by Chris Hammer
‘Here,’ she says, frowning ever so slightly. She places a large white mug on the table beside him. As she bends, he captures some coffee-tinted fragrance. Fool, he thinks.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she says, ‘but I made myself one too. We don’t get that many visitors.’
‘Of course,’ he hears himself saying. ‘Sit down.’
Some part of Martin wants to make small talk, make her laugh, charm her. He thinks he remembers how—his own good looks can’t have totally deserted him—but he glances again at his hands, and decides not to. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, surprising himself with the bluntness of his question.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What are you doing in Riversend?’
‘I live here.’
‘I know. But why?’
Her smile fades as she regards him more seriously. ‘Is there some reason I shouldn’t live here?’
‘This.’ Martin lifts his arms, gestures at the store around him. ‘Books, culture, literature. Your uni books over there, on the shelf below your mother’s. And you. This town is dying. You don’t belong here.’
She doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. Instead, she just looks at him, considering him, letting the silence extend before responding. ‘You’re Martin Scarsden, aren’t you?’ Her eyes are locked on his.
He returns her gaze. ‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘I remember the reports,’ she says. ‘I’m glad you got out alive. It must have been terrible.’
‘Yes, it was,’ he says.
Minutes pass. Martin sips his coffee. It’s not bad; he’s had worse in Sydney. Again the curious longing for a cigarette. The silence is awkward, and then it’s not. More minutes pass. He’s glad he’s here, in the Oasis, sharing silences with this beautiful young woman.
She speaks first. ‘I came back eighteen months ago, when my mother was dying. To look after her. Now…well, if I leave, the bookshop, her bookshop, it closes down. It will happen soon enough, but I’m not there yet.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so direct.’
She takes up her coffee, wraps her hands around her mug: a gesture of comfort, of confiding and sharing, strangely appropriate despite the heat of the day. ‘So, Martin Scarsden, what are you doing in Riversend?’
‘A story. My editor sent me. Thought it would be good for me to get out and breathe some healthy country air. “Blow away the cobwebs,” he said.’
‘What? The drought?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Good God. The shooting? Again? It was almost a year ago.’
‘Yeah. That’s the hook: “A year on, how is Riversend coping?” Like a profile piece, but of a town, not a person. We’ll print it on the anniversary.’
‘That was your idea?’
‘My editor’s.’
‘What a genius. And he sent you? To write about a town in trauma?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Christ.’
And they sit in silence once more. The young woman rests her chin in one hand, staring unseeing at a book on one of the tables, while Martin examines her, no longer exploring her beauty, but pondering her decision to remain in Riversend. He sees the fine lines around her eyes, suspects she’s older than he first thought. Mid-twenties, maybe. Young, at least in comparison to him. They sit like that for some minutes, a bookstore tableau, before she lifts her gaze and meets his eyes. A moment passes, a connection is made. When she speaks, her voice is almost a whisper.
‘Martin, there’s a better story, you know. Better than wallowing in the pain of a town in mourning.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Why he did it.’
‘I think we know that, don’t we?’
‘Child abuse? An easy allegation to level at a dead priest. I don’t believe it. Not every priest is a paedophile.’
Martin can’t hold the intensity of her gaze; he looks at his coffee, not knowing what to say.
The young woman persists. ‘D’Arcy Defoe. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But he’s an excellent journalist. The story won a Walkley. Deservedly so.’
‘It was wrong.’
Martin hesitates; he doesn’t know where this is going. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mandalay Blonde. Everyone calls me Mandy.’
‘Mandalay? That’s something.’
‘My mum. She liked the sound of it. Liked the idea of travelling the world, unfettered.’
‘And did she?’
‘No. Never left Australia.’
‘Okay, Mandy. Byron Swift shot five people dead. You tell me: why did he do it?’
‘I don’t know. But if you found out, that would be a hell of a story, wouldn’t it?’
‘I guess. But if you don’t know why he did it, who’s going to tell me?’
