Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s bullshit. There really was a Byron Swift born near Perth. He was an orphan and a ward of the state; he did go to school in Perth, living with various foster families. He went to uni for a while, before dropping out and travelling overseas. He worked for the charity in Cambodia all right, where he died of a drug overdose aged twenty-four. Except there is no record of that. None. The record of the death has been expunged from official records. Expunged. Officially, Byron Swift died last year from bullet wounds in Riversend.’

  ‘How do you know then?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t say. Take my word for it.’

  ‘Okay. Go on.’

  ‘What else can I tell you?’

  ‘If the man Robbie Haus-Jones shot dead wasn’t Byron Swift, who was he?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say a former soldier. He had a tattoo that indicated he’d been in Afghanistan. Special forces. SAS. A couple of us on the investigation were thinking of exhuming the body, getting DNA.’

  ‘Where’s he buried?’

  ‘Here. Just down the road, in the town cemetery.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll happen? The exhumation?’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’ve been warned off. That part of the investigation has been ruled out of bounds.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘No idea. Way up the food chain. Understand, I’m just local liaison; the investigation is being run out of Sydney. And there’s not a lot of appetite for digging into this, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  ‘A cover-up?’

  Walker considers his response, but not for long. ‘I think so. Although there would also be pragmatists who simply don’t see the point of investigating any further. We know who the perpetrator was and what happened to him. Case closed. A coroner’s inquest to tie up loose ends, but no criminal case.’ ‘That’s strange. Someone else said almost exactly the same thing to me this morning.’

  ‘Wise person. Wouldn’t have been young Robbie, by any chance?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. But let me ask you this: if all the police are interested in is solving crimes and catching crims, why are you still interested in what happened?’

  Walker sighs. ‘Because it happened on my patch. I mightn’t be much of a copper, but I run a good town here. And I don’t like how he was protected. I don’t like people fucking with my patch.’

  ‘Protected? Swift?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It happened like this: two days before the shooting in Riversend, I got an anonymous phone call. It was from the phone booth in Riversend. It was a boy. He told me that Reverend Swift had sexually abused him and another lad.’

  ‘Shit. What did you do?’

  ‘I arrested him.’

  ‘Swift?’

  ‘Yep. Put him in the cells.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘No charge. Just wanted to deliver him a message. Then I drove up to Riversend to see if I could find anything out. Constable Haus-Jones tell you about that?’

  ‘No. No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s not a surprise. He didn’t believe any of it. Anyway, I get back here, intending to release Swift, having given him the message, so to speak, but he was already out. The constable told me the order had come down the line from Sydney. I rang to check and I was told in no uncertain terms that investigating Reverend Byron Swift was most definitely a no-go.’

  ‘Who told you that? Can you remember?’

  ‘I can, but I’m pretty sure they were just relaying a message. I don’t know where it originated, but somewhere high up, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘Shit. So what happened next?’

  ‘Well, I kept at it. If they hadn’t sprung him and ordered me off, maybe I would have let it go, but that got my back up.’

  Martin feels a chill as a piece of the puzzle falls into place. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Robbie had told me the names of some of the lads in their youth group. I rang a couple of the fathers that night, ones I knew, to warn them not to trust the priest around their kids.’

  ‘Shit. Let me guess: you rang Craig Landers and Alf Newkirk. On Friday night. The next day, they went shooting with Thom Newkirk, Gerry Torlini and Horrie Grosvenor. And on Sunday morning, realising that Byron Swift would be in Riversend, they decided to confront him.’

  Sergeant Herb Walker pats his belly with alternating hands before answering. ‘Lots of ifs and buts and maybes in that lot, son. But I don’t know anything that says you’re wrong.’

  Martin sits and thinks it through for a while. ‘This allegation about child abuse—it first came out in an article about the shooting by my colleague D’Arcy Defoe.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘You spoke to Defoe?’

