Scrublands(9)

A ute makes its way down from the highway, its driver flicking the ubiquitous finger of acknowledgement to Martin, who awkwardly returns the gesture. The vehicle continues on its way, heading up onto the bridge and out of town. It’s Tuesday morning. Martin recalls Mathilda’s Op Shop opening only on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Were other businesses the same, the ones still surviving, their owners conspiring to concentrate their meagre earnings into a couple of hours each week, townspeople and farmers doing their best to support them? A town circling the wagons against drought and economic decline? If so, Martin knows he needs to make the most of it, introducing himself to people while they’re out and about, canvassing their views and probing their feelings, judging how much life is left in Riversend. He walks across to the bank. Sure enough: open Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It’s the same at the dry goods store, Jennings, diagonally opposite, but the Commercial Hotel, freshly painted, will remain closed no matter what the day of the week. Next to the pub, closer again to the bridge, is Landers’ General Store and Supplies. Open seven days. Martin makes a mental note: Craig Landers was one of those killed in the shooting. Who is running the store now? His widow? Mandalay had mentioned her name, Fran, said they were friends.

For a moment he’s distracted by what sounds like distant thunder. He searches the sky for confirmation, but there’s not even a wisp of cloud, let alone a thunderhead. The thunder comes again, persists, grows closer. Four bikies appear, coming down Hay Road from the highway, riding two abreast, faces unsmiling. Their machines throb and pulsate, the sound bouncing off the buildings and reverberating in Martin’s chest. They wear matte black helmets, sunglasses, beards and moustaches. They aren’t wearing leather jackets, just their colours on thin denim with cut-off sleeves: Reapers, with a silhouette of the grim reaper and his scythe. Their arms bulge with muscles and tattoos, their faces with attitude. The men pass, seemingly oblivious of Martin. He takes a photo with his phone, then another, as they continue on their way, heading up onto the bridge. A minute or two later, the thunder is gone and Riversend returns to torpor.

It’s half an hour before another vehicle appears. A red station wagon turns in from the highway, passes the soldier and parks outside the general store. As Martin approaches, a woman emerges from the car, springs the boot and picks up a small bale of newspapers. She looks about his age, with short dark hair and a pretty face.

‘Can I give you a hand?’ offers Martin.

‘Sure,’ says the woman. Martin reaches into the back of the car, pulling out a tray with a dozen loaves of bread in brown paper wrappers. The bread is warm and the smell enticing. He follows her into the store and sets the tray on the counter.

‘Thanks,’ says the woman. She’s about to say something else, but stops, her mouth contracting from a flirtatious smile to a puckered scowl. ‘You’re the journalist, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘You’re not that Defoe man, are you?’

‘No. My name is Martin Scarsden. Are you Mrs Landers? Fran, isn’t it?’

‘I am. But I have absolutely nothing to say to you. Or to any of your ilk.’

‘I see. Any particular reason?’

‘Don’t be obtuse. Now, unless you want to buy something, please leave.’

‘All right. Message received.’ Martin makes to leave, then thinks better of it. ‘Actually, do you sell bottled water?’

‘Down the end there. Cheaper by the dozen.’

At the end of the aisle there’s a stack of generic brand one-litre bottles of mineral water held together in half-dozens by cling wrap. Martin picks up two, one in each hand. At the counter he selects one of the loaves of bread.

‘Look,’ he says to the widow, who is cutting free the newspapers, ‘I really don’t want to intrude—’

‘Good, then don’t. You people have done enough damage.’

A retort comes to mind, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he takes the two Melbourne newspapers, the Herald Sun and The Age, plus the Bellington Weekly Crier, pays and leaves. LABOR RORTS, yells the Herald Sun; ICE EPIDEMIC’S NEW WAVE, warns The Age; DROUGHT DEEPENS, weeps the Crier. Outside, he desperately wants to break open one of the sixpacks of water, but realises that once the cling wrap is compromised, the bottles will be all but impossible to carry, so he heads back towards the Black Dog. On the way he checks the Oasis, but the bookshop and its coffee machine are not yet operating.

At quarter past nine, having feasted on bread, bottled water and instant coffee amid the Black Dog’s cigarette butt-strewn car park, Martin is at the police station. It’s a converted house, not a purpose-built station; a solid-looking little red-brick affair supporting a new grey steel roof, dwarfed somewhat by its large blue-and-white sign, sitting on the corner of Gloucester Road and Somerset Street, next to the bank and opposite the primary school. This is the one interview he was able to organise in advance, calling through on his mobile from Wagga the morning before. Inside, working at the counter, is Constable Robbie Haus-Jones. Ever since the shooting he’s been hailed as a hero, but to Martin he looks like a teenage boy, with acne and an unconvincing moustache.

‘Constable Haus-Jones?’ asks Martin, extending his hand. ‘Martin Scarsden.’

‘Martin, good morning,’ says the young officer in an unexpected baritone. ‘Come on through.’