Pig Boy (25 page)

THE FRONT DOOR'S OPEN. JUST inside, Sara sits quietly like he's been waiting for me to get home. When he sees me he rises to all fours and wags his tail. He doesn't look sick.

Down the hall, a policeman is standing outside my room.

‘Mum?' I call. ‘Where's my mother?' I ask, pushing past him. ‘What's going on?'

Three more policemen are in my bedroom. My mother sits facing my wardrobe doors, which are wide open. A pair of bolt cutters lie on the desk.

‘Mum!'

She doesn't move.

‘Can someone tell me what the fuck's going on?'

A cop places his hand on my shoulder like he's a mate burdened with bad news to deliver. But he says, ‘Damon John Styles, you are under arrest for the possession of a prohibited firearm. You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so.' Mum begins to cry. ‘But whatever you say or do may be used in evidence.' Her head's on the desk, her sobs muffled in the wood. ‘Do you understand? I will say it again, do you understand?'

‘Mum? What the fuck is going on?' I am taking in the room, sucking in every tiny detail. The black gym bag is being carried out by a guy wearing blue plastic gloves. My computer's gone, the drawers are open and empty. Another cop in blue gloves is packing away my games in a box and then I notice that the one standing in the doorway is filming it all. ‘Did you do this? Did you call the cops? Mum! Why? Why the fuck would you call the cops?'

The policeman launches into the speech again. ‘Damon John Styles, you are under arrest for the possession …'

I talk over him, yell over him. I want to grab the back of Mum's teddy jumper and haul her off the chair so that she'll look at me, talk to me and explain what the hell she's done. ‘Hey? Hey! Mum, Mum you've got this wrong,' I begin. ‘I was planning to go to the station today. That – that gun isn't mine. It's not mine! You've got it wrong. Can someone please listen to me?'

But he's still talking. ‘… Senior Constable Ashley Peels of Strathven Police Station.' Then he yells in my face. ‘Do you understand!'

‘I'm not fucking answering anything!' I yell back. ‘Because I haven't
done
anything. You've got it all wrong.'

The cop turns to the digicam and says quietly, like I'm an animal on a nature program he's narrating, ‘For the record the prisoner has been cautioned twice but refuses to answer.'

A policewoman enters the room. She crouches next to the chair and starts to speak to Mum. ‘Come with me, Mrs Styles. Your sister's flight's been delayed a couple of hours. She's still in Sydney.'

‘What?' I spit. ‘Aunty Yvonne is … what's been going on? What's this all about?' I take a step towards Mum. Ashley Peels's palm slams down onto my shoulder.

‘Get your hands off me!' I yell. ‘Mum? Talk to me.'

The policewoman is helping her to stand up. ‘I can't deal with this on me own and I ain't got no one to help 'cept me sister,' she says. The old girl's holding onto the lady cop's elbow like she's a cripple. We're barely an arm's length from each other. But Peels's grip on me is tight. Mum may as well be standing on the other side of the earth.

Her eyes are red and swollen. Her head seems to shake as she breathes out in a tight whistle. ‘Why don't I see me name on one of ya lists?' she asks me. ‘I thought I'd be number one.'

‘Mum. No. Nooo. You've got it wrong.'

‘Nah,' she sighs. ‘This time I done somethink about it instead of just lettin' the town talk. I don't reckon they woulda dealt with ya so good. That's why I didn't want ya goin' out. It's better this way. Ya safer with the police. Ya gotta be. Least that's what I'm tellin' meself. That's how I can keep livin'.'

The policewoman steps aside because they can't both fit through the doorway. Mum stops. My fingers curl as I wait for what she's about to say. ‘I wished ya'd had a shower, son. Put on them clothes I washed for ya.' She hobbles away, arm in arm with the policewoman. My fingers have knotted themselves into fists.

Peels tell me to stand with my feet apart. He begins to pat me down as if I'm a full-blown criminal. ‘Damon Styles,' he says, ‘I'm escorting you to the Strathven Police Station where you will be interviewed and incarcerated overnight. You can cooperate and come quietly or you will have to be –'

‘Yeah, okay,' I mutter.

The policewoman is at the doorway again. ‘I'm sorry to interrupt. Can I have a word please, sir?'

There's whispering, nodding and pointing of fingers. Then the lady walks away.

‘Mr Styles,' begins Senior Constable Ashley Peels, back in his official voice. ‘Is there a back exit to the property?'

‘No.'

‘Apparently a small crowd has gathered outside the front of the house.'

‘What?'

‘It's just a handful of people but for your safety, I think it's better if you're cuffed.'

‘There are people outside the house?' I say. ‘Why? Who?'

‘Hold up your right hand please, Mr Styles.' One cuff is closed around my right wrist, the other half's attached to Peels. ‘Let's go.'

We leave my bedroom and it's as if it was a soundproofed haven cut off from the rest of the world. With each step, the grumblings grow louder until I am hiding behind the front door and the things they shout at me feel like bricks hurtling through the window.

‘Show ya face, psycho!'

‘Not so tough now.'

‘Damoink oink oink oink!'

‘I can't do this,' I say, taking a step back. But Peels serves me a firm knuckle in the back and nudges me out the door. When the crowd spots me they erupt into hysteria like I'm a big-time celebrity. For years I endured this at school, telling myself they were idiots who didn't share a brain between them. But this feels so different; I might as well be hearing it for the first time.

