‘What will you do now?’ Martin asks.
‘Dunno. Camp out until the insurance comes through.’
‘You’re insured?’
‘Yeah. Does that surprise you?’
‘Yeah, it does.’
An old vagrant, an alcoholic, reputedly a former felon, cast out by the townspeople. Who lives in a beautiful old homestead, well maintained and insured, who drives a beaten-up old Holden but has a Merc in the machinery shed. Martin looks around him. The shed is no dusty relic. There’s a workbench, with tools mounted on a shadow board. Some are old and rusting, but others look well used and well cared for.
‘The house, Snouch—your house—it was really something.’
‘Yeah. Gone now, though.’
‘It was your family’s?’
Snouch contemplates Martin, takes a swig of water and responds. ‘That’s right. Springfields. Settled in the 1840s. House built in the 1880s. Built to last. It was vacant when I got back here; I’ve been restoring it. My fault it’s gone. Should have cleared the trees back further. Might still be standing.’
‘Is this where you grew up?’
‘Some. Here and Geelong.’
‘But why keep it? Why not sell, move on?’
‘Why should I? It’s what I have left. What I had left. All I had to pass on.’
‘Pass on? To whom?’
‘Who do you think?’
Instead of answering, Martin broaches the issue he came here to discuss. ‘Last night, at the club, I was talking to Robbie Haus-Jones. He was pretty drunk.’
‘Can’t blame him for that. Wouldn’t mind getting a skinful myself. All the grog went up in the fire. Probably what blew the roof off.’
‘He recounted what happened the day Byron Swift died. His last words, before Robbie shot him: “Harley Snouch knows everything.”’
‘Yeah, so the coppers claim.’
‘What did he mean by it?’
Snouch breathes in deeply through his nose, lips compressed, clearly annoyed, before answering. ‘No fucken idea. I’ve been over it a thousand times with the filth, with that fat fuck Walker from Bellington and with the Sydney dicks. No fucken idea. Did me no favours though, I can tell you that much for free. Cops investigating me for interfering with kids, of all things. Took ages for them to believe I was innocent and didn’t have the foggiest what Swift meant.’
‘You knew him, though—Reverend Swift?’
‘Yeah, a bit. Like I told you the other day in the saloon.’
‘So why would he implicate you like that, say you knew everything?’
‘Dunno. Spent the past year thinking about it. Still don’t have a clue.’
Martin ponders that for a moment. He’s not making much progress. ‘Okay, so what did you tell the cops? How did you get them off your back?’
Snouch laughs at that. ‘You don’t know much about coppers, do you, Hemingway?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They get paid to solve crimes and catch crims. But in this case, the crime was solved and the crim was dead. Case closed.’
‘Case closed? A massacre of five people?’
‘Sure. The coroner will still want to know the ins and outs of a cat’s arse, but not the coppers. They don’t give a shit. Case closed. The fucker’s dead, shot through the heart by the town sheriff. High Noon.’
Martin regards Snouch’s face. It looks ravaged, covered in ash and grime, his eyes bloodshot and watery. But when he looks down at the man’s hands, resting in his lap, Martin sees that they are perfectly still. Not a tremor to be seen. ‘Harley, tell me something: is Mandy Blonde your daughter?’
‘No, I don’t believe she is.’
‘She thinks so.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s what her mother told her. Katherine claimed that I raped her and young Mandalay was the result. It’s horseshit, all of it, but you can’t blame the girl for believing her mother.’
‘If she’s not your daughter, why are you holding this place in trust for her?’
Something passes over Snouch’s eyes—pain, perhaps?—and he closes them for a moment. When he opens them, Martin can see sadness written there.
‘None of your business, son.’
‘But you fixed the place up. I saw it. It was magnificent. Why would you do that if you didn’t care?’
‘Jesus H. Christ. I got you wrong. You’re not Hemingway, you’re Sigmund fucken Freud.’
‘And if she’s not your daughter, why are you stalking her?’
‘Stalking her? Is that what she said?’
‘Said you spy on her from the wine saloon.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Well, is that right? Why would you do that if she wasn’t your daughter?’
‘You’re the psychoanalyst, Sigmund—you tell me.’ Snouch looks directly at him, challenging him to respond.
‘Okay, Harley, here’s what I think. I think you are a profoundly sad and twisted old fuck. And I think from here on in you can stop perving at her from the saloon and give the girl a chance. Got it?’
Snouch’s first response is anger, Martin can see it flashing in his eyes; enough for Martin to fear, for just a moment, that the old man may lash out. But the anger vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared and the intensity fades. Snouch nods his assent. Martin feels good for a moment, his threatening tone vindicated, at least until he sees the tears well in the old man’s eyes and spill over, tracing clear lines through his soot-coated cheeks.
Martin shakes his head, stands to leave. ‘Shit, Harley. Give it a break. I’ll bring some grog out for you tomorrow. You don’t have to cry. If she’s not your daughter, you should just leave her in peace.’
‘That’s not it. That’s not why I watch her.’
‘Why then?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘Because she’s the spitting image of her mother.’
‘Katherine?’
‘Yes, Katherine.’
Martin is lost for words. Either Snouch is an innocent man yearning for his lost love, or a guilty man overcome with what he has wrought. Martin looks long and hard and finds himself unable to divine the cause of Snouch’s tears. Yet he knows full well that Snouch and Mandy can’t both be telling the truth about her conception.
MARTIN STOPS BY THE BOOKSTORE ON HIS WAY BACK THROUGH TOWN, BUT THE GON OUT, BACKSON sign is on the door, so he continues on his way, turning right at the T-junction, past the fire station, the wheat silos and the Black Dog, accelerating as he heads out of town onto the long flat plain between Riversend and Bellington. The car seems to enjoy the straight empty road, no longer constrained by the speed limits of Riversend or the rutted tracks of the Scrublands. Martin pushes it up to a hundred and twenty-five kilometres an hour, well above the limit. Who’s to know? Who’s to care?
He does slow, if only slightly, as he reaches the curve in the road, the scene of the ute accident. The hole in the fence is still there, but the ute has been removed. He considers stopping to take a photo or two, but the car carries him past; it’s not as if he’s about to forget the details.