Scrublands(7)

He continues east along the highway, past a deserted supermarket, its sun-bleached CLOSING DOWN SALE banners still plastered to its doors; past the Shell service station, its owner giving him a friendly wave as he closes up for the night; alongside a park, green grass with more signs—BORE WATER ONLY, a band rotunda and a toilet block for motorists, all sitting below a levee bank. And another bridge, two lanes and concrete, stretching out across the river. Martin draws a map of Riversend in his mind: a T-junction fitted snugly into a curve in the river, with the levee bank cosseting the town to the north and east. Martin likes the layout; there is something considered and self-contained about it. Adrift on the vast inland plain, it anchors Riversend to some sense of purpose.

He scrambles up the side of the levee bank beside the bridge, finding a foot track running along its ridge. He stands and looks back along the highway, wiping sweat from his brow. The horizon is lost in a haze of dust and heat, but he feels he can see the curvature of the earth, as if he’s standing on a headland looking out to sea. A truck thunders across the bridge and past him, heading west. The sun is setting, turned angry and orange by dust, and he watches the truck until it is first contorted, then swallowed whole by the haze.

Martin leaves the road, walking on top of the levee bank. Beside him the riverbed, glimpsed through the gums, is cracked bare mud. He’s thinking the trees look healthy enough, until he comes to a dead trunk, looking as solid as its neighbours, just devoid of leaves. A flock of cockatoos passes overhead, their raucous calls awakening the sounds of other birds and creatures in the twilight. He follows the path until he reaches a curve in the riverbed. Above it, on a natural rise, sits a yellow-brick building, the Riversend Services and Bowling Club, its lights shining out through plate-glass windows above a steel-form deck, like a cruise ship beached at low tide.

Inside the club, the air is cool. There’s a counter, with temporary membership forms and a sign instructing visitors to sign themselves in. Martin complies, tearing off a guest slip. The main room is large, with long windows looking out across the river bend, the trees almost imperceptible in the dusk outside the brightly lit room. There are tables and chairs, but no patrons. Not a soul. The only movement is the lights flashing garishly from poker machines standing beyond a low partition at the far end of the room. A barman is sitting behind the long bar reading a book. He looks up as Martin approaches.

‘G’day there. Get you a beer?’

‘Thanks. What’ve you got on tap?’

‘These two here.’

Martin orders a schooner of Carlton Draught, asking the barman if he would like one.

‘No thanks,’ says the barman. He begins to pull Martin’s beer. ‘You the journo?’

‘That’s right,’ says Martin. ‘Word spreads fast.’

‘Country towns. What can you say?’ says the barman. He looks like he’s in his early sixties, face red from a life of sun damage and beers, white hair combed and plastered in place by hair oil. His hands are large and marred by liver spots. Martin admires them. ‘Come to write about the shooting?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Good luck finding anything new to say. Seems to me everything has been written three times over.’

‘You could be right about that.’

The barman takes Martin’s money and deposits it in the till.

‘You don’t have wi-fi here, by any chance?’ asks Martin.

‘Sure do. In theory, anyway.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Doesn’t work half the time. And, when it does, it’s like drought relief: comes in dribs and drabs. But give it a whirl, there’s no one else here, so it mightn’t be clogged up.’

Martin smiles. ‘What’s the password?’

‘Billabong. From back when we had one.’

Martin succeeds in logging in on his phone, but his emails won’t load; there is only a spinning wheel of computational indecision. He gives up and puts the phone away. ‘I see what you mean.’

He knows he should ask about the killings, how the town is reacting, but he feels somehow reluctant. So instead he asks where everyone is.

‘Mate, it’s Monday night. Who’s got money to drink on a Monday?’

‘How come you’re open then?’

‘’Cos if we’re not open, we’re shut. And there’s too many places shut around here.’

‘They can still afford to pay you, though?’

‘They don’t. Most days, we’re volunteers. Board members. We have a roster.’

‘That’s impressive. Wouldn’t happen in the city.’

‘It’s why we’re still open and the pub is shut. No one’s going to work in a pub for free.’

‘Pity to see it go, all the same.’

‘You’re right there. Bloke who ran it was decent enough—for an outsider. Sponsored the local footy team, bought local produce for his bistro. Didn’t save him from going out of business, though. Talking of bistros, you looking for something to eat?’

‘Yeah. What have you got?’

‘Nothing here. In the back, there’s Tommy’s takeaway, Saigon Asian, good as anything you’ll get in Sydney or Melbourne. But be quick, last orders at eight.’

Martin checks his watch: five to eight.