One Boy Missing (19 page)

‘What?’

‘How often do you clean it?’

‘Often enough.’

‘Books?’ He loaded another four boxes onto the sack truck.

‘The lounge. There’s plenty of room on my shelves. What’s wrong with my toilet?’

‘Listen, you’ve got to—’

‘No one’s ever got sick from a toilet.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just those dirty bastards coughing all over you in the shops. Or those fuckin’ Asians, not washing their hands after they have a bog.’

‘You haven’t even got soap.’

‘Listen, I’ve been quite happy here these last thirty years.’

‘Okay.’

‘Doing things my way.’

‘Sorry.’

Patrick re-emerged and they fell silent. George loaded him with the last three slats. ‘See, hardly heavy now, are they?’ He looked at his son.

‘No.’ The boy turned and walked off.

‘As long as you don’t mind if I…standardise things,’ Moy said.

‘Standardise?’

‘Like soap, clean towels.’

Patrick looked back at them.

‘Go about your business,’ George called, returning to his son. ‘I don’t care if you have fresh towels every morning, and flowers, and ironed hankies…just don’t go on about it.’

Patrick came out and took a heavy box from George, carried it a few metres up the driveway and stopped to rest. When he picked it up it slipped from his fingers and fell with the muffled tinkle of breaking glass. He looked at George, but the old man hadn’t noticed. He picked it up again, climbed the three steps onto the verandah and dropped it again, knocking over a pot of petunias. It broke and the seedlings scattered across the concrete. He put the box down.

‘What are you up to?’ George said, hobbling up the drive onto the verandah, followed by his son. He stood looking at the small plants, the shards of broken pot and the soil. ‘Bloody hell.’ He bent over and picked up a petunia.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Patrick said.

‘How did you manage…?’

‘He didn’t mean to, Dad.’

George looked at the small figure, his hands clenched. ‘If it was too heavy, you should’ve said.’

‘I was going okay until I tripped.’

George shook his head and collected the seedlings in his palm before dropping them in disgust.

Patrick waited for him to explode. ‘I can help fix it. I saw some pots out the back.’

‘What’s the good of that? Once the air gets to them roots…’

‘I’ll buy you another punnet,’ Moy said.

George took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Right, inside. You can wash up.’

‘He didn’t mean to,’ Moy repeated.

But George just glared at the boy. ‘
Now
.’

AFTER LUNCH, WITH the trailer unpacked and both bedrooms full of boxes, Moy went to the shed and found another pot and a pair of old trowels. With Patrick’s help he scraped the soil from the tiles and filled the pot. As they worked he said, ‘You know, he will come good.’

Patrick just looked at him, unsure. ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’

‘Of course not. Old people just explode, like volcanoes.’

They soaked the soil with water from a bucket. ‘If he gives you trouble just think: you poor old man, I understand. Then walk away, wait an hour or so, go back and see how he’s going.’

‘Does that work?’

‘Mostly. Sometimes he needs a day or two.’

Moy made a hole with his finger, planted the first petunia and compacted the soil. ‘Go on.’ He handed one to Patrick, who repeated the process.

‘Whatever you do, don’t start an argument. He’ll just get his back up.’

Patrick moved on to his second and third seedling. ‘Was he like this when you were a kid?’

‘Worse. He used to have a very short temper. Once, I remember, something happened in the traffic—someone cut him off, or didn’t indicate. So there he was, flashing his lights, tailgating him.’

Patrick was almost laughing. Moy knew he couldn’t stop now, even if he had run out of story. ‘So, Dad followed him all the way to Port Louis.’

‘Port Louis?’

‘Yes, just cursing him.
You bastard! Pull over!
And when this fella finally stopped…’

‘What happened?’

‘He storms out of the car, and Mum’s saying, George, get back in, don’t be so stupid.’

Patrick was sitting forward, the last petunia clutched in his hand. ‘Your mum?’

‘So Dad marches forward and it’s this little old lady. And she says, have you been following me? Like that.
Have you been following me?
’

Patrick started laughing.

‘And Dad says, Oh no, Missus, I’s just comin’ back from the shops.’

Patrick made a hole and put the last petunia in. He pressed around it with his fingers and Moy watered the flowers. ‘There, finished,’ he said, standing, looking at the seedlings. ‘As good as new.’

