One Boy Missing

by Stephen Orr

  The line dropped out. A few moments later the doors opened and an orderly appeared with a gurney. He peered into the back seat. ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where am I?’ George asked.

  Moy almost smiled. ‘Hospital.’

  ‘Fuck.’ George grimaced, and felt his chest. ‘Bloody ticker, I suppose.’

  Patrick looked at Moy; took his hand and squeezed it. Another orderly came out to help.

  PATRICK WAITED OUTSIDE the room as they changed George into a gown; laid him on the bed like a frozen fillet left to thaw; connected a heart monitor and studied the trace, printing out a long strip of paper that said, somehow, the old man wouldn’t die, today at least. As they inserted a drip (Heparin, 1000 units per hour GTN) into his arm and taped it down. As the ECG was watched, and adjusted, words like infarct muttered, shoulders shrugged, water sipped. All with the conclusion, ‘I think he got off pretty lightly.’

  Moy came out and sat beside Patrick. ‘He’s okay. It was a little heart attack.’

  Patrick was unsure. ‘And he’ll get better?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Then the boy’s head dropped, staring at well-worn carpet. There was a vending machine but he hadn’t even bothered looking to see what it contained. And prints, all along the wall. Flowers sitting in pots the shapes of animals. It all seemed out of place. With the trolleys and wheelchairs, machines (all tubes and buttons) and little posters showing you how to wash your hands.

  ‘We had fried chicken the other day,’ Patrick said.

  ‘It wasn’t that.’

  Moy was on a first-name basis with the bain-marie woman at Dempsey’s Takeaway and any of the half-dozen people who worked at the pizza bar. But worse, there’d been a late-night adventure all the way to Port Louis for a feed of KFC, a couple of hours for the three of them to get there and back. On the way home Moy had said, ‘You’re not to mention this to anyone, understand? I could get in trouble for using the car.’

  Patrick was nearly asleep in the hospital corridor.

  ‘Come on,’ Moy said. They went into George’s room, Patrick looking shocked to see the sleeping figure with leads coming off his chest, feeding into a flashing box like the comms screen in the car. His face fatter, his hands larger, his fingers longer.

  ‘Here,’ Moy said, indicating a long couch.

  Patrick took the few steps and lay down and Moy wedged a pillow beneath his head. He drifted off almost straight away, but not before he felt a rug settling over his body, before he saw Moy, sitting down in an armchair beside his father, taking and reading some notes, tilting his head, as if trying to understand something. But then leaning back, folding his arms and closing his eyes.

  THE NIGHT WAS warm and the room hummed. Moy looked at a clock that marked every moment with clinical precision. It was just after five; enough time to salvage some sleep. He went next door and found a foam mattress and laid it on the floor beside his father; sheets, rugs, and two pillows that smelt of menthol. He rested, watching the vents rhythmically feeding them air. He closed then opened his eyes. Looked at his father, convinced that it might happen again at any moment. He was watching him shovel spilled grain into a wheelbarrow.

  Can I help?

  No.

  Returning to his house, looking back at the angry figure working against the last bit of light. As he still was. The same neurons firing, cardiac muscle working.

  He noticed Patrick peeling off his rug and sitting up. Heard his father saying, ‘No, go back to sleep.’

  The boy stood up and approached George. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine. These things happen when you get old. No point making a big drama.’

  He watched as Patrick touched George’s arm. He noticed how he took a moment, feeling the rough skin.

  ‘Were you worried?’ George asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s just like a cut, isn’t it? You know it’s gonna heal.’

  ‘But it was a heart attack.’

  ‘So?’

  Silence. And a dog barking, again.

  ‘It was so bloody stupid,’ George said.

  ‘What?’

  He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I woke up, convinced I’d left the gate open.’

  ‘What gate?’

