Moy studied the boy’s face. Nothing. No words; no smile. ‘She’s a strange woman,’ he explained, but the boy just looked at him, eventually placing the plate on the table, wiping his chin and sitting back.
‘Basil,’ Moy said.
Nothing.
Gary knocked on the door and asked Moy to step outside. He said Wyeth had made his statement and left. Then he outlined how Wyeth had stood inside his shop watching the boy; and after a few minutes the boy had grabbed an apple pie from the clearance table in front of the shop and sprinted down the street. How Wyeth had chased him the length of Ayr Street, the boy ducking and weaving around shoppers before slamming into one of Guilderton’s six bus stops.
Back in his office, Moy examined the boy’s hands: the long, dirty fingernails; the grazed knuckles. ‘You like living in Guilderton?’
Their eyes met and at last Moy noticed some expression, a squint. ‘It looks like you get out on your bike,’ he said, indicating the grazes. ‘Or is it footy…or soccer?’
Nothing.
‘You can talk…I’m here to help. No one can get in here. No one can touch you. You’re safe.’
Just the hum of his computer. As he thought, Christ, what am I going to do with this one?
‘The thing is, I gotta find out what’s happened. I need to know who you are. You won’t tell me? So I can help?’
The boy’s eyes continued moving around the room, studying every feature. Eventually they settled on the old photo on the desk. Moy noticed his fascination, his eyes searching for some understanding. ‘That’s my great-grandfather, Daniel Moy,’ he said. ‘His wife, Helen, and his daughter. She’s dead, see?’
The boy looked more confused than shocked.
Storytelling, thought Moy. You could read kids with stories. ‘See, after the girl died, Daniel and Helen decided they needed a photo of her, to remember her. So, Daniel went out to his stable to saddle his horse, so he could go to town and get a photographer. But when he got out there he remembered the damn thing had slipped a shoe.’
The boy moved his eyes between Moy and the sepia image.
‘Daniel was pretty upset. He sat down in the hay and cried. But he wasn’t easily put off, so he started walking to town. He didn’t even go back inside to tell Helen what he was doing. Just got up… left. Didn’t take any water or food. Nothing.’
Moy was watching Daniel set off from the farm, leaving the gates open, his shoulders slumped but his collar still done up, his tie tight, his vest buttoned.
‘He walked through the heat. Into the northerly wind and dust. When his feet blistered he walked in his socks. And when they were just holes he went barefoot.’
Moy could see the blood, and Daniel’s feet; he could smell his sweat and hear his whispers of pain.
‘Then it got dark and he stopped to sleep under a gum tree. Two days later he walked into town, and the first person he saw he asked: “You know where the photographer is?”’
He waited, hoping the boy might want to know more, but his eyes continued drifting around the room. Moy sat forward. ‘I reckon your name’s Harry. Yeah, Harry? Or maybe it’s Jebediah or Ezekiel. Is it Ezekiel?’
Gary Wright opened the door and stepped into the room, followed by Justin Davids. Moy stood up and shook the butcher’s hand. ‘G’day, Justin. I’ve got someone here I thought you might like to meet. Justin, this is…’ They both turned to face the boy.
Davids stepped forward and squatted in front of the boy. ‘How are you, mate?’ he asked, extending his hand.
The boy sat motionless.
‘Bit of a rough trot, eh? Heard you ran into a pole. Where’d it get you?’ He waited. ‘Doesn’t matter. Mr Moy here, he’ll fix you up. We’ll get some food into yer.’ And waited. ‘Luckily for you, I’m the butcher. You need a bit of red meat. Rib-eye? What do you reckon?’ He looked at Moy, and knew what he needed from him. Then he cleared hair from the boy’s eyes. ‘We’ve met before. You were in the laneway, behind my shop, remember? I came out, saw you were having trouble.’
The boy grasped the handles of his chair. Knuckles white as his hollowed face.
‘Was that your dad?’
The boy closed his eyes and dropped his chin onto his chest, his whole body trembling.
‘Thank you, Mr Davids,’ Moy said, indicating to Gary to take him out.
‘You’ll be okay, mate, you hang in there,’ Davids said as he left the room.
Gary moved closer to Moy and whispered in his ear, ‘There’s something out here you should see.’
Moy turned to the boy. ‘You okay for a minute?’
No response.
They went down the hallway and into the lunch room and there, on the table, was a near-new rug, a few packets of biscuits, a half-empty bottle of Coke and a few books.
