Pig Boy (13 page)

That's how I missed it. I wasn't really looking at the picture because I was too busy looking at them. Looking at them while it felt like all the air inside your chest is being sucked out until it's just an empty space of nothingness.

But the fact is that in this photograph the Pigman, plus one, two, three, maybe four men have an AK-47 slung over their body as though it's the most normal thing in the world.

The open wallet still sits on the seat. I have to put the picture back because the Pigman and Slatko are making their way down the hill. It's like my fingers are a new, un familiar growth on my body as they fumble and slip trying to manoeuvre it back into its place.

Now Slatko runs towards the ute like he's pined for Sara in the twenty minutes he's been away. But the Pigman takes his time and I begin to count – one, two, three, four, five … but what am I going to count to and when I reach that number, what am I going to do?

‘I drive now,' the Pigman says, opening the door. ‘Many hill. Can be dangerous.'

I slide across to the passenger's side. The Pigman hands me his hunter's licence. ‘Put back, please.' I keep my head down as I slide the plastic card into his wallet.

‘Greg, he manager, he good man,' the Pigman says, starting up the ute. ‘He say he think there one family of pig …' I could go through his wallet now like a regular busybody. I could just pull out the photo and start asking questions like I'd never seen it before. ‘Maybe more then fifty. Twenty plus boar …' But I have to plan. I have to prepare the questions. ‘… lamb killed in one month.' You can't just go in without a plan. ‘We will be busy, Demon, and so will Slatko and Sara.' There's silence. Is he waiting for an answer? ‘We make camp maybe one hour. We have lunch, big feed for dogs, take rest and then we talk about hunting.'

If I speak I'm not sure what will come out. So I nod.

‘Yes, Demon. It will be busy.'

I turn to look at him. My face feels tight, like it's being sucked inside my skull. But the Pigman's face is soft. All his wrinkles have drained away and for a second I see his younger face, like in the photo. ‘You look so worry, Demon.' He smiles and squeezes my shoulder. I slump into the door. ‘It will be okay. You no think about your father.' I close my eyes but I know he's looking at me.

‘You sleep, boy,' the Pigman says. ‘We be up all night finding bastard pig. You need strength.'

Strength? The Pigman has no idea how much strength I need. Instantly I feel the salt scratch at my eyelids, but why? Is it because of the old girl, at home alone; unsuspecting, ready to open the door at the first knock? Is it because of fatuous Pascoe, who deems it his role to protect everyone except me? Is it because of that dirty thing sitting in my wardrobe, waiting for me, just like the Marshall brothers are waiting for me? Or is it something more dangerous: because I just felt the kindness of another man.

My fingertips curl into my palms and I squeeze my fists until the urge to cry dissolves through my body. Then I curl further into the seat and count until I stop hurting.

‘ARE WE GOING TO STAY here the whole time?' I ask as I hand the Pigman the final peg.

‘I think here good place. Good camp,' the Pigman says.

‘Why don't you sleep in a tent?'

‘I think it better you have tent.'

‘Why?'

‘It still cold at night and I sleeping outside many, many years.'

The opportunity is there for the taking. ‘During the war?' I say.

The Pigman starts a vaguely familiar tune. His broken English softly squawks while the hammer bangs the peg into the ground.

‘You did fight in the war, didn't you?'

The Pigman stands back viewing his work. ‘Everyone fight in war. That what war is.'

‘Were you in the army?'

‘There were many army.'

‘So – what army were you in?'

‘I fight for Serbia. That is my army.'

‘But I thought you were from Bosnia?'

‘I am Bosnian Serb.'

‘I don't really understand.'

‘Don't worry, Demon. It was long, long time ago.'

I follow the Pigman to the ute. ‘But I want to understand,' I say. The Pigman's favourite topic is his homeland. If I help him unload the camping gear I can probably get him talking, trick him into telling all. I just have to choose my words carefully. ‘You had bombs and tanks and guns and all those weapons, didn't you? Serbia's really powerful, isn't it?'

‘Get firewood, Demon. There one big piece back near track. Is good for burning all night.'

‘Isn't it?'

The Pigman slides the esky towards me. ‘Put over there.'

‘Wouldn't Serbia have all the latest weapons? Weren't they, like, the strong ones?'

The Pigman hands me the shovel.

‘Weren't they?'

Then a box of food.

‘Don't you like talking about the war?' The Pigman is lifting my swag over his head. ‘Miro?'

He stops mid-air. I have him.

