by Chris Hammer
‘House plans. Some rough ideas about rebuilding.’
‘Great. Mind if I have a look? Mandy might be interested.’
‘No, mate. They’re just rough ideas. I’ll give her a look when I’ve got something more concrete.’
‘Oh come on, Harley. Don’t be bashful.’ Martin walks past him towards the desk. And as he does so, he sees for the first time a flash in the man’s eyes: a flash of panic. It brings a small grin to his own face, some satisfaction; in the game of verbal brinksmanship he has somehow come out on top.
‘Hey, Martin?’
Martin turns, but the retort forming on his lips is stillborn. Harley Snouch is holding a shotgun, and he’s pointing it at Martin’s chest. Dread falls like a guillotine, the smugness draining from Martin, leaving his guts hollow and filling with fear. The muzzle of the gun is just metres away, black and full of menace. Snouch’s grip is steady, his eyes determined; there is nothing of the shakes or desperation of Shazza Young. He’s three metres away, now he steps closer; he can’t miss, the barrel a cobra poised to strike. All he has to do is pull the trigger and Martin will be shredded, reduced to ragged flesh, blood and terminal pain. ‘Maybe you don’t need to look at the desk, Martin.’ His voice is measured, almost serene. ‘This is my property, and you’re trespassing.’
A thought comes to Martin through the paralysing fear. He remembers the wire, Jack Goffing listening in from the car. Do ASIO officers carry guns? ‘A shotgun, Harley? Really? What are you planning to do, shoot me?’ Even to his own ears, his voice sounds thin, a threadbare attempt at bravado.
‘Why not? There’s a sign on the gate warning trespassers of exactly that. I’m within my rights.’
‘No you’re not. This isn’t America. Besides, I’m not alone. Jack Goffing is in the car.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He didn’t want to come in. Reckons he can’t stand the sight of you.’
Snouch smiles. ‘I bet he can’t, the idiot. I’ve got him by the short and curlies.’ He pauses to think momentarily, reassessing the situation. ‘Maybe I don’t have to shoot you after all; maybe we can come to an arrangement.’ Martin nods, keeping his focus on Snouch, even as he catches movement behind the man out of the corner of his eye. Martin desperately wants to look, to see if Goffing is armed, but he knows that Snouch is watching him, that he will see Martin’s eyes shift, that he will turn and shoot. And if he kills the ASIO man, he will certainly kill any witnesses.
‘So what is on the desk?’ asks Martin, trying to hold Snouch’s attention. ‘What’s so sensitive?’
Behind Snouch the figure of a man moves closer, into focus, but it’s not Jack Goffing. It’s Codger Harris, armed with Shazza Young’s shotgun. Martin’s knees threaten to buckle, his bladder to release, even as he fights to keep control, to match Snouch’s gaze and hold his attention, even as his mind is screaming fight or flight, even as the adrenaline pumps out through his bloodstream. Someone is about to die, and there’s a good chance it’s going to be him: three men, two shotguns, and he’s the one without a weapon. Even if Codger has reloaded Shazza’s shotgun. Where the fuck is Goffing? Still Martin maintains eye contact with Snouch, searches for something to say to keep the gunman looking at him. Codger keeps advancing, calm and assured, deftly flipping the weapon around so he’s holding it by the barrel with both hands.
Snouch, sensing trouble, reading more than fear in Martin’s face, begins to turn. But he’s too late. Codger has already begun swinging the gun, a scything arc. The stock crashes into the side of Harley Snouch’s head. The impact is sickening; he collapses. Martin cringes, fearing a shotgun blast, but the gun hits the floor without discharging.
‘I’ve been waiting thirty years to do that,’ says Codger Harris.
Martin rushes forward. Harley Snouch is alive, breathing steadily. A lump the size of a golf ball is growing low down on the back of his skull, but there’s no blood. Martin gingerly moves the shotgun away before turning him over, pushing him into the recovery position on his side. ‘Jesus, Codger. You could have killed him.’
‘And he could have killed you.’ There is nothing even approaching regret in the old man’s voice.
‘What the fuck was all that?’ demands Jack Goffing, rushing up to them, a coiled earpiece still hanging from his collar. ‘He had a gun?’
