Tunnel Vision

by Andrew Christie

  “Tommy? Doubt it. They don’t get on hardly. Oil and water them two. Always have been.”

  “Still, I’d like to check. What’s his address?”

  “He’s over at Marrickville. Somewhere there. Me memory’s not what it used to be.”

  John held up a twenty-dollar note. Mary’s eyes suddenly focussed, and the corners of her mouth twitched. The twenty disappeared into her scaly fist as she gave him the address.

  “Get yourself something to eat, Mary, and if you see Billy, tell him to call me. Tell him it’s important.”

  “Of course, mate. Sure. If I see him, I’ll call you meself. Got your number here somewhere.” She kept muttering as she turned and shuffled back up the hall, leaving the front door wide open.

  John watched her disappear into the darkness of the hall before he went back to the ute. Billy had always come and gone as he wanted. Sometimes John wouldn’t see him from Monday to Friday, especially since he’d been spending so much time with Rashmi.

  What about his other friends? Schoolmates? John had no idea. He drove back to his house and set about searching Billy’s room properly. It wasn’t something he was keen to do, knowing what he’d been like at that age. He didn’t really want to find Billy’s version of his own sixteen-year-old’s secrets.

  It didn’t take long to go through the small bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and Billy’s clothes were put away. Maybe there weren’t as many clothes as usual, but it was hard to tell. John never paid much attention to what Billy wore. There were some books—novels and textbooks. The photos that Billy had stuck to the walls had been taken down and put neatly away in a drawer. John checked under the mattress then pulled all the dresser drawers right out but didn’t find anything hidden. There was no porn and no sign of drugs. That was something, he supposed, but it didn’t look like Billy expected to be using the room anytime soon, and there was nothing to indicate where he might have gone.

  Sitting on the bed, John wondered if he should be worried. It was the neatness that made up his mind. Although Billy wasn’t a naturally tidy kid, he was considerate of others. He would only leave the room like this if he thought he wasn’t coming back.

  Downstairs he found Shasta in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea in both hands and staring out the window.

  “When was the last time you saw Billy?” John asked.

  “Dunno, last weekend maybe. Up in Newtown, hanging out with those buskers near the Hub. I was on the way to the station. He had his camera, taking photos as usual. He wasn’t at his mother’s?”

  John shook his head.

  “And he’s not at his girlfriend’s?”

  “No, like I said, Rashmi’s gone too. Did you hear him say anything about going away with her?”

  “No, but I bet they’re together.”

  “She’s not his girlfriend,” John said.

  Shasta laughed. “Yes, she is. Rashmi might not think so, but Billy sure does.”

  “You reckon? What has he said?”

  “He doesn’t have to say anything. Just look at the way he follows her around, fetching and carrying. That’s love.”

  John shrugged. “Could be just, you know, her being disabled.”

  “No. Well, maybe at first, but it’s more than that. He’s in love. It’s cute.”

  Chapter 11

  Expensive Hobby

  Manny hadn’t found anything to like about Australia yet. It was too hot, too expensive, and no one knew how to drive properly. He and Ruth had arrived two days before Christmas, and the whole place was acting like it was already on holidays. From the customs people at the airport, chatting with one another as they waved Ruth and Manny through, to the smiley-faced clerk at the hotel with her jaunty Santa hat, everyone seemed to be thinking only about how soon they could quit work and go to the beach. After the long flight, Manny felt like shit, and their cheerfulness just made things worse. He hated the fact that Australians were so happy about living at the arse end of the planet.

  Jet lag seemed to have no effect on Ruth. She wanted to get on with things as soon as they arrived at their hotel. She got Manny to search an online phone directory for all the “S. Munros” in Sydney, convinced the son wouldn’t have changed his name.

  “Jean christened him Stephen Munro. I was there at the church, only christening I’ve ever been to. Why would he change his name? No one’s looking for a Munro, are they? They’re not even looking for a Finch, so why would they look for a Munro?”

