George Moy would never give up his plot, his house, his home. He’d done it once before and it had almost killed him.
Moy knew what he had to do. He’d pack up his little government house and move in with George. That way there’d only be one garden to weed, one kitchen to clean, one toilet to scrub. It would be their garden, and home.
That’s what the old bastard’s been thinking, he realised, studying the gutters; the window frames that would need scraping; the verandah that needed painting and the glass replacing.
He thought of his own place, glowing with insomnia.
Right. He’d made a decision. Raising his arms, he ran down the hill, his hands brushing the wheat heads. Soon he was overtaken by his own momentum; he tried to stop, but couldn’t. His body was moving ahead of his legs, which meant the fall, when it came, was uncontrollable, broken only by the wheat closing in around him. Then he lay on the ground, trapped by a wall that shielded him from the world. Here, in a little amniotic pocket, he studied the stars again and realised that Charlie was still there.
He walked home through the wheat, turned off the television and went to bed.
Then he slept soundly, for an hour, before the phone rang.
‘Yes?’ he said, fumbling, wanting to say,
are you fucking kidding me? Four-fucking-forty-one?
‘Yeah, Bart, it’s Jason.’
‘Jason…what’s wrong?’
‘This woman from FACS, the carer…’
‘Who?’ He sat up, focusing on indistinct shapes around the room.
‘Deidre, the woman looking after the kid.’
‘Oh.’
‘She’s just called…says she’s having problems with him, and can someone come and get him.’
Moy slid his feet onto a floor carpeted with clothes and junk mail. ‘What problems?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Can’t she wait for the morning?’
‘Apparently not.’
Moy rang off, pulled on some track pants and grabbed his keys.
A stray dog watched him as he passed the Rotary Park at the end of Gawler Street; apart from that there was nothing. Just long shadows cast by floodlights in car parks and loading bays, the street-light silhouettes of branches and leaves.
When he arrived at the small, pink house the front light was on. He stood at the partly open door. ‘Hello? Deidre…you there?’
A woman came out of a room and up the hallway to greet him.
‘Hi, Bart?’
‘You okay?’
‘No.’
He studied her pale face and noticed her clothes were soaked. She, too, was wearing track pants, but they were loose, hanging from wide hips. ‘He’s tried to get away three times,’ she said.
‘When?’
‘Once out the back, once when I took him down the street, once when I was in the shower…oh god.’ She turned and bolted back down the hallway, slammed a door. He listened as she vomited, eventually spitting and flushing. He heard her wash her hands before re-emerging.
‘The Chinese near the Wombat Inn,’ she said, attempting a watery smile.
‘What did you have?’
‘Short soup and lemon chicken. Undercooked. I thought it tasted a bit strange.’
The boy appeared in the hallway, looked at Moy and then shot back into his room.
‘You’re gonna have to take him,’ Deidre said. ‘I’m not up to it tonight.’
‘That’s okay, he can come with me. I’ve got plenty of room.’
‘I nearly got him talking once. Scooby Doo came on. I think he may have a bit of history with Scooby Doo. I asked him, who’s your favourite, Shaggy or Velma, and he nearly answered…He wanted to.’
‘Okay. Let’s get him home.’
Deidre led Moy into the boy’s room, decorated with soft toys and a collection of Buzz Lightyears. The boy sat on the bed fully dressed, his hair combed and his face washed. He was wearing a white shirt and a jumper she’d bought him that afternoon. Knee-length shorts, almost Edwardian, revealing two knobbly knees above long socks and leather shoes.
‘Well, a new boy,’ Moy said, but he didn’t lift his gaze.
‘He’s all ready to go. Bag packed, the lot.’
Moy noticed a bulging backpack.
‘So,’ he said, but the boy wouldn’t look up. His back was straight, as if someone had been on at him about posture. His feet sat together and his hands were clamped tightly in his lap.
Moy sat next to him. ‘You remember me? Detective Sergeant Moy…Bart…you can call me Bart. Remember, Bartholomew? Curse my parents. There’s no way you could have a name as bad as that?’
The boy looked at him, then back down at the rug.
‘I can look after you for a while, eh? So you don’t get sick.’ He pretended to vomit. ‘See, look, peas, corn…yesterday’s Froot Loops.’
He took the backpack and offered his hand. Instead, the boy just stood, walked out of the room and down the hallway.