She doesn’t respond to that, not straight away. Martin is feeling disconcerted. He’d thought he’d found a refuge in the bookstore; now he feels as if he’s spoilt it. He’s not sure what to say, whether he should apologise, or make light of it, or thank her for the coffee and leave.
But Mandalay Blonde hasn’t taken offence; she leans in towards him, voice low. ‘Martin, I want to tell you something. But not for publication, not for repetition. Between you and me. Are you okay with that?’
‘What’s so sensitive?’
‘I need to live in this town, that’s what. So write what you like about Byron—he’s past caring—but please leave me out of it. All right?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
She leans back, considering her next words. Martin realises how quiet the bookstore is, insulated against sound as well as light and heat. He can hear the slow revolving of the fan, the hum of its electric motor, the tinkling of the water on the counter, the slow breath of Mandalay Blonde. Mandy looks him in the eye, then swallows, as if summoning courage.
‘There was something holy about him. Like a saint or something.’
‘He killed five people.’
‘I know. I was here. It was awful. I knew some of the victims; I know their widows. Fran Landers is a friend of mine. So you tell me: why don’t I hate him? Why do I feel as if what happened was somehow inevitable? Why is that?’ Her eyes are pleading, her voice intense. ‘Why?’
‘Okay, Mandy, tell me. I’m listening.’
‘You can’t write any of this. Not the stuff about me. Agreed?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘He saved my life. I owe him my life. He was a good man.’ The distress eddies across her face like wind across a pond.
‘Go on.’
‘Mum was dying, I got pregnant. Not for the first time. A one-night stand with some arsehole down in Melbourne. I was thinking of killing myself; I could see no future, not one worth living. This shitty town, that shitty life. And he saw it. He walked into the bookstore, started his banter and flirting like usual, and then he stopped. Just like that. He looked into my eyes and he knew. And he cared. He talked me around, over a week, over a month. Taught me how to stop running, taught me the value of things. He cared, he sympathised, he understood the pain of others. People like him don’t abuse children; how could they?’ There is passion in her voice, conviction in her words.
‘Do you believe in God?’ she asks.
‘No,’ says Martin.
‘No, neither do I. What about fate?’
‘No.’
‘That I’m not so sure about. Karma?’
‘Mandy, where is this going?’
‘He used to come into the store, buying books and drinking coffee. I didn’t know he was a priest at first. He was attentive, he was charming and he was different. I liked him. Mum really liked him. He could talk about books and history and philosophy. We used to love it when he dropped by. I was disappointed when I learnt he was a priest; I kind of fancied him.’
‘Did he fancy you?’ Looking at her, Martin finds it difficult to imagine a man who wouldn’t.
She smiles. ‘O
f course not. I was pregnant.’
‘But you liked him?’
‘Everyone did. He was so witty, so charismatic. Mum was dying, the town was dying, and here he was: young and vital and unbowed, full of self-belief and promise. And then he became more than that—my friend, my confessor, my saviour. He listened to me, understood me, understood what I was going through. No judgement, no admonition. He’d always drop by when he was in town, always check on how we were doing. In Mum’s last days, at the hospital down in Bellington, he comforted her, and he comforted me. He was a good man. And then he was gone as well.’
More silence. This time it’s Martin who speaks first. ‘Did you have your baby?’
‘Yes. Of course. Liam. He’s sleeping out the back. I’ll introduce you if you’re still here when he wakes up.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Thank you.’
Martin chooses his words carefully, at least he tries to, knowing they can never be the right words. ‘Mandy, I understand that Byron Swift was kind to you. I can readily accept he wasn’t all bad, that he was sincere. But that doesn’t equal redemption, not for what he did. And it doesn’t mean the allegations aren’t true. I’m sorry.’
His words do nothing to persuade her; she merely looks more determined. ‘Martin, I’m telling you, he looked into my soul. I glimpsed his. He was a good man. He knew I was in pain and he helped me.’
‘But how can you reconcile that with what he did? He committed mass murder.’
