One Boy Missing

by Stephen Orr

‘There’s a three-year waiting list.’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘Dad, what if you had an accident? What if you couldn’t look after yourself?’

  George pointed his finger. ‘You were going to…’ He trailed off, looking at the boy. ‘You got many, Patrick?’

  Patrick’s eyes drifted from the old man to the page.

  ‘Bit old-fashioned, eh? Words. No Facebook here.’

  ‘I’m not on it.’

  ‘And, what’s it called, the box thing?’

  ‘Xbox.’ He looked at the old man. ‘It’s good. I can play…’ Then returned to the crossword. ‘I can do these, too. Here, the most common element, silicon.’ He indicated.

  George checked. Maybe the boy had a head for facts.

  Moy knew his father wouldn’t let it go. ‘Dad…I’d never willingly put you into one of those places.’

  ‘Is that why you came home?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘I can tell you one thing, you’ll never drag me out of here.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Once is enough. This is all we’ve got to show for a hundred years of killing ourselves. Land. Only a little bit, I know, but enough for some grass and weeds.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘You’ll never drag me out of here.’

  Moy knew these words were raw. He could still remember the swearing and kicked walls from thirty years before; his father pacing the empty rooms of their farm house. Although he couldn’t remember what he said, he guessed it was along the same lines: land, and history, lost; banks as a sort of cancer that ate into honest people’s lives; relief, at least, that his ancestors weren’t around to see it. He could remember the moving van and the boxes of books and toys, and worst of all, the empty sheds and yards.

  And then, attempting to convince his dad that it was time to go. ‘It’ll be great, won’t it, walking into town?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘Come on then. The movers will need us to open the new place.’

  Moy knew how hard it was for his dad. The actual moment of leaving. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Christ, son, they’ll wait.’

  Back in the kitchen, Moy said, ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made a decision. I’m gonna move in with you.’

  George wasn’t sure. ‘You never said anything about this.’

  ‘I’m saying it now.’

  Patrick looked at Moy with a sort of does this include me? expression.

  ‘Easy done,’ Moy said, looking at both of them. ‘There’s no lease and I’ll be saving a hundred and eighty a week. We can use that for a gardener, or to get the place painted.’

  ‘You don’t want to.’

  ‘There’s only one lot of dishes to clean, one afternoon lost vacuuming.’

  ‘But you don’t want to.’

  ‘Why not? I can put up with you. I have for forty-two years.’

  George just stared at him. ‘Maybe I’m not so sure.’

  ‘You gotta decide.’

  ‘I got things how I like them.’

  ‘So? We can work around you. Like Dad and Dave.’ He looked at the boy. ‘What do you think, Patrick?’

  ‘Good.’ He turned to George. ‘I can help you with your crosswords.’

  ‘So that’s the plan,’ Moy continued. ‘I pack up my few things, hire a trailer. Few of the fellas at work will help. There’s plenty of space if we clear out the bedrooms.’

  ‘They’re full of my stuff.’

  ‘Stuff you don’t use. A bike machine you haven’t sat on for thirty years. There’s plenty of room to store your stuff in the shed.’

  ‘What if I don’t want it in the shed?’

  ‘What if you don’t want to go to a nursing home?’

  George sat up. ‘Don’t play your bloody detective tricks on me.’

  There was a long pause as they stared at each other, as Patrick scribbled letters across the page.

  ‘I’m not useless,’ George said.

  ‘I didn’t say you were.’

  ‘I can still look after myself.’

  ‘Didn’t say you couldn’t.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘Well?’ Moy asked.

  ‘I get the last say.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Moy smiled, convincing himself as much as anyone.

  HALF AN HOUR later the three of them walked down Ayr Street. George stopped to rest on his walking stick. Moy was beside him, his hand near but not touching his father’s arm. Patrick walked behind them carrying a string bag with George’s few groceries.

  ‘So, Patrick,’ George said, ‘what’s happened to your parents?’

  ‘Dad, you remember the story, about the laneway?’ Moy asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s Patrick.’

  ‘So what was that all about, Patrick?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t see the problem. ‘Best thing’s to talk about it.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Some fella givin’ you a hard time, was he, Patrick?’

  Patrick stopped. The two men walked a few steps before they realised. They turned to him. ‘You okay, Patrick?’ Moy asked.

  George just stared at him, studying his eyes, his small ears and freckled nose. ‘He’s okay,’ he said.

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Come on, boy.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘What?’ He shook his head, turned and hobbled on.

  ‘Come on,’ Moy said to Patrick. ‘He takes a while to get used to.’

  They continued and Moy returned to his father’s elbow.

  ‘The thing is, Patrick,’ George continued, ‘I’ve been in this town a pretty long time and I know most people.’

  ‘Dad, Patrick’s not local.’

  ‘Well, Port Louis, Sandringham, Close’s Beach.’

  Moy stopped in front of the entrance to Turner’s Shop. ‘How are you off for clothes?’ he asked his father. ‘Socks, jocks, singlets?’

  George looked at him. ‘I’ve got enough clothes to see me out.’

  ‘Shirts? That one’s only got four buttons.’

  ‘There’s another job for you, when you move in.’

