Porky Pig!

“Porky pig! Porkers! Oink oink!” Jimmy’s taunts followed Harry down the road. He hunched his shoulders and held his breath to appear thinner, therefore a less prominent target. It didn’t work. Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t cry. The tiny voice inside his head chanted.
“Try to run, Fatty!” Jimmy, a natural string bean, streaked past his victim, throwing Diet Coke over Harry’s trousers. “Fatty’s peed himself!”
Jimmy swung himself on top of the nearest garden wall, looking at Harry he crowed.
“Oy! Can’t climb up here. Can yer, Porkers?” Laughing, like a hyena, Jimmy reached above his head and grabbed an overhanging branch.
“Me, Tarzan!” He swung out and over the flower beds of Number 46; one of the Edwardian villas sprinkled around Heaton, a monied suburb of Leeds. Number 46, like its neighbours, boasted a spacious well-kept front garden, filled with lush shrubberies but with the unusual old-fashioned addition of meticulous window boxes and frothy, lace curtains in the windows. Harry, red-faced and sweating, eyed his foe with dislike, whilst he struggled in vain to button his too small winter coat. CRACK! Harry whipped his head round to stare at the now empty branch, from where moments ago Jimmy had been dangling. Now only a few stray leaves fluttered to the earth. For one blissful moment Harry thought his prayers had come true and Jimmy had vanished out of his life as if by magic. Moments passed, in which Harry held his breath. Then he heard a sound, a feeble groan coming from behind the garden wall of Number 46. Standing on tip toe, Harry peered over the wall. His heart leapt with joy at what he saw. His enemy, lying spread-eagled on his back, amidst broken branches and bushes. Stig of the bloody Dump, was Harry’s first thought. Reading in the school library was his refuge from the daily harassment. Then he noticed how Jimmy’s right leg lay bent at an awkward angle and his flesh tone was no longer pink but a sickly white; sweat beading his forehead. Harry gazed fascinated at his felled foe. This was a first. He wanted to savour the moment. “Help me mate,” Jimmy wheezed, lifting a wobbly hand towards Harry.
Harry glanced over his shoulder to check if there was anyone in sight. The side road the two lads had been walking along, though only three roads away from school, was deserted. It was used as a cut through by a few pupils, but hardly anyone was at home at 3pm. Everyone was out at work. Except for the occupant of Number 46, whom Harry knew casually. An elderly lady, who he’d seen pottering in her garden, leaning on a metal walking stick, trowel in hand, usually shadowed by a fat tabby cat. Sometimes Harry stopped to help her by picking up her gardening bits and bobs. She’d always smiled and been friendly. On one glorious occasion, she’d brought out a home baked cookie to give him. Harry’s mouth watered at the memory.
“Harry, help me. Please.” The interruption irritated Harry.
Harry eased his large backside over the wall, taking three attempts to get up and over and feeling the fat rubbing between his thighs. He plopped down beside Jimmy, wobbling in the soft mulch.
“Phone me mum, will yer?” Jimmy begged, tears in his eyes. Harry remembered the times he’d cried in front of Jimmy, begged and pleaded. Not that any of the sob stuff had ever saved him. Not once. Harry shifted Jimmy’s school backpack into the bushes, out of reach and out of sight. He licked his lips and with great care placed his right foot on Jimmy’s twisted leg. Jimmy screamed. There was a delicious sounding crack and Jimmy’s eyes rolled back in his head. He’d passed out cold.
Yes! Harry air-punched. I’ve made him shut his face at last. Triumphant thoughts trumpeted around his skull. He savoured the silence. It didn’t last long.
A small sound made him look up. The fat tabby cat. Harry noticed the lace curtains twitch in the front room. The elderly lady, the owner of Number 46, was standing staring right at him, but her face showed neither angry nor curiosity. Harry could discern precisely nothing from her expression. To his surprise, she beckoned him with her right forefinger, inviting him to approach. He hesitated. How much had she seen? He’d have to get his story straight and fast.
