The kid’s sitting on the side of the road again, feet in the gutter. Bare feet and it’s only twelve degrees today. Bloody hell. I only come this way now and then as a shortcut home from the supermarket, and this is the third time I’ve seen him. Red hair and freckles, can hardly miss those.
I have to stop. Can’t keep driving, pretending I don’t see him.
I pull over just past him, get out and walk back. He looks up at me, his expression flat, like he’s just waiting for me to growl at him.
‘Hello.’ I try a smile. ‘No school today?’
He lets out a snort, and stares down at his feet again. They’re filthy and there’s a couple of marks that look a lot like burns. I don’t know what else to say to him. I doubt he’s been in school for days, weeks maybe.
‘You hungry?’ I ask. Of course he is, arms like pea sticks, legs in those raggedy shorts not much better. He looks about twelve, fourteen at the most.
‘Might be.’
‘You wanna sandwich? Got pies, but they’re frozen.’
He shrugs. Jeez, I’m trying to help.
‘Got apples. Milk. Bread and ham. That’s about it, kid.’ I wait. ‘Take it or leave it.’
‘Yeah, all right.’
All right what? I shake my head, go and scrabble through the bags, slap together a ham sandwich with no marg and bring the two litres of milk with me. He drinks from the container, which turns my stomach a bit, but oh well. The sandwich disappears in three huge mouthfuls.
‘You want another one?’
‘Yeah.’ He looks at me. ‘Thanks.’
‘No worries.’ I make him another one, he drinks more milk, burps and giggles.
‘Sorry.’
He’s got a few manners then.
‘Where do you live?’
He jerks his head. ‘Over there.’
That could be any one of about eight rundown houses, paint peeling, rusty roofs, some with car bodies on the front lawn.
‘Mum not home?’
He shakes his head.
‘Nobody home?’
‘Yeah.’ He says it in a way that makes me think whoever is home is someone he doesn’t want to be in the house with. Mum’s boyfriend, probably.
‘Well…’ I watch him scuff his big toe against the bitumen, head down again. ‘I’d better go, I guess. Put the groceries in the fridge.’
He shrugs again but won’t look at me, so I back off, get in my car and drive away, watching him in the rear view mirror all the way until I turn the corner. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t look up, like I was never there. I should call the cops, but what would I say? Besides, they did stuff all for me when I needed them.
A few nights later, I’m driving home from a late meeting, and there he is, in my headlights, sitting on a seat at the bus stop, arms wrapped around his knees. Buses stop running around here at 6 p.m. I keep going, then I stop, turn around and go back, wind my window down.
‘Hey.’
He glances up at me. No recognition.
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘What’s it to you?’
I recognise that hostility to do-gooders and shake my head. Maybe I’m becoming one myself. As if. ‘I’m your sandwich lady, remember?’
This time he sees me, nods.
‘Need a lift home?’
‘Nah.’
‘You can’t stay here. No buses.’
‘Got no money for a ticket anyway,’ he mutters.
I’m not sure but I think he’s still got the same clothes on. At least now he’s wearing runners, although they’re battered and worn, and splashed with reddish-brown mud.
‘Come on, I’ll take you home. Or to the place you live, at least.’
He grunts and, after a minute of deliberation, he gets up slowly and hobbles over to my car. He’s taller than I expected and I feel a deep stab of doubt. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. But I can’t tell him I’ve changed my mind now. He opens the door and makes a noise as he sits. He’s in pain. The inside light in my car shows bruises on his arm before he closes the door.
‘You look like you need a doctor,’ I say. He shakes his head. ‘Somebody bash you?’
He doesn’t reply, just breathes, and his chest has a rattle in it like a forty-a-day smoker. A rancid smell has filled my car, and I suddenly notice it, trying not to make a face.
‘I can take you to the emergency department. It’s not far. You’re in pain.’
‘Nah, it’s OK. I’ve had worse.’ He sniffs. ‘You got groceries again?’
‘No, sorry.’ I hesitate. ‘Feel like a hamburger? I haven’t had dinner yet.’
There’s a stew waiting for me at home and I don’t like fast food, but this isn’t the time to be fussy.
He looks at me sideways. ‘What? You shouting?’
‘Why not?’
‘Yeah, all right then.’
We go to the drive-through, and I can see him breathing in the smell of fried chips when I open the window to order. I choose the biggest burger I can see, order two of them and fries, and a thick shake. At the last window, I pass them all over to him.
