Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  ‘Harley Snouch? He has a bush block? Do you see much of him?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Not after what he did. Bastard.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Raped that beautiful girl. Fuckin’ animal.’

  Driving back into town on the road from Hay, crossing the long and rattling bridge above the flood plain, wind gusts bucking the car, Martin descends into Riversend and, on impulse, turns right towards the church, thinking he might chance upon Luke, the lad he’d upset the day before. But there’s no sign of him.

  Reversing in under the trees, he faces the church across the road. This must be where Gerry Torlini, the fruiterer from Bellington, collected his two bullets—one in the head, one in the chest—while Allen Newkirk cowered beside him. Martin looks at the church steps, maybe thirty metres away. An easy shot for a marksman like Byron Swift.

  He climbs out. The church stands aloof and unadorned, tenuously connected to the outside world by an overhead power cable and a phone line. The entrance has double doors, shaded by a portico. Today, one door is ajar. Martin climbs the fatal steps and pushes through the door, wondering if Luke might be sheltering inside.

  It’s darker and cooler, much quieter, out of the wind. The boy is not here. Instead, up near the front, in the second line of pews, a woman is kneeling, perfectly still, praying. Martin looks around, but he can see no memorial to the shooting inside the church, just as there is none outside. He sits in the back pew, waiting. He recognises the woman’s piety, her supplication, but can’t remember how. How long is it since he felt anything remotely similar, experienced anything approaching grace? Codger thinks there was something holy about the priest, as does Mandy. How could that be, a man who shot things, who killed small animals and murdered his parishioners? How could that be when Martin, who just the day before had saved the life of a teenage boy, feels so much like a husk? He looks at his hands, places the palms together as if to pray, and stares at them. They don’t seem to belong to him, and the gesture does not belong to them, and he does not belong in this place.

  ‘Mr Scarsden?’ It’s the praying woman. He hadn’t noticed her rise and walk towards him. It’s Fran Landers. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘were you praying?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well, sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday. If you hadn’t been there, I would have let him…’ And she shudders.

  Martin is on his feet, reaching out, touching her shoulder. ‘Don’t trouble yourself with that. He survived, that’s the main thing. The only thing. It’s all you need to know.’

  She nods, accepting his words.

  ‘How is he, anyway?’

  She looks up at him, gratitude shining in her eyes. ‘Oh, he’s good. I spent the night with him down in the hospital in Bellington. He’s all shaken up. Concussion and cracked ribs and a twisted back. But nothing serious. He just needs to take it easy. They’ll keep him there for a couple of days just to make sure. I came back to town this morning to open the store. A friend is minding it for me. I just wanted to come in here and offer thanks. I’m glad you’re here too. So I can thank you and apologise for being so rude when you came into the store.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘It felt like it.’

  ‘Fran, excuse me for saying so, but it strikes me as a little odd that you would come here, to this church, to pray, to offer thanks, given what happened here.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Fran looks unsettled.

  ‘This is where your husband was shot.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not here, not inside. But I see what you mean. It is a little strange, I guess. I tried the other church, the Catholic church, but it didn’t seem right. I’ve been coming to St James ever since we moved here. It’s okay once I’m inside.’

  ‘I’m sorry to ask this, but you know the allegations about Reverend Swift—the ones that were in my paper…’

  ‘I don’t believe them,’ she interjects before he can finish.

  ‘Why not? How could you know for sure?’

  ‘Because I knew Byron Swift. That’s how.’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘I thought he wasn’t up here in Riversend that often.’

  ‘Often enough.’

  ‘So what was he like?’

  ‘He was kind. And generous. And decent. Not the monster your paper made him out to be.’

  For a moment, Martin is lost for words. He can hear the fondness for Swift in her voice, see the indignation in her eyes. Defending the man who killed her husband.

  Fran fills the silence, her passion dissipating. ‘But it doesn’t matter one way or the other now, does it? He’s dead. Robbie Haus-Jones shot him through the heart out there on the step.’

  ‘So your son never said anything? About him abusing children?’

  ‘No. Not to me. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to the store.’