  ‘Martin, you don’t reveal your sources, I don’t reveal my contacts. But let me say that I was disappointed in Defoe’s article. It was all sizzle and no sausage.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, it had all the stuff about Swift being a rock spider, but nothing of the cover-up, nothing of him getting sprung from jail by powerful people. In the end, it made it look like I’d fucked up; that there was evidence he’d been a kiddie fiddler, and me and Robbie Haus-Jones had ignored it. I was right pissed off.’

  ‘And still are.’

  ‘Too fucking right.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You lock Swift up and he gets released. And this is, what, two days before the shooting at St James?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So afterwards, were you ever able to establish that he did abuse children? Or was it just that one anonymous phone call?’

  ‘No, it stood up, all right. Two young fellows, in separate interviews, told me to my face. Your mate D’Arcy was right on that score: Swift was a paedophile.’

  ‘Who were the boys?’

  ‘Martin, I can’t tell you that. It’s child abuse. I can’t release the names of victims without a court order.’

  ‘Were they from Riversend?’

  ‘Yes, I can confirm that much.’

  ‘Thanks. Tell me, did you inform D’Arcy about Cambodia? Or that Swift may have been someone else, ex-SAS?’

  ‘Martin, let’s get this straight, I never said I spoke to your colleague, okay? But to answer your question, I didn’t know any of that at the time D’Arcy Defoe wrote his stories. That only came to light months later.’

  ‘What about Robbie? Does he know that Swift might not have been who he claimed to be? He told me they were friends.’ Walker nods his head, as if in appreciation of the question, before answering. ‘No, not until recently. I asked him about it just a few weeks ago. He seemed genuinely shocked.’

  ‘You think he believes it?’

  ‘To be honest, I think it’s rattled him. You should ask him.’

  ‘I probably should.’

  Martin is having trouble ordering his thoughts, speculation sparking unbidden in a dozen directions at once. ‘Sergeant Walker—Herb—why are you telling me this? And why did you encourage Robbie to talk to me?’

  ‘Why? Because this stinks to high heaven. It’s about time the truth came out.’ Emphatic belly pat.

  After the interview, sitting outside in his car, oblivious to the heat, Martin’s mind churns. Herb Walker and Harley Snouch believe Swift was abusing children while Codger Harris and Mandy Blonde don’t believe it. But the police sergeant’s information puts it beyond doubt: two boys had confirmed it was true. But that isn’t what’s exciting Martin. D’Arcy Defoe had already exposed the priest’s sickening appetites. Martin has found a new, unreported story: Swift was an imposter, a former special forces soldier who was being protected by people high up in the police force. Was it possible that Swift was part of some sort of paedophile ring?

  Bellington Hospital is single-storey, brick from the ground to floor level, weather
board from there to its corrugated-iron roof. It sits above a curve in the Murray River, two buildings joined together by a covered walkway. A couple of elderly patients in wheelchairs sit outside, smoking and contemplating the water easing past. Martin enters through sliding electric doors into the foyer. It’s quiet, there’s the antiseptic smell of hospitals everywhere, and the linoleum floor has the comfortable give of a long-settled building. There’s a bored-looking woman at reception half-heartedly working her way through a sudoku.

  Martin approaches the desk. ‘Jamie Landers, please?’

  ‘Down there, third on the left,’ she replies, not even looking up from her puzzle.

  Martin feels vaguely foolish; he’s been concocting various tales to get past reception, none of them necessary.

  It’s a pleasant-enough room, with high ceilings and big windows. There are four beds; only two are occupied: Jamie Landers sitting up staring at his phone, an old man sleeping in the opposite bed.

  ‘G’day, Jamie.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Martin Scarsden. I helped your mum at the accident scene.’

  ‘You the guy who saved my life?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, what about Allen? Why didn’t you save him?’

  Martin is not sure what he was expecting—gratitude, perhaps—but not this. Jamie is looking at him with the surliness of a chained dog.

