One Boy Missing

by Stephen Orr

  ‘So what’s up?’ George asked.

  ‘Jo Humphris.’

  ‘Humphris?’

  ‘Farmer, on Creek Street. All that land behind the burnt house. Alex Naismith used to work for him.’

  George shifted in his seat. ‘Naismith…that fella that took the boys?’

  Moy explained.

  ‘So, I’m thinking…that’s where they must have been taken.’

  ‘Why didn’t Paddy tell us?’

  Moy shrugged. ‘Too scared.’ He braked, and turned down the dirt road to the Humphris farm.

  George was staring at him. ‘So, what’s this fella done to Paddy?’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out.’

  ‘I’ll kill the bastard.’

  ‘There’s nothing that even looks like proof.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Patience.’ He looked at his dad, and saw some old, forgotten determination.

  ‘You just drop me at his front door.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be down to me. That’s how things used to get done. And it worked.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Moy slowed and pulled into an overgrown clearing that ran off the track to the Humphris farm. ‘This’ll do.’ He killed the lights, and engine, and they managed to climb out, scraping the doors, their skin and face on wild blackberry. ‘You wait here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘I can help.’

  Moy placed his face an inch from his father’s. ‘That’s just what I need. You flat on the ground with another heart attack.’

  George crossed his arms. ‘What you gonna do then?’

  ‘Wait here.’

  Moy walked up the road until he could see the house. Then he moved onto a verge of soft sand and continued slowly. He could feel his breath and the sweat on his neck and chest. When he was on the edge of the compound he surveyed the area. The ute was still there, and he approached it. He looked in the back: wire and a long-handled spade. There was sand, and oil stains, and blood smeared on the tray and splattered on the sides. But there was also a pile of ear tags with hair, skin and bits of ear attached.

  Then he stood back and looked at the ute. He saw something on the ground, bent over and studied it. A fifty-cent coin. He moved it with his finger and picked it up. Something else, further underneath. He reached for it. Felt it. Small, light, plastic. The toy car from the lucky dip, its fourth wheel still missing.

  He started moving down towards the pig sheds. Stopped when his feet crunched gravel, jumped onto a small patch of grass. Walking around each of the sheds, he looked inside. And cursed himself for not bringing a torch. ‘Patrick,’ he whispered.

  All he could see were small stalls, sows and their grunting, wriggling litters. Rows and rows of pigs. The smell of shit and stale feed. He turned a corner and there was a dark figure staring at him. ‘Jesus, Dad, what are you…’

  ‘I checked the others…just pigs,’ George said.

  ‘Christ,’ Moy hissed. ‘You promised you’d stay put.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ the old man muttered, ‘reckon you need all the help you can get.’

  Moy just stared at him. ‘Go back to the car.’

  ‘No.’

  Then shook his head. ‘Come on.’

  They left the compound and moved into scrub and freshly ploughed paddocks. As they walked along an irrigation ditch they looked in pipes and under culverts, prodded weeds and reeds, searched under trees for any signs of disturbance. ‘Where do you reckon he is?’ George asked.

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘You checked all those sheds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Should we check again?’

  Moy had seen a track. Several. They ran off the compound and between each of the paddocks on this side of the farm. Disappeared into valleys and over hills. ‘Where do you reckon they go?’

  George shrugged. ‘Far as the farm goes.’

  Moy set off along one of the tracks. He walked quickly, then ran. George struggled to keep up. When he reached the top of a low hill, four hundred metres or so from the house, he stopped. He squinted, searching the paddocks, the bush.

  George eventually came up behind him. ‘Where you going?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Moy said, making out a group of what looked like sheds, surrounded by a ring of pine trees, another hundred metres along the road.

  ‘Pigs…chooks?’ George attempted.

  ‘Stay here,’ Moy said, and he was off, running at full speed towards the dark shapes. When he arrived he looked around the empty sheds, full of more junk, wire, tractor parts. ‘Patrick!’ he called, a whisper-shout, but there was no reply.