Harry waited outside Number 46’s apple green front door, counting the cracks in the wood. He could hear the thump- bang- thump- bang of the old lady’s slow progress on her stick. The door opened and her reedy voice trickled over the threshold.
“Would you like a drink, young man? You look hot and thirsty.”
This was not what Harry was expecting to hear, but yes, he thought, I am thirsty. Harry stepped inside, whilst wiping his muddy shoes on the doormat. The motto blared at him, ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here’. Must be a joke, he thought. Gotta be. Can’t be for real.
Harry followed the elderly woman into the kitchen, trying not to stare at her right foot encased in a heavy black boot with a large wedge tacked onto the sole. The other foot was snug inside a normal blue fleecy slipper. His mum had a similar pair from M&S. He found this reassuring.
“The lemonade is home made.” She pointed at her fridge. “Help yourself. Have as much as you want.” Music to Harry’s ears. No one ever said that to him. It was always, ‘Diet’ and ‘Just one helping’ or ‘No seconds or snacks’.
Harry drank glass after glass, enjoying the fizzy taste of the lemons and the ice. He began to relax. He was starting to think the old woman hadn’t seen the incident and what he’d done afterwards. He was in the clear.
“You noticed my . . . er . . . disability?” The old woman lifted her right foot off the ground, but not very far. The boot was clearly heavy. Harry’s face bloomed red.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about young man. I was born with one leg shorter than the other. Lame all my life. Couldn’t run, do sports or catch a man either. Though one caught me, alright. Bastard.” Her face darkened and she laughed, but without any joy. “But up here,” she tapped her head. “Sharp as a pin. Sharper than most folk.” Her tiny mouse like features hardened. Her next words put the fear of hell into Harry.
“I saw you lad. I’ve seen what you did.”
Harry’s ice cubes slid down the wrong way and he choked. His thoughts whirled. She’s going to tell on me. I’m in so much trouble. No, it’s OK. I’ll say it was an accident. I tripped ‘cos I’m so fat and fell on Jimmy. I’ll ask to borrow her phone. Yes that’s it. Right now. I’ll call for an ambulance. He looked around the kitchen for the handset. Surprisingly he couldn’t see one. The old woman chuckled.
“I saw what that lad did to you too. Heard him, many times. Foul mouth he’s got. I spend a lot of my time these days just watching the world go by.” She nodded her head. “Pour me a glass of lemonade will you, please?”
Harry picked up the glass carafe, weighing it in his hand.
“I know what you’re thinking, lad? Don’t fret now. I’m on your side. Sit down and draw me a plan of exactly where your school mate is lying – in my garden.” She emphasised the ‘my’.
She pulled a pad and pencil out of a drawer. Harry sat on a wooden kitchen chair, his rear end oozing over the edges, whilst he sketched a stick figure with a bent leg, lying under the tree near the wall.
“Now sign your name on it.” Harry did as he was told. “Is the lad out cold?” The old woman enquired, as if they were discussing the weather. Harry nodded. His tongue as swollen as his thighs and his thoughts.
“Right then. Good. We’ll wait for it to get dark, in the meantime you can go out and take all his personal possessions off him. Anything that might give away who he is.” Harry hesitated. “Go on lad. Chop chop!”
She watched him from the lounge window, while Harry emptied Jimmy’s pockets, checking his nemesis was still unconscious. Jimmy’s leg lay bent at an unnatural angle and his breathing sounded laboured. His face had a green-grey sheen to it, which reminded Harry of curdled milk. It made Harry a bit sick, so he avoided looking at it.
On returning to the kitchen, he piled the pocketed loot on the table. “You can call me Moira, dear. Now go to that cupboard, bring me the hammer and smash his phone up.”
In a trance Harry did as Moira instructed. She reminded him of a primary school teacher he’d once had. She too had been slightly built, precise in manner and utterly terrifying to his five year old self. There was something about Moira that made Harry wary. Jimmy’s iPhone gave a satisfying crunch as it crumpled, reminding Harry of the sound of Jimmy’s leg bone breaking. This gave him a tingle in his stomach.
“How’s he look?” Moira jerked her head towards the window.