‘You ask me one question, Demon. I answer.'

I cover my smile as I reach out my arms to take the swag. People are so gullible. All it took was his name.

‘Did you use an AK-47 in the war?'

The Pigman's jagged teeth pierce through his lips in a grin. ‘Kalashnikov! Everyone use AK-47. It never break. Except AK-47 made in Romania.'

‘Are they simple? To use, I mean.'

The Pigman spits out a laugh. He shakes his head and turns back into the mound of camping gear. ‘Ahhh, Demon,' he snorts. ‘I think it better you start with simple rifle. In my country we have saying: “
Niko se nije nauchen rodio
”.'

‘For the non-Serbian native what does “
nickoh seh niye
…” whatever, mean?'

‘It mean, Demon, “No one was born fully learned”.'

‘What sort of a stupid saying is that,' I groan.

This is not the conversation I wanted, so I walk off to get the firewood.

I return dragging a mammoth piece of tree behind me. The Pigman's fussing around with ropes and dog collars, all the time chatting and chuckling to Sara and Slatko. The only word I can make out is ‘Kalashnikov'. Evidently he's still tickled by my question.

The log almost stretches from the tent to the ute. I lie it down and begin to kick at it but only pathetic sheets of bark loosen and shed so I boot it harder. The Pigman's walking towards me with the shovel. He's still laughing. It's getting louder and he's throwing around the word ‘Kalashnikov' like it's the funniest thing ever.

‘What's the fucking joke?' I hiss. ‘It's bad manners to speak in a language the other person can't understand.'

The Pigman doesn't answer. He's busy digging a pit for the fire. He's thrusting the shovel into the dirt and chuckling away like he's been sucking on happy gas.

My hands twitch. They're searching for something to hold. It's my fingers. I need to wrap them around something, anything. A thick branch sticks up from the base of the log. I wrap my hands tightly around it and squeeze while my foot pounds at the wood below, my toes slamming into the front of my boot. I kick and kick until the trunk starts to splinter.

‘Your laughing is really getting on my nerves,' I spit.

‘Demon, you too serious. You should laugh.' He stops digging and raises his hands to the heavens, like he's some evangelical preacher. ‘Plenty, plenty to be happy about.'

‘How the fuck would you know!' I shout. A chunk of wood flies off my boot like a soccer ball. Slatko and Sara drop to their haunches. ‘You know nothing about me. Not one little thing. You can't even say my fucking name properly!' I pick up what's left of the tree and smash it against the ground. Then I limp into the scrub, rubbing the splinters into my palms.

After a few minutes I stop. I'm too scared to go further, in case I get lost. Instead I walk around and around in circles until I feel like chucking up his Serbian food. I'm out here in the middle of bum fuck nowhere, where the road just keeps going and going but I'm trapped, trapped in this tiny space. I'm not living, I'm waiting. It doesn't matter if I'm in my bedroom or out here in never-ending land, it's all just one big waiting room.

‘I never counted, did I? Never, never counted,' I hiss.

Suddenly the hate expands through my chest. I breathe it into my nostrils, feel it swirling inside my head. ‘Fuck you,' I say to all the faces I can see in front of me – Steven Marshall, Parker, Geraghty, Pascoe. ‘FUCK
ALL
of you.'

The firewood is burning now. I stand at the edge of our camp site. The Pigman reclines on a chair, a bottle of his toxic brandy sitting by one foot, the dogs by his other. I'm not in view but already Sara is snarling.

‘
Stoj tu
,' the Pigman says and Sara stops. But as I walk towards them I notice Sara's fur ripple like a coat of thorns. He's sniffed me out.

The Pigman holds up the bottle. ‘You drink,' he says.

I take a long swig and the liquid glides down my throat. It's sweeter than last time.

‘We eat soon. I make stew, beef and bean. I cook slowly for three day like my grandmother show me,' he says. ‘You have one grandmother, Demon?'

‘No. She died when I was a baby.'

‘Is too bad. My grandmother, she live till one hundred year.'

‘Yeah?' I mutter.

‘My family strong. Good Serbian blood.'

I could ask again about the war. He's mellow and pissed but now I'm tired. The anger has a way of sucking me dry, leaving me empty.

The lid's off and the Pigman's stirring the pot.

‘Smells good,' I say. I want it to be like it never happened. I want it to be like Archie and me sitting around the campfire, drinking sweet tea and watching the flames. ‘We mostly eat frozen dinners at my place. You know, the ones in the boxes.'

