Scrublands(21)

Martin finds the house, largely indistinguishable from the other structures littering the bush block, except its walls are marginally more upright, the windows are shuttered, the roof boasts eaves overhanging the walls. And the door is shut. It’s a green door, paint flaking, wood exposed, patina emerging.

He knocks, noting the futility of the effort amid the thunderous day; the polite forms of society out of place in the Scrublands. The door has a brass knob. He twists it, shoves the door open and yells into the gloomy interior. ‘Hello? Anyone home? Hello?’

He steps inside. The light diminishes, the noise diminishes, the smell increases. It hits him as his eyes are adjusting to the gloom: sweat, dogs, rancid fat, farts, urine. An olfactory assault, even with the wind whistling in through gaps in the walls.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ There is an old man, naked, slouched in a chair, hand wrapped around his swollen member. Martin has interrupted him mid-stroke.

‘Shit—sorry,’ Martin stammers.

But the old bloke doesn’t seem at all fazed. ‘Don’t go. I’ll be done in a mo.’ And resumes his pumping.

Martin can’t bear it. He retreats outside, glad of the metallic racket, if not the heat. What a shithole.

A minute or two later, the man emerges, still naked, his shrinking penis red and dripping. ‘Sorry, mate. Caught me off guard. Come in, come in. Codger Harris, how are you?’ He extends his hand.

Martin looks at the man’s hand, looks at the man’s face. He doesn’t shake hands. ‘G’day,’ he says instead. ‘Martin Scarsden.’

‘Yeah, right,’ says the old bloke. ‘C’mon in anyway, Martin.’

Martin follows him into the hovel, looking anywhere but at the man’s sagging buttocks.

‘Sorry about the clothes-free zone. Too bloody hot for ’em. Pull up a pew.’ The old man flops back into the hammock-like chair, canvas stretched between a rough wooden frame, where he’d been pleasuring himself when Martin first entered.

Martin looks around, can’t immediately find anywhere to sit, grabs a milk crate, up-ends it, sits opposite the old man.

‘Shit, Martin, begging your pardon. Not used to visitors, forgetting me manners.’ And Codger Harris is back on his feet, remarkably nimble given his appearance. ‘What d’ya want to drink?’ He crosses to a bench, picks up a flagon and a couple of old Vegemite jars. Martin wasn’t aware that flagons still existed. ‘Not that there’s much choice. Chateau Scrublands, that’s about it. Care for a glass?’

‘Bit early for me. And a bit hot.’

‘Bullshit. Can’t come all this way and not sample the local produce. You like wine, Martin?’

‘What sort of wine is it?’

‘This? Shit, this isn’t wine, this is dynamite. But d’ya know anything about wine?’

‘A bit.’

‘So you know about terroir?’ The man has the French pronunciation correct.

‘Yeah. Good wine contains something of the land where the grapes are grown. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Spot on. Top marks. Take a slug of this then, the terroir of the Scrublands, liquefied.’ He half fills a Vegemite jar and hands it to Martin, pouring a full jar for himself.

Martin takes a sip, half gags, swallows anyway. It tastes like raw alcohol, except worse, like it’s stripping the enamel from his teeth.

‘Whatcha reckon?’

Martin coughs. ‘Yeah, you’ve captured the Scrublands all right. Note perfect.’

Codger Harris laughs, an easy amiable laugh, takes a slug, not flinching, and grins at Martin. ‘Truly shitful, isn’t it?’

‘You can say that again. What is it?’

‘Moonshine. Make it out the back. Got a still.’

‘Christ. You could sell it to NASA for rocket fuel.’

The old man grins with pride, takes another slug. His teeth are yellow stumps. ‘You prefer some weed? I got piles of it out back. Or tobacco. Got a bit of that as well. Cunt of a thing to grow—needs plenty of water, plenty of compost. Weed’s better. Grows anywhere. Even out here. Works better, too.’

‘No, I’ll stick to the terroir, thanks all the same.’

‘Goodo.’ And the old fellow drains his Vegemite jar, letting out a satisfied sigh, followed by a satisfied fart. ‘So what can I do for you, Martin? Reckon you haven’t come here for the grog.’

Martin smiles. Codger Harris is truly appalling, but the old man possesses an element of inexplicable charm. As if to underline the point, Codger reaches down and scratches his scrotum. Inexplicable is right. ‘Codger, I’m told the priest, Byron Swift, visited you sometimes?’

‘Oh yeah, the preacher. Fine fellow, fine fellow. Good lookin’ bloke, bit like yourself, only younger. Used to come out here a fair bit. Was very upset when I heard what happened, what he did. Never would have guessed it, not for a moment. Seemed a real gentleman. Who told you he used to come out here? Thought it was our secret.’

‘Does it matter who told me?’

‘No, guess not. You’re not a copper, are you?’

‘No. A journo. I’m writing a story about Riversend.’

‘Shit. That the truth? Christ. I could tell you a few stories. Make your hair curl.’

‘Please do.’