One Boy Missing (24 page)

‘They might find things I’ve missed. What do you think?’

‘You’re doing fine.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe I should’ve found Tom already?’

Patrick was trembling. ‘If you don’t want to…’

Moy sat up. ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’

No reply.

‘I think you think I’ve missed something.’

‘No.’

‘And that you’d like these other detectives, but you’re too nice to say.’

‘No.’

‘You think if I was fair, I’d step away from the case.’

Patrick looked at him with red eyes. ‘No, I want you.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Please, Bart.’

Moy could see the boy’s hands shaking. He wondered whether he should put his arm around him. He wanted to; knew he couldn’t. It was his own fault that things had dragged, that Tom was still lost. A man who spent his waking hours indulging his own grief. ‘You can say it, Patrick.’

‘What?’

‘That I’ve fucked up.’

AT ONE A.M. Moy was standing outside, hitting golf balls. He’d strung up a bed-sheet between two old trees. He’d got up and started smashing Q Stars with his five-iron. They pouched the sheet, but never tore it.

He looked up and Patrick was watching him, his head low above his window.

George called from his room. ‘Shut up!’

So Moy kept swinging.

38

MOY WOKE UP, opened his eyes, sat up. His digital clock was glowing: 2.43 a.m. He wondered if he’d heard a woman’s voice.

‘Bartholomew…it’s George.’

He stood up and walked a few paces, listening. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me, Mrs Miller, from next door.’

He ran from his room, to the door. Patrick was a few steps behind, rubbing his eyes.

‘Mrs Miller?’

‘Look.’ She pointed.

He saw his father lying on the driveway.

‘I was up doing my ironing,’ she said. ‘I heard someone calling… I looked out and saw him lying there.’

Moy jumped from the porch, followed by Thea and Patrick. He knelt beside George, gently shook him and said, ‘Dad.’

The old man’s eyes were closed, the lids covered with fine capillaries. His nose was flaring, chest rising and falling, fingers digging into the dirt beside the drive, clawing, gathering a fistful of soursobs.

‘Righto,’ Moy said, thinking. ‘Airway.’ He dropped his ear to his father’s mouth. Then he looked up at them. ‘He’s breathing.’

‘That’s a good sign,’ Thea replied.

‘Circulation.’ He placed two fingers on his father’s carotid artery. ‘Thank Christ,’ he said, feeling a pulse. ‘Everything seems in order.’

‘He’s unconscious,’ Thea said.

‘Yes. What is it?’ He looked at her, imploring.

‘A heart attack, or maybe a stroke? He might have just fainted.’

‘What was he doing out here?’

‘He often wanders in the garden at night, talking to himself.’

‘So…’ Moy tried to think what to do.

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Thea said.

Moy looked at his father. ‘No…I mean…’ He looked up. ‘Where does it come from?’

‘They’re volunteers. They have a pager.’

‘Fuck.’

She flushed, but did not comment. ‘They’re pretty quick. They’re used to getting to road accidents and—’

‘Patrick, grab my keys from the buffet.’

Thea wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t think you’re meant to move them.’

‘Go on,’ Moy insisted, and Patrick ran inside.

‘You might make things worse,’ she said.

‘Worse than dying?’

‘No, I mean—’

‘It’s not likely to be a spinal injury, is it?’ he asked, half-sarcastic. Then he realised what she’d done for him. ‘You were ironing?’

‘I can never sleep anymore.’

Patrick sprinted from the house, handed Moy the keys and asked, ‘What should I do?’

Moy could see the terror in his face. ‘Watch him while I get the car.’

As he went further up the drive, opened and started the car, Patrick knelt beside George, holding his hand, wiping hair from his forehead. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Thea said, sensing his fear. ‘He’s still functioning.’ As if George was an old mower that could still cut.

Patrick stared at the old man’s face. ‘Come on, George. You can hear me, can’t you?’ He squeezed his hand.

‘He can hear you,’ Thea said. ‘But he won’t be able to speak… give him a minute.’ The old professional manner buoyed her voice. ‘Come on, George. We’re going to get you some help. Patrick… that’s your name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Patrick’s going to make sure you’re okay.’

Moy backed up, applied the handbrake and got out. There was exhaust, and red light on their faces. After opening the back door of his car he returned to his father and said, ‘Don’t worry, Dad, five minutes.’ He took him under the arms, lifted and dragged him towards the car.

