by Chris Hammer
The men sit in silence. Martin feels relieved he’s been able to recount the bones of the story in such a matter-of-fact way. He feels a little numb, but not so bad.
‘Martin, about the shooting—you know there’s not a lot I can tell you. I’m not part of the investigation. A priest shoots five people dead, they don’t give the job to a constable, especially not one who was involved. It’s run out of Sydney. Sergeant Herb Walker down in Bellington is the local contact. You should speak to him.’
‘Herb Walker. Thanks. I’ll do that.’
‘I was investigated, of course. God, if you unbutton your holster, you need to write a report; pull out your gun and there’s a full-on inquiry. But I was cleared pretty quickly. He’d already shot five people dead, after all. And there were witnesses.’
‘Does it still bother you, shooting him?’
‘Of course. Every day. Every night.’
‘Counselling?’
‘More than you can imagine.’
‘Do any good?’
‘Not much. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s the nights that are worst.’
‘I know what you mean. Didn’t they offer you a transfer?’
‘Yeah. Of course. But I want to get it out of my system here. Leave it all here, then move on. I don’t want to take it with me.’
More silence.
‘Robbie, why do you think he did it?’
‘Truthfully? No idea. But there are things that bother me about it. All the obvious “what if” and “why didn’t I” sort of things, they haunt me, but there are other things as well.’
‘Like what?’
‘There were a lot of people gathering outside the church. Maybe two dozen. He shot some and spared others. All the witnesses say the same thing: he didn’t go berserk. He was calm, methodical. He could have killed a lot more.’
‘You think he targeted those he killed, that it wasn’t random?’
‘Don’t know. No idea. But he didn’t shoot any women.’
‘And he was a hell of a shot, wasn’t he? Dropping Craig Landers from that distance.’
The constable doesn’t respond immediately and the men are left looking at their beers. Neither of them has been drinking; the once-frothy heads have flattened out.
‘Martin, there’s an old bloke who lives out in the Scrublands called Codger Harris. Go and see him. He can tell you about Byron and his guns.’
‘The Scrublands? What’s that?’
‘Shit country. Mulga scrub. Hundreds of square kilometres of it. Starts about ten clicks north of town. Here, I’ll draw you a map of how to get to Codger’s.’
Robbie takes a napkin and sketches out a route, warning Martin of pitfalls and wrong turns.
Directions completed, the constable drains his beer and nods at Martin. ‘I’d better get going. See you round. And don’t be so hard on yourself; you saved a kid’s life today.’
THE HEAT IS WORSE. YESTERDAY’S WIND HAS TURNED HOT AND UGLY, GUSTING in from the north-west, propelling fine particles of dust and carrying the threat of fire. The very country Martin is driving through looks sick: anaemic trees, spindly shrubs and, between them, more dirt than grass. He’s driven from the black soil of the flood plain into the Scrublands, a huge peninsula of mulga scrub where there is no soil, just the red granular earth, like an oversized ants’ nest. The land is elevated ever so slightly above the flatness of the plain, just a few metres or so, with its own rises and falls. The track is hard, corrugated and unforgiving, runnelled by long-ago storms and scattered with large stones; periodically the tyres throw one up to thump into the car’s floor. A track for four-wheel drives, farm trucks and hire cars. Martin takes it easy; Robbie Haus-Jones has warned him that not many come this way, that it’s easy to get lost among the erratic tracks and the featureless landscape; break an axle and it will be a while before anyone finds you. So Martin nurses the car and remains patient.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here. The impetus to leave town has withered, the insensitive exchange with the boy Luke already losing its potency, already fading, soon to be consigned to some seldom-visited storeroom of his memory, to sit alongside his collected regrets and misgivings. Robbie Haus-Jones still wants a formal statement on the ute crash and Allen Newkirk’s death, but that only explains why Martin remains in Riversend, not what he’s doing out here, in this hellish landscape, on this godforsaken day, chasing the tendril of a story. Not the story he was assigned, something more elusive, more intriguing. Perhaps that’s it: the journalistic instinct is too ingrained, too much a part of him, compelling him onwards, even if he’s no longer sure he has the stomach for it. Perhaps it’s all he has left.
