One Boy Missing(52)

The reply took a few moments. ‘Sometimes he was okay…other times he was a giant pain in the arse.’

‘I suppose all brothers are.’

‘Did you have a brother?’

‘No. Just guessing. From what I’ve heard.’

A road-train thundered past. Moy held the wheel tightly, avoiding the edge, the gravel, the rollovers he’d seen, the flattened panels and crystals of glass in the dirt. ‘He was a year older than you?’

Patrick shrugged.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Of course I know. He was my brother.’

They passed close to a harvester busy on the edge of a paddock, its driver half-asleep at the wheel. Moy waved but he just sat forward, trying to work out who he was. ‘I don’t mean to be nosy.’

No reply.

‘I know I shouldn’t have taken you to your house. I just thought it would help. I just thought, the sooner we can work out…’

‘Who I am?’

‘Your family. It’s strange. You talk to me, but you won’t tell me anything.’

Patrick looked back in his lap.

‘But if you just told me, I could help you. Your mum, your brother…your dad. Where was your dad?’

‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t.’

Moy realised he’d done it again. ‘Fine, I can be your dad, for now.’

‘You’re not my dad,’ the boy shot back. ‘You’re nothing like my dad.’

‘How’s that?’

‘You said you wouldn’t do this. You said you were sorry.’

‘I was about to say I can look after you, for now. But at some point we’ve gotta sort this mess out.’

Silence; for a full minute, perhaps more, as Patrick turned his head and stared at the door handle.

‘I just think you’d be happy if we could sort it all out,’ Moy said.

But Patrick had retreated again.

A FEW KILOMETRES later they were inside Bundaleer Forest, the light and warmth of the day fading. The pencil-straight pines extended out in geometrically perfect rows, the bottom half of each tree shaved clean, its branches left to rot on the forest floor.

‘This is the stuff they use for house frames,’ Moy explained, driving slowly.

‘It’s spooky,’ Patrick said, searching for the last bit of sun through the tree tops.

They spent an hour driving around. Moy found a wrecked car but it was old, colonised by birds. He stopped at the rangers’ station but no one had seen anything for weeks. At the top of a hill, he stopped, switched off the engine and sat listening. ‘Hear it?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Listen, absolutely nothing.’

‘You can’t hear nothing.’

A crow followed the curve of the road and flew into the trees, disappearing into darkness. As it went, so did its cry, and the sound of its moving wings.

Patrick was looking up into the auditorium of man-made nature, along the rows, through the blocks of cold air between the trees. ‘It smells like new furniture.’

‘The pine oil,’ Moy said.

They got out of the car, walked around and sat on the bonnet.

‘You know, this is as far as you can get from Guilderton, without actually…’

‘Escaping?’ Patrick suggested.

‘Come on, we’ll see what you’re like with a club.’ He walked around to the boot, opened it and produced a two-iron and a bag of golf balls. ‘You play?’

‘No.’

He found a clear spot, produced a tee from his pocket, set up a ball and handed Patrick the club. ‘Go on.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Of course you can. Just give it a big whack.’

Patrick took the club, stood beside the ball and swung. He missed, but tried again, and again, eventually nicking the ball, which dribbled through the leaf litter before stopping a few metres away.

‘Good shot,’ Moy said. He took the club, placed another ball on the tee and stood beside it. ‘Now, here are a few hints. Side on to the ball, thus far back. Hold the club further up, like so. Keep your eyes on the ball, extend all the way back and…’ He swung, contacting the ball’s sweet spot. It flew up, along the road, entered the forest and collected a tree trunk.

‘Not bad,’ Patrick said.

Moy handed him the club. He set up another ball and the boy got into position. Then he swung, and missed again. ‘I’m rubbish.’

Moy knelt down and adjusted the boy’s feet, turned his body to the correct angle, moved his hands and pushed his head down. ‘Now, keep your eyes on the ball,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter where it’s going, just whether you can hit it.’