by Chris Hammer
‘Constable Haus-Jones?’ asks Martin, extending his hand. ‘Martin Scarsden.’
‘Martin, good morning,’ says the young officer in an unexpected baritone. ‘Come on through.’
‘Thank you.’
Martin follows the slight young man through to a plain office: desk; three grey filing cabinets, one with a combination lock; a detailed map of the district on the wall; a dead pot plant on the windowsill. Haus-Jones sits behind the desk; Martin takes one of the three chairs arranged in front of it.
‘Thank you very much for agreeing to speak to me,’ says Martin, deciding to skip the normal small talk. ‘I’d like to record the interview for accuracy, if that’s okay with you, but just let me know if at any stage you want to go off the record.’
‘That’s fine,’ says the policeman, ‘but before we start, can you run me through what you’re after? I know you explained yesterday, but I was a bit distracted. To be honest, I was being polite; I didn’t think the interview would be approved.’
‘I see. What changed?’
‘My sergeant down in Bellington. He urged me to do it.’
‘Well, I must thank him if I see him. The idea for the story isn’t to dwell on the shooting as such, although that’s the starting point. The idea is to report on how the town is coping a year later.’
The young officer has let his eyes drift to the window as Martin is speaking, and he leaves them there as he replies. ‘I see. Okay. Fire away.’ His eyes return to Martin, not a hint of irony in them.
‘Good. As I say, the shooting won’t be the focus of the story, but it makes sense to start there. Am I right to think this is the first time you’ve spoken to the media on the subject?’
‘First time for the city press, yes. I gave a few quotes to the Crier early on.’
‘Good. So let’s start.’ Martin activates the voice recorder on his phone and places it on the desk between them. ‘Can you take me through what happened that morning? Where you were, what happened next—that sort of thing.’
‘Sure, Martin. It was a Sunday morning, as you probably know. I wasn’t rostered on, but I’d come into work to clear up a few things before going to church.’
‘At St James?’
‘That’s right. I was right here, sitting at my desk. It was a warm morning, not as hot as today, the window was open. Perfectly normal day. It was about ten to eleven. I was just finishing up. Didn’t want to be late for church. Then I heard what must have been a shot, then another, but I thought nothing of it. Cars backfiring, kids with crackers, something like that. Then I heard a scream, and a man shouting, and then two more shots, and I knew. I wasn’t in uniform, but I got my gun from the locker and went outside. There were two more shots, in rapid succession. There was a car horn, more screaming, all coming from the direction of the church. I saw someone sprinting up to the corner of the primary school grounds, heading this way. There was another shot and the man fell. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. It was real but not real, like I’d been dropped into a bucket of madness.
‘I went back inside, rang Sergeant Walker at home in Bellington and alerted him, put on my body armour and went back outside. I ran along Somerset Street to where the body was lying in the road. It was Craig Landers. Dead. A single shot through his neck. There was a lot of blood. A lot of blood. I couldn’t see anybody else; I couldn’t hear anybody. The screaming had stopped. Everything was completely silent. There was one car parked outside the church on Somerset, more around the front, parked under the trees in Thames Street. I had no idea how many people might be there. There was no cover between me and the church. I was completely exposed. I thought about running back to the station, getting the vehicle, but then I heard another shot. So I started walking up the road towards the church.
‘When I got a bit closer, I ran to the back of the building, taking cover, and then worked my way up the side wall, gradually moving forward. When I got to the corner of the church and looked around I could see the bodies. Three on the lawn, another shot through the windscreen of a car. They were all dead, there was no question about that. And sitting on the church step, holding a rifle, its stock on the ground, was the priest, Reverend Swift. He was sitting perfectly still, looking straight ahead. I proceeded around the corner with my pistol trained on him. He turned and looked at me, but otherwise he didn’t move. I told him to release the rifle and raise his hands. He didn’t move. I took a few more steps forward. I’d decided that if he tried to raise the rifle I would shoot him. I thought the closer I got, the more chance I would have of hitting him.’
