Pig Boy (16 page)

I FEEL LIKE A TOURIST as we drive along the main road; perched up in the front seat looking this way and that out the window. Of course, it's faces I'm looking for. But the streets are empty. The good citizens of Strathven are still tucked up in bed.

The Pigman pulls into the curb outside the Clancy Hotel.

‘What? Is this where you're dropping me?'

The Pigman doesn't answer. He's busy leaning over the wheel and pulling at his jeans. Suddenly there's his wallet sitting in his hand.

‘One, two, three.' The Pigman plucks out fifty-dollar notes, flicking their corners, making sure two aren't stuck together. He thinks I need his money. Probably reckons I'd steal from him; that's why he moved his wallet while I was sleeping.

But I know now that what's inside my wardrobe is of no use to me regardless of how many times I study step one: how to reload an AK-47 in eight seconds. Only a hunting rifle will make my job easier. So I will have to buy one myself. At least when the day arrives I will know what it feels like to squeeze its trigger.

I take the handful of sweaty bills and mumble a ‘thanks'.

The Pigman tosses his wallet onto the dashboard then sits there, his fingers tapping a tune on the steering wheel.

I wait. Wait for him to say something. But it's not going to happen so I slide Sara off my lap, open the door and lower my soles onto Strathven soil.

‘Okay,' I mutter. ‘I'll see you later, I guess.'

It takes a second before I can actually stand up and start moving. I get my bag and give Slatko a pat. In return he licks my hand.

I'm throwing my bag over my shoulder and stepping onto the curb when the rattling of glass gives me good reason to stop.

The Pigman is winding the window down.

‘Yeah?'

‘What?'

‘Do you want something?' I ask.

‘What you mean?'

‘You were winding down the window,' I explain. ‘Did you want to say something?'

‘No,' he answers. ‘I getting air.'

‘Oh. Okay.'

I shrug – or do I wince? I'm not sure.

The Pigman drives away and it feels like something's draining from my body until I'm just a frame of bones standing here on the road.

‘M-mi–' I go to call, but his name sticks in my throat.

My hands swing by my sides, they tug at my shirt, slam against my thighs, wring themselves together until the friction burns my skin. ‘Well, what was I meant to do!' I say it aloud. ‘Drive the whole way home with Bon Jovi blaring in Serbian?'

My head is shaking as though I can't believe the absurdness of the situation. But that's not true. And I know it.

I stand outside our place and stare down the path to the front door. I'm watching the house, the blanket still hangs in my window and I'm telling myself I'm home. Hot showers, a toilet, privacy, my PC, Cleopatra666 – shouldn't all that make it easier to be here? I always knew I'd be coming back.

Is it because being home means back to watching everything I do? It wasn't like that in the bush with Miro. Out there was a taste of freedom, space to breathe. Now it's gone. Gone. It's time to put my armour on again and return to the fight.

Faded copies of the
Strathven Telegraph
are scattered across a lawn that looks more like a shaggy pile of thistles and burrs. One sheet blows towards me. I pick it up and stuff it in my bag like I'm suddenly houseproud. I'm sure we had a garden once but I can't find the pictures in my head. I know we sat down to meals – real food cooked by my mother and Archie and served at a table draped with the tablecloth he gave her.

I walk past my bedroom to the side of the house. The first task today is to head straight to the laundry, 'cause I've been on ‘sales training' in Cromer. Not sticking pigs and drinking brandy by the fire.

Each step of the plan flicks through my brain, like an efficient filing system. Now there's a new one: step six – buy a hunting rifle. It's back to the business of sneaking around and covering up and watching my back – the exhausting task of being one step ahead.

My mother's clothes, damp and stinking, sit in a twisted mess inside the washing machine. I breathe through my mouth as I pull the musty load free. Some lands in the basket, most of it on the ground, including a pair of my mother's stockings. I pick them up, reaching my arm through the black weave. But a mask won't help me when that day comes. They know me and I know them. So I drop the stockings onto the floor. Jeans, shirts, even Archie's fatigues I empty into the machine, followed by a handful of every available washing powder. Every stain, every smudge of dirt and smear of blood needs to dissolve and vanish. The exhausting business of being one step ahead.

GAME, EAT, SLEEP. GAME, EAT, sleep plus a bit of furniture moving. That's all I've done. I haven't left the house. The old girl hasn't asked me about the trip. She's barely come near me. Her lack of interrogation has me climbing the walls.