  ‘Of course. But, Fran, I would like to talk to you. Conduct an interview for the piece I’m writing. It’s all about Riversend, how the town is coping a year on. Would you be able to help with that?’

  Her eyes betray her reluctance, but her indignation ebbs and she nods. ‘Of course. I owe you everything. You saved my son.’

  ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry for being so intrusive.’

  ‘That’s okay. I understand. It’s your job. All the killing, all the death. It’s what you do. But if it wasn’t for you, I’d have nothing left. Better you than D’Arcy Defoe.’

  MARTIN DRIVES THE SHORT DISTANCE BETWEEN ST JAMES AND THE OASIS. HE reverses back carefully so his rear bumper is close to the precipitous gutter but not touching it. This time he gets it just right, and feels the better for it. He’s got the beer stein and the travel book he bought the day before. He’s scrubbed out the stein. He’s only halfway through the book. It provided some distraction in the witching hours when he couldn’t sleep, but searching for a replacement will allow him to spend some time in the bookstore and escape the heat of the day.

  The shop’s door is unlocked, but it’s empty of customers. The smell is good, though: coffee and home cooking. As if on cue, Mandalay Blonde appears from the door in the back of the store and glides down the central aisle towards him, her baby astride her jutting hip, held in place with a casual arm. To Martin, it makes her look simultaneously maternal and sexy.

  ‘Afternoon, Martin. I hear you’re quite the hero.’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  ‘Well, good for you. There’s enough people leaving town as it is; we don’t need them dying as well. Can I get you something?’

  ‘Yes.’ He holds out the stein. ‘Another coffee, if I may. And what is that smell?’

  ‘Muffins. Apple and cinnamon or blueberry. Homemade.’

  ‘One apple and cinnamon, please.’

  ‘And you’ve brought back one of your books? Very good. Pop it on the counter and you can have fifty per cent off your next one. Give me a hand first, though, will you?’

  Martin follows her down the aisle and through the door, passing from an office-cum-storeroom into her home. Doors lead off either side of a corridor, a nursery on one side, her bedroom on the other, offering a fleeting glimpse of an antique brass bed, strewn with books, clothes everywhere. At the end of the corridor the kitchen is large and light, with a big wooden table and two stoves, an electric range placed close by the original wood stove.

  ‘Grab those, will you?’ she asks, pointing to the boy’s playpen sitting on a quilt in the middle of the floor. ‘Take them down to the shop.’

  Returning to the bookstore he lays out the quilt on the Persian rug, in the same place it was the day before, and unfolds the playpen. Mandy’s with him shortly, baby held close. She puts her son down in the pen. ‘Keep an eye on him, Martin. Coffee and muffin on their way.’

  Martin sits in one of the old armchairs and considers the child. He is lying on his stomach, straining to lift his head, doing a kin
d of baby push-up. There’s a small furrow on his brow, as if he is concentrating hard. Martin smiles.

  Mandy returns with a tray. The coffee stein is there, a muffin on a plate with a pat of butter and a cup of coffee of her own—just as he’d been hoping. She places the tray on an occasional table beside him, her proximity exhilarating, taking her coffee and sitting opposite. Martin wonders anew at her beauty.

  ‘So, how goes the work, are you getting what you need?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. Pretty good, actually. As well as Robbie Haus-Jones, I’ll now be able to interview Fran Landers.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. The man who shot down the rampaging priest, plus the grieving widow. Very good. And who else have you been talking to?’

  ‘I went out to the Scrublands this morning. Talked to an old fellow out there, Codger Harris.’

  ‘Codger Harris? What did he have to say?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘No, but I know what happened to him. Everyone does.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s an awful story. Happened years ago—before I was born, I think. Codger was the bank manager down in Bellington. I forget his real name; it’s something like William. Anyway, one afternoon his wife and little boy were playing in the park by the river, right in the middle of town, when a truck went off the road; the driver had a heart attack or something. Killed Codger’s wife outright. Their son, just three or four years old, lasted in hospital for a day or so. And that was it for Codger. He held it together for a few months and then fell apart spectacularly. Went crazy. They institutionalised him, gave him shock therapy, filled him up with drugs. He was never the same again. When he came back, he moved out to the Scrublands. Old Man Snouch gave him some land and he’s been there ever since. More or less a hermit, eccentric, but wouldn’t harm a fly. No one says anything, but people look out for him. Take him stuff. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Old Man Snouch? Who’s that?’

