Moy tried to think of a way in, but couldn’t. Instead, he took a small photo album from the bookshelf and turned to a random page, halfway in.
‘Ha,’ he said, looking at a photo of himself, aged seven or eight, bare-chested and broad-shouldered, standing in front of a silo his father was bolting onto a concrete slab. ‘Look at me there. I’m not fat.’
‘Is that George?’ Patrick asked, studying the bent-over figure in shorts and singlet.
‘Yes. We bought that for the cattle feed, but I don’t know that we ever used it.’
And there, in the background, a woman, standing with her arms crossed.
‘Who’s she?’ Patrick said.
‘My mum.’
‘Does she live here?’
‘She’s dead.’
Patrick didn’t seem surprised.
‘When I was twelve,’ Moy said, waiting for some sort of response.
But Patrick wasn’t interested. ‘George was bigger there.’
‘Yes, people shrink as they get older.’
He looked at the photo of Moy, and then at the older version. ‘You’re not shrinking.’
‘No, I mean…after about sixty.’
‘Was he grumpy back then?’
‘I suppose…although not so much. You’ve got more to be grumpy about as you get older.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like…things not going the way you planned.’
Patrick didn’t understand. ‘But doesn’t that mean that kids should be the grumpiest?’
‘Well, perhaps, but they haven’t had time to make plans.’
‘Yes, they have.’
‘Like who?’
Patrick stopped short again, refusing to be drawn. He returned to the photo. ‘He had muscles then.’
‘He did. And what about me? No pot belly.’ He patted his stomach. ‘This, my boy, is what you have to look forward to.’
‘Not if I don’t eat chips all day.’
‘You will.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Maybe you were taught well?’
‘Yes.’
‘She sounds like a smart woman, your mum…?’ Moy let it hang but Patrick took the album and continued looking. There was another photo of Moy, twelve or thirteen, dressed as a sort of budget Prince Charming, wearing felt slippers, beige tights, a short tunic and a cap decorated with feathers. ‘That can’t be you?’ he asked.
‘It is. What do you think?’
‘What were you doing?’
‘It was a school production. The Little Mermaid.’
‘You’re wearing makeup.’
‘Yes, including lipstick, if I’m not mistaken.’ He squinted to see.
Patrick looked at him strangely.
‘What?’
‘Couldn’t you have been a fish or something?’
‘I didn’t want to be a fish. I wanted to be Prince Charming.’
‘Yuck.’
‘I was expressing myself…I was experimenting.’ He lifted the lukewarm coffee and sipped. ‘You’re not from a theatrical family I take it?’
‘No, I’ve never seen a show.’
‘Just the telly?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about your brother?’
Patrick glared at him. ‘I’m not one of your criminals.’
Moy was taken back. ‘I didn’t say you were.’
He continued searching the photos. ‘You just keep asking.’
‘I want to help.’
‘You just want to…solve it, so you can get on with something else.’
Moy sat forward. ‘That’s not true. I want to help. Maybe that means solving it.’
Patrick looked at him, closed his lips and studied another photo. ‘Who’s he?’
‘That’s Charlie.’
Charlie was four, fresh-faced and blue-eyed, sitting on a rug painting a picture of a train.
‘Your son?’
‘Yes.’
They both examined the photo.
‘That was bad luck,’ Patrick said.
‘Yes.’
And he glanced up, although his head was still down. ‘Do you miss him?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a nice train.’
‘It is. I still have it somewhere…’ He took another album from the bookcase, opened it, found a poster in the back and flattened it out on the floor. It was the same train, hurtling through a landscape of box houses with cotton smoke coming from their chimneys. Patrick compared the half-finished version in the photo with the finished painting. ‘He did a good job. Except…’
‘What?’
‘There are no people.’
‘Maybe he never finished it.’
‘Or maybe he didn’t want people. They’re hard to paint.’
They both sat, studying the smudged paint.