Pig Boy (11 page)

By 3.20 pm I am walking out of the Mereton Shooting Club with all the paperwork needed to renew my firearms licence. The Pigman can't say no. I feel like the cat that got the cream.

Decisive, direct and in control – I can feel it in my stride. I am pumping with confidence. I am in charge. I am one step ahead.

At G Brothers I buy a padlock, a new headset and a pack of batteries. I don't need the headset. But I need to hand Mum the remote back in a bag with G Brothers stamped on it. ‘Didn't I look a dummy,' I'll tell her. ‘After all that, it was just the batteries.'

The Pigman is sitting on the chair by the water tank. His feet rest on the milk crate. He doesn't stand up or wave. He simply takes off his hat and watches me walk towards him.

I've had a win at the Mereton Shooting Club. I feel it in my steps: it's like I'm anchored to the ground. Nothing can knock me over.

I hear my voice. It's strong and friendly. ‘Where are the dogs?'

‘Sara at vet doctor,' the Pigman answers, the cigarette balancing on his bottom lip.

‘Oh?'

‘Stupid bastard think he know everything.'

‘Huh?'

‘Sarajlije, he big dog. He know all.'

‘But he'll be fine?'

The Pigman shrugs like he couldn't care either way and says, ‘Maybe.'

‘Where's the other one?' I ask, using my hand to show I mean the smaller one.

‘He put away.'

‘Hey?'

‘In cage. I no want Slatko chase kangaroo. Only pig.'

‘Is that the little dog's name? Slatko?'

The Pigman bears his jagged teeth and laughs. ‘Slatko is word from my country, means “sweet”. Is joke for dog name. Slatko is jum we give to people that come to our house. Is like special welcome.'

‘Jum?'

‘For the bread. Bread and jum.'

‘Jaaam.'

‘Is what I said.'

The afternoon has suddenly disappeared. Now the night air comes like icy hands reaching out to you. I zip up my jacket and shift from foot to foot.

‘You like dog, Demon?'

‘Yes. I do.' It's going to be a cold night. I can feel it rising up from the ground and into my shoes.

‘You have dog at your home?'

‘No. I always wanted one though.'

The Pigman nods and looks me up and down. ‘Is good,' he says.

I have no idea what he means so I shuffle my feet on the ground and make some noises about what a chilly night it's going to be.

The Pigman digs into the pockets of his coat. I think it's because his hands are cold but one hand reappears holding a hundred-dollar note like it's a magic trick he's perfected. It dangles from his fingers. He watches it with reverence and I get the feeling he's not quite ready to give it to me.

I don't flinch. Instead I straighten my back and put my hands in my pockets. He doesn't know I'm not doing it for the money.

‘I have other job,' the Pigman begins to tell me. ‘Killing pigs. Is job for farmer, not for meat. Okay?'

‘Are you asking me …?'

‘Yes, Demon. You and me and Slatko and Sara will go.'

I press my sweaty palms onto the lining of my pockets. Everything's falling into place.

‘This money,' the Pigman says, rolling the note like a cigarette. ‘Is too much for pig gutting, is one and half hour only. This also for shooting, say for one day. I pay fifteen dollar for one hour.'

‘Sounds reasonable,' I reply. From inside my pockets my fingers are pinching the skin on my thighs. It's to stop me from laughing with joy and shrieking, ‘I don't care about your money. Just teach me how to shoot without missing!' I am focusing really hard on sounding casual. ‘So, when's the job?'

‘Sunday.'

I wait for him to ask about my shooter's licence, but he doesn't.

‘Where?' I ask.

‘We go Sunday morning to Cromer.'

‘Cromer? As in Cromer, next to the border?' I stop myself, then count to three. ‘That'll take all day and half the night, you know.'

‘We take turns for driving. Is faster this way.' The Pigman's palm swallows the note so that it disappears altogether. ‘Is problem, boy?'

‘No. No not at all,' I say. ‘How long will we be away?'

‘One week. Maybe.'

