by Stephen Orr
‘Right.’ But he kept looking at him. ‘Why you asking now?’
‘Well, it’s complex, but we’ve found an unclaimed kid.’
‘What, someone’s bringing them into town?’
Moy knew he’d said too much. Could see the front page of the Argus in the morning.
‘No one’s bringing kids to Guilderton or…anything like that. I just came on the off-chance.’
Stow stood, approached a filing cabinet and pulled out a drawer. ‘A to F,’ he said. ‘These go back forty years, but out back there’s a dozen boxes with all our old orders.’
Moy understood. You couldn’t solve a crime with an envelope.
‘I don’t know what I can say, Detective. Unless you want to take everyone’s number and ring them. Might take you a couple of months. Then you gotta think what to say, eh?’
Excellent. Another prick trying to do his job for him. ‘Anything you can think of, Mr Stow. Wouldn’t like to think there’s someone in town who’d hang out in change rooms.’
‘Every town’s got one of them.’
‘Have they?’
Stow stopped, refusing to be drawn. ‘This unclaimed kid prob’ly just needs a belt around the ears. Someone’s looking for him.’
Him, Moy thought. ‘Yes, she’ll probably be claimed soon.’
Stow sat down. He looked at the envelope. ‘You could check it for fingerprints.’
‘We could.’
‘But it’s prob’ly seen a few hands.’ He waited with an anything else? expression.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Moy said, reclaiming the envelope. ‘You’re well connected, eh? Speak to a lot of people?’
‘It’s not a question you ask, is it?’
Moy walked out through a cathedral-sized shed where two men were welding. Silos. He guessed that’s what you could do with a body. He remembered the story, years ago, of the kid who’d climbed a ladder, looked in, fallen in. And drowned, wheat and its dust filling his lungs as he choked down the grain. Less than a minute, then silence. And it took them weeks to work out where he was.
He looked back towards the office and Stow was watching him. He raised his head in a final farewell. He was convinced the man was no photographer, but he wasn’t sure he had no idea.
21
MOY BRIEFED GARY, who told him he was wasting his time. The kid had run away. The parents didn’t want to report it. They were scared of what he’d say about them. The boy was still deciding if he should turn on them.
After he was gone, Moy stood at his kitchen window watching the boy hanging their freshly washed clothes on the line. He noticed how he took a shirt from the basket, climbed a chair and pegged it out. Guessed he’d been taught well; could almost see someone standing beside him, telling him what to do.
For those few minutes there was nothing but the washing—vomit-free pants and shorts, socks and undies—all from the little piles Moy had left sitting around his house for weeks, until, when he was out, the boy had gathered them in a basket. ‘He’s quite a little worker,’ he said to Deidre, clutching his phone.
‘He is,’ the carer replied. ‘So…you’re sure about this?’
‘Yes,’ Moy said, watching the boy drop a sock, climb down to retrieve it and return to the job. ‘We seem to get along…I think. I’m not saying you didn’t—’
‘No, no,’ she said, coughing. ‘But I’m quite happy to have him back.’
‘Give us a few days. Not sure what the rules are but…it’s not like anyone’s gonna say anything.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘Guilderton? Headquarters don’t know we exist. I used to fill in all the forms, but now…’
‘You’re mandated?’
‘Yep, I’m mandated.’ And he wondered whether he was, or what it meant.
It was one of the consolations of country policing. He knew it suited his own gluey state. Not that he didn’t try. He did. Every day in every way I’m getting better and better. But things were missed. Like the Crowley file. He thought he’d forwarded it to the drug section. Then again, it hadn’t come up on the courier’s list. But he must’ve. Perhaps. And he wondered, where else could it be? In the vegetable section at the supermarket? In with the magazines in the doctor’s waiting room?
Deidre still wasn’t sure. ‘Aren’t you busy with all your investigations?’
‘I can work around it. Anyway, he’s company.’ He looked at the boy, thinking. ‘And I can talk to him, and ask him questions.’