‘What about you?’ he says, already digging into the fries.
I laugh. ‘Nah, I don’t like burgers much.’ I lean across and take some fries, shove them in my mouth and drive off. I can see as I change gears that he’s almost inhaling the food, and I want to tell him to slow down, but that’d be pointless. Poor bloody kid.
I drive without speaking, turn into his street, and he freezes, the last bit of the first hamburger almost to his mouth. Ahead of us, police cars flash red and blue lights, a cop is running out a tape, and half a dozen neighbours have already gathered to watch and gossip. I pull over, park the car, and turn off the engine and headlights. Let him finish eating, although he’s going slower now.
The lights, silhouetted uniforms moving around, flapping tape… I clear my throat and ask, ‘They at your house?’
‘Probably.’
‘What do you think has happened?’
That snorting noise, then he concentrates on finishing the second hamburger and the rest of the fries. When he’s slurping the last of the shake, I say, ‘Shall I go and ask?’
‘If you want. Nothin’ to do with me.’
I’m stuck. He probably knows already. Maybe he caused it. No, not likely. He might be tall but he’d blow away in a stiff breeze. I can’t take him home with me, don’t want to, if I’m honest. I need to do something with him, though. I get out and go over to the cop at the tape, who’s standing away from the neighbours, I guess so he doesn’t have to answer their questions.
‘Move along, please,’ he says to me in that cop tone.
A flare of annoyance, which I barely manage to tamp down. ‘I’ve got a kid with me, and I think he lives in that house you’re at.’
He looks me up and down, but I’m wearing my boots and good jacket. ‘Bring him over then.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll come. I need to know what’s going on first so I can…talk to him about it.’ I have a horrible feeling the kid’s mother might be hurt, or worse, as the ambulance pulls up, lights flashing. It’s like a bizarre disco going on, and a memory long-buried pushes its way into my mind.
‘If you’re not a family member, I can’t give you any information,’ the cop says. ‘He’ll have to come over here and I’ll call a detective.’
That’s sounding ominous. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll get him.’
I’m not convinced I can persuade the kid to come with me, but I’ll try. I walk back to the car, and I can see before I get close that his seat is empty. Shit. He’s done a runner. I scan around me, but half the street lights are out, and there’s no sign of movement, no kid bolting away. I turn back to the cop, but he’s dealing with one of the neighbours who’s making a fuss about something.
There’s nothing I can do. I don’t want to get the kid into trouble. Once the cops and ambulance have gone, he’ll probably come back of his own accord. I get into my car, start the engine, and then notice my handbag on the floor on the passenger side. My stomach knots and I reach down. ‘Oh fuck it.’ The kid has been through it, my wallet is underneath, open. I immediately think of my credit cards, the bloody pain in the bum of having to cancel and replace, and what else has he got? My licence? But as I check through everything, breathing hard, I see only the cash has gone. I had about forty dollars in there, that’s all.
Relief. He can have the money. I can’t really afford to lose it, but he needs it more than me. Lesson learned, eh? I put the car in gear, turn around and drive slowly home, peering ahead in case I see him. Not a sign. I drink a large glass of cheap red wine with my stew, and I don’t sleep well.
My phone rings at 6.30 a.m.—a landline I should get rid of. ‘Yeah?’
‘Ms Lydia Ross?’
‘Yeah.’ I sit up. It’s cold in the room.
‘It’s Sergeant Palliser here, Ms Ross. We’ve got a Joseph Ratana here, says you’re his aunt.’
‘What?’ I’m nobody’s aunt.
‘Says he was with you last night. Eating hamburgers.’ The sergeant sounds sceptical.
‘Oh. Right.’ My brain scrambles, puts things together, thinks, cheeky little shit.
‘Right, you understand? He was with you?’
‘Yes, he was. We did have hamburgers.’ Well, he ate mine but I had some fries, at least. ‘Why?’
‘There’s been an incident at his place of residence.’
‘Right.’ Don’t say anything they can use later. I wait.
‘Can you attend this police station this morning and verify his story, er, his account?’
I’ll have to ring work and say I’ll be late. I’ll be unpopular. There’s another bloody Zoom meeting with head office at nine. They’re such a waste of time. ‘Yes, I can do that. Where is the station?’ Pretending like I have no idea. It hasn’t moved in fifteen years.
‘Baxter Street, Ms Ross. Sooner the better, thank you.’ He hangs up in my ear. Prick.
