Scrublands(64)

Martin thinks guiltily of his motel room. ‘Shit. That’s no good. You could have shared with me.’

‘Thanks, Martin—you’re not the first to offer,’ she says sardonically.

‘Listen, the Channel Ten guys are staying at some swish place in Bellington. Why not move down there?’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely. Mobiles work down there. I can always call if there’s anything urgent.’

‘Done.’



When Martin arrives at the services club, he goes straight to Tommy’s Saigon Asian. Having explored the confusing menu extensively during the past week, he knows what to avoid, if not exactly what he likes. Today he orders chicken schnitzel and chips, with a side order of stir-fried English spinach. Tommy, a second-generation Vietnamese–Australian with a strine accent strong enough to cut glass, takes his money, says ‘No worries, mate’ and hands Martin a plastic disc that will light up and vibrate when his lunch is ready. Martin pays and makes his way through to the club proper.

A small group of journos have congealed around a table not far from the bar. Some are trying to work on laptops, swearing at the hypothetical wi-fi, while others are kicking back and chatting.

Doug Thunkleton greets him, his booming voice full of bonhomie. ‘Martin Scarsden! The great man! Join us.’

Martin declines with a wave and a smile. ‘Maybe later.’ He goes to the bar where Errol is again working.

‘Hi, mate. What can I get you?’

‘G’day, Errol. Schooner of light beer, thanks.’

‘Stubby okay?’

‘Sure.’

Errol fetches the Tasmanian beer in the familiar green bottle. Martin gives Errol twenty dollars, but Errol doesn’t go to the till straight away. ‘Anything happening down there?’

‘Where’s that?’ Martin asks.

‘The cop shop. Heard they were doing interviews. People from out in the Scrublands.’

‘Yeah. Just been down there. All looks pretty routine to me, but they’re keeping it tight.’

‘Reckon it was the priest, do they?’

‘That seems to be the main theory. What do you reckon?’

‘Me? Wouldn’t have the foggiest. Don’t know why you buggers keep asking me. As if I’d know.’ And Errol goes to the register and gets Martin his change.

Martin takes his beer and moves towards a table a good distance from the clutch of journalists, but he can see Doug Thunkleton and the others sizing him up. The last thing he feels like is supplying the television bulletins with another talking head, so Martin keeps going, taking his beer and his plastic disc out onto the deck overlooking the river.

The heat is stifling after the air-conditioned interior of the club, almost unbearable, despite the shade provided by a canopy of translucent plastic. He places his beer on a small table and stands with his back to the glass windows of the club, fishing out his sunglasses to guard against the glare. Before him, he can see the long slow bend in the riverbed. No, not slow, stopped; it’s completely devoid of water. The trees hang unmoved by even a whisper of breeze. There’s still the smell of smoke in the air, lingering from Wednesday’s fire. Somewhere in the far distance he can hear cicadas. He’s trying to ascertain the direction when he hears a rattling cough. He’s not alone on the deck. Over behind one of the roof pillars, Codger Harris is working his way through a rollie.

‘G’day, Codger. Mind if I join you?’

‘Free country, son.’

Martin pulls up a seat next to the former bank manager. The older man offers him his tobacco packet, but Martin declines.

‘Anything left of your place?’

‘Some. Not much to start with.’

‘Insurance?’

‘A bit. For the fencing and water. The house escaped. Guess the fire reckoned it wasn’t worth the effort.’

‘What about the cattle?’

‘Don’t know. Some survived, for sure. But that could be a cruel joke.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, there was fuck-all feed as it was. What the drought didn’t kill off, the fire has. If it rains, after a fire like that, it’ll be green as Kent. Fattest cows you ever saw. If it doesn’t rain, they’ll starve to death. Or I’ll have to go shoot ’em.’

Martin examines his beer. There isn’t a lot to say.

‘Talking of which, it wasn’t you who dobbed me in to the coppers, was it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They had me down there half the morning, asking me about Reverend Swift coming out shooting in the Scrublands. Wanted to know all about it. Get that from you?’

‘Not directly. It was in an article I wrote, that he went out into the scrub shooting. But I didn’t say your place. There are a few people around town who knew about it. I know at least one person told Robbie Haus-Jones.’

‘That nice young copper in town here? Wonder why he’s coughing up now.’

‘Fairly straightforward, I’d think,’ says Martin. ‘After the church shooting, it was largely irrelevant. Swift was dead. Didn’t matter what he’d done beforehand. But once the bodies were discovered in the dam at Springfields, suddenly it’s relevant.’

‘So covering his arse, then.’