Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  ‘By the time I came along, we were the last of the squattocracy, part of the town but not part of it. When I turned ten, I was packed off to Geelong, back sometimes on holidays to ride horses and, when I was older, to piss it up at the pub. It was home, a kind of base, but it wasn’t my world. My world was going to be out there, over the horizon, London and New York and running the family company from Melbourne. Springfields meant a lot to my father; he wanted it to mean a lot to me, but it didn’t. Riversend was just a way station, a footnote along the way. And then I met a girl. The most beautiful, wonderful girl I had ever met or could ever meet or would ever meet. Katie Blonde. You’ve met Mandalay. Well, her mum was even more beautiful. Inside and out. She was remarkable.

  ‘We hit it off straight away. I was at uni down in Melbourne. Dad had wanted me to go to Oxford, like he did, but I couldn’t see the point. Melbourne was good enough for me. I tell you, Martin, it’s a pretty good life being young, wealthy and on the ran-tan. I lived in a college—just like boarding school, except co-ed. No rules, lots of booze, lots of sex. You don’t realise how good it is until it’s in the past. But once I’d met Katie, I wanted to be with her, and Melbourne was the way station. I’d had girlfriends before, but this was different. Very different. This was love. A short word, a meaningless word, until you experience it. Then there are no other words. It was perfect. We were perfect. Made all the more exquisite by these long periods apart. I’d fly to Sydney, hire a car or borrow a car and drive to where Katie was studying at Bathurst for the weekend. We were in love, and then we were engaged, and then—well, then it all turned to shit.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She got pregnant. At first I was excited. Until I did the maths. The timing was wrong. It couldn’t have been mine.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. She’d been cheating on me.’ There is pain in Snouch’s voice. And anger.

  Martin says nothing, waiting for Snouch to continue.

  ‘I still loved her, still wanted to marry her, but I wanted to know whose kid it was. She wouldn’t tell me. For a few days we were at an impasse. Then I got drunk, and then I got angry, and then I lost my temper. It escalated and I delivered her an ultimatum: she had to tell me who the father was or it was all off and I’d let the whole town know she’d been unfaithful. She shouted at me and I shouted back louder. In the end, I called her a slut. And that was that. As soon as I used that word, it was over. Next thing I knew she was accusing me of rape.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ says Martin.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s an amazingly vindictive thing for her to do, to falsely accuse her fiancé of rape, especially if she was the one who wronged you.’

  ‘That’s what you’d think, isn’t it? My guess is she was so scared of being exposed, of being branded as promiscuous and unfaithful, that she panicked. I think she wanted me to back down, to marry her, to accept the child as our own and let bygones be bygones. But once she went to the police, that was no longer an option. They cleared me, of course. There was no evidence against me and the police could do their sums as well as anyone else.

  ‘I left town, went back to uni in Melbourne. Tried to put it behind me. I’d never thought much of Riversend to begin with and after that I couldn’t stand it. But Katherine stayed on, blackening my name to anyone who’d listen. In the end, my father intervened. He set her up in the bookstore, gave her an allowance, promised to support her and her baby, Mandalay, provided she stopped the allegations. And that was that. I never came back. It was all too much for Mum. Broke her heart. She died a year or two later. After that I only ever saw Dad in Melbourne, never back here.’

  ‘Did you ever marry?’

  ‘After that? No. I never had another relationship that lasted more than three months. I could never properly trust anyone again. You have no idea how much she hurt me, how much she undermined my faith in people. No, I never married, never had kids.’

  ‘So why come back here?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t get her out of my mind.’

  Snouch sips some more wine. Staring off into the darkness, as if he might still catch a glimpse of her there, his bewitching young fiancée. Martin says nothing, and Snouch eventually speaks again.

  ‘It happens as you get older: the past bears down on you more and more until sometimes you spend more time living there than in the present. And in the night, she’d be in my dreams. Not all the time, but often enough. Every now and then, there she’d be, freed by my subconscious: the Katie I first knew, perfect and golden and glorious, and she’d take my heart once again, so that when I woke I’d know that I was still in love with her. They were the worst days. I’d go out and get ferociously wasted, drive the dreams from every waking thought. Like those poor old soldiers who used to come here to the wine saloon. The walking wounded. But it never worked. So in the end I came back here.