‘I know. I know. I can’t reconcile it. I know he did it; I don’t deny it. And it’s been messing me up ever since. The one truly decent human being I ever met besides my mother turns out to be this horror show. But here’s the thing: I can believe he shot those people. I know he did it. It even rings true, feels right in some perverse way, even if I don’t know why he did it. But I can’t believe he abused children. As a kid I got bullied and bashed, as a teenager I got slandered and groped, and as an adult I’ve been ostracised and criticised and marginalised. I’ve had plenty of abusive boyfriends—almost the only kind of boyfriends I ever did have; narcissistic arseholes capable only of thinking of themselves. Liam’s father is one of them. I know that mentality. I’ve seen it up close and nasty. That wasn’t his mentality; he was the opposite. He cared. That’s what’s fucking me up. And that’s why I don’t believe he abused children. He cared.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say. He sees the passion on her face, hears the fervour in her voice. But a mass murderer who cared? So he doesn’t say anything, just looks back into Mandalay Blonde’s troubled green eyes.
MARTIN FINDS HIMSELF STANDING BACK IN THE STREET, AS IF WAKING FROM a dream; he hasn’t bought a book; he hasn’t asked directions to the hotel. He checks his phone, thinking of accessing Google Maps, but there is no service. Christ, no mobile phone. He hadn’t thought of that. He regards the town as he might a foreign land.
The early start, the long drive and the heat have drained him, leaving him feeling hazy. If anything, the day has grown hotter, the glare beyond the shop awnings more dazzling. Nothing moves, except the shimmering heat haze rising from the street. The temperature must have hit forty, without a breath of wind. He walks into the brightness. Touching the roof of his car is like touching a skillet. Something moves in the stillness, a shifting at the edge of vision, but when he turns he can’t see anything. No—there, in the centre of the street: a lizard. He walks across. It’s a stumpy tail, still as death. Bitumen is seeping through cracks in the road and Martin wonders if the lizard has become stuck. But it scurries away, blood quickened by the heat, rushing under a parked car. Another sound. A spluttering cough. Martin turns, sees the man shuffling along under the awnings on the other side of the road. The same man, in his grey overcoat, still clutching the bottle in the brown paper bag. Martin walks across to greet him.
‘Good morning.’
The man is stooped. And apparently deaf. He keeps shuffling, not acknowledging Martin’s existence.
‘Good morning,’ Martin repeats more loudly.
The man stops, looks up and around, as if hearing distant thunder, locating Martin’s face. ‘What?’ The man has a grizzled beard, streaked with grey, and rheumy eyes.
‘Good morning,’ Martin says for a third time.
‘It’s not good and it’s not morning. Whatcha want?’
‘Can you tell me where the hotel is?’
‘There is no hotel.’
‘Yes, there is.’ Martin knows; he read the clippings on his laptop during the flight down, including Defoe’s award-winning piece describing the pub as the heart of the town. ‘The Commercial.’
‘Shut. Six months ago. Good fucken riddance. There it is, over there.’ He waves his arm. Martin looks back the way he drove into town. How did he miss it? The old pub, the only two-storey building on the main street, stands at the intersection with its signage intact and an inviting wraparound verandah, looking not so much shut down as closed for the day. The man pulls the top of the bag back, unscrews the bottle and takes a swig. ‘Here. Want some?’
‘No thanks. Not right now. Tell me, is there anywhere else in town to stay?’
‘Try the motel. Better be quick, though. Way things are turning to shit round here, it might be next.’
‘Where can I find it?’
The man regards Martin. ‘Which way you come in? From Bellington? Deni?’
‘No, from Hay.’
‘Fuck of a drive. Well, head down here, the way you were going. Turn right at the stop sign. Towards Bellington, not Deniliquin. Motel’s on the right, on the edge of town. About two hundred metres.’
‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’
‘Appreciate it? You some sort of fuckin’ Yank? That’s how they talk.’
‘No. I just meant “thank you”.’
‘Goodo. Piss off then.’
And the derro continues on his shambling way. Martin extracts his phone and takes a snap of his receding back.
