by Stephen Orr
‘Makes it smoother.’
As Patrick worked on the bowl, George walked to the other end of the pitch and set out his jack. He stepped back, surveyed it from three or four different angles, shrugged and headed back.
‘Let’s have yer,’ he called to the boy, turning up the collar on his club shirt and hitching his pants. He took his own bowl and found his position. ‘No one’ll bother us until at least ten.’
‘Does everyone dress in white?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a tradition.’
‘Why?’
George stared at him. ‘Why why why? You can’t just keep using that word.’
Patrick looked at him.
‘Otherwise you’d have people in T-shirts, sandshoes, work boots. What would that look like?’ He looked pointedly at Moy’s T-shirt. ‘You’re playing?’
‘No, I’m happy just sitting here…watching…passing judgment.’ Moy looked at Patrick and smiled.
‘Right now Paddy,’ George said, demonstrating his swing. ‘See, like that. Follow through with your arm, nice and slow.’
Patrick stepped forward, grasped his bowl and copied George’s swing.
‘Good, but bend over,’ the old man said, taking Patrick’s shoulders and forcing them down. ‘That’s the idea. Just soft…you’ve gotta learn to judge…like so.’ The bowl shot off, curved, arced back to the jack but stopped a few feet short. ‘For now it’s better to undershoot.’
Patrick assumed his stance, drew a mental line over the grass and bowled. The bowl started slow and went straight; it headed for the jack, connected and knocked it a few inches to the right. He turned and looked at George and Moy.
Moy applauded. ‘Nice work, Clarry.’
‘I hit it.’ He was beaming. ‘Can we try again?’
‘Of course. You grab the bowls.’
Patrick sprinted down the pitch and George called out, ‘Walk!’
The boy replaced the jack, gathered the bowls and returned. ‘Do any kids play?’ he asked George.
‘It’s an old person’s sport,’ Moy said. George glared at him.
‘So I can’t join the club?’
‘You can if you like. It’s good you’re thinking about the future.’
He turned and tilted his head. ‘Why?’
‘Gotta have somewhere to stay, everybody does.’ He looked at his son. ‘Be good if you stayed here with us, wouldn’t it, Bart?’
‘Would you like that?’ Moy asked.
It seemed to strike Patrick as a novel idea. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘Unless your dad claims you.’
Patrick took a moment. ‘He won’t.’
‘Why not?’
Patrick shrugged. He looked at George and asked, ‘Did you ever come here with your dad?’
‘God, no.’ George almost laughed. ‘We were always too busy on the farm. Hardly ever came to town. Certainly not to play bowls. My dad wouldn’t have dreamed of doing something like this.’
‘Was he grumpy?’
‘No, practical. That’s how it was in those days.’
‘What was his name? Your dad?’
George smiled at him. ‘You haven’t worked it out yet?’
‘I think…’
‘His name was William, William Moy.’
Patrick turned to face him. ‘William…the photographer’s son?’
‘That’s him.’
‘So…’ He stopped to think about how it might have happened. ‘He never came back for him?’
‘Well, thing is, I never knew until I was about your age. Dad never told me.’ George shrugged at Patrick’s expression of disbelief. ‘Mighta thought I wouldn’t be interested.’
Moy was half-sitting, half-lying back in the shelter, listening to the fugue of old and young voice, the harmony, the poetry. The sky was a half-cloudy, indecisive blue, the breeze not cold, not warm.
‘What happened?’ Patrick asked George.
‘Some time in the late forties, maybe? After the war anyway, one time I was looking through the photo albums and Dad says to me, you know, my father died in Sydney.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Course, I knew very well my grandfather Daniel’d died right there on the farm, so then the whole story comes out.’
There were only two photos of his father, Bill had said, probably it was always like that with photographers. He told George he could remember the sound of his father’s raspy pipe-smoker’s voice and his floppy bowtie, the hair that grew out of his ears and nose.
