Scrublands(24)

‘Why not? How could you know for sure?’

‘Because I knew Byron Swift. That’s how.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘Well enough.’

‘I thought he wasn’t up here in Riversend that often.’

‘Often enough.’

‘So what was he like?’

‘He was kind. And generous. And decent. Not the monster your paper made him out to be.’

For a moment, Martin is lost for words. He can hear the fondness for Swift in her voice, see the indignation in her eyes. Defending the man who killed her husband.

Fran fills the silence, her passion dissipating. ‘But it doesn’t matter one way or the other now, does it? He’s dead. Robbie Haus-Jones shot him through the heart out there on the step.’

‘So your son never said anything? About him abusing children?’

‘No. Not to me. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to the store.’

‘Of course. But, Fran, I would like to talk to you. Conduct an interview for the piece I’m writing. It’s all about Riversend, how the town is coping a year on. Would you be able to help with that?’

Her eyes betray her reluctance, but her indignation ebbs and she nods. ‘Of course. I owe you everything. You saved my son.’

‘Thank you. And I’m sorry for being so intrusive.’

‘That’s okay. I understand. It’s your job. All the killing, all the death. It’s what you do. But if it wasn’t for you, I’d have nothing left. Better you than D’Arcy Defoe.’





MARTIN DRIVES THE SHORT DISTANCE BETWEEN ST JAMES AND THE OASIS. HE reverses back carefully so his rear bumper is close to the precipitous gutter but not touching it. This time he gets it just right, and feels the better for it. He’s got the beer stein and the travel book he bought the day before. He’s scrubbed out the stein. He’s only halfway through the book. It provided some distraction in the witching hours when he couldn’t sleep, but searching for a replacement will allow him to spend some time in the bookstore and escape the heat of the day.

The shop’s door is unlocked, but it’s empty of customers. The smell is good, though: coffee and home cooking. As if on cue, Mandalay Blonde appears from the door in the back of the store and glides down the central aisle towards him, her baby astride her jutting hip, held in place with a casual arm. To Martin, it makes her look simultaneously maternal and sexy.

‘Afternoon, Martin. I hear you’re quite the hero.’

‘Yeah. Something like that.’

‘Well, good for you. There’s enough people leaving town as it is; we don’t need them dying as well. Can I get you something?’

‘Yes.’ He holds out the stein. ‘Another coffee, if I may. And what is that smell?’

‘Muffins. Apple and cinnamon or blueberry. Homemade.’

‘One apple and cinnamon, please.’

‘And you’ve brought back one of your books? Very good. Pop it on the counter and you can have fifty per cent off your next one. Give me a hand first, though, will you?’

Martin follows her down the aisle and through the door, passing from an office-cum-storeroom into her home. Doors lead off either side of a corridor, a nursery on one side, her bedroom on the other, offering a fleeting glimpse of an antique brass bed, strewn with books, clothes everywhere. At the end of the corridor the kitchen is large and light, with a big wooden table and two stoves, an electric range placed close by the original wood stove.

‘Grab those, will you?’ she asks, pointing to the boy’s playpen sitting on a quilt in the middle of the floor. ‘Take them down to the shop.’

Returning to the bookstore he lays out the quilt on the Persian rug, in the same place it was the day before, and unfolds the playpen. Mandy’s with him shortly, baby held close. She puts her son down in the pen. ‘Keep an eye on him, Martin. Coffee and muffin on their way.’

Martin sits in one of the old armchairs and considers the child. He is lying on his stomach, straining to lift his head, doing a kind of baby push-up. There’s a small furrow on his brow, as if he is concentrating hard. Martin smiles.

Mandy returns with a tray. The coffee stein is there, a muffin on a plate with a pat of butter and a cup of coffee of her own—just as he’d been hoping. She places the tray on an occasional table beside him, her proximity exhilarating, taking her coffee and sitting opposite. Martin wonders anew at her beauty.

‘So, how goes the work, are you getting what you need?’ she asks.

‘Yes. Pretty good, actually. As well as Robbie Haus-Jones, I’ll now be able to interview Fran Landers.’

‘Yes, I can imagine. The man who shot down the rampaging priest, plus the grieving widow. Very good. And who else have you been talking to?’

‘I went out to the Scrublands this morning. Talked to an old fellow out there, Codger Harris.’

‘Codger Harris? What did he have to say?’

‘You know him?’

‘No, but I know what happened to him. Everyone does.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s an awful story. Happened years ago—before I was born, I think. Codger was the bank manager down in Bellington. I forget his real name; it’s something like William. Anyway, one afternoon his wife and little boy were playing in the park by the river, right in the middle of town, when a truck went off the road; the driver had a heart attack or something. Killed Codger’s wife outright. Their son, just three or four years old, lasted in hospital for a day or so. And that was it for Codger. He held it together for a few months and then fell apart spectacularly. Went crazy. They institutionalised him, gave him shock therapy, filled him up with drugs. He was never the same again. When he came back, he moved out to the Scrublands. Old Man Snouch gave him some land and he’s been there ever since. More or less a hermit, eccentric, but wouldn’t harm a fly. No one says anything, but people look out for him. Take him stuff. That sort of thing.’