Scrublands(39)

He’s been thinking of visiting Mandy Blonde, of telling her what he’s uncovered, or not telling her anything and moving straight back into the previous night’s sex. But he can hardly keep his eyes open. The Black Dog is all he can manage. He falls into bed, the clanking air-conditioner providing more noise than relief. And as he falls asleep, a final sum. Almost a year ago, Byron Swift shot dead five people outside St James church in Riversend. And on the same day, on the other side of the world, Martin Scarsden climbed into the boot of an old Mercedes and let his driver shut him away.





MARTIN IS BACK IN THE BOOT OF THE MERCEDES, BUT THIS TIME AROUND HE’S not terrified, he’s bored. ‘Christ. Not this again,’ he sighs, before the significance of the again insinuates itself into his rising consciousness, and he realises that he’s not really marooned in the boot of an ancient German limousine somewhere on the Gaza Strip, but dreaming. That adds a level of pique to his boredom. There had been a time when he’d considered himself borderline creative, capable of thinking outside the square, but here he is, confining himself even in his dreams to the inside of a very small square. Boring and annoying.

Somewhere in the distance he can hear the crump crump of Israeli artillery, but even that is probably a ruse. Maybe it’s not artillery; maybe it’s someone hammering on the lid of the car boot. Cripes. He should either fall back into a deeper sleep or wake up completely; these boot dreams are turning into a drag. Crump crump.

What the fuck is that?

Martin emerges from sleep, slipping the bonds of the Mercedes to enter another day. It’s Friday, four days since he arrived in Riversend. The air-conditioner is clanking away, some failing metal gizzard thumping its protest: Crump crump crump.

Martin is fully awake; it’s someone pounding on the door of his room at the Black Dog. ‘All right. All right!’ he yells. ‘Coming!’

Out of bed, in boxers and t-shirt, he opens the door to an explosion of sunlight, engulfing Mandy Blonde in its glare.

‘Shit. What happened to you?’ she asks.

‘What? Nothing. You woke me up.’

‘Really? Remind me to avoid middle age.’

‘Thanks. Lovely to see you too.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course. Excuse the middle-aged mess.’

Mandy enters, and it’s only once she’s inside out of the razor-blade sun that Martin can see her properly. Her eyes are puffy and red. He’s about to deliver a rebuke along the lines of ‘pot calling the kettle black’ when he thinks better of it. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I thought you might come round last night.’

‘So did I. But I went to Bellington, got back late. Long day, I was buggered. Is that why you’re crying?’

‘Dream on.’ She manages a small smile of derision, with only the suggestion of a dimple.

Martin waits. It’s coming, he knows. Crying people don’t seek out others and then not tell them why they’re crying.

‘Martin, they’ve arrested Harley Snouch.’

‘What? Why?’

She doesn’t answer straight away as she fights to control her emotions. A tear swells into the corner of her eye. Martin thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful in all his life, and then thinks what a turd he is for thinking such a thing. Then she bites her lip, and Martin thinks she’s even more beautiful again.

‘What’s happened?’ he asks.

‘They’re saying awful things. That he’s killed someone, out at Springfields.’

‘Who’s saying?’

‘People. Everyone.’

‘Who’s he killed?’

‘They’re saying he called an insurance inspector, for the fire damage. The inspector found bodies. Greedy fuck. Can you imagine that? Killing people, then calling in an insurance clerk because you want money?’

A small sob escapes her and Martin steps forward, holds her, tries to comfort her, saying it’s just gossip, that it might not be true, all the while wondering if it is and what it might mean.

‘Martin?’ she whispers.

‘Yes, Mandy?’ he replies, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

‘Martin, have a shower. You stink.’



Freshly showered and, thanks to a brief stopover at the bookstore, freshly caffeinated, Martin is back behind the wheel of the rental. Mandy is in the passenger seat, biting nervously at her lip, as he drives them across the clanking bridge above the flood plain that never floods. The town is behind them, Liam being cared for by Fran at the store, and soon enough the beige and tan fields fall behind as well as they enter the monochromatic world of the Scrublands, still smoking two days on. Martin finds his way first time, but as they approach Snouch’s place, Springfields, they are brought to a stop by a police car parked sideways across the road. As they pull up, Robbie Haus-Jones steps out of the car, and they join him amid the smoke and lifted ash.

‘Nice car, Robbie,’ says Martin by way of greeting.

‘On loan from Bellington. Hi, Mandalay.’

‘Robert.’

‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go any further. That’s my job. Keeping guard.’

‘Who’s in there?’ asks Martin.

‘Herb Walker and Constable Greevy from Bellington. And that bastard, Snouch. The sarge thought’d be best if I waited out here. He’s not wrong there.’