‘That one there,’ replies Martin.
Goffing picks up Snouch’s shotgun and disarms it. ‘Is he okay?’ ‘Who knows? Concussion for sure. Lasting damage, maybe. But for now, he seems fine. Breathing and pulse are okay.’ As if to confirm this diagnosis, Snouch groans.
‘I think he’s coming round,’ says Goffing. ‘Let’s tie the arsehole up.’
They drag Snouch into a sitting position, and Martin ties him, hands secured behind his back, to the workbench.
‘Let’s have a look at this desk,’ says Goffing, leaving Codger to watch over Snouch.
It’s not really a desk as such. It’s a clean piece of laminated board, attached by counter-sunk screws to the top of the workbench: a large clean space for Snouch to work under the light of the angle-poise lamp. Martin and Goffing don’t have to look far; the evidence is laid out before them. There’s a letter from a firm, Excelsior Genealogy, confirming it’s able to conduct DNA testing. It says it can certainly compare two samples for paternity and includes two testing kits and a return address. The letter is written on the company’s letterhead, russet branding within a green logo representing a family tree.
And next to it, on the desk, is a second letter, on identical letterhead.
Dear Mr Snouch and Ms Blonde,
Thank you for availing yourselves of the services of Excelsior Genealogy. We are pleased to report that our technicians were able to extract robust samples of DNA from the two specimens provided and were able to make the comparison requested.
We can confirm, with a 99.8% degree of confidence, that Mr Harley Snouch is NOT the father of Ms Mandalay Blonde.
However, after further investigation, we can also confirm you are closely related. With a 98.5% degree of confidence, we can report Mr Snouch and Ms Blonde are half-brother and half-sister, sharing a common father and different mothers.
We trust this information is useful to you both. Please don’t hesitate to contact us if you require any further information or testing.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur Montgomery
Chief Analyst
Excelsior Genealogy
The letter is not yet signed. There is a blue fountain pen on the desk beside it. Snouch must have been preparing to deliver the coup de grace when they interrupted him.
The men read the forgery again, Martin trying to imagine the effect it would have had on Mandy.
Goffing speaks first. ‘Pretty impressive. But half-brother and half-sister?’
‘Yes. Perfect. Not only clears Snouch of raping the mother, Katherine, it frames his father, Eric. The father who, Mandy and I were informed just this morning, disinherited Snouch and bequeathed Springfields to Mandy. Reading this, Mandy would think old Eric was a bastard and most likely raped her mother. Sweet revenge for Harley; even as he shifts the blame, he creates a scapegoat. And Mandy would feel sorry for him, perhaps feel a sibling bond—maybe cut him a share of the inheritance. Like I said: perfect.’
Snouch groans. Martin moves back towards the door, rips a bottle of mineral water from the cling wrap, returns, and empties it over the forger’s head. It has the desired effect: Snouch groans again, coughs and opens his eyes.
Martin crouches down, his face just inches away from Snouch’s. He waits until he’s sure Snouch is fully conscious, fully aware that he’s tied up and at their mercy. Martin holds the forged letter where Snouch can see it. ‘I have your handiwork, Harley, which I’m going to show to Mandy. I have your DNA sample, which we are going to test. For real. And I have news: your father’s lawyers—Wright, Douglas and Fenning—have confirmed Mandy is the sole heir to Springfields and all that goes with i
t.’ He can see the comprehension in the conman’s eyes, the bitterness and rising bile. ‘I’m going to tell the police where to find you. They’ll want you to testify against the Reapers and their drug operation. Unless the Reapers find you first. Sounds like fun. My advice? Fuck off while you still can and never come back.’
‘Should we untie him?’ asks Goffing.
‘Fuck that,’ says Codger Harris. ‘Let the coppers have him.’
