‘Shit. What happened to you?’ she asks.
‘What? Nothing. You woke me up.’
‘Really? Remind me to avoid middle age.’
‘Thanks. Lovely to see you too.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course. Excuse the middle-aged mess.’
Mandy enters, and it’s only once she’s inside out of the razor-blade sun that Martin can see her properly. Her eyes are puffy and red. He’s about to deliver a rebuke along the lines of ‘pot calling the kettle black’ when he thinks better of it. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I thought you might come round last night.’
‘So did I. But I went to Bellington, got back late. Long day, I was buggered. Is that why you’re crying?’
‘Dream on.’ She manages a small smile of derision, with only the suggestion of a dimple.
Martin waits. It’s coming, he knows. Crying people don’t seek out others and then not tell them why they’re crying.
‘Martin, they’ve arrested Harley Snouch.’
‘What? Why?’
She doesn’t answer straight away as she fights to control her emotions. A tear swells into the corner of her eye. Martin thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful in all his life, and then thinks what a turd he is for thinking such a thing. Then she bites her lip, and Martin thinks she’s even more beautiful again.
‘What’s happened?’ he asks.
‘They’re saying awful things. That he’s killed someone, out at Springfields.’
‘Who’s saying?’
‘People. Everyone.’
‘Who’s he killed?’
‘They’re saying he called an insurance inspector, for the fire damage. The inspector found bodies. Greedy fuck. Can you imagine that? Killing people, then calling in an insurance clerk because you want money?’
A small sob escapes her and Martin steps forward, holds her, tries to comfort her, saying it’s just gossip, that it might not be true, all the while wondering if it is and what it might mean.
‘Martin?’ she whispers.
‘Yes, Mandy?’ he replies, gently wiping a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
‘Martin, have a shower. You stink.’
Freshly showered and, thanks to a brief stopover at the bookstore, freshly caffeinated, Martin is back behind the wheel of the rental. Mandy is in the passenger seat, biting nervously at her lip, as he drives them across the clanking bridge above the flood plain that never floods. The town is behind them, Liam being cared for by Fran at the store, and soon enough the beige and tan fields fall behind as well as they enter the monochromatic world of the Scrublands, still smoking two days on. Martin finds his way first time, but as they approach Snouch’s place, Springfields, they are brought to a stop by a police car parked sideways across the road. As they pull up, Robbie Haus-Jones steps out of the car, and they join him amid the smoke and lifted ash.
‘Nice car, Robbie,’ says Martin by way of greeting.
‘On loan from Bellington. Hi, Mandalay.’
‘Robert.’
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go any further. That’s my job. Keeping guard.’
‘Who’s in there?’ asks Martin.
‘Herb Walker and Constable Greevy from Bellington. And that bastard, Snouch. The sarge thought’d be best if I waited out here. He’s not wrong there.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘’Cos otherwise I might kill the old fuck.’
Martin steals a glance at Mandy, but her emotions are in check and her face is impassive.
‘Jesus wept, Martin, we risked our lives for that bastard in that bloody fire. And all the time, he had all these bodies in his dam. No wonder he didn’t want me to drive the car into it. Murderous old pervert.’
It’s Mandy who speaks, her voice eerily calm. ‘How many bodies?’
‘At least two. Probably more.’
‘You sure?’
‘’Course I’m bloody sure.’
‘Christ,’ says Martin, not knowing what else to say. The three of them stand there, held still by the enormity of the situation, transfixed by intertwining fates, like three pillars of salt. Finally, Martin says, ‘So what’s the theory?’
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Robbie replies, face haggard and eyes moist. ‘I reckon it was the two of them. The old perv and the priest. Byron fucking Swift. My friend, Byron Swift. Shooting rabbits at Codger’s? Bullshit. Out shooting kids more like it. “Harley Snouch knows everything.” Too right he fucking knows. And to think…And to think…’ He can speak no more, sobs welling up from deep down, shaking his body. It’s Mandy who steps forward and wraps her arms around him.
Fuck me, thinks Martin. Victims comfort victims. What a town.
The embrace is broken by the sound of an approaching helicopter. Robbie snaps back, as if afraid some binocular-wielding observer might spy him in his moment of weakness. They watch the PolAir chopper circle the property before easing in to land. ‘That’s homicide, from Sydney,’ says Robbie. ‘You’d better go.’
Back in the rental, driving towards Riversend, Martin glances across at Mandy, who is staring straight ahead, her eyes glassy. ‘You okay?’
‘No. I’m not. It’s all messed up; I’m all messed up. And it’s not getting any better.’
Her voice is despairing, fatalistic, enough for Martin to pull the car over, coming to a stop among smouldering stumps. Ash, disturbed by the wheels of the car, rises from the ground, surrounding them before billowing away with the wind.
‘Mandy, listen—this is not you, this is them. You can’t blame yourself for what they’ve done. It doesn’t work that way.’
‘Doesn’t it? I feel as if everything I touch turns to shit.’ Mandy is looking straight ahead, staring at the devastated landscape. ‘What sort of idiot am I? Byron Swift kills five men, yet somehow I end up defending him, telling you he was a good man. A good man? And Snouch. My mum accused him of rape, wouldn’t have a thing to do with him. And yet when you and Robbie save his life, I feel grateful, like I’m still that stupid kid wishing for my parents to reconcile. I’m trying so hard, trying so hard to get it right, but it always turns out the same; no matter what I do, I end up being the victim. I’m sick to death of it. Maybe you’re right—maybe I should just leave town.’
‘Maybe you should.’
‘But how? Go where? I promised my mum I was getting my shit together. She was so worried about me, having the baby and all. She had this thing, that you had to be settled into yourself by the time you turn thirty. She said it all the time, that it didn’t matter what you did in your early twenties, you could write that off, but after thirty it became harder and harder to change. It was her way of telling me to grow up, but sometimes I feel so lost, like I’m going backwards, like I’m still a teenager.’
‘Well, there’s plenty of time. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
Martin is surprised; he would have guessed she was twenty-five at most. He scrutinises her face; there are fine lines around her eyes, but even in her distressed state she looks as if she could be twenty-one: young and vulnerable.
‘Don’t be so tough on yourself, Mandy. You’ve endured some awful shit. And you’re making a good fist of it, running the bookstore, caring for Liam. That can’t be easy. I think your mum would be proud of you.’
Mandy turns to look at him at last, and he takes it as a minor win, as if he has reached her through her despair.
‘I’m not so sure about that. She would have seen me turning into her. And that wouldn’t have made her happy,’ Mandy says.
‘So, perhaps it is time to move on. Before you’re thirty.’
She turns away from him again, brow furrowed, pondering her options. Martin feels helpless, surprised by the intensity of his concern for her. She stares out at the ruined landscape for some minutes before she shakes her head decisively and turns back to him. ‘No, Martin. That’s not the answer. I’ve had enough of being pushed around by events, taking the line of least resistance. I’ve done that my whole life. I’ve got to take a stand. For me. For Liam. I’ve got to ditch my romantic notions and see the world for what it is.’
The despair in her voice has been replaced by resolve. Martin takes it as a good sign; he starts the car and puts it into gear.