Harry closed his eyes. “Bad.” He didn’t want to think or talk about how Jimmy looked.
“That’s a good sign.” Moira smiled, licking her lips.
Harry stared transfixed at the mundane oak kitchen cupboards, the pinned up, half-used wall diary, the humming fridge and the fruit bowl, where the bananas were turning black. He wondered how could this be happening to him? At the same time, a life without Jimmy bullying him every day was appealing. Moira thrust her right hand towards him.
“Here’s the shed keys. That’s where I keep my shovel and other garden tools. Plus the string, of course.” Harry looked blank. “I use it to tie up my plants. Or other things.” She paused, waiting for Harry to understand.
“You mean I have to tie him up? I – I can’t. He’s my . . .” He didn’t finish.
“What dear? Your what? Not a friend is he? I’d say more an enemy? Or even a tormentor? A bully? A thug?”
Harry couldn’t disagree with any of those words. Jimmy was all of those and more. He’d done some horrible stuff that very school year to a number of terrified, puny Year 7 kids. It made Harry sick thinking about it. School didn’t know the half of what went on or they pretended they didn’t; whichever way Jimmy got away with it. Harry pocketed the shed keys and walked out in to the garden. He barely glanced at the spot where Jimmy lay. He’d been at Moira’s over two hours, he noticed. His tummy was rumbling. His mum was working a late shift at the supermarket. For once he was grateful for her long hours and frequent absences. He grabbed the tools and string from the shed and strolled back, whistling to keep his spirits up. When he pushed open the kitchen door he smelt the aroma of frying bacon.
“All day breakfast, love?” Moira asked, as she swivelled between the fridge and the cooker, surprisingly adept, despite her club foot.
“Yes please.” Harry felt faint with hunger and gratitude. “Triple eggs please.”
“’Course. A growing lad like you needs his food.”
No one ever said that to Harry. It was a wonderful moment. He wasn’t fat, he was growing. Maturing. This was a rite of passage. Harry watched the pile of food in the pan sizzle and simmer. Moira tossed in slices of thick white bread, followed by chopped tomatoes, several black pudding slices and mountains of mushrooms. His mouth watered.
“You’re going to need your energy – for later,” Moira added.
Harry’s spirits tumbled. He’d nearly forgotten. Did she really expect him to tie up Jimmy and do more things to him? In her garden? Apparently so. Harry wasn’t sure he could do what was expected. However he’d worry about that later. The fry up tasted fantastic. Not even his mum, a great cook, could have done better. Moira watched Harry clean his plate with a wedge of bread.
“My Stuart always had a healthy appetite.”
“Who’s he?” Harry mumbled, through a full mouth dribbling bread crumbs.
“My lad. Gone now.”
“Oh you mean – er dead?” Harry went bright red with embarrassment. Moira laughed. “No silly. He’s in New Zealand. But he Skypes twice a week.”
Moira pushed herself up using her stick and pulled the curtains together. Outside the light was dribbling away into sticky shadows. “Nearly time, Harry.”
Harry gulped the last of his tea and wiped his mouth. The food helped him feel powerful and in command.
“I believe in you lad. You know that?” Moira took his hand and squeezed it. Harry’s eyes became wet. She believed in him. No one said that to him. Not even his mum. Especially not his mum.
Outside Harry picked up the shovel and walked to the far end of the garden. Jimmy lay still, but greyer faced and less substantial, as though he was fading. When Harry prodded him with his toe, Jimmy didn’t respond. He really did look bad. Doubt crept in, doing battle with his fry up and his feelings of powerfulness. To encourage himself Harry let images flood his head : Jimmy shoving Harry’s head down the boys’ toilet, Jimmy breaking Harry’s toes on his right foot; twice. Jimmy snitching when Harry pinched food from the shops and then texting his mum to say, ‘Your fat son’s a shoplifter’. The police had come round after that incident and the neighbours found out. His Mum had cried for days afterwards with the humiliation. All over a few bags of crisps! Jimmy sneering, for years, telling him Harry was fat, ugly, useless. Harry let the hatred rush up and engulf him; a rare luxury. He lifted his arms, hardly aware he had hold of the shovel. Whack! Harry brought the metal head down hard on Jimmy’s skull. There was a crack and a wet sound which provoked Harry to thump Jimmy’s prone body again and again. He remembered his school blazer set on fire behind the toilets, courtesy of Jimmy and this incited Harry to clobber his arch enemy one more time.