  Manny thought that if it were him, if he’d taken up bank robbing, he would’ve changed his name, but he left that argument alone. They got about thirty hits for. “S. Munro.” Ruth sat up in bed, plotting out the addresses in a big street directory, and then she broke them up into lists. The ones around the city and in the east near the beaches, then further out: north, west, and south.

  The next morning, they set out early in a rental car to cover all the “S. Munros” close to the city. Almost immediately they were stuck in traffic, and when Ruth tried to get them off the main roads, they got tied up in a series of dead ends and one-way systems. The day grew hotter and hotter as they worked their way from one address to the next. The air conditioning was blasting away in the car, but every time they got out, the heat hit them like something solid.

  “Can you believe it’s Christmas Eve?” Ruth asked. It didn’t look or feel anything like Christmas to Manny. The decorations in the shops and on the streets seemed at odds with the heat and the harsh light.

  After no one was home at the first two addresses, they stopped at a local shopping centre and parked out the front in a wide, shadeless street. Ruth left Manny in the car, with the engine running and the air on. She reappeared five minutes later with a white straw sunhat, sunglasses, and two bottles of cold water.

  “Here, I got you these,” she said, passing him a pair of aviator-style sunglasses as Manny cracked open one of the bottles. “Put them on. I think they’ll suit you.”

  By the end of the day, they’d managed to go to twelve of the addresses. Only nine “S. Munros” were home, and none of them were Stewart Finch’s son.

  That night, they went out to a bar near the Opera House and sat on a terrace looking out on the harbour and the bridge. After being in the car all day, Manny had wanted to order room service and go to bed with the air conditioning on, but Ruth had insisted they go out.

  “Somewhere nice, to celebrate. I’m not coming all this way and not having some fun,” she’d said.

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Finding Stewart, of course.”

  Manny was sick of pointing out that Stewart Finch was dead and that they didn’t know where the son, Stevie, was.

  The harbourside bar that the hotel concierge had suggested offered stunning views, and was packed on Christmas Eve. Plenty of people were standing around in hopeful groups, waiting to nab a table as someone left. Ruth was in her element in this kind of competition. When she spotted a hint of movement at a table, she cut through the crowd like a shark through a ball of baitfish. She wrong-footed an eager young woman who was targeting the same table, swinging her handbag from one shoulder to the other as they converged on the table. The oversize bag would have concussed the other women if one of her friends hadn’t pulled her out of the way just in time.

  Ignoring the looks of outrage from the group of overdressed women, Ruth slid into a seat at the table as the previous occupant was still straightening up. She settled herself in, stacking the empty glasses neatly to one side while Manny was still catching up.

  They ate oysters and drank cold beer as the air cooled and the sky turned dark through shades of mauve and purple. The southern stars tried to twinkle but were no match for the city lights reflecting off the black water of the harbour.

  “It’s only the first day,” Ruth said when Manny complained about spending so many hours in the car. “And how else are we going to find him? I’m all ears if you’ve got any better ideas.” She picked up the last of the oysters and noi
sily sucked it out of its shell. “Tomorrow we’ll do the north and maybe part of the west. We could go to the beach afterwards if you want.”

  The beach sounded better to Manny than spending Christmas Day in the car. He’d be happy just to sit by the pool at the hotel. On the other hand, there’d be more women to watch at the beach. “Why don’t we take tomorrow off?” he said. “Go to Bondi?”

  “What? Are you expecting Santa or something? On Christmas Day, people will be at home. There’ll be less traffic. It’ll be the perfect day to find Stevie.”

  Manny sipped his beer. “What if he doesn’t live in Sydney?”

  “And what if he does?” Ruth looked up at him. “What’s wrong with you? Chances are he lives in Sydney. Four million others do…why wouldn’t he? And if he’s not here, well, then we’ll go look somewhere else.”

  She was right about the traffic being lighter. The addresses out in the suburbs were further apart, but she and Manny made good time, getting across the Harbour Bridge and heading out to the suburbs. At the first two addresses, they interrupted families in the middle their Christmas-morning routines. The first S. Munro of the day was in Chatswood. Simon Munro was tall and stooped, with one of those weird under-chin beards that only scientists or academics think are a good idea. The second was in North Ryde and turned out to be Suzanne, a single mum with two small kids who were trying out their new trampoline in the front garden.

