by Chris Hammer
‘Nice car, Robbie,’ says Martin by way of greeting.
‘On loan from Bellington. Hi, Mandalay.’
‘Robert.’
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go any further. That’s my job. Keeping guard.’
‘Who’s in there?’ asks Martin.
‘Herb Walker and Constable Greevy from Bellington. And that bastard, Snouch. The sarge thought’d be best if I waited out here. He’s not wrong there.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘’Cos otherwise I might kill the old fuck.’
Martin steals a glance at Mandy, but her emotions are in check and her face is impassive.
‘Jesus wept, Martin, we risked our lives for that bastard in that bloody fire. And all the time, he had all these bodies in his dam. No wonder he didn’t want me to drive the car into it. Murderous old pervert.’
It’s Mandy who speaks, her voice eerily calm. ‘How many bodies?’
‘At least two. Probably more.’
‘You sure?’
‘’Course I’m bloody sure.’
‘Christ,’ says Martin, not knowing what else to say. The three of them stand there, held still by the enormity of the situation, transfixed by intertwining fates, like three pillars of salt. Finally, Martin says, ‘So what’s the theory?’
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Robbie replies, face haggard and eyes moist. ‘I reckon it was the two of them. The old perv and the priest. Byron fucking Swift. My friend, Byron Swift. Shooting rabbits at Codger’s? Bullshit. Out shooting kids more like it. “Harley Snouch knows everything.” Too right he fucking knows. And to think…And to think…’ He can speak no more, sobs welling up from deep down, shaking his body. It’s Mandy who steps forward and wraps her arms around him.
Fuck me, thinks Martin. Victims comfort victims. What a town.
The embrace is broken by the sound of an approaching helicopter. Robbie snaps back, as if afraid some binocular-wielding observer might spy him in his moment of weakness. They watch the PolAir chopper circle the property before easing in to land. ‘That’s homicide, from Sydney,’ says Robbie. ‘You’d better go.’
Back in the rental, driving towards Riversend, Martin glances across at Mandy, who is staring straight ahead, her eyes glassy. ‘You okay?’
‘No. I’m not. It’s all messed up; I’m all messed up. And it’s not getting any better.’
Her voice is despairing, fatalistic, enough for Martin to pull the car over, coming to a stop among smouldering stumps. Ash, disturbed by the wheels of the car, rises from the ground, surrounding them before billowing away with the wind.
‘Mandy, listen—this is not you, this is them. You can’t blame yourself for what they’ve done. It doesn’t work that way.’
‘Doesn’t it? I feel as if everything I touch turns to shit.’ Mandy is looking straight ahead, staring at the devastated landscape. ‘What sort of idiot am I? Byron Swift kills five men, yet somehow I end up defending him, telling you he was a good man. A good man? And Snouch. My mum accused him of rape, wouldn’t have a thing to do with him. And yet when you and Robbie save his life, I feel grateful, like I’m still that stupid kid wishing for my parents to reconcile. I’m trying so hard, trying so hard to get it right, but it always turns out the same; no matter what I do, I end up being the victim. I’m sick to death of it. Maybe you’re right—maybe I should just leave town.’
‘Maybe you should.’
‘But how? Go where? I promised my mum I was getting my shit together. She was so worried about me, having the baby and all. She had this thing, that you had to be settled into yourself by the time you turn thirty. She said it all the time, that it didn’t matter what you did in your early twenties, you could write that off, but after thirty it became harder and harder to change. It was her way of telling me to grow up, but sometimes I feel so lost, like I’m going backwards, like I’m still a teenager.’
‘Well, there’s plenty of time. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
Martin is surprised; he would have guessed she was twenty-five at most. He scrutinises her face; there are fine lines around her eyes, but even in her distressed state she looks as if she could be twenty-one: young and vulnerable.
‘Don’t be so tough on yourself, Mandy. You’ve endured some awful shit. And you’re making a good fist of it, running the bookstore, caring for Liam. That can’t be easy. I think your mum would be proud of you.’
Mandy turns to look at him at last, and he takes it as a minor win, as if he has reached her through her despair.