‘Can I help?’ Thea asked.

‘I’ve got him.’

Moy sat on the back seat and dragged his father in. When most of his body was lying across the seat he got out the other side and closed the doors. ‘Come on,’ he said to Patrick. ‘You’re gonna have to watch him.’

Patrick got in the car. Moy turned to Thea. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how long he’d been there.’

‘Not long, I’d have seen him.’

‘I’ll call you.’

‘Yes.’

He got in the car and they backed out. Changing gears, they flew down Clyde Street. Thea stood watching them, her arms crossed, her eyes adjusting to the street lights.

Patrick strapped himself in, turned around and held George’s hand.

‘Can you feel a pulse?’ Moy asked.

The boy did what he’d seen them do on telly. Surprisingly, it worked. ‘Yes.’

Moy looked at the clock on the dash: 2.58 a.m. He wondered if there was an allotted time, and if he’d exceeded it. He pushed the accelerator to the floor. They became airborne and as he braked before a dip the car ground its bumper into the bitumen. He flipped on the warning lights. ‘Dad, can you hear me?’

He spoke to Patrick. ‘Keep checking.’

‘I can still feel it.’

Moy flew down Ayr Street. One of the shops was open and a man was tiling the floor; he looked up, surprised, as they flew past, heading for the final winding road that led to the hospital.

Moy slowed. A mule-kick of memory.
Charlie
, he nearly said, nearly turning around, nearly looking. He could feel his heart racing and his own mouth drying. The body, he sensed, was on the back seat, and he was overcome with a feeling of despair.

I did nothing to cause this, he thought. Nothing. And yet here I am…‘Patrick?’

‘He’s okay.’

He pulled into the hospital drive. Slowed; searched for signs of life. Came to a stop at a pair of sliding doors. Then he sounded his horn, switched on the siren, turned off the engine and got out.

Nothing. He hammered on the doors. ‘Hello?’

‘The intercom,’ Patrick said.

Moy pressed a button. ‘Hello?’

Eventually: ‘Yes?’

‘My father, I think he’s had a heart attack.’

The line dropped out. A few moments later the doors opened and an orderly appeared with a gurney. He peered into the back seat. ‘Your dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where am I?’ George asked.

Moy almost smiled. ‘Hospital.’

‘Fuck.’ George grimaced, and felt his chest. ‘Bloody ticker, I suppose.’

Patrick looked at Moy; took his hand and squeezed it. Another orderly came out to help.

PATRICK WAITED OUTSIDE the room as they changed George into a gown; laid him on the bed like a frozen fillet left to thaw; connected a heart monitor and studied the trace, printing out a long strip of paper that said, somehow, the old man wouldn’t die, today at least. As they inserted a drip (Heparin, 1000 units per hour GTN) into his arm and taped it down. As the ECG was watched, and adjusted, words like
infarct
muttered, shoulders shrugged, water sipped. All with the conclusion, ‘I think he got off pretty lightly.’

Moy came out and sat beside Patrick. ‘He’s okay. It was a little heart attack.’

Patrick was unsure. ‘And he’ll get better?’

‘Of course.’

Then the boy’s head dropped, staring at well-worn carpet. There was a vending machine but he hadn’t even bothered looking to see what it contained. And prints, all along the wall. Flowers sitting in pots the shapes of animals. It all seemed out of place. With the trolleys and wheelchairs, machines (all tubes and buttons) and little posters showing you how to wash your hands.

‘We had fried chicken the other day,’ Patrick said.

‘It wasn’t that.’

Moy was on a first-name basis with the bain-marie woman at Dempsey’s Takeaway and any of the half-dozen people who worked at the pizza bar. But worse, there’d been a late-night adventure all the way to Port Louis for a feed of KFC, a couple of hours for the three of them to get there and back. On the way home Moy had said, ‘You’re not to mention this to anyone, understand? I could get in trouble for using the car.’

Patrick was nearly asleep in the hospital corridor.

‘Come on,’ Moy said. They went into George’s room, Patrick looking shocked to see the sleeping figure with leads coming off his chest, feeding into a flashing box like the comms screen in the car. His face fatter, his hands larger, his fingers longer.

‘Here,’ Moy said, indicating a long couch.

