Abandoned
Robert Hood
The rear of our station wagon skidded to a halt less than a metre from a vast pit of junk. Dust swirled and gulls flapped past the passenger-side window, squawking insanely.
‘You nearly ran over them,' I protested. ‘Real mature, Dave.'
My nineteen-year-old brother laughed.
Outside, the air was much worse than the dull, burger smell inside the car. I hated going to the dump. Especially with my brother.
The council dump was a vast wasteland. In the middle, new rubbish accumulated in a huge pit until dug under by a pair of roving tractors.
Dave saw me staring at the mess, looking unhappy. ‘Come on, slacker. Let's get this done.'
He opened the tailgate and inspected the pile of cardboard boxes and plastic bags Dad and Mum had filled with junk from the attic. I was set to go into Year 10 next year, so Dad reckoned it was time for a clean-up.
Dave dragged out a Gladbag bulging with old curtains, swung it around his head and let it sail across the pit. It plunged into a tangle of rusty wire. Next he took hold of a cardboard box full of magazines. The box hit with a resounding crash, right on top of a mostly intact window frame. Glass shattered and gulls flapped into the air, complaining like my younger sister, Sam, after I'd pinched her M&Ms. On the back of a smallish two-tonne truck parked next to us a young bloke in grey overalls stopped tossing big calico bags into the tip in order to cheer.
‘Let's see you top that shot!' Dave jabbed me in the ribs.
I grabbed a bag at random and heaved at it. The knot came apart. The bag was stuffed with toys.
‘Hey, these are mine!'
Dave glanced into the bag. ‘It's junk.' He thumped my shoulder. ‘Don't look at it, just toss it!'
I'd already spotted a flattened toy pig made out of fuzzy pink material, with a cute plastic face and tiny sad beads for eyes. ‘Hey, it's Errol!' I said. ‘When I was a little kid he was my best friend.'
Dave snatched him from me and flung him into the bag. ‘Come on, or we'll never finish.'
I snatched him back. ‘I liked Errol.'
Dave's face scrunched up with disgust. ‘You're such a baby. Why don't you grow up?'
He was always goading me. ‘I was only saying –'
‘Squeaky toy pigs are for babies. You'll be expecting us to change your nappies next.'
Dave had never liked Errol, I remembered. Just to stir me, he used to give Errol a Chinese burn, twisting his sawdust-filled body and making him squeal. I'd get really mad.
Dumb. Both of us.
For a moment I stood there, holding Errol fondly. Then I squeezed him, remembering the cheery oinkoink noise he'd make when you did that. The only sound that came out of him was a low burp. I tried it again. Nothing.
‘See?' said Dave, his hairy nostrils widening as though he could smell something worse than the stench of the tip. ‘It's useless.'
Suddenly I was angry at Errol. I'd been about to defy Dave and hold onto the old toy, but the stupid piece of junk didn't even work any more. I rammed it into the bag, twisted the top and flung it out across the dump. As the bag arched through the air, everything spilled out. With an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched Errol tumble away from the rest and land on a filthy pile of garbage bags. Maybe it was childish, but it made me feel sad.
Then my attention caught on something poking from the sea of bags.
‘Dave,' I said, ‘what's that?'
‘What's what?'
‘Looks like a hand.' I swallowed, seeing clearly the bent and bloodied fingers.
‘Don't be stupid! It's probably a store dummy.'
As usual, he was wrong.
* * *
The police arrived within minutes of the truckbloke's call, in three cars with flashing lights. One man waded into the sea of rubbish wearing plastic coveralls. Apart from his movement the place had gone still. The tractors had been switched off and the gulls were gone.
The man examined the spot I pointed out, poked around then looked back toward the sergeant in charge and nodded. The sergeant talked into his radio. Then they taped off an area of the tip nearest the body, blocked the entrance to the dump with a patrol car and began asking questions. After a while a big white van with ‘Forensic Science Unit' written on it arrived and the retrieval of the body began in earnest.
‘So when did you notice the hand?' a policeman asked me.
‘My pig landed right there. That's why I looked.'
‘Pig?'
‘A stupid toy from when he was a kid,' Dave commented. The policeman frowned at him and he shut up instantly. I grinned.
But the policeman realised soon enough that neither of us knew anything about anything. Likewise the bloke in the truck. So he took our details and told us we could go.
