Scrublands(10)

‘Thank you.’

Martin follows the slight young man through to a plain office: desk; three grey filing cabinets, one with a combination lock; a detailed map of the district on the wall; a dead pot plant on the windowsill. Haus-Jones sits behind the desk; Martin takes one of the three chairs arranged in front of it.

‘Thank you very much for agreeing to speak to me,’ says Martin, deciding to skip the normal small talk. ‘I’d like to record the interview for accuracy, if that’s okay with you, but just let me know if at any stage you want to go off the record.’

‘That’s fine,’ says the policeman, ‘but before we start, can you run me through what you’re after? I know you explained yesterday, but I was a bit distracted. To be honest, I was being polite; I didn’t think the interview would be approved.’

‘I see. What changed?’

‘My sergeant down in Bellington. He urged me to do it.’

‘Well, I must thank him if I see him. The idea for the story isn’t to dwell on the shooting as such, although that’s the starting point. The idea is to report on how the town is coping a year later.’

The young officer has let his eyes drift to the window as Martin is speaking, and he leaves them there as he replies. ‘I see. Okay. Fire away.’ His eyes return to Martin, not a hint of irony in them.

‘Good. As I say, the shooting won’t be the focus of the story, but it makes sense to start there. Am I right to think this is the first time you’ve spoken to the media on the subject?’

‘First time for the city press, yes. I gave a few quotes to the Crier early on.’

‘Good. So let’s start.’ Martin activates the voice recorder on his phone and places it on the desk between them. ‘Can you take me through what happened that morning? Where you were, what happened next—that sort of thing.’

‘Sure, Martin. It was a Sunday morning, as you probably know. I wasn’t rostered on, but I’d come into work to clear up a few things before going to church.’

‘At St James?’

‘That’s right. I was right here, sitting at my desk. It was a warm morning, not as hot as today, the window was open. Perfectly normal day. It was about ten to eleven. I was just finishing up. Didn’t want to be late for church. Then I heard what must have been a shot, then another, but I thought nothing of it. Cars backfiring, kids with crackers, something like that. Then I heard a scream, and a man shouting, and then two more shots, and I knew. I wasn’t in uniform, but I got my gun from the locker and went outside. There were two more shots, in rapid succession. There was a car horn, more screaming, all coming from the direction of the church. I saw someone sprinting up to the corner of the primary school grounds, heading this way. There was another shot and the man fell. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. It was real but not real, like I’d been dropped into a bucket of madness.

‘I went back inside, rang Sergeant Walker at home in Bellington and alerted him, put on my body armour and went back outside. I ran along Somerset Street to where the body was lying in the road. It was Craig Landers. Dead. A single shot through his neck. There was a lot of blood. A lot of blood. I couldn’t see anybody else; I couldn’t hear anybody. The screaming had stopped. Everything was completely silent. There was one car parked outside the church on Somerset, more around the front, parked under the trees in Thames Street. I had no idea how many people might be there. There was no cover between me and the church. I was completely exposed. I thought about running back to the station, getting the vehicle, but then I heard another shot. So I started walking up the road towards the church.

‘When I got a bit closer, I ran to the back of the building, taking cover, and then worked my way up the side wall, gradually moving forward. When I got to the corner of the church and looked around I could see the bodies. Three on the lawn, another shot through the windscreen of a car. They were all dead, there was no question about that. And sitting on the church step, holding a rifle, its stock on the ground, was the priest, Reverend Swift. He was sitting perfectly still, looking straight ahead. I proceeded around the corner with my pistol trained on him. He turned and looked at me, but otherwise he didn’t move. I told him to release the rifle and raise his hands. He didn’t move. I took a few more steps forward. I’d decided that if he tried to raise the rifle I would shoot him. I thought the closer I got, the more chance I would have of hitting him.’

The policeman is looking at Martin as he speaks, his voice unemotional.

‘Did he speak?’ asks Martin.

‘Yes. He said, “Good morning, Robbie. I wondered when you’d get here.”’

‘He knew you?’

‘Yes. We were friends.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, what happened next?’

‘I took a couple of steps forward. Then…it was very fast. A car came through, along Thames Street, past the front of the church. I tried not to look at it, but it distracted me, and he had his gun on me before I knew it. He smiled. I remember the smile. He seemed calm. And then he fired, so I fired. I closed my eyes and fired twice, opened them and fired twice more. He was down, bleeding. He’d let the gun drop. I went to him, kicked it further away. He’d kind of crumpled, there on the steps. I’d hit him twice in the chest. I didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t a lot I could do. I held his hand while he died. He smiled at me.’ There’s silence in the small office. The policeman is looking out the window, his face tight, a slight frown creasing his young forehead. Martin lets the silence linger. He hadn’t been expecting this level of candour.