One Boy Missing(12)

George was a tall man and he’d grown lanky in his old age. He had freckled skin and sunken cheeks with high bones. There were a few wrinkles on his forehead, only noticeable when he frowned or lifted his eyes to let the Meals on Wheels lady know he wasn’t happy with the menu. His arms were all bone, joint, long fingers and careful hands.

Moy sat down opposite his dad. He dried his hands on a tea-towel and looked at a pill box on the table, a plastic container with holes for each of George’s pills: before and after breakfast, lunch and tea, Sunday to Saturday. He restocked it every Sunday morning when he visited; following his Saturday morning trip to the chemist with his father’s scripts; following his semi-regular Friday afternoon visit to the doctor with George.

The pills for the previous evening were still in their little plastic slot. ‘What’s this?’

George looked at the pills. ‘I thought I’d had ’em all.’

‘Dad, you can’t afford to miss any.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Moy knew it was time for his usual speech: how he had to be more careful about his pills; how it wouldn’t be an issue if only he’d agree to move to a nursing home; how he, DS Moy, couldn’t be here all the time (although George always countered with the fact that Bart had told him he’d only returned from town to help look after him); how the house was run down and needed tens of thousands of dollars spent on it; how George couldn’t look after himself anymore; how he needed specialised help, especially considering what was just over the horizon.

‘Should I take them now?’ George asked.

Moy paused to think. ‘No, I don’t think you should.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’d be too much, I think. I should ask Dr Smith.’

George crossed his arms. ‘What would he know?’

‘He’s a doctor.’

‘Didn’t stop me from getting sick.’

Moy raised his hands in desperation. ‘So you are sick?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Dr Smith told you.’

‘Doctor? Ha! He’s been doin’ it fifty years. Lot of things change in fifty years.’

‘People still get sick…people die.’

George tried to change the subject. ‘Haven’t seen Megan for a while.’

Moy tried to work out what he meant. Eventually he said, ‘Neither have I.’

George looked confused. ‘Why’s that, she busy?’

Moy stood up and went into the laundry. He filled a bucket with hot water and found the mop. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he called to his dad.

‘What?’

‘We separated—eighteen months ago.’

George struggled to remember. ‘Right…you were together… then you moved here. She didn’t come, did she?’

‘No.’

‘Cos you separated?’

‘Yes.’ Moy returned to the kitchen and started mopping the floor. His father glanced down at his unfinished crossword. He picked up the newspaper and a pen and read the clue. ‘Pulsing star? Seven letters, third letter u.’





8

THE PRINCIPAL’S NAME was Rebecca Downey and Moy thought she looked far too young to be in charge of three hundred little people. She’d gathered her hair in a bun, he thought, to counter that impression. ‘Nice bunch of kids?’ he asked as they walked down the hallway towards the assembly.

‘Mostly,’ she replied, fixing an earring. ‘The farmers’ kids are just…content.’

‘Content?’

‘You know, passing time until their legs are long enough to reach the brake on the header.’

They passed an older woman emerging from a room that smelled of fresh bread.

‘This is Mrs Maxwell,’ the principal said, stopping. ‘Mrs Maxwell has been here for…how many years?’

‘Thirty-four,’ the older woman replied. Mrs Maxwell was wearing an apron. She took a tea-towel from a pocket and wiped her hands. ‘I think I might have taught you.’

‘Yes. 1981?’

‘Very likely.’

‘This is Detective Sergeant Bart Moy,’ the principal explained.

‘Very impressive,’ the teacher said.

‘Yes, I was the only boy in the class,’ Moy recalled. ‘All the boys chose plastics and metalwork, but I liked cooking. So, they all assumed I’d turn out gay.’

‘And did you?’ She laughed, squeezing his arm.

‘I remember it came to sewing,’ he said, ‘and all the girls had some frock they were working on and you…I think perhaps it was you, or that other lady, the Chinese one, Mrs…?’

‘Lee, she passed, four years ago.’