out to get you. And a place like Guilderton. Mud sticks.’
Yes, Moy thought.
Then he sat up, drained his cup of tea and asked, ‘This boy’s mother…name wasn’t Jay, was it?’
Doug took a moment. ‘No, don’t reckon.’
‘Well, thanks for the cuppa, Louise.’
‘It’s nice to see you, Bart. You must pop in more often. And… any requests?’
Moy studied the pink cosy. ‘Ever tried teppanyaki beef?’
18
THE NEXT MORNING at two a.m. Moy was awake again, turning onto one side, the other, his back, as he tried to clear any thoughts from his head. Before long he gave up. Got up and walked out into his backyard; ambled over to the trampoline and fell back, bouncing a few times then settling. The air was cold, laced with sow’s milk and oestrogen, traces of Mrs Flamsteed’s braised steak.
‘Watch,’ he heard Charlie say. He watched as the boy jumped, tumbled and rolled onto the broken springs.
‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you could crack a tooth on the side.’ But he was already back on his feet.
‘I can do a somersault.’
‘No, I’m not sure.’
‘I can.’
‘No.’
But there was the small body, curled up in itself, turning in mid-air, landing on its feet, dropping to its knees and putting its arm around his neck. ‘See?’
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘My first time.’
‘Do you think you could do it again?’
‘Course.’
The moon had just lifted above the horizon. Moy walked down the driveway and stood at his front gate. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers torn down the front. His moon-shrunk cock kept popping out. He crossed the road towards the fence that was the very edge of Guilderton. Someone, possibly Paschke, had nailed dead foxes onto each of the fence posts by their tails. Some were fresh, some dried out, their pelts reflecting the moonlight. A warning, Moy guessed, to other foxes. Even the little ones, jiggling in the little bit of breeze.
He lifted two loose wires and stepped into the paddock. Soon he was walking, then jogging, across a hundred metres of stubble, looking back at his house and the glow of his television in the front window. He arrived at a second fence, pushed the wires down, climbed over and started walking through the wheat, up to his ribs in places. The land started rising and soon he was climbing a hill. A few minutes later he was at the top, looking down over Guilderton.
He studied the houses, and found his dad’s place.
And then realised, and sighed.
Right , he thought. That’s easy .
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
Yes, Moy thought.
Then he sat up, drained his cup of tea and asked, ‘This boy’s mother…name wasn’t Jay, was it?’
Doug took a moment. ‘No, don’t reckon.’
‘Well, thanks for the cuppa, Louise.’
‘It’s nice to see you, Bart. You must pop in more often. And… any requests?’
Moy studied the pink cosy. ‘Ever tried teppanyaki beef?’
18
THE NEXT MORNING at two a.m. Moy was awake again, turning onto one side, the other, his back, as he tried to clear any thoughts from his head. Before long he gave up. Got up and walked out into his backyard; ambled over to the trampoline and fell back, bouncing a few times then settling. The air was cold, laced with sow’s milk and oestrogen, traces of Mrs Flamsteed’s braised steak.
‘Watch,’ he heard Charlie say. He watched as the boy jumped, tumbled and rolled onto the broken springs.
‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you could crack a tooth on the side.’ But he was already back on his feet.
‘I can do a somersault.’
‘No, I’m not sure.’
‘I can.’
‘No.’
But there was the small body, curled up in itself, turning in mid-air, landing on its feet, dropping to its knees and putting its arm around his neck. ‘See?’
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘My first time.’
‘Do you think you could do it again?’
‘Course.’
The moon had just lifted above the horizon. Moy walked down the driveway and stood at his front gate. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers torn down the front. His moon-shrunk cock kept popping out. He crossed the road towards the fence that was the very edge of Guilderton. Someone, possibly Paschke, had nailed dead foxes onto each of the fence posts by their tails. Some were fresh, some dried out, their pelts reflecting the moonlight. A warning, Moy guessed, to other foxes. Even the little ones, jiggling in the little bit of breeze.
He lifted two loose wires and stepped into the paddock. Soon he was walking, then jogging, across a hundred metres of stubble, looking back at his house and the glow of his television in the front window. He arrived at a second fence, pushed the wires down, climbed over and started walking through the wheat, up to his ribs in places. The land started rising and soon he was climbing a hill. A few minutes later he was at the top, looking down over Guilderton.
He studied the houses, and found his dad’s place.
And then realised, and sighed.
Right , he thought. That’s easy .
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