Pig Boy (19 page)

THE SUN SHINING THROUGH THE window warms the early morning nip in the air. My neck feels long and my shoulders loose like a heat lamp is working its magic on me.

Out here with the Pigman I'm not the white-knuckled, sweaty mess who grips onto his desk willing himself to find control. Out here it's different. The thoughts between each synapse flow not snap. The food I swallow meanders not plummets through my guts. It's my time for respite, like the boxer who rests by the ropes before stumbling back into the ring for the next round.

I am driving. The Pigman sits next to me rolling cigarette after cigarette with the tobacco I gave him. A little pile of what looks like white caterpillars sits in his lap.

‘Your mother is alone at home, Demon?'

I nod.

‘She is happy you work for me?'

‘Yes,' I lie.

When I told Mum I had more business in Cromer she lit a cigarette, then exhaled a fine trail of grey smoke. She knows what I'm really doing, that's what I thought, but then she'd said, ‘Are ya catchin' a plane?'

‘Yes,' I'd told her, aware that there was now a stupid grin stretched across my face. ‘I'll only be away a few days.'

‘Are ya keepin' the lock on ya wardrobe?'

I wasn't expecting the question and I'd struggled to keep my voice on an even keel. ‘Yeah,' I said, adding in a casual yawn, ‘I will. I've got some software from work in there now.'

‘I'm thinkin' of buyin' meself a computer.'

‘But, Mum, you don't know how to use one.'

‘I use it at the library when I order me cryptic books.' Then she said softly, almost whispering, ‘I'm not as stupid as ya think.'

‘I don't think you're stupid.'

‘Oh yeah?' She'd closed her eyes and sucked hard on her cigarette.

The Pigman's still speaking. ‘Demon? Does your mother like new rifle you buy?'

But the old girl's words are still whispering through my ears.
I'm not as stupid as ya think.

‘Demon?'

‘Hey?'

‘Your mother, does she like new rifle you buy?'

‘Yes,' I murmur. ‘Yes,' I say louder. ‘She does. She thinks I got a real bargain.'

‘Your mother is smart lady,' the Pigman says. ‘I am same. I no believe you pay only one thousand dollar. Too cheap! Where you get rifle?'

‘Private sale,' I answer.

‘But who?' he says. ‘Who you buy from, Demon?'

‘A lady in Mereton,' I tell him. ‘You know the council flats on the industrial side? There.'

‘And why lady sell this?'

‘It belonged to her son but he died of cancer a few months ago so she wanted to get rid of it.'

‘Is very sad news. Young boy?'

‘Old. Forty-five.'

‘Forty-five not old!'

‘It's not young, either,' I say.

‘Forty-five young, Demon! Me, I am forty-two. I think forty-five young.'

In an instant, the answer to my sum rings like a cash register. The Pigman's licence said he was born in 1971, the same year as my mother and my mother isn't forty-two. My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. ‘So – what year were you born, Miro?'

‘Nineteen sixty-nine. December twenty-seven.'

‘Oh yeah,' I answer slowly. ‘Two days after Christmas.'

‘Not my Christmas, Demon. Orthodox Christmas in January. We go for three day. Very special time in my country. Not just present, present, money, money. Is very nice time. Veeery nice.'

Christmas is the last thing I want to talk about. I want to ask him who the hell Miroslav Jovic, born in 1971, is. But I don't, because it's so pleasant driving along in the ute with Miro enjoying his good tobacco and the dogs no doubt sunning themselves on the tray. I will not let it get in the way of this day.

‘Oh, I brought some music,' I tell the Pigman. ‘It's up there on the dashboard. Can you put it on? Please.'

The Pigman takes the disc out of the packet and slips it into the machine. ‘So who this rock man, Demon?'

‘John Butler,' I reply. ‘You'll like him.'

When the music starts the Pigman leans forward in his seat as though he's having trouble hearing the tune.

‘What do you think?' I ask.

‘Is good guitar. Yes. Yes is good,' the Pigman replies, resting back into the seat. ‘Not Bon Jovi but I think he like too.'

‘Who?'

‘Who?' he repeats.

‘Yeah. You just said
he
. “I think he will like it too.”'

‘I am going crazy,' the Pigman says, shaking his head and starting to roll another cigarette.

But I am a good liar and something tells me he's just spun me some fibs.

We're on foot, inspecting yet another area of scrub the same as the one we just inspected and the one before that too. The Pigman walks around the perimeter of each site like he's thinking of buying the land to build on. He checks the direction of the wind, whether it's north- or south-facing, how many trees surround it and he even peers under the bushes in case they hold some clues.

‘We can't get the ute in here,' I say, to offer some feedback like I did at the other two places, and again I am blatantly ignored.

But I'm keeping my patience because the scene is familiar. It's unsettled me. It has me tiptoeing behind the Pigman, close but not too close. It has me checking every word before I say it.

‘
Nigdje vjetra. Nigdje vjetra.
' He keeps saying the same two words, but when I carefully ask him for a translation he answers ‘shelter' which is only one.

So I just stand there and watch.

Suddenly the Pigman throws his arms open and declares, ‘Yes! Yes, this good place. I like. I like veery much. Here we make camp two nights, Demon.'

‘Don't you think it's a bit far away?'

