Pig Boy Page 7

  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.’

  Suddenly the bile rises up my throat. What was I playing at ringing Curlewis? What did I think I could say? ‘I have to renew my firearms licence. I have no choice in the matter. It’s been forced upon me.’

  If Curlewis saw me walk into the Strathven Shooters’ Club, he’d call the cops. Curlewis knows why Archie left. I know because he never spoke another word to me again. When he spots me down the street, he even crosses to the other side.

  The Mereton Shooting Club probably runs safety awareness programs every day. I could do step four and I’d just be a face in the crowd. The noise reoccupies the space inside my head. Be more careful, dickhead, I tell myself. You have to think every little thing through. If you don’t, one of them will wise up to you and you’re a goner. Gone! And probably the old lady too.

  I follow the arrow into the car park just as a police car is driving out. For a second I think about following it back to the station and telling them what I saw. But I know it’s too late now. All the steps must be played out.

  Once my bedroom was my sanctuary, my own private space. Not any more. They’d know that’s where to find me if things suddenly heat up. Now it’s a waiting room, four by four metres of pacing space, merely somewhere to mark out the time until I’m ready or they’re ready, whichever comes first.

  I stare at the ramp that leads the way into Mereton Shooting Club. I visited here with Archie once, three years ago. It was a Sunday morning and the place was pumping. There were blokes inside the gallery target-shooting; a junior ‘air pistol handicap’ event going on outside; sons and fathers window-shopping for the perfect family shotgun; and hunters stocking up on ammunition and swapping tales of their latest kill.

  Archie was all grins that day. He said g’day to everyone. I kept quiet. It was a world I was totally estranged from. But I wanted to feel what Archie felt. I wanted the adren aline to pump like his did. But it didn’t. Hunting with Archie was torture. Hours could be spent moving through the bush tracking an injured animal he’d shot but not killed. I’d stay behind with the ute, chucking up my guts and telling myself that it was okay. Archie wouldn’t leave it to die a slow, painful death. He’d find it. He’d end its misery.

  But today the task to accomplish is to book in for the next safety course and see about joining the club. Part of me is almost excited about the prospect of going home and putting a black line through my to-do list. But another part of me is saying, Why? Why are you doing this?

  This is the voice I can’t trust. The part of me that wants to pretend last Friday didn’t happen. But it did and that’s why I’m here. I have to be the one in control. I have to know what I’m doing, so I practise my line. ‘I’d like to book in for the next safety awareness course.’ My enthusiasm sounds about as fake as my commitment. But that’s not important. What’s important here is that I’m forgettable.

  The inside of the club’s had a major overhaul. The windows are frosted and the carpet’s a vivid purple, most likely purchased at a discounted rate. Massive glass cabinets crammed with firearms memorabilia go from ceiling to floor. It really looks the goods now. It’s almost like a gentleman’s club.

  A girl with teeth as big as her tits grins from the front desk. ‘Welcome to Mereton Shooting Club. Would you like to sign in?’

  ‘I want to book in for the next safety awareness course,’ I tell her. ‘Plus I want to find out about membership.’

  Tits on Teeth picks up a phone and presses a button. ‘I’ll buzz Jeff,’ she whispers to me like it’s top secret. ‘He’s the man to talk to.’

  Jeff’s taking his time. She’s holding the receiver and smiling. It’s tricky to know where to look. I want to come across as friendly but not a pervert.

  ‘He’s not answering.’ She comes around to my side of the desk and tells me to follow her. So I do. Her black pants sit tight on her arse just like Cleopatra666’s. I get hard and think about seeing Cleopatra tonight.

  She’s leading me into the shop area of the club. ‘I’m not sure if the website’s been updated. There’s been a change in the timetable and some online bookings have been lost. I don’t want to give you the wrong information. I’ve only been working here a couple of months.’

  That’s why she doesn’t interrupt. Instead we stand there watching three men in red shirts lift guns off shelves and launch into the same salesman’s speech.

  I try to hurry her along. ‘So which one is Jeff?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not a sales assistant.’ She giggles as a shade of pink flushes across her cheeks. I grab the moment to have a good look at her. This must be what Jeff gets after work.