‘I hope you feel better,’ Moy said to Deidre, as they followed him.
‘I hope he comes good.’
As they drove through the quiet streets Moy glanced over to the passenger’s seat. The boy’s new pants were draped over legs that were mostly bone and tendon. His new jumper was too long—he could see Deidre had tried to turn up the sleeves. He studied the boy’s hands: skin wrapped around long, bony digits, his discoloured nails cut back.
‘I bet you’ve never been out at this time of night?’ Moy asked, before he remembered. ‘It’s the best time of day.’
He turned down the radio.
‘Looks like Deidre had everything nice. Still, I have a neat little…bachelor pad. Unfortunately you won’t find any fruit or vegetables in my fridge, but there’s plenty of chocolate.’
The boy looked at him, then back at the road.
He stopped and waited at a deserted T-junction. ‘You know, this is an unmarked police car,’ he said, indicating the comms screen on the console. ‘If you look very carefully you’ll see that I have lights, and a siren.’ He gestured towards the warning lights at the front on the dash, and hidden by louvres on the back window. ‘So?’
A horn sounded behind him: the newsagent’s van. He moved off, still looking at the boy. ‘You can turn them on if you like. There’s no one around.’
The boy looked at him, unsure.
‘Go on.’
The small hand reached out, slowly at first, looking at Moy for approval.
‘It’s fine, we can’t get in trouble…we’re the police.’ He studied the boy’s face. He noticed how he bit and licked his lip.
The boy switched on the lights and looked around. The whole street turned red and blue, lit up in ribbons of light that bounced back, drowning out street lights and delicatessen neon.
‘Good, eh?’ Moy said.
The boy couldn’t help it. He smiled.
‘What do you think of that?’ Moy asked, but the boy remembered and his face hardened as he stared out at the lights.
‘We could pull someone over. How would that be?’
No. He’d retreated again.
‘We could book someone for speeding…that’s always a laugh.’
Someone’s front door opened and a head popped out. Moy switched off the lights. ‘Neighbours aren’t happy. Shall we go home?’
The boy’s hands came together, forming a ball and returning to his lap.
They turned a corner and headed home along Gawler Street. The boy leaned forward. Moy looked at him. ‘Are you…’ He vomited in one long stream that struck the airbag panel and sprayed back over both of them, splashing the seats and doors, consoles and radio, dripping down onto the floor. The boy sat back in his seat and wiped his mouth.
Moy braked hard, stopping in the middle of the road. ‘Shit,’ he said, wiping the spray off his hands.
The boy just sat there, motionless.
‘You don’t think you’re going to do it again?’ He planted his foot and they shot off down Gawler Street. ‘She didn’t tell me you had Chinese too.’
The boy shook his head.
‘Ah…’ Moy smiled. ‘Not even a spring roll?’
Headshake.
‘That’s just fantastic, young man.’ He handed over a tissue. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. You didn’t have Chinese food? Nothing?’
Again. Negative.
He pulled into the driveway. ‘We, my fine, feathered friend, are developing a clear line of communication. Aren’t we…Colin, was it?’
The boy just looked at him.
‘No, you’re not that easily fooled, are you? It’s not Colin. You never said Colin, did you?’
He switched off the lights. ‘Well, un-named young man, carefully step out of the car and make your way to the front door.’
Moy fumbled his keys, aided only by the little bit of light coming up over the eastern horizon.
‘This has been an interesting night,’ he said. ‘And it’s not over yet. If you want to go to the bathroom and throw those clothes out into the hall, I’ll put them in the washer. I have a big hot water tank, so you can shower for an hour if you like.’
19
MOY WAS WOKEN by the sound of dishes. The air in his room was warm; it was already mid-morning. When he went out to the kitchen the boy stopped washing up, looked at him and then continued.
‘What a great helper.’ He sat down at the table.
The boy was wearing the boxers and T-shirt Moy had left outside the bathroom for him earlier that morning. The boxers were too loose. After racking each clean dish the boy had to reach down and hoist them up.
‘I bet you’re ten years old?’ Moy said. ‘Or maybe nine? Eight then…surely not eight?’
The boy looked at him, unhappy. He finished washing the dishes and started drying them.
‘Leave them,’ Moy said, but he kept working.
‘That was quite a spectacular effort last night, young Ezekiel. How on earth d’you fit so much food into such a little stomach?’
Nothing, except the sound of spoons and forks settling in the drawer.
