Pig Boy (6 page)

CLEOPATRA666, THE LIAR, SAID SHE wouldn't be online tonight. But she is. She's playing
Halo
with Falcon. She's a prick tease. Right now she's probably strutting around in her tight little suit with her M16, unloading on anyone that gets in her way.

Last night she told me she thought Falcon was a jerk-off. That's probably what he's doing at this exact minute, jerking off with one hand and playing her with the other. Whatever. I've got important things to do.

It's been twenty-four hours since I opened the wardrobe again. That's another thing I organised last night while waiting for Cleopatra666 to show up. I took out all the clothes I might need in the next few weeks and stuffed them under my bed, which means I won't have to open the wardrobe at all. But I stupidly left Archie's fatigues in there and tonight I need to wear them.

A fine piece of fishing line lies across the gap where the wardrobe doors meet. I stuck it there last night, pasting it down with my spit. Until I get a padlock, it's my only way of knowing if the wardrobe's been opened.

Carefully I remove the nylon thread. The space between the doors is tiny but behind that crack is where it all starts to go wrong.

The black gym bag and my schoolbag lie untouched on the left-hand side of the wardrobe. I don't even turn my head in that direction. On the right, down the very end and packed up in a suitcase so Mum will never find them, are Archie's fatigues.

They were hanging on the clothesline when he left. From my bedroom window I watched the sleeves rise and fall in the breeze. It was like Archie waving goodbye before a hunting trip, calling out, ‘Are you sure you don't want to come, Damon?'

His clothes sit on my lap now. I bury my face in the fabric, hoping to find just a trace of him. But I don't have time for pain, so quickly I chuck them on the bed and start to undress.

The pants don't fit and I can't button up the shirt, but still it makes me feel in control. It makes me feel like I could take on anything.

I stare into the wardrobe, at the five coathangers draped with clothes that I'll never need. There's the suit Mum bought me for Aunty Yvonne's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I only wore it once and that was in the shop. We didn't end up going to Adelaide because Yvonne never offered us a bed at her house. ‘I'm not forkin' out all that money when me sister can't even give us a place to stay,' Mum'd said. But I think the old girl was scared of aero-planes. I remember her saying to Pat after the dust had settled and she'd stopped screeching around the house about her Mrs La-Di-Da sister, ‘Flyin' up in the sky, like, that's for them rich and famous, not me.'

The space between each coathanger is the same. I know because I measured it out last night, from the tip of my middle finger to the notch at the end of my elbow. Fifty-two centimetres exactly.

I check the measurements and, satisfied, close the wardrobe, lick my finger and paste the thread back across the doors.

There's something else hidden in my room. The other exercise book squashed between the mattress and springs. I push the doona away so I can reach in and pull the book out. The coiled shapes of wire springs are imprinted across the first few pages.

There's no list of names here, just the jumble of words plus the beginnings of a plan I scribbled down when I got home that day. My finger brushes across each line. Again I have the feeling that I want to wrap my hands around Pascoe's throat and shake him until I feel his weight collapse. It's his fault that I have to do this, not mine.

I close my eyes and start to count; promising that when I reach the number ten, I will open them and calmly go back to the task at hand.

The first page is a total rave. My writing is a mess, the grammar and structure all over the place. It barely makes sense. Finch wouldn't mark it more than twelve out of twenty. I'd join the losers in the class. I imagine explaining to Finch why my work is so poor. As if she'd buy it. Who would?

But tonight the task at hand is to put the mess in order.

I go to the list and read every word twice just to be sure. I cross out what I've done and if something needs following up I mark it with an asterisk. These points will be transferred and numbered on a brand new to-do list. I want to curl into a ball and will myself to disappear. But tonight is a ‘doing' night, not one for self-pity.

On a fresh white page, I write in and underline the two most important things to remember, rewrite the points with an asterisk and start to add new ones, careful not to be too specific this time.

TO-DO LIST

• Google for info
  
• Check newspapers etc
  
• Get a padlock
  
• Look into renewing firearms licence
  – book safety course, call rifle club re rejoining and course availability
  
• Visit Pigman re job
  

Step one is simple. It's straight to YouTube. I have to see how this mother works.

