ready,' he says, dumping the stuff on the ground, opening a lid, spreading out a towel and filling the bucket with water from the fire.

‘First you hold Sara still while I wash injury.'

Sara winces and pushes his head against me as the Pigman dabs and wipes along his fur. He rinses the towel and cleans again, all the while humming a tune that gradually renders Sara into a floppy four-legged ball.

The Pigman burns the tip of a needle then waves it in the air a few times like he's casting a spell.

‘Hold head bit more,' he tells me. ‘I start up here.'

In one hand a needle and thread sit between his fingertips, while the other holds Sara's fur, pinching the sides of the wound together. With his nose slightly tilted and his lips just apart, the Pigman begins to sew.

‘How'd you learn to do that?'

‘Pff, where is doctor in war,' he answers. ‘Nowhere. No hospital, nothing. So we make things ourselfs.'

I watch the needle curve in and out. I'm spellbound by the enormous hands effortlessly weaving such delicate work.

‘Did you have to stitch people up in the war?'

‘Yes. Many time.'

‘Did you drug them up first?'

‘Of course.' He grins. ‘
Rakija
. Best for pain.'

‘How long did you fight in the war?'

‘Almost four year. Then American come in and bomb shit out of us.'

‘Did you lose many family? Or friends?'

The Pigman pulls on the stitch and for the first time Sara yelps.

He rubs the dog's face and Sara looks up at him. ‘Yes. Yes. All finished, Sarajlije.' He goes and smoothes out the ratty towels near the fire. ‘You give me too much trouble,' he says, as he lifts Sara from my arms. ‘But soon you be chasing pig again.'

‘Yeah? You think he'll be okay soon?'

‘Sarajlije always be okay. He look after himself. No one can get to him. At least he think this.'

‘Yeah?' His words make me think of Pascoe. ‘But we held the boar down okay, didn't we, hey?'

The Pigman walks into the scrub without answering. Before I can ask him the things I want to, like where he got the pistol and did he think I held the boar well and does he think I'm a loser because I didn't shoot it – is that why he was mad and stormed away?

Sara curls up into the towels. I stretch out next to him and stroke the side of his face. The more I stroke the softer his fur feels until it's almost slippery like silk, like Mum's satin pillowcase. It doesn't bother me when the old girl and I have unfinished words. So why is it different with the Pigman? Why does it make me feel exposed, like I've forgotten to put on clothes?

I shut my eyes and try to remember how Mum's pillow-case smelt. It had such a specific scent: deeply sweet, almost pungent, except for a hint of smoke that lingered on the surface. When I'd get my hands on that pillow, I'd bury my face into the silk, searching, running my nostrils along the fabric until I found the spot, usually near the middle, the spot that smelt exactly like her. I would breathe it in as if it was her skin, as if she was actually there with me. Once I must've cared what Mum thought of me. But I can't remember when.

I stand up quickly. I can't stroke Sara's fur any more.

There's a space in me. It's a dead space. I know that, because I can't feel anything. But that's what hurts, the nothingness. It's agony.

The Pigman calls to me. ‘Bring bucket here, Demon.'

I pick it up and toss the dirty water into the bushes.

‘What you do?' the Pigman barks. ‘I want to take wash.'

‘Well, I'll get you some more. It was filthy.'

‘I not tell you to make rid of water.'

‘It's “get rid” of water,' I hiss. ‘And I was only trying to help.'

‘In war, water has to …'

‘Look, your war isn't my problem!' I spit, throwing the empty bucket at his knees. ‘I'm going to bed.'