I try to take my time, but the knot in my guts is getting tighter and I drink my coffee too fast, burning my tongue. I’m outside the cop shop in under an hour, then as I sit there, heart thumping, I get a flash of a claustrophobic little room, a swampy feeling of shame. I told him to stop… I force it all away, take a few deep breaths, think about the kid.
After about five minutes of trying to work out how best to deal with this, I settle for my ‘professional work’ mask and go in. Or rather I go in after the cop on the counter buzzes me through the door.
‘I’m here about… Joseph Ratana.’ Nearly couldn’t remember the kid’s name.
The cop rolls his eyes a little, then gets himself under control. ‘Take a seat, thank you. I’ll call someone.’ Seems like Joseph is known around here. Doesn’t surprise me.
I sit on the plastic chair, handbag on my lap, back straight. Who am I kidding? I’m here to tell fibs, probably. My goal is to tell as few as possible. Although the truth should be enough. Except I know it’s not always.
A cop comes through the security door beside the counter. ‘Ms Ross? Come this way, please.’ Always that tone like everyone is a criminal. My jaw clenches.
I get up and follow him, my handbag jammed under my arm. We end up in a small, bland room with two more plastic seats and a bare table. He sits on one side, puts his clipboard down and gestures to the other seat.
‘You were with Joseph last night?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What time?’
‘Um… around eight pm to about nine-thirty, I think.’
‘You think. Can you be more specific?’ He’s trying to keep his tone non-committal, but it’s got an edge on it.
I think back. No point lying. ‘I left my meeting about ten to eight. Picked Joseph up around eight. I didn’t look at my watch.’ It suddenly occurs to me that maybe the kid’s name isn’t Joseph Ratana and we’re talking about two different boys. I can’t help it. My lips twitch. And he notices.
‘Something funny?’ he asks.
‘No. He’s a funny kid, isn’t he?’ Except I think there’s probably nothing funny at all about Joseph’s life. I sit up straighter.
‘Not really, Ms Ross. He doesn’t make any of us laugh.’
Oh for fuck’s sake.
‘So you picked him up from his home?’
‘No, from the bus stop. Because buses don’t run on that side of town after six, you know.’
‘Hmm, yes. And you ate hamburgers from…’
‘Burger King. I don’t like McDonalds.’
He gives me a look and then continues writing. ‘And you dropped him off where?’
‘At his house. Well, not exactly his house. In the street.’ I wait. There’s a small satisfaction in making him work for it.
He gives in first. ‘Why in the street?’
‘There were police and the area was taped off. No entry.’
‘And he left you and went to his house.’
Now I have to be careful. I run my hand over my handbag, across the stitching. ‘He got out of the car, and I drove home. I assumed he’d gone to his house, or perhaps tried to.’ I manage a shrug.
The cop writes some more, then he says, ‘How do you know Joseph, Ms Ross?’
The phone call. He’d told them I was his aunty. I can’t lie about that. ‘I’m a friend. I help him out now and then.’ Once.
‘You wouldn’t help him out by lying, would you? Giving him a false alibi?’
This shit again. I’ve told you ten times, the knife isn’t mine. I glare at him. ‘No, absolutely not. What’s going on? Why are you asking me all this?’
‘The social services employee in charge of the group home where Joseph lives was found dead last night, Ms Ross. We have reason to believe Joseph knows something about that.’
I can feel the skin on my face go all tight and weird. The room is closing in on me and I try to breathe instead of wanting to heave like an asthmatic. Group home? Why didn’t he tell me?
Why would he? You met him twice, and got sucked in.
‘You think he did it?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He sits there and looks at me. ‘You’re sure about those times?’
‘Yes.’ I glance at the sheet of paper and his writing. ‘You need me to sign that?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Read it first, of course.’
Of course. I do, and he’s stuck to the facts, so I sign and date it. Push it back to him.
‘What happens to Joseph now?’
‘He’ll go back to Manson House, I imagine. They’d had no success with foster families, so he was placed in the group home. Obviously he can’t go back there.’ The cop stood and opened the door. ‘Thanks for coming in.’
‘That’s it?’
He gives me an odd look. ‘What did you expect?’
I shrug again. I just want to get out of here now. Hopefully the Zoom meeting at work will be over by the time I get there. I leave by the front door, using the green escape button, and head for my car. As I open the door and go to get in, I look across at the other end of the cop shop. A van is parked by the rear exit and Joseph is standing at its sliding door, staring at me. I hesitate, raise a hand. He turns away and gets into the van.
