Pig Boy (17 page)

THE PIGMAN IS SITTING BY the water tank, his feet resting on a milk crate. Delicate spirals of smoke drift above him and into the branches of the pepper tree. He doesn't look my way, even though Slatko is up and barking. Instead he rests his hand on Slatko's head and stares out to the hills.

I'm scanning the land for Sara but I can't see him.

‘Where's Sara?' I call. ‘Miro? Where's Sara?'

‘Sara is at vet doctor,' he answers as he tucks a bit of cloth into his pocket. Finally he turns to look at me. His face is puffy like I imagine a person would look if they'd been floating in a river. ‘You were right, Demon. His stitches they make him sick. Infection, vet doctor say.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sara tough.'

There's nowhere to sit so I lean against the water tank.

‘You come to see if job? Or you come to shoot gun?'

What am I doing here, I wonder? I found myself on the Mereton highway heading this way. But I tell him, ‘Just thought I'd come up and say hello. Check how Sara was doing.'

‘Well, now you know.'

Miro swings back around to face the hills.

‘How long will he be at the vet?'

‘Tomorrow he be better,' he replies. ‘He at vet in Mereton.'

‘The animal hospital on the main road?'

‘No, over other side of bridge. In industreeal area. I like vet. She Czech. Good woman.'

I don't tell him I have business on that side of Mereton because I want him to think I'm being helpful. ‘I can go there tomorrow and pick Sara up. If you like?'

The Pigman raises his butt off the seat and pulls at his back pocket until his wallet is free. He counts fifty-dollar bills, flicking the corners of each one just like he did thirty-six and a half hours ago.

I wonder if he feels awkward replaying this move? Doesn't it remind him of our silence on the journey home? Or is that why he's doing it: this picture perfect re-enactment is to let me know he hasn't forgotten?

‘Money for vet,' he says, handing me a wad of cash and a card. ‘And vet phone number.'

‘I'm not into Bon Jovi.'

He nods, seemingly unsurprised by this random remark of mine.

‘Their music's okay, if you like the big ballad,' I continue. ‘My dad, my father played their stuff all the time. That's why I hate them. They, they make me think of him. I'm sorry if I upset you.'

‘Boy, you have eaten?'

‘Not yet.'

The Pigman stands up, groaning as he straightens his legs and arches his back. ‘Come eat, Demon,' he says, picking up the chair and walking towards the caravan. ‘I bake
proja
, is my best I think.'

‘Proyah?' I say. ‘That's bread, isn't it?'

‘Good! You learning my language.'

I follow him under the canopy of tin and into his makeshift kitchen. What I notice again is how incredibly neat it is.

‘Sit, boy.' The Pigman places the chair by the table. ‘
Proja
,
kaymak
…' he says, putting bread, cheese and a plate in front of me. ‘
Pindur
,' he says passing me a jar of some type of relish. ‘You no try before,' he says, flashing his jagged teeth into a grin that has him looking extremely pleased with himself. ‘Very, very good. Eggplant, olive oil, I use some herb and …' I'm trying to open the jar but the lid won't budge. The Pigman takes it from me, turns it once and pop goes the lid.

As he gives it back, I see the tops of his fingers have dislocated themselves again. His face doesn't move – not a frown, not a blink – as he snaps them back into position as though they were plastic clips on a container.

I hold up my hand, pointing to my fingertips. ‘Doesn't it hurt when you do that?'

‘I feel nothing.'

‘What happened? Were you injured in the war?'

‘Is long story,' he answers.

The Pigman takes a brown glass bottle off a shelf and shuffles away.

‘Where are you going? Miro?'

‘I go to bed.' He waves behind him. ‘You turn off generator when finish. Good night, Demon.'

The door of the caravan squeaks then slams. I wait, expecting to hear more, but there's nothing.

I make myself a triple-decker sandwich filled with cheese and eggplant relish. It's delicious. I ignore the oil and crumbs dribbling down my chin and into my neck as I'm impatient to finish so I can make myself another.