Patrick stood next to him. ‘You think they’ll survive?’

‘Of course. Now I’m gonna sweep out the trailer. How about you put on the kettle and make me and Grandpa a cup of tea?’

30

THE NEXT MORNING, the first they were all together in George’s Clyde Street house, Moy was up early sitting in his bedroom at his computer. He’d closed his dad’s door, put on the kettle and made a coffee. Then came the dishes, scrubbed, scalded and put away. He’d returned to his room, stopping and surveying the boxes, the names of the products crossed out and relabelled with
BM’s DVD
s;
my clothes
;
old elec equip
.

He’d spent half an hour setting up his computer on a desk made from the planks and bricks of his old bookcase. Started his old machine, connected to the internet and checked his emails. Nothing much, just work. Stuff (he guessed) a better cop would be onto straight away—reports, requests—as well as spam about cheap hotels and a photo of seventeen nuns in a mini.

In the end he’d drifted back to the news: some footballer out three weeks with a hamstring, a new tax on cigarettes, a boy dead after waiting fifty-seven minutes for an ambulance.

He clicked onto the story and studied the boy’s face: freckles, and fine black rings around his pupils. The child, still in his pyjamas, was sitting beside his bed, playing with toys.

He knew when I needed a hug and I knew when he did
, his mother had said.

Moy felt unable to take his eyes from the boy’s face.

A spokesman for the ambulance service.
We received a call at 12.47 and the first unit was dispatched two minutes later.

Moy tried to make out what the boy was playing with. It was a plane, two wings and a broken propeller.

The address we were given was Forbes Avenue, but in the rush to respond our paramedics read this as Forbes Street
.

Missing wheels.

By the time they’d realised their mistake it was 1.07, and by then, I believe, the parents had rung a second time
.

And a red lump which, he supposed, was the pilot.

We extend our sincere apologies to the family. Both paramedics have been stood down pending the results of an investigation
.

The mother explaining how she tried, for thirty or forty minutes, to get a ball of plasticine out of her son’s throat. How she patted his back and squeezed his chest, but he kept turning blue.

Moy looked out of the window. The blinds were half-closed and the early morning was dark, split into small Cartesian moments. The blue and white of the sky pulsed with energy. He sipped his coffee and wondered how many people it would happen to again today. A hundred, a thousand?

‘Good morning,’ Patrick said, appearing behind him.

Moy clicked off the screen, and turned. ‘Hey, Patrick, sleep okay?’

‘Sort of.’ He winced, moving forward. ‘I think I heard George snoring.’

‘That’s something you’ll have to get used to. Along with several other…issues.’

‘Like what?’

But before Moy could provide the details his phone rang. It was Gary Wright. ‘This place is turning into a hive of excitement,’ he said.

Moy took a moment. ‘Please tell me, nothing major?’

‘I don’t think…but you better take a look.’

THEY DROVE PAST Civic Park, along Creek Street and turned onto Dutton Street. Halfway along there was an empty block with a tall sculpture sitting in the middle of weedy ground. It was granite, sitting on a plinth: a single stem of ripe wheat in the shape of a man, a farmer with broad shoulders and a sort of earless, mouthless head. And growing from the head, ram’s horns, turning in concentric circles that (a plaque explained) represented the rhythm of the seasons, the circle of life. ‘It’s called
The Australian Farmer
,’ Moy said.

‘What is it?’ Patrick asked.

‘It’s like a…shaft of wheat, with a head.’

‘Why?’

Moy shrugged. ‘Symbolic.’ He slowed past it. ‘The council wanted something to attract the tourists, but I’m not sure it worked. I’ve never actually seen anyone looking at it.’

‘It’s ugly.’

‘Everyone wanted a new toilet in Civic Park, but this is what they got.’

When they arrived at the end of Dutton Street, Bryce King was waiting for them. There were no homes this far along, just piles of rubbish and rubble that locals had dumped. Weeds and grass had grown up through most of it but there was one pile, part broken furniture and clothes, part ash, that looked fresh. Moy and Patrick got out and greeted the constable.

‘Someone’s had a bonfire,’ King said, pointing.

‘Who found it?’ Moy asked.

‘Fella down the road. I asked him, he said it wasn’t there last week.’

Moy added the days. ‘So, he reckons last Tuesday, Wednesday?’

‘About then.’

‘Exactly?’