I drive to work and it takes ages to find a parking spot. I end up having to walk about half a kilometre, and I’m in trouble when I arrive in the office. Smarmy Ken says, ‘I had to report your lateness to the supervisor on the Zoom call.’
I give him a filthy look. ‘I said I would be late, and I apologised already. Give me a fucking break, will you?’
Ken goes almost white. I’ve never sworn in the office before. I’m the polite mouse. Too bad. I thump down in my chair, turn on my computer, and bury myself in another boring day’s work. I can’t stand this place and I can’t stand how every day is the same shit, paperwork up to my eyeballs. Like I care how many pipes and connectors the plumber in Woop Woop wants.
At lunchtime, I go out for a walk to avoid the lunchroom. Where is Joseph now? I look up the local news on my phone and find a small item. ‘Group home worker found dead.’ Hardly any details, other than that police are investigating.
Was Joseph responsible? Who beat him up? I think about the burn marks and bruises. Why was he in the group home in the first place? Why not a foster home?
Why am I asking all these stupid questions? It’s nothing to do with me. Except I gave him an alibi, sort of. I need to know more, and I have no idea how to find out. There’s no way I’ll talk to the cops again. Better to stay off their radar. I spend the afternoon grinding my teeth over stupid hassles with orders and invoices, and trying hard to talk nicely to customers.
I drive home late, having stayed on out of guilt to finish some work, thinking about stopping for fish and chips because I can’t be stuffed cooking. But I have soup and noodles, and fish and chips would be more than $12 and won’t do my weight any good. I suck it up and head for my house.
As I pull into my driveway, I see him, sitting on my doorstep. Head down. He doesn’t look up as I stop the car, pull on the handbrake with a rough jerk, and turn off the engine. My guts drop. I don’t get out. I sit there, looking at him, wondering how the hell he knows where I live.
Your handbag, idiot. Might have only stolen money but your address is on your driver’s licence.
I have no idea how to deal with this. I want to get out of the car and rage at him, tell him to piss off, leave me alone. And I already know I can’t. Won’t. That still doesn’t give me a solution or help. Should I call the cops? No. Just… no.
I get out of the car, hold my handbag close, lock the car, walk over to him.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Dunno.’
That fires me up. ‘Don’t give me that shit. The cops told me they took you to Manson House. Why are you here?’
He shrugs.
‘And don’t bloody do that shrugging shit either. I gave you an alibi. For all I know, you killed that guy and used me as a backup.’
He rears up. ‘Did not! Did not! What do you think I am?’
Leading question. ‘I have no idea,’ I say flatly. ‘You stole from me. That’s not a good start.’
He looks straight at me. ‘I did not kill Samuel. I hit him, he yelled at me, I got the hell out of there.’
‘So who did kill him? Why?’
His freckled face blooms with hot blood. ‘He’s… he was… doing… with the little kids.’ He looks away, wipes his face. ‘Fucking cunt. I didn’t… nobody was doing shit about it. The others told me he’d been doing it for years. And bashing us when he got drunk. Skited about being down south in a boy’s home and getting away with it. Said nobody would believe us, we’re retards and rejects, so just fucken shut up and be grateful he cooked food and cleaned the house a bit.’
I’m struck dumb. Nobody would believe us. It sends shudders through me, but there’s no rage left, just an icy rod down the middle of me, skewering my guts.
‘Do you know who did it? Who killed him?’
Now he stares at me again, and this time the shadows in the back of his eyes say he doesn’t really trust me. Why should he? ‘No. And I’m not gonna guess. I just know it wasn’t me.’
Stand-off. Do I believe him or not? I think I do. Not sure. All I know is it’s been a long day, and I want a glass of wine and food and not to have to think about this anymore. Two out of three then.
‘I’ve only got soup or noodles. Maybe some bread.’
There’s a tiny little straightening of his back and I’m almost sure there are tears in his eyes. But I’m not getting sucked in by that, no way.
‘Noodles are pretty good,’ he says. ‘Filling. You know.’
I take a breath, let it out in a huff. ‘Yeah, sure they are. Noodles are my last bloody resort.’
Last bloody resort. That’s what I feel like I am. But I know one thing—when everyone else has given up or deserted you, it can look like fucking paradise.
‘Let’s go then,’ I say. ‘You’re doing the dishes.’