Scrublands(12)

MARTIN WANTS TO TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT THE CHURCH, TO RETRACE THE constable’s steps, but first there are more pressing concerns: coffee. It’s ten-thirty and he’s yet to have a decent cup. But when he gets to the Oasis, there’s a sign on the door, GON OUT, BACKSON, with a picture of Pooh Bear and Piglet. Whimsy, Martin decides, would be more appealing post-coffee than pre-coffee. Maybe the petrol station offers something approximate, or maybe the services club is open? Or he could return to the Black Dog and brew up another cup of bottled water, Nescafé and long-life milk. He opts for abstinence.

He turns from the bookshop and spies the shuffling man progressing slowly down the other side of the road. Martin figures the day has already climbed into the thirties, shaping as a repeat of yesterday’s scorcher, yet there the old fellow shambles, grey overcoat apparently surgically attached. Martin looks up and down Hay Road. There’s a woman using the ATM at the bank opposite the pub, and a couple emerging from a car and entering the general store, getting their supplies before the heat of the day really kicks in. Martin looks back, but the shuffling man has vanished. He should have progressed only another twenty metres or so, not out of sight. A car? Martin crosses the road. There are a couple of empty cars, but no sign of the old man.

The op shop is open, a rack of clothes placed out on the pavement. Martin enters. There’s an elderly woman sitting behind a desk doing a crossword. She nods at Martin and goes back to her puzzle. It’s a small shop, smelling of mothballs and old sweat, with racks of second-hand clothes, pre-loved toys and chipped kitchenware. No books, though, and no shuffling man. ‘Thanks,’ he says as he heads towards the door.

‘Nine letters, between heaven and hell,’ says the old woman without looking up.

‘Purgatory,’ says Martin.

The old woman harrumphs, but fills in the spaces anyway.

On the street Martin is still perplexed. Where has the old bastard gone? He walks past the hair salon and regards the abandoned building next door, chain and lock intact. Further along the real estate agent has placed a sandwich board on the pavement, declaring she’s open for business. Martin is thinking he’ll check it out, however unlikely it is that the old man is in the market for property, when he discovers a narrow lane, less than a metre wide, running between the abandoned store and the real estate agent. ‘Bingo,’ he mutters. Then he stops. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he engaging the crossword woman: ‘How’s business? More people donating than buying? Leaving town, dropping stuff off?’ Or the real estate agent: ‘Foreclosures up? Why? Drought or mass murder?’ But he has plenty of time for that. After all, he has Constable Robbie Haus-Jones captured for posterity on his phone; the rest will just be colour.

The alley runs between the two buildings, brick walls on each side. It’s littered with newspapers and plastic bags, and reeks of cat piss. The far end appears to be blocked off by sheets of corrugated iron. Martin progresses slowly, careful where he puts his feet. There is a small, barred window to his left with frosted glass. The real estate agent’s toilet, at a guess. Further down, recessed into the wall on the right, there’s a wooden door, red paint flaking. Martin tries the knob. The door opens, hinges complaining, and he enters a room from another time. It’s dark after the glare of Hay Road, light coming through where one of the boards across the front windows has been prised loose. There are several holes in the ceiling, and through one a shard of sunlight pierces the room, illuminating a slowly whirling cloud of dust. It’s a large room: floorboards broad and twisted, two tables, a few chairs, some benches along the far wall. The tables and chairs are pressed wood, cheap furniture from some distant decade in the middle of the last century. And sitting on a stool at what could be a counter, or what could be a bar, is the shambling man, with his back to Martin. The brown paper bag is on the counter, the neck of the bottle protruding, the lid removed.

‘Good morning,’ says Martin.

The man turns, seemingly unsurprised. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hemingway.’ And turns back.

Martin walks across to the counter. There’s a second stool beside the old man. On the counter are two small glasses half full of something dark and viscous. The shuffling man has his hand resting on one. Martin looks around. There is no one else in the room. He sits on the second stool.

The wino looks up from his drink. ‘Well, this time you’re half right.’

‘How’s that?’

‘This time it’s morning.’

‘Who are you drinking with?’ asks Martin.

‘No one. You. Ghosts. Does it matter?’

‘I guess not. What is this place?’

The man looks around then, as if only now realising where he’s sitting. ‘This, my friend, is the Riversend wine saloon.’

‘Seen better days.’

‘Haven’t we all.’ If the man is in any way inebriated, he doesn’t show it. Drunks sometimes don’t. Or maybe it’s still too early in the day. His hair is shoulder-length, unwashed and straggly, streaked with grey. His face is weather-beaten where it isn’t covered in a matted beard. His lips are cracked, but his blue eyes are canny and not so bloodshot.

‘I’ve never heard of a wine saloon,’ says Martin.

‘Of course you haven’t. The country’s full of ignoramuses; why should you be any different?’ The man’s voice is half tetchy, half amused.