Scrublands(22)

‘Shit no. I know your sort. Come out here, ply me with grog, get me to spill me guts. Next thing I know, paparazzi everywhere.’ There is a huge grin on Codger’s face, teeth stumps spread like tractor treads. He gives his balls a tug as if to emphasise the absurdity of his claim. Martin grins as well, inadvertently taking a sip of moonshine. He gags again; it’s no better the second time around. Codger hoots with glee.

‘So he did visit from time to time?’

‘Sure.’

‘How come?’

‘Dunno. For me wit and insight, probably. Maybe he wanted to save me soul.’

‘Seriously, Codger. What did he do out here?’

‘Sometimes we’d shoot the breeze. Drink moonshine, smoke weed. Mostly he used to go shooting.’

‘Shooting? Really?’

‘Yep. He liked shooting.’

‘And drinking and smoking dope? Doesn’t sound very priestly.’

‘You got that right. Bit of grog in him and he swore like a trooper, too. But a nice bloke. And he’d never drink or smoke when he was shooting, only afterwards.’

‘That’s interesting. Did you shoot with him? Was it targets or what?’

‘No. I went with him one time, but he preferred to go alone. He shot rabbits mostly. And sparrows. Saw him pick off a few sparrows.’

‘Sparrows? Shit, he must have been a hell of a shot.’

‘Fucken oath, Martin, you got that right. A natural. Never seen anything like it. Those guns, they would become like a part of him. You shoulda seen it. He’d go into the zone and pap, pap, pap. Shoot the wings off a fly. He had a twenty-two. You know what that is? Small calibre. Said it made it more difficult. Never shot roos or scrub wallabies; reckoned it was too easy.’ ‘How many guns did he have?’

‘Dunno. Three or four. The twenty-two. A hunting rifle. A high-powered marksman’s rifle with sights. A shotgun. I tell you, it didn’t matter: he was good with all of them.’

‘How did he learn to shoot like that?’

‘I think he grew up on a farm, but he didn’t like talking about his past.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Dunno.’ Codger Harris is thinking, remembering. ‘He used to come out sometimes, go bush, camp out overnight. Said he liked the solitude. This bush, the Scrublands, it goes a long way, thirty or forty kilometres, back to the hills. My place goes for ten k, after that it’s Crown land. Too shitty for farming, too shitty for a national park, too shitty for logging. Just shitty all round. But excellent for solitude.’

‘When you were drinking together, what did he talk about?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual. Philosophy, religion, politics. Girls with big tits. Racehorses.’

‘Codger, maybe you can help me. I’m having trouble reconciling the idea of Byron Swift as a priest and a pillar of the community with someone who drinks hooch, smokes dope and goes round shooting small birds. I can’t imagine a priest like that.’

‘Well, that was him all right.’

‘Sounds like you were impressed.’

‘Too right I was. Most handsome man I ever saw. Tall, square-jawed, could have been in the movies. But that was only half of it. The way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. He made you feel special just being with him. No wonder the sheilas liked him.’

‘Did they?’

‘So they say.’

‘So why did he want to be a priest?’

‘Well, I dunno, do I? But he had religion all right. Had it bad. Believed Jesus died for all of us, for all us sinners. It was no act.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, fuck yeah. He didn’t talk about it often, but when he did, it came from the heart. He never tried to convert me or anything, but for him it was real, like only part of him was in this world and part of him was somewhere else. He used to say a little prayer before he started shooting and a little prayer afterwards, for the animals he killed. Sounds strange, but there was something holy about him, something not of this world.’

‘In what way? Can you explain it?’

‘Nup. Not really. Just an impression. But he would have made a great Catholic, a great confessor. I told him things I’d never told another living being. In a way he saved me, got me to re-engage with people. Up until then I’d been a hermit.’

‘Why do you think he shot those people at the church?’

Codger’s half-amused affability falls away. He becomes serious, looks lost. ‘I don’t have a clue. And don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Lots of time to ponder the shit out of things in the Scrublands. I wish there was something I could have done to help him, to help prevent it.’ Codger takes a slug of moonshine, cracks a toothy smile. ‘That’s what I do out here: live in the past, drink grog and have an occasional wank. Not much of a life, is it?’

‘What do you think of this assertion that he was molesting local boys?’

‘Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Sometimes, when we was in our cups, we’d talk about it, doing the business. He had some good stories, I can tell you. But they were all about sheilas. He was into sheilas, not kids.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Martin repeats.