The AK-47 used to be one of my main weapons of choice. I especially liked using it when I played
Kaos
with Vigilanteboy. The AK-47 had a slower rate of fire which helped me focus and get my head sorted while Vigilanteboy ran around screaming like a girl with a broken fingernail.

I wonder what happened to him. He just disappeared from all the lists.

For a while I searched and asked around the forums but no one knew where he was. Now I wish I'd tried harder. Vigilanteboy knew about AK-47s – real ones, I mean. Once I was complaining about their recoil when hip-firing and he said ‘Dude, you oughta try one in real life. Those things kick like a pregnant mare with a hangover.'

If I found Vigilanteboy, I'd ask him to tell me everything he knows.

The YouTube listings go for pages. My first choice is a comparative study with the AK-47 and other assault rifles but it makes no sense to me. So I check out the hot Russian chicks demonstrating how the AK-47 works but I can't keep focused on what they're saying in their sexy Russian accents. I watch an interesting doco on Kalashnikov himself. Then I hit a series of eight-second videos showing how fast the AK-47 can reload. It's amazing. I watch it again and again.

Finally I find what the novice like me needs: ‘Basics of the AK-47'. It's a nice little step-by-step educational video. The bloke talking even looks a bit like Pascoe, which only makes it all the more ironic.

He's a moron too. ‘Safety is important when handling any rifle and takes no time at all. Always check the rifle is clear. When handling the rifle, ensure the muzzle is pointed in a safe direction.' I finish the sentence, ‘unless of course you're in the company of a traitor, then ensure the muzzle is pointed directly at the balls.'

I doze a bit with my head on the desk but at 7 am the alarm on my mobile rings and it's time to implement step four of the plan. I'm straight on the phone to the Strathven Shooters' Club. If the Pigman gives me a job, I'll have to show him a current firearms licence.

I'm not expecting anyone to pick up at the club. All I want is their opening hours. Receiving a call on their answering machine at 7 am shouldn't arouse any suspicion. Then I can fall into bed knowing that one thing on the list has been achieved.

‘Strathven Shooters' Club, John Curlewis speaking.' The cheery voice of Mr Curlewis finds me off guard and instead of hanging up I'm umming and ahhing like a moron.

‘Yes. Hello?'

‘Yes, um,' I say. ‘I just wanted some information.'

‘Fire away?' He laughs at his joke. I try and laugh too but it comes out like a long tired cough. All in all it's not a good start.

‘I received a letter in the post about my minor's permit expiring.' The adrenaline is kicking back in. I'm circling the room, moderating my voice, trying to sound like a reasonable bloke. ‘So, so I need to apply for a new licence and I wanted to know if I can do the safety awareness course down at your club?'

‘Yes, we run the course here.'

‘When?'

‘They're not that often,' he answers. I can hear him shuffling papers. ‘Most of the folk do it in Mereton, these days. Ah, this Wednesday there's one. How about that? Starts at 6.30 pm. The first hour is theory with a multiple choice exam and the second hour is practical. All simple, common-sense stuff. You being a minor's permit holder would know it anyway. But it's the law and a refresher is always good.'

‘So, so it's two hours?'

‘That's right. Then you put in your application with the Firearms Registry and in about four weeks you'll get a letter back saying your licence is ready. You get your photo –'

‘Four weeks! But I need it for work.'

‘That's how long it takes, son.'

Four weeks. I don't know if I've got that much time. I'm struggling to get the panic out of my voice.

‘I, I see.'

‘Are you a member of this club?'

‘No.'

‘Well, we better fix that.' Mr Curlewis chuckles again. He's a sort of a Santa Claus, Mr Curlewis, with a fat, ruddy face and a thick cotton wool beard. He's the jolly type who tends to slap his knee when he laughs. I picture how his face would change if he knew it was me on the other end of the phone. Mr Curlewis and Archie were friends.

