‘Like what?’ But he didn’t know himself. His phone rang; he answered it, lifting a finger and stepping outside.
‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered, to the distant officer.
Superintendent Graves was a spectre in his life. Moy had only met him a few times but he rang at all hours. Hassling him about reports, mainly. Avenues of investigations not followed, meetings not attended. Moy knew the type well: all procedure, no originality; strangled by a black-and-white view of the world that placed paedophiles a few rungs above Aborigines.
‘There’s no sign of him?’ Graves asked, and Moy heard, almost as clearly: Can’t even find a lost fuckin’ kiddy.
‘Not since this morning. He’s not enrolled at the school, but he could’ve come in—’
‘Just hurry up and find him. Can’ta gone far.’
Moy explained how busy he’d been that morning; how many places he’d visited; how many locals he’d talked to. ‘I can’t see it’s anything sinister,’ he said.
Graves wasn’t convinced. ‘So, you want me to send some fellas up to help you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I mean, where are we going to look?’
Graves took a moment. ‘Yes…just get the word out, okay?’
Moy felt the old man backing off. ‘The consensus is some sort of domestic. If he was local he would’ve been missed…but we’ll see, after school, if someone’s kid doesn’t come home.’
Moy could hear Graves working on a nostril.
‘Funny one,’ the superintendent concluded. ‘Custody issue, I’d say. Still, write it up, let me know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And then he was gone, and Moy felt himself relaxing.
6
THAT EVENING MOY drove home with his head full of possibilities: some sort of goat-lady, refusing to send her boy to school; a family holiday, camped out somewhere, kid runs away from dad. Or perhaps something more sinister. He drove past a Mr Whippy van. Maybe he’s in there, he thought. Classic way to catch kiddies. He looked at the young girl behind the wheel.
Not Mr Whippy, then.
He parked his car and made his way up the drive with his arms full of groceries. There was a flower garden, half-weeded where he’d tried to do the right thing but lost interest. Not that he’d planted anything. The stocks had just come up, fighting against wild oats, truck dust and a year-round lack of water.
He surveyed the casserole dish on his porch; knelt down and lifted the lid. The contents were brown, involving carrots, peas and maybe a pack of two-minute noodles. There was a holy card beside the dish: St Francis holding a staff, lifting two fingers: Where there is hatred, let me sow love…
Mrs Flamsteed again, her Catholic mission to his little house at the end of Gawler Street. Since she’d heard what had happened to Mr Moy, his wife, and his poor kiddy Mrs Flamsteed was a regular visitor. Coffee, her hand covering his as she asked about the little fella, the tch of her lips and the sorrowful tilt of her head. She was the wife of the deputy principal at the high school. Here for over twenty years but no more local than him. Mr Flamsteed had joined the bowls and his wife umpired netball but even they weren’t accepted.
He dropped the dish and rolls on the kitchen bench. Emptied his pockets and slipped St Francis under a magnet on his fridge beside Saints Patrick and Anselm and the others who kept watch over his Kelvinator. He adjusted them, so they weren’t covered by bills, just in case. And just in case Mrs F noticed.
…Where there is greed…
He surveyed the catalogue of his failings: impatience, intolerance, inability to forgive…Mind you, St Francis probably didn’t know what sort of shit humans were made of. He hadn’t attended a multiple fatality or seen what a drunken dad could do to a crying six-week-old.
There were dishes in the sink, floating in grey water. That’s the way it was these days, the beginnings of something—a bed-sheet straightened, the vacuum taken out—but then a strange feeling of why bother? How will a made bed or clean carpet improve anything? Then he’d force himself to keep going for a few more minutes before ending up lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He took one of the plates, dried it and covered it with Mrs Flamsteed’s casserole. When the microwave pinged he poured himself a glass of milk and went into the lounge room to watch the regional news, read by a woman with bobbed hair framed by images of Ayr Street on an (almost) busy Thursday night. Impending Civic Park development, controversial council decision to limit parking on Dawes Road, three boys from the Harvest Christian School selected to play in the state under-sixteen hockey team.