‘He couldn’t say.’

Patrick stepped forward, staring at the pile.

‘What is it?’ Moy said.

Both men watched as he walked forward.

‘Patrick?’

No reply.

Patrick approached what was left of the partly burnt junk. When he reached it he stopped, knelt down, held the arm of a half-burnt jumper and pulled it from the pile.

‘What is it?’ Moy asked, coming up behind him.

‘It’s mine.’

The arm was red and green. Mud-soaked. There was a shoulder, and part of the chest, but the rest was singed or burned away.

‘It’s our gear,’ Patrick said, looking at the pile. ‘See, that’s Tom’s parka.’ He indicated a mostly melted nylon jacket draped over a cricket bat. It had burned from the inside out, leaving a glazed shell. There were a few toys, charred shoes, the burnt-out spines of several books, a soccer ball with its side split open and a small tub of Lego, its contents melted into a chromatic glob.

‘Anything you can salvage?’ Moy asked, but Patrick didn’t reply. He stood up, white-faced, and stepped back from the pile. Then he sat down on a lump of old concrete.

Moy picked up a stick, stepped into what was left of the fire and started moving the objects about.

Meanwhile, Bryce King came up behind Patrick. ‘Don’t worry about that lot, we can get you new stuff.’

Moy rolled the soccer ball through the ashes. He noticed some writing on it. Leaned forward, wiped the ash and read the words
Patrick Barnes
. He looked up at him. At last. Not that it made any difference. All of the hard work had already been done.

‘You don’t want to have a look?’

Silent headshake.

A bag of marbles, intact; a fishing reel, the line and rocker cover melted; a CD, sitting between two partly burnt books, protected:
J. S. Bach, Preludes and Fugues
. Turning to Patrick, he held it up. ‘You’ve got good taste.’

Patrick stood up, came over and took it from him.

‘Yours?’

‘Dad’s. He left it behind when…’

Moy wanted to ask, but stopped himself. ‘You like Bach?’

‘Yeah…Mozart’s better.’ Patrick looked at the pile. ‘He’s in there somewhere.’

Moy and Patrick Barnes drove back towards town, past
The Australian Farmer
, unclipped yards smelling of wattle and wood fires and a rubbish truck labouring along Jenner Street. As a Bach prelude played, Patrick sat with his eyes closed, tapping out a musical pulse on his knee.

‘Did Dad play music?’ Moy asked.

‘No.’

‘Was that his fishing reel?’

‘Yeah…he bought it, and said he was gonna take us and he never did.’

Moy throttled back, waiting.

‘I wasn’t that interested anyway.’

‘I suppose you’d have to live somewhere near an ocean, wouldn’t you?’

‘We did.’

‘Really?’ He waited for a name. ‘Where, Port Louis or somewhere?’

Silence, as they continued along the damp road. Patrick seemed to think something, then dismiss it. ‘Anyway, Dad went away…’ As seconds, and minutes passed.

‘Why was that?’

‘Mum didn’t say. I suppose he had to.’ He looked at Moy to confirm this.

‘He probably did.’

‘Why do you think?’

‘Work, maybe?’

Patrick looked forward. ‘Maybe.’

The notes tumbled faster and faster, spilling out of the window. Patrick just kept staring into the distance, trying to find other reasons.

31

THEY WENT HOME for a late breakfast. George acted as a sort of housemaid, filling their bowls with cornflakes, bran, wheat germ, a handful of fruit medley. As Patrick watched him work, he bit his lip; not only was it inedible, but there was so much of it. George covered his creations with milk and looked at Patrick. ‘Sugar?’

‘Yes, please.’

He placed the bowl in front of him. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks.’

Moy had got used to his father’s concoction. He’d learned to hold his breath, chew with vigour and swallow fast. ‘Thanks,’ he said to George, taking his own bowl.

Patrick, sitting on his hands, stared at the small mountain of cereal. George looked at him. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know if I can eat it all.’

‘You haven’t even tried.’

He dug down to the cornflakes, collected a spoonful and began. Meanwhile, George wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘You don’t talk much,’ he said.

‘Dad,’ Moy warned.

‘You always feel better when you talk…when you share things. It’s the way people work, isn’t it?’

Patrick just looked at him, and tackled the bran.

‘Dad, can’t we just eat our breakfast?’ Moy asked.