  ‘On the farm. I’d left the gate open, and the sheep would get out. I thought, Dad’s gonna kill me. So I got up, and went out, and walked down the path towards the paddock.’ He opened his eyes and looked at the boy. ‘Only there wasn’t any paddock, was there?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  Moy watched his father adjusting the leads coming off his chest. George was smiling at the boy. ‘I won’t be able to take you anywhere today. But if they let me out this arvo we can play bowls tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Won’t you have to stay here?’

  ‘Better now. Best thing’s to get on with it, eh?’ He slowly sucked in a lungful of air.

  ‘What is it?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Dying for a pee.’

  ‘Should I get the nurse?’

  ‘No, over there.’ He raised his hand, indicating.

  Patrick moved around the bed and fetched the strangely shaped bottle. ‘Is this to…?’

  ‘That’s it. Get back to sleep now.’

  Moy watched Patrick return to his couch, lie down and close his eyes. Hold them closed. George cursed and fought with the sheets and leads. ‘That’s it,’ as the stream gushed, and slowed. Then: ‘Patrick! You awake? I can’t reach the table.’

  Patrick got up and took the full bottle. ‘I’ll take it out to the nurse.’

  ‘Perhaps you better.’

  Moy smiled and turned to the wall.

  THE NEXT MORNING Moy felt like life had offered him a second chance. Unable to sleep, he’d risen at six, gone home and packed a bag for his father. Now, the sun through the window was warming the room. ‘Right, I’ve got your pyjamas and your crossword books.’

  And George. ‘Can’t wear me pyjamas.’

  ‘Rubbish, other people are. Listen, Thea came over as I was pulling in, askin’ after you. I suppose I should get her some chocolates or something.’ He paused. ‘She said she’s seen you out before, wandering.’

  ‘What? I’m not allowed to walk around in my own yard?’

  ‘Said she hears you talking to someone.’

  ‘Nosy old bitch.’ George shook his head. ‘No chocolates, right?’

  ‘But she saved your life.’

  ‘Bullshit. Wasn’t dead, was I?’

  ‘You might’ve died.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Moy noticed the boy, apparently asleep, smiling.

  ‘You can’t kill me that easily,’ George said. ‘Though I bet there’s some’d like to.’

  ‘Naaah…’

  ‘You shut up.’

  Patrick giggled, and Moy tickled him awake.

  39

  THEY SPENT THE day at the hospital and drove around to Moy’s old house at Gawler Street late in the afternoon, coffee and doughnuts in hand. Moy parked on the street.

  ‘Did you forget something?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘My car.’

  ‘You never said you had your own car.’

  Moy got out and tried the door of the garage. ‘Shit.’

  He walked around the back, Patrick following. Putting down his coffee, he removed five glass louvres from a frame, stepped onto a pile of old pavers and climbed in, falling and rolling.

  ‘Get my coffee and go round the front,’ he called to Patrick.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sound of Moy fighting with the lock. Then, slowly, like the grand unveiling of a game-show prize pack, the door lifted.

  ‘Here it is,’ Moy said.

  There was a sheet over it, but Patrick could see the bottom half—long, yellow—the tyres painted black.

  Moy grabbed the sheet and pulled it off. ‘See, a classic. Leyland P76.’

  Patrick studie
d the car’s racing stripes and chrome rims; blinds inside the back window; factory-fresh mud flaps and a front grille that looked like a pig’s snout. ‘It’s old,’ he said.

  ‘Six cylinder. Targa Florio. Rare as hen’s teeth—in this condition anyway.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a new car?’

  ‘You’re missing the point.’ Moy got in and started the engine. There was a reluctant growl, then it roared to life. He gunned the accelerator, got out and stood looking at Patrick. ‘Well?’

  ‘It stinks.’

  ‘It’s meant to. A real car, eh?’ He tapped the roof.

  Five minutes later they were cruising around town. Moy had one arm out of the window, holding his coffee, occasionally steering with his knee as he ate his danish.

  ‘I didn’t know you had it,’ Patrick said, sitting up in his bucket seat to see out of the window.