‘Yes. I think no wind can come to us,' he tells me. ‘Come, boy,' he says as he wraps his arm around my shoulders. ‘We go to ute. Little bit to carry but not so bad for us big men.'

I tell the Pigman I don't want a tent, that I want to sleep under the stars like he does.

‘I snore. I make farts,' he says to me.

‘And you sleep-talk,' I add.

He shakes his head.

‘You do,' I continue. ‘Remember? I told you.'

‘Nooo.'

‘Yes! I can't exactly remember – as you know, my Serbian's not that good. But it was something like “ohprostee” …'

His arm drops from my shoulders. ‘I not know words you say.'

‘Well, you were saying something like that because I distinctly remember. You were asleep in the ute. You were …' But I change my mind. The Pigman has started walking a little faster, widening the distance between us as though he wants to get away from me.

‘I would very much like to try new rifle, Demon,' he is saying, using the diversion tactic. ‘We make camp and after we do target shooting. Yes.'

I don't answer.

Miroslav Jovic might be his name, but that's not who he is. I am certain of it now.

We carry our gear to the camp site then together we return to the ute for the next load. I bumble around with boxes and ropes in an attempt to slow myself down but each time the Pigman waits until I am ready.

Why do I want to snoop through his wallet and see his licence again when I know the numbers printed in black ink say 1971, the same year my mother was born. It's not the type of detail one forgets.

‘I think finish now,' the Pigman puffs, almost dropping the esky then sinking down onto its lid for a rest. ‘You hungry, Demon?'

‘I am.'

‘Yesterday, in night I make one stew for us. Beef, tomato, herb, leetle bit of bean.' The Pigman laughs at this bit. ‘I think it need to cook bit more. One hour maybe. We make oven and while stew cook we do shooting with new rifle. Then we eat. I say this very good day, yes?'

Yes. I want to agree. I want to say it's a good day. But it doesn't feel so right now. Who is this man? He cares about me. With him I count, I know I do. He cooks for me, he teaches me how to shoot, he plays me his music. Yet I know he's not telling the truth. He diverts the topic when I ask him a question he doesn't want to answer, just like I do.

‘Are we going hunting tonight, Miro?' I ask.

The Pigman is setting up a camp stove. The grid is so rusted it's almost crumbling and the rubber hose that runs off the gas bottle looks like the dogs have been sharpening their teeth on it. ‘Maybe or maybe light in early morning better,' he says.

I'm about to question the stove's safety rating but an opportunity suddenly presents itself on a golden platter.

‘Remember, Demon, I say this time we hunt like in my country.'

Here is the opening. I will see how far I can push.

‘Was the village you lived in small, Miro?'

‘Not too little. Not too big,' he answers.

‘What's it called?'

Blue flames appear and the Pigman places the saucepan on the heat. ‘Very good. Is working. We will have fire tonight.'

I reject his attempt at diversion and repeat the question. ‘What's the name of the village you came from, Miro?'

‘Donja Lijeska, in the east.'

‘Is that where you went to school, in the village?'

‘Yes. Of course. Where else can I go to school?'

‘What year did you finish?'

‘1989. Was great, great year.'

‘Why?'

‘Because Yugoslavia have no song for Euroveesion in long time. My village very crazy for Euroveesion. In my street was one TV and everyone, eeeveryone would squeeze in home to see Euroveesion on TV. But this only happen when I very little boy. I not know why. I think maybe bad singers in this time.' I've got no idea what he's talking about but it seems I have him. He's chatting and stirring the stew, unaware of the path I am leading him down. ‘But we came back. Nineteen eighty-nine. Yugoslavia win Euroveesion. Was big celebration in my school, in my village.'

‘So was that before the war?'

‘Yes. Yes, before war.'

‘My mother didn't finish her schooling,' I say, ticking off the question as I ask it and planning the next one. ‘She wishes she did but she dropped out when she was fifteen. How about you, Miro? How old were you when you finished school?'

‘Eighteen years of age. I like school very much. Many happy days for me. Everyone like me at my school.'

I am about to set him back on track when he says. ‘Not like you, Demon.'

The statement jars me. ‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Teacher no want you at school.' The Pigman places the lid back on the pot. He looks up at me and says. ‘I know this, Demon.'

‘No,' I start. ‘That's not right. That's not …'

‘I hear people say this in pub, in shops,' he tells me. ‘They say Demon Styles psycho boy and dangerous. Is this true, what they say? These stories they talk about you all over town?'

The ends of my fingers are beginning to buzz, like a swarm of bees have pooled into the tips of them. I shake my hands, slide them across my jeans, then into my pockets. But the feeling won't leave.

‘I say again, Demon, like I say other day, why you come work for me? Is because of your father or is it other thing? Tell me truths.'

I have started to walk around in circles. The sweat is dripping off the ends of my hair like I've just had a shower and that old feeling is back, like all the air is being sucked out of my chest. I am in this mess not because of the lies I have told but because of the truths I have kept.

‘Tell me, Demon. Why? Why you here with me …'

I am trying to count but I can't remember the numbers or in which order they go.

‘They say you take gun to school one day. They say you maybe go bang, bang! I hear them. I hear them say this story. But I no understand why. You cannot shoot gun.'

All over my arms the skin is crawling like worms are weaving their way through the hairs.

‘You no like killing things. I know this from your face. I seen this before …'