He passes through a fence line, rattling across a cattle grid. A pole on either side of the opening is adorned with the bleached skull of a cow, one rocking back and forth, animated by the punishing wind. Martin is pleased to see the skulls; he’s on the right track. He stops, takes a photo. Next he comes to a fork in the road, takes the left track. Another kilometre or so, and he reaches a five-bar gate. HARRIS, says the top sign. NO SHOOTING, NO TRESPASSING, NO FUCKING AROUND, says the lower sign. Martin climbs out, into the blast-furnace wind, opens the gate, drives through, closes the gate. Not much further.
It’s not really a farm, rather a semi-coherent collection of scattered structures, arranged as if dropped like marbles into a ring by some lumbering giant. The building material of choice is corrugated iron, crudely wired to wooden poles. The most rational structure is a cattle yard, roughly square, made of locally milled wood interspersed with some rusted iron fencing. The cattle yard is empty, of cattle and grass and any other living thing; even the flies have abandoned it. Martin steps out of the air-conditioned car, expecting the heat, not expecting the cacophony: the corrugated-iron sheets bang and squeal and shriek in the wind. ‘Jesus Christ,’ mutters Martin, wondering where to start.
He walks towards the largest structure, eyes narrowed against the wind-blown sand. It’s a crude sawmill, not used for years by the look of it. To the mill’s left is a more complete structure, albeit standing at a dangerous tilt and swaying in the wind. It’s a garage. The two wooden swing doors stand open, hanging from their hinges, digging into the dirt and holding the structure erect, like a house of cards. Inside the garage, its bonnet missing and its whitewall tyres flat, rests the carcass of a Dodge, its once-black paint turned grey and powdery, splotched with patches of rust like a pensioner’s hands. There’s a bitch with a litter of pups splayed across the back seat of the old car. The pups are suckling, but the mother is unconscious, imitating death.
Martin finds the house, largely indistinguishable from the other structures littering the bush block, except its walls are marginally more upright, the windows are shuttered, the roof boasts eaves overhanging the walls. And the door is shut. It’s a green door, paint flaking, wood exposed, patina emerging.
He knocks, noting the futility of the effort amid the thunderous day; the polite forms of society out of place in the Scrublands. The door has a brass knob. He twists it, shoves the door open and yells into the gloomy interior. ‘Hello? Anyone home? Hello?’
He steps inside. The light diminishes, the noise diminishes, the smell increases. It hits him as his eyes are adjusting to the gloom: sweat, dogs, rancid fat, farts, urine. An olfactory assault, even with the wind whistling in through gaps in the walls.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ There is an old man, naked, slouched in a chair, hand wrapped around his swollen member. Martin has interrupted him mid-stroke.
‘Shit—sorry,’ Martin stammers.
But the old bloke doesn’t seem at all fazed. ‘Don’t go. I’ll be done in a mo.’ And resumes his pumping.
Martin can’t bear it. He retreats outside, glad of the metallic racket, if not the heat. What a shithole.
A minute or two later, the man emerges, still naked, his shrinking penis red and dripping. ‘Sorry, mate. Caught me off guard. Come in, come in. Codger Harris, how are you?’ He extends his han
d.
Martin looks at the man’s hand, looks at the man’s face. He doesn’t shake hands. ‘G’day,’ he says instead. ‘Martin Scarsden.’
‘Yeah, right,’ says the old bloke. ‘C’mon in anyway, Martin.’
Martin follows him into the hovel, looking anywhere but at the man’s sagging buttocks.
‘Sorry about the clothes-free zone. Too bloody hot for ’em. Pull up a pew.’ The old man flops back into the hammock-like chair, canvas stretched between a rough wooden frame, where he’d been pleasuring himself when Martin first entered.
Martin looks around, can’t immediately find anywhere to sit, grabs a milk crate, up-ends it, sits opposite the old man.
‘Shit, Martin, begging your pardon. Not used to visitors, forgetting me manners.’ And Codger Harris is back on his feet, remarkably nimble given his appearance. ‘What d’ya want to drink?’ He crosses to a bench, picks up a flagon and a couple of old Vegemite jars. Martin wasn’t aware that flagons still existed. ‘Not that there’s much choice. Chateau Scrublands, that’s about it. Care for a glass?’
