‘She wouldn’t see me, of course. It ran too deep, it was too entrenched, the petrified loathing. But I found this place, my hideaway. The role of the derro suited me—not that it was such an act; I was halfway there already. It gave people an excuse to ignore me, to leave me alone. I could sit here and occasionally I’d see her coming and going. She was older, of course, but not so old. And there is something about old friends, old loves, those who you were young with: when you see them after many years, they don’t appear as they are now, but as they were. You can see past the pudginess and wrinkles, past cloudy eyes and sagging jawlines. You can see them as they were when they were young and vital. I would see Katie like that, as she was before it all came apart. She’d walk out the door of her store and in my mind she was twenty again. And then one day—one day I saw the girl, I saw Mandalay, back from uni. Not a girl, though: a woman. She looked just like her mother once had. It took my breath away. I sat here and cried.
‘In the end, I did get to talk to her, to Katie. She was in the hospital down in Bellington. Mandalay was there, wouldn’t let me in the room, thought I’d upset her mother, but the priest was there, he knew. Later on, he got me in to see her. Katie said to me: “We shan’t talk about it, Harley. No talk. Just hold my hand.” And so I did. We sat and held hands and looked into each other’s eyes. She looked terrible, wasted, but her eyes were just the same. Glowing. And she looked at me fondly, Martin. Fondly. Without recriminations. And a week later she died. I couldn’t go to the funeral, but it didn’t matter. We’d made our peace. But she never recanted her allegation, not as far as I know, and I am still persona non grata, the town monster.’
He pauses, reflects, drinks some more wine. ‘And now I think I really will have to leave. The house is gone, and even when the police clear me, people here will still believe I put those poor young girls in the dam. Pity. Springfields was starting to feel like the home it never was when I was a child. And I like it here in the saloon. I sit here in the dark and I wonder how it might have been different.’
Martin is starting to feel sorry for the old man, but not sorry enough to forget the threat Snouch has made. So when he speaks, he tries to remove any suggestion of sympathy from his voice. ‘Why do you want to reconcile with Mandy if she’s not your daughter?’
‘Because I’m an old man and I have my regrets. The doctors don’t like what I’ve done to my liver. I’m not going to live forever. I sit in here and wonder how it could have been different, if I’d not insisted, if I’d married Katherine and kept her secret. Mandy would have grown up as my daughter, Katie and I could have had our own children, it could have been so very different. Mandy’s the last vestige of that left, the only part I might salvage.’
‘Harley, I don’t see what I can do. She loved her mother. She’s not going to take your word or my word or anyone else’s word against that.’
‘I want you to persuade her to take a DNA test.’
‘What?’
‘To prove I’m not her father. Tell her if she agrees, regardless of the result, I’ll leave Riversend.’
There is silence. Snouch’s proposition hangs in the air.
‘Have you told anyone else all of this, Harley?’
‘No, mate. Not since I came back. Just you. You and Byron Swift.’
‘Byron Swift?’
‘He was a priest, Martin.’
They sit in silence. Martin finishes his wine, gets to his feet. ‘Okay, Harley. I’ll see what I can do.’
Martin is almost to the door when the old man, the now not-so-very-old man, speaks. ‘Martin, tread carefully. I know she’s beautiful, I know she’s intelligent. But she’s also her mother’s daughter. Don’t push too hard, too soon. Don’t rush it. I’ve been waiting thirty years; I can wait a bit longer if I have to.’
MARTIN SITS ON THE BENCH OUTSIDE THE GENERAL STORE AND STARES AT The Age. Page five. His article is on page five. Even the Herald Sun’s story is on the front page, and they’ve got no story at all, just a jumble of stale facts and fresh conjecture, unsourced speculation dressed up as the truth that the Germans had been raped and tortured before being shot. He rereads his copy, looking for some weakness to explain its banishment to the inside pages, but finds none. The front page is a grab bag of second-rate stories. The main story is about Melbourne real estate, the photo story about a TV celebrity leaving his wife and family to join a religious cult. Martin recalls the conversation with Max Fuller, the editor assuring him of his trust and confidence. But Max is the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald; his counterpart at The Age is not constrained by personal loyalty. A pit has opened in Martin’s guts. Something is not right.
Back at the Black Dog, he rings Sydney, finally getting through to the editor.
‘Martin. Morning.’
‘Page five? Really?’
‘That’s The Age. Soft cocks. You’re page three in the Herald.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? It was lead story on all the teevs last night and the Hun has splashed with it.’
‘Don’t you start, Martin. I had to fight to get it in the paper at all.’
‘What? Why, Max? What’s going on?’
‘To be honest, I have no idea. But I’m glad you called. I’ve got bad news—you’re off the story. They want you back in Sydney. They say a week is long enough; they don’t want you to overdo it. They’re sending Defoe to replace you. The Age is sending their own reporter, Morty Lang.’
The words land like a sledgehammer, stunning Martin. An image comes to him of his career, shattered into shards, like splintered glass. Another image: him sitting at a desk at the periphery of the newsroom, a broken man. His anger surges. ‘What do you mean “they”? Don’t you mean “we”? You’re the one taking me off the story and you’re the one sending Defoe. At least own the decision.’
‘No, Martin, it’s not like that—’
‘Good. So you’ll fight it. You’ll insist that the story is mine. You have to.’
‘Martin, listen—I’m out as well. They’ve shafted me. This is my last day. They’re replacing me.’
Again the sledgehammer falls. ‘What? Why?’
‘No idea. It’s been seven years. Most editors only last half that time. Circulation’s down, advertising’s down. Time for renewal.’
‘Max, that’s bullshit. Circulation and advertising are always down. You can’t let them do it. You’re the best editor we’ve ever had.’
‘Thanks, Martin, that’s good of you to say so. But it’s a done deal. I’m out of here. Don’t worry: it’s the full parachute. Same salary, writer at large. Here and overseas. I’m almost looking forward to it.’
‘Jeez, Max. What a loss.’
‘Thanks. You’ll be looked after too. They want you off reporting for now, but they understand the paper has a duty of care after what happened in Gaza. Plus, you’re one of the best writers we have. They’re thinking you can write leaders or become the go-to guy for rewrites, plus a training and mentoring role. And some reporting if and when you’re ready for it. You’ll be okay.’
After the phone call Martin sits in his room at the Black Dog. This has been his life: hotel rooms. Grand rooms in grand hotels: suites at The Pierre in New York, the Grand in Rome, the American Colony in Jerusalem. And lousy rooms in lousy hotels: a shack in Brazil with a dirt floor, a brothel in rural Cambodia, an utterly featureless business hotel in The Hague for three weeks. And now here, his last hotel room: a dogbox with a clunking air-conditioner, a mass-produced gum-tree print and water that would give the World Health Organization the trots. After everything—all the adrenaline, all the ambition, all the words, the millions of words—it comes down to this: room six at the Black Dog Motel. He looks at his hands, hands that have shaken the hands of presidents and potentates, pirates and paupers, hands that have worked their magic through dozens of keyboards, hands that have typed out stories both mundane and momentous. Hands soon to be silent, or condemned to shape second-hand words and second-hand thoughts, or to produce nothing more important than inter-office memos. Ultimately, very ordinary hands indeed.
The phone rings: the impatient world, eager to get on, disrespectful of his grief.
‘Martin Scarsden! Hello, mate. D’Arcy Defoe. You’re everywhere. I can’t get a word in the paper. I just want to say—’
‘D’Arcy. Just a moment.’ Martin doesn’t hang up. He places the receiver gently on the bed and walks into the bathroom. Time for a shower. He turns the tap, strips off, walks under the dubious water of Riversend.