‘Are you a member of any shooting clubs in the state? You have to provide a genuine reason for having a licence …'

‘I, um, want to start target shooting,' I say. ‘I've been told it's a, a great sport. Great sport! So I'd really like to give it a go.' I've almost convinced myself that this is the genuine reason. ‘So, yeah, I want to join the club. Definitely.'

‘Come down and we'll have a chat. I'm here pretty much all the time. I'll book you in for Wednesday's course too. What's your name?'

I hang up. What the hell am I playing at?

I take off Archie's hunting fatigues and collapse into bed.

Mum is standing over me, saying my name. It's a second before I get a handle on the situation and when I do I'm on my feet ready for action.

‘What? What?'

‘Ya very jumpy, son,' Mum says to me. She's holding a picture frame. It's me on my first day of school. ‘Love this photo. Ya was so cute, love.'

I force myself to sit down. A bit of Archie's hunting shirt is sticking out from under the bed so I place my feet over it. ‘What do you want, Mum?' I say it calmer this time.

‘I'm gettin' me hair done down at Pat's house. I want ya to drive me out there.' Mum leans against the wardrobe. ‘I don't like goin' on that back road. I may as well make use of ya.'

‘Sure. Sure.' I'm getting up and walking towards her because I know that'll make her move.

‘Ya know it's almost lunchtime, love.' Mum starts to edge away from the wardrobe. ‘We got to go in five minutes.'

‘Not “got to go”,' I correct. ‘It's “we need to go”.'

Mum rolls her eyes at me, hands me the photo frame and walks out. I close the door behind her.

‘Damon!' she squawks.

‘I'll be there in a sec.'

There's one thing to check.

The relief whistles through my teeth. The wardrobe hasn't been touched. The five coathangers are lined up exactly how I left them twelve hours ago.

WE ESCAPE TOWN WITHOUT BEING seen. At least, I'm as sure as I can be. One eye was on the road while the other darted back and forth between the mirrors.

When we turn onto the highway it's like the world finally opens, giving me space to breathe. There are so many plans bouncing off the sides of my brain. But here on this quiet smooth strip of bitumen I will try to settle them and stop the noise.

Maybe for the first time as a legal adult I'll be able to think straight. I need to get back to how I usually am: one step ahead, decisive, direct and in control.

I sigh, turning my head and lifting my shoulders, oiling the creaks and cracks in my bones and sockets. The rear-vision mirror catches the side of my face. There's almost a cheekbone protruding through my padded skin. My fingertips push into the hard lump and I wonder what my skull looks like under all this flesh.

‘I'm goin' to have some blonde tips put in,' Mum is telling me as she digs her fist into a giant bag of nuts. ‘What do ya reckon?'

She shoves the bag into the glove box and brushes her salty palms over her skirt. I hear a grunt and a ‘hmmm'. She is satisfied, pleased even, that she has shown the discipline not to eat the whole packet in one sitting. Five minutes, maybe three, that's all I give her before the nuts are back out and in her mouth.

‘Son?' she says. Now she's watching me and I don't want her to. It feels like her stare is sucking the oxygen out of the car. ‘Like I said before, ya spendin' far too much time in ya room sleepin'. I really –'

‘Who are you? Mrs Active?' I snap. Straight away I want to slap myself across the head. I need her off my case. So instead I say, ‘Sorry. You're right, Mum. I've just been really tired.'

‘We need to talk about ya futcha, Damon.'

‘Future,' I pronounce under my breath.

‘Ya gotta have some type of plan.'

‘We could go to Adelaide and visit Aunty Yvonne.' I imagine how easy it'd be to breathe interstate. ‘We've never been and you haven't seen your sister in a couple of years.'

‘Me sister only feels the need to see us when there's a crisis,' Mum replies. In a split second of insanity, I think of telling her that this
is
a crisis but she keeps talking. ‘And I don't count sitting ya final exams in the public library a national disaster, thanks all the same. Even though she probably would. She's so Mrs La-di-da, my life is perfect and I don't want no one muckin' it up. Plus I gotta keep an eye on me Powerball winnings, Damon. She's not stupid.'

