Scrublands(90)

‘I’ve come to pick up Liam. Where is he?’

‘Oh, not here. Jamie took him back to the Oasis. He said you were back.’

‘Oh. Goodo. Thanks. I’ll see him there.’

‘When was that?’ asks Martin.

‘An hour or so ago,’ says Fran. ‘He saw the police cars returning. We heard on the radio that you were getting out.’

‘Good,’ says Mandy. ‘How was he?’

‘Liam? Wonderful. You’ve really got a playful little fellow there.’

‘Thanks again, Fran. I owe you one.’

Mandy and Martin walk towards the bookstore, Mandy keen to be reunited with her son. They take the back way, out of sight, down the laneways, figuring Jamie will have let himself into the house. It’s Martin who talks. ‘You know, Mandy, the magistrate has ordered me not to write any of this down, or not to publish it, but I would really like to know what’s been going on.’

And she gives a smile, unaffected and pure. ‘Of course, Martin. I’ll tell you what I know. But some of it has to remain between you and me.’

They get to the back of the house, but no one’s there.

‘Maybe they’re waiting out the front,’ says Mandy.

They make their way down the small side lane, Mandy unlocking the gate, and walk out into Hay Road. Still no sign. Mandy is looking slightly annoyed. ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Where are they? Maybe he’s taken him to the park.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Martin. He’s about to speak again when his words are drowned out. The Channel Nine helicopter swoops low over the town, shadowed by the ABC’s, before they peel away and head towards their feed points in Bellington or Swan Hill. No prizes for guessing what’s making headlines on the evening news.

And that’s when he sees the homemade sign, the A4 paper sticky-taped to the light pole, the photograph rapidly fading: MISSING. MR PUSS. REWARD. It stops him dead.

‘Shit,’ says Martin.

‘What?’

‘Shit.’

And then he’s running, running as fast as he can, running back towards the crossroads, running even as he tries to convince himself it can’t possibly be true. Past the blind and useless Anzac, guarding his fading myth, around to the back lane, around to the back of the pub. He stops there, panting despite having run no more than fifty metres, sweat pouring off him in the heat of the afternoon. Mandy is right behind him, younger and possibly fitter, compelled by Martin’s urgency to follow. But both stop, halted by a harsh truth: at the bottom of the wooden stairs, half hidden by the car with its deflating tyres, a baby’s stroller stands empty and unattended.

Mandy sees it, is about to yell her son’s name, when Martin stops her, gesturing frantically, talking in a hoarse whisper: ‘Run and get Robbie. Tell him to get here fast. Tell him to bring his gun.’

Mandy stands open-mouthed for a moment, trying to catch up, and then she is gone, sprinting back through the gate, into the lane and out of sight.

‘Right, now,’ says Martin quietly, summoning courage. He should wait, he knows he should wait, that Robbie is just minutes away. But the empty stroller sits there challenging him, condemning him, compelling him.

He’s moving before he makes the decision to move. Past the stroller, to the stairs. Step by step, he climbs. His senses are fine-tuned, the hairs on his neck raised like radar masts, his hands brushing the flaking green paint of the railing as if to vacuum clues, feeling the baking heat rise from the powdery paint. A step creaks under his weight—or is it the plea of a small boy?

He moves more quickly, gaining the top landing, sees the hole punched in the glass window. The door is closed, but unlocked. He swings it open, enters, remembering to avoid as much as possible the shards of glass on the floor, moving away from the cleansing sun into the darkness. Before turning into the main corridor, he pauses to let his eyes adjust. He can hear nothing unusual, see nothing out of place, but deep down his guts are churning out their warning that something is profoundly wrong.

Then he hears it: a cry, a stifled cry. It’s not close, not too close. His mind makes the leap, informed by his last visit. He guesses either the guest lounge, with its empty beer cans and bloated ashtrays, or the room of the dead cat. He moves quickly again, into the main corridor, along it, barely pausing to check before turning the right-angle corner to head along the front of the pub. He’s creeping forward when he hears something new. He pauses again. Someone singing. A lullaby? Jesus. He gathers his guts, threatening to turn liquid, summons the vestiges of his courage, and walks, purposefully and without pause, down the corridor.

How long does it take him to walk those twenty-five metres? A few short seconds or half a lifetime? It’s impossible to say. He passes the stairs leading down into the pub, sees the brass runners on the carpet, notes the watery English light in the foxhunting picture, sees the blazing Australian light through the French doors leading to the verandah. He sees other things—the ornate yet dusty chandelier hanging above the stairs; the veneer lifting ever so slightly on the antique dresser; a painting of mountains, blue ranges with the anvil clouds of a summer storm above them. Smells come to him: dust and blood and mothballs and cigarettes. And fear. The smell he endured for three days and three nights and an eternity in the boot of a battered yellow Mercedes abandoned somewhere in the Gaza Strip. The smell has followed him across the oceans, seeking him out inside a shuttered hotel in the Riverina. But the smell doesn’t stop him. Nothing will stop him. He walks through it, wades through it, pushes through it. The singing is telling him where to go, to the room of the dead cat.