Pig Boy by J.C. Burke Page A

only thing that would be of interest to her is my collection of lists. But as always I’m one step ahead of the rest. They’re disguised in beaten-up exercise books that Mum’d never bother with. The only thing that could arouse curiosity is the Roman numeral etched in the top right-hand corner of each cover. It’s my cataloguing system. I want to always know which list came when. It’s important to me.
    I have ‘lists’, plural, because once you start it’s hard to stop. They’re just lists of names. Names of people who’ve burrowed their way under my skin.
    There’s something about writing the offender’s name, seeing it in front of you, storing it away for a rainy day. It creates fresh space in the brain. If I had to, I could close my eyes and recite every single one. But having them there on paper is a type of security, in case one day I forget just one of them.
    The first list goes way back to the afternoon I put the cat out of its misery. The heading, written in my slanty Year 7 writing, says: The 4 people in the world I would most like to die. It’s melodramatic, and last night when I read it again I could’ve laughed. But the neatly placed finger space between each word made me think of the fat kid who couldn’t run and felt the sting of every cruel word that came his way. So how could I laugh? I was the only one who knew how bad he hurt that day. Writing that list was the only thing that made him feel better.
    As I close the drawer, my arm feels limp and powerless, as if I haven’t used it in years. My body wants to fold onto the bed. I’ve been up less than an hour but already I want to climb back under the blankets and disappear.
    Soon it will be dark again and the streets outside will tease me. A dog will bark but who is it barking at? Our gate will slam but was it the wind? A car will drive past, slowing down outside our place like Parker’s did last night. But one night it won’t be Parker’s car, it’ll be Steven and Billy Marshall’s shiny silver ute.
    So it’s night tremors and monsters in the wardrobe. I’ll close my eyes hoping that tonight will be different. But it won’t because I’ll see the man’s face, the way he looked at me in that split second, and the idea of sleep will vanish.
    In the bottom drawer is my most recent book of lists. I wrote the last one almost two months ago. It consists of only one name. His inaugural entry, actually, and a whole two pages dedicated just to him. Him and his selective judgement. The traitor Pascoe.
    I don’t know why it took me so long to add Pascoe’s name to a list. I seemed to always be in trouble with him, always in his office. But I don’t think I really minded because usually we’d end up having a good chat and Pascoe’d say the words ‘you count as much as anyone else. You’re just as important’.
    I must’ve presumed he’d intervene and the phone calls would just stop. But it wasn’t like that. Now I understand that he’d grown tired of me. I’d put his name on the list but not for the reason I should’ve. The hate hadn’t burnt as much then.
    The calls to our home only came when I wasn’t there. Of course the first one caught the old girl off guard.
    â€˜Mrs Styles?’ She said the man had whispered her name at first. But his voice grew louder and louder, she said, ‘like he was doing something disgusting to himself.’ Then when he stopped, a loud noise screeched through the phone. ‘A real blood-curdling sound,’ she explained to me. ‘Like pigs at the slaughterhouse.’
    Over the next couple of weeks the phone calls were more frequent and the messages varied. ‘I’m watching you.’ ‘Mrs Styles, I’m going to make you squeal.’ ‘I’m going to slit your throat.’ But what was always the same was the sound of squealing pigs