The policeman is looking at Martin as he speaks, his voice unemotional.
‘Did he speak?’ asks Martin.
‘Yes. He said, “Good morning, Robbie. I wondered when you’d get here.”’
‘He knew you?’
‘Yes. We were friends.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, what happened next?’
‘I took a couple of steps forward. Then…it was very fast. A car came through, along Thames Street, past the front of the church. I tried not to look at it, but it distracted me, and he had his gun on me before I knew it. He smiled. I remember the smile. He seemed calm. And then he fired, so I fired. I closed my eyes and fired twice, opened them and fired twice more. He was down, bleeding. He’d let the gun drop. I went to him, kicked it further away. He’d kind of crumpled, there on the steps. I’d hit him twice in the chest. I didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t a lot I could do. I held his hand while he died. He smiled at me.’ There’s silence in the small office. The policeman is looking out the window, his face tight, a slight frown creasing his young forehead. Martin lets the silence linger. He hadn’t been expecting this level of candour.
‘Constable Haus-Jones, have you recounted these events to anyone else?’
‘Of course. Three police inquiries and the coroner’s office.’
‘I mean, any other journalists or public forums?’
‘No. But it will all come out in the inquest anyway. It’s on in a month or two. Sergeant Walker suggested I tell you what I know, provided that it’s not contentious and that it’s based on fact.’
‘So you didn’t speak to my colleague, D’Arcy Defoe?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. The day of the shooting, what happened next?’
‘Next? Well, I was alone for quite a while. I guess people were still hiding. I went into the vestry and called through to Bellington on the church phone. Called my sergeant, called the hospital. Then I went outside and checked the bodies. Gradually people came out from behind cars and trees. But there was nothing we could do. The men were dead, all shot through the head, except for Gerry Torlini, who was in his car; he’d been shot through the chest and through the head.’
‘Which shot killed him?’
‘Whichever hit him first. Either would have killed him instantly.’
‘For the record, were the victims all locals?’
‘Local enough. Craig Landers ran the general store here in Riversend. Alf and Thom Newkirk owned adjacent farms just out of town. Gerry Torlini ran a fruit shop in Bellington and an irrigation orchard down by the Murray. Horace Grosvenor was a sales rep who lived in Bellington. So all from here or Bellington.’
‘All regular churchgoers?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Scarsden, I think you might be drifting from your brief. Are you investigating the shooting, or writing about Riversend?’
‘Sorry. It’s just that what you’re saying is intriguing. But you’re quite correct. Tell me, though: you said you considered the priest, Reverend Swift, a friend. How so?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘I think so. In writing about the impact of the shooting on the town, one of the things I’ll be looking at is attitudes towards the perpetrator.’
‘If you say so. I don’t quite see it myself, but you’re the journalist. Yes, I’d thought we were friends. I thought Byron was a good man. I thought he was
something special. How stupid is that? He’d come up once a fortnight to conduct a service, but when I told him I was having trouble with some of the young blokes around town he helped set up a youth centre. We used to run it together. He’d come up every Thursday afternoon, then later on Tuesdays as well. We held it in one of the demountables at the school, one that had been vandalised in the past. One of the things we did was fix it up. We did sport: footy and cricket on the oval. He’d take them swimming in the river, down at the weir, when we still had a river. The boys and girls never thought much of me, I was always the town copper, but they thought the world of him. He was very charismatic, had them eating out of his hand. Used to swear and smoke and tell dirty jokes. They loved it. Every now and then he’d slip a bit of God into it, but he was never heavy-handed. They thought he was cool.’
‘Did you?’
The policeman offers a sardonic smile. ‘Yeah, I guess I did. A town like this, isolated out on the plain, there’s not a lot for the kids. Parents under pressure, no money, hot as Hades. They get bored, and when they get bored they can get nasty. Picking fights, picking on each other. Big kids bullying little kids. And then Byron turned up and changed the dynamic. He was, I don’t know, kind of a Pied Piper figure. They’d follow him about.’
