They’re interrupted again. A radio reporter after coffee. Mandy serves her and then posts the closed sign on the door and locks it. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’
Martin feels torn. Part of him wants to protect her, to shield her and her son; another part wants to interrogate her, to extract what she knows and write the story of the Lothario priest cutting a romantic swathe through the lonely hearts of the Riverina. It would elevate an already remarkable story to a sensational one. Just add sex and stir. A younger Martin wouldn’t have hesitated; he’d have written it all: named Mandy and Fran, revealed Liam as Byron Swift’s illegitimate son. He could still do it; by the time the anniversary story went to press he would have left Riversend far behind. He can picture his triumphal re-entry into the newsroom, admired by his colleagues and celebrated by his editors. His career would be back on track; there might even be awards and pay rises. But at what price? The emotional destruction of Fran Landers and Mandalay Blonde. He looks at the baby boy playing happily on his rug, eyes twinkling, and knows he won’t do it. Max Fuller’s go-to correspondent has gone. Gone for good. There are worse things than being trapped in a car boot.
‘What is it?’ asks Mandy, sensing his disquiet.
Martin shakes his head. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. But listen, if I’m going to report this to the public, give an accurate depiction of Byron Swift or whoever he was, how can I leave out that he conducted simultaneous affairs with women in the district? I’ve already reported he was having an affair with a married woman. I’m going to have to refer to it in some fashion. I won’t mention you or Fran by name, and I won’t mention Liam at all—I’ll put in some obfuscation, like you live in Bellington or something, but I can’t see any way around it. What do you think?’
Mandy smiles, an unexpected reaction. ‘That’s fine. If you can do it like that, then you should include it. Absolutely.’
‘Really? Are you sure? I thought you didn’t want me to mention it?’
‘I don’t want you to use our names, but of course you should include it. Don’t you see? This was a man who was having regular sex. With me, with Fran, with God knows who else. Does that sound like a paedophile to you? Have you ever heard of a child molester who was so obsessed with women? Who could sustain relationships with grown women? I’m almost thirty; Fran is in her forties.’
Martin returns her smile; his dilemma resolved. ‘Point taken. I might use that in my piece.’
‘Yes. You should.’
They sit in the armchairs near the front of the bookstore. Martin sets his recorder app going, places his phone atop a pile of books on one of the tables and takes up his notebook, although he suspects Mandy has already imparted her most important information. Mandy scoops up Liam and settles him on her lap, perhaps more for her comfort than her son’s.
‘Tell me about him, Mandy. What was he really like?’
‘Dreamy. At his best he was fun, considerate, charismatic. You just wanted to be with him.’
‘Charismatic? That’s something.’ She’s used the term before, so has Robbie Haus-Jones.
‘Yeah, but different. Charisma makes you like a person; Byron made you like yourself. Does that make sense? You know, the drought was terrible, and having him in the town, even if only for a day or two a week, made us all feel better. He and Robbie were running the youth centre. I remember how it gave Mum a real lift. She said it was proof that there were still good men in the world.’
Martin shifts a little in his seat. After the charismatic priest and his good works, what could Mandy possibly see in a shell-shocked hack like himself? ‘You say that was him at his best. Does that mean there was another side to him?’
‘I think so. To be honest, he was very self-centred. I don’t mean in an egotistical way. I mean that when he was with you, you had all of him. It was like you were the centre of his universe. He made you feel so special. But when I wasn’t with him, I don’t think he spared me a second thought. It was his great charm and his great weakness. He lived in the moment, or so it seemed to me.’
‘Was he ever violent?’
‘No, not towards me.’
‘Towards anyone?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He beat up Craig Landers.’
Martin stops writing. ‘What? Why?’
‘You’d have to ask Fran.’
‘Craig found out? Confronted him?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Fran.’
‘So he beat him up? Her husband? That must have humiliated Craig even further.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Doesn’t sound very priestly.’
‘No. I remember Byron felt bad about it. Spent a lot of time praying after he did it, asking for forgiveness.’
‘That’s interesting; he prayed afterwards. So he was religious then? It wasn’t an act?’
‘Oh no, he was religious all right. Devout. More than devout—pious. He would stop every now and then, close his eyes, bow his head and say a few words. Just like that. He never tried to convert me. He wasn’t a proselytiser. He said God would find me when the time was right; that a life without faith is a life only half lived. He told me God was with him all the time, in actions great and small, that it made him who he was, that it centred him. Those were his words: it centred him. He had a tattoo, here, on his chest, a crucifix—on his heart.’
Martin frowns. ‘He sounds like Jekyll and Hyde. One minute he’s the pious priest, caring for his flock and looking after the local kids. The next he’s drinking, smoking dope and screwing around. And shooting things.’
Mandy is shaking her head even before he’s finished speaking. ‘No. That’s wrong. He wasn’t a split personality. He was the same calm, assured person whether he was praying or whether we were getting drunk and screwing. Can you believe that?’
‘To be honest, not really. He sounds too good to be true.’
‘Maybe he was.’
‘You were in love with him?’
‘Yes. I was. I knew he wasn’t about to marry me, though, or acknowledge me as his partner or anything like that.’
Martin feels unsettled, her declaration of love for Swift so certain, so matter-of-fact. ‘And that doesn’t bother you? That he wasn’t in love with you?’
‘No. I mean, I know he didn’t love me exclusively, but I think he did have love for me.’
‘And with Fran Landers and who knows who else?’
‘Yes. Does that bother you, Martin?’
He squirms a little at that. ‘I guess it does. He was either a complete charlatan or the most saintly man who ever lived.’
Mandy doesn’t reply, just looks him directly in the eye. He holds her gaze. What is it he sees there? Defiance? Doubt? He pauses then, trying to nail down in his own mind what Swift must have been like, but finds the man elusive, hard to define.
‘Didn’t it strike you as incongruous? Here he is, preaching love for all living things, tolerance and forgiveness, and then he’s out killing things, shooting animals in the Scrublands. Did you challenge him about it?’
Mandy doesn’t say anything for a full ten seconds, just looks deep into Martin’s eyes. He doesn’t flinch, returning her gaze steadily. Eventually she speaks, quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if in confessional. ‘He said that it made him feel closer to God, to nature, that it was praying with his body as well as with his mind and soul. He said it was a kind of meditation, a religious experience. He said it made him feel one with himself and one with the universe.’
Mandy bows her head into her hands. Martin looks at her, feeling a chill go up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff. He recalls the story Mandy had recounted to him the day he arrived in Riversend, telling him she’d fallen pregnant in Melbourne, that Swift had saved her life. It was a total fabrication.
‘Mandy, did he know you were pregnant?’
‘Yes. He called in here the morning of the shooting, before he went to the church. He told me he was leaving, right after the service. That the bishop had ordered him to leave. So I told him, said I wanted to go with him. But he said I couldn’t, it wasn’t possible.’