‘I was based in Jerusalem, but every now and then I’d go into the Gaza Strip. Part of the job. The Israelis have cut it off, built a wall around it. Israelis aren’t allowed in; most of the Palestinians aren’t allowed out. But foreign journalists, aid agencies, diplomats and the like can get access. From time to time the Israelis will shell the place or launch a strike from a helicopter or F16, but it’s not as dangerous as you might think. Not most of the time.
‘I’d been in there for three days when it all went pear-shaped. There’d been some sort of riot at a prison on the West Bank, over near Jericho, where the Israelis had locked up some hardcore radicals. To the Israelis they were terrorists; to the Palestinians they were political prisoners. You know the story. Anyway, the Israelis sent in the army and half-a-dozen Palestinians were killed before order was restored. Gaza ignited. I was interviewing an official in Gaza City when my driver interrupted, said we had to go. We were heading for Erez, the border crossing back into Israel, in his old Mercedes. I saw militia on the streets, knew the situation was volatile. The driver got a call; there was a roadblock ahead. He pulled off, drove in among some buildings. He thought he might be able to get around the roadblock, but we decided I should get into the boot of the car, just to be on the safe side. So I got in. He was going down back alleys and tracks, and I was getting bumped around something awful, feeling carsick. And then we stopped. It was muffled, but I could hear the driver talking in Arabic. Then someone was yelling, there were a couple of shots, a quick burst from an AK. I just about shat myself. I heard the driver yelling, ‘Okay, okay.’ I think he was trying to let me know he was alive, but I could hear the voices fading. He was being led away somewhere—to someone in authority, I hoped, where he might be able to sort it. He was well connected, a member of an influential clan. Perhaps he would be able to pay a bribe or call in a favour or simply convince them to let him go on his way. It all depended on the men with the guns, what clan they belonged to and where their loyalties lay.’
Martin pauses, takes a slug of his beer.
‘What happened next?’ asks Robbie Haus-Jones.
‘Nothing happened next. That was the problem. I was in the car boot for three days and nights, not knowing what would happen to me. I figured they weren’t about to shoot me, but you never know. I could be held hostage. It’s happened before. And as time went by, it occurred to me that something might have happened to the driver and no one knew I was there. That was the worst moment: realising that I could die there, in the boot of the car, from starvation. I had water—we always carried bottled water in the boot—and it was winter, so cold at night and not so hot during the day. It’s possible I could have lasted weeks.’
‘Another drink?’ asks Robbie.
‘Sure.’
The policeman orders two more beers. ‘So how did you get out?’
‘Eventually, the driver came back. Jumped in the car, drove off. Went somewhere safer and opened the boot. He had a bandage on his head. He asked if I was okay, said he thought we should still try to get to Erez, but that I had to stay in the boot. It seemed to take forever. When we got there, he opened the boot a fraction, asked for all my cash and my passport. Then he closed the boot again. It must have been an hour at least, then we were driving again, just a short distance. He got the car as close to the Palestinian end of the crossing as possible and opened the boot, got me out and to the gate as quickly as he could. My legs were cramping, so he was practically carrying me. You can imagine what I smelt like. The guards gave me my passport, nodded me through. The driver helped me down the tunnel—it’s this long walkway, hundreds of metres, covered in boarding and corrugated iron. Usually there are people coming and going, but that day it was empty. We were almost to the Israeli checkpoint, halfway along, when a voice came over a loudspeaker telling the driver to stop, saying I needed to come the rest of the way by myself. They made me go through the usual full-body scans, despite my distress. Anyway, I finally got through and the Israelis put me in a little golf buggy thing and drove me to their end of the tunnel. They let me shower, gave me food, clean clothes. They asked me what had happened, so I told them. Then they released me to the care of an Australian diplomat and I was free.’
‘I remember the story. I saw you on the news.’
‘Yeah. I got shit-canned for that. Can you believe it? I gave an interview to the ABC correspondent, a mate of mine. My foreign editor was furious, wanted to know why I hadn’t kept it all for the paper. Terrific, hey?’
The men sit in silence. Martin feels relieved he’s been able to recount the bones of the story in such a matter-of-fact way. He feels a little numb, but not so bad.
‘Martin, about the shooting—you know there’s not a lot I can tell you. I’m not part of the investigation. A priest shoots five people dead, they don’t give the job to a constable, especially not one who was involved. It’s run out of Sydney. Sergeant Herb Walker down in Bellington is the local contact. You should speak to him.’
‘Herb Walker. Thanks. I’ll do that.’
‘I was investigated, of course. God, if you unbutton your holster, you need to write a report; pull out your gun and there’s a full-on inquiry. But I was cleared pretty quickly. He’d already shot five people dead, after all. And there were witnesses.’
‘Does it still bother you, shooting him?’
‘Of course. Every day. Every night.’
‘Counselling?’
‘More than you can imagine.’
‘Do any good?’
‘Not much. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s the nights that are worst.’
‘I know what you mean. Didn’t they offer you a transfer?’
‘Yeah. Of course. But I want to get it out of my system here. Leave it all here, then move on. I don’t want to take it with me.’
More silence.
‘Robbie, why do you think he did it?’
‘Truthfully? No idea. But there are things that bother me about it. All the obvious “what if” and “why didn’t I” sort of things, they haunt me, but there are other things as well.’
‘Like what?’
‘There were a lot of people gathering outside the church. Maybe two dozen. He shot some and spared others. All the witnesses say the same thing: he didn’t go berserk. He was calm, methodical. He could have killed a lot more.’
‘You think he targeted those he killed, that it wasn’t random?’
‘Don’t know. No idea. But he didn’t shoot any women.’
‘And he was a hell of a shot, wasn’t he? Dropping Craig Landers from that distance.’
The constable doesn’t respond immediately and the men are left looking at their beers. Neither of them has been drinking; the once-frothy heads have flattened out.
‘Martin, there’s an old bloke who lives out in the Scrublands called Codger Harris. Go and see him. He can tell you about Byron and his guns.’
‘The Scrublands? What’s that?’
‘Shit country. Mulga scrub. Hundreds of square kilometres of it. Starts about ten clicks north of town. Here, I’ll draw you a map of how to get to Codger’s.’
Robbie takes a napkin and sketches out a route, warning Martin of pitfalls and wrong turns.
Directions completed, the constable drains his beer and nods at Martin. ‘I’d better get going. See you round. And don’t be so hard on yourself; you saved a kid’s life today.’