The boy looked at him, then back at the road.
He stopped and waited at a deserted T-junction. ‘You know, this is an unmarked police car,’ he said, indicating the comms screen on the console. ‘If you look very carefully you’ll see that I have lights, and a siren.’ He gestured towards the warning lights at the front on the dash, and hidden by louvres on the back window. ‘So?’
A horn sounded behind him: the newsagent’s van. He moved off, still looking at the boy. ‘You can turn them on if you like. There’s no one around.’
The boy looked at him, unsure.
‘Go on.’
The small hand reached out, slowly at first, looking at Moy for approval.
‘It’s fine, we can’t get in trouble…we’re the police.’ He studied the boy’s face. He noticed how he bit and licked his lip.
The boy switched on the lights and looked around. The whole street turned red and blue, lit up in ribbons of light that bounced back, drowning out street lights and delicatessen neon.
‘Good, eh?’ Moy said.
The boy couldn’t help it. He smiled.
‘What do you think of that?’ Moy asked, but the boy remembered and his face hardened as he stared out at the lights.
‘We could pull someone over. How would that be?’
No. He’d retreated again.
‘We could book someone for speeding…that’s always a laugh.’
Someone’s front door opened and a head popped out. Moy switched off the lights. ‘Neighbours aren’t happy. Shall we go home?’
The boy’s hands came together, forming a ball and returning to his lap.
They turned a corner and headed home along Gawler Street. The boy leaned forward. Moy looked at him. ‘Are you…’ He vomited in one long stream that struck the airbag panel and sprayed back over both of them, splashing the seats and doors, consoles and radio, dripping down onto the floor. The boy sat back in his seat and wiped his mouth.
Moy braked hard, stopping in the middle of the road. ‘Shit,’ he said, wiping the spray off his hands.
The boy just sat there, motionless.
‘You don’t think you’re going to do it again?’ He planted his foot and they shot off down Gawler Street. ‘She didn’t tell me you had Chinese too.’
The boy shook his head.
‘Ah…’ Moy smiled. ‘Not even a spring roll?’
Headshake.
‘That’s just fantastic, young man.’ He handed over a tissue. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. You didn’t have Chinese food? Nothing?’
Again. Negative.
He pulled into the driveway. ‘We, my fine, feathered friend, are developing a clear line of communication. Aren’t we…Colin, was it?’
The boy just looked at him.
‘No, you’re not that easily fooled, are you? It’s not Colin. You never said Colin, did you?’
He switched off the lights. ‘Well, un-named young man, carefully step out of the car and make your way to the front door.’
Moy fumbled his keys, aided only by the little bit of light coming up over the eastern horizon.
‘This has been an interesting night,’ he said. ‘And it’s not over yet. If you want to go to the bathroom and throw those clothes out into the hall, I’ll put them in the washer. I have a big hot water tank, so you can shower for an hour if you like.’
19
MOY WAS WOKEN by the sound of dishes. The air in his room was warm; it was already mid-morning. When he went out to the kitchen the boy stopped washing up, looked at him and then continued.
‘What a great helper.’ He sat down at the table.
The boy was wearing the boxers and T-shirt Moy had left outside the bathroom for him earlier that morning. The boxers were too loose. After racking each clean dish the boy had to reach down and hoist them up.
‘I bet you’re ten years old?’ Moy said. ‘Or maybe nine? Eight then…surely not eight?’
The boy looked at him, unhappy. He finished washing the dishes and started drying them.
‘Leave them,’ Moy said, but he kept working.
‘That was quite a spectacular effort last night, young Ezekiel. How on earth d’you fit so much food into such a little stomach?’
Nothing, except the sound of spoons and forks settling in the drawer.
‘I used to eat a lot…still do, all the wrong foods. You can get away with it until you’re thirty, then you get this enormous belly, see?’ He patted his stomach. ‘Fibre, that’s what you need, a young man like you.’
Moy stood up, fetched two bowls from the drying pile, searched the cupboard for a box of All Bran and started preparing breakfast. ‘Here, bran, you like bran? Keeps you nice and regular. You know what that means, don’t you?’