‘He was looking for his wife in Sydney,’ George told Patrick.
‘What was his name?’
‘Harrison…Harry. Apparently he got in a fight and ended up with a knife between his ribs.’
‘What about Daniel?’ Patrick asked.
‘Well, after losing Elizabeth, he agreed to look after Dad. That’s the sort of man he was…help anyone out.’
‘William stayed with him?’
‘Yes, the day after the photo was taken—the death photo.’ George recalled the memento mori. ‘Harry kissed Dad on the head and said, I’ll be back soon, son, behave yourself, do exactly what Mr Moy says.’
Young William, with blood still dried on his throat.
‘Dad told me he cried for a whole day,’ George said. ‘Harry got back in his cart and drove off and Dad never saw him again.’
Patrick, looking at the grass, seemed to be remembering.
‘Anyway,’ George said, ‘Dad settled in. Elizabeth was buried, a cross was made. Life went on. He learned how to plough and seed and deliver lambs. And that was that.’
Patrick studied George’s face.
‘Until one day,’ George said, ‘this letter came saying what happened in Sydney. Then there were lots of waterworks. Daniel said, we don’t know if this is true, son. But Dad knew. And then the months and years went by. He knew. Something had happened to his father. Maybe his mum had run off with someone, and Harry was after them. Maybe he was the fella that stabbed Harry.’
Patrick stared at George. ‘So what happened then?’
‘Well, Daniel was always a practical man. He said, how about we make this all legal? And Dad said, fine, and then they went to town to see a lawyer, to fill in the adoption papers.’ George was enjoying the story. ‘When I first heard all this I was shocked. Still, it explained a lot of things. Missing photos…different hair colour…’ He squeezed Patrick’s knee. ‘See, that’s Bart’s grandad. A stranger. Someone that somebody met by accident.’
‘And all in one day?’ Patrick asked, seeing both photos—William and Daniel, Elizabeth, Daniel and Helen—but wondering, clearly. ‘And what was his surname?’
‘Who?’
‘Your other grandad. Harry.’
‘William never said.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe he never thought to.’
‘Why?’
‘Why why?’
‘Why?’ Patrick persisted.
‘Maybe he just wanted to move on.’
And Patrick stared at the jack, thinking, as the first of the bowlers came outside.
37
MOY SAT IN his room and stared into his monitor. Forensic evidence: a bumper bar; a bike that had nothing to do with anything but was photographed anyway; the soccer ball; even his keys, and a beer bottle they’d found in the back of his car.
Megan had asked when he’d drunk it. She’d claimed she could smell it on his breath, which was rubbish. It had been days since he’d had a drink. He could remember her screaming at him. ‘If you’ve been drinking…’ Him yelling back that it was an accident and accidents, by definition, weren’t something you anticipated. How he needed her support now, and she was being a complete and utter bitch. As if it was something he’d meant to do.
‘If it goes to court, don’t rely on me,’ she was saying.
‘What do you think happened?’ He could see her face, set hard, and her arms crossed.
He went into his room to pack a few
clothes and she followed him.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘Tomorrow morning I’m going to split the savings and put half in my credit union account, and then I’m going to check into a motel.’
‘You need both signatures.’
He’d stopped. ‘Wrong. Check.’
He sat back in his chair now, staring at the soccer ball, remembering his wife standing at the door as he took his keys, wallet and pistol, and left.
His phone rang. ‘Yes?’
It was Superintendent Graves wanting more information. The days and weeks are passing, he explained.
‘Sir.’ Thinking, pompous old timeserver. Irritated by the drone, the formal clunk of words. ‘I’ve read the reports, and I’ve followed everything up. I’ve talked to everyone on Creek Street but no one seems to remember them. The house itself is a long way out.’ He wanted to tell the superintendent not to bother him in his own space, his own time. Brave words and sentences were forming in his head. I’m solving it in my own way, and if you don’t like that…
‘So, it’s probably time to get this boy seen to,’ Graves said. ‘There’s probably a psychologist, or someone?’