‘One week? Okay.' I am stepping backwards towards the car. It's all do-able but there are obstacles to be dealt with. ‘Sunday morning, what time?' I ask.

‘Four o'clock, before sun up. Is best time. You be outside Clancy Hotel. I wait for you there.' The Pigman smoothes the hundred-dollar bill between his fingertips then tucks it back into his pocket. ‘You get money then.'

The car window has been left open and the steering wheel feels like a block of ice. As I navigate my way down the track the high beam spotlights the burnt motorbike, the rusted bath and washing machine. I can't help thinking, how the hell did it get to this? But there's no point analysing. Analysis won't protect me. It won't stop the inevitable. This is it and I am ready.

I stop at the servo to buy the old girl a few packets of Tim Tams. The conversation we are about to have needs a sweetener before I even open my mouth. Then a bourbon to kick it off and a top-up to soften the landing. That should do the trick.

Of course, it doesn't matter what she says. Her words can't stop me. It's what she doesn't say that could be the problem. It's a long shot but I can't be sure her antenna won't twig. That is the obstacle.

‘How'd ya go with the remote, love?'

Mum is walking out of my bedroom with the blanket folded in her arms.

‘What do you think you're doing?' I ask her.

‘Huh?'

‘The blanket,' I spit. ‘I didn't say you could take it off the window.'

‘It's goin' be a cold night,' she says. ‘The weva –'

‘Weather,' I grunt.

‘… report say it might go down to zero.'

‘Well, use another one, then.' I am blocking the doorway to the lounge room. She's not going anywhere until she surrenders the blanket.

‘I don't have another blanket.'

‘What do you mean you don't have another blanket?'

The old girl shrugs. She looks like a pathetic child standing there in her blue slippers clutching the blanket to her chest.

‘What is the point of winning all that money if we don't even have a spare blanket in the house?'

‘Love, I'll buy ya curtains on the weekend.'

‘I don't want fucking curtains!' I shout. ‘I want the blanket.'

I reach in between her folded arms and yank the blanket from her hold. She stumbles backwards. I see the way she flings herself against the wall. It's a dramatic show.

‘How dare ya touch me,' she gasps. She's playing the victim, her favourite role. ‘I warned ya, next time ya touch me I'll call the cops. Or maybe I should do it now. They'd get here in three seconds. I just saw 'em driving past.'

She's bluffing, I'm certain of it. But I can't take the risk. ‘I'm sorry, Mum,' I say. ‘I've been getting really bad headaches, that's why I've had the blanket covering the window.'

The hallway is dark because I haven't changed the wasted globes. Mum's curled into the wall under the only light that still works. She's posed like the frightened rabbit terrified to move. It's all part of the act.

‘Mum?' I hold out my hand. Today she wins because I need her onside. ‘I'm sorry. It was uncalled for. Please, please accept my apology.'

The old girl peels her back off the wall, pushes past me and stomps into the kitchen. I follow her. Thirty-six hours and I'm out of here.

‘Did ya buy them Tim Tams?'

‘Yes,' I reply.

I light her cigarette. She fixes her eyes on me and takes a long drag. ‘Why?'

‘Because you like them.'

‘Hmph,' she snorts. ‘I also like diamond rings.'

‘Hey, the remote's fixed. It was just the batteries. How stupid did I look.'

‘You was gone a looong time.' Her breath heaves as she manoeuvres her body into a chair. ‘Did ya go and see Moe or somethink?'

Without knowing it the old girl has opened the door for me. I barge in before she closes it. ‘No, but I did go and see someone about a job.'

‘Yeah?'

‘It involves a bit of travelling.'

‘Travelling like where?'

‘I'm going to Cromer on Sunday.'

‘You're goin' to Cromer on Sunday?'

No Tim Tams have been eaten and it's too late for a bourbon. It's up to me to soften the blow. ‘I'm catching a plane from Mereton. It's an early flight.'

‘Oooh, a aeroplane,' she crows. ‘You've become one of 'em rich and famous, eh?' Her eyes narrow. ‘What's the job?' Her antenna is on high beam and the bullshit detector is screeching.