‘He’s talking to you?’
‘A few words.’
‘Great.’
The boy finished, and stood staring at the half-full line.
‘If I can get him to trust me he’s more likely to open up,’ he said.
‘Have you got some clothes?’
‘No.’
‘I have a few things—’
‘I’ll take him out, he can buy what he likes.’
And then he stopped, thinking. Charlie’s clothes, where were they? In boxes, at Megan’s place? Or did they give them away? Some of them at least? No, Megan would never have done that. So where were they? Then he thought—what does it matter? They’d be far too small.
‘Something practical,’ Deidre was saying. ‘Summer clothes. Shorts and T-shirts, polo tops.’
Moy looked up and smiled. There, on the hoist, turning in circles, was the boy; holding on to one of the support bars, stretched out, his feet a few inches from the ground; kicking his legs, laughing, turning circles until he slowed, at which point he’d put his feet back on the chair, push off and start again.
‘He’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘Let me know if you need help.’
‘I will.’
And then he rang off. He walked from the house and made his way out to the hoist. Grabbing the supports, he started turning the line’s metal arms. ‘How’s that?’ he asked, but the boy was just laughing, giggling. ‘Are you feeling sick?’
No reply.
‘You will soon…we’ll have another pile of vomit to clean up.’
He pushed harder and the boy’s legs flew out, collecting him in the side of the face.
‘Sorry!’
‘That’s okay.’ Then he spoke loudly. ‘Should I keep going?’
‘Yes.’
He pushed. ‘More?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good.’
Moy just watched him fly, seeking but never finding a straight line. The greaseless axle ground. Then the stem of the hoist cracked and the whole line toppled. Wires flew through the air as struts bent, collapsed and sent the boy flying onto the grass. He rolled, sat up and looked at Moy. ‘Oh no,’ he said, and Moy came and sat next to him. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nothing broken?’
‘No.’
And they just looked at each other. ‘Do you think they’ll make me pay for it?’ Moy asked.
The boy nodded.
‘I’ll say it was like that, shall I?’
A smile.
‘That’s what I’ll say…it was like that when I got here, eh?’
A shrug.
‘Or, I could say, this nasty little thief broke in…and when I caught him, I had to torture him.’
Moy tickled the boy’s side. The boy pulled away, giggling.
‘Yes, that’s it. I had to torture him until he admitted breaking my washing line. Go on, you young thief, admit it.’
Moy was tickling with both hands and the boy was rolling about on the uncut grass, laughing, curling up to protect his midriff.
‘I’m waiting,’ Moy said. ‘All you’ve gotta say is, it was me. Go on.’
No response. The tickling continued.
‘Go on.’
The boy was kicking the grass and his shoes left brown skids. His eyes were closed. ‘Get off,’ he squealed.
‘It was me.’
‘It wasn’t.’
Moy stopped. The panting boy l
ooked up at him.
‘I’ll have to charge you,’ Moy said. ‘And there may be prison time involved.’
The boy giggled and hit him lightly with a fist.
‘My son used to ride the hoist. Used a chair to get up, then realised he couldn’t get down.’
‘Where is he?’
Moy sat forward, his arms on his knees. He looked at a distant geranium, overgrown with weeds. ‘He’s…gone.’
‘Where?’
‘Gone.’
‘When’s he coming back?’
‘Looks like you can speak,’ Moy said. He squeezed the boy’s knee. ‘Now maybe I get to know your name?’ He extended his hand once again. ‘I am Bartholomew Moy…and you?’
‘Isn’t he coming back?’
‘Wolfgang, wasn’t it?’
‘Bart?’
‘You’re using my name…I should be able to use yours, don’t you think?’
‘He’s not,’ the boy said, choosing not to shake Moy’s hand.
Moy turned around. ‘He died,’ he said.
And the boy was gone again.