The road to Pat's place veers off the highway. The Pigman lives out this way too. That's why I didn't make a fuss about coming. Mum's right. I've got to think about my future. I've got to work out how I'm going to implement the plan because there'll be no second chances.

I was fast out of bed today. I sensed Mum standing there and I was straight on my feet. But I know that won't be quick enough the day it's them standing there, ready to get me, to stop me from talking about what I saw them do.

‘Now, I got a list in me bag.' Already Mum's taken the nuts out of the glove box. She's talking through a mouthful of crunching. ‘I thought while I'm down at Pat's ya can go on back to town, get the groceries, take 'em home and unpack 'em. My hair'll take a while. I'll text ya when I know what time I need to be picked up.'

I'm agitated. I can't work out how I can be quick on my feet and armed at the same time. I answer Mum with a snap again. ‘I'm not doing the shopping!' So, slowly, I count to three, then say in an overly pleasant voice, ‘I won't be able to do the shopping. I've got some things to do, Mum.'

‘Like what?'

‘Just stuff.'

‘What do ya mean,
stuff
? What sorta stuff? You don't have things to do! Hey? What do ya mean by stuff?'

Now my answer is ready.

‘I want to drive to Mereton,' I tell her. ‘To see if I can enrol at the tech. I could finish the year there and sit my exams.'

‘Can ya do that?'

‘Well, that's what I want to check out.'

It looks like Mum is sticking her fingers down her throat but really she's licking the salt off them. ‘Hmm,' she nods.

For the rest of the trip Mum crunches on nuts and picks the leftovers out of her gums. Through the noise I can almost hear her brain ticking. I'm not certain she's swallowed my lie.

It's a while before I find the turn to the Pigman's place. I've been scanning the side of the road looking for a burnt-out ute, the remnants of the bonnet tangled in a wire fence. That's the landmark that signals the turn.

As soon as I spot it, my foot hits the brake. The car stops a bit too far ahead. My hand goes to push the gears into reverse but instead it lands on my thigh and rubs up and down till the friction burns through my jeans.

I don't want to do this. It's too hard.

Come on, what's your problem? I goad myself. It's a piece of piss, man. All you're doing is asking him if there's a job. It's a simple ‘yes' or ‘no' situation. Get the answer, then worry about the detail.

Heat is rising up through the seat and into the back of my jumper. It stings the hairs on my neck. I wind down the window and close my eyes.

Ten seconds. That's all I'll give myself. When I reach the count of ten, I have to open my eyes, reverse the car, turn up the driveway and keep going until I reach the Pigman's house.

The dirt track runs upwards in a straight line then sweeps into a corner like it's mapping out a figure eight. The surrounding land is bare except for the odd tree stump that sticks its neck out of the ground.

I pass a dinged-up washing machine. It's on the very edge of the track like a drive-through laundromat.

A bit further along is a claw-foot bath. The inside of it is streaked with rust so red that the image of a person lying in there bleeding to death crashes through my mind. I keep driving, even though the pull to turn around feels like it's peeling back my skin.

The landscape is changing. Now it resembles a graveyard of used parts. There are car engines, a fridge, pipes of all dimensions and three sets of barbells. The charred skeleton of a motorbike stands on its own. Scattered around are tyres, the rubber hanging off them like half-peeled apples. Then up around the final bend, looking like an alcoholic's tribute to pop art, is a perfectly stacked pyramid of brown glass bottles.

To put it mildly, this place is weird but at the same time strangely comforting. It makes me feel like I'm normal.

I turn the engine off but it's like I'm glued to the seat. So I sit and stare at a rusted green water tank until the corrugated ridges of tin blur and disappear.

A few metres away, a milk crate and chair lie under the shelter of one of the weeping pepper trees. The chair is upturned, its legs in the air. The vinyl seat has come apart. It hangs in jagged strips, the edges brushing against the dirt. This must be the Pigman's throne. Perhaps he sits up here staring over the hills, thinking of his next kill.

The stillness is too much. It hangs in the atmosphere like the morning after a wild night. I look away and stare at my hands clasped around the steering wheel.

