One Boy Missing(36)
‘Where?’
‘Gone.’
‘When’s he coming back?’
‘Looks like you can speak,’ Moy said. He squeezed the boy’s knee. ‘Now maybe I get to know your name?’ He extended his hand once again. ‘I am Bartholomew Moy…and you?’
‘Isn’t he coming back?’
‘Wolfgang, wasn’t it?’
‘Bart?’
‘You’re using my name…I should be able to use yours, don’t you think?’
‘He’s not,’ the boy said, choosing not to shake Moy’s hand.
Moy turned around. ‘He died,’ he said.
And the boy was gone again.
THEY FIXED THE hoist, straightening the stem and propping it up with an old ladder. Then they filled two buckets with warm water and disinfectant, found a few old sponges and went out to the car. The boy was straight into it, wetting the vomit stains, wiping them, rinsing his sponge and starting again. He cleaned the dashboard and started on the carpet. Moy worked from the driver’s side, slowly wetting and scrubbing, picking flecks from the radio. There were several minutes of silence before he said, ‘It looks like your mum taught you well.’
No response.
‘How’s that, Detective Moy?’ he asked himself. ‘Well,’ he answered, ‘I don’t have to ask you to do anything.’
There was another minute of silent scrubbing.
‘Your mum would be very pleased with your efforts.’
Silence.
‘Or maybe your dad?’
The boy looked at him angrily.
‘Maybe not.’ He stopped to think. ‘Dad’s not around, perhaps?’
‘You keep my dad out of this.’ His face hardened and he clenched his fists. ‘You just want to solve your case, so you can get on with something else.’
Moy stood up and came around to the boy’s side.
‘So you can put me in a home, and forget about…’ He knelt, held his arms, but he pulled away.
‘Get off! Don’t touch me!’ He was shaking. He picked up a bucket, went to throw it over Moy, but stopped. Instead, he ran inside, went to his room and slammed the door.
Moy followed. He stood in the hallway. ‘You okay?’
No response.
He didn’t know what to say. To keep prodding and poking, opening barely healed sores, invoking a father who might have been capable of anything. ‘If I came in, we could talk?’ He guessed it mightn’t be so simple. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about your dad.’
Silence.
‘You there?’ He went into the room. The window was open and the boy was gone. He stepped forward, looked out and called, ‘Come on.’ Then he ran from the house, around it, tripping on a bucket of water. ‘Where are yer?’
Nothing.
To the top of the drive. Looking down the road. The boy was further along, standing outside the plumber’s house, waiting.
‘You coming in?’
The small figure darted across the street, into the paddock on the edge of town. As Moy followed he watched him flatten wheat, fall, stand, run towards a distant harvester.
‘I said I’s sorry,’ he called. He could see the boy was wounded; just had to run.
Arriving at the fence, Moy climbed over. Stood standing, searching.
But the boy had gone.
‘I know…it’s none of my business,’ he shouted, over the sound of the approaching harvester. ‘Come on, show yourself, it’s dangerous.’
The driver was watching him.
‘This is silly…I’m sorry.’
Then, a muffled voice. ‘Go away!’
The harvester was eating the crop. It turned, came back, and Moy held his breath. There was no point risking it. He waved at the driver but he just looked at him strangely.
‘Please,’ he called. ‘What do you want me to say?’
Nothing.
The harvester turned again. This time it would come close. Moy ran into the wheat, searching. You little shit. But he knew there was more at stake. He wasn’t a foster carer. It’d be hard to explain.
He turned towards the harvester and waved. It slowed, stopped, and the driver got out and called, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Could you wait a minute?’
The farmer watched as Moy searched. Then, he looked back towards the fence. The boy emerged from the wheat, slid between the wires and ran back up Gawler Street.
Moy waved at the driver. ‘Lost dog.’ He struggled through the wheat, hurdled the top wire and ran after him. Back up the road, across, into the Flamsteeds’ yard.
The boy had picked up a shovel. He was swinging at knee-high aloe, taking off lizard-tongue leaves.
Moy held him. ‘Stop it!’
He twisted to release himself but didn’t have enough muscle. Moy ripped the shovel from his hands and threw it down. Then, Mrs Flamsteed was standing on her porch.