‘That’s impressive,’ says Martin. ‘But you know what was written about him after he died—that he abused some of those kids. What do you reckon?’
‘Sorry. That’s the subject of ongoing police inquiries. I couldn’t possibly comment.’
‘Understood. But could I ask if you ever witnessed anything to cause you to become concerned?’
Robbie considers his position before answering. ‘No. I never saw or heard anything like that. But then again, I’m a police officer. He would hardly be telling me, would he? More likely he saw me as a perfect cover.’
‘You resent that?’
‘If it’s true, of course I resent it.’
‘You say he was your friend. You say you admired him. What do you think of him now?’
‘I detest him. Forget the child abuse, that doesn’t come into it. He killed five innocent people and forced me to kill him. He destroyed families and ripped a hole in a respectable town. He offered hope and then wrenched it away again; set himself up as a role model for the youngsters, and then left them a terrifying example. Our town is now synonymous with mass murder, Mr Scarsden. We’re the Snowtown of the Riverina. It’s with us for good. I can’t begin to tell you how much I detest him.’
When Martin emerges from the police station half an hour later, he knows he has a red-hot story: a terrible story, a compelling story, a front-page story. He can already see the red EXCLUSIVE stamp: the police hero talking for the first time, his harrowing account of looking death in the eye, of shooting his friend dead, of holding his hand while he died. ‘Like being dropped into a bucket of madness.’ It would reignite the whole saga, fire the imagination of the public.
Martin looks back at the police station, enjoying the surge of adrenaline the interview has given him. He has no idea why Robbie Haus-Jones agreed to talk now and talk to him, and he has no idea why the senior man down in Bellington had encouraged him. But he is so glad that he did. This will show the doubters; Max will be proud.
MARTIN WANTS TO TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT THE CHURCH, TO RETRACE THE constable’s steps, but first there are more pressing concerns: coffee. It’s ten-thirty and he’s yet to have a decent cup. But when he gets to the Oasis, there’s a sign on the door, GON OUT, BACKSON, with a picture of Pooh Bear and Piglet. Whimsy, Martin decides, would be more appealing post-coffee than pre-coffee. Maybe the petrol station offers something approximate, or maybe the services club is open? Or he could return to the Black Dog and brew up another cup of bottled water, Nescafé and long-life milk. He opts for abstinence.
He turns from the bookshop and spies the shuffling man progressing slowly down the other side of the road. Martin figures the day has already climbed into the thirties, shaping as a repeat of yesterday’s scorcher, yet there the old fellow shambles, grey overcoat apparently surgically attached. Martin looks up and down Hay Road. There’s a woman using the ATM at the bank opposite the pub, and a couple emerging from a car and entering the general store, getting their supplies before the heat of the day really kicks in. Martin looks back, but the shuffling man has vanished. He should have progressed only another twenty metres or so, not out of sight. A car? Martin crosses the road. There are a couple of empty cars, but no sign of the old man.
The op shop is open, a rack of clothes placed out on the pavement. Martin enters. There’s an elderly woman sitting behind a desk doing a crossword. She nods at Martin and goes back to her puzzle. It’s a small shop, smelling of mothballs and old sweat, with racks of second-hand clothes, pre-loved toys and chipped kitchenware. No books, though, and no shuffling man. ‘Thanks,’ he says as he heads towards the door.
‘Nine letters, between heaven and hell,’ says the old woman without looking up.
‘Purgatory,’ says Martin.
The old woman harrumphs, but fills in the spaces anyway.
On the street Martin is still perplexed. Where has the old bastard gone? He walks past the hair salon and regards the abandoned building next door, chain and lock intact. Further along the real estate agent has placed a sandwich board on the pavement, declaring she’s open for business. Martin is thinking he’ll check it out, however unlikely it is that the old man is in the market for property, when he discovers a narrow lane, less than a metre wide, running between the abandoned store and the real estate agent. ‘Bingo,’ he mutters. Then he stops. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he engaging the crossword woman: ‘How’s business? More people donating than buying? Leaving town, dropping stuff off?’ Or the real estate agent: ‘Foreclosures up? Why? Drought or mass murder?’ But he has plenty of time for that. After all, he has Constable Robbie Haus-Jones captured for posterity on his phone; the rest will just be colour.