As our car bone-rattled out of the dump, I saw that the police had freed the corpse and were carrying it on a stretcher up toward the waiting van.
Maybe I should've asked them to rescue Errol while they were at it. For a second I wanted to make Dave go back. But I said nothing. What did it matter anyway? Errol was just a broken toy and he'd have to fend for himself.
Oddly, a wave of guilt washed over me at that thought. I felt as though I'd callously abandoned an old friend.
Someone had tossed that human corpse in there, not caring about it at all. I thought maybe I'd done the same thing with Errol.
* * *
Things got worse. Later that afternoon I was taking our dog for a walk. Boney's a Jack Russell terrier – hyperactive and yappy, even though he's old. The streets around our house are pretty quiet though, so I used to let him off the leash sometimes, when I was sick of having my shoulder dislocated.
This time it was a very bad idea. I'd just unhooked the leash when I heard the sound of a car coming from further down the street. I checked where Boney was – over the other side of the street, sniffing at a suspicious patch of grass. Okay, so long as he stayed there! The car came closer. I glanced at it. It was a sports model, dark blue and travelling way too fast for a fifty-limited residential area.
Boney barked. Now he was staring at me.
‘Stay there, you stupid mutt!' I yelled.
He didn't. He shot out in front of the car. A horrible yelping came from him, ending in a groan. A face leered at me from the driver's window. The man was about thirty, with a narrow unshaven chin and curly brown hair. He snarled something that was probably obscene then accelerated away, turning right into Rock Gully Road. A few seconds later he'd gone. Hit-and-run. Least he could've done was stop and help. I hadn't even thought to memorise his number plate.
Poor Boney had been seriously hurt. He tried to stand but his back leg was at an angle that was all wrong. He flopped down and gazed up at me with watery-eyed appeal.
‘We'll get help, boy!' I whispered.
A middle-aged woman came out of one of the houses; she'd seen the whole thing. ‘They always go too fast!' she said. She volunteered to drive Boney and me back home.
Dave had gone off to the pub, but Dad bundled Boney into the car. Waiting for the vet's verdict was nerve-racking, especially as poor Boney looked so miserable. He'd gone quiet, which seemed even worse than when he was whimpering.
In the end, everything was okay, though. Boney would live and could be fixed up – at a cost, of course. More money than we could afford, I knew. But Dad wouldn't let them put our old dog down. I heard him talking to Mum on his phone. ‘I'll do some overtime,' he said. ‘We can't just abandon him. He's been part of the family for years.' Dad's a real hero when it matters.
‘Makes me feel bad about Errol,' I said to my sister Sam that evening while we were watching telly.
‘Errol? Who's Errol?' She flicked a peanut at me.
‘Quit that!' I said, flicking the peanut back at her. I explained about the pig and the dump, but she didn't really get why I'd care about an old toy.
‘You don't toss something important away just ‘cause it's old and broken. We looked after Boney, didn't we? I should've done the same for Errol.'
She laughed. ‘You're a real dork, Jess, you know that. Boney's a dog. He's alive. The toy isn't.'
‘Yeah, yeah. But I used to think of Errol as a friend. The least I could've done was treat him with respect. It's about good memories, you know?'
She threw more peanuts at me, laughing and oinking.
We watched the local news and they had a bit on the body we'd found at the dump. My name was even mentioned.
‘It's like one of those CSI shows.' Sam was all wide-eyed. ‘They don't have a clue about the dead guy, do they?'
They'd said that the victim remained unidentified, though it had been confirmed he was murdered.
‘They'll do DNA testing and stuff,' I pointed out.
‘What if he's not on record? And there are no clues about who did him in …' She leapt at me, shrieking. ‘Except you!'
‘Get off me!'
‘You found the body. You might know something.' Her face was screwed up into what she imagined was a scary killer's snarl. ‘He'll come after you, Jess. You're dead meat.'
‘Cut it out, Sam,' snapped Mum. ‘We're trying to watch the news.'
Sam sat back on the lounge. Then she leaned close. ‘And the dead man'll be pretty aggro too, eh?' She suddenly began lurching around like a zombie, making ghostly noises.
‘Sam! Do we have to send you to your room?'
She withdrew, pouting.
