by Chris Hammer
‘And what was this place?’
‘This place was for those who weren’t good enough for the front bar.’
‘You serious?’
‘’Course I’m fucken serious. Do I look like a clown?’
‘So who came here?’
‘You’re a smart fella. Know anything about post-traumatic stress disorder?’
Martin nods. He’s not about to confess the condition largely remains a mystery to him, even after a year of counselling.
‘Yeah, well, there was a time when this country was flooded with it. Flooded. Except it wasn’t called PTSD back then. It was called shell shock, if it was called anything at all. Thousands of men, tens of thousands. Back from the Western Front; later on, back from fighting Hitler and Tojo. Some missing legs, or arms, or deaf or blind. Some full of syphilis and clap and tuberculosis. Some much more fucked up than that. Ugly, violent, alcoholic men. Drifting round the countryside, swarms of ’em during the Depression, moved on from place to place like sheep sent down a stock route. Except instead of heading towards the abattoir, they were coming back from one. You seen the memorial down at the crossroads, outside the pub? Fucken joke, isn’t it? They cast ’em in bronze, raised ’em high, called ’em heroes. But some of those names, some of those very names carved on that memorial, some of them would have ended up here or in places like this. They were all over the place, these wine saloons, in the bush and in the cities. Every country town had one. It was different in those days. No Medibank, no Medicare, no cheap medicine. They self-medicated. It weren’t no table wine they served in wine saloons, it was plonk: flagon port and cooking sherry and home-stilled spirits. Nasty, cheap and effective. This is where they came, the walking ghosts who weren’t welcome in the Commercial fucken Hotel.’
‘I never knew,’ says Martin. ‘Are you a veteran, then? Vietnam?’
‘Me? Nah. Not of any war, anyway.’
‘So why come here? Why not the pub? Or the club?’
‘Because, I’m a bit like those old fellas. I’m not welcome in the front bar. Besides, I like it here. No one’s going to bother me here.’
‘Why aren’t you welcome in the front bar?’ Martin persists.
The old man takes a slug of his drink. ‘Pub’s shut. You want some more?’
‘Bit early in the day for me.’ Martin hears a scrabbling noise. Over against the wall, under a bench, a mouse moves furtively along the skirting board.
‘I’m not so popular round here,’ volunteers the man. ‘Don’t live up to the civic standards. You’re the first living person I’ve spoken more than three words to for a year.’
‘So why stay?’
‘I grew up here. This is where I’m from. So fuck ’em, I’m staying.’
‘What did you do? To get everyone so offside?’
‘Nothing, to tell you the truth. Or not much. But ask around, see what they say. They’ll tell you I’m a crook, that I’ve spent half my life in Long Bay, or Goulburn or Boggo Road. It’s bullshit, but people believe what they want to believe. Can’t say I care. That’s their problem.’
Martin regards the face, the slightly bulbous nose, veins showing, and the grizzled beard. The face is lived in, but in the muted light Martin can’t guess its age. Anywhere between forty and seventy. On the back of the man’s hands and wrists are the blurry blue lines of prison tattoos. Yet the eyes are alert; Martin feels the old tramp assessing him. ‘Well, nice to meet you. I’d better get going. What’s your name?’
‘Snouch. Harley Snouch.’
‘Martin Scarsden, Harley.’ The men don’t shake hands.
Martin turns to leave, but the old man isn’t finished. ‘The priest. Don’t believe everything you’re told. People believe what they want to believe; doesn’t mean it’s true.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was a charmer, mate. Could charm the pants off a possum. People liked him, don’t want to admit they got him wrong.’
‘In what way?’
‘The kids. What your mate wrote in the paper. It was dead right. But lots of people don’t want to believe it, don’t want to admit it was going on under their noses.’
‘So you believe it?’
‘Sure. I seen him with those kids, giving them hugs and whatnot. Swimming with them down at the weir. All over ’em like a rash.’
‘Did you tell anyone? The police?’
‘Mate, I don’t talk to the police. Not if I can help it.’
‘What about Swift himself? Did you ever talk with him?’
‘Sure. Plenty. Man of the cloth, guess it was his duty, ministering to the likes of me. He’d come in here for a drink on occasion. Could put it away, too. Not a pissant like you. Tell his dirty jokes and filthy stories.’
‘What? He alluded to abuse?’
‘Yeah, alluded. That’s a good way of putting it. Checking me out, no doubt, looking for an accomplice. Once he realised he had the wrong bloke, he backed off. But, mate, I’m the invisible man. I walk round this town and people don’t see me. Doesn’t mean I don’t see them.’
‘So what did you see? Did you see Swift engaged in anything criminal?’
‘Criminal? No, I wouldn’t say that. But I saw him with those kids and I listened to his unsavoury jokes. All I’m saying is don’t believe everything you’re told.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. In fact, don’t mention me. Leave my name out of that shit sheet of yours.’