  ‘She wouldn’t see me, of course. It ran too deep, it was too entrenched, the petrified loathing. But I found this place, my hideaway. The role of the derro suited me—not that it was such an act; I was halfway there already. It gave people an excuse to ignore me, to leave me alone. I could sit here and occasionally I’d see her coming and going. She was older, of course, but not so old. And there is something about old friends, old loves, those who you were young with: when you see them after many years, they don’t appear as they are now, but as they were. You can see past the pudginess and wrinkles, past cloudy eyes and sagging jawlines. You can see them as they were when they were young and vital. I would see Katie like that, as she was before it all came apart. She’d walk out the door of her store and in my mind she was twenty again. And then one day—one day I saw the girl, I saw Mandalay, back from uni. Not a girl, though: a woman. She looked just like her mother once had. It took my breath away. I sat here and cried.

  ‘In the end, I did get to talk to her, to Katie. She was in the hospital down in Bellington. Mandalay was there, wouldn’t let me in the room, thought I’d upset her mother, but the priest was there, he knew. Later on, he got me in to see her. Katie said to me: “We shan’t talk about it, Harley. No talk. Just hold my hand.” And so I did. We sat and held hands and looked into each other’s eyes. She looked terrible, wasted, but her eyes were just the same. Glowing. And she looked at me fondly, Martin. Fondly. Without recriminations. And a week later she died. I couldn’t go to the funeral, but it didn’t matter. We’d made our peace. But she never recanted her allegation, not as far as I know, and I am still persona non grata, the town monster.’

  He pauses, reflects, drinks some more wine. ‘And now I think I really will have to leave. The house is gone, and even when the police clear me, people here will still believe I put those poor young girls in the dam. Pity. Springfields was starting to feel like the home it never was when I was a child. And I like it here in the saloon. I sit here in the dark and I wonder how it might have been different.’

  Martin is starting to feel sorry for the old man, but not sorry enough to forget the threat Snouch has made. So when he speaks, he tries to remove any suggestion of sympathy from his voice. ‘Why do you want to reconcile with Mandy if she’s not your daughter?’

  ‘Because I’m an old man and I have my regrets. The doctors don’t like what I’ve done to my liver. I’m not going to live forever. I sit in here and wonder how it could have been different, if I’d not insisted, if I’d married Katherine and kept her secret. Mandy would have grown up as my daughter, Katie and I could have had our own children, it could have been so very different. Mandy’s the last vestige of that left, the only part I might salvage.’

  ‘Harley, I don’t see what I can do. She loved her mother. She’s not going to take your word or my word or anyone else’s word against that.’

  ‘I want you to persuade her to take a DNA test.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To prove I’m not her father. Tell her if she agrees, regardless of the result, I’ll leave Riversend.’ />
  There is silence. Snouch’s proposition hangs in the air.

  ‘Have you told anyone else all of this, Harley?’

  ‘No, mate. Not since I came back. Just you. You and Byron Swift.’

  ‘Byron Swift?’

  ‘He was a priest, Martin.’

  They sit in silence. Martin finishes his wine, gets to his feet. ‘Okay, Harley. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Martin is almost to the door when the old man, the now not-so-very-old man, speaks. ‘Martin, tread carefully. I know she’s beautiful, I know she’s intelligent. But she’s also her mother’s daughter. Don’t push too hard, too soon. Don’t rush it. I’ve been waiting thirty years; I can wait a bit longer if I have to.’

