Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  That was the first she knew of his imminent departure, so she pleaded her own case. Swift would be abandoning her and her son Jamie to the violence of her husband; he should take them with him. And when that failed to move him, she not just accused Craig, but also implicated his friends. Yet Swift remained unmoved, unable to help, unwilling to meet her at Blackfellas Lagoon.

  And then the shape of the morning changed again. Fran returned home, tried to pacify her husband, told him Swift was leaving, that there was no need for violence. Jamie Landers then convinced his father that the abuse allegations were unfounded. And in that moment, Craig, the violent husband and father, saw the opportunity for petty revenge. He came to the church, enlisting the unknowing support of his hunting companions, to wreak vengeance on the man who had cuckolded him, beaten him and humiliated him. Martin considers this, just how intensely Craig Landers must have hated Byron Swift—and how badly he misjudged him.

  Craig arrived at church, unarmed, outwardly civil, shaking the priest’s hand and smiling benignly. And delivering a message of hate. What did he say, what phrasing did he use to fuck with Swift’s mind? If Fran was right, he told the priest that he was going to enslave her and Mandy, unleash his depravities upon them. That the town belonged to him. Martin recalls what Swift said in his phone call to Foster: ‘Him and his gang. That crime scene out in the Scrublands, that one I told you about, the blood and the women’s underwear, it must have been him. And his mates. Not the Reapers.’ Martin thinks about that. Landers couldn’t have alluded to the killings of the backpackers; he was ignorant of that. If the hunters had discovered the crime scene, they would have reported it. But in Swift’s imagination, Craig’s guilt must have seemed undeniable; he had become the embodiment of evil, the devil incarnate, a violent sexual predator, depraved and Godless, leading a gang of dark apostles.

  Believing Craig’s false claims and stated intentions, believing Fran’s unfounded smear against the Bellington Anglers Club, believing his own fevered imaginings, Swift went to the vestry. He used the phone, the one he’d installed to communicate with the Reapers, and called Avery Foster. Martin recalls the recording. Swift told his confidant that he needed to take Mandy with him, to get her away from Landers’ clutches. Foster had agreed. At that point Swift was still planning on leaving, perhaps even picking up Fran on the way after all, perhaps sending for her later.

  But while he was getting changed, preparing to conduct his last service, Harley Snouch, prosecuting a deception of his own and unaware of what was happening at the church, rang Foster, telling him he knew that Byron Swift was an imposter, that he was the war criminal Julian Flynt. Foster called Swift immediately, told him to leave, told him to abandon Mandy.

  Martin imagines the priest, sitting in the vestry, crucifix in hand, considering his options. Swift could still flee, but the police would be after him now that they knew he was Flynt. It was unlikely he could run for long. Taking Mandy, newly pregnant and ignorant of his past, was no longer an option: in the short term it would endanger her life; in the long term it would stain her with complicity. But how could he flee and leave her in Riversend, her and their baby, and Fran, leave them here to be preyed upon by Landers and his followers?

  Swift sat there in the vestry, the priest in his cassock, amid his guns, and realised he couldn’t go and he couldn’t stay. So he walked out here, to where Martin is standing on the steps, and shot them one by one, methodically. He made Riversend safe, the future safe, for Fran, for Mandy, for his unborn child. But he was wrong, so very wrong. None of the men were rapists and none of them were murderers, except for Allen Newkirk, whose life he spared. None of them had committed any crime whatsoever, except for Craig Landers. And even Landers, a wife beater and a son basher, didn’t deserve to be summarily executed. Nor was it inevitable that his threats would be carried out. As Mandy had so forcefully reminded Martin, the fact that Landers had abused his wife in the past didn’t mean Mandy was about to submit to the same treatment.

  Martin considers all of this as he stands at the door of the church. Was it possible that the priest, driven by decent if misguided motives, committed a heinous and unforgiveable crime? And Martin decides that is exactly what the evidence suggests.