  ‘Oh, there he is!’ Her face is burning red now. Her tits wobble as she waves at two men coming out of the indoor shooting gallery. ‘Jeff!’ The giggle returns. ‘Jeffff?’

  My eyes scan the bloke who must be Jeff. But it’s the guy he’s with who hijacks my attention. My breath whips through my neck like a guillotine.

  He only shows his profile. His head is down as he says something to Jeff. But there is no mistaking who it is.

  I watch his brown boots step across the purple carpet. The scuffed-up toes are coming towards me. Both men break into laughter at something Jeff has said. I stare at the ground. It’s the same hyena laugh only softer, like I’m not meant to hear it.

  I’m gulping, hungry for air.

  The girl is saying something to them. All I can catch is the word ‘course’. I want to tell her it doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. But she’s started laughing too. They’re killing me with their noise. I want them to stop. Just hurry up and get it over and done with.

  ‘Are you okay, mate?’ His voice comes from every corner of the room. ‘Mate?’ He takes a step towards me. Every muscle in my body locks.

  ‘I’m ready.’ That’s what I want to tell him. He’s reaching out a hand. A chunky band of gold encircles a slender brown wrist. But it’s not right. The pictures aren’t connecting. His boots are just ordinary workboots. There’s no built-up heel with a foot that drags behind. I look up. I’ve never seen this man before.

  My feet begin to back me out of the room. My arm’s stretched out in front of me. I’m trying to speak but the words are dribbling out the side of my mouth. ‘Yeah. I’m. Sorry … it’s um … not well … sorry.’

  I keep going until I am back in the car park. Then I throw up.

  ‘What took ya so long? Don’t ya check ya phone?’ The only time the old lady takes a breath is to drag on her cigarette. ‘What ’ave ya been up to, eh? Ya haven’t done the shoppin’. Ya haven’t done nothink! Pat and me was thinkin’ you’d forgotten me.’

  She’s on a rant but I’m only here in body. She can say whatever she wants as long as she doesn’t stop me from getting home.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice the dust all over me tyres. I saw Pat lookin’ too. She would’a been wondering whatcha up to. She says everyone is. Hey? Have ya been drivin’ through the bush? Ya smell like vomit. Ya been drinkin’?’

  I turn the radio on and press my foot into the accelerator. Home. Now all I want to do is get home.

  Soon the old girl’s eyes are closed and she’s lost in a duet with Rod Stewart. I stare at the white line in the middle of the road and let it swallow up my thoughts.

  I thought out here I was safe. Out here I was free. But now I don’t know. Maybe I am safer inside my room. The tur
n-off to Strathven is up ahead and my body senses it. I feel my shoulders falling away from my neck. Suddenly Mum hits the dashboard and I’m as stiff as a corpse again.

  ‘Coke!’ she yells. ‘I’m outta Coca Cola. Pull into the servo here. I seen they’re on special.’

  Sitting by the pump is Andrew Parker’s black Mazda. The bonnet’s up. Three blokes with their arses hanging out of their pants are busy inspecting the engine. Nowhere is safe.

  But we won’t get home if we don’t get Mum’s Coke. My fingers tighten their grip on the steering wheel and I tell myself ‘calm is the key’. The car glides past Parker, Curtis and Little Joe Marshall.

  I keep going past the shop entrance, past the parking spaces until we’re at the back of the servo where the mechanics’ workshop is.

  The only one not being calm is the old girl. ‘Oi. Oi!’ she’s hollering. ‘Why ya pullin’ up here? We’re bloody miles away.’

  ‘People don’t like it if you park at the pump when you’re not getting petrol.’ My voice is calm, as if I’m giving a relaxation session. ‘You go and pay for the box of Cokes. I’ll pick you up outside in a couple of minutes. Okay?’

  ‘No, not okay!’ she barks back at me. ‘I’m not okay at all. I can’t walk over there. It’s too far. You know how breathless I get. Go on. Off ya go.’

