Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  Martin strips off, goes into the bathroom, flushes the dead flies that have accumulated in the toilet bowl, relieves himself, flushes again. He runs the tap at the basin, fills one of the tumblers. The water smells of chlorine and tastes of river. He gets the shower going, not bothering with the hot tap, scowls at the flaccid water pressure, then steps under the flow and lets the water fall across him. He stands there until it no longer feels cool. He holds up his hands, examines them. They’ve turned white and puffy, wrinkled by the water, like a drowned corpse. When did his hands begin to look so foreign to him?

  His body cooler, the room reluctantly cooling, he dries himself and climbs into the bed, throwing off all but the sheet. He needs to rest. It’s been a long day: the early start, the flight, the drive, the heat. The heat. He sleeps. Awakens to a room growing darker.

  He dresses, drinks more of the abominable water, looks at his watch: seven-twenty.

  Outside, behind the motel, the sun persists in the January sky, hanging large and orange above the horizon. Martin leaves the car and walks. The Black Dog Motel, he realises, really is on the edge of town. There’s only a derelict service station between it and the empty paddocks. Across the road, there’s a railway line and a set of towering wheat silos, glowing golden in the setting sun. Martin takes a snap. Then he walks past the abandoned petrol station to where the entrance of the town is marked by the obligatory signs: RIVERSEND, says one; POPULATION 800, says another; LEVEL 5 WATER RESTRICTIONS NOW IN PLACE, says a third. Martin climbs a low ridge running perpendicular to the highway, not more than a metre high; he frames the signs with the abandoned service station on the left and the wheat silos on the right, the setting sun sending his shadow across the road behind the signs. He wonders how long ago the population was eight hundred, what it might be now.

  He walks back towards town, feeling the power of the sun on his back even this late in the day. There are houses abandoned and houses occupied, houses with drought-dead gardens and houses boasting bore-water verdure. He passes the green corrugated-steel shed of the volunteer fire brigade before pausing at the junction with Hay Road, with its shops sheltering beneath their joined awnings. Another photograph.

  He continues east along the highway, past a deserted supermarket, its sun-bleached CLOSING DOWN SALE banners still plastered to its doors; past the Shell service station, its owner giving him a friendly wave as he closes up for the night; alongside a park, green grass with more signs—BORE WATER ONLY, a band rotunda and a toilet block for motorists, all sitting below a levee bank. And another bridge, two lanes and concrete, stretching out across the river. Martin draws a map of Riversend in his mind: a T-junction fitted snugly into a curve in the river, with the levee bank cosseting the town to the north and east. Martin likes the layout; there is something considered and self-contained about it. Adrift on the vast inland plain, it anchors Riversend to some sense of purpose.

  He scrambles up the side of the levee bank beside the bridge, finding a foot track running along its ridge. He stands and looks back along the highway, wiping sweat from his brow. The horizon is lost in a haze of dust and heat, but he feels he can see the curvature of the earth, as if he’s standing on a headland looking out to sea. A truck thunders across the bridge and past him, heading west. The sun is setting, turned angry and orange by dust, and he watches the truck until it is first contorted, then swallowed whole by the haze.

  Martin leaves the road, walking on top of the levee bank. Beside him the riverbed, glimpsed through the gums, is cracked bare mud. He’s thinking the trees look healthy enough, until he comes to a dead trunk, looking as solid as its neighbours, just devoid of leaves. A flock of cockatoos passes overhead, their raucous calls awakening the sounds of other birds and creatures in the twilight. He follows the path until he reaches a curve in the riverbed. Above it, on a natural rise, sits a yellow-brick building, the Riversend Services and Bowling Club, its lights shining out through plate-glass windows above a steel-form deck, like a cruise ship beached at low tide.

  Inside the club, the air is cool. There’s a counter, with temporary membership forms and a sign instructing visitors to sign themselves in. Martin complies, tearing off a guest slip. The main room is large, with long windows looking out across the river bend, the trees almost imperceptible in the dusk outside the brightly lit room. There are tables and chairs, but no patrons. Not a soul. The only movement is the lights flashing garishly from poker machines standing beyond a low partition at the far end of the room. A barman is sitting behind the long bar reading a book. He looks up as Martin approaches.