After four sandwiches and hardly a spoonful of relish left in the jar, I lean back into the chair and groan with pleasure. If there was a couch I'd stretch out and have a snooze before heading home. But there's no couch. There's not even another chair for me to put my feet up on. That must be why it feels so ordered here; there's only one of everything. That's all he needs. One chair, which I'm sitting on now; one plate, the one I've just used; one mug hanging from a hook by the sink, one saucepan on the stove; one bowl sitting on a shelf and next to it I spy one grey hunting rifle.

It's not like touching a ticking slippery bomb any more. By now I'm quite familiar with it. I know where the safety catch is and how it loads and re-pumps.

Even so, I notice the tiniest of trembles in my hands as I take the hunting rifle off the shelf and gently lay it on the table.

‘You're a beauty,' I whisper. ‘Tomorrow I'm getting myself one just like you, baby.'

SARA LIES ON THE CAR seat next to me. The fur has been shaved around his stitches. When he hobbled into the waiting room, he reminded me of an old man, all thin and lopsided. But when he saw me his back straightened and his tail started to wag.

‘Hey boy!' I crouched on the floor, my arms open. Sara didn't knock me down. Instead he nuzzled into the curve of my underarm while the rumble in his throat gently rocked us.

‘Okay mate, I hope this doesn't take long,' I say to Sara now, leaning over him and taking my to-do list out of the glove box. ‘The longer I'm in there, the more questions she can ask and we don't want that. So you have my word I'll be speedy.'

The exercise book lies open on my lap.

TO-DO LIST

Points 7 and 8, the two new ones I added last night, are the tasks to complete today.

Last Tuesday's classifieds, the faded sheet I so innocently stuffed into my bag the morning I got home, is carefully folded inside the page of my exercise book.

How random that this was the one sheet that blew towards me like it wanted to be found. A simple scan of this page and the ad would be missed. It sits at the bottom left-hand corner and appears to be in the ‘Used Goods' rather than the ‘Sporting Goods' column. Maybe it's a sign that this is meant to be. Perhaps for once I am doing the right thing.

‘Decisive, direct and in control.' I say it aloud and Sara's head lifts from its rest. ‘That's what I have to be, boy. I have to look like I know what I'm talking about.'

I slip the folded piece of newspaper into my pocket, give Sara a pat for luck and set off in search of Francis in Flat 9.

On the phone, Francis had sounded like she was speaking from the bottom of a stormwater drain and when she opens the door I understand why.

Flat 9 is almost empty. No carpets, no blinds, one lounge chair and a glowing bar heater are the only items to furnish this room.

‘You must be Andrew?' she says, unlocking a security door before I've even answered. ‘I'm Francis. Quick, don't want to let the warm air out.'

The spring weather hasn't made its way to Flat 9. The air is cold, sharp like you'd expect to see icicles hanging from the ceiling.

‘Did you bring cash?' she asks me.

I nod. My goal is to say as few words as possible. Anonymity is again the aim of today's game.

‘My son, Rodney, passed on five months ago. It's his stuff I'm selling. Never even got to use it. The big “C” snatched him in a matter of weeks.'

Again I nod.

From behind the lounge chair she produces a black zip-up bag, almost identical to the one in my wardrobe, except this one looks more official.

‘Check if you want,' Francis says, handing me the bag. ‘It's all in there. None of it used. Rodney said he wouldn't wear the glasses anyway, that they were for sissies. I bought them for his forty-fifth birthday. Thought they looked smart. Apparently they help you see through the rifle better. “Ammunition for the eyes”, that's what the packet said. But he always had his views, didn't he? Would you like a cup of tea, Andrew?'

My wallet is out and I'm flicking through the cash, Pigman-style.

‘A thousand,' I say handing her the money.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘No thanks,' I reply. ‘I have to go.'

‘Now, Andrew, you know about registering the rifle with an authorised …'

‘All sorted,' I say. ‘Doing that now.'

When I step out, the spring warmth soaks through to my bones and again I think: maybe this is meant to be.

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.