  MARTIN SITS ON THE BENCH OUTSIDE THE GENERAL STORE AND STARES AT The Age. Page five. His article is on page five. Even the Herald Sun’s story is on the front page, and they’ve got no story at all, just a jumble of stale facts and fresh conjecture, unsourced speculation dressed up as the truth that the Germans had been raped and tortured before being shot. He rereads his copy, looking for some weakness to explain its banishment to the inside pages, but finds none. The front page is a grab bag of second-rate stories. The main story is about Melbourne real estate, the photo story about a TV celebrity leaving his wife and family to join a religious cult. Martin recalls the conversation with Max Fuller, the editor assuring him of his trust and confidence. But Max is the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald; his counterpart at The Age is not constrained by personal loyalty. A pit has opened in Martin’s guts. Something is not right.

  Back at the Black Dog, he rings Sydney, finally getting through to the editor.

  ‘Martin. Morning.’

  ‘Page five? Really?’

  ‘That’s The Age. Soft cocks. You’re page three in the Herald.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? It was lead story on all the teevs last night and the Hun has splashed with it.’

  ‘Don’t you start, Martin. I had to fight to get it in the paper at all.’

  ‘What? Why, Max? What’s going on?’

  ‘To be honest, I have no idea. But I’m glad you called. I’ve got bad news—you’re off the story. They want you back in Sydney. They say a week is long enough; they don’t want you to overdo it. They’re sending Defoe to replace you. The Age is sending their own reporter, Morty Lang.’

  The words land like a sledgehammer, stunning Martin. An image comes to him of his career, shattered into shards, like splintered glass. Another image: him sitting at a desk at the periphery of the newsroom, a broken man. His anger surges. ‘What do you mean “they”? Don’t you mean “we”? You’re the one taking me off the story and you’re the one sending Defoe. At least own the decision.’

  ‘No, Martin, it’s not like that—’

  ‘Good. So you’ll fight it. You’ll insist that the story is mine. You have to.’

  ‘Martin, listen—I’m out as well. They’ve shafted me. This is my last day. They’re replacing me.’

  Again the sledgehammer falls. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘No idea. It’s been seven years. Most editors only last half that time. Circulation’s down, advertising’s down. Time for renewal.’

  ‘Max, that’s bullshit. Circulation and advertising are always down. You can’t let them do it. You’re the best editor we’ve ever had.’

  ‘Thanks, Martin, that’s good of you to say so. But it’s a done deal. I’m out of here. Don’t worry: it’s the full parachute. Same salary, writer at large. Here and overseas. I’m almost looking forward to it.’

  ‘Jeez, Max. What a loss.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ll be looked after too. They want you off reporting for now, but they understand the paper has a duty of care after what happened in Gaza. Plus, you’re one of the best writers we have. They’re thinking you can write leaders or become the go-to guy for rewrites, plus a training and mentoring role. And some reporting if and when you’re ready for it. You’ll be okay.’

  After the phone call Martin sits in his room at the Black Dog. This has been his life: hotel rooms. Grand rooms in grand hotels: suites at The Pierre in New York, the Grand in Rome, the American Colony in Jerusalem. And lousy rooms in lousy hotels: a shack in Brazil with a dirt floor, a brothel in rural Cambodia, an utterly featureless business hotel in The Hague for three weeks. And now here, his last hotel room: a dogbox with a clunking air-conditioner, a mass-produced gum-tree print and water that would give the World Health Organization the trots. After everything—all the adrenaline, all the ambition, all the words, the millions of words—it comes down to this: room six at the Black Dog Motel. He looks at his hands, hands that have shaken the hands of presidents and potentates, pirates and paupers, hands that have worked their magic through dozens of keyboards, hands that have typed out stories both mundane and momentous. Hands soon to be silent, or condemned to shape second-hand words and second-hand thoughts, or to produce nothing more important than inter-office memos. Ultimately, very ordinary hands indeed.

  The phone rings: the impatient world, eager to get on, disrespectful of his grief.

  ‘Martin Scarsden! Hello, mate. D’Arcy Defoe. You’re everywhere. I can’t get a word in the paper. I just want to say—’

  ‘D’Arcy. Just a moment.’ Martin doesn’t hang up. He places the receiver gently on the bed and walks into the bathroom. Time for a shower. He turns the tap, strips off, walks under the dubious water of Riversend.