It's time to tackle the obstacle head on. I turn my lips into a wide smile.

‘I hope it's going to be a job,' I say. ‘It's a training course in Cromer for an internet selling job.'

‘What are ya sellin'?'

The G Brothers bag is sitting on the table. ‘Gaming equipment,' I say. ‘Headphones, controls, all those sorts of accessories.'

‘Well, ya certainly the man for the job.'

‘I am, aren't I? But there's a downside too. I'll be in Cromer a whole week,' I tell her. ‘Will you be okay?'

‘I'm used to bein' on me own.' Mum butts her cigarette out. I watch the colour drain from her fingertips as she twists and turns it until it's just a flattened stub of yellow lying in the ash. ‘All the men in my life have left me. What's the big deal? Ya only gone a week. And don't bother ringin' here 'cause I won't answer the telephone.'

‘It's for you too, you know.' I'm not sure why I say it. It's like telling someone the answer when they don't know the question.

‘What's for me too?' she asks.

‘The job. It's to help you as well.'

‘I got me Powerball winnings.'

‘Okay.' I swallow. ‘Well, just wish me luck then.'

It's the confusion washing across her face that makes me look at what I'm doing. But it's too late: my hand has already landed on top of hers. ‘Please don't answer the door while I'm away. Promise you'll be careful, Mum?'

I mean it, too.

THE PIGMAN VOLUNTEERS ME FOR the first shift behind the wheel. He doesn't ask if I mind, there's no discussion. It's simply, ‘You drive, boy.'

He's curled up against the passenger door. At every bend his head flops like a rag doll's then is still again. His lips quiver, purse, then blow out his breath like he's snoring silently. The Pigman's got himself into quite a rhythm. I begin to count along. One, two, three as his lips search for the air; then one, two, three as they purse and blow.

One, two, three … one, two, three … it's like I'm the conductor and he's making the music. Our timing is impeccable. One, two, three, one, two, three …

The rhythm snaps. My foot fumbles for the brake. The Pigman looks like he's waking. The lines across his forehead deepen. But he's not. He's talking, talking in his sleep. I lean over to catch the words. ‘
Ohprohstee mee. Ohprohstee mee
' is what it sounds like.

Silence, his lips twitch, his forehead softens and the rhythm returns.

‘
Ohprohstee mee
,' I repeat. ‘
Ohprohstee mee
?'

It's just past 6 am when we approach the railway crossing that leads to the Cromer road. For the next twelve hours it will be one straight line.

The crossing lights are flashing red and the bells are clanging. I stop. Sara and Slatko pace the tray, their paws drumming across the metal. It's a total racket but the Pigman is only just stirring. How I wish I could sleep like that.

‘There's a train coming.'

‘You have plenty time,' he grumbles.

‘The boom gate's coming down.'

‘We waste time.'

‘I don't know about in your country.' I'm spitting the words through my teeth. I'm not sure he can hear and I don't care either way. ‘But in this country the railway crossing is to stop us from getting hammered by a train.'

The engine rumbles towards us.

‘He so slow!' Now the Pigman is sitting up, wide awake. ‘Why we not go, Demon?'

I'm pointing. ‘See that thing that's like a long white arm? It's called a boom gate. I don't think you or the dogs would appreciate me driving through it.'

‘Pfff.' The Pigman climbs out of the ute and lights a cigarette. It sits between his teeth while he jumps on the spot, swinging his arms in circles. I sit here waiting for him to settle but he doesn't. Instead the jumping and arm swinging build momentum. I count: ten seconds of frantic movement, five seconds of rest. Another ten seconds of jumping with arms swinging like a windmill, but this time in the opposite direction. On and on it goes until I'm almost seasick from watching him.

I decide it's a routine leftover from communist days; some exercise regime he was forced to do every morning in large, drab squares. No wonder he's a cranky bastard, coming from a place like that. He probably bends down and kisses our Aussie soil every day.