‘I’m not so sure about that. She would have seen me turning into her. And that wouldn’t have made her happy,’ Mandy says.
‘So, perhaps it is time to move on. Before you’re thirty.’
She turns away from him again, brow furrowed, pondering her options. Martin feels helpless, surprised by the intensity of his concern for her. She stares out at the ruined landscape for some minutes before she shakes her head decisively and turns back to him. ‘No, Martin. That’s not the answer. I’ve had enough of being pushed around by events, taking the line of least resistance. I’ve done that my whole life. I’ve got to take a stand. For me. For Liam. I’ve got to ditch my romantic notions and see the world for what it is.’
The despair in her voice has been replaced by resolve. Martin takes it as a good sign; he starts the car and puts it into gear.
Back in Riversend, the phone on the counter at the Oasis is ringing as Mandy lets them in. It stops just as she is about to reach for it. She turns, shrugs, is about to say something when it starts ringing again. She answers, listens for a moment, then hands the receiver to Martin. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Hello, it’s Martin Scarsden.’
‘Where the fuck have you been? We’ve rung half the numbers in Riversend.’
‘Hi, Max. Nice to talk to you, too.’
‘Cut the bullshit. We’re hearing someone’s been murdered down there.’
‘Two someones. On a property outside town. I’ve been out there, just got back.’
‘Really? You’re on top of it? Good man. Good man. Knew you would be. What can you tell me?’
‘Two bodies in a dam. Chief suspect an old felon, an alleged rapist, name of Harley Snouch.’
‘Terrific. This is huge. Riversend: murder capital of Australia. Front page. At this stage it’s an exclusive, no one else knows. Can you file?’
‘Yeah. What do you need?’
‘Everything. File everything. What’s the best number? This one?’
‘Yes, probably. If I swap back to the motel, I’ll let you know. It’s called the Black Dog.’
‘Is that a joke?’
‘No.’
‘Good then. Bethanie Glass is on the case up here. You two tick-tack okay? Terri is coordinating. I’ll give them this number. This guy Snouch, when was he convicted? We’ll pull the file.’
‘Long time ago. Twenty-five years at least, more like thirty. Details are sketchy on that. He denies it.’
‘Of course he does. Don’t they all? We want something up online before the cops tell the competitors. Get cracking.’ And the editor hangs up.
Martin looks at Mandy. ‘Sorry, I should have asked you first, but is it okay if I work out of here for a while? They want me to file.’
‘So I gathered. If you have to, you have to,’ she says, looking troubled. ‘Go through to the back; you can use the office. There’s a computer and a phone. Internet’s slow; okay for email but not much more. I’m going to pick up Liam.’
Martin can see she’s upset, dreading the news he’s about to send hurtling out across Australia, but the story has him in its grip and by the time he gets to her office he can think of nothing else.
The rest of the day is a blur; the first story hitting the web in time for the lunchtime peak. Martin filing what he’s gleaned from Robbie—the fact that homicide has choppered in from Sydney, plus some background on Snouch—with the Sydney police reporter Bethanie Glass pulling i
t together with information she has garnered from headquarters and the clippings file. No sooner has he filed than Bethanie is on the phone. She’s got a fresh line from a police source. So far there are two bodies, almost skeletal, in the farm dam. Police are working on the theory they’re German hitchhikers, Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün, last seen getting into a blue car in Swan Hill about a year ago. Martin asks for the date, does his calculations. Mid-January. A Tuesday, five days before Byron Swift lost it and started shooting his parishioners. What the fuck does that mean? It doesn’t matter, it’s going in the paper: let the readers speculate.