  ‘G’day there. Get you a beer?’

  ‘Thanks. What’ve you got on tap?’

  ‘These two here.’

  Martin orders a schooner of Carlton Draught, asking the barman if he would like one.

  ‘No thanks,’ says the barman. He begins to pull Martin’s beer. ‘You the journo?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Martin. ‘Word spreads fast.’

  ‘Country towns. What can you say?’ says the barman. He looks like he’s in his early sixties, face red from a life of sun damage and beers, white hair combed and plastered in place by hair oil. His hands are large and marred by liver spots. Martin admires them. ‘Come to write about the shooting?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good luck finding anything new to say. Seems to me everything has been written three times over.’

  ‘You could be right about that.’

  The barman takes Martin’s money and deposits it in the till.

  ‘You don’t have wi-fi here, by any chance?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Sure do. In theory, anyway.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Doesn’t work half the time. And, when it does, it’s like drought relief: comes in dribs and drabs. But give it a whirl, there’s no one else here, so it mightn’t be clogged up.’

  Martin smiles. ‘What’s the password?’

  ‘Billabong. From back when we had one.’

  Martin succeeds in logging in on his phone, but his emails won’t load; there is only a spinning wheel of computational indecision. He gives up and puts the phone away. ‘I see what you mean.’

  He knows he should ask about the killings, how the town is reacting, but he feels somehow reluctant. So instead he asks where everyone is.

  ‘Mate, it’s Monday night. Who’s got money to drink on a Monday?’

  ‘How come you’re open then?’

  ‘’Cos if we’re not open, we’re shut. And there’s too many places shut around here.’

  ‘They can still afford to pay you, though?’

  ‘They don’t. Most days, we’re volunteers. Board members. We have a roster.’

  ‘That’s impressive. Wouldn’t happen in the city.’

  ‘It’s why we’re still open and the pub is shut. No one’s going to work in a pub for free.’

  ‘Pity to see it go, all the same.’

  ‘You’re right there. Bloke who ran it was decent enough—for an outsider. Sponsored the local footy team, bought local produce for his bistro. Didn’t save him from going out of business, though. Talking of bistros, you looking for something to eat?’

  ‘Yeah. What have you got?’

  ‘Nothing here. In the back, there’s Tommy’s takeaway, Saigon Asian, good as anything you’ll get in Sydney or Melbourne. But be quick, last orders at eight.’

  Martin checks his watch: five to eight.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, taking a long draught of his beer.

  ‘I’d let you sit here and eat it, but I need to be closing up myself. Only customers we get on a night like tonight—people having a quick one while they wait for their takeaway. But we’re open every night ’cept Sunday. And lunchtimes every day except Monday. Want to take any drink with you?’

  Martin imagines drinking by himself in his room at the Black Dog Motel. ‘No thanks,’ he says and drains his beer. He thanks the volunteer barman and extends his hand. ‘Martin,’ he says.


  ‘Errol. Errol Ryding,’ says the barman, taking Martin’s hand in his own impressive mitt.

  Errol, thinks Martin. So this is where all the Errols have gone.

  In the blackness Martin tries to stretch out and finds he can’t. His legs can’t straighten. Dread descends like a curtain, smothering him in claustrophobia. Tentatively he reaches out, fearful of what his fingers will find and knowing already the resistance they must encounter. Steel. Unbending, unforgiving, unrelenting. Fear is wrapping itself around his neck, stifling his breathing. He holds his breath, lest someone hear his slightest expiration. That noise—what is it he can hear? Footsteps? Come to free him, come to kill him? More noise. The distant crump of artillery, the soft percussion of impact. Martin no longer wants to stretch. He folds himself tighter, foetus-like, and puts his fingers in his ears, fearing the donkey bray of an AK-47. And yet there is a noise, a rumbling, a clanking. He removes his fingers, listens in hope and fear. A tank? Could it be a tank? He strains to hear the rumble of the engine, the clank of the tread. It must be close. The Israelis, invading? Come to rescue him? But do they know he’s here? Will they simply run the tank over him, crush him in his prison, unaware of his existence? Should he yell? Should he not? No. The soldiers would never hear him. Others might. And now. That roaring. Coming closer. A real roaring. An F16? One missile, one bomb, no one will ever know he was here, what became of him. The roar, closer and closer. What are they doing, coming in so low? A louder clank, and he’s awake, gulping air, tearing at his blanket. The lights from the passing truck penetrate the flimsy curtains of the Black Dog Motel as it roars its way east. ‘Fuck,’ exclaims Martin. The growl of the truck recedes, leaving only the tank-engine whir of the air-con. ‘Fuck,’ says Martin again, extricating himself from the blanket, turning on the fluoro strip light. The bedside clock says 3.45 am. He sits up and gulps down a tumbler of pungent water, but his mouth is still dry and salty from the takeaway. Perhaps he should have brought some grog back after all. He considers the pills in his travel bag, but he’s not going back there. Instead, he begins the long wait for dawn.