Patrick took the few steps and lay down and Moy wedged a pillow beneath his head. He drifted off almost straight away, but not before he felt a rug settling over his body, before he saw Moy, sitting down in an armchair beside his father, taking and reading some notes, tilting his head, as if trying to understand something. But then leaning back, folding his arms and closing his eyes.

THE NIGHT WAS warm and the room hummed. Moy looked at a clock that marked every moment with clinical precision. It was just after five; enough time to salvage some sleep. He went next door and found a foam mattress and laid it on the floor beside his father; sheets, rugs, and two pillows that smelt of menthol. He rested, watching the vents rhythmically feeding them air. He closed then opened his eyes. Looked at his father, convinced that it might happen again at any moment. He was watching him shovel spilled grain into a wheelbarrow.

Can I help?

No.

Returning to his house, looking back at the angry figure working against the last bit of light. As he still was. The same neurons firing, cardiac muscle working.

He noticed Patrick peeling off his rug and sitting up. Heard his father saying, ‘No, go back to sleep.’

The boy stood up and approached George. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine. These things happen when you get old. No point making a big drama.’

He watched as Patrick touched George’s arm. He noticed how he took a moment, feeling the rough skin.

‘Were you worried?’ George asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s just like a cut, isn’t it? You know it’s gonna heal.’

‘But it was a heart attack.’

‘So?’

Silence. And a dog barking, again.

‘It was so bloody stupid,’ George said.

‘What?’

He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I woke up, convinced I’d left the gate open.’

‘What gate?’

‘On the farm. I’d left the gate open, and the sheep would get out. I thought, Dad’s gonna kill me. So I got up, and went out, and walked down the path towards the paddock.’ He opened his eyes and looked at the boy. ‘Only there wasn’t any paddock, was there?’

‘I guess not.’

Moy watched his father adjusting the leads coming off his chest. George was smiling at the boy. ‘I won’t be able to take you anywhere today. But if they let me out this arvo we can play bowls tomorrow morning.’

‘Won’t you have to stay here?’

‘Better now. Best thing’s to get on with it, eh?’ He slowly sucked in a lungful of air.

‘What is it?’ Patrick asked.

‘Dying for a pee.’

‘Should I get the nurse?’

‘No, over there.’ He raised his hand, indicating.

Patrick moved around the bed and fetched the strangely shaped bottle. ‘Is this to…?’

‘That’s it. Get back to sleep now.’

Moy watched Patrick return to his couch, lie down and close his eyes. Hold them closed. George cursed and fought with the sheets and leads. ‘
That’s it
,’ as the stream gushed, and slowed. Then: ‘Patrick! You awake? I can’t reach the table.’

Patrick got up and took the full bottle. ‘I’ll take it out to the nurse.’

‘Perhaps you better.’

Moy smiled and turned to the wall.

THE NEXT MORNING Moy felt like life had offered him a second chance. Unable to sleep, he’d risen at six, gone home and packed a bag for his father. Now, the sun through the window was warming the room. ‘Right, I’ve got your pyjamas and your crossword books.’

And George. ‘Can’t wear me pyjamas.’

‘Rubbish, other people are. Listen, Thea came over as I was pulling in, askin’ after you. I suppose I should get her some chocolates or something.’ He paused. ‘She said she’s seen you out before, wandering.’

‘What? I’m not allowed to walk around in my own yard?’

‘Said she hears you talking to someone.’

‘Nosy old bitch.’ George shook his head. ‘No chocolates, right?’

‘But she saved your life.’

‘Bullshit. Wasn’t dead, was I?’

‘You might’ve died.’

‘Bullshit.’

Moy noticed the boy, apparently asleep, smiling.

‘You can’t kill me that easily,’ George said. ‘Though I bet there’s some’d like to.’

‘
Naaah…
’

‘You shut up.’

Patrick giggled, and Moy tickled him awake.

39

THEY SPENT THE day at the hospital and drove around to Moy’s old house at Gawler Street late in the afternoon, coffee and doughnuts in hand. Moy parked on the street.

‘Did you forget something?’ Patrick asked.

‘My car.’

‘You never said you had your own car.’

Moy got out and tried the door of the garage. ‘Shit.’

He walked around the back, Patrick following. Putting down his coffee, he removed five glass louvres from a frame, stepped onto a pile of old pavers and climbed in, falling and rolling.

‘Get my coffee and go round the front,’ he called to Patrick.

‘You okay?’