Martin nods. He’s not about to confess the condition largely remains a mystery to him, even after a year of counselling.
‘Yeah, well, there was a time when this country was flooded with it. Flooded. Except it wasn’t called PTSD back then. It was called shell shock, if it was called anything at all. Thousands of men, tens of thousands. Back from the Western Front; later on, back from fighting Hitler and Tojo. Some missing legs, or arms, or deaf or blind. Some full of syphilis and clap and tuberculosis. Some much more fucked up than that. Ugly, violent, alcoholic men. Drifting round the countryside, swarms of ’em during the Depression, moved on from place to place like sheep sent down a stock route. Except instead of heading towards the abattoir, they were coming back from one. You seen the memorial down at the crossroads, outside the pub? Fucken joke, isn’t it? They cast ’em in bronze, raised ’em high, called ’em heroes. But some of those names, some of those very names carved on that memorial, some of them would have ended up here or in places like this. They were all over the place, these wine saloons, in the bush and in the cities. Every country town had one. It was different in those days. No Medibank, no Medicare, no cheap medicine. They self-medicated. It weren’t no table wine they served in wine saloons, it was plonk: flagon port and cooking sherry and home-stilled spirits. Nasty, cheap and effective. This is where they came, the walking ghosts who weren’t welcome in the Commercial fucken Hotel.’
‘I never knew,’ says Martin. ‘Are you a veteran, then? Vietnam?’
‘Me? Nah. Not of any war, anyway.’
‘So why come here? Why not the pub? Or the club?’
‘Because, I’m a bit like those old fellas. I’m not welcome in the front bar. Besides, I like it here. No one’s going to bother me here.’
‘Why aren’t you welcome in the front bar?’ Martin persists.
The old man takes a slug of his drink. ‘Pub’s shut. You want some more?’
‘Bit early in the day for me.’ Martin hears a scrabbling noise. Over against the wall, under a bench, a mouse moves furtively along the skirting board.
‘I’m not so popular round here,’ volunteers the man. ‘Don’t live up to the civic standards. You’re the first living person I’ve spoken more than three words to for a year.’
‘So why stay?’
‘I grew up here. This is where I’m from. So fuck ’em, I’m staying.’
‘What did you do? To get everyone so offside?’
‘Nothing, to tell you the truth. Or not much. But ask around, see what they say. They’ll tell you I’m a crook, that I’ve spent half my life in Long Bay, or Goulburn or Boggo Road. It’s bullshit, but people believe what they want to believe. Can’t say I care. That’s their problem.’
Martin regards the face, the slightly bulbous nose, veins showing, and the grizzled beard. The face is lived in, but in the muted light Martin can’t guess its age. Anywhere between forty and seventy. On the back of the man’s hands and wrists are the blurry blue lines of prison tattoos. Yet the eyes are alert; Martin feels the old tramp assessing him. ‘Well, nice to meet you. I’d better get going. What’s your name?’
‘Snouch. Harley Snouch.’
‘Martin Scarsden, Harley.’ The men don’t shake hands.
Martin turns to leave, but the old man isn’t finished. ‘The priest. Don’t believe everything you’re told. People believe what they want to believe; doesn’t mean it’s true.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was a charmer, mate. Could charm the pants off a possum. People liked him, don’t want to admit they got him wrong.’
‘In what way?’
‘The kids. What your mate wrote in the paper. It was dead right. But lots of people don’t want to believe it, don’t want to admit it was going on under their noses.’
‘So you believe it?’
‘Sure. I seen him with those kids, giving them hugs and whatnot. Swimming with them down at the weir. All over ’em like a rash.’
‘Did you tell anyone? The police?’
‘Mate, I don’t talk to the police. Not if I can help it.’
‘What about Swift himself? Did you ever talk with him?’
‘Sure. Plenty. Man of the cloth, guess it was his duty, ministering to the likes of me. He’d come in here for a drink on occasion. Could put it away, too. Not a pissant like you. Tell his dirty jokes and filthy stories.’
‘What? He alluded to abuse?’
‘Yeah, alluded. That’s a good way of putting it. Checking me out, no doubt, looking for an accomplice. Once he realised he had the wrong bloke, he backed off. But, mate, I’m the invisible man. I walk round this town and people don’t see me. Doesn’t mean I don’t see them.’
‘So what did you see? Did you see Swift engaged in anything criminal?’
‘Criminal? No, I wouldn’t say that. But I saw him with those kids and I listened to his unsavoury jokes. All I’m saying is don’t believe everything you’re told.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. In fact, don’t mention me. Leave my name out of that shit sheet of yours.’
‘See what I can do.’
‘Fucken journo.’
Back on the main street, the day is growing heavy with heat, but the air smells of nothing more dishonest than dust and the sun has an antiseptic sting to it. Martin crosses the road towards the Oasis. He wonders if the invisible man is watching him through the boarded-up window, but figures Harley Snouch is still at the bar conversing with his ghosts. Martin stops in the middle of the road, turns back and snaps a photo, but suspects the contrast is too great—the wine saloon’s facade is too dark against the shattering brightness. Martin squints, but can’t even make out the screen on his phone. He walks back under the awning and takes a closer shot of the rusting chain and its padlock.
At the Oasis the Pooh Bear sign has been removed from the door. Martin enters, is surprised to see a couple of customers, two elderly ladies drinking tea at one of the tables. In a clear space in the centre of the rug, next to a playpen, a baby is rocking gently up and down in a lightweight bassinet, sucking on a bottle.
‘Good morning,’ says Martin.
One of the women beams in affirmation. ‘Isn’t it?’
Mandy appears, pushing through the swing door at the back of the shop, carrying a tray with scones, jam and cream. She offers Martin a smile, replete with dimples. ‘Wouldn’t you know it? Peak hour. Let me finish up with the sisters.’
A few minutes later she’s back, having delivered morning tea to the old women. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Hope you haven’t come to chat. Liam’s been a little shit this morning. Can I get you something?’
‘He looks jolly enough.’
‘Yeah. Wait till he’s finished his bottle.’
‘A large flat white then, biggest you’ve got. Double shot if it’s big, triple shot if it’s bigger.’
‘Done. You want takeaway?’
‘Might have it here, if that’s okay?’
‘No problem. Get a book while you’re at it. You forgot yesterday.’
Martin does what he’s told, but not before making some unconvincing cooing noises at the baby, who studiously ignores him and concentrates on the bottle instead. He’s a chubby little fellow, dark brown eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. The old women regard him indulgently.
By the time Mandy returns, Martin has picked out a couple of worn paperbacks, one a detective book, the other a travel story, both by unfamiliar authors. She is carrying a Bavarian beer stein, complete with a conical metal cap. Martin laughs. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Largest I’ve got.’
‘Thanks.’