The door of the police car is open and waiting. On either side of the gate, acting as a barrier between them and me, stand the other two cops that were in my room. It wouldn't take too much to push your way through. Not if you really wanted to.

It must be past three o'clock because school's out. It's a group of Year 9 Strathven High students snorting the ‘Damoink oink oink' chant. They're huddled together, their bags on their backs, their pink, sweaty faces craning to get a better look at me trotting down the pathway trying to keep up with the strides of Ashley Peels, who seems to have forgotten that I'm attached to him. Or maybe he hasn't.

I keep my eyes focused on the concrete. It's better not to see the faces. But I recognise a voice and look up. It's Bridie. Her mouth's wide open as if she's mid-yawn. Her lips stretch and form the words ‘pussy chicken'. Parker's arms are around her like even now she needs protection from me.

He's yelling, ‘Didn't I tell you we were watching you!'

Ashley Peels's hand is weighing down on my head. ‘Get in,' he's saying, pushing me into the car. The two front doors slam.

‘Okay, fellas,' he instructs and we're driving away, weaving a path through a crowd that's not quite finished with me.

There's no conversation in the police car. No enquiry as to whether I'm okay, not too shaken, still have all ten fingers and toes. For a second I wonder if they're about to tell me it's a big hoax.

‘I don't know what my mother's got into her head,' I begin now that I've found my voice again. If I get the whole story out, tell them what's really happened, then maybe they'll do a U-turn and drop me home in time for
M*A*S*H
at five o'clock. ‘I promise you have got this so wrong. So wrong. The reason …'

‘Leave it for the station,' Peels butts in. ‘You're wasting your breath now.'

Peels turns and looks out the window like it's a Sunday drive he's enjoying and my conversation is ruining the ambience.

There's no joy likely to happen in here. I'm wedged between Peels and the cop who was filming. The handcuffs are still on. I find that keeping my eyes on the curved metal helps the realisation of what's happening flow a little easier. I am under arrest, I say to myself. I am under arrest. Can you believe it? I am under arrest. But when I explain the situation they will apologise and let me go.

So why the crowd outside the house? I shut my eyes but it doesn't stop the answer creeping up my spine. Even in the dark I see Andrew Parker and Curtis Marshall, the afternoon at the petrol station; I hear what Parker said to me. ‘There's a rumour going around that you're planning to come back to school and get us.' I took no notice because his next words caught my attention. ‘Ask Curtis,' Parker'd said. ‘Ask him. He reckons you're going to kill us.'

Now, here between two policemen, a handcuffed wrist sitting on my lap, Parker's ‘prophecy' takes on a whole new meaning. Even though it's too ridiculous to contemplate.

‘Do I get a phone call?' I suddenly ask. ‘That's my right, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' Peels answers. He's still not looking at me, still determined to enjoy the drive. ‘You get one call. I advise you make that to a lawyer.'

‘I don't know any lawyers.'

‘You can phone Wane and Parker Solicitors when we get to the station.'

‘Call Mr Parker? You're kidding, right?'

Peels shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.'

Through the space between the two front seats I watch the main street of Strathven. Up ahead I see Glen the butcher having a smoke out the front of his shop. He's got more right to be in this police car than me. The fluoro lights are on outside the mini-mart. The weekly special painted on the window reads ‘Buy your lunch here and get a drink half price.' I can't see who's behind the counter because a line of customers blocks my view.

Then I spot it, up ahead, parked outside the Clancy Hotel. Miro's ute.

‘Hey!' I shout. ‘Stop!' I'm trying to get a better look but Peels's elbow seems to pop up from nowhere and pins me against the seat. ‘You need to speak to him,' I'm saying. ‘Miro. You know, the Pigman. He can vouch for me. He knows, he knows the gun's not mine.'

The cop driving mutters but I know he means for me to hear it. ‘I don't think the magistrate'd find the Yugo a reliable witness.'

‘What!' I'm struggling under Peels's hold. ‘I heard what you said!'

I am told to ‘settle down' and just in case I haven't understood Peels's elbow stays in place for the rest of the journey.

I am smuggled in through the back door of the Strathven Police Station. I wonder if that's standard or if it means the crowd has got here first. Peels unlocks his side of the handcuffs then snaps it around my other wrist.

My mobile, wallet and keys were taken at the house. But I am patted down again, which seems like overkill. Then I have to remove my shoes, shake my head and open my mouth. There's no fingerprinting or mug shots taken like on the TV, which makes me wonder if they're doing their job properly or if they're part of some conspiracy.

‘Isn't there another lawyer I can call?' I ask the officer at the desk. He's been at Strathven Police Station for so long that I recognise him from the stranger-danger talk he gave to us in primary.

He shakes his head and says, ‘Nah.'

‘But with Wane and Parker I wouldn't get a fair …'

‘The duty solicitor's sick,' he grumbles. ‘So it's Wane and Parker or no one.'

‘I'll pass,' I mutter.

I'm taken to Interview Room 1 and told to wait while the paperwork's completed. The door slams and an automatic lock clicks into place. The clock on the wall says 3.40 pm.

The room is bare, just like on a TV show. There's a table, two chairs and a camera wedged into a corner in the ceiling. The only option is to sit here listening to the clock tick and concentrate on putting my thoughts in order.

My fingernails pick at the dried mud on my jeans. There's something bugging me. Why did my mother care about me wearing dirty clothes? What difference did it make to her? She was about to sell me to the cops and yet all she could tell me was to have a shower and put on clean clothes.