Moy could see the blood, and Daniel’s feet; he could smell his sweat and hear his whispers of pain.
‘Then it got dark and he stopped to sleep under a gum tree. Two days later he walked into town, and the first person he saw he asked: “You know where the photographer is?”’
He waited, hoping the boy might want to know more, but his eyes continued drifting around the room. Moy sat forward. ‘I reckon your name’s Harry. Yeah, Harry? Or maybe it’s Jebediah or Ezekiel. Is it Ezekiel?’
Gary Wright opened the door and stepped into the room, followed by Justin Davids. Moy stood up and shook the butcher’s hand. ‘G’day, Justin. I’ve got someone here I thought you might like to meet. Justin, this is…’ They both turned to face the boy.
Davids stepped forward and squatted in front of the boy. ‘How are you, mate?’ he asked, extending his hand.
The boy sat motionless.
‘Bit of a rough trot, eh? Heard you ran into a pole. Where’d it get you?’ He waited. ‘Doesn’t matter. Mr Moy here, he’ll fix you up. We’ll get some food into yer.’ And waited. ‘Luckily for you, I’m the butcher. You need a bit of red meat. Rib-eye? What do you reckon?’ He looked at Moy, and knew what he needed from him. Then he cleared hair from the boy’s eyes. ‘We’ve met before. You were in the laneway, behind my shop, remember? I came out, saw you were having trouble.’
The boy grasped the handles of his chair. Knuckles white as his hollowed face.
‘Was that your dad?’
The boy closed his eyes and dropped his chin onto his chest, his whole body trembling.
‘Thank you, Mr Davids,’ Moy said, indicating to Gary to take him out.
‘You’ll be okay, mate, you hang in there,’ Davids said as he left the room.
Gary moved closer to Moy and whispered in his ear, ‘There’s something out here you should see.’
Moy turned to the boy. ‘You okay for a minute?’
No response.
They went down the hallway and into the lunch room and there, on the table, was a near-new rug, a few packets of biscuits, a half-empty bottle of Coke and a few books.
‘It was just a hunch,’ Gary said. ‘I thought, if he’s stealing food…so I got Alex and Ossie to check all the laneways at that end of Ayr Street.’
Moy examined the rug, still with its price attached. It smelled of new sneakers and there were food stains—sauce-red and gravy-brown—and smears of dirt from where it had been spread out on the ground.
‘There’s a drainage ditch behind the park on Muenchow Road and he’d made himself pretty comfortable,’ Gary said. ‘You could see where he’d tried to start a fire.’ He showed him a six-pack of matches. ‘So what’s his story?’
Moy shrugged. ‘Won’t say a word. Shock, I suppose, which makes you wonder what’s happened once this fella’s driven off with him.’
They looked at each other, thinking, but not saying.
‘I better try again,’ Moy said, taking the rug. ‘You ring Family Services?’
‘On their way.’
Moy returned to his office and placed the rug on his desk. ‘You can have that,’ he said.
The boy looked at him. Some of his colour had crept back.
‘It is yours, isn’t it?’
Nothing.
‘I could go to a few shops and find out where it comes from, but then they’d just want me to lay charges against the…thief. And you’re not a thief, are you…Ezekiel?’
Moy knew he shouldn’t apply more pressure but he needed to know. ‘So I won’t do that…you can have it.’ He pushed the rug across the desk just as the air horn sounded at Guilderton Primary.
‘You don’t go to that school, do you? We checked.’
He waited.
‘But you must go to some school. Think of all the stuff you’re missing. I noticed you found yourself some books. Do you like school?’
Silence.
‘We should get you cleaned up, get you back, eh? Art, that was my favourite subject. Painted these big portraits, took them home, Mum and Dad said, Oh, that’s so lovely, Bartholomew. See, that’s my full name, Bartholomew.’ He smiled. ‘What were my parents thinking?’
He waited.
‘Bet your name’s not that stupid. Bartholomew. Moy. Sounds like an alien, doesn’t it? Moy. I come from planet Moy.’
Laughing, from the lunch room.
‘We could get you back to school tomorrow. Would you like that? We could buddy you up with someone. You’d soon be out kicking the footy. Or maybe it’s soccer? You look more soccer. See, round head, these footy players have all got oval heads. The Guilderton Maulers—you heard of them? Bet you’re a goalie? Long arms, long fingers. Although they’re big blokes and you’re thin as a rake. You could do with some more of Mrs Flamsteed’s casseroles, couldn’t you…or, no, you’d probably prefer a Big Mac, eh? Bet you’re eatin’ those all the time.’