Free One Boy Missing by Stephen Orr Page A

homes across the road, had gathered to watch.
    ‘I just don’t get it,’ Moy said. ‘If you robbed a bank, you’d wear a mask, wouldn’t you?’
    ‘I dunno.’
    ‘You would. Got a licence?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘P-plates?’
    ‘Yeah…’ He looked. ‘Must’ve fallen off.’
    Moy couldn’t understand why each new generation of farmers’ sons just kept getting dumber. Supposedly they were better educated. The water, the food, the air didn’t change. The schools didn’t change, the shops. Nothing…nothing ever changed. So why?
    ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.
    ‘What, that’s it?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘You’re not gonna do anything?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well…okay, thanks.’ He held his hands out for the keys.
    ‘No, I’ll take these. Mr Allen, he runs this place, he’ll be here in a minute. He said he’s happy to sort it out. Okay?’
    They looked stunned. The boy kicked the tyre.
    ‘Mr Allen, he’s not a happy man at the best of times.’ He got in his car and started it. ‘I’ll hold on to these,’ he said, as he drove across the gravel.
    There was policing and there was policing; he’d learned that in the early days. Gary had told him stories—about when he was a boy, growing up the son of a country copper in Mount Wilson. How back then the government didn’t supply police cars, and how he remembered holding onto his seat as his dad chased crooks through the backblocks in the family car, mum holding her hat, his sister and him, still in his Sunday suit after a morning in the Baptist church. How, when one fella ran his car off the road, his dad got out, took him by the collar and punched him in the face. Said, ‘Maybe you’ll think twice next time.’ Before getting back in the family car, straightening his tie and heading home for the Sunday roast.
    The sun came out as he headed back through town. He passed George’s house and saw him out with the plumber, talking.
    He stopped. ‘You okay, Dad?’
    George stared at him, squinting. ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘It’s me, your son.’
    ‘Oh…yes, I think it’s fixed.’
    A few minutes later he was back in his office. He pulled a drawing out from under his blotter. A house with a smoking chimney and a boy, a circle with stick legs and arms; trees with orange trunks, and two brown suns. A sort of hybrid dragon-stegosaurus roaming the neighbourhood.
    Moy was watching Charlie colour the beast with a glitter pen. ‘Is it a good one or a bad one?’ he asked.
    Charlie looked at him and bit his lip. ‘Good.’
    ‘Has he got a name?’
    Charlie nodded. ‘George.’
    ‘Grandpa? Is Grandpa the dragon?’
    He felt himself descending, his head dropping, his shoulders sagging, the shudders rising, the tears. He pulled himself together in case someone came in. Took a deep breath, wiped his eyes and slipped the picture under his blotter.
    But he still saw the small face, and the wiry legs. The frown of concentration.
    Gary Wright appeared, framed in the doorway. ‘Coupla visitors out front.’
    Moy lifted his head. ‘Is anyone dead, dying or lost?’
    ‘It’s the baker from the Hot Bread Café. He’s caught some kid stealing.’
    ‘Some kid?’
    Moy returned with Gary to the foyer. He shook the baker’s hand.
    ‘Robert Wyeth,’ the baker said. ‘I got something for you, Detective.’ He used his hand to present a boy of maybe ten years old as if he were a prize on a game show. ‘I just about had a heart attack chasing him three blocks.’ He looked at the boy. ‘Well, what yer got to say for yerself?’
    The boy kept a head of dusty hair resolutely lowered.
    Moy took the baker’s arm and led him across the foyer. ‘How about I leave you here with Gary? I’ll take him and have a word.’
    Wyeth thought about this. ‘Okay. You can have him. I just don’t want to see him back shoplifting.’
    ‘Right. I’ll let you know what’s happening. He wasn’t with anyone?’
    ‘Not that I noticed. What sort of parent would let their kid…I