Scrublands(96)

The men keep searching, Goffing at the desk, Martin returning to the small lounge. There’s a bookcase, its shelves containing little fiction, just an airport thriller or two. Most of the books are history and biography, some military books and a few textbooks. Psychology and sociology. And on the bottom shelf, a series of photo albums. The most imposing is a professionally produced wedding album bound in burgundy leather. Martin flicks through, the feeling of transgression strong. A handsome young man, hair dark and eyes shining; a beautiful young woman, lustrous smile and a face luminous with self-belief. The couple look at Martin out of the photo, out of the past, dressed in their wedding finery, confident of themselves and their future. In the first photos it’s just the two of them, standing at the shores of a lake, the foliage green and the water blue and expansive. So much water. There are more images, with the best man and maid of honour, the parents, siblings, children with flowers. There are pages of the ceremony itself, the ring, the celebratory kiss, smiles and goodwill. And on the last page of the album, preserved for posterity, an invitation, requesting the pleasure of your company at the wedding of Avery Foster and Dianne Webber. The card is white, the edges gold, the writing raised black cursive. Martin flicks back to the first photos. Avery Foster, before life went awry.

He extracts another, more utilitarian album. Memories from the military. The same man, a younger man, Avery Foster, graduating in dress uniform. In camouflage, face blackened, an assault rifle at the ready, but the smile revealing this is an exercise, not combat. Photos in Australia, photos overseas. And then the familiar colours: brown and beige, the palette of Afghanistan, interspersed with the greenery of the valleys. Foster in camp, Foster with colleagues. Foster in uniform, his arm around a colleague, both smiling at the camera. Martin notices small variations in their uniforms, looks closely at their identifying tags. Is the man on the right Julian Flynt?

He carries the album into the study to show Goffing. The ASIO man is still sitting at the desk, leaning back. In his hand is a roll of banknotes, hundred-dollar bills. He looks up at Martin. ‘About five thousand dollars. It was taped under the desk. If Avery Foster killed himself, it wasn’t for lack of money. And look at this.’ He hands Martin a receipt. ‘It’s for a headstone. The week after Swift died.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ says Martin. ‘He’s buried in Bellington. The inscription is Known unto God, the one used for soldiers who can’t be identified. And check this out.’ Martin shows Goffing the photo album, open at the page with the image of the two soldiers. ‘The man on the left is Avery Foster. Looks like Afghanistan.’

‘And the man on the right is Julian Flynt,’ says Jack Goffing without hesitation.

‘They were comrades in Afghanistan. So what does that add up to? Do you think it was Foster who smuggled Flynt back into Australia, who set him up with a false identity and a bolthole in Bellington?’

Goffing says nothing, not for a long while, before nodding in affirmation. ‘Sounds as plausible as anything else.’

‘And on the day of the St James shooting, Swift is preparing to leave the district for good. He calls Foster from the church and sometime later Foster calls him back. Then Swift goes out and starts shooting.’

‘And six months later Foster kills himself.’

The men are still, speculation running unfettered through Martin’s mind. Nothing moves in the rooms of the dead publican.

‘What time is it in Afghanistan?’ asks Goffing eventually.

Martin checks his watch, does the calculation in his mind. ‘Early afternoon.’

‘Good. Let’s go. I’ve got some calls to make.’





MARTIN IS BACK IN THE BOOT OF THE MERCEDES ON THE GAZA STRIP, BUT HE’S no longer so perturbed. He knows help is on its way; it won’t be too long now and he’ll be rescued. He can hear the clanking tanks, the rumble of activity. A helicopter passes benignly overhead. So he lies in the darkness, enjoying his last moments of respite before the boot is opened and a new day begins. And right on cue, the hammering comes, not ordnance, not mortar shells, but someone pounding on the door of room six of the Black Dog Motel. He opens his eyes, fully conscious, gets up and opens the door.

‘Martin. Mate. Talk about a scoop machine.’ It’s Doug Thunkleton.

‘Fuck off, Doug.’

‘But you are the story. Make the most of it, do an interview. Salvation awaits!’

‘Just fuck off and die, will you,’ he says, not even bothering to raise his voice, and shuts the door in the face of the television hyena.

He’s emerging from the shower when another knock comes. ‘Martin? Are you in there? Martin?’ It’s Jack Goffing. Martin lets him in, scanning the car park for media as he does so.

‘It’s okay,’ says Goffing. ‘I told them Montifore is doing a doorstop. They’ve all scurried off to the police station.’

‘Is he?’

‘Bound to be sooner or later.’ Goffing is smiling. ‘They’ve got their man; they’ll want their credit.’

Martin smiles as well. Both men can feel it: progress, momentum. They’re getting closer.

‘Finish getting dressed,’ says Goffing. ‘I’ll have a smoke.’



Outside, Riversend’s clear night skies have drained off much of the car park’s heat, but the morning’s light is already so intense that Martin needs his sunglasses. He can feel the power of the sun on the bare skin of his arms. It will be another ferocious day.