‘Your mother no cook?'

‘Not really,' I answer. ‘Well, not for me.'

‘That why you fat.' He leans over and before I have a chance to suck in my guts he pats the flab and says in a serious voice, ‘You no eat good food, Demon. You eat my food, you will be healthy.'

‘I've actually lost weight.' It's strange hearing me say it. I've never stayed on a diet for more than a couple of days and now I'm shedding the kilos without even trying. ‘I really have.'

‘I very good cook,' the Pigman tells me. ‘I will be helping you, Demon.'

My palms are rubbing together and I realise I'm actually looking forward to the Pigman's food.

‘That is what I miss most in war. My cooking good food.' He puts the lid on the pot and sits back in his chair. ‘No salt. No much flour. Only on black market.'

‘So what did you eat?'

‘Beans. Beans in soup. Beans in beans,' he chuckles. ‘It took me long time to eat beans again. Now I like. But never on own.'

‘I bet there was plenty of farting.'

‘Plenty.'

The Pigman's eyes are closed. His hands slide across his belly then stay there. From where I sit it looks as if he's smiling, almost laughing to himself. ‘I knew one boy,' he begins. ‘He fat like you. His stomach would get bigger and bigger like balloon. He almost cry with pain. “No more beans, no more beans”,' the Pigman almost sings the line. ‘“Please no more beans, Niko.”'

‘Who was Niko?'

The Pigman's eyes open. ‘He was no one.' Suddenly he's like an old man getting up, all groans and bent at the waist. His palms cup his lower back as he staggers to the bush and begins to piss.

‘There's a Serbian guy called Niko in one of the games I play. He's this tough fucker who came from your war and goes to America to find a better life. Is that like what you did, coming here?'

‘You say this man is Serb?' he calls back.

‘Yeah. He's from Yugoslavia.'

The Pigman walks back into view, fumbling with his belt. ‘Pfff. He could be Bosniak,' his voice grows louder. ‘
Ustasha
…'

‘I don't know, it's just a game, mate.'

‘But if American then would be Serb, for sure. Always bad guy. Always blame for everything.'

This is how I want him talking. This is exactly where I need him. But something tells me not to go any further. It's dark and he's standing away from the fire but I swear his pale eyes have turned black.

‘So what's the plan?' I clap my hands together. It's something else Moe does when he's nervous. It irritates the hell out of me, but here I am doing it now.

‘Plan?'

‘Tonight,' I say. ‘Pig shooting.'

‘We no shooting pig.'

‘What? We're not starting tonight?'

‘Yes! Of course,' he answers. ‘We will be busy.'

I speak slowly. ‘So we are. Going. Pig. Shooting. Tonight. Yes?'

‘But we no shoot, Demon.'

‘Hey?'

‘We no shoot pig. No waste bullet,' he says. ‘We use dogs, then –' the Pigman slices his hand across his throat – ‘finiiish.'

I catch myself before I clap my hands a second time. ‘I, um, thought we were shooting the pigs? You know, with a gun.'

‘Pfff, no,' the Pigman spits, wagging his finger at me. ‘Use gun only when pig for meat.'

Without asking I lean over, take the bottle and have a long, deep drink. I open my mouth to say something but I'm just chomping on the air. What can I say? You scare the hell out of me but the whole reason I'm here is for you to teach me how to shoot without missing?

He reaches out for the brandy. When I pass it to him he smiles. This time he doesn't show his teeth. Instead his lips stretch into his cheeks. It almost makes him look sad.

Maybe I could tell him the whole damn story. If he freaks out I could blame it on a translation breakdown. But where would I start? The day I killed the cat? Year 10 camp? Walking out of Pascoe's office? Or perhaps the day I was born is the only place to begin.

‘What wrong, Demon?' He walks over to me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You no happy boy. Is it your father? He make you sad all time?'

My shoulders lift under his grip. It feels strange to have someone touching me. The Pigman does it with such ease. My muscles can't help but melt under his hold and I wonder who else has touched me like this? Archie? My mother? But it was a long time ago.

‘You listen. I will tell you something.' The Pigman lowers himself back into the chair. ‘Demon, I make you one promise. I will teach you how to shoot. You make best shot in Strathven. Then when your dad come …' The Pigman holds his hands like he's got a rifle. He tips the muzzle into the air. ‘Boooom! No worries.'

‘Thanks,' I swallow. He hands me back the brandy. I guzzle down the sweetness then give it back, the whole time avoiding his eyes.