Scrublands(42)

Mandy is in the kitchen. Liam is in some sort of harness, attached by springs to a doorframe, and is bouncing up and down, chuckling to himself. Mandy is cutting beans, as if hypnotised. There is a huge pile beside her on the bench. Martin sits at the kitchen table, breathes, allows a moment for the thoughts tumbling through his head to subside, re-entering the here and now. Mandy continues cutting beans.

‘Mandy, there’s no way you could have known.’

‘Really? You think? What sort of idiot am I? Just when I start to forgive him, this happens. Always getting fucked over, always the victim, always these fucking men stomping all over me.’

Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he steps up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, a gesture of comfort, but she shakes him off.

‘Don’t, Martin. Don’t walk up behind me when I’m holding a knife.’ There’s real anger in her voice.

‘Right,’ says Martin. He returns to his seat at the table. Mandy continues cutting beans. He wonders what he’s doing here, in this woman’s kitchen, a woman so cruelly treated by the fates. What will he do when the story is finished? After he has his front pages and his feature articles? Drive back out of town, leaving her here? Isn’t that what she wants, what she expects? He’s starting to regret sleeping with her. There was the euphoria of surviving the bushfire, her own willingness, but even so. He’s about to say something when he notices the blue flowers in the vase on the windowsill above the sink. ‘Nice flowers. What are they?’

‘What?’

‘The flowers.’ He gestures.

‘What the fuck, Martin? They’re swamp peas. Fran gave them to me when I picked up Liam. She sells them down at the store.’

Fran Landers? Martin remembers her praying in the church, the widow defending Swift. What had she said? Something about Swift being kind and decent.

He’s about to ask Mandy more, but is interrupted by a buzzer. ‘What’s that?’

‘Someone in the store. I forgot to lock up. Keep an eye on Liam, I’ll be right back.’

Martin looks at the chubby child, who is now rocking gently back and forth in his harness, dark eyes gleaming up at him. Martin puts out a hand, extends a finger. The child takes it, wraps his tiny fist around it. So small, so pink. A blank hand, with none of life’s transgressions inscribed upon it.

Mandy returns. ‘It’s someone for you,’ she says. ‘Some television reporter.’

‘Shit, that didn’t take long.’

‘No. They’ve parked their choppers on the school oval. They’re prowling around town filming anything that moves, knocking on doors, trying to find someone to interview.’

Martin thinks about it for a moment, then walks out into the store. He doesn’t know the man, but recognises him from television: Doug Thunkleton. The TV man recognises him, strides towards him, hand outstretched, greeting him like an old friend. ‘Martin Scarsden. Wonderful to see you.’

The man has a rich baritone, even deeper in reality than it sounds on the news. He’s wearing a tie, no jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up. His face is make-up smooth with no sign of sweat.

Doug doesn’t muck about. ‘Martin, we’re almost on deadline. We need to chopper out to Swan Hill to feed. Any chance of an interview? As the reporter who broke this story?’

Martin feigns reluctance, but agrees. Max will love it: his man and his paper on the evening news.

Doug has a car, an old Ford, hired with television’s magic chequebook from some local. There’s a baby seat still bolted into the back and the interior smells of blue cheese. Martin wonders how much he’s paying.

The TV reporter drives them to St James, where his camera crew is filming. They stand Martin in front of the church, bounce the sun into his eye with a large white disc, and Doug gets going, not so much questioning him as prompting him, like two colleagues colluding. And collude they do: Doug dons the voice of television authority, his demeanour suitably serious, while Martin wraps himself in the mystique of the investigative reporter, a man with covert sources and deep knowledge. He lets slip that he has been researching the story for a considerable amount of time, states that it’s a Sydney Morning Herald investigation, hints at police contacts. He mentions at least a half-a-dozen times that the full story will be in tomorrow’s paper. Five minutes and they’re done, Doug attempting to wheedle a little more information out of his interviewee as the crew picks up some editing shots. Martin doesn’t add anything, other than to imply that he has the trust of the police, that they’re grateful for his insights. Martin leaves the crew scrambling to get Doug’s new piece to camera recorded. The last thing he hears is the cameraman saying, ‘Fantastic. That’ll fuck the ABC.’

When Martin gets back to the Oasis, he finds the door locked. There’s no GON OUT, BACKSON sign. He knocks, but there’s no answer. He glances at his watch. It’s twenty minutes to five. The Channel Ten chopper lifts off from the primary school oval and heads south, followed shortly after by the ABC. Martin feels a little surge of satisfaction. They’re here to follow up his story.

He walks down to the general store.

Fran Landers gives him a smile when he enters. ‘Hello, Martin. Need some more water?’

It occurs to him that he does, so he walks to the end of the aisle and picks up two sixpacks of one-litre bottles, wishing he’d driven the car down from where he had left it outside the Oasis. He walks back down a different aisle, confirming that he and Fran are the only ones in the store, and places the water on the counter.