  MARTIN WALKS OUT BEFORE THE DAWN, THE AIR COOL AND THE SKY MUTED, finding his way through deserted streets to the epicentre of his story: St James. He stands before the church as the sun lifts from the horizon and sends shafts of golden light through the branches of the river red gums. He’s seeing it for the first time, but the building is familiar nevertheless: red brick and corrugated-iron roof, raised ever so slightly above the surrounding ground, half a dozen steps leading up to a utilitarian oblong of a building, its purpose suggested by the arch of its portico, the pitch of its roof and the length of its windows, and confirmed by the cross on its roof. A rudimentary belltower stands to one side: two concrete pillars, a bell and a rope. ST JAMES: SERVICES FIRST AND THIRD SUNDAYS OF THE MONTH—11 AM, says the sign, black paint on white. The church stands alone, austere. There is no surrounding wall, no graveyard, no protective shrubs or trees.

  Martin walks the cracked concrete path to the steps. There is nothing to indicate what occurred here almost a year ago: no plaque, no homemade crosses, no withered flowers. Martin wonders why not: the most traumatic event in the town’s history and nothing to mark it. Nothing for the victims, nothing for the bereaved. Perhaps it’s too soon, the events still too raw; perhaps the town is wary of sightseers and souvenir hunters; perhaps it wants to erase the shooting from its collective memory and pretend it never happened.

  He examines the steps. No stains, no marks; the sun has bleached the cement, sterilised the crime scene. On either side of the path, the grass looks dead, killed off by the sun and lack of water. He tries the door, hoping the interior might prove more forthcoming, give some insight into the town’s reaction, but finds it locked. So he walks around the building, searching for some useful detail, but there is nothing to see. St James remains impervious to scrutiny, surrendering nothing to journalistic inquiry. He takes some pictures he knows he will never look at.

  A longing for coffee is building inside him; he wonders what time the bookstore opens. His watch says six-thirty. Not yet, he guesses. He follows Somerset Street south, St James on his right, the primary school to his left. The road curves. He can see the rear of the motel behind a wooden fence. He passes the police station and arrives back at Hay Road, the main street. In the centre of the intersection, standing on a pedestal, head bowed, is the life-size statue of a soldier dressed in the uniform of the First World War: boots, leggings, slouch hat. The soldier is standing at ease, his gun by his side. Martin looks up, regarding the dead bronze eyes. There are white marble slabs mounted on the plinth listing the locals who died for their country: the Boer War, the world wars, Korea and Vietnam. Martin looks again into the face of the bronze digger. This town is not new to trauma and the traumatised. But perhaps war is easier to memorialise than mass murder; war has some point to it, or so its widows are told.

  A ute makes its way down from the highway, its driver flicking the ubiquitous finger of acknowledgement to Martin, who awkwardly returns the gesture. The vehicle continues on its way, heading up onto the bridge and out of town. It’s Tuesday morning. Martin recalls Mathilda’s Op Shop opening only on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Were other businesses the same, the ones still surviving, their owners conspiring to concentrate their meagre earnings into a couple of hours each week, townspeople and farmers doing their best to support them? A town circling the wagons against drought and economic decline? If so, Martin knows he needs to make the most of it, introducing himself to people while they’re out and about, canvassing their views and probing their feelings, judging how much life is left in Riversend. He walks across to the bank. Sure enough: open Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It’s the same at the dry goods store, Jennings, diagonally opposite, but the Commercial Hotel, freshly painted, will remain closed no matter what the day of the week. Next to the pub, closer again to the bridge, is Landers’ General Store and Supplies. Open seven days. Martin makes a mental note: Craig Landers was one of those killed in the shooting. Who is running the store now? His widow? Mandalay had mentioned her name, Fran, said they were friends.

