One Boy Missing(73)
He watched as Patrick touched George’s arm. He noticed how he took a moment, feeling the rough skin.
‘Were you worried?’ George asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s just like a cut, isn’t it? You know it’s gonna heal.’
‘But it was a heart attack.’
‘So?’
Silence. And a dog barking, again.
‘It was so bloody stupid,’ George said.
‘What?’
He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I woke up, convinced I’d left the gate open.’
‘What gate?’
‘On the farm. I’d left the gate open, and the sheep would get out. I thought, Dad’s gonna kill me. So I got up, and went out, and walked down the path towards the paddock.’ He opened his eyes and looked at the boy. ‘Only there wasn’t any paddock, was there?’
‘I guess not.’
Moy watched his father adjusting the leads coming off his chest. George was smiling at the boy. ‘I won’t be able to take you anywhere today. But if they let me out this arvo we can play bowls tomorrow morning.’
‘Won’t you have to stay here?’
‘Better now. Best thing’s to get on with it, eh?’ He slowly sucked in a lungful of air.
‘What is it?’ Patrick asked.
‘Dying for a pee.’
‘Should I get the nurse?’
‘No, over there.’ He raised his hand, indicating.
Patrick moved around the bed and fetched the strangely shaped bottle. ‘Is this to…?’
‘That’s it. Get back to sleep now.’
Moy watched Patrick return to his couch, lie down and close his eyes. Hold them closed. George cursed and fought with the sheets and leads. ‘That’s it,’ as the stream gushed, and slowed. Then: ‘Patrick! You awake? I can’t reach the table.’
Patrick got up and took the full bottle. ‘I’ll take it out to the nurse.’
‘Perhaps you better.’
Moy smiled and turned to the wall.
THE NEXT MORNING Moy felt like life had offered him a second chance. Unable to sleep, he’d risen at six, gone home and packed a bag for his father. Now, the sun through the window was warming the room. ‘Right, I’ve got your pyjamas and your crossword books.’
And George. ‘Can’t wear me pyjamas.’
‘Rubbish, other people are. Listen, Thea came over as I was pulling in, askin’ after you. I suppose I should get her some chocolates or something.’ He paused. ‘She said she’s seen you out before, wandering.’
‘What? I’m not allowed to walk around in my own yard?’
‘Said she hears you talking to someone.’
‘Nosy old bitch.’ George shook his head. ‘No chocolates, right?’
‘But she saved your life.’
‘Bullshit. Wasn’t dead, was I?’
‘You might’ve died.’
‘Bullshit.’
Moy noticed the boy, apparently asleep, smiling.
‘You can’t kill me that easily,’ George said. ‘Though I bet there’s some’d like to.’
‘Naaah…’
‘You shut up.’
Patrick giggled, and Moy tickled him awake.
39
THEY SPENT THE day at the hospital and drove around to Moy’s old house at Gawler Street late in the afternoon, coffee and doughnuts in hand. Moy parked on the street.
‘Did you forget something?’ Patrick asked.
‘My car.’
‘You never said you had your own car.’
Moy got out and tried the door of the garage. ‘Shit.’
He walked around the back, Patrick following. Putting down his coffee, he removed five glass louvres from a frame, stepped onto a pile of old pavers and climbed in, falling and rolling.
‘Get my coffee and go round the front,’ he called to Patrick.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes.’
The sound of Moy fighting with the lock. Then, slowly, like the grand unveiling of a game-show prize pack, the door lifted.
‘Here it is,’ Moy said.
There was a sheet over it, but Patrick could see the bottom half—long, yellow—the tyres painted black.
Moy grabbed the sheet and pulled it off. ‘See, a classic. Leyland P76.’
Patrick studied the car’s racing stripes and chrome rims; blinds inside the back window; factory-fresh mud flaps and a front grille that looked like a pig’s snout. ‘It’s old,’ he said.
‘Six cylinder. Targa Florio. Rare as hen’s teeth—in this condition anyway.’
‘Why don’t you get a new car?’
‘You’re missing the point.’ Moy got in and started the engine. There was a reluctant growl, then it roared to life. He gunned the accelerator, got out and stood looking at Patrick. ‘Well?’