Gravity by Scot Gardner Page A

zone of a little kid.
    I washed my hands in cold water and was still shaking them dry when I walked into the squint-bright sunshine and spotted the boy who had peed beside me. He stood there with his arms by his sides as the crowd moved around him. He scanned the faces that were passing him, his movements becoming sharper as the panic took hold.
    I squatted beside him. ‘G’day mate,’ I said, and he jumped. ‘Everything okay?’
    â€˜I can’t find my mum and my dad. They’ve gone and I can’t find them.’
    â€˜Do you want me to help you find them?’
    He nodded and his mouth trembled.
    â€˜Do you want to hop up on my shoulders so you can see further? You know, shoulder ride. Does your dad give you shoulder rides?’
    He nodded and I wiped my fingers on my pants before hoisting him aloft. He was so light and his piss-damp fingers clamped intuitively across my brow.
    And I didn’t care.
    I held his thighs and scanned the crowd. ‘What do they look like?’
    The boy didn’t answer.
    I strolled.
    â€˜What are their names?’
    â€˜Mum and Dad and Christie,’ he said, and I smiled.
    We’ll find them, I thought.
    The market seemed to go on forever and while the panic seemed to fade from the child, every solemn face that passed us by sharpened the edge of my own concern. The boy had been on my shoulders for fifteen minutes when we passed a stall loaded with brightly coloured toys and a man with a money pouch at his waist was making huge soap bubbles with a plastic ring on a handle. I kept moving and the boy craned to watch the bubbles wobbling into shape behind us.
    â€˜Leigh!’ called a voice. I felt the boy’s thighs tighten against my neck.
    â€˜Leigh,’ the voice called again.
    â€˜Mum?’ the boy shouted.
    I made a bee-line in the direction of the voice and eventually traced it to a full-bodied woman in a Day-Glo yellow parka, urgently wrestling a stroller over the grass.
    The boy on my shoulders began to jiggle and I swung him to the ground. He sprinted as fast as his little legs would carry him and clung to his mother’s knee. She scowled and patted his back.
    â€˜Where have you been? You can’t just walk off like that. I thought you’d gone for good! Silly billy.’
    The woman sussed me out, and then smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed.
    A man with a severe crew cut swept in and hooked the boy into his arms. He looked him over then held the back of his head as the boy buried his face into the crook of his neck.
    â€˜Came riding in on the shoulders of this nice man,’ the woman said.
    The man was incredulous. He took a second to check me out, then strode towards me.
    His face split with a smile and he stuck out his hand. ‘Thank you.’
    â€˜No trouble at all,’ I said.
    The family walked past and after two steps I turned to watch them go. The beautiful things about the city, I thought, are all the people. And the scariest things about the city, I thought, are all the people. How could you keep a kid safe and not squash them with your fears? How would you ever know when it was time for them to fend for themselves?
    Leigh’s head poked above his father’s shoulder, and he waved.
    I picked among the market benches and the people, marvelling at the shit that had been packaged up for sale. Biscuits that looked burnt, five-year-old National Geographics , rusty garden tools and snack food that had only just passed its sell-by date.
    â€˜There he is,’ I heard.
    I turned to see Leigh struggling with a bunch of flowers. The freshest flowers I’d ever seen – a melee of colour that had somehow managed to capture the smile of winter sunshine.
    With his father’s hand at his back, the boy came up to me. I crouched and he handed me the flowers.
    â€˜For me?’
    He nodded and I took them.
    â€˜What for?’
    â€˜For nothing,’ the boy said, and his dad