Pig Island Read Online Free PDF Page A

Fe. The stage looks the same. Asunción’s in an embroidered baptism shift, and when she spots me in the queue again—almost shaking, I’m so fucking pissed off—she takes my hand and leads me back through the crowd. “Where are we going?” I can see the exit door approaching. “What’s happening?”
    She doesn’t answer. She just leads me, with this totally surreal calm, through the back door of the chapel and left through a door into the toilet block.
    “Move your bowels, please,” she goes, pointing to one of the toilets.
    “What?”
    “Move your bowels to complete the treatment.”
    I stand there stunned, looking from the bog seat to her then back again. “I can’t just—‘
    “I think you’ll find it easier than you expect.”
    I stare at her for a long time. I’d like to slap someone right now, but even at eighteen I’m clear enough to see a story when it comes my way. My hands hover on my belt. “What about you? Where are you going to be?”
    “I’ve seen it several times before.”
    “You’re going to watch ? You have to be—‘ I break off. She’s looking at me with one of those faces that doesn’t need any words—eyebrows slightly raised, chin tilted down, arms crossed. An SS guard, may as well be. Her mouth is closed in a firm line: Argue all you want , it says. I’m not budging . I sigh. ”OK, OK. Just stand back a bit, for Christ’s sake.“ I unbutton my trousers, pull down my shorts and sit on the toilet, elbows on my bare knees, hands dangling, looking up at her. ”Well,“ I say, after a while. ”I told you, nothing’s going to happen—’
    Before I know it, Asunción’s conjured a wad of toilet paper out of thin air and is thrusting it down under my arse, forcing it up against me. There’s a moment of uncomfortable slithering as I struggle, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re – get your hand out of —’ and an unfamiliar wet, cold sensation around my arsehole. Then she steps away, pushing her hair triumphantly out of her eyes, the tissue bunched in her fingers.
    “You fucking lunatic!” I go. “What was that about?”
    “The tumour,” she says, holding the paper under my nose, making me recoil at the fucking awful smell. A wad of something black and slimy sits in the petal-white tissue, something that smells of putrefaction and death. “You passed it.”
    “Here,” I say, making a grab for it. But Asunción is too quick. She whips it out of reach and spins on her heel, throws open the cubicle door and stalks out. “Hey—stop.” I follow, hopping, skipping and almost tripping over my unbuttoned trousers, trying to do up my belt and flies at the same time as push open the doors she’s slamming her way through. In the hall as I catch up with her she’s making a triumphant entrance, hand held high, titanic smile like a boxing-match ring girl, me stumbling after her as she marches up the aisle. Up ahead the pastor’s staging a shocked pause in the proceedings, his eyes widening dramatically at the procession approaching him. “Asunción,” he calls. “Why the interruption?”
    She mounts the stage. Dove uses his hand dramatically to cover his lapel mic and leans over so she can whisper in his ear—his eyebrows lifting almost to his blond hairline as he pretends to be amazed, delighted by what she’s saying. He lifts his eyes to mine with a smile and he’s half got his hand out ready to pull me victoriously on to the stage when he sees the expression in my eyes. His face falls.
    “What’re you fuckers up to?” I mount the steps two at a time. Under my feet the stage shakes a little. “Give me that fucking thing.”
    “Joe?” he says. “What’s the problem? What’s the—‘
    “Give me that.” I make a grab for the tissue. “Show me what you wankers are doing.” Asunción gasps and tries to wrench her hand away. A feedback scream shoots through the microphones, but I hold on tight to her wrist. The congregation jump to their feet, faces