‘Bit early for me. And a bit hot.’
‘Bullshit. Can’t come all this way and not sample the local produce. You like wine, Martin?’
‘What sort of wine is it?’
‘This? Shit, this isn’t wine, this is dynamite. But d’ya know anything about wine?’
‘A bit.’
‘So you know about terroir?’ The man has the French pronunciation correct.
‘Yeah. Good wine contains something of the land where the grapes are grown. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Spot on. Top marks. Take a slug of this then, the terroir of the Scrublands, liquefied.’ He half fills a Vegemite jar and hands it to Martin, pouring a full jar for himself.
Martin takes a sip, half gags, swallows anyway. It tastes like raw alcohol, except worse, like it’s stripping the enamel from his teeth.
‘Whatcha reckon?’
Martin coughs. ‘Yeah, you’ve captured the Scrublands all right. Note perfect.’
Codger Harris laughs, an easy amiable laugh, takes a slug, not flinching, and grins at Martin. ‘Truly shitful, isn’t it?’
‘You can say that again. What is it?’
‘Moonshine. Make it out the back. Got a still.’
‘Christ. You could sell it to NASA for rocket fuel.’
The old man grins with pride, takes another slug. His teeth are yellow stumps. ‘You prefer some weed? I got piles of it out back. Or tobacco. Got a bit of that as well. Cunt of a thing to grow—needs plenty of water, plenty of compost. Weed’s better. Grows anywhere. Even out here. Works better, too.’
‘No, I’ll stick to the terroir, thanks all the same.’
‘Goodo.’ And the old fellow drains his Vegemite jar, letting out a satisfied sigh, followed by a satisfied fart. ‘So what can I do for you, Martin? Reckon you haven’t come here for the grog.’
Martin smiles. Codger Harris is truly appalling, but the old man possesses an element of inexplicable charm. As if to underline the point, Codger reaches down and scratches his scrotum. Inexplicable is right. ‘Codger, I’m told the priest, Byron Swift, visited you sometimes?’
‘Oh yeah, the preacher. Fine fellow, fine fellow. Good lookin’ bloke, bit like yourself, only younger. Used to come out here a fair bit. Was very upset when I heard what happened, what he did. Never would have guessed it, not for a moment. Seemed a real gentleman. Who told you he used to come out here? Thought it was our secret.’
‘Does it matter who told me?’
‘No, guess not. You’re not a copper, are you?’
‘No. A journo. I’m writing a story about Riversend.’
‘Shit. That the truth? Christ. I could tell you a few stories. Make your hair curl.’
‘Please do.’
‘Shit no. I know your sort. Come out here, ply me with grog, get me to spill me guts. Next thing I know, paparazzi everywhere.’ There is a huge grin on Codger’s face, teeth stumps spread like tractor treads. He gives his balls a tug as if to emphasise the absurdity of his claim. Martin grins as well, inadvertently taking a sip of moonshine. He gags again; it’s no better the second time around. Codger hoots with glee.
‘So he did visit from time to time?’
‘Sure.’
‘How come?’
‘Dunno. For me wit and insight, probably. Maybe he wanted to save me soul.’
‘Seriously, Codger. What did he do out here?’
‘Sometimes we’d shoot the breeze. Drink moonshine, smoke weed. Mostly he used to go shooting.’
‘Shooting? Really?’
‘Yep. He liked shooting.’
‘And drinking and smoking dope? Doesn’t sound very priestly.’
‘You got that right. Bit of grog in him and he swore like a trooper, too. But a nice bloke. And he’d never drink or smoke when he was shooting, only afterwards.’
‘That’s interesting. Did you shoot with him? Was it targets or what?’
‘No. I went with him one time, but he preferred to go alone. He shot rabbits mostly. And sparrows. Saw him pick off a few sparrows.’
‘Sparrows? Shit, he must have been a hell of a shot.’
