The whisky does what strong alcohol always does: renders him unconscious the moment his head touches the pillow. And then later, in the early hours of the morning, it brings him back into semiconsciousness, unable to sleep, mind churning repetitively, incapable of properly marshalling his thoughts, so that they eat away at him, anxieties real and imagined. Not that he needs much imagination. Bits of the day come back to trouble him. The confrontation with Thunkleton, seen from three angles: Channel Ten’s, the ABC’s and his own, none of them pretty. Over and over the scene plays, like a television broadcast of an out-of-form batsman raising his bat to leave a ball pass through to the wicketkeeper, only to see it cannon into the stumps. Different angles, slow motion, fast motion, graphics, and always the same conclusion: the batsman trudging slowly towards the pavilion, eyes downcast, while the bowler pumps his fist and high-fives his teammates. The conversation with Goffing is on repeat too, Herb Walker’s demise re-created in his mind, the words of the suicide note echoing, an image of Julian Flynt, soldier, shooting women and children in the dust of Afghanistan.
But at the end of the night, as dawn’s light begins to assert itself through the thin curtains and the promise of a headache transmutes into throbbing reality, the phrase that his restless mind has distilled from an entire day of turmoil is a simple one: The police aren’t convinced. They’ve sent the diary for forensic analysis. Mandy Blonde. What has she done?
He gets to the Oasis at seven, well before opening time, makes his way around to the back door and begins beating on it and keeps beating intermittently until finally, some five minutes later, he hears movement inside. Another minute or so and Mandy inches the door open. ‘You?’
‘Me.’
‘Fuck me, Martin, the baby’s sleeping.’
‘Can I come in?’
She looks pissed off, but she opens the door, lets him come through. ‘Jeez, you look like shit.’
‘I feel like shit. I drank whisky last night. It doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Funny that.’
She’s wearing a thin silk robe over a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Her hair is tousled and her eyes are still blinking away the vestiges of sleep, but the magic wand of youth has blessed her, rendering her beautiful. He suddenly feels the weight of his fading looks: all the allure of a hessian sack. A hessian sack with halitosis.
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘You’re a life saver,’ he says.
‘And you’re a mess.’
She puts on coffee, then joins him at the kitchen table. ‘So what’s so urgent that you come banging on a young girl’s door at the crack of dawn?’
‘You heard what happened to me?’
‘Getting sacked?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can’t see why it’s your fault. That policeman killed himself; you didn’t kill him. If people topped themselves every time a newspaper got something wrong, half the cabinet would have gone over the edge.’
Martin can’t help smiling. When the whole world is gunning for you, it’s good to have someone on your side. Then he remembers Snouch’s ultimatum and he stops smiling.
‘Is that why you came here? To tell me you’ve been sacked? You need a shoulder to cry on?’
‘No. I came because I was worried about you.’
‘About me?’
‘Yes. Mandy, you told the police that Byron Swift was with you the night the backpackers were abducted.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you think they believe you?’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes,’ says Martin, and in uttering the words, he realises he’s lying. During the night, the words of the ASIO man have dripped their poison into his mind, irrigating the seeds of doubt. He wants to believe her, but he’s not sure that he does.
‘Good to know someone does,’ she says. ‘But no. I don’t think they believe me.’
‘Why not? Do you know?’
‘Because they’re lazy and they’re unimaginative. If they pin the murders on Byron, then it’s case closed. Homicidal priest takes out another couple of innocents. No need for an arrest, no need for a trial. Everyone goes home happy. Including some psychopath sitting out there rubbing his hands, knowing he’s gotten away with murdering those poor girls and whatever else he did to them first. And maybe planning his next little exploit.’
‘Mandy, tell me; I want to help. Is the diary authentic? You didn’t embellish it, did you?’
She looks at him silently, her green eyes as cold and clear as icicles.
‘Was he really here that night, Mandy? All night? Were you?’
Her response, when it comes, is barely a whisper, as dry and as withering as the winds of drought. ‘Get out, you arsehole. Get out and never come back.’
RIVERSEND IS DESOLATE. THERE IS NO ONE ON THE STREETS, NOTHING MOVING. Martin checks his watch: twenty past seven. Already the relative cool of night is burning off, the prospect of heat nearly as oppressive as the coming reality. The sky has lost its dawn colours, washed away by the incremental ascendancy of the sun, leaving behind the bleached-out blue of summer. If there are clouds, Martin can’t see any.
He sits on a bench in the shade of the shop awnings, challenging the town to respond to his existence, telling himself he will not move until he sees some confirmation of human habitation: a car driving past, a pedestrian, a kid on a bike. The town stares him down: not a stray dog, not a bird. Not the lizard who greeted him when he first arrived. Nothing. Finally, high up in the glowing blue dome, Martin spots the glinting silver of a speeding jet, vapour trail melting away behind it, heading west from Canberra or Sydney towards Adelaide or Perth. But the town remains impassive, conceding nothing.
Martin considers what is left for him here in this sun-blasted vacuum. Not a lot. No job, no purpose. He’s successfully alienated Mandy Blonde, the one person he’d established any connection with. Now she’s banished him back out into the void. There’s Jack Goffing, the ASIO man keen to cultivate him, and Robbie Haus-Jones, a young man facing enough demons for the whole town, and Jamie Landers and Codger Harris, one young, the other old, both of them in mourning. There’s Fran Landers, who owes him for saving her son but would prefer him to disappear without a trace, and Harley Snouch, insistent that he help make things right with Mandy. Fat chance of that. He knows them, they know him, but ultimately they’re strangers. They may be allies or enemies, but none of them share his burdens. No. Not in this town, not in this life. He is without comrades, devoid of friends.