THEY FIXED THE hoist, straightening the stem and propping it up with an old ladder. Then they filled two buckets with warm water and disinfectant, found a few old sponges and went out to the car. The boy was straight into it, wetting the vomit stains, wiping them, rinsing his sponge and starting again. He cleaned the dashboard and started on the carpet. Moy worked from the driver’s side, slowly wetting and scrubbing, picking flecks from the radio. There were several minutes of silence before he said, ‘It looks like your mum taught you well.’
No response.
‘How’s that, Detective Moy?’ he asked himself. ‘Well,’ he answered, ‘I don’t have to ask you to do anything.’
There was another minute of silent scrubbing.
‘Your mum would be very pleased with your efforts.’
Silence.
‘Or maybe your dad?’
The boy looked at him angrily.
‘Maybe not.’ He stopped to think. ‘Dad’s not around, perhaps?’
‘You keep my dad out of this.’ His face hardened and he clenched his fists. ‘You just want to solve your case, so you can get on with something else.’
Moy stood up and came around to the boy’s side.
‘So you can put me in a home, and forget about…’ He knelt, held his arms, but he pulled away.
‘Get off! Don’t touch me!’ He was shaking. He picked up a bucket, went to throw it over Moy, but stopped. Instead, he ran inside, went to his room and slammed the door.
Moy followed. He stood in the hallway. ‘You okay?’
No response.
He didn’t know what to say. To keep prodding and poking, opening barely healed sores, invoking a father who might have been capable of anything. ‘If I came in, we could talk?’ He guessed it mightn’t be so simple. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about your dad.’
Silence.
‘You there?’ He went into the room. The window was open and the boy was gone. He stepped forward, looked out and called, ‘Come on.’ Then he ran from the house, around it, tripping on a bucket of water. ‘Where are yer?’
Nothing.
To the top of the drive. Looking down the road. The boy was further along, standing outside the plumber’s house, waiting.
‘You coming in?’
The small figure darted across the street, into the paddock on the edge of town. As Moy followed he watched him flatten wheat, fall, stand, run towards a distant harvester.
‘I said I’s sorry,’ he called. He could see the boy was wounded; just had to run.
Arriving at the fence, Moy climbed over. Stood standing, searching.
But the boy had gone.
‘I know…it’s none of my business,’ he shouted, over the sound of the approaching harvester. ‘Come on, show yourself, it’s dangerous.’
The driver was watching him.
‘This is silly…I’m sorry.’
Then, a muffled voice. ‘Go away!’
The harvester was eating the crop. It turned, came back, and Moy held his breath. There was no point risking it. He waved at the driver but he just looked at him strangely.
‘Please,’ he called. ‘What do you want me to say?’
Nothing.
The harvester turned again. This time it would come close. Moy ran into the wheat, searching. You little shit. But he knew there was more at stake. He wasn’t a foster carer. It’d be hard to explain.
He turned towards the harvester and waved. It slowed, stopped, and the driver got out and called, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Could you wait a minute?’
The farmer watched as Moy searched. Then, he looked back towards the fence. The boy emerged from the wheat, slid between the wires and ran back up Gawler Street.
Moy waved at the driver. ‘Lost dog.’ He struggled through the wheat, hurdled the top wire and ran after him. Back up the road, across, into the Flamsteeds’ yard.
The boy had picked up a shovel. He was swinging at knee-high aloe, taking off lizard-tongue leaves.
Moy held him. ‘Stop it!’
He twisted to release himself but didn’t have enough muscle. Moy ripped the shovel from his hands and threw it down. Then, Mrs Flamsteed was standing on her porch.
‘All under control,’ Moy called.
She didn’t respond. She knew he was reliable.
Moy wrapped his arm around the boy, lifted him and carried him from the yard. ‘Sorry,’ he said, as he went. ‘We’ll get them replaced.’
The boy fought to get free. Moy took him in, put him on his bed, pointed a finger in his face and said, ‘Not an inch.’
The boy just glared at him.
‘Got it?’ He knew there’d need to be tough love first. Car washes weren’t going to do it.