Getting into the car is no easy task. Martin wets his fingers with his tongue, so he can grab the doorhandle for long enough to swing it open, inserting his leg to stop the slope swinging the door shut again. Inside, the car is like a tandoori oven. He starts the engine, cranking up the air-conditioner, which does nothing more than pump hot air around the cabin. There’s an ugly smell, the residual vomit of some former hirer, lifted from the fabric seats by the baking heat. The seatbelt buckle has been sitting in the sun and is too hot to handle; Martin goes without. He drapes the once-damp towel around the steering wheel so he can hold it. ‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters.
He navigates the few hundred metres to the motel, swings the car into the shade of a carport by the entrance and gets out, chuckling to himself, spirits revived. He extracts his phone, takes a couple of photos. THE BLACK DOG MOTEL, says the peeling sign. VACANCY. And best of all: NO PETS ALLOWED. Martin laughs. Gold. How did Defoe miss this? Maybe the smooth bastard never moved from the pub.
Inside reception, there’s still no respite from the heat. Martin can hear a television from somewhere deep inside the building. There’s a buzzer on the counter, a doorbell adapted for the task. Martin presses it and hears a distant chirping off in the direction of the television. While he waits, he checks out a handful of brochures in a wire rack hanging from the brick wall. Pizza, Murray River cruises, a winery, a citrus farm, gliding, go-karts, another motel, a bed and breakfast. A swimming pool with water slides. All of them forty minutes away, in Bellington, down on the Murray. On the counter itself are a handful of takeaway menus printed in red ink. Saigon Asian—Vietnamese, Thai, Chinese, Indian, Australian meals. Services Club, Riversend. Martin folds one and puts it in his pocket. At least he won’t starve.
A blowzy woman in her fifties wafts out from behind a semi-mirrored swing door, bringing with her an ephemeral gust of cool air and the smell of cleaning products. Her shoulder-length hair is two-tone: most of it’s blonde, but the inch or so closest to her scalp has grown out into a doormat weave of
brown and grey. ‘Hi, love. After a room?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Quick kip or overnight?’
‘No, probably three or four nights.’
She takes a longer look at Martin. ‘Not a problem. Let me check our bookings.’
The woman sits down and kicks an ageing computer to life. Martin looks out the door. There are no other cars, only his, under the carport.
‘You’re in luck. Four nights was it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Not a problem. Payment in advance, if that’s okay with you. Day by day after that if you stay longer.’
Martin hands over his Fairfax company credit card. The woman looks at it, then up at Martin, placing him in context.
‘You’re from The Age?’
‘Sydney Morning Herald.’
‘Not a problem,’ she murmurs and runs the card through the EFTPOS handset. ‘Okay, love, you’re in six. Here’s your key. Wait a tick, I’ll get you some milk. Turn your fridge on when you get in, and make sure you turn the lights and air-con off when you leave the room. Power bills are killing us.’
‘Thanks,’ says Martin. ‘Do you have wi-fi?’
‘Nup.’
‘And no mobile reception?’
‘Did before the election. Now the tower’s down. Expect they’ll fix it in time for the next vote.’ Her smile is a sardonic one. ‘There’s a landline in your room. Worked last time I checked. Anything else I can help you with?’
‘Yeah. The name of your motel. It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?’
‘Nup. Not forty years ago it wasn’t. Why should we change it just because some bunch of losers like the sound of it?’
Martin’s room is soulless. Having read Defoe’s piece, he’d been looking forward to staying in the pub: beers with the locals, a flow of information from candid bar staff, a counter meal of local steak and overcooked vegetables, a short climb up the stairs to sleep. Perhaps a midnight stagger down the corridor to the communal toilet for a piss, to be sure, but an old building with some character, oozing stories, not the utilitarian blandness of this dogbox: a bare fluorescent tube for a light, a sagging bed with brown spread, the chemical stench of air freshener, a grunting bar fridge and a clanking air-conditioner. There’s a phone and a bedside clock, both decades old. Better than sleeping in the car, but not much. He calls the news desk, gives them the motel’s number, warns them that his mobile is out of action.