‘Yes.’
The sound of Moy fighting with the lock. Then, slowly, like the grand unveiling of a game-show prize pack, the door lifted.
‘Here it is,’ Moy said.
There was a sheet over it, but Patrick could see the bottom half—long, yellow—the tyres painted black.
Moy grabbed the sheet and pulled it off. ‘See, a classic. Leyland P76.’
Patrick studied the car’s racing stripes and chrome rims; blinds inside the back window; factory-fresh mud flaps and a front grille that looked like a pig’s snout. ‘It’s old,’ he said.
‘Six cylinder. Targa Florio. Rare as hen’s teeth—in this condition anyway.’
‘Why don’t you get a new car?’
‘You’re missing the point.’ Moy got in and started the engine. There was a reluctant growl, then it roared to life. He gunned the accelerator, got out and stood looking at Patrick. ‘Well?’
‘It stinks.’
‘It’s meant to. A real car, eh?’ He tapped the roof.
Five minutes later they were cruising around town. Moy had one arm out of the window, holding his coffee, occasionally steering with his knee as he ate his danish.
‘I didn’t know you had it,’ Patrick said, sitting up in his bucket seat to see out of the window.
‘I haven’t needed it,’ Moy replied, ‘but I guess I might need it more from now on.’
‘Why?’
‘Have to give up the Commodore. When I throw it all in.’
Patrick stared at him. ‘Throw what in?’
‘Work. Time I stepped aside and let someone else have a go.’
Patrick looked forward. They turned down a side street.
‘What do you think, comfortable ride?’ Moy asked. ‘The suspension’s all new.’
‘I told you, I want you to…’
‘I’ve missed it, whatever it is. I don’t know enough. I haven’t been
told
enough.’ He met the boy’s eyes.
‘You have.’
‘No. I don’t think so…’ He shrugged. ‘Frankly, it suits me better. I’ve got enough to worry about. George…and, you know, I had a wife and a son. You’re not my only problem.’
Patrick looked over at the showgrounds, its rides and food vans set up ready for the show.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘It’s fair to me, and you. Everyone’s a winner. You get Tom, I get simplicity.’
Patrick glared at him. ‘You’re doing this on purpose.’
‘It’s got a great stereo. Want to hear it?’
‘No.’ He crossed his arms.
‘That’s new too. In fact—’
‘You didn’t lose your brother,’ Patrick said.
‘No…my son.’
‘Your mum.’
Moy came to a stop, turned and looked at him. ‘It’s a competition, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Well?’ He drove on. ‘I’m considering this…for your sake.’
Silence.
‘I just don’t have enough to go on.’
Patrick took a deep breath. ‘I told you everything.’
‘I hardly know who you are.’
‘I told you.’
‘No, you never have. Your name—that’s it. How’s that help?’
They passed
The Australian Farmer
, but neither was interested. Moy just kept driving. Ayr Street, the dirt road to the airport, three-point turn, back again.
Then Patrick said, ‘We’ve never lived in a house for more than a few months.’
‘We?’
‘The four of us.’
Silence. The sound of rubber on bitumen.
‘We were in this shack. At Port Louis.’
Moy took it slowly. ‘In town?’
‘No, on one of the beach roads. Me and Tom used to walk to the beach.’
‘To swim?’
Patrick nodded. ‘We found an old surfboard once. It came up in Tom’s face and he cut his lip.’
Oxford Street, Cambridge, King Edward. Geraniums growing through fence wire.
‘Anyway, Dad just left. I told you about that. Didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘Took all his stuff?’
‘Yeah. Then after a bit…we ran out of money. Some bloke told Mum he knew this place in Guilderton. Said he used to live there.’
‘Creek Street?’
‘Yes. So we…Mum loaded everything in a taxi. The furniture in the house, that was already there.’
Taxis. Damn it, Moy thought. Why didn’t I think? He started heading back towards Gawler Street. ‘I don’t understand why she didn’t send you to school.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘We thought she just hadn’t got round to it. At Port Louis we went most days.’
Moy cursed himself again. ‘And then?’
‘You know the rest.’ Patrick swallowed. ‘The man came, he hit Mum, we ran away. We got to town, he found us and put us in his boot. He took us to this farm, there were pigs.’ He looked at Moy. ‘I told you about the pigs.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then I got out and ran away…’
But here, Moy was confused. ‘You hid?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why…You could’ve found the police. You could’ve told someone. Isn’t that what Tom was expecting you to do?’
Patrick’s head dropped. He stared into his lap.
‘So?’
‘I was…’ His white face spoke of fear and shame. ‘I thought…’
‘But Tom was in the shed.’
A whisper. ‘I made a mistake.’
Moy waited.
Patrick sat up. ‘That’s all there is.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘No one tells everything.’ He looked at Moy, challenging him, his eyes glowing.
‘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.
‘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.’
Patrick stared at the animal. ‘Did it die straight away?’