‘To show each other they could do the job.’
‘What job?’
‘Shearing sheep, welding axles.’
‘So he’s grumpy because he had to shear sheep?’
‘Yes, exactly, because he had to shear sheep.’
Patrick still wasn’t convinced. ‘But you reckon he’ll stop being grumpy?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘A couple of days, a week…never.’
When they reached the far end of Creek Street the houses spread out. Moy noticed an old shed on the backblocks. Turning down a gravel road he coasted and stopped his car at the end near a patchwork iron shed. There was a weedy yard full of old washers and stoves, bed frames, mattresses and forty-four-gallon drums. And what looked like the remains of a bus, completely overgrown with vine. ‘What a dump,’ he said.
Patrick was quiet, his face set hard.
‘Someone’s collected a lot of crap. I can’t believe the council would allow it.’
‘Can we go?’ Patrick said.
‘You okay?’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘It’s just rubbish. I should have a look.’
‘Can we go?’
Moy looked at him, thinking. ‘Have you been here before?’
‘No.’
‘It’s just a shed…and a heap of junk.’
No reply.
Moy got out. ‘You okay?’
Nothing.
‘How about I lock the car?’
‘No,’ he shot back, lifting a hand, with five outstretched fingers.
Moy walked into the yard and noticed a fence, its rusted wire and posts hidden by grass. He walked through the rubbish on his way to the shed. There was a path of sorts winding through it all. He noticed a few mice dart from under a tea chest. When he got to the opening, or what passed as a door, he called out, ‘Hello, anyone around? Police.’
Silence.
He looked back at Patrick and waved. ‘You okay?’
The boy didn’t respond.
Moy hauled aside an old mattress that was being used as a sort of sliding door. Stepping inside, the smell hit him straight away. Stale oil, unwashed clothes and rotting food. There was enough light to see piles of junk. Six- and seven-foot high columns of pots and pans; wet newspapers and magazines; shelves (fallen, clinging to the old wood of the shed) full of broken irons, lamps, a record player and a collection of everything electronic ever bought, sold or stolen in Guilderton.
‘Hello?’
He followed another path that moved among the junk. It brought him to the centre of the shed where there was a bath and, inside it, a mattress with a depression where someone had recently slept. Beside the bath-bed was a pile of rugs. It seemed to move. He knelt down to look at it, unsure if it was a trick of the light.
Fleas. Millions. Jumping about in the last bit of light.
He stood up and stepped back.
‘Hey,’ a voice said behind him.
He turned and a fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying. As he fell he upset a pan full of fat sitting on a Primus stove.
‘Christ,’ he said, sitting up, feeling his face and noticing blood on his hand.
‘You fuckin’ thief,’ he heard the voice growl, before a foot hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. He was groggy, unsure of where he was or what was happening. He managed to look up and see an old man in a grey parka and overalls standing over him.
‘Police,’ Moy said.
‘My arse.’ The old man went to kick him again.
He shielded his face with his arm, grabbed the old man’s leg, pulled it, and heard him fall back onto a pile of cartons.
‘Police,’ he repeated, sitting up, spitting blood from his mouth and noticing Patrick’s face above the man. Then he heard fists, and a series of punches. Little hands connecting with bone. He stood up, took a few steps and tried to pull Patrick off.
‘No,’ the boy shouted, as he hammered the old man with both fists.
‘Come on,’ Moy said. ‘Stop now.’
Patrick stopped, rolled his head and said, ‘Leave him alone.’
Both the old man and Moy looked at the boy.
‘He was just looking,’ Patrick said.
‘In my house,’ the old man replied, sitting up.
There was a short pause as all three caught their breath. Moy felt his lip and realised it was split. ‘You’ve just assaulted a detective,’ he said to the old man.
‘And you’ve just broken into my place.’
Moy could see that he only had a few teeth, and that his lips were turned in. He had a flat nose, brown eyes and grey skin.
‘You come to steal from me,’ this man said, running his hand through his matted hair. ‘This is private property.’
‘You live in this mess?’