‘I used to eat a lot…still do, all the wrong foods. You can get away with it until you’re thirty, then you get this enormous belly, see?’ He patted his stomach. ‘Fibre, that’s what you need, a young man like you.’
Moy stood up, fetched two bowls from the drying pile, searched the cupboard for a box of All Bran and started preparing breakfast. ‘Here, bran, you like bran? Keeps you nice and regular. You know what that means, don’t you?’
The boy looked at him.
‘It means you’re able to do your
business
every day. That’s important, your
business
.’ He gently poked the boy in the ribs. Once he’d filled the bowls he fetched the milk from the fridge and smelled it. ‘Wait a minute. Tummy bug, milk, not a good combination? What do you think?’
The boy shrugged.
‘Risk it?’ Moy placed both bowls on the table. The boy finished drying, hung the towel over the back of a chair and sat down. He waited for Moy—then they started eating.
‘I know this place isn’t much, but it does the job,’ Moy said. ‘It’s a copper’s house…a government house.’
He noticed how the boy filled his spoon, drained the milk from the bran then ate.
‘We, I mean my dad and I, moved to Guilderton when I was twelve. We used to live on a farm.’ He studied the boy’s small fingers and guessed he wasn’t a farmer’s son. ‘I used to nurse the lambs. If the mum had twins she’d only look after one. The strongest one mostly…and she’d leave the other one.’
The bran tasted stale. He hadn’t eaten cereal for years. Breakfast was generally a coffee and danish from the Hot Bread Café.
‘I had a vegetable patch, and we used to get tomatoes, hundreds of them.’ He looked at the boy’s wide eyes. ‘I bet you’ve grown veggies? Probably not tomatoes…you look like a zucchini man. No? What about carrots, or peas, there were a few of those in your
business
.’ And smiling. ‘No…the
other
business.’
The boy grinned.
‘That’s it,’ Moy said. ‘Things aren’t that bad, eh?’
The boy’s head dropped. He let his spoon fall into his bowl.
Right, Moy thought. Guess they are.
‘Anyway, I was very sad when we had to leave the farm. It was a good life.’
Silence.
‘And Dad had to sell off the sheep, and that year’s lambs.’
He touched the boy’s arm. ‘I bet it’s Wolfgang. Wolfgang, isn’t it?’
Eyes, peering.
‘Barry…Gavin, Kenny, Trevor. They were the names in my day. Now everyone’s Keanu. Christ, I hope you’re not a Keanu, are you?’
The boy shook his head again.
‘Thank God. Anyway, then we arrived in Guilderton. And I had to go to the primary school. You know what they did to me on my first day?’
‘No,’ the boy replied.
‘No?’ Moy forced his face to remain neutral. ‘Well, a whole gang of them chased me into the toilet, and I locked myself in a cubicle. Then they started spitting over the top, going outside and getting rotten fruit to throw in at me, wetting big wads of toilet paper and throwing them in…disgusting, eh?’
The boy screwed up his face.
‘Horrible kids, weren’t they?’
He nodded.
‘Then one of them climbs up on the divider between the toilets and says, how you going, Moy? Sarcastic, like that.
How you going?
You know, kids back then weren’t so clever. But I mean, first day, trapped in the dunny, what would you have done?’
A smile.
‘Well, I tell you what I did. I picked up the toilet brush, shoved it down the dunny and started flicking you know,
business
water. Right in his face.’
The boy giggled, and this time Moy could tell his voice was clear and high-pitched.
‘
Get stuffed, Moy
, he says, like that.
Get stuffed
. But there’s me, flicking more and more water at him.’
The boy was laughing, doubled over, wiping his eyes on his new T-shirt.
‘What do you think about that, Wolfgang?’
The boy had stopped laughing, but he smiled.
‘It’s good to see you laughing. You don’t know how good that makes me feel, Professor Vomit. You’re a big fan of toilet humour, obviously. That’s good. So am I. We can spend long hours farting. You enjoy a good fart, I take it?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Rubbish, I bet you do. I bet you could fart for hours.’
But the moment had gone.
‘The thing is,’ he began, slowly, ‘you might want to stay with Deidre, but if you’d prefer, you could stay with me for now?’
The boy’s head tilted. He took a moment and then nodded.
‘Fine, well that’s easy. So, my name’s Bart, what’s yours?’ He extended his hand.