Scrublands(14)

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was a charmer, mate. Could charm the pants off a possum. People liked him, don’t want to admit they got him wrong.’

‘In what way?’

‘The kids. What your mate wrote in the paper. It was dead right. But lots of people don’t want to believe it, don’t want to admit it was going on under their noses.’

‘So you believe it?’

‘Sure. I seen him with those kids, giving them hugs and whatnot. Swimming with them down at the weir. All over ’em like a rash.’

‘Did you tell anyone? The police?’

‘Mate, I don’t talk to the police. Not if I can help it.’

‘What about Swift himself? Did you ever talk with him?’

‘Sure. Plenty. Man of the cloth, guess it was his duty, ministering to the likes of me. He’d come in here for a drink on occasion. Could put it away, too. Not a pissant like you. Tell his dirty jokes and filthy stories.’

‘What? He alluded to abuse?’

‘Yeah, alluded. That’s a good way of putting it. Checking me out, no doubt, looking for an accomplice. Once he realised he had the wrong bloke, he backed off. But, mate, I’m the invisible man. I walk round this town and people don’t see me. Doesn’t mean I don’t see them.’

‘So what did you see? Did you see Swift engaged in anything criminal?’

‘Criminal? No, I wouldn’t say that. But I saw him with those kids and I listened to his unsavoury jokes. All I’m saying is don’t believe everything you’re told.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it. In fact, don’t mention me. Leave my name out of that shit sheet of yours.’

‘See what I can do.’

‘Fucken journo.’

Back on the main street, the day is growing heavy with heat, but the air smells of nothing more dishonest than dust and the sun has an antiseptic sting to it. Martin crosses the road towards the Oasis. He wonders if the invisible man is watching him through the boarded-up window, but figures Harley Snouch is still at the bar conversing with his ghosts. Martin stops in the middle of the road, turns back and snaps a photo, but suspects the contrast is too great—the wine saloon’s facade is too dark against the shattering brightness. Martin squints, but can’t even make out the screen on his phone. He walks back under the awning and takes a closer shot of the rusting chain and its padlock.

At the Oasis the Pooh Bear sign has been removed from the door. Martin enters, is surprised to see a couple of customers, two elderly ladies drinking tea at one of the tables. In a clear space in the centre of the rug, next to a playpen, a baby is rocking gently up and down in a lightweight bassinet, sucking on a bottle.

‘Good morning,’ says Martin.

One of the women beams in affirmation. ‘Isn’t it?’

Mandy appears, pushing through the swing door at the back of the shop, carrying a tray with scones, jam and cream. She offers Martin a smile, replete with dimples. ‘Wouldn’t you know it? Peak hour. Let me finish up with the sisters.’

A few minutes later she’s back, having delivered morning tea to the old women. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Hope you haven’t come to chat. Liam’s been a little shit this morning. Can I get you something?’

‘He looks jolly enough.’

‘Yeah. Wait till he’s finished his bottle.’

‘A large flat white then, biggest you’ve got. Double shot if it’s big, triple shot if it’s bigger.’

‘Done. You want takeaway?’

‘Might have it here, if that’s okay?’

‘No problem. Get a book while you’re at it. You forgot yesterday.’

Martin does what he’s told, but not before making some unconvincing cooing noises at the baby, who studiously ignores him and concentrates on the bottle instead. He’s a chubby little fellow, dark brown eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. The old women regard him indulgently.

By the time Mandy returns, Martin has picked out a couple of worn paperbacks, one a detective book, the other a travel story, both by unfamiliar authors. She is carrying a Bavarian beer stein, complete with a conical metal cap. Martin laughs. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Largest I’ve got.’

‘Thanks.’

Martin enjoys his coffee, flicking idly through his books. The old ladies finish their morning tea, thank Mandy and pay, their demeanour relentlessly cheerful. Mandy clears their plates, taking them out through the back of the store. It’s a curious setup. If the money comes from coffee and cakes, there’s no sign of it. No tables and chairs, just the old armchairs and occasional tables. No coffee machine, no urn, not even a display case of cakes or a jar of biscuits. Everything out the back, as if the cafe occurred accidentally one day and Mandy and her mother never got around to doing it properly. Maybe it had to do with licensing, or health regulations.

Mandy reappears and plucks the baby from his bassinet, pulling all sorts of faces and making all sorts of noises, culminating in a raspberry blown against the child’s stomach. The boy chortles with delight. Her love for him, her delight in him, is evident. She holds him close as she sinks down into one of the armchairs.

‘So, Martin, how’s the story progressing?’

‘Not bad, considering I’ve been here less than a day.’