One Boy Missing(77)
Patrick stared at the animal. ‘Did it die straight away?’
‘Not sure. I just kept going. Would’ve died eventually, I suppose.’
‘You should’ve checked.’
‘It shouldn’t have been on the road.’
They passed through a doorway into an adjoining hall. There were dozens of pigs sitting and standing on concrete slabs. Monsters as big as small cars. Sows, their legs open, their battery of pink nipples erect in the morning cold. ‘All of this so I can have a bit of bacon,’ Moy said.
‘They put a bolt through their head, but they stun them first.’
Moy was lost in the little eyes, so ridiculously small compared to the rest of the body. ‘Maybe I’ll become a vegetarian.’
‘She’ll still get killed.’
‘Let’s go look at the scones.’
They moved to the next hall, and glass cabinets full of hand-made dolls and doilies. Then the baking. A bank of sultana cakes with the sultanas too close, too far apart, spaced just right. Pavlovas sitting white and perfect in their cabinets and, finally, scones: uncrumbly, undoughy, exactly two inches high and wide, topped with a tight perm of jam and cream.
They passed a lucky dip and Patrick looked at Moy.
‘Five bucks? They’re always crap. I’ll buy you something decent when we get to the sideshows.’
But the promise of the big pink and blue boxes had captivated Patrick. Toys wrapped in six layers of newspaper. ‘Please?’
Moy took out his wallet and handed an old woman five dollars. She smiled.
Yeah, he thought, looking at her. It’s meant to be a country show. Better be something decent.
Patrick felt around in the blue box, produced the biggest parcel and started unwrapping it. One, two, three layers, revealing a small plastic racing car with one of its wheels already missing. ‘Look,’ he said, beaming.
‘Great.’ Moy smiled at the woman. Then he noticed they were outside the toilet. He looked at Patrick. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
‘I’m going to look at the paintings,’ Patrick said, noticing a wall covered with water-colour gum trees and paddocks.
Moy stood at the urinal and unzipped. Waited. An old farmer came in and stood beside him.
‘How are yer?’
Moy nodded. He waited.
‘Havin’ a bit of trouble?’ the old man asked, directing his copious stream into a pre-existing puddle of piss and stepping back as it splashed his shoes.
‘Yeah,’ Moy replied, turning and walking into a cubicle.
When he emerged the old man had gone. He went into the hall. Paintings: water-colours, oils and acrylics, but no Patrick. Walking over to the Artists’ Corner, he looked along the aisles formed by stands displaying art.
Nothing.
‘Patrick?’ he called, and then loud, as his heart started to race. ‘Patrick…over here.’ Surely he wouldn’t have wandered off, he thought as he stood sweating. Surely.
He took a breath and forced himself to think. It was a big hall, set out for a casual stroll. He started against the far wall and walked up and down every aisle: art, craft, cooking; compositions and crayon portraits; ships in bottles, model tanks and planes. ‘Patrick!’
He ran back to the toilet, elbowed the door and cannoned inside.
Nothing.
Fuck. Think, Moy, think.
Four, five, six long seconds. Light on the cracking wall, piss and lemon scent in his nostrils.
He took a deep breath.
No, what a stupid thing to think, you fuck.
And then, forcing himself again, he became the detective and not the parent. He thought how Patrick had run away before. How he’d hidden in a hole, stolen money, eaten chips and fried chicken for a week. How he’d lost his whole family in a matter of days. How he was a scared little boy.
But he could see his smiling face, his hand in the lucky dip.
He wasn’t scared now.
He wouldn’t run now.
The lucky dip. He ran back to the woman. ‘Have you seen my boy?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘The paintings.’
‘How long ago?’
‘A few minutes.’
‘Was he with someone?’
‘Not that I noticed. Has he wandered off?’
Moy didn’t answer. He retraced his steps, stopping and asking a show society guide. She couldn’t remember any boy. A middle-aged woman at a coffee stall. No, sorry. Half-a-dozen people admiring the crafts. Is he lost? And a woman who remembered them, together, looking at the scones.
He ran up and down every row, calling, ‘Patrick, are you here?’
He’d gone. Or been taken.
A fragment caught in his mind. Someone beside them in the grandstand. A smile or lifted eyebrow. Asking the time. Sunglasses, a beard, looking up from a magazine.