Scrublands(68)

‘Do for him?’

‘Shoot him.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Same as I told you. He never touched me. Wouldn’t dare.’ There’s no anger in the youth’s voice, hardly any emotion at all; resignation, perhaps. There’s more silence. Martin thinks he can almost see the moon moving, sinking towards the line of shops across the way. He turns back to Jamie, is about to ask him something more, when he notices the teenager’s shirt: yellow and black checks.

‘Jamie, did you and Allen ever hang out in the old pub? Go upstairs there?’

For the first time since Martin sat down, Jamie Landers turns from the moon and looks him in the eye. ‘You found the cat?’

‘I found the cat.’

‘Fuck. I forgot about that. I should clean it up.’

‘What was it? What happened?’

‘Oh, it was Allen. Sick fuck. High as a fucking kite on speed.’

‘Allen?’

‘Yeah. Never the same after the church shooting. It fucked him up big time.’ Jamie returns his gaze to the moon, takes a long swig of his tequila. ‘Doesn’t matter now, though, does it? None of it does.’

‘I guess not.’

Martin leaves Jamie to his thoughts and starts walking up Hay Road. He’s left his car at the services club, but he decides to leave it there and walk back to the motel. Nothing in this town is very far apart. When he first arrived, Riversend’s compact streetscape appealed to him; now it feels almost claustrophobic, so small, overwhelmed by the vastness of the plain, like a Pacific atoll with rising sea levels gnawing at its shores. He’s been here for almost a week and is starting to feel as if he knows every building, every face in Riversend. He looks up at the hotel; there is no sign of life. What must it be to live in this town? To be young and live in this town? Every day, the same stifling heat, the same inescapable familiarity, the same will-sapping predictability. Even Bellington, with its water and its services, shimmers with allure, like some mirage out across the flatness. So why is it getting under his skin? Why does he care? It’s like those strange adopt-a-road programs. Adopt-a-corner-of-hell. Why not?

Lost in such thoughts, Martin continues along Hay Road, bathed in an eerie orange light, the heat still rising from the road even as the moon shadows extend across it. A farm ute passes him, its headlights yellow, its dodgy muffler loud, enhancing the silence once it gets to the T-junction and turns left, leaving him totally alone once more on the main street of Riversend. He’s back in front of the bookstore, but it’s closed and dark. Then, as he turns to head back to the motel, a flicker of light catches his eye. He searches the line of shops opposite, but there’s nothing, just darkness. He’s thinking it’s his imagination, the effects of fatigue and tequila, when he sees it again: a flicker. The wine saloon. He crosses the street, climbs the gutter, peers through the boarded-up window. A candle, a shadow, a glass catching the light. Snouch.

The alleyway is dark; Martin uses the torch app on his phone to navigate past broken bottles and lost newspapers, reaching the side door, turning the knob, hearing the hinges’ shrill complaint as he pushes it open. Harley Snouch is not at the bar. He’s sitting at a table with a book and a bottle, a kerosene lamp hanging low from an old wire coathanger stretching down from the rafters. He looks up, shielding his eyes from the lamplight, to see who is invading his sanctuary.

‘Ah. Hemingway. Welcome, pull up a chair.’

Martin walks into the pool of light, sits at the table. Snouch has shaved off his greying beard and washed his hair, taking years off his appearance. Perhaps it’s the flattering softness of the lamplight, but he doesn’t look so much older than Martin.

There are two glasses—small tumblers, one full, one empty—and the bottle in its brown paper bag. Snouch pours red wine into the second glass. It looks dark and viscous. ‘Have a drink,’ says Snouch. ‘Thought you might show up sooner or later.’

Martin takes a tentative sip and is surprised to find the wine passable, at least in contrast to Jamie Landers’ tequila.

Snouch gives an amused snort. ‘What did you expect? Cat’s piss?’

‘It was last time around. Why the change?’ Martin reaches over, extracts the bottle from the bag. Sure enough, Penfolds.

Snouch grins like a naughty schoolboy, stripping more years off. ‘Mate, even us derros have standards.’

‘Except that you’re not really a derro, are you, Harley? I saw your house, remember, before it burnt down.’

Snouch smiles with apparent pleasure. ‘I tell you, Martin, some of the greatest bums I’ve known were loaded. Rich scumbags. My school was full of them.’

‘What school was that?’

‘Geelong Grammar.’

‘That figures. Explains your classy accent and polished turn of phrase.’

Snouch smiles again, taking a healthy slug of his wine.

Martin gets to the point. ‘Why aren’t you a suspect in the murder of the two backpackers?’

‘Because I have a cast-iron alibi.’

‘Which is?’

‘I was in hospital in Melbourne. For two weeks. Pneumonia. Missed everything. The priest raining holy retribution down on his congregation and some bastard dumping bodies in my dam. Shit timing. Nothing happens for years on end and then when it does, I’m flat on me back in Melbourne. Surrounded by witnesses, covered in documentation.’