  They continued.

  ‘You leave him with me, I’ll get him talking,’ George said to his son.

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A few days ago he wouldn’t say a word. Now he talks to me. You’ve gotta give him time.’

  George flicked his hand, as if there was a fly. ‘I know all that,’ he said.

  ‘He needs to know he can trust you.’

  ‘Why couldn’t he trust me?’

  Moy walked around a pram left in the middle of a footpath. ‘Maybe he will.’

  A thought occurred to George. ‘You’re not doin’ this because you need a babysitter?’

  ‘FACS was looking after him. I asked to have him. But it might be nice, mightn’t it? If I gotta go off somewhere?’

  ‘It might be…but I’m an old man.’

  ‘You’re not that old.’

  ‘Old enough.’

  ‘For a nursing home?’

  He glared. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, this will be good…bonding.’ He looked back at Patrick. ‘Eh, Patrick, Dad says you two can hang out. Says he’ll take you to bowls.’

  ‘Did not.’

  ‘He’d love that, wouldn’t you, Patrick?’ He looked at his father. ‘Imagine all the old girls, with their paws all over him. You’d be the most popular man there.’

  ‘Too old for that.’

  Moy stopped outside the chemist. He looked at Patrick and asked, ‘Can you look after Dad for a minute?’

  Patrick nodded, took George by the arm and led him to a bench.

  ‘I’m all right,’ the old man fussed, reclaiming his arm.

  But Patrick persisted, sitting beside him and holding his walking stick.

  Moy went into the chemist, walked down the soa
p and shampoo aisle and emerged at the front counter. ‘Remember me?’ he asked the assistant.

  ‘Yes, Detective Sergeant. How did it go?’

  ‘It was Alan Williams, wasn’t it?’

  She looked confused.

  ‘The man in the car. The old car you told me about. It was Alan Williams?’

  ‘Was that his name?’

  ‘You know it was.’

  ‘Pardon?’ She looked indignant. The pharmacist was listening from the dispensary, slowly typing.

  ‘He taught your nephew, didn’t he?’

  ‘Did he?’

  Moy glared at her. ‘You’ve wasted a lot of my time.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Alan was with his mother, in town. He had an extra day off school. They were seeing King Lear.’

  The assistant just shrugged. ‘All I know is I saw this man, several times.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could charge you.’

  She took a step back. ‘Excuse me?’

  But Moy almost laughed. ‘King Lear. Shakespeare.’ He left the shop, upsetting a table of half-price cologne.

  25

  AFTER MOY DROPPED his father home he decided to take Patrick along Creek Street. There’s something I’ve missed, he kept telling himself.

  As they drove they passed paddocks full of stubble. Moy noticed a pair of tall silos: Stow’s Fabrications. He wondered if this was the farmer who’d misplaced his photos. Then felt the usual exhausted futility. What could you do? Knock on the door, ask if he had a camera?

  Moy’s arm extended out of the car, tapping on the roof. ‘You gotta understand,’ he said, ‘George is gonna do his best to scare you.’

  ‘Why?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘It’s just how he is.’

  ‘Why?’

  Moy shrugged. ‘I suppose there weren’t a lot of Disney movies when he grew up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He was out bagging wheat when he was nine.’

  Patrick was confused. ‘How’s that make him grumpy?’

  ‘He’s not grumpy.’

  The boy was staring at him.

  ‘Back then you didn’t have time to stand about discussing your problems.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you gotta be grumpy.’

  ‘No,’ Moy agreed. ‘Maybe they wanted to come over strong… manly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To show each other they could do the job.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Shearing sheep, welding axles.’

  ‘So he’s grumpy because he had to shear sheep?’

  ‘Yes, exactly, because he had to shear sheep.’

  Patrick still wasn’t convinced. ‘But you reckon he’ll stop being grumpy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of days, a week…never.’

  When they reached the far end of Creek Street the houses spread out. Moy noticed an old shed on the backblocks. Turning down a gravel road he coasted and stopped his car at the end near a patchwork iron shed. There was a weedy yard full of old washers and stoves, bed frames, mattresses and forty-four-gallon drums. And what looked like the remains of a bus, completely overgrown with vine. ‘What a dump,’ he said.

  Patrick was quiet, his face set hard.

  ‘Someone’s collected a lot of crap. I can’t believe the council would allow it.’

  ‘Can we go?’ Patrick said.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s just rubbish. I should have a look.’

  ‘Can we go?’

  Moy looked at him, thinking. ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just a shed…and a heap of junk.’

  No reply.

  Moy got out. ‘You okay?’

  Nothing.

  ‘How about I lock the car?’

  ‘No,’ he shot back, lifting a hand, with five outstretched fingers.

  Moy walked into the yard and noticed a fence, its rusted wire and posts hidden by grass. He walked through the rubbish on his way to the shed. There was a path of sorts winding through it all. He noticed a few mice dart from under a tea chest. When he got to the opening, or what passed as a door, he called out, ‘Hello, anyone around? Police.’

  Silence.

  He looked back at Patrick and waved. ‘You okay?’

  The boy didn’t respond.