  My fingers are still gripping the steering wheel. I’m not even sure I have the energy to release them.

  ‘C’mon. Hurry up! I need to use the toilet and I’m not bloody goin’ here.’

  I want to crawl into the back seat and disappear. This is too hard.

  ‘Whatcha doin’?’ Mum’s flapping a twenty-dollar note in my face. ‘Just for once can ya do what I ask ya?’

  I will because there’s no point arguing. It’s time to start picking my battles. I need her onside with her antenna turned off.

  It takes a deep breath and a count to three to get me out of the seat and onto my feet. I edge around the side of the building, keeping my head down and concentrating on quick steps.

  ‘Be cool,’ I whisper, fishing through the coins in my pocket so I can find the exact amount. I calculate I can be in and out in ten seconds. Not enough time to buy a padlock.

  As I’m stepping into the shop, the boot of Parker’s Mazda slams shut. I dump the money on the counter. Some of it lands on the floor but I’m walking out, calling behind me, ‘For a case of Coke, mate.’

  My hands are lifting the box. I’m half a second from slipping around the corner and disappearing when the heavy steps stop dead behind me. The only way to escape is to turn around and face them. But they’ve snuggled up real close and the smell of their breath tells me they’re looking for trouble.

  ‘Damon?’

  I don’t move.

  ‘How you doing, brother?’ It’s Andrew Parker talking. ‘We’re missing you. School’s so quiet these days.’

  Parker takes a step closer. My knees are pushing against the cartons of soft drink. Through the window I watch the man restocking the cigarettes. He’s trying to act busy so he doesn’t have to look at us.

  ‘You want to know something?’ continues Parker. ‘There’s a rumour going round that you’re planning to come back to school and get us all. Personally, I reckon you’re too much of a pussy. But Curtis here, he reckons you will.’ The spit is pooling in my mouth. I can’t make my throat swallow. ‘Why don’t ya ask him, Styles? Ask him how he reckons you’re going to kill us.’

  Little Joe seems to find the line amusing. He starts with a couple of snorts but within seconds he’s unleashed the crazy hyena laugh. There’s a thud as one of them whacks him and the laughing stops.

  ‘Take this as a polite warning,’ Parker whispers. Now his breath is combing the hairs on my neck. ‘If we catch you near the school, you’re fucking dead. Understood?’

  They walk away, their boots clicking back across the concrete.

  Curtis Marshall turns back. It’s like he senses I’m still standing there. He mouths, ‘I’m watching you.’

  My fingertips curl into themselves. I clench them against the cardboard until my hands spasm and jerk. Curtis Marshall knows I know.

  ‘WHERE YA TAKIN’ THAT, SON?’

  I’m walking down the hall. The blanket from the couch is draped over my shoulders. I’m also holding a hammer and nails but the old lady can’t see them.

  ‘Damon?’ she squawks. ‘Whatcha doin’ with it?’

  ‘I’m taking it to my room.’

  ‘What for?’

  I don’t answer. I need the blanket so I’m taking it.

  But the old lady’s following. Her wet throat crackles behind me.

  ‘That rug lives on the couch, son,’ she’s saying. ‘Aren’tcha warm enough? I can get ya another …’

  There’s a huff and groan as I shut my bedroom door on her.

  The blanket just stretches across the window. The hem sits almost flush on the windowsill. But the main thing is that the glass is covered. Now I can sit by the window and watch the street and no one will see me.

  It makes the room so dark. Now my eyes can play tricks day and night. What fun they’ll have messing with my head, making me see things that aren’t really there.

  I turn the lamp on. It throws its light like a half-moon across my bedroom wall. I lift my hand, watching my shadow follow. My fingers splay, the curve between the thumb and index finger making a perfect letter ‘J’.

  ‘J’, I hear myself whisper. ‘J is for Jeremiah.’

  In that second I see the fat little boy sitting by himself on the ‘time out’ mat. He’s been wrongly accused of tipping the pencil sharpenings into the class fish tank. But he’s forgotten about that. Instead he’s hypnotised by the stories the scripture teacher is reading to the rest of the class. Moses, Abraham, Noah, these are the best tales he has ever heard.