Finally the Pigman stops. I follow him in the car mirrors as he walks behind the ute. The dogs are up and panting. Their wagging tails look like the rear windscreen wipers. The Pigman feeds them something and the tails go faster.

He holds his enormous hands in front of him, pushing each finger back towards his wrist. Then he shakes his hands and the ute jolts as both dogs drop to their haunches and begin to howl. I lean in closer to the mirror to check that what I'm seeing is right. On his right hand the top of his three middle fingers point in the opposite direction like they're not attached but floating freely in the skin.

I sink into the seat. ‘You're a weirdo,' I mutter.

The Pigman bangs on my door. ‘Out, boy.'

‘Say please,' I mumble.

On the way around to the other side I give Slatko a pat. I still don't trust Sara and I think the suspicion's mutual.

The freight train has almost passed. The Pigman starts the engine then begins to pull off his jumper. His arms take up most of the cabin.

‘Watch it,' I say as an elbow just about knocks me out.

‘Godon not take so much space.'

‘Gordon's pretty tall.'

‘But not fat,' he answers. ‘You fat.'

‘Gee thanks.' I squash my jacket into a ball and curl into the window. I don't need to make friends with this man.

The Pigman puts on music. Suddenly it's like I've dropped acid at a folk festival and can't escape. It's an excruciating hullabaloo of piano accordions and out of tune guitars. I sneak a glance at the Pigman. He's staring straight ahead like he can't even hear it.

‘Can you turn it down,' I say. ‘I wouldn't mind having a nap.'

‘You no like?'

‘Never been a fan of the piano accordion,' I answer.

‘Ah! Harmonikah.'

‘Harmoneekah,' I mimic. ‘Don't think so. Here we call it a piano accordion.'

‘Peeano accordeeon is for making good music. Yes?'

‘You reckon?' I refold my jacket and curl back into the passenger door.

Even if I could still my mind enough to sleep, it'd be impossible anyway because the music's blaring, there's hardly any leg room and the window is rattling like there's an impatient child wanting to get into the car.

I try to remember pig shooting with Archie so I don't blow my cover and look like an ignoramus with a rifle.

I packed Archie's hunting gear. Cleopatra666 wants a photo of me with a ‘four-legged victim' as she put it. She sounded impressed when I told her why I was going to be offline for the week. Usually she doesn't hang around the forum after a game but last night she did, just talking to me for ages.

‘Prophet, I didn't know you hunted,' she'd said. Her voice had a whole new bounce to it. The sarcasm and barking had gone.

‘It's not technically hunting,' I replied. ‘It's work. I'm culling some wild boar for one of the big station owners up this way. He pays me a shitload.'

‘Do you shoot them?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What do you use?'

‘It depends,' I say, stalling for time. ‘A … twenty-two – usually.'

‘What are they, piglets?'

‘I'm a good shot.'

‘I bet you are. Well, have fun, Prophet. Bring me back a set of tusks.'

She wants it. It's obvious.

Somehow I fall asleep. One minute I am thinking about Cleopatra666, the next a big hand is shaking my shoulder and I have no memory of the time that has passed. A trail of dribble sits on my chin and the piano accordion is still playing its hectic tune.

‘We have coffee,' the Pigman says.

‘What time is it?'

‘Nine. Come on, boy. Stretch leg.'

We've pulled up on the side of the road. The Pigman, the dogs and I are the only sign of life. The highway is a never-ending stretch of black and a mottled haze sits on the horizon.

I feel calm. My mind is quiet, the rabbiting has stopped. But what I feel the most is the space around me. It's light. It's endless.

The dogs jump off the tray. The Pigman is getting out a beaten-up plastic box. Through the cracks I can see mugs and a thermos.

‘We go here.' The Pigman points into the bush. ‘Is nice place.'

The dogs trot off. They seem to know where they're going. They weave their way around and through us. They sniff and piss and bark at the shadows.