  House number three was in Epping. A single-storey weatherboard bungalow with a red tile roof on a street full of houses that all looked pretty much the same, except for the various Christmas decorations. Some of the owners had gone to town, putting lights and glitter all over the fronts of their houses. One had a plastic Santa on the roof pretending to climb down a plastic chimney. The house didn’t have a real chimney. Some of the houses had figures set up on their front lawns, mostly Santas, either alone or with reindeer. A couple even had sleighs. One home had a bunch of giant yellow rabbits for some reason that Manny couldn’t work out. The decorations and fake snow looked sad and faded in the bright sunshine.

  The house they were looking for was number eighteen. Manny stayed in the car while Ruth did the honours. He uncapped a fresh bottle of water and took a drink, watching Ruth talk to a young woman. When the woman disappeared back inside, leaving the door open, Ruth turned towards Manny, grinning and giving him a thumbs-up and nodding madly. You’re joking, Manny thought. He dropped the water bottle and got out of the car. As he crossed the road, he saw the young woman return, this time leading a boy by the hand. The kid was six or seven, Manny guessed, and dressed up as some kind of superhero with a cape and mask. The woman stood talking to Ruth again, holding the boy in front of her, hands on his shoulders. The boy was looking up, watching Ruth’s face, clearly wondering what was going on. Manny waited in the road, watching Ruth shake the woman’s hand then turn to leave.

  “A fucking kid. Stephen Munro, son of Sheridan fucking Munro,” she said, walking past Manny and getting into the car.

  The next one was Shane Munro and the one after that Sebastian. They were working their way quickly through the list; everyone had been home so far today. In North Parramatta they had their first no-show. A bungalow with a terracotta roof and a narrow concrete path to the front door. Ruth rang the doorbell repeatedly while Manny checked the side of the house.

  “You ’right there, mate?”

  A head popped up from behind the unpainted paling fence as Manny turned around. “Oh, hi. Yes, maybe you can help me. My aunt and I are looking for one of our cousins. Uncle Ron seems to have given us the wrong phone number. We haven’t been able to get in touch. Stephen Munro? Do you know if he lives here?”

  “You from England?” the man asked, putting down the plastic cooler he was carrying.

  “Yes. London.” Ruth joined Manny by the fence. “Is this the right place? For Stephen Munro?”

  “Stephen, yeah. Not sure what his last name is.”

  “Dad.” A girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, stood on the veranda behind the man, shouting at him. “Mum wants to know if you put the drinks in.”

  “Yeah. ’Course I have,” the man yelled back.

  “He says yeah,” the girl shouted over her shoulder, at the open door behind her. Then she added, “Dunno. Nah, he’s talking to someone.” The girl looked across at Manny and Ruth. “I dunno do I? Just some people next door.”

  “We’re about to head off. Christmas lunch. The wife’s mother’s place,” the man said.

  “You don’t know where we could find Stephen, do you?” Manny asked.

  “Haven’t seen him for a few days. Probably visiting his father. Nice bloke, Scottish. Allan, Al. Bit of a joker.”

  “Don’t suppose you have an address for Allan?” Ruth said.

  “Da-ad,” the girl called.

  “Nah, sorry. I’d better go.” He hoisted the cooler and joined the girl and a younger boy who were waiting by a station wagon parked in the driveway. A plump woman carrying a large bowl covered with a tea towel emerged from the house.

  “Scottish father,” Manny said.

  Ruth nodded. “We need to look inside.”

  They walked slowly back to their car as the neighbour and his family loaded the station wagon up and backed out of the driveway. Ruth gave them a wave as they drove off.

  Manny scanned the street and the rest of the houses. “Clear,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They let themselves in through the side gate and walked around to the back of the house. When they were out of sight of the street, Manny passed a pair of nitrile gloves to Ruth and put a pair on himself.