  ‘Nothing I could do, Jamie. He broke his neck when he was thrown clear of the car. He would have died instantly.’

  ‘Yeah, well, how fucked is that?’ The tone is accusatory, as if Martin possessed some power to alter the course of events. He’s tempted to point out the obvious—that it was Jamie Landers who was driving the car—but he restrains himself and takes a seat.

  ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Shithouse. I cracked a couple of ribs on the steering wheel. They hurt like fuck, but these lousy shits are skimping on the painkillers. Probably pocketing them.’

  ‘I’ll have a word to them, see what I can do,’ Martin lies.

  But Jamie Landers sneers. ‘Bullshit. As if. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m a journo. I’m writing about Byron Swift.’

  ‘That cunt. What about him?’

  ‘Was he a paedophile? Did he sexually abuse children?’

  ‘I know what a paedophile is. I’m not a fucking moron.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Of course he was. He was a priest, for God’s sake. He lived in Bellington, yet he sets up a playgroup for schoolkids forty minutes away in Riversend. Of course he was going the grope. Join the dots, Sherlock.’

  ‘Did you ever witness anything?’

  ‘Nah, nothing graphic. He was too smart for that. But he was all over those kids, pretending to be their friend, giving them hugs and pats on the bum. He was grooming them.’

  ‘Did he ever try it on with you? Or with Allen?’

  A look of disgust, of disdain, writes itself on Landers’ face. ‘Me? Of course not. I’m not a fucking kid. He wouldn’t have dared. We’d have sorted him out.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘We would have beaten the shit out of him.’

  ‘Right. I see. So this allegation that he was a paedophile, did you guys report that to Sergeant Walker here in Bellington?’

  ‘Not me, mate. I don’t talk to coppers.’

  ‘But your dad knew. I know Walker warned him that Swift might be interfering with kids. Theory is that your dad went to St James to warn him off, to tell him to stay away from you and the other young people.’

  Jamie Landers’ laugh is one of contempt. ‘Fuck, I don’t know why the old man went to the church, but it sure as shit wasn’t to protect me.’

  The sun is setting, a huge ball turned blood red by the residual smoke of the Scrublands fire, as Martin visits the Bellington cemetery. The day is tired, drained by the heat, the air burdened by smoke and dust, leaves drooping from the trees, shrubs shrinking from the sky, not reaching towards it. Martin finishes a bottle of mineral water, carrying the empty plastic container with him.

  Byron Swift’s grave is at the end of a row, a simple black headstone. Reverend Byron Swift. 36 years. Known unto God.

  Martin looks at it for a long moment, not quite believing the inscription. Known unto God: the epitaph reserved for unidentified soldiers. Yet here it is, on the tombstone of a parish priest, lending credence to Walker’s allegation that Swift was indeed a former soldier. And that’s not all. Lying atop the grave, wilted by the heat but surely placed there this very day, a posy of sky blue flowers. Someone is mourning the dead priest, or mourning whoever he actually was. Martin takes out his phone, records the image.

  It’s all he can do to get back to Riversend in one piece. In the twilight and gathering gloom, kangaroos emerge from nowhere to nibble at what little grass can be found on the highway’s verge, their eyes glowing white in the headlights. Befuddled by the brightness, they break first one way, then the other, bounding perilously close to the path of the oncoming car.

  Martin slows, and slows some more, only to be flooded by the lights of a B-double, thundering through the encroaching night. The passing truck almost blows him off the road. When the next truck approaches, he pulls off the road altogether and lets it pass, lesson learnt.

  He’s been thinking of visiting Mandy Blonde, of telling her what he’s uncovered, or not telling her anything and moving straight back into the previous night’s sex. But he can hardly keep his eyes open. The Black Dog is all he can manage. He falls into bed, the clanking air-conditioner providing more noise than relief. And as he falls asleep, a final sum. Almost a year ago, Byron Swift shot dead five people outside St James church in Riversend. And on the same day, on the other side of the world, Martin Scarsden climbed into the boot of an old Mercedes and let his driver shut him away.

