Scrublands(45)

He scans through the stories quickly, picking out where Bethanie or the subeditors have inserted facts or cleaned up his copy. He discards the front section, moving through to News Review. The graphic artists and layout subs have done his copy proud, dressing his tale of a dying town with suitably bleak images; if they’d taken a week they couldn’t have done a better job. And there’s more to come: he’s already written half of the follow-up, THE PRIEST WITH NO PAST, having woken early in his motel room, unable to sleep. It will make the perfect follow-up for the Sunday papers, the Sun-Herald and The Sunday Age. Max Fuller was right; coming to Riversend was exactly what he needed.

He’s just about finished admiring his work when the bell starts pealing. His watch says nine-thirty; he thought the funeral wasn’t starting until ten. Dumping the papers in a footpath rubbish bin, he heads towards St James. He walks down the centre of Hay Road, feeling the sting of the sun on his face. He likes the sound of the bell: armed with his front-page exclusives it makes him feel like Clint Eastwood, striding, spurs jangling, through some frontier shithole, heading fearlessly into a showdown, the lone gunman imposing order through a blend of gunpowder, resolve and integrity. Even now, fearful townsfolk could be peering out from behind shutters under the awnings of Hay Road as he paces towards his destiny. The daydream lingers for a moment before being brought crashing down by the blare of a car horn immediately behind him. He jumps involuntarily. ‘Get off the road, you tosser!’ yells the driver.

The bell is no longer ringing as he approaches St James. He’s surprised by the size of the media throng that has coalesced across the road from the church: camera operators with tripods arrayed four abreast; stills photographers lounging, nursing huge lenses attached to cameras and monopods; a couple of radio reporters looking lost. They’re standing where the cars were parked when Byron Swift opened fire, where Gerry Torlini died. Doug Thunkleton is back, holding court among a small gaggle of television reporters, including a man in his fifties and three pretty young women, blonde hair bouffant, their faces familiar. Doug has an earpiece clipped to the back of his jacket; Channel Ten must have some sort of live feed capacity set up.

Martin realises it’s a very big story for a very small town. He of all people should have realised it would be like this: the dearth of news in Australia in January, a big story breaking in the so-called media silly season. And here he is in the middle of it.

One of the stills photographers, a compact young woman wearing cargo pants and a khaki vest full of pockets, peels off and greets him as he approaches. ‘Martin? Hi, I’m Carrie O’Brien. Drove up from Melbourne last night. Anything in particular you want?’

‘Not really, just get as much as you can from this. It’s not really part of the story. Just a kid who died in a car accident, but I might file something on it. I witnessed the accident.’

‘Shit. Really?’

‘Yeah. I might even have a shot on my phone. I’ll give it to you later.’

‘Okay.’

‘In the meantime, try to get lots of faces. We may be able to pick up some people shots that will be useful later for the other stories. And do you have a phone that works?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got a sat phone in the car to file with. You can use it if you’re desperate.’

‘Have you been out to the property?’

‘Not yet. The Herald hired a plane and got some aerials yesterday. I don’t know why The Age didn’t use them. Some stuff-up. They’re on the website.’

‘Sounds about right. Where you staying?’

‘Hopefully the same place as you. The Black Dog. I stopped by on my way through. I’m on the waiting list.’

‘Good luck with that.’ Martin can see where this is heading. Carrie seems nice enough, but he’s not so keen on sharing with a photographer, particularly not a room with one bed. And he’s not about to assume he can simply shack up with Mandy in order to give his room to a photographer. She was distant and moody this morning. Perhaps he should have talked to her more, explained what he was writing, but what the fuck, this story was growing more legs than a centipede. Maybe he would have to share with Carrie after all. At least the paper hadn’t sent a bloke.

The first of the locals are arriving at the church. Robbie Haus-Jones is standing on the steps in his police uniform. Martin saunters across the road, enjoying the jealous regard of his colleagues: the investigative reporter with police contacts.

‘G’day, Robbie.’

‘Hi, Martin.’

‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’

‘What, this? Sure is. Enough dead people in this town without young fellas crashing cars.’

Martin is about to say something when he gets a burst of flashback: laying the Disney character windshield reflector over the body of the dead boy. He looks down at his hands. They don’t appear to be trembling.

‘You okay?’ asks Robbie.

‘Fine. Fine. How’s the investigation going?’

‘No idea. They’re not telling me anything. But I know one thing: they haven’t arrested Harley Snouch. They’ve let him go.’ There’s an edge of anger in Robbie’s voice.

‘What? How’s that possible? Bodies in his dam and they let him go?’

‘Lack of evidence. Apparently he found the skeletons, walked all the way to the highway to get word to Bellington.’