‘Oh, Codger.’
‘That’s what I thought for years. Drove me mad, put me in the funny farm. Drugs. Electric shock therapy. Suicide attempts. I don’t recommend it, I really don’t. But that’s a long time ago now; that’s in the past. I learnt to think of other things, not to dwell on it. Eventually I got back here, with my busted mind and my busted soul. And the first person to help me was Eric Snouch. A true gentleman; a heart of gold. He gave me the land out in the Scrublands, my own little piece of sanity, my own little piece of solitude. And in return, I hurt him. I told him the truth about his son: that Harley had indeed bashed Katherine, bashed her and raped her, that my wife and I both knew it, that Jessica had seen the bruises. Funny way to repay his kindness, wasn’t it? Telling him his son was a brute. Up until then he’d backed Harley, got the charges dismissed, hushed it all up. Given him the benefit of the doubt. But after I told him, he no longer deluded himself. He had it out with Harley, ended up disowning him, sending him into exile. Eric tried reaching out to Katherine, I know that, tried to apologise for not believing her previously. He offered to make amends. But she was proud, said she didn’t need help, not from a Snouch. So he helped her without her knowing.’
‘The bookstore and the house?’ asks Martin.
‘Yes. Errol Ryding was the mayor, back when we had a mayor. Eric convinced him that when the library closed, Katherine should have the books. Errol told her the shop and the house were council-owned, apologised that they couldn’t pay her a salary, but she could keep the profits instead and not pay any rent. Same arrangement you have with me. I think she believed it, at least at first. By the end, I’m not sure.’
‘Did you ever see her, Codger? Did she remember you? I can’t remember you at all, not when I was a kid,’ says Mandy.
‘No, you wouldn’t. I was a hermit. I lived in the Scrublands, didn’t have a car back then. I didn’t want to see anyone. And I was pretty disreputable. But I would see her; she was almost the only one. I was always glad to see her. She would come out once a week or so. Bring me food, bring me books, while you were at school. She’d pull up and blow her horn, warning me to get some clothes on. Most times she’d just drop me stuff and leave, but sometimes she’d stay and chat. We never talked about what had happened in the past, though. Never. But she was a wonderful woman, Mandalay. Wonderful.’
‘Oh, Codger,’ says Mandy again, hand stretched out, holding his.
There’s silence for a long moment. And then the sound begins, a gentle drumming on the tin roof—but it’s the scream from outside that grabs their attention, cranking Martin’s senses up to maximum. The scream comes again, but now he identifies it more accurately: not a scream, but a squeal of delight. Then, through the recently revealed windows, he sees the spattering rain, light at first, then approaching up the street in a grey wall. A great peal of thunder breaks across the town, shaking the windows and reverberating in their bellies. They’re on their feet then, rushing out the door, out into the street, joining the people already there, dancing in circles, laughing, arms outspread, catching the drops. Mandy is swirling, holding Liam close, the boy alive to the joy of the moment. Martin feels the impact, large drops, stinging as they hit. Thunder rolls across Riversend once again, like a church bell. And for a few glorious minutes it pours down, the sky emptying itself. And then it ends, as abruptly as it began, having lasted no more than five minutes. It leaves the road steaming and the people elated. Shafts of sun angle down, cleaving the cleansed air, golden against the darkened sky. Martin takes deep breaths, sucking in the taste of it. Life. At long last.
THE SETTING FOR SCRUBLANDS EMERGED FROM MY TRAVELS IN THE SUMMER of 2008–09 at the height of the millennium drought, as I researched my non-fiction book The River. However, the towns of Riversend and Bellington are entirely fictitious, as are their inhabitants. Riversend borrows bits and pieces from various country towns but comes mostly from the imagination.
The crimes in the book are not based on real events and all the characters are entirely fictitious. The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age, Channel Ten and various other news outlets are real media organisations, but none of the characters in these pages are based on real people. Moreover, the questionable journalistic standards portrayed at times in Scrublands are not intended in anyway to reflect the real-life standards upheld by those organisations.
WRITING IS A SOLITARY PURSUIT, UNTIL IT ISN’T. AT SOME STAGE, THE manuscript needs to see the light of day. The first to read an early draft of Scrublands were those mighty journalists and close friends Michael Brissenden, Katharine Murphy, Paul Daley and Jeremy Thompson. They all provided insightful feedback. Next was Benjamin Stevenson at Curtis Brown, who politely pointed out some major deficiencies. Thanks Ben! And then Grace Heifetz at Curtis Brown, who liked it well enough to become my agent. Grace has done the most phenomenal job in representing the book and myself, garnering interest from publishers near and far.
A huge thanks to all those at Allen & Unwin: Jane Palfreyman, Tom Gilliatt, Christa Munns, Ali Lavau, Kate Goldsworthy and the whole impressive team. And thanks to Alex Poto?nik for his brilliant map.
In the UK, thanks to Felicity Blunt and Kate Cooper at Curtis Brown and to Kate Stephenson at Wildfire/Headline. In the US, gratitude to Faye Bender at The Book Group and Tara Parsons at Touchstone/Simon & Schuster. There are plenty of other people I should be thanking—all those working so hard behind the scenes to give this book its best chance of success. Thank you.
I’m grateful for a grant from the ACT Government’s Arts Fund early in the life of this work. Such grants are vital in providing support to aspiring writers.
Finally, and most importantly, my love and thanks to my wife Tomoko, our children Cameron and Elena, and our wider family.