D’Arcy nods, his manner sincere. ‘Listen, you should give Wellington Smith a ring. You know him? Editor of This Month. I’m sure they’d go for a longer piece on what you’ve seen here. Be a shame to waste what you’ve got.’
‘Thanks, D’Arcy. That’s not a bad idea.’
‘Just a moment.’ D’Arcy has his phone out, writes down the number of the editor of the monthly news magazine. ‘Here. And give me a ring if there’s anything else I can do, okay?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ Martin watches D’Arcy return to the media fold. The two have long been competitors, their rivalry at times intense, but now he’s no longer in the contest, that all seems petty. Typical of D’Arcy to be alive to the new reality; Martin has always been slower on the uptake. He looks at the number his former colleague has given him. D’Arcy is right: it is a good idea. He already has the makings of a great story, a compelling long read: everything from Robbie’s initial interview, through Julian Flynt hiding out as Byron Swift, to his own role in saving Liam Blonde and flushing out the backpacker killers. Plus an exclusive interview with Landers, erratic and lost to himself. Maybe he’s selling himself short: surely he’s got the makings of a book. A small surge of excitement runs through him; he’s not dead yet. Instead of returning to wait for Goffing at the Black Dog, he decides to make his way out to the Scrublands with the others; the sight of Jamie Landers at the murder scene may yet prove useful for a longer narrative.
By the time he collects his car from the Black Dog and returns to the police station, Montifore is finishing a doorstop interview and the media are preparing to drive to the Scrublands. There’s the sudden snarl of camera shutters; Jamie Landers is being led out wearing handcuffs and assisted into the back of a car, but not before the police are sure the cameras have had their fill.
Once more, Martin finds himself driving the last car in the media convoy. He’s debating whether the trip is worth it. D’Arcy’s suggestion of a longer piece for This Month is a good one, but the closer Martin gets to the murder scene, the less likely it appears he will learn anything useful traipsing around in the searing heat. Defoe is no slouch, he’ll milk the moment for all it’s worth, and he’s always been the more evocative writer of the two of them. And the cops won’t let them get within cooee: it’s a job for the photographers, television crews and telephoto lenses. There’ll be precious little left for any This Month piece. Perhaps Martin would have been better off staying in town, waiting for Goffing. Or going to see Mandy. He’s yet to tell her what he’s learnt about Swift. She won’t take it well, he knows that, the revelation that her lover was a fraud, a war criminal, a murderer of innocents. Is that why he’s driven out here? To avoid her? To delay? To savour this morning’s kiss a little longer? At least now he’ll be able to tell her that Defoe’s allegation was false; Swift was no paedophile—Jamie Landers has cleared him of that slander, at least. He wonders how much of an impact learning of Swift’s past will have on her. She had looked so happy; her son is alive, her charges have been dropped, she has inherited a fortune. For a moment he wonders if he needs to tell her about Swift at all. Why threaten her new-found equilibrium? But he knows the answer to that: she can’t learn about it from the papers, certainly not from a magazine article with his name attached to it. He has to tell her.
He reaches the turn-off into the Scrublands, the same circle of gravel where Errol Ryding and his fire crew had waited a week before. The police continue, followed by the media. Martin stops the car, leaving the engine running, the air-conditioning not so much cooling the car as making it less hot. Gradually the cloud of dust and ash from the departed cars falls from the air around him, hardly drifting at all in the windless day. He cuts the engine and feels the heat surrounding him, like the ocean around a diving bell, the pressure pushing inwards. Across the clearing he can see the array of letterboxes, rusted paint tins and painted boxes, mounted on poles, bearing RMB numbers. He thinks of Harley Snouch, tempted to confront him but knowing he shouldn’t. Instead, he decides to visit Jason and see if the motorbike-riding veteran knows anything about the Reapers.
Martin gets out of the car, into the silence. Somewhere, off in the distance, there is some sort of buzzing, some insect life impervious to the heat but serving only to emphasise the stillness of the day. He walks to the letterboxes, but most don’t have names, just the numbers. He realises he has no idea where Jason and his girlfriend live, which path might lead him there. Nothing would be more futile than driving around the Scrublands hoping to chance upon them. Except breaking down in the middle of nowhere. He thinks of Codger Harris; the old man could give him directions. And Martin knows the way to his shanty.
He finds it spared from complete destruction. The same fluky winds that left one cow skull untouched and the other incinerated at his fence line have played the same game of Russian roulette with his buildings. The house has survived, but the sawmill and garage are gone, the old Dodge a blackened shell. Martin wonders what happened to the bitch and her puppies; he hopes they escaped alive. A ten-year-old Toyota, covered in dust and ash, looks somehow modern sitting amid the frontier architecture of the yard. Codger, wearing a battered hat, boots and nothing else, emerges from the house, his skin like lizard leather.
‘Martin. Didn’t expect to see you out here. Come in. Enjoy some terroir,’ he says, giving his scrotum a tug.
Martin follows him in, but with no wind coming through the gaps in its wall, the corrugated-iron shack is an oven, superheated by the sun. Martin accepts some water but suggests they find some shade outside.
‘Any news?’ asks Codger.
‘Quite a lot.’ And Martin recounts the arrest and confession of Jamie Landers while Codger nods, eyes downcast, face solemn.
‘It’s a merciless world, all right,’ is all the old man has to say in response. ‘I guess it was him shooting me cows. So what brings you out here? Not to tell me that, I’d guess.’
‘Can you tell me how to get to Jason’s place? The vet with the motorbike?’
‘I could, but you’d get lost. The tracks over there go every which way.’ The old man again scratches his balls, as if it helps him think. Martin wonders if he has lice. ‘But I can take you if you like.’
‘Would you? You sure?’
‘What else have I got to do? This place is like Waiting for Godot. Without the conversation. Give us a tick and I’ll find some clothes.’
By the time they get to Jason’s bush block, Martin is comprehensively lost. Codger has guided him through back paths and short cuts, across dry creek beds and over rocky ridges; past trees destroyed by fire, past trees devastated by drought. On two occasions, the men pull fallen branches from the track; on another, Martin narrowly escapes getting bogged in a drift of windblown sand. The landscape is lifeless, the lack of wind denying even a false sense of animation. The world has stopped turning; it is dead still.
Jason’s gate, made of steel, survives among the ashes, adorned with various signs forbidding entry: TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED and PRIVATE LAND—KEEP OUT!, joined by a red-and-white sign pilfered from some distant freeway: WRONG WAY—GO BACK. But the signs have lost their authority; the gate is wide open and off its hinges.