Time's Long Ruin (32 page)

‘Dunno,' Dad replied.

‘Shed full of linen. So what? There was no point sellin' it. No point doing anything.'

And what he meant was, falling in love, getting married, having children, getting up at night to feed them, changing nappies and sitting listening to them read, mispronouncing the same word a hundred times before they finally remembered it. Selling linen. Drinking beer. For what?

‘No more linen,' he whispered. He saw his kids sitting in the bath, splashing water up the walls and singing. He was rubbing shampoo into their hair. Slowly. Carefully. Rinsing it over and over so their scalps wouldn't itch.

‘That's why you do it,' he said, watching a pair of coppers shining a torch into a storm-water drain.

‘What?' Dad asked.

‘You're just lucky Henry didn't go.'

Dad didn't reply. He was more than grateful; he was ready to start believing in God, to take off his clothes and run naked down Rundle Street, shouting, ‘Praise the Lord!'

If there were four of them, Dad thought, things might have been different. But he was thankful he hadn't had to test that out.

‘So,' Dad continued, veering left onto Old Port Road, smelling the sea and watching another patrol driving through a paddock littered with piles of rubble, ‘you can't think of anyone you might have told, Bill?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That your kids were going to the beach?'

‘No. How was I to know what they were doing?'

Dad sped up. ‘Of course.'

Bill turned and looked at him. ‘I know what you're thinking.'

‘What?'

‘I haven't heard a word from that girl for weeks.'

‘Nothing?'

‘Nothin'. She was all wind. She never told no one nothin'.'

Dad looked at him. ‘How can you be so sure?'

Bill looked back at the road. ‘Believe me, that's all blown over.'

‘Just the same,' Dad said, ‘maybe I could get her name and number.'

Bert handed Bill his notebook and pencil. Bill took a moment and then said, ‘As long as you're . . . discreet,' and then put the notebook on his knee and scribbled.

Dad talked quietly. ‘Don't worry, Bill. This friend of yours, he won't even know we've checked.'

Dad mounted the kerb and parked on the esplanade. Bill got out first. He slammed his door and leaned against the car. As he stared out across the dead grass, covered with dozens of fat, pop-eyed seagulls, he said, ‘Impossible.'

Dad came around and stood next to him. ‘If that's where they were, then we'll find them.'

Although it was another warm day, there were fewer people on the beach. Life had recommenced. People had thrown sandy bathers and wet towels into the wash basket and laid out their tunics and aprons. Suits had been pulled on over sunburn. Buckets and spades had been returned to toy boxes and watches had been refastened over strips of white skin. Now there were just a few mums with kids at the end of their holidays. A few old couples waded through the shallows with their pants rolled up. There were other kids, in groups and pairs and alone, sent to the beach by parents who hadn't read the paper, or had and didn't believe lightning struck the same place twice. Police cadets and junior constables, in uniform shirts and their own bathers and shorts, still combed the foreshore.

And there were others, organised by the police into search groups: Country Fire volunteers in their shorts, singlets and helmets (to let people know who they were); the local Rotary, searching front yards and nature strips of the first few streets back from the beach; the Lions; Freemasons; even the Semaphore and Largs Bay Scouts and Cubs (in full uniform). Mums and dads, uncles, aunts, anyone – maybe not in an organised way, but looking behind toilet blocks and hedges that had already been searched five times.

‘Christ,' Bill mumbled, looking at them all. ‘I never guessed. I thought it was just a couple of your mob, Bob.'

‘We didn't ask anyone.'

They were approached by a journalist, a heavily sunburnt Scot in his sixties, from
The News
. ‘G'day, Bob, Bert,' he said. ‘What am I gonna say today?'

Dad smiled. ‘Jesus, John, since when did you start asking?'

‘Listen, I'm getting hot. Who do you reckon's got these kiddies?'

‘This is Bill Riley,' Dad said, touching him on the shoulder.

‘G'day, Bill.' The reporter shook his hand. ‘Listen, I've been doin' these rounds for years, these things always turn out.'

‘Here,' Bill replied, producing another photo of his kids from his pocket. ‘Print this one. A different photo might help.'

‘You want to make a comment?' the reporter asked, taking the photo.

‘You can say, both me and Liz love our kids. We're determined to find them.'

‘Is that all?'

‘That's all.'

A photographer came up beside them. The reporter introduced him to Bill and said, ‘Something simple, to go with your words?'

‘No,' Dad replied. ‘The photo of the kids would be more helpful.'

The old Scot almost grinned at Dad. ‘Looking for anyone in particular?'

‘No. We've gotta get on with it. Can you do any better than page seven this time?'

‘That's not my job.'

Dad took Bill by the arm and led him towards a caravan, a police mobile command that had been set up beside the esplanade clock. Bert followed them and the reporter followed him, asking, ‘One other thing: what about this fella in the blue bathers?'

Dad turned on him. ‘What have you heard?'

‘Someone said . . . here . . .' He searched through a pad and started reading. ‘Tall, blond, blue bathers.'

Bill shook his head; his mouth was open and he squinted directly at the sun. ‘What's this about?'

Dad stepped towards the reporter. ‘Where did you get this from?'

‘It's common knowledge.'

‘It's not. No one should know, get it?'

The reporter looked at Bill, and back at Bob. ‘Sorry, I just assumed . . .'

‘You put a cross through that, and you stick to the media release.'

‘Alright!' He put his hands up in the air, as if to surrender, and then stepped back and sat on a bench.

Dad took Bill by the arm and kept walking. ‘We're not makin' too much of it, Bill.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' he asked, shaking his arm free. ‘You're meant to be my fuckin' mate.'