Later she said the only sensible thing she'd managed all evening. I was still feeling bad about Errol, wishing I'd taken him to one of the charity places. Dumping him into a pile of stinking rubbish didn't seem right. He deserved better.
Sam grabbed my arm. ‘Let's go find him.'
‘What?'
‘If you're gonna get all knotted up about it, let's go to the tip and fetch him.'
‘The police'll still be there.'
She waved her hands around in a gesture of excited determination. She'd really twigged to the idea now. ‘I know how we can get in. It's a cinch!'
‘It's a dumb idea. We'll get in trouble.'
Sam's big eyes studied me for a moment with mock contempt. ‘You want to be a wimp all your life, Jess?'
* * *
Next afternoon, after the tip's closing time, we set off on our mission of mercy. Dave was off somewhere hooning with his mates, Dad was at the pub and Mum at her yoga class; we had a few hours grace. The dump wasn't too far away – just along Rock Gully Road a few kilometres. In the late summer twilight, having crawled through a hole in the hurricane-wire fence, we lay side-by-side on filthy grass and gravel staring down at the still-distant tip face and the police crime scene. It was as quiet as a graveyard, if smellier.
‘What if they see us?' I said.
Sam was staring toward the police vans through binoculars. ‘Not much going on,' she muttered. She handed the binoculars to me. ‘Have a look.'
No movement, no policemen, nothing. Not even gulls. Maybe they'd all gone home for the night.
‘Let's get closer,' she said.
I began to protest but it was too late. She was off, scrambling down the slope like a cross between a crab and a mountain goat.
Giving in, I scrambled after her. She crept right into the cordoned-off area in front of the police vans.
‘Hey, don't!' I half-whispered.
‘No one's here,' she replied softly. ‘Now's your chance. You want to do this or not?'
I slipped under the crime-scene tape and joined her.
‘Where'd you toss Errol?' she asked.
The rubbish piled everywhere had become a dark, shadowy swampland in the fading light. I pointed toward where I thought the dead man had been.
Sam frowned. ‘I'm not goin' in that mess. Errol's yours. You go.'
For a moment I imagined the policemen in blue coveralls searching through the rubbish for clues. They're tossing lumps of wood and old newspapers and bags of kitchen scraps aside. I can almost see one of the men reaching down into the junk. ‘Look at this!' he whispers.
He holds out his hand. His fingers grasp a small, pink object. I recognise it and my heart thuds hard against my ribs. The guilt I feel in abandoning Errol surges up again.
The cop squeezes the toy. Its sick ‘oink-oink' isn't the sound he's supposed to make, but at least it's a sound.
‘Cute, eh?' the policeman says.
His arm draws back and tosses Errol into the darkness. My eyes try to follow the toy's imagined trajectory.
‘Where are you, Errol?' I whispered.
‘What?' said Sam, nudging me. It jerked me out of my dream.
‘Um, I reckon Errol could be anywhere. Everything's been moved around.'
‘So what'll we do?'
Then I heard it. Oink-oink.
‘Hear that?' I said.
‘Hear what?'
Oink-oink.
‘That! It's Errol.'
Time seemed to squeeze into a hard knot. In a sort of daze, I stepped over the edge of the pit. Sam tried to stop me, but I pushed her away. Rubbish boiled up around my thighs. My Reeboks slipped on a slimy plastic bag; I plunged in further, grabbing for support. Something sharp scraped against my shin.
Oink-oink.
Errol was calling me!
I forced myself on, pushing aside broken pottery, rusted pots, tins that sloshed as they tumbled away. My left foot sank into something thick and oily. Wire and tangled strands of plastic grabbed at me. I felt myself taken and fought back against the dark currents trying to drag me under.
Oink-oink.
That way! I pulled free of unseen claws, guided by Errol's call. It wasn't far now. I could do it. I knew I could. My head swam, the stink of the rubbish so intense it was like breathing grit. My consciousness wavered in and out of the darkness.
Oink-oink.
Was I really hearing Errol? After all, he was in the middle of the dump. There was no one there to squeeze him, even ignoring the fact that his mechanism hadn't been working before.
Oink-oink.
I shoved aside a bent aluminium frame; magazines, cans and plastic bottles careened down a sudden surge in the sea of rubbish.
Oink-oink.
I gasped.
