They kept on, and the last few houses petered out. ‘Should we go back?’ Patrick asked, moving about in his seat, clutching his seatbelt.
‘Why? Is there something wrong?’
‘No.’
Moy felt he shouldn’t, but something was leading him on. He knew there’d be a psychologist somewhere who’d have a problem with his approach but he sensed it had to be done. He sped along the road, past virgin scrub. ‘Feel that wind on your face, eh? That’s the good thing about this job.’
‘Bart…’
‘No one watching over your shoulder.’
‘Can we go home?’
‘No one telling you what to do.’
‘Bart!’
Moy slowed as they approached the house.
Patrick looked at the ruin and dropped his head. ‘Please?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t want to be here.’
‘Why?’ He pulled over and stopped. ‘It’s a beautiful bit of country.’
‘You did this on purpose.’ He glared at him.
‘Did what?’
‘Brought me here.’
‘This road?’
The boy pointed to the house.
‘That’s the house,’ Moy said. ‘The one I’m confused about.’
‘Why did you do this?’
‘I thought I’d show you.’
Patrick stared at him. ‘Why?’ He clenched his fists and started punching him.
‘Hold on,’ Moy said, grabbing his arms.
‘You knew,’ Patrick screamed, pulling away from him.
‘Knew what?’
‘That I lived there.’ He stopped, relaxing his arms and sinking back into his seat. ‘With my mum, and my brother.’
Moy took a few moments. ‘Your mum?’
‘Yes, you knew.’ His face was full of anger.
‘I suspected.’
‘You knew.’
Moy felt bad. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s too late to be sorry.’ He opened his door and ran. Sprinted across the road into the scrub. Moy got out and chased him through paperbark and spiny acacias. ‘Patrick! I said I’m sorry.’ He looked around but couldn’t see him. ‘Patrick!’ His words settled in the scrub. Then, twenty or so metres away, he saw him climbing a eucalypt.
He ran towards him, watching him grasp the trunk and pull himself up. The boy arrived at a branch and sat on it. Standing up, he hugged the trunk again and continued climbing. Another five metres and another branch.
‘Patrick, get down. You’re gonna fall.’
He continued climbing. There was a long stretch of naked trunk. He got halfway and looked up. Then he dropped his head to check on Moy.
‘Patrick!’
Another branch. This time he climbed a series of limbs that rose like a spiral staircase. Now he was high above the earth. He seemed content and sat down in a fork that sagged beneath his weight. Then he looked out across the wheatbelt.
‘Patrick, this is stupid.’
Moy guessed he was high enough to kill himself. He had no idea if this is what he had in mind, or whether he was just making a point. ‘Are you gonna talk to me?’
Patrick looked down. ‘I don’t need you.’
‘You can look after yourself, eh?’
‘I didn’t ask you to look after me.’
‘I know.’ He wanted to reach up, to hold him. Thought of climbing but realised he’d never get off the ground. ‘That’s quite an effort. You like climbing trees?’
Patrick looked down with disdain. ‘I can keep going.’
‘I know you can.’ He waited a few minutes, looking up at the boy who was looking out towards impossible horizons. He wouldn’t look down.
‘I make stupid decisions,’ Moy said.
Patrick looked down at him, as if to say, I noticed.
‘I’m an idiot.’
‘I don’t need you.’
A few more minutes. It was as if the boy was welded to the tree.
‘Right,’ Moy said, realising. ‘I’ll be in the car then.’ He turned and walked off.
Twenty minutes passed before the door opened and Patrick climbed in.
‘Quite an effort,’ Moy said.
No reply.
‘Point taken.’
Patrick looked at him. ‘That’s nothing. I climbed a power pylon once.’
28
THE FOLLOWING DAY Moy received a phone call from the Port Louis police.
‘Just wondering if you know anything about this body?’ Detective Sergeant Susan Carey asked.
Doing the rounds, Moy guessed. He remembered her from the academy. A square-faced woman who topped every exam, ran fastest, asked the most questions. He cleared his throat and attempted to speak in clear, detached words. ‘Ah…the body? Mangrove Point?’
‘That’s the one.’