Scrublands(59)

Martin shifts a little in his seat. After the charismatic priest and his good works, what could Mandy possibly see in a shell-shocked hack like himself? ‘You say that was him at his best. Does that mean there was another side to him?’

‘I think so. To be honest, he was very self-centred. I don’t mean in an egotistical way. I mean that when he was with you, you had all of him. It was like you were the centre of his universe. He made you feel so special. But when I wasn’t with him, I don’t think he spared me a second thought. It was his great charm and his great weakness. He lived in the moment, or so it seemed to me.’

‘Was he ever violent?’

‘No, not towards me.’

‘Towards anyone?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He beat up Craig Landers.’

Martin stops writing. ‘What? Why?’

‘You’d have to ask Fran.’

‘Craig found out? Confronted him?’

‘I don’t know. Ask Fran.’

‘So he beat him up? Her husband? That must have humiliated Craig even further.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Doesn’t sound very priestly.’

‘No. I remember Byron felt bad about it. Spent a lot of time praying after he did it, asking for forgiveness.’

‘That’s interesting; he prayed afterwards. So he was religious then? It wasn’t an act?’

‘Oh no, he was religious all right. Devout. More than devout—pious. He would stop every now and then, close his eyes, bow his head and say a few words. Just like that. He never tried to convert me. He wasn’t a proselytiser. He said God would find me when the time was right; that a life without faith is a life only half lived. He told me God was with him all the time, in actions great and small, that it made him who he was, that it centred him. Those were his words: it centred him. He had a tattoo, here, on his chest, a crucifix—on his heart.’

Martin frowns. ‘He sounds like Jekyll and Hyde. One minute he’s the pious priest, caring for his flock and looking after the local kids. The next he’s drinking, smoking dope and screwing around. And shooting things.’

Mandy is shaking her head even before he’s finished speaking. ‘No. That’s wrong. He wasn’t a split personality. He was the same calm, assured person whether he was praying or whether we were getting drunk and screwing. Can you believe that?’

‘To be honest, not really. He sounds too good to be true.’

‘Maybe he was.’

‘You were in love with him?’

‘Yes. I was. I knew he wasn’t about to marry me, though, or acknowledge me as his partner or anything like that.’

Martin feels unsettled, her declaration of love for Swift so certain, so matter-of-fact. ‘And that doesn’t bother you? That he wasn’t in love with you?’

‘No. I mean, I know he didn’t love me exclusively, but I think he did have love for me.’

‘And with Fran Landers and who knows who else?’

‘Yes. Does that bother you, Martin?’

He squirms a little at that. ‘I guess it does. He was either a complete charlatan or the most saintly man who ever lived.’

Mandy doesn’t reply, just looks him directly in the eye. He holds her gaze. What is it he sees there? Defiance? Doubt? He pauses then, trying to nail down in his own mind what Swift must have been like, but finds the man elusive, hard to define.

‘Didn’t it strike you as incongruous? Here he is, preaching love for all living things, tolerance and forgiveness, and then he’s out killing things, shooting animals in the Scrublands. Did you challenge him about it?’

Mandy doesn’t say anything for a full ten seconds, just looks deep into Martin’s eyes. He doesn’t flinch, returning her gaze steadily. Eventually she speaks, quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if in confessional. ‘He said that it made him feel closer to God, to nature, that it was praying with his body as well as with his mind and soul. He said it was a kind of meditation, a religious experience. He said it made him feel one with himself and one with the universe.’

Mandy bows her head into her hands. Martin looks at her, feeling a chill go up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff. He recalls the story Mandy had recounted to him the day he arrived in Riversend, telling him she’d fallen pregnant in Melbourne, that Swift had saved her life. It was a total fabrication.

‘Mandy, did he know you were pregnant?’

‘Yes. He called in here the morning of the shooting, before he went to the church. He told me he was leaving, right after the service. That the bishop had ordered him to leave. So I told him, said I wanted to go with him. But he said I couldn’t, it wasn’t possible.’

‘Did he say why not?’

‘No. Maybe it had something to do with him not really being Byron Swift, but I didn’t know about that until today.’

‘And you accepted that? That you couldn’t go with him?’

‘I didn’t have much choice.’

‘And how was he? Was there any indication of what he was about to do?’

‘None.’

Martin pauses, trying to assimilate this wash of new information. It corroborates what the boy Luke said, that he saw Swift’s car at the bookstore.