THE THREE MEN DRIVE IN SILENCE, LOST IN THOUGHT, NOT EXHILARATED BY the unravelling of Harley Snouch, but turned reflective by his demise. Behind the wheel, Martin ponders the prodigal son despoiling his own heritage. He imagines Snouch enduring prison in Perth, dreaming of better days ahead, being released, shedding his assumed identity, learning of his father’s death, anticipating his inheritance—only to receive nothing; the lawyers at Wright, Douglas and Fenning tight-lipped and duty-bound, telling him he’d been disowned and nothing more. He’d been let go, set adrift, no longer his father’s son. Winifred Barbicombe had known of the conviction in Perth; the will had been redrawn shortly before Eric Snouch’s death. Perhaps the jail sentence for fraud had been the last straw.
And so Harley Snouch had left prison with nothing. He returned to Springfields, only to find his erstwhile birthright deserted and vandalised, left open to the elements, his neighbours pilfering water. And so he squatted, lost for a time in despair and self-pity, drinking too much and growing increasingly embittered. In truth, a derelict. And yet he must have retained some hope, some ambition. He closed the doors, cleaned the house, stopped his neighbours siphoning water. And then they came to him, the priest and the publican, offering money for water. The money was welcome: money to live and money to restore the house. And something else; the implicit acknowledgement of title, that possession equalled ownership. They gave him money because they believed the water was his. It was the acknowledgement he needed. Gradually the derelict became more of an act and less of a reality.
Martin is aware this is nothing more than speculation; he can never know the inner workings of Snouch’s mind. But that makes it all the more fascinating. He wonders what Snouch felt when he first saw Katherine again after all those years. Remorse? Hope? Love? Or something altogether more calculating? And then one day, peering out from the wine saloon, Harley Snouch saw the daughter, his daughter, Mandalay Blonde, a woman now, back to care for her dying mother. Did he somehow learn the truth of his father’s will or was he simply smart enough to work it out? The money from the dope was useful, but nothing compared with the accumulated wealth of the Snouch dynasty.
And so the plan evolved, following the death of Katherine Blonde. Everyone who had known the truth, everyone who had lived through the events three decades before, was dead: Eric Snouch, Katherine Blonde, Herb Walker’s predecessor. He’d outlived them all; he alone knew the truth. And from that seed grew his audacious plan. He spent his marijuana money on repairing Springfields, a gift to Mandy, a symbol of his devotion, even as he schemed to win it back. But she rejected him, repelled him, resolutely taking the side of her mother. And worse was to follow: the priest made his move on her, with his good looks and callous charms. Snouch watched it unfold: Mandy falling for Byron Swift, confiding in him, alerting him. Snouch needed Swift gone, and so he spied, learning his secrets, seeking out leverage, looking for a weakness—and finding it.
Martin wonders why he didn’t simply inform on the drug operation, get rid of Swift that way. But no, that would have destroyed his only source of income, risked his own arrest as an accessory and invited reprisal from the Reapers. Instead, he worked out that Swift was an imposter, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And so the trip to Canberra, to tell the authorities. Martin thinks of how audacious it was to walk into ASIO with his far-fetched story of a soldier impersonating a priest. Had he been surprised by its success, that the intelligence service believed him? Maybe, maybe not. For if he were a conman, a confidence trickster, a man used to acting, to performing fiction on the stage of real life, then such a gambit would not be beyond him. It was brazen, yet he had little to lose and everything to gain. The worst the authorities could do was kick him out without listening; he wasn’t risking arrest or violent retribution. Audacious, but wasn’t that the hallmark of all great conmen: selling the Harbour Bridge, impersonating royalty, salting goldmines? And it had worked; ASIO was co-opted, the priest was exposed. And it was the same with the DNA ploy: if the cards had fallen only slightly differently, then it too would have succeeded.
Martin is brought back to the here and now. They drive into Codger’s property, entering across the cattle grid, past the remaining cow’s skull on its pole, the smell of the dead cattle appalling in the still air, and on to the house. Codger taps him on the shoulder before climbing out. ‘Good show, young fellow. You’ve sorted him out once and for all.’ Martin smiles, wishing him well.
Goffing gets out too, has a few quiet words to Codger, no doubt emphasising the need for discretion, at least for a day or two. Martin sees Goffing hand him something. Money, most likely. Goffing and Codger shake hands, and then the ASIO man climbs back into the front seat. Martin puts the car into drive and swings it around, the track back to the main road now familiar to him. And as he drives, he thinks.