My body slides further into the seat. While I'm here, Pascoe is probably strutting around the school grounds. Does he think of me? Does he wonder what I'm doing?

It seems ages before I venture out of the car. The only reason I do is because it's obvious no one's home. But the silence is intoxicating and I find myself walking towards a white box in the distance.

The Pigman lives in a caravan. It's not the ‘happy family let's go camping' type. It's more the ‘psychotic freak loner, knock at your own risk' caravan. I'm relieved that I can't hear screams from the inside.

I walk a wide circle around the house on wheels yet every little thing makes me stop and look. Closer and closer I find myself until my hand is touching the cloudy glass of a window.

Now I am standing outside the front door. A tap is dripping into a jumbo-sized dog bowl. The water spills over the rim, making a puddle of brown slush. Next to it sits a saucepan, a lid of humming flies hovering over it. They look like a flying carpet paused for a rest.

On one side of the caravan, under a canopy of tin sheets, is an outdoor kitchen. It's dark inside but like the rest of this place it has a strange pull that reels you in.

Everything is neat and in its place except for a dusting of flour and bits of dough littered along a bench. The Pigman's been cooking. I lean across and peek under a tea towel. Small triangle-shaped pies peer up at me.

A table is pushed into the corner, away from the draught. There's something on it but the thing lies so flat against the surface that the shadows swallow it up. I edge closer and see that it's as I thought. On the table, camouflaged against a piece of black felt, is a grey rifle.

It's a hunting rifle. I know that because Archie had one almost identical. His words come back to me as if he'd just said them: ‘This is a powerful rifle. One shot and you have a clean humane kill.'

My eyes run up and down the length of the barrel. The smooth grey surface tells you it means business. A clean kill – that's if you don't miss. But humane? How could Archie be so stupid?

‘Certain animals are vermin,' he'd said. ‘Their numbers need to be controlled.' It was the standard hunter's excuse.

‘Hah!' My sudden laugh ricochets off the tin sheets. Strathven is overpopulated with vermin. Their numbers need to be controlled.

I could pick up that rifle and walk away. It'd make my job easier; easier than using what's stashed in the wardrobe.

The tyres slip on the dust. I know I'm driving down the track too fast but I want to get away quickly. The Pigman doesn't need to know about my visit.

In a few minutes, the car has zoomed past the turn-off to Pat's place and is back on the highway, purring along the black bitumen. Now all I need to think about is following the white line to Mereton. There is no one behind me and no one in front. I feel the relief settling into my bones.

I wind down the window and suck the air into my lungs. At this moment out here on the road I am free.

I reach into the glove box and take out the old girl's stash of peanuts and my John Butler CD. I cruise through to Mereton with the music blaring and a mouthful of nuts.

As I turn into College Street, I slow right down. The Mereton TAFE is a series of apricot-coloured buildings sprawled across a few blocks. I need to stop and grab some enrolment information. That will get Mum off my back and buy me some space. I also urgently need to buy a padlock.

I drive around and around. It's impossible to get a park in these big towns. Mereton, like other places this size, is delusional, thinking it's a mini-city. The Mereton folk have always thought they were better than everyone else because the town houses the local court, a pompous stone building. They think they're so fancy that a few years ago they banished the industrial area to the south side of the railway line. Even some of the shops that sell second-hand goods had to go with them.

An article in the
Mereton Mercury
quoted the local member as saying, ‘No self-respecting Mereton citizen wants an eyesore like an industrial site near their beautiful park and war memorial.'

Not one person made a fuss about the move and I reckon I know why. The Mereton branch of the Sporting Shooters Association, the second biggest in the state, is on the south side of the railway line.

Now those self-respecting Mereton citizens can shoot a few rounds while their utes are loaded up with four-by-twos and nickel-plated pipes. By the look of the traffic crawling southwards across the railway bridge, I'd say my theory has legs.

I turn off John Butler and tune into the local radio. There's a man talking in a sleazy voice. He should be selling sex aids. ‘Accumer bullets,' his silken tonsils tell us. ‘Now you see them, now you don't.'