Free Pig Boy by J.C. Burke Page A

say in an overly pleasant voice, ‘I won’t be able to do the shopping. I’ve got some things to do, Mum.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Just stuff.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Can ya do that?’
    â€˜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