  And then what? The priest sat here with his gun, where Martin is now standing. He’d killed the five men, believing he’d rid the town of evil. He could run, but the police would catch him soon enough. They’d spare no expense, no resource: he was a mass murderer twice over. Did he consider suicide? Probably. Put a gun in his mouth, pull the trigger. So why didn’t he? Religious conviction? Or because it would still leave them all exposed, the people he cared for: Avery and Robbie and Jason, all the people he had persuaded to help him, all the townspeople who had benefited from the drug money? He was the one who’d killed those innocents in Afghanistan; he was the one who needed to make amends. Or the police would find them and punish them too, punish them for his crimes.

  And then Robbie appeared, sweet foolish Robbie, and the solution presented itself. If he had to die, then he could make it a worthwhile death. A sacrifice, dying for all their sins. What better death for a man of the cloth? For if Robbie killed him, then the constable would be a hero, above reproach; no one would suspect him of aiding and abetting the drug operation. And Robbie could protect Avery, and in turn Avery could shield Jason and Shazza. So Swift had fired at Robbie, fired and missed, slowly, deliberately, forcing Robbie to kill him. But not before warning him: ‘Harley Snouch knows everything.’ Mandy had suggested Robbie loved Byron Swift; perhaps at the end, Byron recognised that love and did what he could to protect it.

  Martin sits down where the priest sat and died almost a year ago. The concrete is griddle-hot, burning him through his trousers. It will make a remarkable book; Wellington Smith will be ecstatic. Four different crimes, all taking place in and around the same drought-ravaged town, all separate but all interlinked, driven by greed and hate, guilt and hope: the drug operation, an instrument of atonement co-opted by bikies; the murder of the Germans, abuse spawning abuse; the shooting at St James, innocents murdered with the best intentions; and Harley Snouch, attempting to expunge rape with fraud. Four crimes, all seeded by violence from the recent or distant past. He considers all that he has uncovered. Yet Martin feels no joy at all at the prospect of writing it.

  MARTIN IS REPEATING HIMSELF. THE SAME FLIGHT FROM SYDNEY TO WAGGA Wagga, the same car rental place, perhaps even the same car. But two weeks on, he is, he decides, a different Martin Scarsden. The hands gripping the steering wheel are his hands, familiar once again, in no way special but in no way alien. On the seat next to him sit advance copies of This Month, their red covers dominated by the face of Julian Flynt, caught in the moment he became Byron Swift. It’s a freeze-frame from the video cameras monitoring immigration control at Sydney Airport, courtesy of Jack Goffing, capturing the moment Flynt offered Byron Swift’s doctored passport as his own. He’d glanced up at the camera, just for an instant, aware of its surveillance, and it had recorded the faraway quality of his gaze.

  Wellington Smith has ordered twice the normal print run and is sending embargoed copies to the mainstream media ahead of publication. It will be the definitive account of the story of the summer, perhaps of the year. Martin glances down at it once again, Flynt’s face turned two-tone by the graphic artists, black on red, superimposed on a picture of St James. The headline is simple: THE TRUTH. And underneath it: The war criminal, the drug syndicate and the cover-up—the truth behind Australia’s most notorious mass murder. By Martin Scarsden. Disgraced former journalist no longer.

  The article revolves around Byron Swift. At six thousand words, it’s long for Australia, even for This Month, but there is still much to reveal in his planned book. Avery Foster’s role is detailed, for his part was central and there’s little point in protecting the dead. The Reapers are well referenced too, but Jason Moore is nowhere to be found or even hinted at. Herb Walker is exonerated, of both suicide and negligence.
ASIO emerges looking good, as the agency that finally picked up on the failures of Customs and Immigration; Jack Goffing isn’t mentioned by name. Harley Snouch doesn’t rate a mention either, but Martin hasn’t so much spared him as saved him for later: next month’s cover story and an entire chapter in the book.

