‘It is now. But you know what happened here, I guess.’
‘Yeah. The shooting. He was sitting here, you know, when the cop shot him. One moment he was alive, breathing, the next he was dead. Shot dead. Two bullets in the chest. One got him in the heart.’
Martin frowns. There is a faraway quality in the boy’s voice. ‘Is that why you come here?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Did you know him? The priest?’
‘Reverend Swift? Sure.’
‘Can you tell me about him? What was he like?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m a journalist, writing a story. Trying to figure out what happened.’
‘I don’t like journalists. You’re not D’Arcy Defoe, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. I told you, my name’s Martin. Martin Scarsden. I don’t want to quote you; I won’t write your name or anything. I just want to know what happened.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look, Luke, if you think the other journalist was wrong, here’s your chance to help me get it right.’
Luke considers this for a moment, then places his palm flat on the step beside him, eyes shut, as if seeking guidance. Or permission. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, just what sort of guy Reverend Swift was.’
‘Byron. He told us to call him by his first name. He was awesome. He looked out for us kids, stopped the big kids from bullying us. Got us to do shit together. Taught us how to be friends. We’d go down there, across the road to the weir, go swimming, camping, light campfires. A couple of times he hired a bus, took us to Bellington, to the water park or go-karting. Paid for it himself. And he taught us cool stuff. How to light fires without matches, how to track animals, what to do if you are bitten by a snake. All the stuff my old man could never be fucked doing. And we played sport: footy, cricket, basketball. He wasn’t like other grown-ups.’
‘And the policeman, Constable Haus-Jones? He helped out too, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. But I don’t think he really gave a shit about us kids.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The big kids said he had the hots for Byron.’
Martin smiles, despite himself. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Nah. They’re full of shit.’
‘You obviously thought a lot of Reverend Swift. And he must have thought a lot of you. Tell me, did he ever…’
‘Oh, shit. Here we go. Not like the other reporters? Bullshit. Here’s the bit where you ask if he ever touched me. Or if he asked me to touch him. Whether he showed me his dick, or asked me to kiss it. Or if he ever fucked me in the arse. Well, fuck you. You news people, and the teachers, and the fucking cops and even me own mum. No, he never did any of those things. Not to me, not to anyone else. I was a kid. I was twelve. I didn’t even know what those things were, that they even existed. And then you come along, you know-it-all adults, and want to know whether he did this or did that. And he was dead, fucking shot dead, and none of you gave a shit about that. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’ The boy has tears in his eyes and tears on his cheeks. ‘And you come here, right where he was killed, and ask me again? You know something? You’re a cunt, Martin Scarsden.’ The boy stands and runs off, across the road, past the trees and up the levee, before disappearing down the embankment towards the river.
‘Shit,’ says Martin. He sips his coffee, but it no longer tastes so good.
MARTIN SITS IN HIS ROOM AT THE BLACK DOG AND ASKS HIMSELF WHAT THE fuck he is up to. He’s all too aware that his editor, Max Fuller, his old friend and mentor, has gone out on a limb to give him this assignment, that there are plenty back in the newsroom who reckon he isn’t up to it. And now he’s doing his best to prove them right. It’s a straightforward assignment: how is the town coping? More in the writing than in the reporting, right up his alley. But instead of asking the barman at the club, or the woman at the op shop, or chasing down the real estate agent, all he’s done is talk to a criminal in a wine saloon, lust over a bookstore keeper still mourning her mother and traumatise an already traumatised kid. And count gunshots like some half-baked conspiracy theorist on a grassy knoll. What a fucking joke.
He walks into the bathroom and takes a piss. The urine is bright yellow as it streams into the bowl. Dehydrated, thinks Martin. No bloody wonder; wandering around town like Sherlock Holmes instead of doing his day job, seizing this chance Max has orchestrated for him. He washes his hands, splashes water onto his face, regards his reflection in the mirror. His eyes look puffy and bloodshot from lack of sleep, the nascent sunburn unable to disguise his skin’s underlying pallor; there’s a general sagginess to his flesh, revealing the first suggestion of jowls. Forty years old and looking older, the handsome pants man left behind somewhere in the Middle East. Mandy Blonde must be laughing herself sick. How miserable, how pathetic. The kid was right: he is a cunt.
He decides he’s had enough. He’s not up to it. Not anymore. Not up to another three nights fighting insomnia in the Black Dog, not up to another three days wading around in the grief and trauma of an entire town, stirring it up. For what purpose? A nicely written piece for the fleeting entertainment of the suburbs; a nicely written piece likely to go off like a grenade among the denizens of Riversend just as they’re finally putting their lives back together. By which time he would be long gone, back in Sydney, well clear of local distress, being congratulated by colleagues, getting one of those proforma herograms from management. He thinks again of the boy, seeking solace on the church steps, sent running, crying, down to the empty riverbed. By him. But enough. Time to leave. Time to find something else to do between here and oblivion.
At the counter, the proprietor is unsympathetic. ‘Sorry, love. No refunds. We’re like the Hotel California. You can check out, but you can never leave.’ She laughs at her own joke. Martin doesn’t.
‘Okay, I won’t check out, but I am leaving.’ He takes the key back off the counter. ‘I’ll post it to you. Don’t let anyone into my room.’
‘Your choice. Send us the key by the end of next week or it’s another fifty off your credit card. Have a good drive.’ Her smile is as convincing as her hair colour.
Outside, the sun is overhead, slamming down like a hammer on the anvil of the car park. Just like when he arrived the day before, except today a gusty wind has come up, blowing hot air, bellows-like, in from the desert. Thankfully, the hire car is in the shade of the carport. Martin loads his overnight bag into the boot, pops his daypack on the back seat with the remaining bottles of mineral water, takes a long swig out of the bottle he’s already opened and places it on the passenger seat.
He starts the car, drives to the edge of the highway. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He’s made no flight booking, made no calls to Max Fuller or anyone else. But he’s not staying, that’s the main thing. On a whim, he turns right, heading towards Bellington and the Murray. There will be coffee and phone reception and internet. And a river with water in it.