Seen to. ‘Yes sir. I don’t think that’s going to achieve anything.’ You complete fucking prick.
‘What about this brother?’ Graves asked.
‘I assume he’s being…kept somewhere.’
There was a long silence from the other end. ‘Why would someone want to keep him?’
‘The boy’s seen whoever it was attacked the mother. Maybe he’s got away, too. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere.’
‘Lot of maybes, Bart.’
Moy noticed Patrick standing in the doorway. ‘Well, Superintendent, I’ve done my best with limited means. I don’t think—’
‘Detective Sergeant, the normal—’
‘I need to call you back…tomorrow perhaps. I have to go.’ He hung up, placing the phone on his desk. ‘Patrick?’
Patrick opened the door and stepped inside the room, pulling his T-shirt down over his underpants.
‘What’s up?’ Moy asked.
The boy shrugged.
‘Were you listening?’
‘You were talking about Tom?’
‘Tom, and Mum, and the fire. They think I’m taking too long.’
No response.
‘They’re saying it’s about time someone else had a go. I said no.’ He waited. ‘Do you think I’m taking too long?’
Patrick shrugged.
Moy made no attempt to make the boy feel comfortable. ‘If I agree, they’ll send three major crime investigators. They’ll start from scratch. Evidence. Witnesses. They’ll get you to tell them exactly what happened. From the beginning. Would you like that?’
Patrick shrugged again.
‘They might find things I’ve missed. What do you think?’
‘You’re doing fine.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe I should’ve found Tom already?’
Patrick was trembling. ‘If you don’t want to…’
Moy sat up. ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’
No reply.
‘I think you think I’ve missed something.’
‘No.’
‘And that you’d like these other detectives, but you’re too nice to say.’
‘No.’
‘You think if I was fair, I’d step away from the case.’
Patrick looked at him with red eyes. ‘No, I want you.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Please, Bart.’
Moy could see the boy’s hands shaking. He wondered whether he should put his arm around him. He wanted to; knew he couldn’t. It was his own fault that things had dragged, that Tom was still lost. A man who spent his waking hours indulging his own grief. ‘You can say it, Patrick.’
‘What?’
‘That I’ve fucked up.’
AT ONE A.M. Moy was standing outside, hitting golf balls. He’d strung up a bed-sheet between two old trees. He’d got up and started smashing Q Stars with his five-iron. They pouched the sheet, but never tore it.
He looked up and Patrick was watching him, his head low above his window.
George called from his room. ‘Shut up!’
So Moy kept swinging.
38
MOY WOKE UP, opened his eyes, sat up. His digital clock was glowing: 2.43 a.m. He wondered if he’d heard a woman’s voice.
‘Bartholomew…it’s George.’
He stood up and walked a few paces, listening. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Mrs Miller, from next door.’
He ran from his room, to the door. Patrick was a few steps behind, rubbing his eyes.
‘Mrs Miller?’
‘Look.’ She pointed.
He saw his father lying on the driveway.
‘I was up doing my ironing,’ she said. ‘I heard someone calling… I looked out and saw him lying there.’
Moy jumped from the porch, followed by Thea and Patrick. He knelt beside George, gently shook him and said, ‘Dad.’
The old man’s eyes were closed, the lids covered with fine capillaries. His nose was flaring, chest rising and falling, fingers digging into the dirt beside the drive, clawing, gathering a fistful of soursobs.
‘Righto,’ Moy said, thinking. ‘Airway.’ He dropped his ear to his father’s mouth. Then he looked up at them. ‘He’s breathing.’
‘That’s a good sign,’ Thea replied.
‘Circulation.’ He placed two fingers on his father’s carotid artery. ‘Thank Christ,’ he said, feeling a pulse. ‘Everything seems in order.’
‘He’s unconscious,’ Thea said.
‘Yes. What is it?’ He looked at her, imploring.
