Scrublands(49)

‘Hello.’

The voice snaps Martin out of his reverie. It’s the boy, in his red shirt, still with his stick.

‘Hello,’ says Martin.

‘Sorry,’ says the boy.

‘What for?’

‘The church. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘That’s okay,’ says Martin. ‘You want to sit down?’

‘Sure.’ The boy sits on the next bench along, up against the side of the rotunda.

‘It’s Luke, isn’t it?’ asks Martin.

‘That’s right,’ replies the boy.

‘I’m Martin, remember? Martin Scarsden.’

Martin waits. He figures if the boy has sought him out, he must have something he wants to say. But the boy just sits there, occasionally looking at Martin, but nothing more. Maybe he just wants some company. So it’s Martin who initiates the conversation. ‘Were you there when it happened, Luke?’

The boy looks unnerved. ‘Who told you that?’

‘No one. Just a guess. This morning—the thing with the stick.’

‘I’ve never told anyone,’ says Luke.

‘Not even the police?’

‘No. They didn’t ask. Didn’t have to. There were plenty of people there.’

‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to understand it.’

‘Well, I don’t understand it.’ The boy looks at his stick, balancing it on his hands. ‘I was in the main street when I saw his car outside the bookstore. It was Sunday, so I figured he’d come up to do the church service. I walked round there, to the church, and waited. I was there when he drove up. We sat on the steps. He told me that he had to leave, that he didn’t want to, but his bishop had ordered him. I said it wasn’t fair. He said that life wasn’t fair. He said other stuff like that.’

‘Can you remember what?’

‘Yes, I remember it all.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said I was a good boy and I shouldn’t worry about God, that God would come to me when I needed him. He said God didn’t give a shit about the little stuff, like swearing or lying or playing with yourself. He said God only cared about what was in our souls, whether we were good people or not. That God knew. And when we were faced with hard decisions, then God could help. And if we ever did bad things, then God would forgive us, even for things we couldn’t forgive ourselves.’

‘What did he mean by that, “bad things”?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

‘That sounds like quite a grown-up conversation.’

‘Yeah. But he was good like that. He didn’t talk down to us kids.’

‘Did he often talk about God?’

‘No, hardly ever. I think it was because he was leaving. I’ve been thinking about what he said. Maybe I understand a little better now.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Yeah. He said there were bad men in the world, even in our own town, and that I should play with kids my own age. I’m not sure why he said that. He said that once he was gone, if I had any problems, I should go tell Constable Haus-Jones and he could help me.’

‘Do you know what he was talking about?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘I see. How did he seem to you? Was he agitated?’

‘No. He seemed calm. Sort of happy and sort of sad. Does that make sense? I thought he was sad because he was being ordered to leave town.’

‘You know, Luke, some people think he must have been crazy to do what he did. Did he seem crazy to you?’

‘No.’

‘What happened next?’

‘We were sitting there talking when Mrs Landers came running up. She seemed really upset, like she was crying or something. They went inside to talk, so I went across the road to the shade of the trees. I was sad he was going. He was a good guy. Mrs Landers left and a little later people started turning up for church. He came out to talk to them. Then some men turned up. Mr Landers from the store and some other men. Allen Newkirk was with them, so I went up the hill above the river, where I was this morning.’

‘You didn’t like Allen?’

‘No. He was a bully.’

‘I see. And then?’

‘Mr Landers was talking to Byron.’

‘Could you hear what they said?’

‘No, I was too far away.’

‘Were they angry? Shouting?’

‘No. Byron looked like he was laughing.’

‘Laughing?’

‘Yeah, like they were having a joke or something. Then he went back into the church. Allen walked over and got into a car. The others were all talking to other people. Everything seemed normal. Then—then it happened. He came out with a gun and shot them.’

‘Just the men Mr Landers arrived with?’

‘Yes. The fat man from Bellington first. Then the Newkirks. Then he looked around. He saw me up on the ridge, watching, and he shook his head, waved at me to go away. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. I couldn’t believe it. I could see it all. Byron was still looking around. Then a car started, and he saw it. He fired two more shots, at the car. Pow, pow, quick like that. Then people started screaming, but he still seemed very calm. I could see Mr Landers running up the street. I think Byron must have seen where I was looking. It was my fault. He walked to the corner of the church, saw Mr Landers running, and then he lifted the gun and pow. One shot. Then he went and sat on the steps and waited. A car drove past, and he stood and raised the gun, fired a shot into the air. He looked at me again and shook his head. I wanted him to run away, but he sat down again. I could see Constable Haus-Jones coming down the street, up behind the church, with his gun. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to look at him in case Byron saw me and knew he was coming and shot him too. But I didn’t want Constable Haus-Jones to shoot Byron. So I hid.’