One Boy Missing(46)
Patrick waited.
‘Quite a walk, into town? Specially if you had to carry groceries.’
He dropped his head.
‘Now I’m looking for two, am I?’
‘No.’
‘Well?’
Beltane Lass finished four lengths ahead of the field. Moy switched off the radio.
‘So, here’s a scenario. It might have nothing to do with you. Brothers. One’s taken. The other knows that if he…says anything… but he mightn’t understand that the police can get to anyone.’
Patrick looked up. This seemed to concern him. The police can get to anyone…
‘At this point, time is of the essence. Know what that means? Every minute matters.’ He watched for his reaction. ‘It’s time, Patrick.’
‘It’s just me.’ But he didn’t look up.
‘Who was the woman, and boy?’
He glared at him. ‘Me!’
‘No.’
They were giving correct weight. Only a dollar fifty for the win.
‘You gotta give me something, Patrick.’
Patrick clicked his seatbelt, reached for the door and opened it. Moy braked hard but the boy half-tumbled to the ground, got up and walked back along Creek Street. Moy pulled over, got out and called. ‘Patrick.’
Patrick kept walking. Moy ran, then slowed, then walked beside him. ‘Stop.’
He continued.
‘Okay, my mistake. He was old. Must be a hundred kids live along here, eh?’
Patrick’s withering look said he knew it was another trick.
‘They’ve all got a mum. I’m sorry. When he said it, I just thought…’
Patrick stopped and looked at him. ‘I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should believe.’ He turned and headed back for the car.
Moy left a good ten metres, and followed. When he got back in they were loading the next twelve horses. As they drove, he said, ‘That old fella needs some help.’
‘Leave him be.’
‘I could tell Deidre.’
‘He probably just wants to be left alone.’
Silence. They’re off. Clean start.
‘He might need glasses.’
But Patrick just closed his eyes.
THEY DROVE TO the IGA on Humbolt Street and spent twenty minutes flattening boxes. Patrick took them out to the car and stacked them in the boot. Eventually they were jammed in tight—thirty, forty, maybe more. They drove home, unloaded the boxes into the hallway, stacked up against the wall under a Heysen gum-scape. The afternoon sun, coming in the bubble glass beside the front door, had bleached the trees and hills calcium white.
Moy assembled the first box and fastened it with tape. He carried it into his bedroom and stood staring at the mess. Clothes all over the floor. He wondered whether he should try and fold them, stack them in the box, and cover them with the shirts and undies in his drawers.
No, he concluded, clothes should come last. So he turned to the improvised bookcase he’d made beside his bed: a series of four planks supported on either side by bricks. Finnegans Wake, the first seven or eight pages read and reread a dozen times. He threw the book into the box and returned to the shelf. Sons and Lovers. Judging by the scuffed pages he’d read three chapters before asking himself if he really cared.
Patrick walked slowly into the room balancing a cup of coffee he’d filled to the rim.
‘That for me?’ Moy asked.
Patrick was biting his lip. ‘I made it strong.’
‘Good.’
He placed the coffee on a table beside the bed and Moy leaned over to sip it. Patrick sat down, looked at him and asked, ‘What will they do with the old man?’
‘There’s nothing you can do. It’s how he wants to live.’
Patrick couldn’t understand. ‘Why?’
‘It’s what he’s used to.’
‘But he could get used to a nice place, if someone found it for him.’
Moy sipped more coffee. ‘Did you sugar it?’
‘One. Three spoons of sugar isn’t healthy.’
‘You’re my mother?’
‘You’ll get diabetes.’
‘Who says?’
‘Mum…’ He stopped.
‘What else does she say?’ Moy asked.
The boy bowed his head.
‘Patrick?’
Nothing.
‘You still don’t want to tell me who the other boy was?’
‘He would’ve been covered in fleas,’ Patrick said.
‘Who?’
‘The old man.’
‘Patrick…’ He waited. ‘What else did your mum tell you about?’
‘You could at least take him to the station, and let him use the shower there.’
‘I could.’
‘And then you could get a pest control person…’