  MARTIN IS BACK IN THE BOOT OF THE MERCEDES, BUT THIS TIME AROUND HE’S not terrified, he’s bored. ‘Christ. Not this again,’ he sighs, before the significance of the again insinuates itself into his rising consciousness, and he realises that he’s not really marooned in the boot of an ancient German limousine somewhere on the Gaza Strip, but dreaming. That adds a level of pique to his boredom. There had been a time when he’d considered himself borderline creative, capable of thinking outside the square, but here he is, confining himself even in his dreams to the inside of a very small square. Boring and annoying.

  Somewhere in the distance he can hear the crump crump of Israeli artillery, but even that is probably a ruse. Maybe it’s not artillery; maybe it’s someone hammering on the lid of the car boot. Cripes. He should either fall back into a deeper sleep or wake up completely; these boot dreams are turning into a drag. Crump crump.

  What the fuck is that?

  Martin emerges from sleep, slipping the bonds of the Mercedes to enter another day. It’s Friday, four days since he arrived in Riversend. The air-conditioner is clanking away, some failing metal gizzard thumping its protest: Crump crump crump.

  Martin is fully awake; it’s someone pounding on the door of his room at the Black Dog. ‘All right. All right!’ he yells. ‘Coming!’

  Out of bed, in boxers and t-shirt, he opens the door to an explosion of sunlight, engulfing Mandy Blonde in its glare.

  ‘Shit. What happened to you?’ she asks.

  ‘What? Nothing. You woke me up.’

  ‘Really? Remind me to avoid middle age.’

  ‘Thanks. Lovely to see you too.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course. Excuse the middle-aged mess.’

  Mandy enters, and it’s only once she’s inside out of the razor-blade sun that Martin can see her properly. Her eyes are puffy and red. He’s about to deliver a rebuke along the lines of ‘pot calling the kettle black’ when he thinks better of it. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I thought you might come round last night.’

  ‘So did I. But I went to Bellington, got back late. Long day, I was buggered. I
s that why you’re crying?’

  ‘Dream on.’ She manages a small smile of derision, with only the suggestion of a dimple.

  Martin waits. It’s coming, he knows. Crying people don’t seek out others and then not tell them why they’re crying.

  ‘Martin, they’ve arrested Harley Snouch.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  She doesn’t answer straight away as she fights to control her emotions. A tear swells into the corner of her eye. Martin thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful in all his life, and then thinks what a turd he is for thinking such a thing. Then she bites her lip, and Martin thinks she’s even more beautiful again.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asks.

  ‘They’re saying awful things. That he’s killed someone, out at Springfields.’

  ‘Who’s saying?’

  ‘People. Everyone.’

  ‘Who’s he killed?’

  ‘They’re saying he called an insurance inspector, for the fire damage. The inspector found bodies. Greedy fuck. Can you imagine that? Killing people, then calling in an insurance clerk because you want money?’

  A small sob escapes her and Martin steps forward, holds her, tries to comfort her, saying it’s just gossip, that it might not be true, all the while wondering if it is and what it might mean.

  ‘Martin?’ she whispers.

  ‘Yes, Mandy?’ he replies, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

  ‘Martin, have a shower. You stink.’

  Freshly showered and, thanks to a brief stopover at the bookstore, freshly caffeinated, Martin is back behind the wheel of the rental. Mandy is in the passenger seat, biting nervously at her lip, as he drives them across the clanking bridge above the flood plain that never floods. The town is behind them, Liam being cared for by Fran at the store, and soon enough the beige and tan fields fall behind as well as they enter the monochromatic world of the Scrublands, still smoking two days on. Martin finds his way first time, but as they approach Snouch’s place, Springfields, they are brought to a stop by a police car parked sideways across the road. As they pull up, Robbie Haus-Jones steps out of the car, and they join him amid the smoke and lifted ash.