‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Yeah. He said there were bad men in the world, even in our own town, and that I should play with kids my own age. I’m not sure why he said that. He said that once he was gone, if I had any problems, I should go tell Constable Haus-Jones and he could help me.’
‘Do you know what he was talking about?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘I see. How did he seem to you? Was he agitated?’
‘No. He seemed calm. Sort of happy and sort of sad. Does that make sense? I thought he was sad because he was being ordered to leave town.’
‘You know, Luke, some people think he must have been crazy to do what he did. Did he seem crazy to you?’
‘No.’
‘What happened next?’
‘We were sitting there talking when Mrs Landers came running up. She seemed really upset, like she was crying or something. They went inside to talk, so I went across the road to the shade of the trees. I was sad he was going. He was a good guy. Mrs Landers left and a little later people started turning up for church. He came out to talk to them. Then some men turned up. Mr Landers from the store and some other men. Allen Newkirk was with them, so I went up the hill above the river, where I was this morning.’
‘You didn’t like Allen?’
‘No. He was a bully.’
‘I see. And then?’
‘Mr Landers was talking to Byron.’
‘Could you hear what they said?’
‘No, I was too far away.’
‘Were they angry? Shouting?’
‘No. Byron looked like he was laughing.’
‘Laughing?’
‘Yeah, like they were having a joke or something. Then he went back into the church. Allen walked over and got into a car. The others were all talking to other people. Everything seemed normal. Then—then it happened. He came out with a gun and shot them.’
‘Just the men Mr Landers arrived with?’
‘Yes. The fat man from Bellington first. Then the Newkirks. Then he looked around. He saw me up on the ridge, watching, and he shook his head, waved at me to go away. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. I couldn’t believe it. I could see it all. Byron was still looking around. Then a car started, and he saw it. He fired two more shots, at the car. Pow, pow, quick like that. Then people started screaming, but he still seemed very calm. I could see Mr Landers running up the street. I think Byron must have seen where I was looking. It was my fault. He walked to the corner of the church, saw Mr Landers running, and then he lifted the gun and pow. One shot. Then he went and sat on the steps and waited. A car drove past, and he stood and raised the gun, fired a shot into the air. He looked at me again and shook his head. I wanted him to run away, but he sat down again. I could see Constable Haus-Jones coming down the street, up behind the church, with his gun. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to look at him in case Byron saw me and knew he was coming and shot him too. But I didn’t want Constable Haus-Jones to shoot Byron. So I hid.’
Luke is looking down at the stick, twirling it absent-mindedly in his hands. He doesn’t seem at all upset; maybe replaying the scene constantly in his mind has normalised it.
‘What about the other people who were there?’
‘They ran away. Some hid behind cars, some ran up over the bank and down to the riverbed. There was no one left, just Byron, with the constable getting closer.’
‘Did you see what happened when Constable Haus-Jones confronted Byron?’
‘Yeah, they talked for a bit. Constable Haus-Jones was pointing his pistol at Byron. I thought Byron was going to surrender. But he didn’t. He lifted the gun, pointed it at Constable Haus-Jones and fired. And then Constable Haus-Jones shot him. Four times. Pap, pap. Pap, pap. Byron fell down, dropped the gun. Constable Haus-Jones walked over, moved the gun away with his foot. Then he carefully put his gun down. Then he sat with Byron. He was crying.’
‘Jeez, you poor kid.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Luke, you say they talked for a bit before he was shot. You didn’t hear what they said?’
‘No.’
‘How long did they talk for?’
‘Not long. I don’t know. A minute maybe, something like that.’
‘And when the priest lifted his gun, did he do it quickly?’
‘No. He did it really slowly. Constable Haus-Jones wasn’t caught by surprise.’
‘What do you think of the constable now?’
‘I feel sorry for him. He didn’t have any choice.’
There’s a pause, Martin imagining the scene, Luke reliving it.
‘Do you have any idea why he did it—why Byron Swift shot those men?’
‘No. I think of it every day. I don’t know.’
They sit side by side, the newsman and the boy, lost in thought. Again, it is Martin who breaks the silence. ‘Luke, I owe you an apology. For the other day, when I first met you outside the church. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Luke nods, saying nothing.
‘The police still believe the allegations made against him, you know.’
‘Does Constable Haus-Jones?’
‘No. But two boys told the police it was true.’
‘It’s not true, Mr Scarsden. It’s not. He never touched me and he never touched anyone else.’
The journalists, cameramen and photographers, having swarmed locust-like from the church to the Oasis, have now moved en masse to the services club. They’re in the main bar area, drinking Coca-Cola, eating takeaway from Saigon Asian and working away on laptops. Over to one side, by the windows looking out over a steel-form deck and the dry riverbed, sit a group of police officers. Robbie Haus-Jones isn’t there, but Herb Walker is, hoeing into a steak and beer, plus a couple of other men, all too easily recognisable as cops in their bad suits or chinos and polo shirts. Homicide detectives.
Carrie detaches herself from a gaggle of reporters and comes over to him.
‘Glad you turned up,’ says the photographer. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You hear about the doorstop? The cops are speaking out the front at one.’
‘Thanks. I didn’t know. Want a drink?’
‘No, I’m right. I’ve got one.’ And she returns to her friends.
Martin checks the time. Twelve forty-five. Bugger. Not enough time to eat, so he walks to the bar, fills a glass of water from the jug sitting there, downs it and fills another, before moving along to order a drink. Errol is manning the bar. He gets Martin a light beer and a packet of chips, taking Martin’s money and shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what we ever did to deserve this.’ Martin assumes he means the murders, not the media.
The police hold their press conference in the shade of a large gum tree. The senior man, wearing a suit, identifies himself as Detective Inspector Morris Montifore from Sydney homicide, spelling his name for the reporters and introducing his colleague Detective Sergeant Ivan Lucic and Sergeant Herbert Walker of the Bellington police. There’s a young female constable with a voice recorder, but she doesn’t rate a mention. Martin looks about and finds the ASIO officer from the motel car park lurking behind the media, smoking a cigarette. The man winks at Martin and, smirking, mouths: ‘Top story.’