One Boy Missing(53)

Patrick tried again. This time he hit the ball with a solid thwack and it went flying. It descended, landed on the road and rolled down the hill.

‘Excellent,’ Moy said. ‘You’re quick on the uptake. Want to try again?’

Forty-five minutes later the bag of balls was nearly empty; the afternoon becoming darker and colder. Patrick had hit nearly every ball. There were little white dots littered across the landscape.

‘Do you want me to pick them up?’ Patrick said.

‘Don’t worry. We can get more.’ He reclaimed his club, teed up and stood in front of the ball moving his hips. ‘It’s all in your posture,’ he said. ‘You’ve just gotta stick your bum in, like this.’ He stood straight, stretching his neck and sucking in his gut. Then he swung wide, missing the ball completely.

Patrick broke up. ‘It’s still there.’

‘That’s how not to do it.’ Moy took the last ball from the bag, placed it on the broken tee and hit it to the far end of the forest. ‘See.’

They set off, following a different track. Piles of harvested timber sat on churned-up ground between forest and bush. This scrub dropped into a valley that seemed to stretch for miles. The track took them to the lowest point in the landscape, and a waterhole at the end of a creek. Moy drove as close as he could, then stopped. ‘What d’ you say?’

‘What?’ Patrick said.

‘A swim?’

He wasn’t sure. ‘In there?’

‘Why not?’

‘Wouldn’t it be full of…dead stuff?’

‘Come on. This is our big adventure, isn’t it?’

Patrick almost grinned. ‘Yours, perhaps. It’ll be freezing.’

Moy could tell that Patrick liked the idea, but wasn’t sure about the logistics. ‘There’s no one for a million miles.’ He got out and ran down the hill towards the waterhole. He was thinking of stripping as he went, throwing himself in and splashing about, but then thought better of it. Arriving at the water’s edge, he slipped off his shoes and socks, pants and shirt. ‘Come on.’

Patrick was walking down the hill towards him. ‘You won’t go in.’

‘Wanna bet?’

Moy turned and walked into the water. Jesus. He stopped, eyes watering. He’d guessed it’d be cold, but not how cold. Still, he felt the boy’s eyes on him and willed himself forward. He got up to his knees before he stopped. ‘I’m not doin’ it alone.’

Patrick was standing at the edge, the brown water lapping at his shoes.

‘Come on.’

The boy thought about it, then took off his own shoes and socks. He stepped into the water; kept walking, up to his ankles, higher.

‘You gonna take your gear off?’ Moy said.

Patrick looked at Moy’s bowling-ball belly and meaty arms; the hair across his chest and his small nipples.

‘Well?’ Moy asked.

He walked in further.

‘Come on, take your pants off. I’m not lookin’.’

Patrick stopped, deciding.

‘You don’t wanna drive home in wet clothes.’

He turned and walked back to the muddy shore.

‘Come on,’ Moy said. He followed the boy out of the water, grabbed his shirt and tried to remove it.

‘No!’ Patrick said, pulling his shirt down, backing away.

Moy looked at him, confused. ‘I just thought…don’t you wanna come in?’

There was no reply.

‘That’s all I was doing.’ He stopped, remembering. The bathroom door being locked, checked, locked again. Patrick’s habit of doing up his top button, until he was told, ‘You’re gonna be hot like that.’

Patrick turned and headed back up to the car.

‘You can just swim in your pants,’ Moy called.

He reached the car and got in. Moy walked from the waterhole, gathering his shirt and slipping it back on, finding his shoes and socks, soaked brown by the lapping water.

On their way home, as the car glided along the empty road, as the sun spread itself out across the horizon, Patrick said, ‘My mum…’

‘Your mum?’

‘I suppose she was burnt, in the fire?’

Moy took a deep breath. ‘What makes you think—’

‘That’s enough.’

Moy drove on, waiting for an answer, a way out. ‘You’ve already guessed, haven’t you?’

Patrick returned to the mid-distance. They drove in silence until they arrived back in Guilderton.

Then Patrick looked at Moy and said, ‘I’d like to thank you, for looking after me.’





29

MOY CLOSED THE door and turned to face the toilet. There was piss on the seat, dribbling down onto the floor, where it had formed a yellow veneer. He used a fistful of toilet paper to wipe it clean. He dropped his pants and sat down. Looked at the streaks of dried shit on the wall. ‘Jesus.’