Then he went to the shed, found a hammer and nails, and stood on the outside securing the window. As he did he looked at the boy, but he didn’t look back. He said, ‘I can remove these, any time.’
He looked across the road. Mrs Flamsteed was still on her porch, watching.
‘All tidied up?’ she called.
22
THE PROBLEM WAS solved with pizza. Moy ordered three. Garlic bread. Coke. A conversation at the door with the delivery boy. ‘Looks like I’ll have to eat them all myself,’ he said, turning towards the door of the spare room. ‘My son, he’s too sick to eat.’
He sat in the lounge room, feasting. A few minutes later he heard the boy’s door opening, then saw a shadow in the doorway. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘I got tropical. You like pineapple?’
The boy came in and knelt down in front of the boxes on the coffee table. He took a slice and started to eat.
‘I poured you a Coke,’ Moy said.
The boy chewed a few times, waited and swallowed.
‘Thank you, Detective,’ Moy said. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Thanks,’ the boy managed.
‘That’s okay.’
After they’d eaten and drained nearly a litre of Coke, Moy said, ‘Do I owe you an apology?’
The boy looked at him. ‘Was the lady angry?’
‘No. She’s got plenty of plants. Said she understood. Still…’
‘What?’
Moy fetched pen and paper, and helped him compose the note. ‘Dear Mrs Flamsteed…’
‘I can write it by myself. I’m not five years old.’
‘You never told me how old you were.’
‘Nine.’
When he was finished he crossed the road, by himself, and placed it in her letterbox.
He returned and Moy said, ‘She’ll be over with one of her saints.’
The boy had seen them on the fridge. ‘For me?’
‘Yeah. But I’ll keep her at the front door. I’ll tell her you went down the street for some milk. Unless, of course…’
The boy grinned. ‘My uncle was into Jesus.’
Moy knew better than to try again
. Instead, ‘I suppose I should go do some work.’
‘What about me?’
‘You can come with me.’
‘To work?’
Moy shrugged. ‘I don’t think you’re ready to start school just yet, are you?’
‘No.’
They both got changed. When Moy emerged from his room the boy was putting the pizza boxes in the bin.
They backed out of the driveway in the lemon-scented car, cruised along Gawler Street behind a truck full of pigs, its tray dribbling shit, and past Civic Park on the way to the station. ‘What’s your favourite music?’ Moy asked, tuning from station to station. Eighties double-plays…Bing Crosby.
‘Don’t know.’
They settled on the squawk and mumble of the police radio.
Then the boy looked at Moy and said, ‘Patrick.’
Moy kept his eyes on the road. ‘Patrick?’ He stretched his right hand across his body. ‘I’m Bart…nice to meet you.’
Patrick lifted his hand from his lap. Slipped his fingers and palm into Moy’s. Then Moy closed his hand and they shook.
‘Do you have a surname, Patrick?’
The boy looked back at the road.
‘That’s okay. One step at a time. It’s a nice name, Patrick. Very Irish. But you’re not Irish, are you? I mean, what would an Irish person be doing in Guilderton? No, that’s quite a start. I feel like I know you now.’
They pulled up in front of the station. Patrick sat back in his seat, his hands sliding down, and squeezing his legs. His teeth closed on his bottom lip and he looked at Moy strangely.
‘Let’s go,’ Moy said, climbing from the car.
Patrick sat motionless, staring down into the black comms screen.
‘You coming?’
They went in through the double glass doors, postered with an ad for a Blue Light disco and a man named Sidney Barrett, wanted for the murder of his wife and mother-in-law. Patrick walked slowly, looking around—at the fan clunking above the waiting area; the aquarium, full of murky water and plastic seaweed; a coffee table with magazines and a Rubik’s cube with most of its coloured stickers peeled off. Moy approached the desk where Jason Laing was busy counting the number of fines in an infringement pad.
‘This is Patrick,’ Moy said, his voice filling the empty room. ‘Patrick, this is Constable Jason Laing.’