  The back garden was a big rectangle of lawn, with a rotary clothesline in the middle. It was overlooked by an apartment block, with small windows facing into the yard. Just bathrooms, Manny decided, noting the frosted glass.

  He stepped up onto the timber deck that ran across the back of the house, watched by a large white cat curled up in a wicker chair. He peered through the glass sliding door into the living room beyond, then had a quick look at the door lock. “Easy,” he said, placing his hands flat on the glass. He bent his legs slightly and lifted. The cheap latch came free, and the door slid open. Manny stepped through, crossed the living room, and moved swiftly through the rest of the house.

  “Empty,” he said, coming back to the deck, where Ruth was stroking the cat.

  “First bedroom’s an office. Computers, filing cabinets.”

  “I’ll start there then,” Ruth said, leaving the cat behind.

  Manny went into the kitchen. The door of the stainless-steel fridge was covered with photographs of rally cars. Action shots mainly, cars going sideways, lots of dust. One photo was of a slim young man wearing the kind of overalls racing drivers wear, with a high neck and covered in sponsors’ logos. The guy was grinning at the camera, holding up a cheap-looking trophy. Manny slid aside the magnets holding the photo in place and took it to show Ruth. “Anything?”

  Ruth was rifling through the drawers of a filing cabinet. “Lots of receipts. Car stuff. Tyres, engine parts.”

  Manny showed her the photograph. “Do you think that’s him?”

  She took the photo and held it close, peering at the face. “Could be. The eyes…it could be.”

  “Looks like he’s into racing. Rally cars. Make sense if he was their driver.”

  “Expensive hobby,” Ruth said holding up a handful of bills.

  “He’d need somewhere to work on a car.”

  “A garage or a workshop.” She turned back to the filing cabinet and rummaged through the paper. “There are some electricity bills here somewhere… Here we go. Two sets of bills. This house and an address in…Toongabbie.”

  Manny typed the address into his phone. “It’s not far, about a ten-minute drive.”

  Chapter 12

  Water Dragon

  It was nearing 11:00 a.m. when the Greyhound bus pulled up in Brunswick Heads. Billy felt the heat and smelled the humid air as he stepped down out of
the air conditioning and onto the street. He waited at the door with Rashmi’s crutches, passing them up to her when she appeared at the top of the steps, then standing aside as she made her way down to the footpath.

  Rashmi stood in the middle of the crowded path, looking up and down for her grandfather while Billy collected their bags. There were plenty of people about—tourists, he supposed, here for the holidays.

  “I can’t see him,” she said, twisting her neck to check again as Billy carried the bags to a bench outside the visitor information office.

  The tourists on the street looked happy and relaxed. A lot of them were just wearing their swimsuits as they chatted or peered into shop windows. “How far is the beach?” Billy asked, as Rashmi followed him to the bench. He had caught a glimpse of the ocean just outside of Byron Bay: deep blue beyond the green hills.

  “You just go up there and turn right. Keep going over the bridge. It’s not far, five minutes maybe. We can get Grandpa to take us this afternoon if you want.”

  The two young couples who got off the bus with them were long gone, picked up by older people with cars. Probably their parents.

  “Usually I catch a plane,” Rashmi said. “Grandpa’s always been at the airport waiting for me. Never late. He’s always early for everything.”

  “Maybe he went to the airport by mistake,” Billy said.

  Rashmi shook her head. “I left him a message, told him I was coming by bus this time. I told him—he should be here.”

  “You didn’t speak to him?”

  “I left him a message. On his phone. He works during the day, mowing lawns. He can’t answer his phone when he’s mowing.”

  “Maybe he didn’t get the message.”

  “Why wouldn’t he? He checks them after work.”

  “I don’t know. But he’s not here, is he?” Billy was getting hungry. The sausage roll and chocolate milk he’d had when the bus had stopped for breakfast in Grafton seemed like years ago. He was tired too. The bus had made a lot of stops as it made its way north. Billy felt like every time he dropped off to sleep the bus would stop in some new town. “If we had our phones, we could call him,” he said, getting up and walking down to the corner, where some teenage boys in board shorts were standing outside a bakery, eating pies.