The bodies in the dam must have come as a shock to Snouch, threatening to derail his plans. Had he been tempted to leave them undisturbed while he worked towards conning Mandy? His opportunity was approaching; the window was opening. The destruction of the homestead must have been devastating, but it spawned an unexpected outcome: something had softened in Mandy after the fire; perhaps news came to Snouch that she was relieved he had survived, the first tentative sign of a possible reconciliation. So he created a new character: concerned citizen. He called Goffing and the police, reported the bodies, perhaps hoping to win credit from the authorities—and credit from Mandy. Surely she would feel even more compassion for him: first his home burnt down, then the horror of finding the bodies.
Martin smiles. The plot was good but Martin hadn’t read the script. His wildly inaccurate reporting in the Fairfax press all but accused Snouch of murder at a time when he might have expected praise. Mandy’s opinion of him grew worse, not better. Snouch must have been furious: held in custody, questioned by police, as Doug Thunkleton and his colleagues gleefully repeated Martin’s calumny. Snouch could indeed have sued Fairfax for defamation, sued and won. But the process would be slow, too slow. He must have suspected the inheritance could be settled before the case was resolved; Mandy could have sold up and moved on before the case even went to court. And Fairfax has good lawyers—they could destroy him, revisiting the rape allegations, uncovering his past as Terrence McGill, arguing he has little reputation left to slander. That would hardly win over Mandalay Blonde. So instead of suing Martin, he coerced him into helping. He could see Martin was becoming close to Mandy; he probably knew they had slept together. Martin nods to himself as he drives: Snouch had determined he was the best chance to get to her.
So Snouch acted, as quickly as he dared, manipulating Martin, rolling the dice; the conman stepping onto the stage once more, a bravura performance, the audience in raptures. The DNA testing was a brilliant idea, a plot device to rewrite the narrative. The lab was no doubt genuine, the tests real, but the results would be posted to him. He’d destroy them and present the forgery to Mandy, exacting revenge on his father at the same time. It would have had no legal standing, couldn’t be used in court, couldn’t alter Eric Snouch’s will. But it didn’t need to. Martin considers Mandy’s likely reaction and decides it would have worked: she was too generous in spirit, too willing to believe the best in people, too desperate to discover some decency in this world. Too eager for her childhood dream of reconciliation to come true. Martin shakes his head; the melodrama would have played out, the curtain falling, the audience cheering for more.
‘Martin?’ says Goffing, gaining his attention. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘Snouch.
’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
And Martin does. They should have brought Snouch in, handed him over to the police. They’d caught him perpetrating a fraud. Moreover, he was a beneficiary of the drug operation and potentially a valuable witness as Claus Vandenbruk and the police built their case against the Reapers. But instead Martin had warned him off, told him to flee. Snouch no longer threatened him, but he could still destroy Goffing’s career.
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Martin.
‘I owe you one,’ says Goffing. ‘You tied the knots. How long before he works his way free?’
‘Probably already has.’
The sun is setting as they leave the crooked dirt tracks of the Scrublands, emerging into the clearing, past the letterboxes and out onto the bitumen highway, the straight black line from Hay to Riversend. The headlights are on, already taking effect in the fading light. The scrub, untouched by fire this close to town, rushes past as Martin accelerates, glad of the speed after the slow going of the Scrublands. They crack open the windows, the car’s velocity gifting some coolness to the warm air. The trees come to an end and they drop ever so slightly, down onto the flood plain, the sky open, the first stars evident. And then Martin sees it: a glowing aura, like a second sunset. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, arousing Goffing from his own reverie. ‘Fire,’ says Goffing.
The Commercial Hotel is well alight by the time they make it back to town. Half the top storey is on fire, flames spewing out of windows, the verandah a swirling blaze of orange, smoke and embers spiralling skywards; a bonfire gone awry. Martin slews the car into the kerb on the far side of the road, niceties of reverse parking forgotten. The pub is screaming its distress: shrieking metal, exploding glass, roaring flames. The smoke is tainted: not the clean eucalypt-scented destruction of bushfire, but the industrial exhalation of an incinerator, stinging his eyes and clouding his vision.