  Martin wants to go to the Oasis, unburden himself, tell Mandy what has happened to him, seek solace. In this dying town she is the only friend he has: his lover, hopefully his confidante. And yet he can’t bring himself to see her. Instead, he sits in the rotunda in the park, pondering his options. Hanging over him is Snouch’s threat: persuade Mandy to take a DNA test or the old man will sue. If Martin refuses, then his career really will be history, any hope of resurrecting it gone. Snouch will take him to the cleaners and the Herald will hang him out to dry; the paper could reduce its own culpability by demonstrating it had removed him from the story as soon as it had any inkling that his reporting was inaccurate. It would parade its own good faith by depicting him as a rogue reporter, out for glory and careless of the facts, testifying that it had disciplined him even before the threat to sue. Maybe that’s why they’ve moved so fast to replace him with D’Arcy and Morty: those Mahogany Row lawyers might not know a lot about journalism but they’re experts in scapegoating, blame-shifting and arse-covering.

  So he considers persuading Mandy to take the DNA test, arguing that the result doesn’t matter: either way she’ll be rid of Snouch once and for all. But he knows the result will matter. Snouch must be confident of the outcome, or why would he stake so much on it? He must be telling the truth: he isn’t her father. And if that is the case, isn’t she entitled to know the truth, no matter how painful? Isn’t that his duty as a journalist, isn’t that what his entire career has been about—telling the truth? To cut through the petty lies, the PR spin and the easy fabrications to deliver the public the truth, no matter how inconvenient or hurtful? How can he in all good conscience not tell her of Snouch’s offer?

  And yet if she takes the test and it confirms that Snouch is on the level, then what? Her mother will be irretrievably diminished in her eyes, the foundation stone of her life removed. What was it Mandy had said? That Byron Swift and her mother were the only two decent people she had ever known. Swift had revealed himself to be a homicidal psychopath and now here was Martin Scarsden, come to inform her that her mother was a pathological liar, a woman who had not only constructed a fantasy to protect her own reputation, but had destroyed the life of a man she had professed to love in the process. Could he do that? Walk into her bookstore, that shrine to Katherine Blonde, and bring it all crashing down around her?

  He looks at his hands, his insipid and useless hands. He doesn’t know what to do.

  Unable to sit any longer, unable to tolerate his own company any longer, he leaves the park and starts walking.
But his thoughts come with him. Maybe he would be doing her a favour. Snouch would be gone, the myth of her mother gone with him. It would hurt her initially, no doubt about that, but it might also free her: from the past and from any obligations to Riversend. She could take Liam and start again somewhere. After all, she’s only twenty-nine. She wouldn’t need him, wouldn’t want him—Snouch’s accomplice, a forty-year-old hack, a middle-aged loser with a fading career. But if he’s to be brutally honest, that probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing for her either.

  It seems like a very long time since he was her age. What was he like at twenty-nine? Cocksure, bullet-proof, a handsome heartbreaker. Already a senior correspondent, Max’s go-to person for trouble spots, parachuting in, seducing the local women, writing the yarn, returning to the office like a conquering hero. Living the life, living the dream, contemptuous of those pursuing more mundane careers, leading more conventional lives. He’d been arrogant, no doubt about it, not caring tuppence for the opinions of colleagues, the plodders and the office schemers. Maybe now they’re exacting their revenge.

  He recalls one lad, his contemporary at school, a bright bloke called Scotty with a mop of blond hair and a ready smile. Scotty was intent on dentistry, like his father, explaining how it offered money, plenty of money, and security. Martin recalls his disdain, bordering on pity. But now, approaching forty-one, he wonders about Scotty, where he might be now. He knows the answer: a large home in a leafy suburb, a beautiful wife, two kids going to private schools. There’d be a beach house, skiing holidays, a sizeable share portfolio and, already, planning for retirement. Martin considers Mandy: so young, so beautiful, so vulnerable. What had he been thinking, to sleep with her? He knows he’ll be leaving again, leaving her, as he always does. Max’s parachute journo, on his last mission, in and out, like a commando. What an arsehole.