‘Why? Because this stinks to high heaven. It’s about time the truth came out.’ Emphatic belly pat.
After the interview, sitting outside in his car, oblivious to the heat, Martin’s mind churns. Herb Walker and Harley Snouch believe Swift was abusing children while Codger Harris and Mandy Blonde don’t believe it. But the police sergeant’s information puts it beyond doubt: two boys had confirmed it was true. But that isn’t what’s exciting Martin. D’Arcy Defoe had already exposed the priest’s sickening appetites. Martin has found a new, unreported story: Swift was an imposter, a former special forces soldier who was being protected by people high up in the police force. Was it possible that Swift was part of some sort of paedophile ring?
Bellington Hospital is single-storey, brick from the ground to floor level, weatherboard from there to its corrugated-iron roof. It sits above a curve in the Murray River, two buildings joined together by a covered walkway. A couple of elderly patients in wheelchairs sit outside, smoking and contemplating the water easing past. Martin enters through sliding electric doors into the foyer. It’s quiet, there’s the antiseptic smell of hospitals everywhere, and the linoleum floor has the comfortable give of a long-settled building. There’s a bored-looking woman at reception half-heartedly working her way through a sudoku.
Martin approaches the desk. ‘Jamie Landers, please?’
‘Down there, third on the left,’ she replies, not even looking up from her puzzle.
Martin feels vaguely foolish; he’s been concocting various tales to get past reception, none of them necessary.
It’s a pleasant-enough room, with high ceilings and big windows. There are four beds; only two are occupied: Jamie Landers sitting up staring at his phone, an old man sleeping in the opposite bed.
‘G’day, Jamie.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Martin Scarsden. I helped your mum at the accident scene.’
‘You the guy who saved my life?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, what about Allen? Why didn’t you save him?’
Martin is not sure what he was expecting—gratitude, perhaps—but not this. Jamie is looking at him with the surliness of a chained dog.
‘Nothing I could do, Jamie. He broke his neck when he was thrown clear of the car. He would have died instantly.’
‘Yeah, well, how fucked is that?’ The tone is accusatory, as if Martin possessed some power to alter the course of events. He’s tempted to point out the obvious—that it was Jamie Landers who was driving the car—but he restrains himself and takes a seat.
‘How you feeling?’
‘Shithouse. I cracked a couple of ribs on the steering wheel. They hurt like fuck, but these lousy shits are skimping on the painkillers. Probably pocketing them.’
‘I’ll have a word to them, see what I can do,’ Martin lies.
But Jamie Landers sneers. ‘Bullshit. As if. What do you want?’
‘I’m a journo. I’m writing about Byron Swift.’
‘That cunt. What about him?’
‘Was he a paedophile? Did he sexually abuse children?’
‘I know what a paedophile is. I’m not a fucking moron.’
‘Was he?’
‘Of course he was. He was a priest, for God’s sake. He lived in Bellington, yet he sets up a playgroup for schoolkids forty minutes away in Riversend. Of course he was going the grope. Join the dots, Sherlock.’
‘Did you ever witness anything?’
‘Nah, nothing graphic. He was too smart for that. But he was all over those kids, pretending to be their friend, giving them hugs and pats on the bum. He was grooming them.’
‘Did he ever try it on with you? Or with Allen?’
A look of disgust, of disdain, writes itself on Landers’ face. ‘Me? Of course not. I’m not a fucking kid. He wouldn’t have dared. We’d have sorted him out.’
‘How’s that?’
‘We would have beaten the shit out of him.’
‘Right. I see. So this allegation that he was a paedophile, did you guys report that to Sergeant Walker here in Bellington?’
‘Not me, mate. I don’t talk to coppers.’
‘But your dad knew. I know Walker warned him that Swift might be interfering with kids. Theory is that your dad went to St James to warn him off, to tell him to stay away from you and the other young people.’
Jamie Landers’ laugh is one of contempt. ‘Fuck, I don’t know why the old man went to the church, but it sure as shit wasn’t to protect me.’
The sun is setting, a huge ball turned blood red by the residual smoke of the Scrublands fire, as Martin visits the Bellington cemetery. The day is tired, drained by the heat, the air burdened by smoke and dust, leaves drooping from the trees, shrubs shrinking from the sky, not reaching towards it. Martin finishes a bottle of mineral water, carrying the empty plastic container with him.
Byron Swift’s grave is at the end of a row, a simple black headstone. Reverend Byron Swift. 36 years. Known unto God.
Martin looks at it for a long moment, not quite believing the inscription. Known unto God: the epitaph reserved for unidentified soldiers. Yet here it is, on the tombstone of a parish priest, lending credence to Walker’s allegation that Swift was indeed a former soldier. And that’s not all. Lying atop the grave, wilted by the heat but surely placed there this very day, a posy of sky blue flowers. Someone is mourning the dead priest, or mourning whoever he actually was. Martin takes out his phone, records the image.
It’s all he can do to get back to Riversend in one piece. In the twilight and gathering gloom, kangaroos emerge from nowhere to nibble at what little grass can be found on the highway’s verge, their eyes glowing white in the headlights. Befuddled by the brightness, they break first one way, then the other, bounding perilously close to the path of the oncoming car.
Martin slows, and slows some more, only to be flooded by the lights of a B-double, thundering through the encroaching night. The passing truck almost blows him off the road. When the next truck approaches, he pulls off the road altogether and lets it pass, lesson learnt.
He’s been thinking of visiting Mandy Blonde, of telling her what he’s uncovered, or not telling her anything and moving straight back into the previous night’s sex. But he can hardly keep his eyes open. The Black Dog is all he can manage. He falls into bed, the clanking air-conditioner providing more noise than relief. And as he falls asleep, a final sum. Almost a year ago, Byron Swift shot dead five people outside St James church in Riversend. And on the same day, on the other side of the world, Martin Scarsden climbed into the boot of an old Mercedes and let his driver shut him away.
MARTIN IS BACK IN THE BOOT OF THE MERCEDES, BUT THIS TIME AROUND HE’S not terrified, he’s bored. ‘Christ. Not this again,’ he sighs, before the significance of the again insinuates itself into his rising consciousness, and he realises that he’s not really marooned in the boot of an ancient German limousine somewhere on the Gaza Strip, but dreaming. That adds a level of pique to his boredom. There had been a time when he’d considered himself borderline creative, capable of thinking outside the square, but here he is, confining himself even in his dreams to the inside of a very small square. Boring and annoying.
Somewhere in the distance he can hear the crump crump of Israeli artillery, but even that is probably a ruse. Maybe it’s not artillery; maybe it’s someone hammering on the lid of the car boot. Cripes. He should either fall back into a deeper sleep or wake up completely; these boot dreams are turning into a drag. Crump crump.
What the fuck is that?
Martin emerges from sleep, slipping the bonds of the Mercedes to enter another day. It’s Friday, four days since he arrived in Riversend. The air-conditioner is clanking away, some failing metal gizzard thumping its protest: Crump crump crump.
Martin is fully awake; it’s someone pounding on the door of his room at the Black Dog. ‘All right. All right!’ he yells. ‘Coming!’
Out of bed, in boxers and t-shirt, he opens the door to an explosion of sunlight, engulfing Mandy Blonde in its glare.