‘It was just a hunch,’ Gary said. ‘I thought, if he’s stealing food…so I got Alex and Ossie to check all the laneways at that end of Ayr Street.’
Moy examined the rug, still with its price attached. It smelled of new sneakers and there were food stains—sauce-red and gravy-brown—and smears of dirt from where it had been spread out on the ground.
‘There’s a drainage ditch behind the park on Muenchow Road and he’d made himself pretty comfortable,’ Gary said. ‘You could see where he’d tried to start a fire.’ He showed him a six-pack of matches. ‘So what’s his story?’
Moy shrugged. ‘Won’t say a word. Shock, I suppose, which makes you wonder what’s happened once this fella’s driven off with him.’
They looked at each other, thinking, but not saying.
‘I better try again,’ Moy said, taking the rug. ‘You ring Family Services?’
‘On their way.’
Moy returned to his office and placed the rug on his desk. ‘You can have that,’ he said.
The boy looked at him. Some of his colour had crept back.
‘It is yours, isn’t it?’
Nothing.
‘I could go to a few shops and find out where it comes from, but then they’d just want me to lay charges against the…thief. And you’re not a thief, are you…Ezekiel?’
Moy knew he shouldn’t apply more pressure but he needed to know. ‘So I won’t do that…you can have it.’ He pushed the rug across the desk just as the air horn sounded at Guilderton Primary.
‘You don’t go to that school, do you? We checked.’
He waited.
‘But you must go to some school. Think of all the stuff you’re missing. I noticed you found yourself some books. Do you like school?’
Silence.
‘We should get you cleaned up, get you back, eh? Art, that was my favourite subject. Painted these big portraits, took them home, Mum and Dad said, Oh, that’s so lovely, Bartholomew. See, that’s my full name, Bartholomew.’ He smiled. ‘What were my parents thinking?’
He waited.
‘Bet your name’s not that stupid. Bartholomew. Moy. Sounds like an alien, doesn’t it? Moy. I come from planet Moy.’
Laughing, from the lunch room.
‘We could get you back to school tomorrow. Would you like that? We could buddy you up with someone. You’d soon be out kicking the footy. Or maybe it’s soccer? You look more soccer. See, round head, these footy players have all got oval heads. The Guilderton Maulers—you heard of them? Bet you’re a goalie? Long arms, long fingers. Although they’re big blokes and you’re thin as a rake. You could do with some more of Mrs Flamsteed’s casseroles, couldn’t you…or, no, you’d probably prefer a Big Mac, eh? Bet you’re eatin’ those all the time.’
He ran out of babble. Then he leaned forward and said, ‘I know why you don’t want to talk, and that’s okay. Maybe if we find you somewhere to sleep…watch a bit of telly?’
But the boy just kept staring at him.
Gary Wright stepped into the room, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, ‘Listen, good news. I’ve been talking to Mr Wyeth, and he’s bringing around another apple pie. I take it you like apple pies?’
Pause.
‘Mr Wyeth wants to say sorry,’ Gary said. ‘He got you confused with some other kid.’ He looked at Moy. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘They’ve got someone to take him for a few days.’
15
LATER THAT AFTERNOON Moy drove to the backblocks on the southern edge of town. They were covered with acres of ruined cars and goats grazing weeds where someone had once tried to grow crops on dead soil. Everyone had given up on the south side of Guilderton. The council had put a road through one area and tried to flog blocks in what they called the ‘Ayr Industrial Estate’. The land was cheap, and a few businesses had built factories—one, a pre-fab shed business, had closed six months after opening.
Moy stopped his car in front of a four- or five-hectare allotment that ran between the road and virgin scrub. He read the peeling words on a sign that was already leaning:
A New Suburb for Guil
derton: Brentano
.
‘Suburb’. Jesus. It had been the idea of the mayor before last. Every other wheatbelt town was doing it. One-dollar blocks. Arrest the population decline by promising young, hard-working families a big block to build their dream home; keep the builders, electricians and plumbers in work for years. Brentano would be a shining example for other towns: streets chocker with kids on bikes, mums out planting roses and dads in sheds stripping down lawnmowers and testing home-brew.
One-dollar blocks, Moy thought, surveying the acres of empty ground, dust blowing up between piles of rubble local builders had dumped.
His phone rang.
‘Bart Moy?’ a voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Keith Gallasch, from the bowls club.’
Moy took a moment to think. ‘G’day, Keith.’