  He came out behind the sheds and there was a car. It still wasn’t light but he could see it was a dark-coloured Falcon, boxy, beaten-up, and rusted. He could read the words on the peeling sticker on the back window. Karringa Cars. A back mud flap hung from a single screw. Opening the door, he looked inside. There were a few chip packets and cans, a map book that had fallen apart. The glove box was hanging open but was empty apart from a few lollies and fuses. He popped the boot and went back to look. A spare tyre, a petrol can. He smelled it. Diesel. Gauged the space; saw where a small body might have squeezed in. Dents in the panels like someone had kicked it from the inside.

  He sat in the driver’s seat, looking back towards the sheds. Of course, he thought. Of course. There could have been a thousand cars in Guilderton that fitted the butcher’s description. Until you found the one that did.

  He stood up and sprinted back towards the crest of the hill, and his father. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘We haven’t finished.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked back to the fence that surrounded the compound. Moy lifted a wire and George squeezed through. His pants caught and tore on a barb. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Ssh,’ Moy repeated, following.

  They moved around the edge of the compound, past the tractor shed and the silos. George tripped on a length of metal, fell and then sat up. ‘Christ,’ he said, loudly, forgetting.

  ‘Ssh.’

  A light went on in the house.

  ‘Quick,’ Moy said. He helped his father up, took him by the top and dragged him towards the back of the shed. They hid behind the double wheels of the big John Deere and waited.

  ‘What’s the time?’ George asked.

  Moy checked. ‘Quarter past five.’

  ‘Maybe he’s feeding the pigs?’

  ‘Maybe you woke him up.’

  The front door opened and Humphris emerged from the house. He was in shadow. He straightened his back, coughed, and looked around the compound.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ George asked, looking across the twenty or so metres between them.

  ‘Not a word,’ Moy whispered in his ear.

  They waited. Humphris went back into the house and re-emerged with a lit torch. He slipped his feet into a pair of boots and started walking towards them. Moy pushed his father’s head below the tyre. ‘Ssh.’

  Humphris stopped in front of the shed. Moy watched the white beam working its way through the dark: a wall lined with hessian bags, halters and chains hanging from rusty hooks, the green and gold reflection from the machinery.

  Father and son almost stopped breathing. They heard the torch click off, footsteps, then on again. Humphris was searching the other sheds, his scrap yard, the mid-distance of sheep pens and a small cattle yard with a broken crush. Footsteps. Light. Shallow breathing.

  ‘Be light soon,’ George whispered.

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘You got your gun?’

  Humphris returned to his house. He took off his boots and went inside. The outside light stayed on.

  ‘Should we go?’ George asked.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘It’ll get light.’

  ‘Wait.’

  Twenty minutes later Moy was ready. They moved around the compound, staying hard up against the sheds. They
walked quietly, without talking, the first whiff of sun on their skin. When they were back on the road Moy said, ‘That wouldn’t have happened if you’d done as I said.’

  George just shrugged. ‘Y’never get anywhere by listening to common sense.’

  44

  THEY ARRIVED BACK at the car and Moy said, ‘Right, get in.’ He held the door open for his father.

  George climbed into the passenger side and Moy went around, and sat beside him. ‘I’ve gotta deal with all this, and then the thought of you, lying on the ground.’

  ‘Stop fussing. Get on with it.’

  Moy called the station and waited while the radio hissed.

  Eventually Gary came on. ‘You heard anything?’

  ‘You couldn’t do me a favour?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Anyone you can get a hold of, call ’em, ask them to get to the station as soon as possible. Then, can you get down here? Watch this place while I get a warrant.’

  ‘What do you need a warrant for?’ George asked.

  Moy glared at him. ‘Dad, let’s just dot the bloody i’s, eh?’

  Half an hour later, Gary arrived.

  ‘I’m pretty sure he’s got Patrick inside,’ Moy said. ‘Just stay here, wait, watch, while I drop Dad home, and go see Sutton.’