‘Listen, unless we know something's a hundred per cent . . .'

‘A hundred per cent? What's it matter? Wouldn't you want to know?'

‘No – yes, I suppose.'

‘I can't believe it. Is this the guy that's got them?'

Dad stopped and turned to face Bill. ‘Listen, someone reckons he saw this fella playin' with them.'

‘Playing?'

And Dad explained. ‘They might have talked to a dozen people down here.'

‘And only one person saw this . . . fella?'

Dad sighed and turned to Bert. ‘You go ahead.'

Bert made for the caravan as Dad and Bill leaned against a bike rack. ‘Someone else saw him. They reckon he was getting them dressed. And another fella reckons he saw the kids leaving with him.'

Bill shook his head. ‘I can't believe it. You knew all of this, and you were worried about some bitch I met. You know what it sounds like to me?'

Dad didn't reply.

Bill looked down at wet, squashed chips on the concrete.

‘I'm sorry, Bill,' Dad managed. ‘That's how we do things.'

‘Well, it's not how
we
do things, is it?'

‘No, it isn't. It's just you've got so much to deal with.'

A long pause.

‘Sorry,' Dad repeated.

Bill took a deep breath. ‘So, who is he?'

‘Tall, lanky, blond, blue bathers. We'll release it soon, but that's everyone's uncle, isn't it?'

‘Not mine. He's a fat prick.' Bill dipped his head towards the caravan. ‘You get on with it, Bob.'

‘So, you still talkin' to me?'

Bill half-smiled and walked off towards the playground. ‘Blue bathers, red bathers,' he shrugged. ‘It's a start, Bob.'

Dad stood up and approached the caravan. It had
SA
POLICE FIELD COMMAND
in block letters along the side. Its metal panels were rusted along the bottom and the windows were opaque with grease, smoke and dust. It reminded Dad of Goolwa, even down to the towels hanging on a rack along the side, sandy shoes on the doorstep, and a small cardboard box full of empty lemonade and beer bottles. He climbed a single step and hit his head on the doorframe. There was no order to the caravan, just seats around the side and a table in the middle covered with maps, notes, rosters and cigarettes. Bert was sitting beside three other detectives. Superintendent Jim Clarke sat in the corner, his glasses resting on the tip of his nose.

‘Jim, who's got loose lips?' Dad asked.

‘Eh?'

‘Who's been yappin' about the fella in the blue bathers? That Scottish prick from
The News
knows everything.'

‘None of my blokes,' Jim countered.

Dad looked at the four detectives. ‘That was bloody embarrassing. Bill Riley's standin' there and this cunt says, What about this fella in the blue fuckin' bathers?'

No one said a word.

‘I tell you what, if I find out . . . I got one bloody lead and we're gonna blow the whole thing.' Dad shook his head. ‘Alright, let's see who's doin' what.'

‘I've been riding the train,' one of the detectives said. ‘You wouldn't believe how many pissed old parrots – '

‘Anything?' Dad interrupted.

‘Few people reckon they seen 'em going down.'

‘Keep at it. Take the 9.05 from Croydon in the morning. Talk to everyone. Jim, how's the search going?'

‘Nothin'.'

‘What have we missed?'

Jim smiled. ‘I'll keep going. I'll search every inch of beach, and every drain. But you know, if they were taken, they're probably in a hole at Mallala by now.'

Dad's eyes narrowed, and every muscle in his face tightened. ‘This Janice, this girl, she's my boy's best friend.'

‘I heard,' Jim replied, raising his eyebrows.

Dad pointed to the picture in a newspaper on the table. He tapped his left index finger hard, half a dozen times, on the image. ‘This shit doesn't just happen, Jim . . . not to my neighbours.'

‘It happens. Look overseas. We've been shielded.'

‘Are you the best man for the job?' Dad asked.

The superintendant was incredulous. He stared down his nose, through his polished glasses, at Dad. ‘Am
I
the best man? Christ!'

There was a knock. The door opened and a young constable popped his head in. ‘It's the postie,' he said.

Dad adjusted his tie as he stared at Jim Clarke.

‘Come on,' Bert said to Dad. ‘We're meant to be finding these kids, aren't we?'

Dad turned slowly, stepped out of the caravan and smiled at the postie. ‘Harry.'

‘G'day, Bob.'

He took Harry Patterson's hand and shook it. Harry was dressed in a PMG shirt and black shorts. His bike stood nearby with its post-bags empty.

‘Smithy, my new boss, said I should come down straight away to see you, Mister Page.'

‘Bob.'

‘Bob, when I was having a break this morning I read the paper.'

Harry Patterson had been the Croydon postie for fifteen years. He knew every street and every house, who the mother was, the father, the kids, and if there was someone staying. He knew every Hatched, Matched and Dispatched, and who got perfumed letters. He knew who was in the Communist Party and who had investments, who didn't pay their bills (
FINAL NOTICE
marked in red), and who was in the Weavers and Spinners Guild. Harry only needed a name to make a delivery. And yet he was discreet. If you asked if so and so's husband still lived with her he'd reply, I only look at the address. He knew me and he knew the Riley kids. Once, when Janice and me were standing out the front, he stopped and handed us our letters. Janice noticed a bandage on his leg. She knew how it had got there.

‘I've told you, Mister Patterson,' she said, ‘that dog can be taken care of.'

‘How?' he smiled.

‘Ah!' She tapped her nose. ‘We have plenty in our medicine basket.'

‘If you're caught, I don't know a thing.'

Until Mr Patterson was transferred to Semaphore.