  ‘I haven’t needed it,’ Moy replied, ‘but I guess I might need it more from now on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have to give up the Commodore. When I throw it all in.’

  Patrick stared at him. ‘Throw what in?’

  ‘Work. Time I stepped aside and let someone else have a go.’

  Patrick looked forward. They turned down a side street.

  ‘What do you think, comfortable ride?’ Moy asked. ‘The suspension’s all new.’

  ‘I told you, I want you to…’

  ‘I’ve missed it, whatever it is. I don’t know enough. I haven’t been told enough.’ He met the boy’s eyes.

  ‘You have.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so…’ He shrugged. ‘Frankly, it suits me better. I’ve got enough to worry about. George…and, you know, I had a wife and a son. You’re not my only problem.’

  Patrick looked over at the showgrounds, its rides and food vans set up ready for the show.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘It’s fair to me, and you. Everyone’s a winner. You get Tom, I get simplicity.’

  Patrick glared at him. ‘You’re doing this on purpose.’

  ‘It’s got a great stereo. Want to hear it?’

  ‘No.’ He crossed his arms.

  ‘That’s new too. In fact—’

  ‘You didn’t lose your brother,’ Patrick said.

  ‘No…my son.’

  ‘Your mum.’

  Moy came to a stop, turned and looked at him. ‘It’s a competition, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well?’ He drove on. ‘I’m considering this…for your sake.’

  Silence.

  ‘I just don’t have enough to go on.’

  Patrick took a deep breath. ‘I told you everything.’

  ‘I hardly know who you are.’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘No, you never have. Your name—that’s it. How’s that help?’

  They passed The Australian Farmer, but neither was interested. Moy just kept driving. Ayr Street, the dirt road to the airport, three-point turn, back again.

  Then Patrick said, ‘We’ve never lived in a house for more than a few months.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The four of us.’

  Silence. The sound of rubber on bitumen.

  ‘We were in this shack. At Port Louis.’

  Moy took it slowly. ‘In town?’

  ‘No, on one of the beach roads. Me and Tom used to walk to the beach.’

  ‘To swim?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘We found an old surfboard once. It came up in Tom’s face and he cut his lip.’

  Oxford Street, Cambridge, King Edward. Geraniums growing through fence wire.

  ‘Anyway, Dad just left. I told you about that. Didn’t even say goodbye.’

  ‘Took all his stuff?’

  ‘Yeah. Then after a bit…we ran out of money. Some bloke told Mum he knew this place in Guilderton. Said he used to live there.’

  ‘Creek Street?’

  ‘Yes. So we…Mum loaded everything in a taxi. The furniture in the house, that was already there.’

  Taxis. Damn it, Moy thought. Why didn’t I think? He started heading back towards Gawler Street. ‘I don’t understand why she didn’t send you to school.’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘We thought she just hadn’t got round to it. At Port Louis we went most days.’

  Moy cursed himself again. ‘And then?’

  ‘You know the rest.’ Patrick swallowed. ‘The man came, he hit Mum, we ran away. We got to town, he found us and put us in his boot. He took us to this farm, there were pigs.’ He looked at Moy. ‘I told you about the pigs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then I got out and ran away…’

  But here, Moy was confused. ‘You hid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why…You could’ve found the police. You could’ve told someone. Isn’t that what Tom was expecting you to do?’

  Patrick’s head dropped. He stared into his lap.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was…’ His white face spoke of fear and shame. ‘I thought…’

  ‘But Tom was in the shed.’

  A whisper. ‘I made a mistake.’

  Moy waited.

  Patrick sat up. ‘That’s all there is.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘No one tells everything.’ He looked at Moy, challenging him, his eyes glowing.

  ‘You want to know?’ Moy asked.

  No reply. Just his eyes, waiting.

