Scrublands(30)

Mandy laughs again. ‘Liam. He comes in with me most mornings.’

Martin rubs his ribs. ‘Christ. He’s got a kick like a mule.’

‘That he has.’

Later, as they eat breakfast at the kitchen table, Martin’s mind reluctantly kicks into gear. He feels wrung out: exhausted from fighting the fire, hazy from all the beer, exhilarated from sleeping with Mandy. He nurses the coffee, savours the muffins, swallows some painkillers to fend off an embryonic hangover. He just wants to sit, enjoy the moment, let his stomach settle, but he can’t prevent the thoughts from coming. ‘Mandy, about last night…’

‘Complaints?’

‘No. Of course not. Shit no.’ She’s smiling, teasing him. He realises he’s at a disadvantage; the disadvantage of an older man entangled with a beautiful and self-possessed young woman. But he pushes on. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘About what?’

‘Harley Snouch. I thought you hated him. But last night you seemed grateful that Robbie and I had saved him.’

Mandy says nothing for a long time. Her eyes grow moist, the tiniest frown creases her forehead. ‘I know. It doesn’t make sense, does it?’

‘No, not really.’

‘It’s just, sometimes, I wish things were different. Like I dreamt about when I was a girl.’

‘Mandy, you’re no longer a girl.’

‘I know. What do you think I should do?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘I think you should leave town. If Snouch did what your mother claimed, he’s no sort of grandfather for your boy. You have Liam to think about.’

Mandalay Blonde says nothing.



As soon as Martin leaves the bookstore, the hangover kicks in with a vengeance. He squints into the scolding brightness of Riversend and his head pounds; he steps into the oven of Hay Road and his stomach churns. The town stinks of wood smoke, no longer benevolent. He climbs into his car, parked where he’d left it the day before. Thankfully, it’s sitting in the morning shade of the shop awnings and has cooled overnight. There’s a bottle of water on the front seat. Martin takes a swig. The water feels good in his throat and rebellious in his stomach.

Back at the Black Dog he stands in the shower, under the streaming water, trying to cleanse himself of the persistent smell of smoke, washing it away with the chlorinated swamp water of Riversend. He tries to wash his hair with the cheap motel shampoo. It takes three attempts to work up a semblance of lather in the bore water. He looks at his hands, unsurprised to see how quickly his fingertips have wrinkled. But somehow, despite the hangover, despite his fatigue, he is feeling more alive than he has for a year. The interview with Robbie, saving Jamie Landers, surviving the fire, sleeping with Mandy. Somehow, in this dried-out town, he can feel his blood beginning to course once again. He dries his face, evaluating what he sees in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot from the smoke and the grog, but the sun has returned the colour to his face and the stubble covering his budding jowls lends definition to his jawline. He tries smiling, likes what he sees, and smiles for real. Perhaps not the dashing young foreign correspondent of yesteryear, but perhaps not quite a washed-up hack yet. Maybe, just maybe, Mandy’s affection is motivated by more than just gratitude.

He considers his article, the story he has been commissioned to write: profiling Riversend a year on. He’s thinking he can do better, that it can be more focused. Not just a traumatised town recovering, but a town divided over the memory of its priest, a mass murderer and accused paedophile, yet a man remembered fondly by some. The interview with Robbie Haus-Jones will still be the cornerstone, or at least the first half, and who knows what Fran Landers may volunteer now she has agreed to be interviewed? It’s intriguing: Swift shot five people dead, yet there are still those who say what an admirable guy he was: Codger, the boy at the church, Mandy. And those ready to condemn him, like Harley Snouch and Robbie.

And yet Martin can’t get a grip on it; he has no idea what caused the priest to turn homicidal. Had it been a psychotic episode, or had it been an attempt to silence those about to accuse him of abusing children, or had it been something entirely different? A gregarious young man, popular and giving of himself. Who also liked shooting, drinking and smoking dope. And, according to the award-winning piece by D’Arcy Defoe, a man who abused children. Defoe might take the occasional liberty, but he wasn’t about to make up something like that. It must have been well sourced. So, a young man living a lie. Yet neither Mandy nor Codger nor Luke believes the accusation. What then? Why did Byron Swift say: ‘Harley Snouch knows everything’ just before Robbie shot him? What did Harley Snouch know? If Snouch knew about the priest’s abusive behaviour, why shoot his five accusers, then with his final words point the policeman towards the old man? None of it makes sense.

Martin looks at his watch: nine-thirty in the morning, the whole day ahead of him. His mind is alive, but his hangover is becoming oppressive and his fatigue is rising in pace with the temperature. He swallows two painkillers and climbs into bed, knowing he needs to rest.

He wakes at eleven feeling marginally better, but the day is feeling increasingly worse. Outside the wind is low, too mild to fan an outbreak of fire, but it’s just as hot, just as dry, just as smoke-filled. The cloud from the Scrublands fire is being fanned across the town, yet it provides no shade, no filter: the sun’s heat feels more intense, not less. The car is hot and stifling when he climbs in, despite being parked in the shade of the motel’s carport. He drives back onto the highway, turns left and drives the length of the main street, where the smattering of shops have opened for their twice-weekly trade. He smiles at the bookstore as he passes, before steering up across the long bridge.