  George didn’t look happy. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You are,’ Moy replied. ‘And this time I’m not arguing.’

  At six-thirty, after dropping his father home, Moy knocked on the door of 18 Dunlop Terrace, offering his hand to Andrew Sutton, JP. ‘Bart Moy,’ he said. ‘Guilderton police. We have a missing child.’

  ‘I heard.’ Sutton massaged his unshaved chin. He appeared determined to make the most of what might be his only big moment.

  ‘I think I know where he is.’

  ‘Come in.’

  For thirty minutes, as Mrs Sutton made tea and toast, Moy explained the last few hours and days, concluding, ‘So, the chances are he’ll act soon. I have a car parked in his drive, watching.’

  Sutton reached for his briefcase. ‘I’ll just arrange the paperwork.’

  Moy returned to the station to muster the other officers. They strapped pistols over T-shirts and Moy found the biggest of the door rams. Then he gathered them in the lunch room and explained. ‘If I’m wrong, I’m gonna look pretty bloody stupid.’ But he knew he was past the point of inaction. He felt he was right. Knew, somehow, Patrick was inside the house.

  They set off in two marked cars: Moy and Jason in the first; Andrew, Bryce and Ossie in the second. They sped towards the farm, slowing onto the dirt road.

  ‘It’s gonna be warm,’ Jason said.

  Moy ignored him. ‘Bolt cutters?’

  ‘Got ’em.’

  The scrub was three metres thick on each side of the track, dense melaleuca and ti-tree growing around gums, themselves overgrown with mistletoe and blackberry. Moy could see that it might be a good hiding place.

  ‘Early summer,’ Laing said.

  Moy looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Early summer…might even get a sweat up today.’

  But Moy didn’t know what he meant. A sweat? Searching? He just didn’t get Laing. ‘You should be careful. One day she’s just gonna walk in on you.’

  ‘That would simplify things.’

  He looked at him. ‘I should have called for an ambulance first.’

  Laing stared ahead, at the house in the distance, on the hill. ‘Wait.’

  When the two marked cars arrived back at the side-track, Gary was missing. They got out and looked around before making their way towards the house. When they were just short, Moy saw Gary kneeling in the bush, using the dawn light to study the compound. He knelt beside him. ‘Anything?’

  Gary kept his eyes on the house. ‘Bit a’ movement. Curtains. No one’s come out.’

  Moy turned towards the others, who had gathered, their revolvers drawn, behind him. ‘Right, follow me,’ he said. He ran from the bush, supporting his pistol wrist, looking back, telling them to spread out.

  A few moments later he was at the front door. He knocked. ‘Patrick, you there?’

  No answer. He waited, and for a moment, imagined the scene inside.

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Bart?’ he heard from inside.

  He shook the door. ‘It’s me. Open up.’

  Patrick threw the door open. He stood, making sure, half-smiling, half-crying. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, before taking a single step forward.

  Moy took him, and pulled him close as Laing and Gary brushed past, guns drawn, shouting for Humphris to show himself. Moy buried his face in the boy’s dirty hair. He could feel him crying, struggling for breath, finally consumed by the horror and relief that washed over him.

  Patrick put his arms around Moy’s waist, locked his fingers together and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have left the hall, but he said if I came with him he’d take me to Tom.’

  ‘It’s okay, Patrick.’

  ‘I couldn’t bring you here, I couldn’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  The sounds from the rest of the house had tailed off. Laing and Gary came back out, holstering their weapons and shrugging.

  Moy gave the boy a squeeze and let him go. ‘Watch him for a minute, will yer, Gary?’

  With his gun still drawn, Moy moved into the house. It was clean, neat, smelling of lemon. He went into the lounge room and the television was blinking with Xbox hockey. He stopped and looked at a pile of games sitting on a coffee table: racing, golf, football. Scooby Doo, different episodes from the ones he’d bought. He walked into the kitchen. The dishes had been washed, stacked to dry. There were Frosties and unopened Coco Pops and a bottle of Coke left open on the bench. Then he went into the farmer’s bedroom, his single bed, the cover tucked tightly, the smell of an old body, and powder.

