One Boy Missing(76)

‘Who?’

‘Whoever killed the man. Bart still doesn’t know.’

‘No, they’ll find him. Sometimes it takes months, years…but they, Bart, he’ll find him.’

‘Mr Moy?’ He turned to find the doctor behind him. ‘You were looking for me?’

‘Is that you, Bart?’ George called.

‘Don’t worry, Dad, it’s all under control.’ He looked at the doctor. ‘I just wanted to have a talk about the…old fella.’

‘I can hear you,’ George called.

‘Let’s go in,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s got a few good years yet.’





40

THEY DROVE TOWARDS the showgrounds. Toffee apples and gleaming axes, the screams of teenagers and the smell of coal smoke from the steam preservation society. As they slowed towards the car park Moy noticed Patrick watching a boy done up in a red and blue scarf. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked.

‘No. Those are Lions colours.’

‘Lions?’

‘Port Louis Lions. Me and Tom used to play for them.’

‘You any good?’

‘Not really. I couldn’t mark the ball.’

Moy smiled. ‘That was my problem. Cricket. The ball’s coming towards you but you just know…It always ended badly.’

Cars were queued along the road outside the showgrounds. They waited, and eventually parked in a paddock, then trudged through mud to the front gate. Stood in another line before handing money to a woman trapped in a booth with a couple of kids.

As they went in, Moy said, ‘This used to be the highlight of my year.’

‘This?’ Patrick replied, looking at the food stands lined up behind the sideshows.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. When I was in high school I was in the cattle club. We’d come and exhibit. Led Steer. Hoof and Hook.’

‘What was that?’

‘You’d lead your steer around and they’d judge him. Then they’d whip him out back, cut his throat and display his carcass.’

‘All in the same day?’

‘Yep. All the girls would be in tears.’

They made their way to the main arena just in time for the tractor pull. Two yellow beasts: an International and a Massey Ferguson backed up to each other with a tethering chain attached. An old woman stood between them with a flag. There was an announcement on the PA: ‘The event you’ve all been waiting for. Guilderton Tractors and Trailers presents…’

‘Which one’s going to win?’ Patrick asked.

‘The International.’

‘Why?’

He indicated the smaller tractor’s driver, a bulldog-faced man in overalls with the sleeves cut off to reveal a tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon clutching a terrified rabbit.

Both drivers climbed into their cabs and the woman waved her flag. There were two clouds of exhaust and the chain tightened. The tractors roared and their tyres ate into the soft grass. Forward, back, and again, the International’s front wheels lifting a few inches off the ground.

‘What do you think?’ Patrick asked.

Moy considered it. ‘The Massey’s saving himself.’

An orange flag in the middle of the chain returned to a centre line. The crowd became vocal, pig farmers moving to the edge of their seats, children jumping up and down on the old boards of the grandstand. Moy was applauding, stopping himself, wondering why he cared about tractors.

Eventually the International shot forward, pulling the flag over the finishing line.

Twenty minutes later they were watching the sheep shearing. Smooth strokes of the comb, scraggy wool tossed off; a few teenagers gathering fleeces and throwing them on a grading table. Moy had bought Patrick a bag of hot chips.

‘They’re all I used to eat when I was hiding,’ Patrick said.

Moy turned to face him. ‘Where did you get the money?’

‘You know the big plastic guide dog in front of the deli?’

‘Yeah, I know it.’

‘On the bottom there’s a long split in the plastic. If you give it a bit of a kick…’

‘Patrick.’

‘I only ever took as much as I needed.’

A shearer finished and released an animal. It looked around then slipped down a ramp into a pen.

‘So, you went to the fish shop?’ Moy asked.

‘Most days. I got three dollars worth of chips. Until one day the man said, you must just about live on chips. That was the last time I went there.’

They walked out, past dozens of sheep pens crammed with big-horned rams and ultra-fine Merinos and Corriedales, even goats, their shit trodden into the gaps between floorboards. They stopped to look at a lonely alpaca. ‘I ran over one of these,’ Moy said. ‘It was standing on the road when I came around a corner.’