  The ones about Jeremiah are his favourite. Jeremiah also thinks too much. He gets mocked and teased and thrown in dark places just the same as the fat little boy they call ‘Damoink’.

  How he wishes his name was Jeremiah, because that would mean he was important. Sometimes Jeremiah is called the ‘Crying Prophet’. But the name he likes the most is the ‘Prophet of Doom’.

  My hand rotates in the shadow. Now I’m making the shape of a gun.

  My finger points downwards, my eyes follow. Just ahead is the figure of Curtis Marshall, kneeling on the bedroom floor. Slowly, I begin to circle him.

  ‘Now, here’s my polite warning, brother,’ I whisper. ‘I am going to take that job with the Pigman, so don’t try to screw with my brain because it won’t work this time.’ I twist my hand so that the muzzle is now aimed at Curtis’s head. ‘Is your silence meant to unnerve me, dickhead? Is that your way of telling me that you know I know? That you know I was there? You’re scum, you know that too, don’t you? All of you. Your whole fucking family – scum. Do you think I’m just here to clean up your mess? To finish the jobs your big brothers can’t be bothered finishing? They’re not going to scare me. I’m ready and waiting.’

  The shadow stretches as I extend my elbow. Now my arm is long and straight. I’m pointing the AK-47 at him. My hand clicks the magazine into place. The coward flinches at the sound. ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re scared?’ I spit. ‘How does it feel down there on your knees? You going to beg for mercy? Hey? Hey! It’s a real laugh being afraid, isn’t it? Real good time. Just ask your big brothers.’

  My nostrils are sucking up the air, breathing the hate through the rest of my body. I want to kick him. I want to beat him. I want to see the terror in his eyes, in all their eyes. I want to, I want to …

  I fall to my knees and cry as the pain soars through me. I curl into a ball, my arms wrapped tightly around me like I am hugging myself to death.

  THE DOGS START BARKING BEFORE my car’s even halfway up the drive. I want so badly to hotfoot it down the track. But I can’t. This is the way it is. It’s me or them. Simple.

  When I reach the top, the Pigman is standing there l
ike he’s been expecting me. It’s the smaller, brindle-coloured dog that’s worked himself into a frenzy. He’s growling and digging his feet into the dirt, dying to go at me. The Pigman holds the collar, pulling him back so hard that his front paws dangle in the air. ‘Shutee!’ he’s saying.

  I turn the engine off. I’m not exactly sure what to do. My brain feels like an empty black box.

  The Pigman and his dog are walking towards the car. His hand still grips the collar. It’s the largest hand I have ever seen on a human. I attempt to look casual as I get out and wedge my body between the door and the driver’s seat. It’s like I’m having an each-way bet. The grey dog hasn’t shown his face yet but I’m going to be ready when he does.

  The Pigman’s eyes are the palest blue. He is staring right into me and I wonder if you got close enough, could you see through to his brain.

  ‘Hey.’ I nod, while my hand gives a limp wave, then drops onto the roof of the car. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Can I be helping you?’ His teeth are jagged triangles that seem to pierce his tongue as he speaks. ‘You sell something to me?’

  ‘No, no. Look, um, I heard there’s a job going, working for you. I was wondering if it was still available?’

  ‘Job?’ he says. Now he and the dog are looking at me like I’m a travelling freak show. ‘What job? Who tell you this?’

  About now, I’m thinking of strangling Moe.

  Again, the Pigman asks. ‘Who tell you this?’

  ‘I heard it down town. Someone said that, that Gordon’s not working for you any more.’

  ‘Godon?’ He blows the air, his lips making a ‘pfff’ sound. ‘Godon gone. He no hoper. Stupid, stupid boy.’

  ‘So …?’ It’s not too late to get back in the car and drive away. The possibility is so real I can almost reach out and wrap it around me. But this is it. There’s no turning back. ‘So?’ I force my lips to form the words. ‘Is there a job?’

  ‘Is possible.’ The Pigman’s eyes are scanning me from head to toe.