One Boy Missing(18)

Think of Charlie.

Eventually he’d go back to bed for two or three uncomfortable hours, sweat soaking his pillow, sheets kicked onto the ground as dark dreams squeezed themselves into what was left of the night.

This morning he was out riding with a boy who seemed to have his son’s face and wiry body. They were following a path that ran beside a dry creek. The path was littered with leaves and the boughs of big gum trees hung low and heavy, brushing and scratching their faces. The boy was twenty metres in front of him. Although Moy pedalled hard he couldn’t catch up.

‘Slow down, my legs have had it,’ he called.

‘Hurry up,’ the voice replied, fading.

Despite his anxiety to get to the boy, there was a feeling of euphoria as the cool breeze passed over his face and through his hair. He hurtled down a hill, no brakes. It was everything good and bad all at once; the feeling of wanting, but not getting.

When he woke the window was light. He felt glad for the sleep; happy he’d done it without the aid of his usual half-tablet.

Then he was asleep again. This time he was pulling into the car park of a hospital. The boy, still five years old, was lying on the back seat of his car, secured around the chest and legs by a seatbelt.

‘We’re there,’ he was saying, searching for a park but not finding one, wondering why he was bothering anyway. He stopped in the middle of the emergency department car park. A security guard came over and said, ‘Not here, you’ll block the ambulance.’

He just ignored him. He got out and tried to open the back door. It was locked. He tried the driver’s door but that was locked too. Then he saw his keys in the ignition.

‘Fuck.’ He kicked the front tyre and looked at the guard. ‘It’s my son.’

The guard seemed confused. ‘You’ll have to move the car.’

‘Look,’ Moy screamed, indicating. ‘I can’t.’

‘You’ll have to. There’s an ambulance coming, it won’t be able to get through.’

‘Fuck, are you stupid? I’ve locked the keys in.’

The guard’s face hardened. He stood up, twisted Moy’s arm behind his body and pushed him against his car. Reached for his radio and called for help.

Meanwhile, Moy was looking at Charlie through the back window of his car. ‘It’s my son,’ he pleaded, but the guard was unmoved.

‘Christ, he’ll die,’ Moy said.

He woke. Opened his eyes and realised it was still early morning. He could hear cars and a lawnmower and smell porridge. There’d been no security guard, of course, and he hadn’t locked his keys in the car. He’d found a park straight away and never blocked the ambulance.

His phone rang and he reached for it, knocking over the remains of a glass of water.

‘That you, son?’ A tired-sounding voice.

‘Dad.’

‘Look, I’ve got a bit of a problem.’

And then he heard the phone drop, George curse the goddamn-piece-of-shit, attempt to pick it up off the floor and say, ‘Everything’s coming back up the toilet.’

Moy sat up, rubbed his eyes and asked, ‘What’s everything?’

‘Everything. Whatever’s gone down, it’s coming back up. Weeks’ worth of it, by the look of things.’

He stood up, opened his blind and looked out at a pair of red-headed sisters walking to school. One of them noticed him in his boxers. She giggled and told her sister. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, Dad.’

‘What should I do?’ George asked.

‘What can you do?’

AN HOUR LATER, Moy and George were standing in the doorway of the toilet in the family home. Moy dared not venture in. The floor was flooded and the overflow, a mixture of pulped paper, shitty lumps and cigarette butts, had reached and soaked the hallway carpet.

‘What a stink,’ Moy said.

‘What did you expect?’ his father replied.

‘What have you been putting down there?’

‘Same’s been going down there for the last thirty years, with no problems.’

‘Well, you got one now. How much paper do you use?’

George looked annoyed. ‘What’s it matter?’

‘Well…’ He tried to think of how to say it.

‘I use what I need to use.’

‘What about the cigarettes?’

‘I’ve always flushed them down…never mattered.’

‘So, we call a plumber?’ Moy asked.

‘My arse. I know what the problem is.’

George led him outside, halfway up the driveway and stopped to point out a willow that grew on the other side of the fence. He showed him the roots that came onto his side and lifted the pavers he’d used as garden edging. ‘Look. Right across the drive,’ he said. ‘And here, this is where the sewer runs.’