  At first, it was a difficult article to write. Old habits die hard. He’d wanted to tell it all; the impulse was ingrained and not easy to shake. It was certainly compelling enough. But the image of Mandy, screaming and in tears, branding him a sociopath, had returned again and again. He sought counsel from Max, but that had only deepened his disquiet. His old editor had been hardline: ‘Protect your sources; everything else goes in. If it’s newsworthy, the public has a right to know,’ he preached. ‘We’re not here to play God.’ In the end, Martin didn’t listen, turning apostate, spurning his mentor’s advice. He spared Mandy and he spared Fran; he spared Jack and he spared Claus; and, most of all, he spared the townsfolk of Riversend: the footy team and the youth group and the fire brigade, Errol Ryding and the rest of them, the recipients of money they’d never questioned. He didn’t lie, except by omission. He told the truth about Byron Swift and Craig Landers and Jamie Landers. With some regret, he told the truth about Robbie Haus-Jones: how he’d fallen under Byron Swift’s spell and had turned a blind eye—not from self-interest but from compassion—to the drug trade; how he had reported Avery Foster’s death was a suicide when he must have at least suspected it wasn’t; how he had failed to report the drug operation even after Swift and Foster were dead. And with some joy, Martin told the truth about Horrie Grosvenor, the Newkirk brothers and Gerry Torlini: how they were indeed all innocent victims, beyond reproach. And when it was done, when it was filed, he felt good about the article and better about himself.

  But that’s not why he feels so good today, driving across the vast plain from Hay, heading towards the Scrublands, the flood plain and Riversend. He’d rung Mandy, trying to do the right thing, leaving a message for her, warning her the article was coming, emailing her a PDF. It was, he decided, all he could do in the circumstances. He didn’t expect any response, let alone her phone call. He’d sent the DNA results through a week earlier, confirming Snouch’s paternity; he’d heard nothing from her then and he expected nothing now. Yet she called him back, almost as soon as she’d finished reading the article. She told him she was leaving Riversend: packing up her mother’s bookstore, taking her life and her boy elsewhere. She thought Martin might like to give her a hand. He couldn’t believe his luck, the change in his fortune. Her voice was light and her laughter like a blessing. And so he is on his way, heart in his mouth.

  The plain runs on forever, the sun omnipotent, the air dry, but today is different. For marching across the horizon, as if painted onto the blue backdrop of the sky, is a front of clouds, dark and purposeful, a rare low-pressure system penetrating Australia’s interior for once, instead of scuttling across south of the mainland. The horizon is sharply defined, a clear blond line against the grey clouds. From his right, the Scrublands emerge, at first nothing more than a khaki stain on his consciousness, then coming closer, and closer still, the smudge turning into clumps of vegetation, then individual trees, spindly and malnourished. The muted grey-green turns monochrome, then back again, as he passes through the wake of the bushfire. The flood plain arrives, the noisome bridge and then Riversend itself, silos sentinel in the distance, glowing gold against the blackening sky. He drives down into a main street looking much the same as he’d left it. The pub has stopped smouldering and the detritus has been swept from the street, but the soldier still stands, unbent and unaffected. The dead are still dead; the survivors still grieve.

  He parks his rental with practised ease, its bumper mere centimetres from the gutter. He enters the bookstore; here there is change, if not what he’s anticipated. The books are still on their shelves, the armchairs and occasional tables await customers at the front of the store, the roof fan rotates slowly and water tinkles from slate to slate in the miniature fountain on the counter. But the Japanese screen has been removed and the curtains opened; the shop is filled with light.

  Mandy emerges through the swing doors, Liam in a new backpack, fingers in her hair and mischief in his eyes.

  ‘Hello, mister.’ Not bothering to remove the backpack, she stretches up, clasps her hands behind Martin’s neck and kisses him with power and intent and longing. The kiss lasts forever, the kiss of Martin Scarsden’s life. ‘Welcome back.’

  Martin is momentarily speechless.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asks.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She smiles again, eyes playful, dimples teasing. She floats past him, busies herself at the machine.

  ‘Still working then, the machine?’ he says, regaining his voice. ‘And what’s with the books? I thought you were shutting it down, packing up.’

  ‘Change of plan. I got a manager.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. I own the place now. Remember? I own half of Riversend for that matter. No one’s going to buy it, no one’s going to rent it, so why not?’

  ‘Who’s the manager?’