Three times in the last day and a half I have dragged my desk to different corners of the room, trying to decide which position gives me optimum cover yet still provides a clear view out the window and along the street. Not once did Mum knock on the door to see what I was doing.

There's no sign of her snooping in my room. The thread still sits perfectly across the wardrobe doors. The space between each coathanger measures the required fifty-two centimetres. Yet I can't rest my mind.

This morning I sat on the loo seat for fifteen minutes, ears peeled, waiting for the squeak of her stockings rubbing against her thighs as she crept down the hall. But there was nothing. I flushed the loo, turned on the tap and walked out to find her still sitting on the couch watching TV.

Chip packets, cans of Coke and empty frozen meal containers with bits of cheese still clinging to the sides have been balancing on the edge of my desk for the last thirty-four hours.

The silence is doing my head in. Where are the questions about the new job? Why hasn't she interrogated me about the padlock on my wardrobe? Why isn't she watching me, studying my every move like after Year 10 camp? We've had a few trite conversations about the weather and what meal to defrost for dinner but she's holding out on me. I know. I can tell.

Until an hour ago, the other woman in my life was playing with my head too. But I can handle her. Cleopatra666's silence is her method of prick-teasing. It's obvious. She's an easy one to read.

I scroll down to the photo I sent. I captioned it ‘Prophet at Training Camp'. All Cleopatra666 could be bothered to write is ‘cool dogs'. There are still more photos to download from my phone but I'll make her wait for them.

The six o'clock news starts. From my room, I hear the earnest voice of the newsreader, who's more concerned with the inflection of each word than the day's events.

Yes, it's my turn to be in control.

I'm not going to wait in my bedroom for my mother to come to me. So for the first time since being back, I take a seat on the couch next to her and feign interest in our nation's bipartisan cooperation.

The old girl doesn't move, as though she's unaware of the weight that's just sunk into the cushions. I finger the padlock keys in my pocket and wait for the first ad break.

‘Doesn't look like I missed much,' I say.

She stares straight ahead at the screen but I'm sure her elbow has inched further into her lap, further away from me, as if even that space between us is too close.

The old girl finally speaks. ‘It's the same news in Cromer.'

‘I'm talking about the news here, in Strathven,' I say. ‘Your news.'

‘Why would I have any news? Nothink happens to me.'

I lean into my corner of the couch and watch her arms fold across her chest and her right knee turn away from mine.

‘Ya put a padlock on ya wardrobe before ya went away. Whatcha got that's so special?'

This is more like it.

‘Nothing special,' I reply. ‘Just computer stuff.'

‘So why the lock?'

‘Because everyone can see inside my bedroom window. Computer gear's expensive, Mum.'

‘No one can look inside ya window with me blanket hangin' up in there.'

‘You know, I actually had a few more of those headaches when I was away.'

Diversion. One of my greatest skills.

‘Maybe ya should go see Dr Singh.'

‘I'll be right.' I run my hand across my jaw like I'm feeling the stubble. But I'm not – I'm hiding a smile. I am back in control. I am on fire. ‘So, no news then?' I say, securing the lid on the conversation.

I'm ready to file it away when the old girl says, ‘Ya can tell me somethin', but. Why ya got them cuts all over your arms?' I sense my reflexes twitch, ready to take a position of defence. But my hands stayed glued to my lap.

‘Hey, son? I seen 'em.' My fingernails are scrubbed and clipped. My shirt sleeves have been rolled down and buttoned at the wrists the entire time I've been back. The only times I can't vouch for is when I'm sleeping. ‘So how'd ya get 'em, son, them cuts?'

‘It's a bit embarrassing,' I begin. My voice is calm, as though I'm dictating a meditation session. It's like that because it's in charge of keeping the situation calm. The old lady has been snooping. She has been in my bedroom but it's when I've been asleep. ‘I locked my key inside my motel room,' I hear myself go on. ‘You know, my motel room in Cromer. I had to hack my way through a few bushes to get to the bathroom window. They cut me to pieces. I was bleeding all over the place.'

‘I see,' she answers. ‘So ya goin' back there, to Cromer? On a plane?'

‘Possibly.'

‘Will you catch the plane on a Sunday, like you done this time?'

‘I'm not sure when it'll be. The job will be more part-time, I think. I thought part-time was probably a better option.'

‘Suit ya self.' She sticks a cigarette into her mouth and lights it. My spine curls back into the cushions. She seems satisfied.

‘So …?' One last time I'll ask and then I will rest. ‘So, everything was okay while I was gone?'

‘Why wouldn't it be?'

