‘It stinks.’
‘It’s meant to. A real car, eh?’ He tapped the roof.
Five minutes later they were cruising around town. Moy had one arm out of the window, holding his coffee, occasionally steering with his knee as he ate his danish.
‘I didn’t know you had it,’ Patrick said, sitting up in his bucket seat to see out of the window.
‘I haven’t needed it,’ Moy replied, ‘but I guess I might need it more from now on.’
‘Why?’
‘Have to give up the Commodore. When I throw it all in.’
Patrick stared at him. ‘Throw what in?’
‘Work. Time I stepped aside and let someone else have a go.’
Patrick looked forward. They turned down a side street.
‘What do you think, comfortable ride?’ Moy asked. ‘The suspension’s all new.’
‘I told you, I want you to…’
‘I’ve missed it, whatever it is. I don’t know enough. I haven’t been told enough.’ He met the boy’s eyes.
‘You have.’
‘No. I don’t think so…’ He shrugged. ‘Frankly, it suits me better. I’ve got enough to worry about. George…and, you know, I had a wife and a son. You’re not my only problem.’
Patrick looked over at the showgrounds, its rides and food vans set up ready for the show.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘It’s fair to me, and you. Everyone’s a winner. You get Tom, I get simplicity.’
Patrick glared at him. ‘You’re doing this on purpose.’
‘It’s got a great stereo. Want to hear it?’
‘No.’ He crossed his arms.
‘That’s new too. In fact—’
‘You didn’t lose your brother,’ Patrick said.
‘No…my son.’
‘Your mum.’
Moy came to a stop, turned and looked at him. ‘It’s a competition, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Well?’ He drove on. ‘I’m considering this…for your sake.’
Silence.
‘I just don’t have enough to go on.’
Patrick took a deep breath. ‘I told you everything.’
‘I hardly know who you are.’
‘I told you.’
‘No, you never have. Your name—that’s it. How’s that help?’
They passed The Australian Farmer, but neither was interested. Moy just kept driving. Ayr Street, the dirt road to the airport, three-point turn, back again.
Then Patrick said, ‘We’ve never lived in a house for more than a few months.’
‘We?’
‘The four of us.’
Silence. The sound of rubber on bitumen.
‘We were in this shack. At Port Louis.’
Moy took it slowly. ‘In town?’
‘No, on one of the beach roads. Me and Tom used to walk to the beach.’
‘To swim?’
Patrick nodded. ‘We found an old surfboard once. It came up in Tom’s face and he cut his lip.’
Oxford Street, Cambridge, King Edward. Geraniums growing through fence wire.
‘Anyway, Dad just left. I told you about that. Didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘Took all his stuff?’
‘Yeah. Then after a bit…we ran out of money. Some bloke told Mum he knew this place in Guilderton. Said he used to live there.’
‘Creek Street?’
‘Yes. So we…Mum loaded everything in a taxi. The furniture in the house, that was already there.’
Taxis. Damn it, Moy thought. Why didn’t I think? He started heading back towards Gawler Street. ‘I don’t understand why she didn’t send you to school.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘We thought she just hadn’t got round to it. At Port Louis we went most days.’
Moy cursed himself again. ‘And then?’
‘You know the rest.’ Patrick swallowed. ‘The man came, he hit Mum, we ran away. We got to town, he found us and put us in his boot. He took us to this farm, there were pigs.’ He looked at Moy. ‘I told you about the pigs.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then I got out and ran away…’
But here, Moy was confused. ‘You hid?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why…You could’ve found the police. You could’ve told someone. Isn’t that what Tom was expecting you to do?’
Patrick’s head dropped. He stared into his lap.
‘So?’
‘I was…’ His white face spoke of fear and shame. ‘I thought…’
‘But Tom was in the shed.’
A whisper. ‘I made a mistake.’
Moy waited.
Patrick sat up. ‘That’s all there is.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘No one tells everything.’ He looked at Moy, challenging him, his eyes glowing.