‘You’re mandated?’
‘Yep, I’m mandated.’ And he wondered whether he was, or what it meant.
It was one of the consolations of country policing. He knew it suited his own gluey state. Not that he didn’t try. He did. Every day in every way I’m getting better and better. But things were missed. Like the Crowley file. He thought he’d forwarded it to the drug section. Then again, it hadn’t come up on the courier’s list. But he must’ve. Perhaps. And he wondered, where else could it be? In the vegetable section at the supermarket? In with the magazines in the doctor’s waiting room?
Deidre still wasn’t sure. ‘Aren’t you busy with all your investigations?’
‘I can work around it. Anyway, he’s company.’ He looked at the boy, thinking. ‘And I can talk to him, and ask him questions.’
‘He’s talking to you?’
‘A few words.’
‘Great.’
The boy finished, and stood staring at the half-full line.
‘If I can get him to trust me he’s more likely to open up,’ he said.
‘Have you got some clothes?’
‘No.’
‘I have a few things—’
‘I’ll take him out, he can buy what he likes.’
And then he stopped, thinking. Charlie’s clothes, where were they? In boxes, at Megan’s place? Or did they give them away? Some of them at least? No, Megan would never have done that. So where were they? Then he thought—what does it matter? They’d be far too small.
‘Something practical,’ Deidre was saying. ‘Summer clothes. Shorts and T-shirts, polo tops.’
Moy looked up and smiled. There, on the hoist, turning in circles, was the boy; holding on to one of the support bars, stretched out, his feet a few inches from the ground; kicking his legs, laughing, turning circles until he slowed, at which point he’d put his feet back on the chair, push off and start again.
‘He’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘Let me know if you need help.’
‘I will.’
And then he rang off. He walked from the house and made his way out to the hoist. Grabbing the supports, he started turning the line’s metal arms. ‘How’s that?’ he asked, but the boy was just laughing, giggling. ‘Are you feeling sick?’
No reply.
‘You will soon…we’ll have another pile of vomit to clean up.’
He pushed harder and the boy’s legs flew out, collecting him in the side of the face.
‘Sorry!’
‘That’s okay.’ Then he spoke loudly. ‘Should I keep going?’
‘Yes.’
He pushed. ‘More?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good.’
Moy just watched him fly, seeking but never finding a straight line. The greaseless axle ground. Then the stem of the hoist cracked and the whole line toppled. Wires flew through the air as struts bent, collapsed and sent the boy flying onto the grass. He rolled, sat up and looked at Moy. ‘Oh no,’ he said, and Moy came and sat next to him. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nothing broken?’
‘No.’
And they just looked at each other. ‘Do you think they’ll make me pay for it?’ Moy asked.
The boy nodded.
‘I’ll say it was like that, shall I?’
A smile.
‘That’s what I’ll say…it was like that when I got here, eh?’
A shrug.
‘Or, I could say, this nasty little thief broke in…and when I caught him, I had to torture him.’
Moy tickled the boy’s side. The boy pulled away, giggling.
‘Yes, that’s it. I had to torture him until he admitted breaking my washing line. Go on, you young thief, admit it.’
Moy was tickling with both hands and the boy was rolling about on the uncut grass, laughing, curling up to protect his midriff.
‘I’m waiting,’ Moy said. ‘All you’ve gotta say is, it was me. Go on.’
No response. The tickling continued.
‘Go on.’
The boy was kicking the grass and his shoes left brown skids. His eyes were closed. ‘Get off,’ he squealed.
‘It was me.’
‘It wasn’t.’
Moy stopped. The panting boy looked up at him.
‘I’ll have to charge you,’ Moy said. ‘And there may be prison time involved.’
The boy giggled and hit him lightly with a fist.
‘My son used to ride the hoist. Used a chair to get up, then realised he couldn’t get down.’
‘Where is he?’
Moy sat forward, his arms on his knees. He looked at a distant geranium, overgrown with weeds. ‘He’s…gone.’