And then Martin, compounding her anger and despair, revealed the true nature of her father, Harley Snouch, dashing her scarcely acknowledged hopes for all time. Thirty years after he had violated her mother, there was no remorse. None. He’d schemed to win her affection, pretending to be her half-brother, plotting to deceive her while manoeuvring to steal her inheritance, the inheritance of Liam, his own grandson. She cried then, really cried: cried for everything she’d lost, everything she’d never had. She cried for herself and she cried for her son and she cried for his future, when he would learn the truth of his father and his grandfather. And in comforting her, Martin offered himself to her, with the implicit promise that he was different, that he was genuine, that he was not deceiving her. And for a moment she believed it and so did he, believed that he was a better man. She believed it long enough to stop crying, long enough to take him to bed and weep a different quality of tear.
But the pretence didn’t last; the story got in the way, his need to tell the world. For as they lay there, planning their escape, planning their future, he told her of Wellington Smith’s promise of salvation, of his reputation restored, of how he intended to write a book, to set the record straight, to reveal to the great Australian public the truth, to expose the secrets and reveal the lies of Riversend. He presented it as a wonderful opportunity: they could go anywhere, live anywhere. She had her wealth; he could write the book as they built a new life together. She fell silent then, saying nothing. Her silence should have warned him, but he’d prattled on, oblivious.
In that moment she saw him as he was, as he’d always been: the journalist, putting his vocation before all else, a secular priest worshipping at the shrine of truth, careless of who might get hurt in its telling. And eventually she spoke, in a voice soft and cautious. She wanted to know, quietly demanded to know, if he intended to write it all, without exception, to set down everything he knew. Not just condemning Byron Swift and Harley Snouch, but exposing all those people who had helped Martin: Robbie Haus-Jones and Fran Landers and Errol Ryding. And herself. The entire town. Were they all expendable, all to be sacrificed on the altar of journalism? ‘It’s what I do,’ he said. And when her temper flared again, he responded in kind, demanding to know how she could possibly judge him, she who’d manipulated him into uncovering Swift’s ugly past, all the time hiding her knowledge of the drug operation and Robbie’s involvement. He accused her of lies and deceit; she accused him of selfishness and thoughtless disregard for others. They fought; he yelled, Liam cried, she threw him out.
Martin gets to Thames Street, the end of the shops, the end of the shade. He steps out into the cauldron, the heat bleeding into him, as he continues up Hay Road, up onto the old wooden bridge, oblivious to the temperature. As if it could hurt him now. Finally he pauses, places his hands on the rail, feels the burning heat of the wood, leaves them there. The riverbed is still dry and broken; the fridge still sits there, offering the mirage of beer.
When he first crossed this bridge ten days ago, he’d come to recover, to put his demons behind him, to come to terms with spending his fortieth birthday locked in the boot of a Mercedes-Benz in the Gaza Strip. Max Fuller had sent him, hoping that being back on the road, covering a story away from head office, might help restore him to the journalist he’d once been. But standing on the bridge, Martin realises he’ll never again be that journalist, never again be that person. Heraclitus’s dictum comes to him: that a man cannot step into the same river twice. He regards the empty riverbed. Does it hold for waterless rivers? It had always puzzled him, even through the hours of counselling, why being abandoned in the Mercedes had had such a profound impact on him. It was accumulated stress, they told him, that he had seen and heard too much, and the experience in Gaza had tipped him over the edge. After all, he had witnessed far worse things: prisoners executed by machine gun, their families forced to watch; the deaths of babies in refugee camps, their mothers ululating with grief; the hollow eyes of survivors, their loved ones erased by ethnic cleansing. What was being shut in the boot of a car for a few days compared to that?
He knows now. He saw it last night, when he watched D’Arcy Defoe standing unmoved and unmoving as the flames of the Commercial Hotel roared before him, taking notes, recording the spectacle, observing the reactions of others, impervious to reality, unblinking as Robbie Haus-Jones was dragged from the inferno barely alive. Martin saw himself then, as he had been before Gaza, removed from events. Max Fuller’s go-to man, travelling light: taking nothing of himself into the story, leaving nothing of himself behind. For the story was something that happened to other people; he was just there to report, an observer. And that all changed in Gaza. He became the story; it was happening to him. He was involved; he had no God-given leave pass, no right to stand apart from the story, apart from life. He was a participant, like it or not. Things no longer happened only to other people; some small part of their grief, or their joy, or their hollowness wore off on him, became part of him. How had he ever thought otherwise?
Standing on the bridge, he realises the old Martin Scarsden is gone now, gone forever. A week or so shy of his forty-first birthday he’s being reborn, like it or not. But it’s coming too late. Mandy is back in the bookstore and she never wants to see him again. After a lifetime alone, he’s still alone and probably always will be, the go-to journo gone for all money. And now it hurts; he’s no longer impervious. For the first time, he’s brought himself to the story and now he’s condemned to leave large parts of himself behind. A tear comes to his eye, surprising him. He can’t remember ever crying, not as an adult, not as a teenager, not on any of his assignments, no matter how harrowing, not since he was eight years old. There were times when all around him had wept and he alone had remained dry-eyed. He wonders why. And the tear runs down his cheek, falls towards the parched riverbed. He smiles at its futility.
He returns to town, following the road down from the levee bank. Indecision has him, but the heat is insistent; he can no more ignore it than he can ignore life itself. Looking along Thames Street, in the distance he recognises a red station wagon parked outside St James. He walks to the church, unsure of what he’s about to do. The building appears as anonymous and as uncaring as ever, inured to the assault of the sun, sitting aloof above its short flight of steps. Today, its double doors are ajar. Perhaps the tourists have prised them open. Inside, it’s cooler, darker, but there are no gawkers, only one person, up by the altar, kneeling in prayer. The owner of the red car—Fran Landers. He waits quietly up the back until she’s finished.
‘Oh. It’s you, Martin. I wondered if you’d be back.’
‘Hello, Fran. You okay?’
‘Not so good. Awful, really. How can I help?’
‘I spoke to Jamie yesterday, in his cell, before they took him away. He was concerned about you. He said to tell you he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sure he meant it.’
It’s too much for Fran. She sits, almost collapsing onto a nearby pew, head bowed, and starts, almost imperceptibly, to weep.
Martin sits down next to her, giving her time before speaking. ‘I’m thinking of writing something, Fran. To explain what has really happened.’
‘And you want to speak with me?’ It’s more a statement than a question.
‘I do.’
And she nods in resignation.
There’s a stillness about the building, a sanctuary from the heat and glare pounding down outside. Martin opens the voice recorder app on his phone. He waits for her to compose herself before beginning.
‘Fran, the day of the shooting, you told me you came here to the church. That you warned Byron Swift that your husband and his friends were threatening violence.’
‘I did. I told him they had guns, that he should leave. He told me he was already going, straight after the service. He told me to wait at Blackfellas Lagoon for him.’
Martin pauses, lets her words settle before challenging them. ‘No, he didn’t, Fran. He told you the same thing he told Mandy Blonde: that he had to go alone. We know that, from Mandy and from phone calls he made from the church. He planned to leave by himself. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘He loved us. He cared for us.’
‘I believe he did. He must have wanted to take you with him. But that’s not what he said, is it? He said it wasn’t possible.’