Page 3 of Pyg

Alice grinned. “Oh, er… sorry, I’m seeing someone. Well, at least I was until tonight, but…”

The doctor’s neat eyebrows drew together. “I mean, in case we need to get in touch. We’ll contact the police and see if anyone has filed a missing person report. They may have some questions for you.”

Heat rose in Alice’s cheeks. “Oh, sorry. Yeah. Sure. Whatever you need.” Alice took the proffered pen and scribbled her number onto the clipboard. “I’m not sure about talking to the police. I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”

The doctor narrowed her eyes. “You tell me.”

Alice swallowed but failed to suppress the surge of panic unleashed by the doctor’s suspicious eyes. “I, er… I don’t think?—”

“Look, it’s fine.” The doctor reached out. “You’ve done the right thing bringing him here. You’ve clearly had a difficult evening. Go home, get yourself… together and have some rest. Someone will be in touch if they need to speak to you.”

Something about the warm and reassuring weight of Doctor Khurana’s hand on Alice’s arm made her want to cry.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes searching Alice’s.

For a moment, Alice contemplated telling this kind doctor that she wasn’t okay, she really wasn’t. She was tired and heartbroken. And aching from dragging the man into her car. She didn’t want a phone call from the police; she wanted a hug. And a cup of tea brought to her whilst she lay in a hot bath?—

The man groaned.

Alice and the doctor looked at each other and then at the man. His eyelids fluttered, and he opened his mouth.

“He’s trying to say something.” The doctor rushed to his side and leaned her ear over his chapped lips.

Alice stepped back to the edge of the bed. “What? What is it?”

“It sounds like he’s saying…pig.”

1963

SHE ALREADY HAS A NAME

When I turned eight and my brother turned five, our mother treated us to an extra-special birthday present. In fact, it was the best present we ever got as kids.

Bernard and I were born exactly three years apart on the second of April.Not quite fools, but little bastards— at least according to our grandmother.

Despite being a pretty bright lad for my age, the penny didn’t drop until the school Biology syllabus arrived at reproduction and the human gestation period. The enlightening lesson led me to conclude that there must be some significant annual event resulting in our shared birthday. Desperate to get to the bottom of my existential puzzle, I embarked on a detective trail, following clues until the answer became “bloody obvious.” Or at least that was how I’d pitched it when presenting the evidence back to Bernard with my chalkboard-pointing ruler in hand.

“Due to the timing, it couldn’t have been Father Christmas. And if it were the Easter Bunny, I reckon we’d look a bit different.” I bucked my teeth and made my fingers into rabbit ears above my head, which made Bernard burst into giggles.

Very few men visited Charcroft House, but one who had left an impression was Bill, the jolly chap who came to sweep the household’s chimneys every July. A filthy job, and thirsty work, and so it seemed that our mother had quenched more than just Bill’s need for a drink.

A jaunty smile never left Bill’s ruddy face, and we liked him because he could magically produce gold-foil-wrapped toffees from thin air.

“Ta-da!” he’d say and present the sweets to us as our mother smiled on, her hazel eyes twinkling as we basked in the warmth of the kind gesture. Bill smelt like soap, but he always looked dirty — no doubt thanks to the chimneys — and he had a round belly that strained the buttons of his shirt — no doubt thanks to the toffees.

Even if it made no difference to our circumstances, at the time we thought we’d worked out where we’d come from. And by my reckoning, if I knew who my father was, it made me less of a bastard. One day I would shake Bill’s hand and thank him for “knocking up my mother… twice” — at least that’s how our grandmother had put it.

Anyway, back to the birthday present. As always, we crept down the stairs, and there, in the centre of the drawing room, stood a large box. Bernard and I looked at each other, our eyes wide, eyebrows raised as we did the maths: one box, two boys.

As if a starting pistol had fired, we clambered through the doorway, elbowing each other out of the way. I, being the older and ever-so-slightly brawnier, arrived at the box first. As I moved my hand to open the lid, a cough came from the doorway, and I spun around.

“George, wait.”

I turned to look at our mother leaning against the doorjamb in her paint-spattered dungarees, her wavy nut-brown hair swept back in a yellow bandanna. She raised a thin roll-up to her rouged lips and took a long draw before she said,

“I need you to understand some things before you open that box, boys. It’s a joint gift for both of you. You have to share.”

Bernard whined.

---