Scrublands(72)

Back at the Black Dog, he rings Sydney, finally getting through to the editor.

‘Martin. Morning.’

‘Page five? Really?’

‘That’s The Age. Soft cocks. You’re page three in the Herald.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? It was lead story on all the teevs last night and the Hun has splashed with it.’

‘Don’t you start, Martin. I had to fight to get it in the paper at all.’

‘What? Why, Max? What’s going on?’

‘To be honest, I have no idea. But I’m glad you called. I’ve got bad news—you’re off the story. They want you back in Sydney. They say a week is long enough; they don’t want you to overdo it. They’re sending Defoe to replace you. The Age is sending their own reporter, Morty Lang.’

The words land like a sledgehammer, stunning Martin. An image comes to him of his career, shattered into shards, like splintered glass. Another image: him sitting at a desk at the periphery of the newsroom, a broken man. His anger surges. ‘What do you mean “they”? Don’t you mean “we”? You’re the one taking me off the story and you’re the one sending Defoe. At least own the decision.’

‘No, Martin, it’s not like that—’

‘Good. So you’ll fight it. You’ll insist that the story is mine. You have to.’

‘Martin, listen—I’m out as well. They’ve shafted me. This is my last day. They’re replacing me.’

Again the sledgehammer falls. ‘What? Why?’

‘No idea. It’s been seven years. Most editors only last half that time. Circulation’s down, advertising’s down. Time for renewal.’

‘Max, that’s bullshit. Circulation and advertising are always down. You can’t let them do it. You’re the best editor we’ve ever had.’

‘Thanks, Martin, that’s good of you to say so. But it’s a done deal. I’m out of here. Don’t worry: it’s the full parachute. Same salary, writer at large. Here and overseas. I’m almost looking forward to it.’

‘Jeez, Max. What a loss.’

‘Thanks. You’ll be looked after too. They want you off reporting for now, but they understand the paper has a duty of care after what happened in Gaza. Plus, you’re one of the best writers we have. They’re thinking you can write leaders or become the go-to guy for rewrites, plus a training and mentoring role. And some reporting if and when you’re ready for it. You’ll be okay.’



After the phone call Martin sits in his room at the Black Dog. This has been his life: hotel rooms. Grand rooms in grand hotels: suites at The Pierre in New York, the Grand in Rome, the American Colony in Jerusalem. And lousy rooms in lousy hotels: a shack in Brazil with a dirt floor, a brothel in rural Cambodia, an utterly featureless business hotel in The Hague for three weeks. And now here, his last hotel room: a dogbox with a clunking air-conditioner, a mass-produced gum-tree print and water that would give the World Health Organization the trots. After everything—all the adrenaline, all the ambition, all the words, the millions of words—it comes down to this: room six at the Black Dog Motel. He looks at his hands, hands that have shaken the hands of presidents and potentates, pirates and paupers, hands that have worked their magic through dozens of keyboards, hands that have typed out stories both mundane and momentous. Hands soon to be silent, or condemned to shape second-hand words and second-hand thoughts, or to produce nothing more important than inter-office memos. Ultimately, very ordinary hands indeed.

The phone rings: the impatient world, eager to get on, disrespectful of his grief.

‘Martin Scarsden! Hello, mate. D’Arcy Defoe. You’re everywhere. I can’t get a word in the paper. I just want to say—’

‘D’Arcy. Just a moment.’ Martin doesn’t hang up. He places the receiver gently on the bed and walks into the bathroom. Time for a shower. He turns the tap, strips off, walks under the dubious water of Riversend.



Martin wants to go to the Oasis, unburden himself, tell Mandy what has happened to him, seek solace. In this dying town she is the only friend he has: his lover, hopefully his confidante. And yet he can’t bring himself to see her. Instead, he sits in the rotunda in the park, pondering his options. Hanging over him is Snouch’s threat: persuade Mandy to take a DNA test or the old man will sue. If Martin refuses, then his career really will be history, any hope of resurrecting it gone. Snouch will take him to the cleaners and the Herald will hang him out to dry; the paper could reduce its own culpability by demonstrating it had removed him from the story as soon as it had any inkling that his reporting was inaccurate. It would parade its own good faith by depicting him as a rogue reporter, out for glory and careless of the facts, testifying that it had disciplined him even before the threat to sue. Maybe that’s why they’ve moved so fast to replace him with D’Arcy and Morty: those Mahogany Row lawyers might not know a lot about journalism but they’re experts in scapegoating, blame-shifting and arse-covering.

So he considers persuading Mandy to take the DNA test, arguing that the result doesn’t matter: either way she’ll be rid of Snouch once and for all. But he knows the result will matter. Snouch must be confident of the outcome, or why would he stake so much on it? He must be telling the truth: he isn’t her father. And if that is the case, isn’t she entitled to know the truth, no matter how painful? Isn’t that his duty as a journalist, isn’t that what his entire career has been about—telling the truth? To cut through the petty lies, the PR spin and the easy fabrications to deliver the public the truth, no matter how inconvenient or hurtful? How can he in all good conscience not tell her of Snouch’s offer?