  Moy hauled aside an old mattress that was being used as a sort of sliding door. Stepping inside, the smell hit him straight away. Stale oil, unwashed clothes and rotting food. There was enough light to see piles of junk. Six- and seven-foot high columns of pots and pans; wet newspapers and magazines; shelves (fallen, clinging to the old wood of the shed) full of broken irons, lamps, a record player and a collection of everything electronic ever bought, sold or stolen in Guilderton.

  ‘Hello?’

  He followed another path that moved among the junk. It brought him to the centre of the shed where there was a bath and, inside it, a mattress with a depression where someone had recently slept. Beside the bath-bed was a pile of rugs. It seemed to move. He knelt down to look at it, unsure if it was a trick of the light.

  Fleas. Millions. Jumping about in the last bit of light.

  He stood up and stepped back.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice said behind him.

  He turned and a fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying. As he fell he upset a pan full of fat sitting on a Primus stove.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, sitting up, feeling his face and noticing blood on his hand.

  ‘You fuckin’ thief,’ he heard the voice growl, before a foot hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. He was groggy, unsure of where he was or what was happening. He managed to look up and see an old man in a grey parka and overalls standing over him.

  ‘Police,’ Moy said.

  ‘My arse.’ The old man went to kick him again.

  He shielded his face with his arm, grabbed the old man’s leg, pulled it, and heard him fall back onto a pile of cartons.

  ‘Police,’ he repeated, sitting up, spitting blood from his mouth and noticing Patrick’s face above the man. Then he heard fists, and a series of punches. Little hands connecting with bone. He stood up, took a few steps and tried to pull Patrick off.

  ‘No,’ the boy shouted, as he hammered the old man with both fists.

  ‘Come on,’ Moy said. ‘Stop now.’

  Patrick stopped, rolled his head and said, ‘Leave him alone.’

  Both the old man and Moy looked at the boy.

  ‘He was just looking,’ Patrick said.

  ‘In my house,’ the old man replied, sitting up.

  There was a short pause as all three caught their breath. Moy felt his lip and realised it was split. ‘You’ve just assaulted a detective,’ he said to the old man.

  ‘And you’ve just broken into my place.’

  Moy could see that he only had a few teeth, and that his lips were turned in. He had a flat nose, brown eyes and grey skin.

  ‘You come to steal from me,’ this man said, running his hand through his matted hair. ‘This is private property.’

  ‘You live in this mess?’

  No reply. Patrick stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the old man.

  ‘This isn’t healthy,’ Moy said. ‘The place is full of fleas, you shouldn’t be here.’ He noticed a pile of books on a bench beside the bath-bed; a candle; the remains of a meal.

  ‘I was here first,’ the old man said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I built this shed sixty years ago there was no one for miles. They come and built their places around me.’

  Moy moved and felt his jaw. Nothing seemed to be broken. ‘Why did you hit me?’

  ‘You broke in.’

  ‘I was investigating. I thought it was a shed, not a house. I could charge you.’

  ‘And I could call the po
lice.’

  ‘I am the bloody police.’

  ‘How was I to know you weren’t a stealer?’

  Moy looked at him and realised there was nothing to be done. The old man stared at Patrick and said, ‘I remember you.’

  Moy looked at them both: the old man, squinting, trying to remember; Patrick, moving away, dropping and turning his head.

  ‘I seen you,’ the old man said.

  ‘You have?’ Moy asked, looking at them both.

  ‘Yeah.’ He kept looking at Patrick. ‘Out with your brother and your mum.’

  Moy stared at the boy.

  Patrick turned away from them.

  The old man looked at Moy. ‘I seen ’em walkin’ down here… down Creek Street.’

  The boy turned, took a few steps and ran from the shed. Ducking and squeezing between the towers of junk, pushing back the mattress. He disappeared into the night.

  ‘How old was the other boy?’ Moy asked.

  ‘Not much older than this one.’

  He stopped to think. ‘Can I come back?’

  The old man shrugged.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in…I didn’t know.’ He extended his hand. The old man took a moment and then shook it. ‘Sixty years I been here,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’ He followed the path out, knocking over a rag bag that spilled open and blocked the junk corridor.

  He emerged into the night and saw Patrick sitting in the car. After walking through the yard he stood looking at the boy. Then he looked up. Creek Street. He could smell smoke; and see the yellow and red blocks of Lego half-hidden in the ashes. He looked back. Their eyes met but the small head dropped again. Once he was in the car he said, ‘We better watch out, that place was full of fleas.’

  No reply.

  ‘That was a nice thing you did, Patrick.’

  Patrick just closed his lips, and licked between them.

  ‘So, what happened, you saw him coming in and followed him?’

  Nothing.

  ‘He could’ve given me a black eye, or worse…he might have had a knife.’

  The old man stood in the doorway looking at them. Then he picked up the mattress and laid it across the door.

  ‘Thank you, Patrick,’ Moy whispered, and their eyes met. ‘I know I should say you shouldn’t have done it, but every bit helps, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think I hurt him,’ Patrick said.

  ‘No, but you’ve got a decent fist. Good punch.’ He felt the boy’s right bicep. ‘See, it’s all that pizza I’ve been feeding you.’