at the end of the call.
Mum told me she was annoyed, not frightened. That she could tell it was the voice of a young man, probably with nothing better to do. But one morning when I was nicking fifty dollars out of her handbag, I pulled out a small can of fly spray. She was scared.
I bought an answering machine so the calls could be recorded. I counted twenty-nine messages, all left on one Thursday between 11 am and 12.30 pm. Two of them were from Aunty Yvonne in Adelaide. Mum wasnât answering the phone at all. She was more than scared, she was terrified.
That afternoon as I sat there listening to every single one of their twenty-seven messages, I realised there was something else I could hear as the caller spoke. A distinct noise in the background that was cut the second the squealing pigs started.
The ascending whir and snap of the rattle gun used in the mechanics class at the school garage. I knew the sound well. Curtis Marshall and Darren Geraghty studied mechanics and they had a lesson every Thursday between 11 am and 12.30 pm.
It was Marshall and Geraghty, the scorching summer of five years ago when the sky felt like it was closing in on us, who labelled my mother âthe sowâ. A name that stood the test of time. They were the ones who started the chant: âI did the sow last night. You shouldâve heard her squeal.â
I knew it was them. They were the callers.
So the next morning, with a belly full of confidence and the answering machine in my bag, I made my way to Pascoeâs office to present the evidence. Pascoe listened to the messages, commented that they mustâve caused my mother considerable distress and then stated that there was no proof it was anyone from Strathven High. He advised that if I was truly concerned I should take the matter up with the Strathven Police. It was nothing he could help me with. Then he stood up from the big chiefâs chair and showed me the door.
The next day in assembly Pascoe gave a long sappy thank you speech for the new air compressor donated to the schoolâs garage by Mr Geraghty of Geraghtyâs Smash Repairs in Mereton. That was the day Pascoeâs name landed itself in my book of lists. The day he sold me out for a new air compressor.
Thinking about Pascoe has my heart pumping in the back of my throat. I shouldâve realised then that Pascoe never cared. He only stopped Mr Tebble pressing charges against me because he didnât want bad press for his school. It had nothing to do with me. Everything he told me was bullshit. I didnât count, I never did. Itâs like realising that the punchline of a bad joke has always been at your expense.
âYou dumb fuck,â I tell myself, yanking open the bottom drawer so hard that it jumps off its runners and lands on the floor. Iâm chucking stuff everywhere â Christmas cards from Archie and Mum, porno mags, pens and clips, an old iPod with tangled earphones â and I donât stop until Iâm down on my knees and my hands are holding my seventh and most recent book of lists.
I open up to a fresh white page and run my palm along the paper, smoothing it down like itâs a piece of silk, then carefully I jot down the date and write the name âPascoeâ until I feel my pen hit the carpet below.
Mumâs leg hangs off the couch. With every breath she exhales, her slipper taps against the floor like an impatient dancer waiting in the wings. I leave the TV on in case the silence wakes her.
If she was one of those âlittle mumsâ Iâd pick her up and carry her into bed. Iâd slip her shoes off gently and tuck the blankets around her like a tiny bug in a cocoon. When she woke sheâd feel so cared for. So special.
The old lady wasnât always this fat. But after Archie left she started blowing up like a balloon. One day sheâll burst and Tim Tams and Coke and fat cells full of bitterness will leave an awful mess on her new
Mum told me she was annoyed, not frightened. That she could tell it was the voice of a young man, probably with nothing better to do. But one morning when I was nicking fifty dollars out of her handbag, I pulled out a small can of fly spray. She was scared.
I bought an answering machine so the calls could be recorded. I counted twenty-nine messages, all left on one Thursday between 11 am and 12.30 pm. Two of them were from Aunty Yvonne in Adelaide. Mum wasnât answering the phone at all. She was more than scared, she was terrified.
That afternoon as I sat there listening to every single one of their twenty-seven messages, I realised there was something else I could hear as the caller spoke. A distinct noise in the background that was cut the second the squealing pigs started.
The ascending whir and snap of the rattle gun used in the mechanics class at the school garage. I knew the sound well. Curtis Marshall and Darren Geraghty studied mechanics and they had a lesson every Thursday between 11 am and 12.30 pm.
It was Marshall and Geraghty, the scorching summer of five years ago when the sky felt like it was closing in on us, who labelled my mother âthe sowâ. A name that stood the test of time. They were the ones who started the chant: âI did the sow last night. You shouldâve heard her squeal.â
I knew it was them. They were the callers.
So the next morning, with a belly full of confidence and the answering machine in my bag, I made my way to Pascoeâs office to present the evidence. Pascoe listened to the messages, commented that they mustâve caused my mother considerable distress and then stated that there was no proof it was anyone from Strathven High. He advised that if I was truly concerned I should take the matter up with the Strathven Police. It was nothing he could help me with. Then he stood up from the big chiefâs chair and showed me the door.
The next day in assembly Pascoe gave a long sappy thank you speech for the new air compressor donated to the schoolâs garage by Mr Geraghty of Geraghtyâs Smash Repairs in Mereton. That was the day Pascoeâs name landed itself in my book of lists. The day he sold me out for a new air compressor.
Thinking about Pascoe has my heart pumping in the back of my throat. I shouldâve realised then that Pascoe never cared. He only stopped Mr Tebble pressing charges against me because he didnât want bad press for his school. It had nothing to do with me. Everything he told me was bullshit. I didnât count, I never did. Itâs like realising that the punchline of a bad joke has always been at your expense.
âYou dumb fuck,â I tell myself, yanking open the bottom drawer so hard that it jumps off its runners and lands on the floor. Iâm chucking stuff everywhere â Christmas cards from Archie and Mum, porno mags, pens and clips, an old iPod with tangled earphones â and I donât stop until Iâm down on my knees and my hands are holding my seventh and most recent book of lists.
I open up to a fresh white page and run my palm along the paper, smoothing it down like itâs a piece of silk, then carefully I jot down the date and write the name âPascoeâ until I feel my pen hit the carpet below.
Mumâs leg hangs off the couch. With every breath she exhales, her slipper taps against the floor like an impatient dancer waiting in the wings. I leave the TV on in case the silence wakes her.
If she was one of those âlittle mumsâ Iâd pick her up and carry her into bed. Iâd slip her shoes off gently and tuck the blankets around her like a tiny bug in a cocoon. When she woke sheâd feel so cared for. So special.
The old lady wasnât always this fat. But after Archie left she started blowing up like a balloon. One day sheâll burst and Tim Tams and Coke and fat cells full of bitterness will leave an awful mess on her new
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