  ‘I was sitting in this seat. I was going to move the car, so Charlie could kick his ball in the driveway.’ He paused, remembering. ‘I was thinking of something else. I put the car in reverse, released the handbrake and put my foot on the accelerator. And then I ran over him.’

  Patrick looked down.

  ‘I stopped, I got out…and there he was, just sort of wriggling on the ground.’

  He pulled over and stopped. The engine chugged, waiting.

  ‘Then he was still…’

  Patrick looked at him. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘You’re allowed to ask.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  Moy took a slow breath, and switched off the ignition. ‘That’s why,’ he said.

  Seconds.

  ‘Nothing else matters…mattered.’ He opened the door and got out of the car.

  Patrick watched him struggle across an irrigation ditch, into the bush.

  ‘Just takin’ a pee,’ he called, although Patrick could tell he was still looking for Charlie.

  *

  TEN MINUTES AND he was back, as if nothing had been said. He started the car, spun the wheels on gravel and turned onto the road back to Ayr Street.

  Moy pulled up in front of Goldsworthy’s Store and they both went in. Five minutes later they emerged, Patrick carrying a new bowl, wrapped in tissue paper, deposited in a zip-up plastic sleeve. As they drove towards the hospital, Patrick examined it, testing its weight, throwing it up a few times and catching it, studying its name (Taylor SR Redline Black) and even smelling it.

  ‘You give it to him,’ Moy said.

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Tell him you bought it from your pocket money.’

  They entered George’s room and found him sitting up in bed, minus his wires. He was wearing his pyjamas, done up to the top button. Patrick gave him the bowl and he unwrapped it, rolling it in his hands, taken by the concentric circles painted on its side. ‘This is what you get for having a heart attack?’ he said.

  ‘Patrick picked it out,’ Moy explained.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It wasn’t so hard,’ Patrick said. ‘They only had two types.’

  ‘Well, how about you use this one?’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Patrick took the bowl, holding it in his cupped hands in his lap. He looked at Moy.

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed.

  Moy left the room in search of a doctor. Along the corridor a nurse told him there was only one, and he was on an emergency callout. He walked back
to George’s room, but stopped short at the sound of voices. He stood outside the door, listening.

  ‘Did you used to play bowls with Charlie?’ he heard Patrick ask.

  ‘No. He was too young,’ George replied.

  ‘What did you do with him?’

  There was a long pause. Then Moy heard his father say, ‘I never saw him really. Bart and Megan were living in town, and they hardly ever visited.’

  Hardly ever? Moy thought. Once a month? No, every few months. Well, no. Not even that.

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Sometimes…if I was sick…or like the time I broke my hip. Slipped in the bathroom.’

  ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘Just dragged myself to the phone.’

  Moy started to walk into the room, but Patrick was saying, ‘And what happened, when Charlie died?’

  ‘What do you mean, what happened?’ George asked.

  ‘Was Bart upset?’

  ‘Of course he was upset. You would be, wouldn’t you? A father and son…that’s about the worst thing of all. He’s still not the same, prob’ly never will be. Still, I shouldn’t be telling you about that.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘He’ll find your brother, don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  There was a long pause. Moy wanted to go in. Stopped himself.

  George said, ‘You want to tell me something?’

  ‘I suppose, if Bart works out who killed the man…’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The man who burned our house…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If he finds him, then they can put him in prison, and it will all be over. Bart can write his report, and his boss will be happy. And then…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ll find me somewhere to go.’

  Moy waited, anxious.

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with stayin’ with us?’ the old man said.

  ‘But that’s just…until Bart finds out.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You can be wherever…wherever you’re happy.’

  There was another long pause.

  ‘Maybe they’ll never find him,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Whoever killed the man. Bart still doesn’t know.’

  ‘No, they’ll find him. Sometimes it takes months, years…but they, Bart, he’ll find him.’

  ‘Mr Moy?’ He turned to find the doctor behind him. ‘You were looking for me?’

  ‘Is that you, Bart?’ George called.