One Boy Missing(30)

He walked home through the wheat, turned off the television and went to bed.

Then he slept soundly, for an hour, before the phone rang.

‘Yes?’ he said, fumbling, wanting to say, are you fucking kidding me? Four-fucking-forty-one?

‘Yeah, Bart, it’s Jason.’

‘Jason…what’s wrong?’

‘This woman from FACS, the carer…’

‘Who?’ He sat up, focusing on indistinct shapes around the room.

‘Deidre, the woman looking after the kid.’

‘Oh.’

‘She’s just called…says she’s having problems with him, and can someone come and get him.’

Moy slid his feet onto a floor carpeted with clothes and junk mail. ‘What problems?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Can’t she wait for the morning?’

‘Apparently not.’

Moy rang off, pulled on some track pants and grabbed his keys.

A stray dog watched him as he passed the Rotary Park at the end of Gawler Street; apart from that there was nothing. Just long shadows cast by floodlights in car parks and loading bays, the street-light silhouettes of branches and leaves.

When he arrived at the small, pink house the front light was on. He stood at the partly open door. ‘Hello? Deidre…you there?’

A woman came out of a room and up the hallway to greet him.

‘Hi, Bart?’

‘You okay?’

‘No.’

He studied her pale face and noticed her clothes were soaked. She, too, was wearing track pants, but they were loose, hanging from wide hips. ‘He’s tried to get away three times,’ she said.

‘When?’

‘Once out the back, once when I took him down the street, once when I was in the shower…oh god.’ She turned and bolted back down the hallway, slammed a door. He listened as she vomited, eventually spitting and flushing. He heard her wash her hands before re-emerging.

‘The Chinese near the Wombat Inn,’ she said, attempting a watery smile.

‘What did you have?’

‘Short soup and lemon chicken. Undercooked. I thought it tasted a bit strange.’

The boy appeared in the hallway, looked at Moy and then shot back into his room.

‘You’re gonna have to take him,’ Deidre said. ‘I’m not up to it tonight.’

‘That’s okay, he can come with me. I’ve got plenty of room.’

‘I nearly got him talking once. Scooby Doo came on. I think he may have a bit of history with Scooby Doo. I asked him, who’s your favourite, Shaggy or Velma, and he nearly answered…He wanted to.’

‘Okay. Let’s get him home.’

Deidre led Moy into the boy’s room, decorated with soft toys and a collection of Buzz Lightyears. The boy sat on the bed fully dressed, his hair combed and his face washed. He was wearing a white shirt and a jumper she’d bought him that afternoon. Knee-length shorts, almost Edwardian, revealing two knobbly knees above long socks and leather shoes.

‘Well, a new boy,’ Moy said, but he didn’t lift his gaze.

‘He’s all ready to go. Bag packed, the lot.’

Moy noticed a bulging backpack.

‘So,’ he said, but the boy wouldn’t look up. His back was straight, as if someone had been on at him about posture. His feet sat together and his hands were clamped tightly in his lap.

Moy sat next to him. ‘You remember me? Detective Sergeant Moy…Bart…you can call me Bart. Remember, Bartholomew? Curse my parents. There’s no way you could have a name as bad as that?’

The boy looked at him, then back down at the rug.

‘I can look after you for a while, eh? So you don’t get sick.’ He pretended to vomit. ‘See, look, peas, corn…yesterday’s Froot Loops.’

He took the backpack and offered his hand. Instead, the boy just stood, walked out of the room and down the hallway.

‘I hope you feel better,’ Moy said to Deidre, as they followed him.

‘I hope he comes good.’

As they drove through the quiet streets Moy glanced over to the passenger’s seat. The boy’s new pants were draped over legs that were mostly bone and tendon. His new jumper was too long—he could see Deidre had tried to turn up the sleeves. He studied the boy’s hands: skin wrapped around long, bony digits, his discoloured nails cut back.

‘I bet you’ve never been out at this time of night?’ Moy asked, before he remembered. ‘It’s the best time of day.’

He turned down the radio.

‘Looks like Deidre had everything nice. Still, I have a neat little…bachelor pad. Unfortunately you won’t find any fruit or vegetables in my fridge, but there’s plenty of chocolate.’