One Boy Missing(75)
‘You want to know?’ Moy asked.
No reply. Just his eyes, waiting.
‘I was sitting in this seat. I was going to move the car, so Charlie could kick his ball in the driveway.’ He paused, remembering. ‘I was thinking of something else. I put the car in reverse, released the handbrake and put my foot on the accelerator. And then I ran over him.’
Patrick looked down.
‘I stopped, I got out…and there he was, just sort of wriggling on the ground.’
He pulled over and stopped. The engine chugged, waiting.
‘Then he was still…’
Patrick looked at him. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘You’re allowed to ask.’
‘Do you miss him?’
Moy took a slow breath, and switched off the ignition. ‘That’s why,’ he said.
Seconds.
‘Nothing else matters…mattered.’ He opened the door and got out of the car.
Patrick watched him struggle across an irrigation ditch, into the bush.
‘Just takin’ a pee,’ he called, although Patrick could tell he was still looking for Charlie.
*
TEN MINUTES AND he was back, as if nothing had been said. He started the car, spun the wheels on gravel and turned onto the road back to Ayr Street.
Moy pulled up in front of Goldsworthy’s Store and they both went in. Five minutes later they emerged, Patrick carrying a new bowl, wrapped in tissue paper, deposited in a zip-up plastic sleeve. As they drove towards the hospital, Patrick examined it, testing its weight, throwing it up a few times and catching it, studying its name (Taylor SR Redline Black) and even smelling it.
‘You give it to him,’ Moy said.
‘Can I?’
‘Tell him you bought it from your pocket money.’
They entered George’s room and found him sitting up in bed, minus his wires. He was wearing his pyjamas, done up to the top button. Patrick gave him the bowl and he unwrapped it, rolling it in his hands, taken by the concentric circles painted on its side. ‘This is what you get for having a heart attack?’ he said.
‘Patrick picked it out,’ Moy explained.
‘Really?’
‘It wasn’t so hard,’ Patrick said. ‘They only had two types.’
‘Well, how about you use this one?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘Go on.’
Patrick took the bowl, holding it in his cupped hands in his lap. He looked at Moy.
‘Okay,’ he agreed.
Moy left the room in search of a doctor. Along the corridor a nurse told him there was only one, and he was on an emergency callout. He walked back to George’s room, but stopped short at the sound of voices. He stood outside the door, listening.
‘Did you used to play bowls with Charlie?’ he heard Patrick ask.
‘No. He was too young,’ George replied.
‘What did you do with him?’
There was a long pause. Then Moy heard his father say, ‘I never saw him really. Bart and Megan were living in town, and they hardly ever visited.’
Hardly ever? Moy thought. Once a month? No, every few months. Well, no. Not even that.
‘How often?’
‘Sometimes…if I was sick…or like the time I broke my hip. Slipped in the bathroom.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘Just dragged myself to the phone.’
Moy started to walk into the room, but Patrick was saying, ‘And what happened, when Charlie died?’
‘What do you mean, what happened?’ George asked.
‘Was Bart upset?’
‘Of course he was upset. You would be, wouldn’t you? A father and son…that’s about the worst thing of all. He’s still not the same, prob’ly never will be. Still, I shouldn’t be telling you about that.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘He’ll find your brother, don’t you worry about that.’
‘He won’t.’
There was a long pause. Moy wanted to go in. Stopped himself.
George said, ‘You want to tell me something?’
‘I suppose, if Bart works out who killed the man…’
‘What man?’
‘The man who burned our house…’
‘Go on.’
‘If he finds him, then they can put him in prison, and it will all be over. Bart can write his report, and his boss will be happy. And then…’
‘What?’
‘They’ll find me somewhere to go.’
Moy waited, anxious.
‘Well, what’s wrong with stayin’ with us?’ the old man said.
‘But that’s just…until Bart finds out.’
‘Not necessarily. You can be wherever…wherever you’re happy.’
There was another long pause.
‘Maybe they’ll never find him,’ Patrick said.