3rd Prize - Henry Heffer

SWINE

By Henry Heffer

The cannibalistic tribes of the Pacific islands refer to human flesh as ‘Long Pig’. It’s one of those
leftover facts from some panel show that lodged itself in my brain during a night of sleeplessness. I
think about it often. It reminds me that, after all these years, I must’ve snorted the equivalent of a
whole pig just up my nose. The fumes of each hog roast probably cake the flumes of my nostrils
like a miner’s lungs coated in prehistoric char. Perhaps that’s why I can smell them even when I’m
not cooking. That’s why I can’t sleep. The moonlight creeps across our winter over-sheet like a
sharpened cleaver, heading slowly but determinedly for my throat. Only for sunrise to, once again,
scupper its chances. Tonight though, I may not be so lucky.

I’m drowning in an eddy of memories. When every day was a new event, every weekend another
party. What a sight I once was! My van would arrive at the gates like a limousine bearing royalty,
and the guests would stop to look and drool. Retro sidings, freshly lacquered chopping boards, full,
clean condiments bottles like giant crayons, my uniform: black, bold, and crisp. When I passed her
the bap, engorged with perfectly cooked meat smothered in thick, fragrant applesauce, seeping
irresistibly from its bread bondage, our fingers touched.

She asked me, Did you kill it yourself?
 

Of course! Hunted and speared it personally. I performed the gesture on the pig, and for a
moment I could almost believe I would— that I could.

Starry nights were followed by misty mornings, huddled in blankets before dying embers,
intoxicated by the heeltap of her perfume’s fragrance. I loved every moment. A second van and two
employees; a business had begun. But then...

She’s sleeping beside me, oblivious to my worry, hair splayed on top of the duvet like a funnel-web
spider. She thinks everything is okay, I haven’t the courage to tell her otherwise.

It’s difficult to put my finger on the exact moment when the mood changed. No exact time, place or
policy. But I’m awake tonight after my only booking in a fortnight just cancelled. When I do attend,
my stand is banished into the far-flung corner where few dare to venture. This means at festivals it’s
next to the humanitarian tent, at a fete it’s beside the old man selling Nazis paraphernalia, at
weddings it’s the midnight to 2am slot; I’m just in time for the vomit. I’m purveyor of the Uncle,
the metal detectorist and the man making wine deliveries in hi-vis. All the while, the pigs still die.

I can’t afford to reprint my awnings, so the bold red flames of my logo have faded to the cartoonish
colour of pig skin, and the pig’s skin is the grey colour of gone-off lamb. Trapped in the gazebo’s
rafters, fat stains spread across the fabric like some hellish gateway. And still they die, and I’m the
one who must disappear their half-dismembered corpses. Fingering the seam of the duvet cover, I
clench my buttocks as if I’m trying to stop something from entering.

I should’ve moved on years ago; gone vegan. Sliced rainbow slaw, hand cupped falafel and
whipped black olive hummus. The markup is better and they have all the best spots. Plus... you
cannot see the spine of a patron pepper. There is no void where the eyeballs once swivelled on a
block of Somerset cheddar, no singed knuckle hair on a rocky road. No one has to die.

I fear sleep because it’s in my dreams that they come for me. Tonight, is no different. No matter
how many times I check that the latch on the door is secured before bed, it only takes a single push
with their trotters and they are inside the room. They’re searching for moisture, in the carpet and in
the drawers, nosing her delicates, snuffing my cuffs. Clambering on to the bed, they ruffle the

sheets, pull back the covers and hunt between the folds of my flesh, in the pits of hers. I try to cry
out, but there’s no breath. I want to leap out of bed, but there’s a hock upon each of my shoulders,
holding me down. Now they’re into my ears, my nose, my mouth, wet snouts parting the coils of
my brain matter; this is where the most fragrant truffles grow. They’ve hit upon something they
like; the oinking begins. A frenzy of squeals, jagged yellow teeth and brittle follicles that causes me
to wake screaming.

I’m sweating profusely. My half of the bed a puddle of jus. My back and buttocks on fire. I have to
open the window and stand in the cold breeze for my pyjamas to dry and my heart rate to settle. I
wish they wouldn’t, but they like speaking to me. They like reminding me that, after all these years,
I am the Long Pig. I am the hog being roasted.