The further in we go, the denser the scrub becomes. We're walking uphill. There's no path so I have to keep my eyes on the ground to stop myself from tripping on the rocks and fallen trees. Staring at my boots and stepping one foot in front of the other is starting to annoy me. My stomach is rumbling and I'm dying to take a leak but I don't want to stop or I'll lose sight of the Pigman and then I'll never find my way out of here. I don't know why we couldn't have coffee in the ute. But he's on a mission, striding through the bush, karate-chopping the vines and branches like a regular Tarzan.

‘How much further?' I call.

He doesn't answer.

‘How much further?' I call louder.

The Pigman and the dogs stop.

‘This better be the bloody place,' I mutter.

I come up behind them. ‘Whoa.' The land suddenly drops away. We are standing on the very tip of a ledge. Below is a sea of green treetops and on the other side is a band of mountains, craggy and jagged, leaning into each other like they're exhausted from being such a spectacle of nature.

‘
Predivan
.' The Pigman is saying the word over and over. ‘
Predivan
.
Predivan
.'

‘This is quite nice,' I say.

‘Is beautiful,' the Pigman utters.

Slatko and Sara look like lions sitting at the edge of the platform. Sara's ears twitch and prick with the slightest noise.

‘
Predivan
,' he says again, shaking his head.

‘What's that mean? Predeevahn?'

‘Beautiful.' The Pigman flashes his jagged teeth. ‘Up here is like my country.' He is smiling at me – or is it that I'm in the way of his pale-eyed gaze? I turn and look at the mountains too but I'm not seeing what he is.

‘Where are you from?' My voice has come out soft, almost inaudible. I clear my throat and the sound breaks the spell. His eyes return to me and the lines in his forehead cave into his skin.

‘Where are you from? I ask again. ‘It's not called Yugoslavia any more, is it?'

‘No.'

‘Did they change the name after the war?'

The Pigman nods.

‘So what's it called now?'

‘I live in Bosnia but I am Serb.'

‘So what does that mean?'

‘It mean nothing.'

‘Did you fight in the war?'

As he pours mud-like coffee into two mugs, he makes a noise which I take as a ‘no'.

‘Drink,' he says. ‘Still long time to go.'

It's my third shift behind the wheel. We are driving into the west as the sun begins to sink. The sky has entertained me with endless costume changes. Now it simply glows like a wall of fire.

The Pigman and I haven't talked much. I've been waiting for the questions about my shooter's licence and shooting experience but so far there have been none. We are more like a hitchhiker and driver simply crossing paths for the length of the journey.

My head is still deliciously numb. I feel like I'm on automatic pilot. My body is doing the work while my mind is away. It's how I knew it would be. The further we get the less I care about the Marshall brothers. The plan seems almost irrelevant, as though it's someone else's problem. But there is the old lady to consider. She is still back there. I hope no unwanted visitors have called on her today.

‘Hungry?'

‘Yes. When are we going to stop for tea?' I ask.

‘Is no need to stop. I have food.'

‘Isn't there a roadhouse or something coming up?'

‘I have better food,' the Pigman answers. ‘You will like.'

I wonder if his food is like his coffee. Completely unpalatable.

‘I make
burek
. Is good. Is spicy meat in little pie,' he says. ‘Then some
rakija
to wash down. Not too much.'

‘What's
rakija
?'

‘Is brandy. Very, very good.'

‘What does ohproh …?' I try to remember the words he said in his sleep. ‘
Ohprohstee mee
, something like that. What does it mean?'

The Pigman turns and looks out the window like he hasn't heard.

‘It sounded like you were saying it in your sleep.
Ohprohstee mee
? I'm sure that's how you said it,' I repeat.

He raises his shoulders in the lamest attempt at a shrug. He knows. He's just not going to tell me. I bet it means ‘fuck me, whore.' That's probably what the Pigman dreams about.

It's too cold to get out of the ute so we stay in our seats and eat dinner.
Burek
are the triangle pies I saw in his makeshift kitchen. They're delicious. The pastry dissolves in my mouth leaving the taste of warm butter on my tongue.