  ‘Harley Snouch’s dad, Eric. Died a few years ago. My grandfather, if what my mother says is true.’

  ‘You don’t sound so sure.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. Mum never lied about anything, let alone something as serious as that. But when I was a kid, before I was old enough to know the truth, I knew there was this man called Harley out there somewhere who was my father. I used to dream about him returning to Riversend and he and my mother getting back together and us being a real family. We’d lead an idyllic life. And all those shitty kids would shut up and pick on someone else.’

  ‘The bullies? Is that why they targeted you?’

  ‘That was at the heart of it. Snouch was in jail, but there were plenty of people who took his side. They accused my mother of making it up, or of leading him on, or of being a slut. You know kids: they shout in public what their parents whisper in private. Mum had to tell me in the end, what really happened, so I knew why they were calling me names.’

  Before Martin can respond, the door of the shop bursts open. It’s Robbie Haus-Jones dressed in fluoro-orange overalls. He stops abruptly just inside the door, nods awkwardly to Mandy, speaks to Martin.

  ‘Saw your car. Glad you’re here. C’mon. We’ve got a bushfire.’ And he turns and walks out.

  Martin looks at Mandy, she shrugs, and Martin follows Robbie outside, leaving the muffin but taking the stein. The smell of wood smoke is in the air, as benign as a campfire, carried on the gusting wind. Robbie climbs into the police four-wheel drive; Martin climbs into the passenger side. ‘You realise I know bugger-all about fighting bushfires, don’t you?’ he says.

  ‘You’ll be right. Stick close, we’ll look out for you. But we need all the help we can get. We’re down more than half-a-dozen from last year.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Robbie frowns at Martin before turning his attention back to the road. ‘What do you reckon? Byron Swift, Craig Landers, Alf and Thom and Allen Newkirk, Jamie Landers, the pub owner. Plus a few more driven off by the drought.’

  Robbie turns right onto the highway, pulls into the drive of the fire station. The doors are open and there’s a new fire tanker out front, with three men and two women in high-vis bent over a map spread on the bonnet of a car. ‘Brought you a ring-in, skipper,’ says Robbie, smiling, as he and Martin climb out.

  ‘Good lad. Hiya, Martin. Welcome to the team.’ It’s Errol, the barman from the services club, callused skin abrasive as they shake hands. ‘Robbie, we’re going to get going. Get Martin kitted out and we’ll see you out there, at the turn-off.’ The crew starts piling into the tanker truck as Robbie leads Martin into the shed and finds him fluoro-orange overalls, leather gloves, a hard hat, goggles. A few moments more are lost as they hunt for some leather boots to replace his city shoes. Then they’re off, turning back into the main street, Hay Road.

  ‘Where we heading?’ Martin asks.

  ‘The Scrublands. Fire from out on the plain. Into the trees now. It’ll go through like a dose of salts. We’ll try to hold it at the highway until the crews from Bellington get here.’

  ‘What about the scrub?’

  ‘Who cares? Shit country.’

  ‘And the people who live there?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll get ’em out if they’re stupid enough to still be there. Know anything about bushfires, Martin?’

  ‘I told you: nothing.’

  ‘No worries, there’s not much to know. First thing, only thing: don’t get killed. You know what kills people in bushfires?’

  ‘Smoke inhalation?’

  ‘Nup. That’s house fires. City fires. In bushfires, it’s heat, pure and simple. The fire front will generate temperatures of hundreds of degrees. If it catches you in the open, it’ll cook you alive. So whatever you do, don’t get in front of the fire. You hear stories of people sheltering in swimming pools, farm dams, water tanks. Won’t help. Water keeps ’em from burning, but the air is super-heated so they can’t breathe—burns their lungs out from the inside. We attack from the flanks, not from the front.’