‘Maybe you wouldn't tell me because you wouldn't want to worry me? You know, like when you first started getting those phone calls.'

‘Oh, yeah.'

‘Anyway I'm just asking, Mum. I mean, I'm glad everything was okay.'

‘They find a body down by the river. If that's what ya wanna know about, son?'

‘A body?' I realise I've begun to edge my way down the couch. Suddenly our knees are centimetres from each other's and the space between them is burning, almost setting us on fire.

‘Yeah. Down at the river. A man. Shot. Shot in the head.'

It's hard to be still and breathe when noise is screeching through your brain.

‘Do … Do they know who it is?'

I sit here, next to my mother, in front of the national news waiting for her to answer. But she doesn't. She's decided to stop playing the game.

However, I am in control. I will not surrender. So I stare into the TV screen until it blurs to black and I begin to count. The numbers appear in my head. It's like looking through a kaleidoscope. Each number has its own colour and pattern. It expands then contracts and disappears, making way for the next one.

One thousand, three hundred and seventeen shimmers green in a background of diamonds and squares. One thousand, three hundred and seventeen is also when the advertisements come on and when I know the old girl will speak again. I am calm. I am ready.

‘Been there a couple of weeks, they reckon,' she starts, without me prompting. ‘That bloke. That man they find in the river.'

‘Mum?' I say, getting up from the couch. ‘Do you want anything at the shops? Cigarettes, Coke?'

‘Coke, thanks. They still on special at the servo.'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘Won't be long.'

Before I go to the petrol station and buy the newspaper, I drive for a while, sticking to the neighbourhood streets, avoiding the town centre. The gentle hum of the engine and the gliding of the thick tyres against the smooth bitumen has a calming effect. At least, I'm convinced it does until I realise where it's been leading me.

I am outside Pascoe's house.
Right
outside Pascoe's house. If it was summer and the front door was open to catch the evening breeze, I'd be able to see Pascoe sitting at the dinner table, feasting on smug pie.

How I'd love to walk in. Catch the little family with their mouths full, witness the shock in their eyes as they see me standing there and struggle to swallow the dinner that suddenly tastes quite sour.

Pascoe's green beast is parked in the driveway. I wonder how he'd feel if I sank a coin into the metal of his car? If I dragged it along the shiny green paint, messing up his pride and joy? How would he feel about the injustice of it all? Hurt? Angry? Ripped off?

It hurt when he wouldn't acknowledge me as the region's finalist in the state writing competition, undermining the only thing I had to be proud of. But when he sold me out to an air compressor, refusing to take action against those arseholes who were telephoning my mother, it killed.

There will be a day, who knows how soon, but it will come, when Pascoe and I face each other again. And if we do exchange words, what will I say? Will I tell him how it felt to be betrayed like that? Then betrayed again on my eighteenth birthday?

Suddenly I'm striding across his freshly mowed lawn, trudging through the garden bed, kicking the spring blooms in my way. Why not tell him now? I'm here. I'll be quick and to the point. Two minutes max.

My hand is poised, ready to knock. I will count to three. I want to be calm. I want my voice to be strong. One, two – but I realise I can't be bothered. The Damon Styles that Pascoe forgot has disappeared; lost somewhere in the bush near the old schoolhouse.

Everything is different now. Pascoe doesn't count. Not to me. Not any more. So I get back into the car and drive away.

The petrol station is empty. I'm about to turn in when I notice that further down the road is Parker's black Mazda. My foot slides between the brake and accelerator. I can't work out if Parker's car is even moving. But suddenly its engine revs like an animal roaring and the car flies past.

‘Wanker,' I curse.

I slow right down, and when Parker's car has disappeared from my mirror I turn in and park.

The visit at the petrol station is trouble free. My request for last Monday's local paper is granted. The box of Cokes is tucked away in the boot and within minutes I'm disappearing into the landscape.

I take the first turn, the old road to Mereton. The time is 7.23 pm.

At 7.30 pm I stop the car, cut the engine and open the front page of the
Strathven Telegraph
. My eyes run down the print in time with my finger. It's hard to know if the article will be big or an insignificant paragraph shoved off to the corner. Strathven's idea of what is newsworthy often clashes with mine.

On page five, towards the right-hand side, is an advertisement from Strathven's only legal advisers, Wane and Parker Solicitors – ‘Experienced specialists in firearms and prohibited weapons legislation'. And, suitably enough, what I've been searching for sits below.

I chuck the paper out the window and drive away.