Martin files again, including Swift in the main story, then knocking out a side piece, speculating wildly about Swift’s potential involvement, setting out the dates of the abduction and murder and of the St James massacre. He includes Robbie’s theory that the priest and the alleged rapist Harley Snouch were in it together, attributing the information to police sources, joining the dots for the readers in a flurry of inspiration, indignation and righteousness. And as he writes, it feels good to purge himself on the computer screen, to vent his anger at the two perpetrators, one living, one dead; one a rapist, the other a mass murderer, both of whom had somehow inveigled him into doubting their guilt. Now, in his copy, the ambiguities of the real world are banished, all is black and white, there are no shades of grey. The words flow in a torrent, almost writing themselves: the evidence, the summation, the conviction. Guilty as proved. He attaches the copy to an email and clicks the send button with a self-satisfied sigh.
He starts work on a third piece: a feature about a once-proud town, ravaged by drought, besieged by bushfire, where good people fight to retain honour and dignity against unfair odds. He describes how their efforts have been undermined by atrocity and murder, how the town will forever be inextricably linked to unspeakable evil: ‘the Snowtown of the Riverina’ as one local now calls it. He writes of how deeply the townspeople feel betrayed, people like Constable Robbie Haus-Jones, who had worked with the priest at a youth centre, and who eventually cleansed the town by shooting Swift. He shamelessly includes the story of Robbie and himself putting their lives on the line to rescue Snouch just two days before his arrest. He reworks it, puts the fire at the top, making the contrast between the good cop and the twisted criminal all the stronger, understating his own heroism, but making sure it’s included. It’s better than a good yarn, better than a strong narrative; it’s a real cracker. Defoe will be spewing, Max will be elated, the newsroom sceptics will be silenced. He gets it away by mid-afternoon, feeling vindicated. It’s Saturday tomorrow, the biggest paper of the week. Talk about good timing. Front page, man on the spot, sidebar on the Byron Swift connection, plus a feature in News Review. Some of the old electricity is back, some of the old nervousness, something he hasn’t felt since before Gaza.
He rings Bethanie. She’s happy, confident they have demolished the competition, says the editors are arguing over what to put online and what to hold for the splash. They agree to watch the television news, see if there is anything they need to add. Martin mentions that he’s working on a follow-up for the Sunday papers about Byron Swift’s mysterious past, making sure he stakes his claim lest Bethanie get wind of the story through her Sydney police contacts. Then he takes a break, stretching his back as he stands. It’s been a while since he’s spent so many uninterrupted hours on a keyboard.
Mandy is in the kitchen. Liam is in some sort of harness, attached by springs to a doorframe, and is bouncing up and down, chuckling to himself. Mandy is cutting beans, as if hypnotised. There is a huge pile beside her on the bench. Martin sits at the kitchen table, breathes, allows a moment for the thoughts tumbling through his head to subside, re-entering the here and now. Mandy continues cutting beans.
‘Mandy, there’s no way you could have known.’
‘Really? You think? What sort of idiot am I? Just when I start to forgive him, this happens. Always getting fucked over, always the victim, always these fucking men stomping all over me.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he steps up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, a gesture of comfort, but she shakes him off.
‘Don’t, Martin. Don’t walk up behind me when I’m holding a knife.’ There’s real anger in her voice.
‘Right,’ says Martin. He returns to his seat at the table. Mandy continues cutting beans. He wonders what he’s doing here, in this woman’s kitchen, a woman so cruelly treated by the fates. What will he do when the story is finished? After he has his front pages and his feature articles? Drive back out of town, leaving her here? Isn’t that what she wants, what she expects? He’s starting to regret sleeping with her. There was the euphoria of surviving the bushfire, her own willingness, but even so. He’s about to say something when he notices the blue flowers in the vase on the windowsill above the sink. ‘Nice flowers. What are they?’
‘What?’
‘The flowers.’ He gestures.
‘What the fuck, Martin? They’re swamp peas. Fran gave them to me when I picked up Liam. She sells them down at the store.’
Fran Landers? Martin remembers her praying in the church, the widow defending Swift. What had she said? Something about Swift being kind and decent.
He’s about to ask Mandy more, but is interrupted by a buzzer. ‘What’s that?’
‘Someone in the store. I forgot to lock up. Keep an eye on Liam, I’ll be right back.’