‘See what I can do.’
‘Fucken journo.’
Back on the main street, the day is growing heavy with heat, but the air smells of nothing more dishonest than dust and the sun has an antiseptic sting to it. Martin crosses the road towards the Oasis. He wonders if the invisible man is watching him through the boarded-up window, but figures Harley Snouch is still at the bar conversing with his ghosts. Martin stops in the middle of the road, turns back and snaps a photo, but suspects the contrast is too great—the wine saloon’s facade is too dark against the shattering brightness. Martin squints, but can’t even make out the screen on his phone. He walks back under the awning and takes a closer shot of the rusting chain and its padlock.
At the Oasis the Pooh Bear sign has been removed from the door. Martin enters, is surprised to see a couple of customers, two elderly ladies drinking tea at one of the tables. In a clear space in the centre of the rug, next to a playpen, a baby is rocking gently up and down in a lightweight bassinet, sucking on a bottle.
‘Good morning,’ says Martin.
One of the women beams in affirmation. ‘Isn’t it?’
Mandy appears, pushing through the swing door at the back of the shop, carrying a tray with scones, jam and cream. She offers Martin a smile, replete with dimples. ‘Wouldn’t you know it? Peak hour. Let me finish up with the sisters.’
A few minutes later she’s back, having delivered morning tea to the old women. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Hope you haven’t come to chat. Liam’s been a little shit this morning. Can I get you something?’
‘He looks jolly enough.’
‘Yeah. Wait till he’s finished his bottle.’
‘A large flat white then, biggest you’ve got. Double shot if it’s big, triple shot if it’s bigger.’
‘Done. You want takeaway?’
‘Might have it here, if that’s okay?’
‘No problem. Get a book while you’re at it. You forgot yesterday.’
Martin does what he’s told, but not before making some unconvincing cooing noises at the baby, who studiously ignores him and concentrates on the bottle instead. He’s a chubby little fellow, dark brown eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. The old women regard him indulgently.
By the time Mandy returns, Martin has picked out a couple of worn paperbacks, one a detective book, the other a travel story, both by unfamiliar authors. She is carrying a Bavarian beer stein, complete with a conical metal cap. Martin laughs. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Largest I’ve got.’
‘Thanks.’
Martin enjoys his coffee, flicking idly through his books. The old ladies finish their morning tea, thank Mandy and pay, their demeanour relentlessly cheerful. Mandy clears their plates, taking them out through the back of the store. It’s a curious setup. If the money comes from coffee and cakes, there’s no sign of it. No tables and chairs, just the old armchairs and occasional tables. No coffee machine, no urn, not even a display case of cakes or a jar of biscuits. Everything out the back, as if the cafe occurred accidentally one day and Mandy and her mother never got around to doing it properly. Maybe it had to do with licensing, or health regulations.
Mandy reappears and plucks the baby from his bassinet, pulling all sorts of faces and making all sorts of noises, culminating in a raspberry blown against the child’s stomach. The boy chortles with delight. Her love for him, her delight in him, is evident. She holds him close as she sinks down into one of the armchairs.
‘So, Martin, how’s the story progressing?’
‘Not bad, considering I’ve been here less than a day.’
‘Yeah, I heard you spoke with Robbie. He say anything interesting?’
‘Yes. He was most forthcoming.’
‘But he doesn’t know why Byron did it either, does he?’
‘No, not really.’
Mandy becomes more serious. ‘What did he say about the allegations of child abuse?’
‘Not a lot. Said he never saw any evidence of it.’
She smiles. ‘Told you so. No one believes it.’
‘Some people do.’
‘Like who?’
‘Harley Snouch.’
Her face changes. The smile is no more; she is scowling, almost sneering. ‘So you found him, did you? Lurking over there in his lair.’
‘The wine saloon? Yeah. You know about that, then?’
‘Of course. He sits over there, perving at me through those boarded-up windows. He thinks I don’t know, but I do. Awful old bastard.’
Martin regards the Japanese screens arranged in front of the shop windows, recognising his misconception: he’d thought they were there simply to block out the heat and light. ‘Why’s he spying on you?’
‘He’s my father.’
Martin’s amusement vanishes. ‘What?’
‘He raped my mother.’
Martin opens his mouth to say something, but there are no words. Mandy is looking at him. He feels the weight of her eyes, as if she is judging him. ‘Jesus,’ he says; finally, lamely. ‘How can you bear it? Why don’t you leave?’
‘Fuck that. He destroyed my mother. He’s not going to destroy her bookshop. And he’s not going to destroy me.’