  Laing came into the room. ‘Patrick’s in the car.’

  ‘I’m coming. One minute.’

  Laing went out and Moy sat on the bed. He opened a drawer, found a pile of papers and leafed through them. Bills, manuals, a holy card. Standing up, he approached a window that looked over a fence, across paddocks, towards a distant horizon. Peaceful and ordinary. Quite still.

  No; there was a movement. He squinted. A squat figure, running, stumbling, correcting himself, stopping for breath and looking back. Moy opened the window and thought of calling, but realised the little man was too far away. Still running.

  He ran from the room, out through the laundry, into what passed as a backyard. Grass, a few spent flowers, freshly turned soil, stubble. A moment to find his feet and stride, and he was sprinting, although he knew he couldn’t do it for long. He studied the humpty-dumpty man, and could make out his flannelette shirt and the shotgun in his left hand. Faster, moving through the air, barely touching the ground. He felt his heart pounding. Called, ‘Humphris.’

  Jo Humphris stopped for a moment and looked back, then continued. Stopped, put the gun to his shoulder, thought better of it, turned and went on again.

  There were only a few more strides. Moy launched himself, took Humphris around the waist and dragged him down into what was left of the crop. Looked up, spat dirt from his mouth, saw the gun, moved and extended his body and kicked it away. He watched Humphris to see what he’d do, but the man had no intention of resisting.

  Moy fought for breath. He looked back at the house but couldn’t see anyone. He turned over, managed to get onto all fours, then sat back on his sore arse. Felt for his pistol, but it wasn’t there. Looked around and saw it in the stubble in the distance. Just my luck. He looked back at the shotgun. Humphris could make for it, but wouldn’t.

  He was done, Moy could tell just by looking at him.

  He studied the farmer’s fat cheeks, and the little capillaries on his nose.

  Humphris said, ‘Why couldn’t you a left me alone?’

  Moy didn’t respond.

&nb
sp; ‘It woulda …’ He stopped and met Moy’s eyes. As if that might do as an explanation.

  Procedure, Moy thought. He crawled towards the shotgun, picked it up and opened it. Removed the cartridges; placed them carefully in the stubble. Closed the breech and rested the gun on his knee, pointing it at Humphris.

  ‘Go on,’ Humphris said. ‘Two more minutes, I woulda done it.’

  Yes, he would have, thought Moy. He watched Humphris, the way he fought for breath, clawed at the dirt, the delicate finger trails on the worked earth. He wondered if the farmer was about to have his own heart attack. He said, ‘Where’s the other one?’

  ‘The older kid? What, you don’t know?’ Not making anything of it. Humphris had arrived at some place where he didn’t care anymore.

  Moy stared. ‘Tom. That was his name. And you’ve dumped him in a hole like a sack of shit, haven’t you, and poured the slab for your new shed—’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’ Old anguish, worked like chewing gum, stretched across the defeated grey face.

  Moy looked back at the house. Still no one. But he could see figures in the tractor shed, searching.

  ‘My stupid fuckin’ nephew,’ Humphris gasped. ‘None of it was me.’

  Moy placed the gun on the ground. Humphris studied it, his tongue moving over his lips.

  ‘What did he do?’ Moy asked.

  ‘All I ever did was tell him to move ’em on. He fucked that up like he fucked everything up…next thing I got two kids in my shed. And I said, take ’em back.’

  It rang true. Moy knew, he could see, Humphris had spent these last days and weeks looking for a way out of the mess Naismith had made.

  ‘When the little one got away, he went and got the other one and…’ Humphris looked down, ashamed of his own words, his voice, everything. ‘I tried to stop him.’ He dared to look up.

  Moy could see his father’s eyes. The hundred times George had manufactured his own disasters. The hundred times, like all farmers, all country people, he’d devised his own solutions.

  ‘None of it!’ Humphris said again.