Martin looks at the chubby child, who is now rocking gently back and forth in his harness, dark eyes gleaming up at him. Martin puts out a hand, extends a finger. The child takes it, wraps his tiny fist around it. So small, so pink. A blank hand, with none of life’s transgressions inscribed upon it.
Mandy returns. ‘It’s someone for you,’ she says. ‘Some television reporter.’
‘Shit, that didn’t take long.’
‘No. They’ve parked their choppers on the school oval. They’re prowling around town filming anything that moves, knocking on doors, trying to find someone to interview.’
Martin thinks about it for a moment, then walks out into the store. He doesn’t know the man, but recognises him from television: Doug Thunkleton. The TV man recognises him, strides towards him, hand outstretched, greeting him like an old friend. ‘Martin Scarsden. Wonderful to see you.’
The man has a rich baritone, even deeper in reality than it sounds on the news. He’s wearing a tie, no jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up. His face is make-up smooth with no sign of sweat.
Doug doesn’t muck about. ‘Martin, we’re almost on deadline. We need to chopper out to Swan Hill to feed. Any chance of an interview? As the reporter who broke this story?’
Martin feigns reluctance, but agrees. Max will love it: his man and his paper on the evening news.
Doug has a car, an old Ford, hired with television’s magic chequebook from some local. There’s a baby seat still bolted into the back and the interior smells of blue cheese. Martin wonders how much he’s paying.
The TV reporter drives them to St James, where his camera crew is filming. They stand Martin in front of the church, bounce the sun into his eye with a large white disc, and Doug gets going, not so much questioning him as prompting him, like two colleagues colluding. And collude they do: Doug dons the voice of television authority, his demeanour suitably serious, while Martin wraps himself in the mystique of the investigative reporter, a man with covert sources and deep knowledge. He lets slip that he has been researching the story for a considerable amount of time, states that it’s a Sydney Morning Herald investigation, hints at police contacts. He mentions at least a half-a-dozen times that the full story will be in tomorrow’s paper. Five minutes and they’re done, Doug attempting to wheedle a little more information out of his interviewee as the crew picks up some editing shots. Martin doesn’t add anything, other than to imply that he has the trust of the police, that they’re grateful for his insights. Martin leaves the crew scrambling to get Doug’s new piece to camera recorded. The last thing he
hears is the cameraman saying, ‘Fantastic. That’ll fuck the ABC.’
When Martin gets back to the Oasis, he finds the door locked. There’s no GON OUT, BACKSON sign. He knocks, but there’s no answer. He glances at his watch. It’s twenty minutes to five. The Channel Ten chopper lifts off from the primary school oval and heads south, followed shortly after by the ABC. Martin feels a little surge of satisfaction. They’re here to follow up his story.
He walks down to the general store.
Fran Landers gives him a smile when he enters. ‘Hello, Martin. Need some more water?’
It occurs to him that he does, so he walks to the end of the aisle and picks up two sixpacks of one-litre bottles, wishing he’d driven the car down from where he had left it outside the Oasis. He walks back down a different aisle, confirming that he and Fran are the only ones in the store, and places the water on the counter.
‘You heard about the police at Springfields?’ he asks, as a way of initiating conversation.
‘I’ve heard of nothing else. The town’s abuzz. Television reporters like blowflies. Awful people.’
‘Indeed,’ says Martin.
‘You are as well, of course,’ says Fran, smiling. ‘Although in your case, you’re forgiven.’ There’s something flirtatious in her manner. Martin wonders if she’s coming on to him.
‘That’s nice to hear. What are people saying?’
The coquettish smile drops away and she sighs. ‘That there are bodies in Harley Snouch’s dam. At least half-a-dozen. Discovered by a power company linesman, or an insurance inspector, or a firefighting helicopter refilling from his dam. They’ve already flown Snouch to Sydney to interrogate him. Awful man. He should never have been allowed back into town.’
Martin considers this, decides there’s not much point in pursuing town rumours, that Robbie Haus-Jones and Herb Walker will be more reliable sources of information. Instead, he indicates the bunches of pale blue flowers standing in a small white bucket at the end of the counter. ‘Nice flowers. Swamp peas, aren’t they?’