Scrublands(33)
Martin shakes his head, stands to leave. ‘Shit, Harley. Give it a break. I’ll bring some grog out for you tomorrow. You don’t have to cry. If she’s not your daughter, you should just leave her in peace.’
‘That’s not it. That’s not why I watch her.’
‘Why then?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘Because she’s the spitting image of her mother.’
‘Katherine?’
‘Yes, Katherine.’
Martin is lost for words. Either Snouch is an innocent man yearning for his lost love, or a guilty man overcome with what he has wrought. Martin looks long and hard and finds himself unable to divine the cause of Snouch’s tears. Yet he knows full well that Snouch and Mandy can’t both be telling the truth about her conception.
MARTIN STOPS BY THE BOOKSTORE ON HIS WAY BACK THROUGH TOWN, BUT THE GON OUT, BACKSON sign is on the door, so he continues on his way, turning right at the T-junction, past the fire station, the wheat silos and the Black Dog, accelerating as he heads out of town onto the long flat plain between Riversend and Bellington. The car seems to enjoy the straight empty road, no longer constrained by the speed limits of Riversend or the rutted tracks of the Scrublands. Martin pushes it up to a hundred and twenty-five kilometres an hour, well above the limit. Who’s to know? Who’s to care?
He does slow, if only slightly, as he reaches the curve in the road, the scene of the ute accident. The hole in the fence is still there, but the ute has been removed. He considers stopping to take a photo or two, but the car carries him past; it’s not as if he’s about to forget the details.
The road stretches towards infinity. There are no clouds, just a milky greyness from the bushfire receding behind him. Out on the shimmering horizon, the sky has turned liquid, leaking down into the plain. There are no trees; the only animals are dead ones, killed by the night trucks ploughing their way between Adelaide and the east coast. There aren’t any crows; even roadkill is powerless to lure them into the midday sun. The thermometer in the dash gives an outside temperature of forty-two degrees.
He thinks of Riversend and all its tragedies, large and small: Codger Harris and his dead wife and child; Harley Snouch professing love for the woman he’s accused of raping; Mandy, unable to close her mother’s bookstore and move away; Robbie Haus-Jones, haunted by St James and killing his friend; Fran Landers mourning her husband; the boy, Luke, unable to comprehend the horror that has split his young life apart. It makes Martin wonder about himself, why the experience in Gaza has left him so gutted, why the damage lingers. After all, he has lost no one, suffered no enduring injuries. Compared to the people in Riversend, he has got off lightly. He is unable to formulate a satisfactory answer and his mind wanders into a daydream, an imagined utopia: he and Mandy living in a shack on the coast, watching winter squalls blowing in off the ocean, Liam playing peacefully nearby.
Bellington emerges from the plain in a rush. The earth’s flat browns turn an almost iridescent green: grapevines and citrus orchards, irrigation-nourished verdure. And then the town itself, stretched out along the Murray River. He pulls into a park, has a piss in the public toilet, then wanders down to look at the river. It’s flowing between high banks, a green-glass mass, its intent unperturbed by the imperceptible fall of the land. Martin has heard somewhere that the flow is artificial, governed by some huge dam, high in the mountains. He doesn’t care; its existence is reassuring after the parched riverbed of Riversend. A pair of kookaburras herald his arrival with a raucous cackle; cockatoos squawk somewhere in the distance. He extracts his phone, relieved to see its signal bars. Civilisation.
He sits at a picnic table in the shade and collects messages. There are a couple of texts and a voicemail from his editor, Max. ‘Hiya, soldier. Wondering how you’re travelling. Heard you’re out of mobile range. Call us when you can, let me know how you’re going. Cheers, mate.’ He thinks of calling, but texts instead: All well. Story progressing. Cracker interview with local cop. More to come. Will call soon.
He powers up his laptop, using his phone to connect to the net. He finds the number of the local cop shop quickly enough and calls, asking for Sergeant Herb Walker. He’s told Walker is out of the office but will be back soon; Martin leaves his number. He knows Walker encouraged Robbie to agree to an interview and hopes the sergeant might now be as forthcoming himself. He finds the number and address for Torlini’s Fruit Barn, on a side road off the main street, plus a residential number for Torlini. He checks it out on Google Maps. It’s just outside town, not far from the river, possibly the family farm. He looks out at the Murray. What were Gerry Torlini and Horace Grosvenor doing at the church in Riversend? Simply accompanying Craig Landers and the Newkirks? Having just traversed the unforgiving plain, Martin can’t understand anyone doing it without a reason. He searches for Horace Grosvenor’s address and finds he is sitting across the road from his house. It seems like fate. He packs up his laptop and notebook and walks towards Grosvenor’s home, passing the playground and a low plaque. He’s almost past it when he realises its significance. He backtracks and snaps a photo with his phone. In loving memory, Jessica and Jonty. So sorely missed.
The house is solid and respectable red brick, with a healthy garden full of hydrangeas and a BORE WATER ONLY sign. Martin takes a snap: bore water just a hundred and fifty metres from Australia’s biggest river. He rings the doorbell; a singsong chime answers from somewhere inside.