  ‘Me.’ A head bobs up from behind a shelf: Codger Harris. He’s been lurking there the whole time.

  Later the four of them sit together in the armchairs at the front of the store, Martin holding Liam on his lap, feeling the boy’s weight, sensing impending responsibility. Codger is reading his article in This Month. Mandy is smiling, alternately amused and indulgent, as if she likes what she sees. She tells Martin of her plans. She’ll keep the bookstore; Codger need pay no rent and can keep any profits. She’ll also keep Springfields, clearing out the dam and installing a cistern to feed water, clear and pure, into the town. Errol Ryding is helping to push approval through council; it will pay for the water and the profits will go to a certain orphanage in Kabul. While she talks, Codger continues reading, harrumphing as he goes. He looks transformed: clean and clean-shaven, clothed and bespectacled, his hair cut and remaining teeth polished. He finishes, nods slowly.

  ‘All right?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Very good, young fellow, as far as it goes.’

  Martin smiles. ‘I know. There are things better left out.’

  ‘And there are things you don’t know.’

  And that’s when he tells them, the story he hasn’t told anyone, not for thirty years, looking at Mandy as he recounts it, his voice reverential.

  ‘The day my family died, the day the truck went off the road in Bellington, was the day my life stopped. The truck killed my wife Jessica and it killed my boy Jonty. And it killed me inside. It still hurts; thirty years on it still hurts.’

  ‘Codger?’ says Mandy, her voice laden with concern.

  ‘I should have been with them, of course. But I wasn’t. I was with your mother, Mandy. I was with Katherine.’

  ‘With Mum?’ Mandy asks, confused.

  He smiles then, fondly. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. I was in love with my wife, and your mother was in no condition to be romanced. I was the bank manager in Bellington. She’d come to me for money. She wanted to leave, to get away, but she had no money. He’d turned violent, started hitting her, treating her as his possession. She’d confided in Jess. My wife was her old schoolteacher. Katherine was already pregnant by then, pregnant with you, and she feared for her safety and for yours. She had nothing, of course. No savings, no collateral. Her father was totally unsympathetic, wanted his daughter married into the Snouch dynasty at any cost. Awful to say, but there it is. The rules at the bank were strict, but we were trying to work out how to help. And then my family was killed, and I was no use to anyone, not even to myself. I felt so guilty, being with her, trying to help someone I barely knew, when I should have been with them.’

  ‘But Codger, what could you have done?’ asks Mandy. ‘No one could have prevented what happened.’

  ‘I could have died with them.’

  ‘Oh, Codger.’

  ‘That’s what
I thought for years. Drove me mad, put me in the funny farm. Drugs. Electric shock therapy. Suicide attempts. I don’t recommend it, I really don’t. But that’s a long time ago now; that’s in the past. I learnt to think of other things, not to dwell on it. Eventually I got back here, with my busted mind and my busted soul. And the first person to help me was Eric Snouch. A true gentleman; a heart of gold. He gave me the land out in the Scrublands, my own little piece of sanity, my own little piece of solitude. And in return, I hurt him. I told him the truth about his son: that Harley had indeed bashed Katherine, bashed her and raped her, that my wife and I both knew it, that Jessica had seen the bruises. Funny way to repay his kindness, wasn’t it? Telling him his son was a brute. Up until then he’d backed Harley, got the charges dismissed, hushed it all up. Given him the benefit of the doubt. But after I told him, he no longer deluded himself. He had it out with Harley, ended up disowning him, sending him into exile. Eric tried reaching out to Katherine, I know that, tried to apologise for not believing her previously. He offered to make amends. But she was proud, said she didn’t need help, not from a Snouch. So he helped her without her knowing.’

  ‘The bookstore and the house?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Yes. Errol Ryding was the mayor, back when we had a mayor. Eric convinced him that when the library closed, Katherine should have the books. Errol told her the shop and the house were council-owned, apologised that they couldn’t pay her a salary, but she could keep the profits instead and not pay any rent. Same arrangement you have with me. I think she believed it, at least at first. By the end, I’m not sure.’