  For a moment he’s distracted by what sounds like distant thunder. He searches the sky for confirmation, but there’s not even a wisp of cloud, let alone a thunderhead. The thunder comes again, persists, grows closer. Four bikies appear, coming down Hay Road from the highway, riding two abreast, faces unsmiling. Their machines throb and pulsate, the sound bouncing off the buildings and reverberating in Martin’s chest. They wear matte black helmets, sunglasses, beards and moustaches. They aren’t wearing leather jackets, just their colours on thin denim with cut-off sleeves: Reapers, with a silhouette of the grim reaper and his scythe. Their arms bulge with muscles and tattoos, their faces with attitude. The men pass, seemingly oblivious of Martin. He takes a photo with his phone, then another, as they continue on their way, heading up onto the bridge. A minute or two later, the thunder is gone and Riversend returns to torpor.

  It’s half an hour before another vehicle appears. A red station wagon turns in from the highway, passes the soldier and parks outside the general store. As Martin approaches, a woman emerges from the car, springs the boot and picks up a small bale of newspapers. She looks about his age, with short dark hair and a pretty face.

  ‘Can I give you a hand?’ offers Martin.

  ‘Sure,’ says the woman. Martin reaches into the back of the car, pulling out a tray with a dozen loaves of bread in brown paper wrappers. The bread is warm and the smell enticing. He follows her into the store and sets the tray on the counter.

  ‘Thanks,’ says the woman. She’s about to say something else, but stops, her mouth contracting from a flirtatious smile to a puckered scowl. ‘You’re the journalist, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘You’re not that Defoe man, are you?’

  ‘No. My name is Martin Scarsden. Are you Mrs Landers? Fran, isn’t it?’

  ‘I am. But I have abso
lutely nothing to say to you. Or to any of your ilk.’

  ‘I see. Any particular reason?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse. Now, unless you want to buy something, please leave.’

  ‘All right. Message received.’ Martin makes to leave, then thinks better of it. ‘Actually, do you sell bottled water?’

  ‘Down the end there. Cheaper by the dozen.’

  At the end of the aisle there’s a stack of generic brand one-litre bottles of mineral water held together in half-dozens by cling wrap. Martin picks up two, one in each hand. At the counter he selects one of the loaves of bread.

  ‘Look,’ he says to the widow, who is cutting free the newspapers, ‘I really don’t want to intrude—’

  ‘Good, then don’t. You people have done enough damage.’

  A retort comes to mind, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he takes the two Melbourne newspapers, the Herald Sun and The Age, plus the Bellington Weekly Crier, pays and leaves. LABOR RORTS, yells the Herald Sun; ICE EPIDEMIC’S NEW WAVE, warns The Age; DROUGHT DEEPENS, weeps the Crier. Outside, he desperately wants to break open one of the sixpacks of water, but realises that once the cling wrap is compromised, the bottles will be all but impossible to carry, so he heads back towards the Black Dog. On the way he checks the Oasis, but the bookshop and its coffee machine are not yet operating.

  At quarter past nine, having feasted on bread, bottled water and instant coffee amid the Black Dog’s cigarette butt-strewn car park, Martin is at the police station. It’s a converted house, not a purpose-built station; a solid-looking little red-brick affair supporting a new grey steel roof, dwarfed somewhat by its large blue-and-white sign, sitting on the corner of Gloucester Road and Somerset Street, next to the bank and opposite the primary school. This is the one interview he was able to organise in advance, calling through on his mobile from Wagga the morning before. Inside, working at the counter, is Constable Robbie Haus-Jones. Ever since the shooting he’s been hailed as a hero, but to Martin he looks like a teenage boy, with acne and an unconvincing moustache.