He ran out of babble. Then he leaned forward and said, ‘I know why you don’t want to talk, and that’s okay. Maybe if we find you somewhere to sleep…watch a bit of telly?’
But the boy just kept staring at him.
Gary Wright stepped into the room, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, ‘Listen, good news. I’ve been talking to Mr Wyeth, and he’s bringing around another apple pie. I take it you like apple pies?’
Pause.
‘Mr Wyeth wants to say sorry,’ Gary said. ‘He got you confused with some other kid.’ He looked at Moy. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘They’ve got someone to take him for a few days.’
15
LATER THAT AFTERNOON Moy drove to the backblocks on the southern edge of town. They were covered with acres of ruined cars and goats grazing weeds where someone had once tried to grow crops on dead soil. Everyone had given up on the south side of Guilderton. The council had put a road through one area and tried to flog blocks in what they called the ‘Ayr Industrial Estate’. The land was cheap, and a few businesses had built factories—one, a pre-fab shed business, had closed six months after opening.
Moy stopped his car in front of a four- or five-hectare allotment that ran between the road and virgin scrub. He read the peeling words on a sign that was already leaning: A New Suburb for Guilderton: Brentano.
‘Suburb’. Jesus. It had been the idea of the mayor before last. Every other wheatbelt town was doing it. One-dollar blocks. Arrest the population decline by promising young, hard-working families a big block to build their dream home; keep the builders, electricians and plumbers in work for years. Brentano would be a shining example for other towns: streets chocker with kids on bikes, mums out planting roses and dads in sheds stripping down lawnmowers and testing home-brew.
One-dollar blocks, Moy thought, surveying the acres of empty ground, dust blowing up between piles of rubble local builders had dumped.
His phone rang.
‘Bart Moy?’ a voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Keith Gallasch, from the bowls club.’
Moy took a moment to think. ‘G’day, Keith.’
‘Listen, Bart, it’s your dad…’
‘What is it?’
‘He’s had a bit of a fall.’
‘Shit, how is he?’
‘Fine, don’t worry, nothing serious. He just tripped on a gutter. There’s a small cut on his head.’
Moy sat forward and sighed. ‘He hit his head?’
‘I wanted to drive him to the doctor but he wouldn’t have a bar of it.’
‘Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.’
When Moy arrived at the clubrooms, George was sitting in front of a picture window watching the competition, sipping a Jim Beam and Coke, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his head.
‘How did you manage that?’ Moy asked, sitting down beside him.
George looked him over. ‘Why you got a suit on?’
‘Cos I’m workin’.’
‘Workin’, in a suit?’
‘Let’s see what you’ve done.’ He reached for his father’s handkerchief.
‘Get off,’ George said, almost slapping his son’s hand. ‘It’s nothing. Give it a minute and it’ll stop bleeding.’
Keith Gallasch, a small man with a bulbous nose, came up behind them. ‘If it’s still bleeding it needs stitches.’
‘Bullshit,’ George replied, catching a drop of blood bound for his white shirt. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘We’ve got insurance,’ Gallasch said to Moy. ‘It’s not like it’ll cost him anything.’ He turned to George, raising his voice: ‘It won’t cost you anything.’
‘All right, I got a cut, I’m not deaf.’
‘He’s right, Dad,’ Moy said. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He tried again.
‘Get off.’ This time George did slap him. ‘Just take us home, will yer?’
‘I’m taking you to the clinic.’ He took his father under the arm and tried to help him from his chair.
‘I’m not goin’ to no bloody clinic. No fuckin’ stitches. I’s kicked in the head by a bull and that didn’t kill me. Not worried about a bloody graze.’
‘It’s a cut.’
‘Stiff shit. Look, anyway, it’s stopped.’ He removed the handkerchief to reveal a four-centimetre gash, oozing slightly. ‘I’ve got some Band-Aids at home.’ He glared at Keith Gallasch. ‘Or maybe the club could spare a few?’
Gallasch shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I’d rather you get it seen to.’