One Boy Missing(67)

The house of a murderer? Who the hell knew?

THE AFTERNOON WAS cool. He didn’t want to go home so he headed out of town to the footy club, the place, he believed, that most defined Guilderton. The clubrooms were a favourite for wedding receptions and wakes. In the years between the kids could run around, play an old Space Invaders machine, drink a stray beer and daily strengthen the bonds that would get them through their wheatbelt lives. On the oval there were school sports days and fairs, footy training and Sunday morning dog obedience. The wives in tight circles, planning holidays and fundraisers. The men showing the under-twelves the perfect punt. As though if all of this were protected they could preserve the simple balance that sustained them.

It was the start of the cricket season now, but the players would be the same. He’d known them at high school, these farmers’ sons, with their open mouths and home-shaved heads. And here they were now, catching practice under three of the four functional lights around the oval. A mist rose from the gardens and grass, settling over a few mums in the ‘Nigger’ Johnson Grandstand.

He walked across the car park and stood at the oval fence. Each of the players cast a triple shadow. They motioned and shouted to each other but he couldn’t work out what they were saying. There were younger boys kicking footballs through the goals. Perhaps, he thought, some kind of sport would be good for Patrick. A band of brothers that would take him, for a while at least, away from his memories.

‘How are yer?’ an old man asked, from further along the fence.

‘Good. And you?’

‘Yeah.’

A full minute passed before the stooped figure said, ‘That fuckin’ harvest is gonna finish my son.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Hundred and sixty grand to put in a crop this year. All over in a fortnight.’

‘What, too dry?’

‘Not enough to cover his costs. Fourth year straight. What’s the use? May as well get a job at the IGA. What about you?’

Moy shrugged. ‘I’m a copper.’

‘So, no worries with low yields, eh?’ He moved closer. ‘You lookin’ for someone?’

‘Yes.’

But the old man just turned and looked back at the younger boys. ‘That one out there,’ he said, indicating, ‘that’s my grandson, Michael.’ They watched him fumble a catch. ‘And over there, my son, Todd.’ They watched Todd, but he was just standing there, guarding his shadow and his few inches of threadbare turf.

‘Who you lookin’ for?’ the old man asked.

‘I rang earlier and spoke to the secretary.’

‘Who?’

‘The secretary?’

‘No, yer fuckin’…missing person?’

‘Have you heard of Alex Naismith?’

The old man watched his son lurch after the ball. ‘Played Div Four, two or three years ago.’

‘Know much about him?’

‘He stopped, didn’t see out the season. That’s the last we saw of him.’ Then he looked back at his grandson. ‘He’s too smart, anyway.’

‘Who?’

‘Michael. Clever little bastard. Good at maths. He’d be better off studying engineering, medicine. Steada throwing good money after bad.’

‘Things might get better.’

There was a siren. Moy had no idea what it meant.

‘You’re not gonna tell us what it’s all about?’ the old man said.

‘Well, Alex, he washed up at Mangrove Point.’

‘What, dead?’

No, bodysurfing. ‘We reckon.’

‘Fuck.’

‘So, you know, I suppose things could always be worse.’

The old fella shook his head and turned back towards the oval. ‘Not at eight dollars a tonne.’

MOY PULLED OUT, back onto the road to town. As he picked up speed he noticed a deserted farmhouse. Nearby paddocks had been reclaimed by scrub. There was a windmill, still turning, although the axle and gears were hanging loose. It occurred to him that there were many places like this—forgotten, cheaper to ignore than demolish. He supposed they could be made livable if someone was determined. They would make decent places to live. Away from neighbours and prying eyes.

He wondered about the house on Creek Street. What if Helen had brought her two sons to get away from someone? What if she’d had to flee the city and remembered this place from some childhood holiday, or something someone had mentioned?

And what if Alex Naismith, whoever he was, and however he was connected, had found her?

As his open window sucked in cool air he tried to imagine Helen Barnes, and Alex Naismith, together. He could see Helen popping out to a crowded coffee shop when Austen was at work. She would be smiling, and saying, hi, Alex, offering her hand. They would be huddling together, their faces almost touching. She would be telling him how she was ready to leave Austen and the kids.