Scrublands(124)

He knows now. He saw it last night, when he watched D’Arcy Defoe standing unmoved and unmoving as the flames of the Commercial Hotel roared before him, taking notes, recording the spectacle, observing the reactions of others, impervious to reality, unblinking as Robbie Haus-Jones was dragged from the inferno barely alive. Martin saw himself then, as he had been before Gaza, removed from events. Max Fuller’s go-to man, travelling light: taking nothing of himself into the story, leaving nothing of himself behind. For the story was something that happened to other people; he was just there to report, an observer. And that all changed in Gaza. He became the story; it was happening to him. He was involved; he had no God-given leave pass, no right to stand apart from the story, apart from life. He was a participant, like it or not. Things no longer happened only to other people; some small part of their grief, or their joy, or their hollowness wore off on him, became part of him. How had he ever thought otherwise?

Standing on the bridge, he realises the old Martin Scarsden is gone now, gone forever. A week or so shy of his forty-first birthday he’s being reborn, like it or not. But it’s coming too late. Mandy is back in the bookstore and she never wants to see him again. After a lifetime alone, he’s still alone and probably always will be, the go-to journo gone for all money. And now it hurts; he’s no longer impervious. For the first time, he’s brought himself to the story and now he’s condemned to leave large parts of himself behind. A tear comes to his eye, surprising him. He can’t remember ever crying, not as an adult, not as a teenager, not on any of his assignments, no matter how harrowing, not since he was eight years old. There were times when all around him had wept and he alone had remained dry-eyed. He wonders why. And the tear runs down his cheek, falls towards the parched riverbed. He smiles at its futility.

He returns to town, following the road down from the levee bank. Indecision has him, but the heat is insistent; he can no more ignore it than he can ignore life itself. Looking along Thames Street, in the distance he recognises a red station wagon parked outside St James. He walks to the church, unsure of what he’s about to do. The building appears as anonymous and as uncaring as ever, inured to the assault of the sun, sitting aloof above its short flight of steps. Today, its double doors are ajar. Perhaps the tourists have prised them open. Inside, it’s cooler, darker, but there are no gawkers, only one person, up by the altar, kneeling in prayer. The owner of the red car—Fran Landers. He waits quietly up the back until she’s finished.

‘Oh. It’s you, Martin. I wondered if you’d be back.’

‘Hello, Fran. You okay?’

‘Not so good. Awful, really. How can I help?’

‘I spoke to Jamie yesterday, in his cell, before they took him away. He was concerned about you. He said to tell you he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sure he meant it.’

It’s too much for Fran. She sits, almost collapsing onto a nearby pew, head bowed, and starts, almost imperceptibly, to weep.

Martin sits down next to her, giving her time before speaking. ‘I’m thinking of writing something, Fran. To explain what has really happened.’

‘And you want to speak with me?’ It’s more a statement than a question.

‘I do.’

And she nods in resignation.

There’s a stillness about the building, a sanctuary from the heat and glare pounding down outside. Martin opens the voice recorder app on his phone. He waits for her to compose herself before beginning.

‘Fran, the day of the shooting, you told me you came here to the church. That you warned Byron Swift that your husband and his friends were threatening violence.’

‘I did. I told him they had guns, that he should leave. He told me he was already going, straight after the service. He told me to wait at Blackfellas Lagoon for him.’

Martin pauses, lets her words settle before challenging them. ‘No, he didn’t, Fran. He told you the same thing he told Mandy Blonde: that he had to go alone. We know that, from Mandy and from phone calls he made from the church. He planned to leave by himself. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘He loved us. He cared for us.’

‘I believe he did. He must have wanted to take you with him. But that’s not what he said, is it? He said it wasn’t possible.’

Fran doesn’t move for a long moment, then nods her affirmation, her voice a whisper. ‘Yes. It was me. I said I’d wait for him at the lagoon. I was hoping he’d come. He never said he would, but I hoped he might.’

‘So did you go to Blackfellas? Jamie said he saw you at home.’

‘Both. I went home. Then I went out to Blackfellas. In case he came. And just to be there.’

‘And when you went home, you saw Craig, didn’t you?’

Fran looks up with eyes of pain. But she must see the resolve in Martin’s eyes, and drops her head again. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? Craig is dead. Byron is dead. Jamie is as good as dead. None of it matters.’

‘So tell me what happened, Fran. What did you tell Craig?’

‘I told him that Byron was leaving. There was no need to confront him, no need for guns, no need for violence. He was leaving. But Craig went anyway.’

‘But not with his gun. The men were unarmed.’

‘Jamie was at home. He’d calmed Craig down somehow.’