‘Listen, Bart, it’s your dad…’
‘What is it?’
‘He’s had a bit of a fall.’
‘Shit, how is he?’
‘Fine, don’t worry, nothing serious. He just tripped on a gutter. There’s a small cut on his head.’
Moy sat forward and sighed. ‘He hit his head?’
‘I wanted to drive him to the doctor but he wouldn’t have a bar of it.’
‘Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.’
When Moy arrived at the clubrooms, George was sitting in front of a picture window watching the competition, sipping a Jim Beam and Coke, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his head.
‘How did you manage that?’ Moy asked, sitting down beside him.
George looked him over. ‘Why you got a suit on?’
‘Cos I’m workin’.’
‘Workin’, in a suit?’
‘Let’s see what you’ve done.’ He reached for his father’s handkerchief.
‘Get off,’ George said, almost slapping his son’s hand. ‘It’s nothing. Give it a minute and it’ll stop bleeding.’
Keith Gallasch, a small man with a bulbous nose, came up behind them. ‘If it’s still bleeding it needs stitches.’
‘Bullshit,’ George replied, catching a drop of blood bound for his white shirt. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘We’ve got insurance,’ Gallasch said to Moy. ‘It’s not like it’ll cost him anything.’ He turned to George, raising his voice: ‘It won’t cost you anything.’
‘All right, I got a cut, I’m not deaf.’
‘He’s right, Dad,’ Moy said. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He tried again.
‘Get off.’ This time George did slap him. ‘Just take us home, will yer?’
‘I’m taking you to the clinic.’ He took his father under the arm and tried to help him from his chair.
‘I’m not goin’ to no bloody clinic. No fuckin’ stitches. I’s kicked in the head by a bull and that didn’t kill me. Not worried about a bloody graze.’
‘It’s a cut.’
‘Stiff shit. Look, anyway, it’s stopped.’ He removed the handkerchief to reveal a four-centimetre gash, oozing slightly. ‘I’ve got some Band-Aids at home.’ He glared at Keith Gallasch. ‘Or maybe the club could spare a few?’
Gallasch shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I’d rather you get it seen to.’
‘Bullshit, it’s stopped.’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘Jesus, Keith, I’m not about to sue anyone.’
‘I’m not worried about that.’
George smiled. Gallasch realised there was no point wasting any more time. He turned to Moy.
‘Go on,’ Moy said. ‘You can’t win.’
AS THEY CRUISED along Ayr Street, George studied his son’s tie and jacket. ‘Aren’t you hot in all that get up?’
‘No.’
‘You look hot.’
They drove in silence past the locked-up stores. A dog was sniffing posts, lifting his leg and dry-pissing. The community radio station, operating from a shopfront, played music from a speaker on its verandah. Moy could hear the guitar twang and the nasal voice.
Who, Moy wondered, could possibly be listening?
‘You should’ve gone with Keith,’ he said to his father.
‘Why?’
‘He was only trying to help.’
George turned to him. ‘The reason I bring it up,’ he said, ‘is every time you see a detective on the telly he’s wearing a polo top and jeans.’
‘Some, I suppose, if you’re busting into houses and jumping fences. But if you’re just asking questions.’
They passed the empty car park of the Country Target. There were a dozen trolleys left in a sort of Stonehenge arrangement. ‘Then they complain when kids push them in the creek,’ Moy said.
‘Still, you wouldn’t have thought a country copper would need a suit,’ George continued. ‘It’s not like you’re gonna be on telly any time soon.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You always look like you’re off to a funeral.’
Moy slowed, indicated and turned. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he said.
‘Whose?’
‘Guilderton’s.’
George touched the two Band-Aids stretched across his dressing. ‘See. Fine.’
‘You know, you shouldn’t make it difficult for people.’
‘Who?’ George looked at him. ‘You, you mean?’
‘People. Whether it’s you falling, or someone offering to help with the house.’
‘Who?’
‘You told me…that old girl from Foys.’
George crossed his arms. ‘You want me to let her in the house?’
‘Why not, if she’s offered to help?’
‘Help? She just wants to come and stick her nose in.’
Moy stopped at a T-junction and turned to his father. ‘I’ve met her. She’s not like that at all.’
‘She’s a gossip. Like the old thing next door.
How are you today, George? Fine, Thea
.’
Moy studied his father’s face as the words trailed off. ‘Not everyone’s a pain in the arse, Dad.’
He drove off. ‘The thing is, Dad, you’re not getting any younger, are you?’