  ‘How do you tell the front from the flank?’

  Robbie laughs. ‘Look at where the fire is, where the smoke is coming from, which way the wind is blowing it. Work out which way the fire is travelling, don’t get in front of it.’

  ‘Sounds simple enough.’

  ‘It is, unless the wind changes. A fire can have a one-kilometre front and fifteen-kilometre flanks. Wind changes ninety degrees and you have a fire with a fifteen-kilometre front and a one-kilometre flank. Heading straight at you.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Shouldn’t happen today. The weather bureau says it’s north-westerlies all day. If you’re caught in the open, seek shelter. People have survived lying on the floor of their cars, covered in woollen blankets. Provided the windows are shut and don’t shatter, you can be lucky. The fire front will pass in five to ten minutes and the temperature will drop again. Get through that, and you’ll live.’

  ‘Great. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah: look up. Avoid burning trees, even ones that look like they’ve been put out. Falling branches don’t issue warnings. And drink lots of water, more than you think you need. Don’t wait to get thirsty: dehydration is dangerous.’

  They’re crossing the bridge now, and from the slight elevation Martin can see the eruption of grey smoke on the north-west horizon, pumping up into the clear blue sky. It’s a long way off, but it’s huge.

  Ten kilometres further north and the Scrublands begin, the sickly mulga extending both sides of the road. They come to the turn-off into the scrub, the same turn-off that Martin had taken a few hours earlier when he sought out Codger Harris. The tanker has stopped, and Errol and a solid-looking woman from his crew are standing there talking with some locals. Robbie and Martin jump out of the four-wheel drive.

  ‘Shit, did ya have to bring him?’ A man with a long thin ponytail streaked with grey flicks his head in Robbie’s direction. He’s wearing a tattered t-shirt, an oily bandana, a denim jacket, t
orn jeans, boots. There’s a ferocious-looking tattoo crawling up one side of his neck and a chunky gold earring. Next to him is a small woman in a t-shirt and jeans, arms tattooed, and next to her a motorbike, a chopper with extended forks, and a pile of bags.

  ‘Give it a break, Jase,’ says Errol. ‘He’s here to help.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t get onto my place without a warrant, fire or no fire.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ says Robbie.

  Errol shakes his head, ploughs on. ‘Anyway, smart leaving early. Is Codger still in there?’

  ‘Yeah. Me and Shazza stopped by to warn him, but couldn’t fit him onto the bike. You blokes should get in and get him out.’

  ‘First priority. What about Snouch?’

  ‘What about him? He’s got a car. He can look after himself.’

  Errol turns to Robbie. ‘Can you get Codger? Take Moxie. Don’t muck about. Grab him, what he can carry, leave the rest.’

  ‘And no going onto my place,’ interjects the man with the motorbike.

  ‘Fuck off, Jason,’ retorts Robbie, ‘or I’ll search those bags over there.’

  Jason shuts up.

  Robbie and Moxie head off, and Martin gets a quick briefing. He’s assigned to help a taciturn young bloke called Luigi. Luigi will direct one of the fire tanker’s two hoses; Martin will follow a few metres behind him, helping to manoeuvre the canvas tube. A farm tanker pulls up, full of water to replenish the fire truck’s pumps. A light aircraft flies over, Errol communicating via the radio in the tanker’s cab. And all the time the smoke cloud is spreading lower and wider, the pale blue retreating south-east. In front of him, not twenty metres away, a mob of forty or fifty roos comes hurtling out of the scrub and across the road. For a moment the wind dies and the first ash starts to fall, like black snowflakes.

  ‘All right, gather round,’ yells Errol. ‘It’ll be with us in about fifteen minutes; the Bellington crews will be here in about twenty. It’s moving quick, but the front is still narrow. We’ll try and flank it on the road, stop spotting. The Bellington crews will head straight into the bush along Glondillys Track, east of the highway, and start back-burning. Once we’ve done what we can here, we either join them, or move round the back of the scrub and stop it escaping onto the plain. Questions?’