“Not so fat and useless now, am I? You… You pig!” He yelled. Tears choked him. He could hardly breathe and Moira’s glorious fry-up roiled and churned in his stomach. Harry looked down at the ground and gagged, but hung onto his meal. Jimmy was no longer recognisable. No one would be able to tell who it was lying there. Jimmy had been reduced to a pile of mashed up bone, hair and flesh.
I am going to have to dig a bloody big hole. I can’t leave this mess for anyone to find. More work. That’s your fault, Jimmy. None of this is my fault. Harry glanced up from the site of his attack and glimpsed Moira’s shadow hovering at the front window. The old woman had promised him another meal afterwards. She hadn’t said after what, but Harry had known what she meant. They understood each other.
The street, on the other side of the wall, was quiet. Each villa was set back from the road and surrounded by generous gardens, with thick trees providing natural hedging. Everyone would be home having their dinners, glued to their flat screen tellies or iPhones. All Harry had to worry about was the occasional dog walker or jogger. Now was as good a time as any to bury Jimmy. Harry dug for several hours, stopping only when sweat ran into his eyes blinding him or he heard footsteps on the pavement. Then he crouched down behind the bushes out of sight. He’d not done so much exercise for ages. His hands burned. He had blisters forming and the muscles in his shoulders ached. He felt wonderful. Manly. In charge.
I’ll pop round tomorrow to plant those bulbs for Moira above the mound. Not a bad spot to spend eternity, Jimmy, old boy. Pretty and peaceful. You could’ve done worse. Now his enemy was dead and buried, Harry felt quite matey towards him.
When he was done, Harry cleaned the shovel and wiped his boots on the ‘Abandon hope’ doormat. The words didn’t seem as funny as they had before. He could smell hot chocolate in the kitchen and he spotted a massive cake on the table. Same colour as the earth he’d been digging in.
“Clean yourself up, lad and come have your supper.” Moira sounded cheery.
Harry stood in front of her bathroom mirror. His face was flushed and filthy; his hair matted. His nose appeared huge compared to his piggy little eyes, which were bloodshot with tears. I’ve been crying over that creep. Strange. I don’t remember that. He noticed his school tie was missing and his white school shirt was now greyish brown with smears of rusty red. Two of his finger nails had ripped off during the digging and his belly bulged over his trousers, like dough escaping from an oven. Worse by far though was the new expression in his eyes; one of self-loathing and self-knowledge. Harry dunked his head fully into the basin’s water and scrubbed the muck off, even using the nail brush, which he never did at home.
“Oink oink,” he whispered to himself. He pinched the waddle of fat under his chin. Then he pinched his upper arms and stomach. “Oink oink.”
“Are you ready for a slice of cake yet, lad?” Moira’s voice called up the stairs.
Harry combed his hair with his fingers, then followed his nose. “Oink oink,” he muttered when he sat in a chair before the cake, as if at an altar.
“What’s that you’re saying?” Moira asked.
Harry turned his piggy face towards her, opened his mouth and let out a squeal. His cheeks wobbled. His tongue was swollen and very pink. Moira took a step back, caught her large black boot heel on the edge of a chair and collapsed onto the tiles. Her head cracked on the work surface as she went down.
“Crack like an egg. Mmm. I’ll have double fried eggs, please.” Harry beamed round the room. Silence. Only the buzzing of the fridge. Or was it a bluebottle trying to escape? Had it been feasting on the blackening bananas? Harry heaved himself up, dropped down onto his hands and knees and crawled over to Moira’s crumpled body. Her eyes were closed, so she didn’t see Harry sniff her dress or prod her limbs with his head or huddle on his haunches beside her.
“Oink oink,” he whispered. “This little piggy has come home.”