One Boy Missing(57)

‘What is it?’ Patrick asked.

‘It’s like a…shaft of wheat, with a head.’

‘Why?’

Moy shrugged. ‘Symbolic.’ He slowed past it. ‘The council wanted something to attract the tourists, but I’m not sure it worked. I’ve never actually seen anyone looking at it.’

‘It’s ugly.’

‘Everyone wanted a new toilet in Civic Park, but this is what they got.’

When they arrived at the end of Dutton Street, Bryce King was waiting for them. There were no homes this far along, just piles of rubbish and rubble that locals had dumped. Weeds and grass had grown up through most of it but there was one pile, part broken furniture and clothes, part ash, that looked fresh. Moy and Patrick got out and greeted the constable.

‘Someone’s had a bonfire,’ King said, pointing.

‘Who found it?’ Moy asked.

‘Fella down the road. I asked him, he said it wasn’t there last week.’

Moy added the days. ‘So, he reckons last Tuesday, Wednesday?’

‘About then.’

‘Exactly?’

‘He couldn’t say.’

Patrick stepped forward, staring at the pile.

‘What is it?’ Moy said.

Both men watched as he walked forward.

‘Patrick?’

No reply.

Patrick approached what was left of the partly burnt junk. When he reached it he stopped, knelt down, held the arm of a half-burnt jumper and pulled it from the pile.

‘What is it?’ Moy asked, coming up behind him.

‘It’s mine.’

The arm was red and green. Mud-soaked. There was a shoulder, and part of the chest, but the rest was singed or burned away.

‘It’s our gear,’ Patrick said, looking at the pile. ‘See, that’s Tom’s parka.’ He indicated a mostly melted nylon jacket draped over a cricket bat. It had burned from the inside out, leaving a glazed shell. There were a few toys, charred shoes, the burnt-out spines of several books, a soccer ball with its side split open and a small tub of Lego, its contents melted into a chromatic glob.

‘Anything you can salvage?’ Moy asked, but Patrick didn’t reply. He stood up, white-faced, and stepped back from the pile. Then he sat down on a lump of old concrete.

Moy picked up a stick, stepped into what was left of the fire and started moving the objects about.

Meanwhile, Bryce King came up behind Patrick. ‘Don’t worry about that lot, we can get you new stuff.’

Moy rolled the soccer ball through the ashes. He noticed some writing on it. Leaned forward, wiped the ash and read the words Patrick Barnes. He looked up at him. At last. Not that it made any difference. All of the hard work had already been done.

‘You don’t want to have a look?’

Silent headshake.

A bag of marbles, intact; a fishing reel, the line and rocker cover melted; a CD, sitting between two partly burnt books, protected: J. S. Bach, Preludes and Fugues. Turning to Patrick, he held it up. ‘You’ve got good taste.’

Patrick stood up, came over and took it from him.

‘Yours?’

‘Dad’s. He left it behind when…’

Moy wanted to ask, but stopped himself. ‘You like Bach?’

‘Yeah…Mozart’s better.’ Patrick looked at the pile. ‘He’s in there somewhere.’

Moy and Patrick Barnes drove back towards town, past The Australian Farmer, unclipped yards smelling of wattle and wood fires and a rubbish truck labouring along Jenner Street. As a Bach prelude played, Patrick sat with his eyes closed, tapping out a musical pulse on his knee.

‘Did Dad play music?’ Moy asked.

‘No.’

‘Was that his fishing reel?’

‘Yeah…he bought it, and said he was gonna take us and he never did.’

Moy throttled back, waiting.

‘I wasn’t that interested anyway.’

‘I suppose you’d have to live somewhere near an ocean, wouldn’t you?’

‘We did.’

‘Really?’ He waited for a name. ‘Where, Port Louis or somewhere?’

Silence, as they continued along the damp road. Patrick seemed to think something, then dismiss it. ‘Anyway, Dad went away…’ As seconds, and minutes passed.

‘Why was that?’

‘Mum didn’t say. I suppose he had to.’ He looked at Moy to confirm this.

‘He probably did.’

‘Why do you think?’

‘Work, maybe?’

Patrick looked forward. ‘Maybe.’

The notes tumbled faster and faster, spilling out of the window. Patrick just kept staring into the distance, trying to find other reasons.





31

THEY WENT HOME for a late breakfast. George acted as a sort of housemaid, filling their bowls with cornflakes, bran, wheat germ, a handful of fruit medley. As Patrick watched him work, he bit his lip; not only was it inedible, but there was so much of it. George covered his creations with milk and looked at Patrick. ‘Sugar?’