‘A heart attack, or maybe a stroke? He might have just fainted.’
‘What was he doing out here?’
‘He often wanders in the garden at night, talking to himself.’
‘So…’ Moy tried to think what to do.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Thea said.
Moy looked at his father. ‘No…I mean…’ He looked up. ‘Where does it come from?’
‘They’re volunteers. They have a pager.’
‘Fuck.’
She flushed, but did not comment. ‘They’re pretty quick. They’re used to getting to road accidents and—’
‘Patrick, grab my keys from the buffet.’
Thea wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t think you’re meant to move them.’
‘Go on,’ Moy insisted, and Patrick ran inside.
‘You might make things worse,’ she said.
‘Worse than dying?’
‘No, I mean—’
‘It’s not likely to be a spinal injury, is it?’ he asked, half-sarcastic. Then he realised what she’d done for him. ‘You were ironing?’
‘I can never sleep anymore.’
Patrick sprinted from the house, handed Moy the keys and asked, ‘What should I do?’
Moy could see the terror in his face. ‘Watch him while I get the car.’
As he went further up the drive, opened and started the car, Patrick knelt beside George, holding his hand, wiping hair from his forehead. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Thea said, sensing his fear. ‘He’s still functioning.’ As if George was an old mower that could still cut.
Patrick stared at the old man’s face. ‘Come on, George. You can hear me, can’t you?’ He squeezed his hand.
‘He can hear you,’ Thea said. ‘But he won’t be able to speak… give him a minute.’ The old professional manner buoyed her voice. ‘Come on, George. We’re going to get you some help. Patrick… that’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Patrick’s going to make sure you’re okay.’
Moy backed up, applied the handbrake and got out. There was exhaust, and red light on their faces. After opening the back door of his car he returned to his father and sai
d, ‘Don’t worry, Dad, five minutes.’ He took him under the arms, lifted and dragged him towards the car.
‘Can I help?’ Thea asked.
‘I’ve got him.’
Moy sat on the back seat and dragged his father in. When most of his body was lying across the seat he got out the other side and closed the doors. ‘Come on,’ he said to Patrick. ‘You’re gonna have to watch him.’
Patrick got in the car. Moy turned to Thea. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how long he’d been there.’
‘Not long, I’d have seen him.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘Yes.’
He got in the car and they backed out. Changing gears, they flew down Clyde Street. Thea stood watching them, her arms crossed, her eyes adjusting to the street lights.
Patrick strapped himself in, turned around and held George’s hand.
‘Can you feel a pulse?’ Moy asked.
The boy did what he’d seen them do on telly. Surprisingly, it worked. ‘Yes.’
Moy looked at the clock on the dash: 2.58 a.m. He wondered if there was an allotted time, and if he’d exceeded it. He pushed the accelerator to the floor. They became airborne and as he braked before a dip the car ground its bumper into the bitumen. He flipped on the warning lights. ‘Dad, can you hear me?’
He spoke to Patrick. ‘Keep checking.’
‘I can still feel it.’
Moy flew down Ayr Street. One of the shops was open and a man was tiling the floor; he looked up, surprised, as they flew past, heading for the final winding road that led to the hospital.
Moy slowed. A mule-kick of memory. Charlie, he nearly said, nearly turning around, nearly looking. He could feel his heart racing and his own mouth drying. The body, he sensed, was on the back seat, and he was overcome with a feeling of despair.
I did nothing to cause this, he thought. Nothing. And yet here I am…‘Patrick?’
‘He’s okay.’
He pulled into the hospital drive. Slowed; searched for signs of life. Came to a stop at a pair of sliding doors. Then he sounded his horn, switched on the siren, turned off the engine and got out.
Nothing. He hammered on the doors. ‘Hello?’
‘The intercom,’ Patrick said.
Moy pressed a button. ‘Hello?’
Eventually: ‘Yes?’
‘My father, I think he’s had a heart attack.’