‘Fucken oath, Martin, you got that right. A natural. Never seen anything like it. Those guns, they would become like a part of him. You shoulda seen it. He’d go into the zone and pap, pap, pap. Shoot the wings off a fly. He had a twenty-two. You know what that is? Small calibre. Said it made it more difficult. Never shot roos or scrub wallabies; reckoned it was too easy.’ ‘How many guns did he have?’
‘Dunno. Three or four. The twenty-two. A hunting rifle. A high-powered marksman’s rifle with sights. A shotgun. I tell you, it didn’t matter: he was good with all of them.’
‘How did he learn to shoot like that?’
‘I think he grew up on a farm, but he didn’t like talking about his past.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Dunno.’ Codger Harris is thinking, remembering. ‘He used to come out sometimes, go bush, camp out overnight. Said he liked the solitude. This bush, the Scrublands, it goes a long way, thirty or forty kilometres, back to the hills. My place goes for ten k, after that it’s Crown land. Too shitty for farming, too shitty for a national park, too shitty for logging. Just shitty all round. But excellent for solitude.’
‘When you were drinking together, what did he talk about?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Philosophy, religion, politics. Girls with big tits. Racehorses.’
‘Codger, maybe you can help me. I’m having trouble reconciling the idea of Byron Swift as a priest and a pillar of the community with someone who drinks hooch, smokes dope and goes round shooting small birds. I can’t imagine a priest like that.’
‘Well, that was him all right.’
‘Sounds like you were impressed.’
‘Too right I was. Most handsome man I ever saw. Tall, square-jawed, could have been in the movies. But that was only half of it. The way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. He made you feel special just being with him. No wonder the sheilas liked him.’
‘Did they?’
‘So they say.’
‘So why did he want to be a priest?’
‘Well, I dunno, do I? But he had religion all right. Had it bad. Believed Jesus died for all of us, for all us sinners. It was no act.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, fuck yeah. He didn’t talk about it often, but when he did, it came from the heart. He never tried to convert me or anything, but for him it was real, like only part of him was in this world and part of him was somewhere else. He used to say a little prayer before he started shooting and a little prayer afterwards, for the animals he killed. Sounds strange, but there was something holy about him, something not of this world.’
‘In what way? Can you explain it?’
‘Nup. Not really. Just an impression. But he would have made a great Catholic, a great confessor. I told him things I’d never told ano
ther living being. In a way he saved me, got me to re-engage with people. Up until then I’d been a hermit.’
‘Why do you think he shot those people at the church?’
Codger’s half-amused affability falls away. He becomes serious, looks lost. ‘I don’t have a clue. And don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Lots of time to ponder the shit out of things in the Scrublands. I wish there was something I could have done to help him, to help prevent it.’ Codger takes a slug of moonshine, cracks a toothy smile. ‘That’s what I do out here: live in the past, drink grog and have an occasional wank. Not much of a life, is it?’
‘What do you think of this assertion that he was molesting local boys?’
‘Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Sometimes, when we was in our cups, we’d talk about it, doing the business. He had some good stories, I can tell you. But they were all about sheilas. He was into sheilas, not kids.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Martin repeats.
‘Well, I can’t be, can I? But tell a story like those he told and you get a gleam in your eye. You can’t fake that.’
Martin considers this for a moment as a searing gust of wind shakes the shanty. He looks around the one-room house: the makeshift kitchen with its piles of unwashed pans, the unmade bed with its yellowing sheets, the old books and random objects stacked in haphazard piles.
‘Why do you live out here, Codger?’
‘That’s my business. I like it.’
‘Can you make a living?’
‘You can. Not much of one, but you can. Running bush cattle. There’s a lot of them out there in the scrub. Have a big muster, make a fair old quid. But not now, not in this drought. They’d be skin and bones and chock-a-block with parasites. But come the rains and I’ll get a crew in, make a few bucks.’
‘And it’s just you out here, you and the Crown land?’
‘Nah, there’s a few of us dotted round the place. There’s an army vet and his sheila down the track a bit. Nice enough bloke, Jason, but not quite right upstairs. Keeps to himself. No idea why the woman stays. Harley Snouch is over the other side at Springfields, and there’s a few shacks and caravans here and there. People come out hunting from time to time.’