Scrublands(107)
He reaches the turn-off into the Scrublands, the same circle of gravel where Errol Ryding and his fire crew had waited a week before. The police continue, followed by the media. Martin stops the car, leaving the engine running, the air-conditioning not so much cooling the car as making it less hot. Gradually the cloud of dust and ash from the departed cars falls from the air around him, hardly drifting at all in the windless day. He cuts the engine and feels the heat surrounding him, like the ocean around a diving bell, the pressure pushing inwards. Across the clearing he can see the array of letterboxes, rusted paint tins and painted boxes, mounted on poles, bearing RMB numbers. He thinks of Harley Snouch, tempted to confront him but knowing he shouldn’t. Instead, he decides to visit Jason and see if the motorbike-riding veteran knows anything about the Reapers.
Martin gets out of the car, into the silence. Somewhere, off in the distance, there is some sort of buzzing, some insect life impervious to the heat but serving only to emphasise the stillness of the day. He walks to the letterboxes, but most don’t have names, just the numbers. He realises he has no idea where Jason and his girlfriend live, which path might lead him there. Nothing would be more futile than driving around the Scrublands hoping to chance upon them. Except breaking down in the middle of nowhere. He thinks of Codger Harris; the old man could give him directions. And Martin knows the way to his shanty.
He finds it spared from complete destruction. The same fluky winds that left one cow skull untouched and the other incinerated at his fence line have played the same game of Russian roulette with his buildings. The house has survived, but the sawmill and garage are gone, the old Dodge a blackened shell. Martin wonders what happened to the bitch and her puppies; he hopes they escaped alive. A ten-year-old Toyota, covered in dust and ash, looks somehow modern sitting amid the frontier architecture of the yard. Codger, wearing a battered hat, boots and nothing else, emerges from the house, his skin like lizard leather.
‘Martin. Didn’t expect to see you out here. Come in. Enjoy some terroir,’ he says, giving his scrotum a tug.
Martin follows him in, but with no wind coming through the gaps in its wall, the corrugated-iron shack is an oven, superheated by the sun. Martin accepts some water but suggests they find some shade outside.
‘Any news?’ asks Codger.
‘Quite a lot.’ And Martin recounts the arrest and confession of Jamie Landers while Codger nods, eyes downcast, face solemn.
‘It’s a merciless world, all right,’ is all the old man has to say in response. ‘I guess it was him shooting me cows. So what brings you out here? Not to tell me that, I’d guess.’
‘Can you tell me how to get to Jason’s place? The vet with the motorbike?’
‘I could, but you’d get lost. The tracks over there go every which way.’ The old man again scratches his balls, as if it helps him think. Martin wonders if he has lice. ‘But I can take you if you like.’
‘Would you? You sure?’
‘What else have I got to do? This place is like Waiting for Godot. Without the conversation. Give us a tick and I’ll find some clothes.’
By the time they get to Jason’s bush block, Martin is comprehensively lost. Codger has guided him through back paths and short cuts, across dry creek beds and over rocky ridges; past trees destroyed by fire, past trees devastated by drought. On two occasions, the men pull fallen branches from the track; on another, Martin narrowly escapes getting bogged in a drift of windblown sand. The landscape is lifeless, the lack of wind denying even a false sense of animation. The world has stopped turning; it is dead still.
Jason’s gate, made of steel, survives among the ashes, adorned with various signs forbidding entry: TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED and PRIVATE LAND—KEEP OUT!, joined by a red-and-white sign pilfered from some distant freeway: WRONG WAY—GO BACK. But the signs have lost their authority; the gate is wide open and off its hinges.
Martin proceeds cautiously. He sees tyre marks in the ash; someone has been here recently, may still be here. It occurs to him that seeking out Jason may not be wise. But there is no room to turn around without risking getting bogged and he’s come too far to reverse all the way out. He looks at Codger, who appears utterly unconcerned. The track leads on, through the blackened skeletons of trees.
They come over a small rise and arrive at what must have been Jason’s home. A pot-bellied stove stands on its brick hearth surrounded by ruination. Out of the car, Martin can see the house was small, but no bush shack; the brick pilings suggest a more thoughtful and complete structure. None of which matters now; there is nothing left. Codger has joined him, shaking his head at the sight.
Martin walks around the clearing, checking the ground as he does so. The tyre marks are easy to follow in the ash: blurry parallel lines created by a car, better defined impressions left more recently by motorbikes. He follows them, trying to work out if they’ve been left by Jason’s bike alone or if he’s had company. Company, he concludes; anywhere between two and four bikes. He imagines the scene: the Reapers arriving, gunning their engines as they slowly circled, full of menace. There are footprints as well, four sets, all made by boots, leading away into the bush. Leading where? How recently?
Martin follows the footprints and Codger follows Martin, past a clump of burnt-out trees, up and over a slight incline. Another burnt-out building, a large machinery shed, steel frame and metal sheeting unable to withstand the power of the fire. It lies like a gutted corpse, the aftermath of autopsy, exposed for examination. Its steel trusses twist upwards like blackened ribs, the sheeting peeled back to expose the innards. But the innards are gone, incinerated. The footprints stop short of the building, the people who left them having seen enough. But Martin persists, walking through the ash and into the corpse.