His stomach churns and his head pounds. He realises he’s losing her, that there is little chance of reconciliation, not after his early-morning accusations, not with the information he’s carrying around like unexploded bombs. Somewhere, sometime, he’ll publish Goffing’s story, tell the world that Swift was really the war criminal Julian Flynt, and she’ll never speak to him again. And he’ll be left with his own doubts about her. Goffing planted the seeds: is the diary genuine, or is it some new manipulation? Is it a fabrication, another allegorical tale? Martin sits in the wine saloon and ponders whether his life has been reduced to an absurdist game show: which does he choose, the money or the box, the story or the girl?
The room brightens suddenly. A shaft of sunlight is carving its way into the saloon, lifting the gloom, sending motes dancing. The sun has risen above the row of stores on the other side of the street, high enough to flush Hay Road with sunshine, yet still low enough to penetrate below the saloon’s protective awning. Martin walks over to the cracks in the boarding, angling his point of view to avoid looking directly into the rising sun. But it’s no good: the Oasis is obliterated by the dawn’s antiseptic flaring. A flash of red, the sound of a car; Fran Landers returning from Bellington with milk and bread and swamp peas. And newspapers. There is life on Mars.
But Fran is non-communicative, bustling around her store, restricting herself to the compulsory courtesies, so Martin buys the papers, some water, an iced-coffee-flavoured milk, a Bellington danish and some low-grade painkillers.
He sits out front of the store on the bench, sipping the milk and grimacing at Tuesday’s papers. He’s gone from The Age, banished, all evidence of his existence erased, airbrushed away like a latter-day Trotsky. The story is on page three, by D’Arcy Defoe in Bellington, and listed at the bottom of the copy, like an afterthought: Additional reporting by Bethanie Glass. It’s a typical Defoe piece, beautifully crafted despite its brevity, sitting under the headline RIVER TOWN MOURNS LOST POLICEMAN. The story refers only obliquely to the circumstances of Herb Walker’s death and not at all to the connection with the backpacker murders; there is no mention of Martin Scarsden, Doug Thunkleton or anything else. Rather, it’s a eulogy to a fine man, a tough job and desperate times. Defoe has reported the story without reporting it at all; management will be pleased. The story has become a minefield for the paper, and with Defoe here, Fairfax will be in safe hands. He’s always admired that in his rival: Defoe never, ever loses perspective. Martin sighs. Time to get out of town.
He’s finished the iced-coffee milk and is swallowing some tablets and water when he sees Robbie Haus-Jones and one of the Sydney homicide cops, Lucic, walking purposefully around the corner near the bank, no doubt coming from the police station. They cross the road and walk straight towards him, not talking. For a dread moment his heart accelerates: are they coming to arrest him? What for? They do indeed walk up to him, but not to arrest him.
‘Morning, Martin,’ says Robbie.
Lucic looks at him with disdain, not even offering a nod of acknowledgement.
‘Morning, Robbie. What’s up?’
‘Nothing concerning you,’ says Lucic. He stays standing by Martin as Robbie enters the store. A minute or two later Robbie emerges, accompanied by a concerned-looking Fran Landers.
‘Martin,’ she says, seeing him sitting there, ‘could you do me a favour? Keep an eye on the store? I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘Sure,’ says Martin, knowing he has nothing better to do.
He watches the trio walk along the street, disappearing around the corner by the hotel, heading away from the police station, not towards it. He sits outside, waiting. A farmer pulls up in a battered ute, and Martin follows him into the store. The man buys a kilo of bacon, a loaf of white bread, two litres of milk and a pouch of tobacco. The till is locked, so Martin takes the man’s cash and sets it next to the register. The transaction is conducted in near silence, the man limiting himself to grunts, speaking only to communicate his preferred brand of tobacco. Martin follows him out of the store, watches him climb into his ute and drive back the way he came.
Not long after, Martin sees the two policemen emerge from a store on the next block. Another surge of dread: the bookstore. Sure enough, as the policemen wait, Mandy joins them, and they cross the road, round the corner in front of the old council building and disappear from sight behind the bank, heading towards the police station. None of the three look at Martin.
He’s still sitting there when Fran returns, pushing a stroller. Liam is sucking on a bottle without a care in the world.
‘Fran, what’s happening?’
‘They’ve taken Mandy in for questioning. I’m looking after Liam. Said they’d likely be a few hours.’
‘What are they questioning her over?’
‘I don’t know, Martin. They didn’t tell me.’
‘How is she?’
‘Okay, I think. Resigned, maybe, as if she was expecting it.’
‘Right.’
Martin isn’t sure what to do. Leaving town seems like the obvious choice, but how can he? He feels responsible for Mandy. He’s slept with her, he’s carried her alibi for Byron Swift to Walker, he’s returned her affection by more or less accusing her of complicity in murder. And now? Just leave town, wash his hands? Leave her to whatever trouble she finds herself in? A six o’clock execution by Doug Thunkleton, a beautifully written stiletto piece by D’Arcy Defoe, a scapegoat hung out to appease the public by Montifore and the cops?
He walks to the corner, looks towards the police station. The predictable gaggle of cameramen and photographers are already in place. It’s not yet nine o’clock. Either his erstwhile colleagues are displaying commendable diligence, driving the forty minutes from Bellington to take up their position, or they’ve been tipped off by the police for the parade: walk the suspect in, walk her out, parade her for the titillation of the great Australian public, demonstrate that the police are making progress.
It is, he knows full well, growing into a perfect summer story, in the great tradition of Lindy Chamberlain and Schapelle Corby. A heady mixture of murder, religion and sex. And, once news of Mandy’s diary is inevitably leaked, a beautiful femme fatale to feed to the cameras, as well as perhaps the most crucial element of all: mystery. Why did Byron Swift open fire? Who did murder the pretty young backpackers? Were they raped and tortured, as alleged by the competition papers? All around Australia, at barbecues and bars, at cafes and canteens, at hairdressers and in taxis, everyone and their dog will be advancing their own half-baked theories of what happened and who was responsible. Talkback radio will be having a field day; the internet will be spawning an equal measure of sick jokes and conspiracy theories, with him featuring in many of them. And yet he can’t complain: no one has done more to put the story on the front page, to propel it into the consciousness of the nation, than himself, Martin Scarsden. His stomach lurches at the thought and he needs to sit down. He should never drink whisky.
Arriving back at the Black Dog, he feels even worse. There’s a television satellite truck parked outside. The story is about to go live, 24/7. And if one network does it, the others are bound to follow. Christ. And he’s powerless to do anything about it. He’s walking past reception towards his room, considering the gathering media storm, when the woman from behind the counter sticks her head out the door. ‘Mr Scarsden? A moment, if you will?’ She is back behind the counter by the time Martin enters reception. He sees that she’s had her hair cut and dyed, the ragged blonde lengths and their mousy roots replaced by brunette consistency. Bellington chic.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Scarsden, but I had a call from your employer. Your former employer. They’re stopping the authorisation on your card as of today. They want to transfer your room over to another gentleman. A Mr…’
‘Defoe.’
‘So that’s how you pronounce it. Mr Defoe. Is he with you?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Anyway, if you can vacate, I can get the room ready for him.’
‘Look—um, sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Felicity Kirby. My husband Gino and I own the Black Dog.’
‘Well, Mrs Kirby, I haven’t seen Mr Defoe as yet, but I’m inclined to think that he might not stay here. Much of the media are staying down in Bellington. They seem to like it down there by the river.’