Something was there in the darkness and shadows. Just ahead of me. A chill ran along my arms and legs. It looked like a human figure. A man.
The ghostly shape held out its hand. Its fingers, like tendrils made of solid shadow, held a small, pink object. I recognised it and my heart thudded hard against my ribs. I knew what it meant.
This was the man who'd been murdered! Maybe, by abandoning Errol the way I had, I'd created a bond between the pig and the ghost of the murder victim, who'd also been abandoned in the dump. Now he wanted something more from me. He wanted to show me something.
‘What?' I whispered, half delirious.
The ghost squeezed Errol. The toy's ‘oink-oink' sounded like a moan of despair.
‘I don't know what you want,' I yelled.
Suddenly Errol dropped into a thick patch of darkness. Even as my eyes followed the toy's fall – a pale smear trailing through the shadows – I saw the phantom's contours scatter like fog caught by a sudden wind. When I tried to focus on it, the shape had gone.
‘Errol,' I whispered.
Oink-oink.
I fought my way forward a few more steps. Close now. I grabbed toward the spot where I'd seen the pig disappear. Something scratched me: a line of nails in a cracked board that was pressing down on Errol's voice box, making him cry out. I pushed the board off and my fingers closed around the soft form of my childhood toy.
Oink-oink.
My fingers took hold of something else, too. Something leathery.
* * *
My clothes were torn, my arms and legs scratched and bloody, and the buzzing in my ears had become an overpowering roar. I'd felt myself sinking, lost this time for sure. But suddenly a big, beefy hand grasped my arm and held me firm. It pulled me up out of the murk.
‘You okay, kid?' A large man was shining a torch at me. The glare obscured his face.
I nodded, breathing greedily. The ground under my knees felt so solid and reliable, I almost laughed. Sam was there, too, staring down at me in concern.
‘Aren't you the kid who found the corpse the other day?' the policeman said.
‘Yeah.'
‘What are you doing back here?'
‘Rescuing someone,' I said.
‘Rescuing someone?'
‘Errol.'
He clearly thought I was crazy. Sam clung to me as though I might accidentally slip back into the rubbish.
‘I've called an ambulance,' the policeman added. ‘You were lucky. That place is treacherous at the best of times. Dunno how you got past me.'
‘You weren't even here,' Sam said accusingly.
The policeman looked embarrassed. ‘Who's this Errol?' he asked.
‘My toy pig.' I held up my hand. Errol was there all right, but under the toy, clenched in my fingers, was something else.
‘What's that?' The policeman took it and examined it with the torch. He glanced at me, frowning. ‘It's a wallet,' he said.
‘It was buried in the rubbish.'
‘Whose wallet is it?' asked Sam.
The policeman examined it then looked straight into my eyes. ‘I think I've seen this guy around here. Yesterday, hanging around outside the gate. You know him?'
He showed me the driver's licence from the wallet, shining his torch on it so I could see the features of the man in the photo.
I'd thought the wallet might have belonged to the dead bloke, but it didn't. The face was that of the driver who'd hit Boney. I recognised his nasty sneer and curly brown hair.
A gull squawked overhead, somewhere in the dark.
‘He nearly killed our dog yesterday,' I said. ‘Hit-and-run. His car headed down Rock Gully Road, coming here I guess.'
‘Is that so?'
‘What's his wallet doing here?'
The policeman looked thoughtful. His torchlight played over the wallet. He glanced down at me and grinned. ‘Perhaps our killer has been very very careless. No doubt he came here yesterday to see if he could find it again. But we were still at work.' He chuckled. ‘Quite a bit of luck, you finding it like that.'
It wasn't luck, I wanted to say. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?' I asked instead.
The policeman scowled. Sam and he exchanged a glance.
‘Ghosts?' Sam said.
‘Maybe the murdered man lured me to the spot, using Errol.'
‘What? You're kidding, right?'
I laughed, dismissing the idea. ‘Sure. What d'you reckon?'
No one would believe me. Geez, I couldn't really believe it myself.
‘Let's go home,' I said.
From somewhere above, carried on the night wind, I imagined I heard Errol's oink-oink. I looked out across the darkened mounds of refuse and clutched the little pig to my chest.
Oink-oink.
Perhaps Errol was telling the ghost he could go home, too.
My toy pig had definitely got his voice back.