Scrublands(23)

‘Well, I can’t be, can I? But tell a story like those he told and you get a gleam in your eye. You can’t fake that.’

Martin considers this for a moment as a searing gust of wind shakes the shanty. He looks around the one-room house: the makeshift kitchen with its piles of unwashed pans, the unmade bed with its yellowing sheets, the old books and random objects stacked in haphazard piles.

‘Why do you live out here, Codger?’

‘That’s my business. I like it.’

‘Can you make a living?’

‘You can. Not much of one, but you can. Running bush cattle. There’s a lot of them out there in the scrub. Have a big muster, make a fair old quid. But not now, not in this drought. They’d be skin and bones and chock-a-block with parasites. But come the rains and I’ll get a crew in, make a few bucks.’

‘And it’s just you out here, you and the Crown land?’

‘Nah, there’s a few of us dotted round the place. There’s an army vet and his sheila down the track a bit. Nice enough bloke, Jason, but not quite right upstairs. Keeps to himself. No idea why the woman stays. Harley Snouch is over the other side at Springfields, and there’s a few shacks and caravans here and there. People come out hunting from time to time.’

‘Harley Snouch? He has a bush block? Do you see much of him?’

‘Not if I can help it. Not after what he did. Bastard.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Raped that beautiful girl. Fuckin’ animal.’



Driving back into town on the road from Hay, crossing the long and rattling bridge above the flood plain, wind gusts bucking the car, Martin descends into Riversend and, on impulse, turns right towards the church, thinking he might chance upon Luke, the lad he’d upset the day before. But there’s no sign of him.

Reversing in under the trees, he faces the church across the road. This must be where Gerry Torlini, the fruiterer from Bellington, collected his two bullets—one in the head, one in the chest—while Allen Newkirk cowered beside him. Martin looks at the church steps, maybe thirty metres away. An easy shot for a marksman like Byron Swift.

He climbs out. The church stands aloof and unadorned, tenuously connected to the outside world by an overhead power cable and a phone line. The entrance has double doors, shaded by a portico. Today, one door is ajar. Martin climbs the fatal steps and pushes through the door, wondering if Luke might be sheltering inside.

It’s darker and cooler, much quieter, out of the wind. The boy is not here. Instead, up near the front, in the second line of pews, a woman is kneeling, perfectly still, praying. Martin looks around, but he can see no memorial to the shooting inside the church, just as there is none outside. He sits in the back pew, waiting. He recognises the woman’s piety, her supplication, but can’t remember how. How long is it since he felt anything remotely similar, experienced anything approaching grace? Codger thinks there was something holy about the priest, as does Mandy. How could that be, a man who shot things, who killed small animals and murdered his parishioners? How could that be when Martin, who just the day before had saved the life of a teenage boy, feels so much like a husk? He looks at his hands, places the palms together as if to pray, and stares at them. They don’t seem to belong to him, and the gesture does not belong to them, and he does not belong in this place.

‘Mr Scarsden?’ It’s the praying woman. He hadn’t noticed her rise and walk towards him. It’s Fran Landers. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘were you praying?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday. If you hadn’t been there, I would have let him…’ And she shudders.

Martin is on his feet, reaching out, touching her shoulder. ‘Don’t trouble yourself with that. He survived, that’s the main thing. The only thing. It’s all you need to know.’

She nods, accepting his words.

‘How is he, anyway?’

She looks up at him, gratitude shining in her eyes. ‘Oh, he’s good. I spent the night with him down in the hospital in Bellington. He’s all shaken up. Concussion and cracked ribs and a twisted back. But nothing serious. He just needs to take it easy. They’ll keep him there for a couple of days just to make sure. I came back to town this morning to open the store. A friend is minding it for me. I just wanted to come in here and offer thanks. I’m glad you’re here too. So I can thank you and apologise for being so rude when you came into the store.’

‘Were you?’

‘It felt like it.’

‘Fran, excuse me for saying so, but it strikes me as a little odd that you would come here, to this church, to pray, to offer thanks, given what happened here.’

‘How do you mean?’ Fran looks unsettled.

‘This is where your husband was shot.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Not here, not inside. But I see what you mean. It is a little strange, I guess. I tried the other church, the Catholic church, but it didn’t seem right. I’ve been coming to St James ever since we moved here. It’s okay once I’m inside.’

‘I’m sorry to ask this, but you know the allegations about Reverend Swift—the ones that were in my paper…’

‘I don’t believe them,’ she interjects before he can finish.