Scrublands(82)

So what of her allegorical tale, that she’d fallen pregnant in a one-night stand in Melbourne? It seems obvious enough: she didn’t want to tell a journalist that she’d been the killer’s lover. She didn’t want that plastered all over the papers, not for herself and certainly not for their son. She wouldn’t want Liam growing up like herself…How had she phrased it? The progeny of scandal. But why talk at all? Because she wanted him to find out what she didn’t know: who was Byron Swift really? She’d done it deliberately, led him on, hoping he might uncover the past of the priest. What was she seeking? Some unknown vindication of Swift for impregnating her, abandoning her, shooting dead five people in cold blood, bequeathing their son shame and infamy?

Martin thinks of Walker, his discovery that the priest was a man without a past, Martin’s article in the Sunday papers, Goffing’s revelation of Flynt’s war crime. Was that it? Mandy loved Byron Swift but didn’t know who it was she loved? She wanted to know his real identity, his story, for herself and her son? Well, Martin knows now. He knows who Swift was, knows his shameful past: that Swift was a war criminal. But can he tell her? And will she listen? And what of Harley Snouch, so confident his DNA test will exonerate him and prove her mother a vindictive liar? How can Martin even broach such possibilities? She would banish him forever.

His stomach churns and his head pounds. He realises he’s losing her, that there is little chance of reconciliation, not after his early-morning accusations, not with the information he’s carrying around like unexploded bombs. Somewhere, sometime, he’ll publish Goffing’s story, tell the world that Swift was really the war criminal Julian Flynt, and she’ll never speak to him again. And he’ll be left with his own doubts about her. Goffing planted the seeds: is the diary genuine, or is it some new manipulation? Is it a fabrication, another allegorical tale? Martin sits in the wine saloon and ponders whether his life has been reduced to an absurdist game show: which does he choose, the money or the box, the story or the girl?

The room brightens suddenly. A shaft of sunlight is carving its way into the saloon, lifting the gloom, sending motes dancing. The sun has risen above the row of stores on the other side of the street, high enough to flush Hay Road with sunshine, yet still low enough to penetrate below the saloon’s protective awning. Martin walks over to the cracks in the boarding, angling his point of view to avoid looking directly into the rising sun. But it’s no good: the Oasis is obliterated by the dawn’s antiseptic flaring. A flash of red, the sound of a car; Fran Landers returning from Bellington with milk and bread and swamp peas. And newspapers. There is life on Mars.



But Fran is non-communicative, bustling around her store, restricting herself to the compulsory courtesies, so Martin buys the papers, some water, an iced-coffee-flavoured milk, a Bellington danish and some low-grade painkillers.

He sits out front of the store on the bench, sipping the milk and grimacing at Tuesday’s papers. He’s gone from The Age, banished, all evidence of his existence erased, airbrushed away like a latter-day Trotsky. The story is on page three, by D’Arcy Defoe in Bellington, and listed at the bottom of the copy, like an afterthought: Additional reporting by Bethanie Glass. It’s a typical Defoe piece, beautifully crafted despite its brevity, sitting under the headline RIVER TOWN MOURNS LOST POLICEMAN. The story refers only obliquely to the circumstances of Herb Walker’s death and not at all to the connection with the backpacker murders; there is no mention of Martin Scarsden, Doug Thunkleton or anything else. Rather, it’s a eulogy to a fine man, a tough job and desperate times. Defoe has reported the story without reporting it at all; management will be pleased. The story has become a minefield for the paper, and with Defoe here, Fairfax will be in safe hands. He’s always admired that in his rival: Defoe never, ever loses perspective. Martin sighs. Time to get out of town.

He’s finished the iced-coffee milk and is swallowing some tablets and water when he sees Robbie Haus-Jones and one of the Sydney homicide cops, Lucic, walking purposefully around the corner near the bank, no doubt coming from the police station. They cross the road and walk straight towards him, not talking. For a dread moment his heart accelerates: are they coming to arrest him? What for? They do indeed walk up to him, but not to arrest him.

‘Morning, Martin,’ says Robbie.

Lucic looks at him with disdain, not even offering a nod of acknowledgement.

‘Morning, Robbie. What’s up?’

‘Nothing concerning you,’ says Lucic. He stays standing by Martin as Robbie enters the store. A minute or two later Robbie emerges, accompanied by a concerned-looking Fran Landers.

‘Martin,’ she says, seeing him sitting there, ‘could you do me a favour? Keep an eye on the store? I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

‘Sure,’ says Martin, knowing he has nothing better to do.

He watches the trio walk along the street, disappearing around the corner by the hotel, heading away from the police station, not towards it. He sits outside, waiting. A farmer pulls up in a battered ute, and Martin follows him into the store. The man buys a kilo of bacon, a loaf of white bread, two litres of milk and a pouch of tobacco. The till is locked, so Martin takes the man’s cash and sets it next to the register. The transaction is conducted in near silence, the man limiting himself to grunts, speaking only to communicate his preferred brand of tobacco. Martin follows him out of the store, watches him climb into his ute and drive back the way he came.