One Boy Missing(45)

No reply. Patrick stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the old man.

‘This isn’t healthy,’ Moy said. ‘The place is full of fleas, you shouldn’t be here.’ He noticed a pile of books on a bench beside the bath-bed; a candle; the remains of a meal.

‘I was here first,’ the old man said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I built this shed sixty years ago there was no one for miles. They come and built their places around me.’

Moy moved and felt his jaw. Nothing seemed to be broken. ‘Why did you hit me?’

‘You broke in.’

‘I was investigating. I thought it was a shed, not a house. I could charge you.’

‘And I could call the police.’

‘I am the bloody police.’

‘How was I to know you weren’t a stealer?’

Moy looked at him and realised there was nothing to be done. The old man stared at Patrick and said, ‘I remember you.’

Moy looked at them both: the old man, squinting, trying to remember; Patrick, moving away, dropping and turning his head.

‘I seen you,’ the old man said.

‘You have?’ Moy asked, looking at them both.

‘Yeah.’ He kept looking at Patrick. ‘Out with your brother and your mum.’

Moy stared at the boy.

Patrick turned away from them.

The old man looked at Moy. ‘I seen ’em walkin’ down here… down Creek Street.’

The boy turned, took a few steps and ran from the shed. Ducking and squeezing between the towers of junk, pushing back the mattress. He disappeared into the night.

‘How old was the other boy?’ Moy asked.

‘Not much older than this one.’

He stopped to think. ‘Can I come back?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in…I didn’t know.’ He extended his hand. The old man took a moment and then shook it. ‘Sixty years I been here,’ he said.

‘I know.’ He followed the path out, knocking over a rag bag that spilled open and blocked the junk corridor.

He emerged into the night and saw Patrick sitting in the car. After walking through the yard he stood looking at the boy. Then he looked up. Creek Street. He could smell smoke; and see the yellow and red blocks of Lego half-hidden in the ashes. He looked back. Their eyes met but the small head dropped again. Once he was in the car he said, ‘We better watch out, that place was full of fleas.’

No reply.

‘That was a nice thing you did, Patrick.’

Patrick just closed his lips, and licked between them.

‘So, what happened, you saw him coming in and followed him?’

Nothing.

‘He could’ve given me a black eye, or worse…he might have had a knife.’

The old man stood in the doorway looking at them. Then he picked up the mattress and laid it across the door.

‘Thank you, Patrick,’ Moy whispered, and their eyes met. ‘I know I should say you shouldn’t have done it, but every bit helps, eh?’

‘I don’t think I hurt him,’ Patrick said.

‘No, but you’ve got a decent fist. Good punch.’ He felt the boy’s right bicep. ‘See, it’s all that pizza I’ve been feeding you.’

‘And fried chicken.’ The boy took a deep breath. As his eyes slid away, Moy thought he saw relief there.





26

THEY DROVE WITH the races. Belmont. All ready, lights, they’re off, Precious Gem out quickly, followed by Beltane Lass, two lengths… in a drone that perfectly matched the weather, the landscape, monotone, with the occasional bump and depression. Moy could see Patrick looking into his lap, fiddling with the trauma, fingers locked together, pushing and pulling on the meaty bits of hand.

‘What were you buying?’ Moy asked.

Patrick looked up at him but decided it was a trick.

‘Milk? Bread? Or was she taking you for fish and chips?’

No reply.

Moy wondered whether he should back off. He was risking four days’ work. Back where he started, or worse. But the clock was ticking. He thought he knew where the mother was. But what about the other boy?

‘Did you often walk into town?’

Patrick looked up. ‘I’ve never seen that man.’

‘But he’s seen you.’

‘It must’ve been someone else.’

‘He seemed pretty sure.’

‘He was wrong.’

‘So you’ve never lived around here?’

The conversation slowed over a cattle grate. Stopped. They drove on.

Moy knew this changed everything. No longer the runaway. No longer misplaced, or unwanted. ‘Was that your brother?’

Nothing.

‘Bit taller? Look a bit like you?’