Outside, Martin stands in the shade, flips up the little tin cap and takes a sip of what remains of his coffee. It’s lukewarm now, no bad thing given the heat of the day. He stares across at the wine saloon, squinting against the glare, the once-anonymous building grown sinister. Is Snouch looking at him, peering out through the gaps in the boarded-up windows, or have the phantom soldiers corralled him? There is no way of knowing. Martin considers returning to the wine saloon, confronting Snouch, but to what purpose? To articulate his disgust? How would that help Mandy? And how would it help his story?
He abandons the idea and instead walks back towards the scene of the shooting, giving the Anzac statue a once-over as he turns left into Somerset Street, walks past the bank, the police station and the primary school. He stands on the bend in Somerset, where it turns ninety degrees to run up alongside the church. This is where Craig Landers died, shot through the neck as he fled from the church. Martin can see St James clearly enough, a good hundred metres or so away. Hell of a shot for a preacher man. Martin looks for evidence of where exactly Landers fell, but there is none. He continues on, imagining what it might have been like for Robbie Haus-Jones on that day. No cover at all; a police-issue armoured vest and a pistol, up against someone with a rifle, across seventy-five metres of open ground. Haus-Jones might look like a teenager, but there can be no doubting his guts. Martin pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. He can almost hear the descriptive passage writing itself in his mind, imagining the young policeman’s trepidation.
Martin carefully places his coffee stein on the ground, gets out his phone and opens up the voice recorder app, locating that morning’s interview. He flicks backwards and forwards through the recording erratically, missing the simplicity of his old tape recorder, and eventually finds the relevant section. He replays the policeman’s matter-of-fact recollection, counting shots as he listens:
‘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—’ one ‘—then another—’ two ‘—but I thought nothing of it. Cars back firing, kids with crackers, that sort of thing. Then I heard a scream, and a man shouting, and then two more shots—’ three, four ‘—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.’ Five, six. ‘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—’ seven ‘—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.’ Eight. ‘So I started walking up the road towards the church.’
Martin closes the audio app and puts the phone away. It’s too hot here. The school should plant some trees. He picks up his stein and moves towards the church; perhaps some shade might be found there. Eight shots. Craig Landers through the neck at a hundred metres. Three more victims shot through the head. Gerry Torlini shot through the head and the chest. Eight shots, six direct hits. And yet, when Constable Haus-Jones confronted the priest from just a few paces away, close enough to kill him with two shots to the chest from a police-issue pistol, the minister had fired first and missed. It made no sense. Was it possible the priest had deliberately aimed and missed, had forced the policeman to kill him? A moment of clarity after his rampage?
Martin gets to the church and switches his thoughts to the young constable, trying to imagine what might have been going through his mind. Holding his stein as Haus-Jones might have held his gun, Martin walks the length of the church, pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath and steps around the corner. ‘Shit.’
‘What?’ says the boy sitting on the church step.
‘Sorry,’ says Martin. ‘Didn’t expect to find anyone here.’
‘That’s obvious,’ says the boy. He’s dressed in shorts, t-shirt, a bucket hat and thongs. ‘What’s that?’
‘This? A German beer stein. Containing coffee.’
‘Does it taste better like that?’
‘No, but it’s big.’
‘You must like coffee.’
‘Yes. I do.’
The boy is thirteen or so, just hitting puberty. Martin walks up to him, looks around and sits on the side of a large planter box. There’s nothing growing in it, just hard-packed dirt. ‘My name’s Martin. What’s yours?’
‘Luke McIntyre.’
‘Whatcha doing here, Luke? Isn’t it a school day?’
The boy frowns. ‘You don’t have kids
, do you?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s January. Middle of school holidays.’
Martin recalls the deserted school grounds. ‘Of course it is.’
‘Isn’t it a work day?’
‘Yeah, good point. Even so, it’s a strange place to be on your holidays, on a hot day, sitting in the sun.’
‘You’re not going to give me the skin cancer lecture, are you? I’m wearing a hat.’
‘No, I promise—no lectures. But I am interested in what you’re doing here.’
‘Nothing. I’m not doing anything wrong. I just come here to sit. No one ever comes here. It’s peaceful.’
‘It is now. But you know what happened here, I guess.’
‘Yeah. The shooting. He was sitting here, you know, when the cop shot him. One moment he was alive, breathing, the next he was dead. Shot dead. Two bullets in the chest. One got him in the heart.’
Martin frowns. There is a faraway quality in the boy’s voice. ‘Is that why you come here?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Did you know him? The priest?’
‘Reverend Swift? Sure.’
‘Can you tell me about him? What was he like?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m a journalist, writing a story. Trying to figure out what happened.’
‘I don’t like journalists. You’re not D’Arcy Defoe, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. I told you, my name’s Martin. Martin Scarsden. I don’t want to quote you; I won’t write your name or anything. I just want to know what happened.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look, Luke, if you think the other journalist was wrong, here’s your chance to help me get it right.’
Luke considers this for a moment, then places his palm flat on the step beside him, eyes shut, as if seeking guidance. Or permission. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘What do you want to know?’