The alley runs between the two buildings, brick walls on each side. It’s littered with newspapers and plastic bags, and reeks of cat piss. The far end appears to be blocked off by sheets of corrugated iron. Martin progresses slowly, careful where he puts his feet. There is a small, barred window to his left with frosted glass. The real estate agent’s toilet, at a guess. Further down, recessed into the wall on the right, there’s a wooden door, red paint flaking. Martin tries the knob. The door opens, hinges complaining, and he enters a room from another time. It’s dark after the glare of Hay Road, light coming through where one of the boards across the front windows has been prised loose. There are several holes in the ceiling, and through one a shard of sunlight pierces the room, illuminating a slowly whirling cloud of dust. It’s a large room: floorboards broad and twisted, two tables, a few chairs, some benches along the far wall. The tables and chairs are pressed wood, cheap furniture from some distant decade in the middle of the last century. And sitting on a stool at what could be a counter, or what could be a bar, is the shambling man, with his back to Martin. The brown paper bag is on the counter, the neck of the bottle protruding, the lid removed.
‘Good morning,’ says Martin.
The man turns, seemingly unsurprised. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hemingway.’ And turns back.
Martin walks across to the counter. There’s a second stool beside the old man. On the counter are two small glasses half full of something dark and viscous. The shuffling man has his hand resting on one. Martin looks around. There is no one else in the room. He sits on the second stool.
The wino looks up from his drink. ‘Well, this time you’re half right.’
‘How’s that?’
‘This time it’s morning.’
‘Who are you drinking with?’ asks Martin.
‘No one. You. Ghosts. Does it matter?’
‘I guess not. What is this place?’
The man looks around then, as if only now realising where he’s sitting. ‘This, my friend, is the Riversend wine saloon.’
‘Seen better days.’
‘Haven’t we all.’ If the man is in any way inebriated, he doesn’t show it. Drunks sometimes don’t. Or maybe it’s still too early in the day. His hair is shoulder-length, unwashed and straggly, streaked with grey. His face is weather-beaten where it isn’t covered in a matted beard. His lips are cracked, but his blue eyes are canny and not so bloodshot.
‘I’ve never heard of a wine saloon,’ says Martin.
‘Of course you haven’t. The country’s full of ignoramuses; why should you be any different?’ The man’s voice is half tetchy, half amused.
Martin is unsure how to respond, looks at the glass in front of him.
‘Go on, take a sip. Won’t kill you.’
Martin complies. It’s cheap port, overly sweet and cloying. He nods his appreciation, raising a wry smile from his host.
‘You asked about the Commercial across the way?’ the man asks. ‘Seen plenty others like it, right? Your quintessential Aussie pub. You could put it on a fucken postcard, send it to yer Yankee friends. List it on the National Trust. Well, not this place. This is the history that doesn’t get told.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Jesus. Bright young bloke like you. Don’t they teach you any history in those universities?’
Martin laughs.
‘What’s so funny, Hemingway?’
‘I did history at university.’
‘Jesus, ask for yer fucken money back.’ But once the old coot has chuckled he grows serious. ‘It’s like this, young fella. In the old days, when it was still a going concern, the Commercial had three bars. There was the lounge bar: you could take the family, have a meal. There was the saloon bar: ladies allowed, but blokes needed to be dressed proper. Shirt with a collar, long trousers or shorts with long socks. Extremely classy, I can tell ya. And then there was the front bar, the workers’ bar. That’s where the shearers, the silo workers and the road crews could go for a beer without needing to wash, where they could swear and get pissed and leer at the barmaid. Pretty rough places, those front bars.’