by Chris Hammer
Cut to the premier, the embodiment of earnestness, standing out the back of parliament, flanked by the police minister, the attorney-general and the police commissioner, all of whom are staring grimly into the back of his neck as they nod their profound endorsement. ‘There is no greater defender of free speech than myself and my government. But this is beyond the pale. A good man is dead. All for a grubby headline. All to sell a few extra newspapers.’
A wide shot of the police doorstop in Bellington, a shot of Thunkleton listening, his voiceover again touched by sympathy: ‘Herb Walker’s police colleagues are attempting to cope with their loss while continuing their investigation.’
Montifore: ‘Herb Walker gave his all to serving his community at a time of great need. He didn’t deserve this.’
And then the shot of Martin, looking shifty as he begins to walk away, blinking under the glare of the camera lights. Thunkleton homing in for the kill: ‘And from the reporter responsible, Martin Scarsden, not a skerrick of remorse.’ Then Martin: ‘A hypocritical parasitic turd.’
‘In Riversend, Doug Thunkleton, Ten News.’
Back to the newsreader, forehead creased with the import of the story: ‘We are able to report some small consolation for Sergeant Walker’s grieving family and the good folk of Bellington; this evening the Sydney Morning Herald has published an unreserved apology and sacked the reporter responsible, effective immediately.’
Martin kills the sound, staring at the glowing set. Charged, tried, convicted, all in a neat two-minute television package. Hung, drawn and quartered. ‘Fuck me,’ says Martin out loud, almost amused by the absurdity of it all. What now? He’s been thinking of getting something to eat and a drink at the club. That’s out of the question. Mandy’s? No, he would be doing her no favours. Guilt by association would be an ugly phenomenon in such a small town. Best thing would be to check out now and drive somewhere far, far away. The rental car is still on the company account. Perth maybe. Or Darwin.
There’s a knock at the door. Who? It sounds too measured for a torch-and-pitchfork mob. Martin eases the door open a whisker, his foot wedged hard in behind it, just in case.
It’s Goffing. The ASIO man has a sixpack of stubbies in one hand, a bottle of Scotch in the other. ‘Thought you might need a drink.’
Martin opens the door, lets him in.
Goffing looks at the muted TV set, broadcasting the remains of the Channel Ten news. ‘So you saw, I take it?’
Martin nods.
Goffing holds the beers up first, then the whisky, offering Martin the choice.
‘Beer, thanks.’
Martin sits on the bed; the agent takes the sole chair. They twist off the bottle caps with a gentle fizz and take the first few slugs in silence.
‘The police believe it was suicide; I’m not so sure,’ says the ASIO man, looking Martin in the eye.
The abruptness of the statement takes Martin by surprise. He doesn’t answer immediately as he considers the implications. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Let’s just say I have a suspicious mind. Comes with the territory.’
‘Well, I certainly hope you’re right.’
‘Tell me, Martin, do you feel guilty over Herb Walker’s death?’
‘No,’ Martin answers without hesitation, despite the unexpected nature of the question. ‘No, I don’t. Do you think I should?’
‘Not necessarily. What do you feel?’
‘Pissed off. Hard done by. A bit despondent. For the life of me, I can’t understand exactly what I’ve done to be in this position.’
Martin pauses, drinks some more beer. It’s cold and comforting as it slides down his throat. Why is he confiding in this man, this spy, this exponent of the covert? Because it feels good to unburden himself. And because there is no one else to talk to.
‘I accept that we may have been wrong about Byron Swift and Harley Snouch, but they were honest mistakes. You know that. We’ve been doing our best. And as for Herb Walker, that wasn’t even me. My colleague in Sydney got that tip-off from one of her police contacts. I didn’t even know about it until I read it in the paper.’
‘You were uncomfortable with the story?’
‘No. No, I can’t claim that. If it was accurate, and it appears to be, he could have checked out the dam a year ago. Why wouldn’t we publish that?’
‘Because he was one of your sources?’
‘No. Being a source doesn’t give someone immunity.’
‘But I was under the impression you apologised to him when you saw him at the police station yesterday.’
‘That’s half true. If I’d known what Bethanie had, I would have told him in person, tried to get his side of the story. But I wouldn’t have argued against publication. At least, I don’t think I would have. And that wasn’t the main reason I sought him out yesterday.’
‘Yes, so I understand. Mandalay Blonde and Byron Swift’s supposed alibi.’
‘Supposed?’
‘The police aren’t convinced. They’ve sent the diary for forensic analysis.’
‘Really? What do you think?’
‘Don’t know. I’m agnostic on that matter.’
Goffing hands Martin a second beer. Martin hadn’t realised he’d finished his first; he twists the top from the stubby.
‘Why are you here, Agent Goffing?’
‘The name’s Jack. And we don’t call ourselves “agent”—that’s an American thing.’
‘So why are you in Riversend, Jack?’
Goffing looks almost sad. ‘Sorry, Martin. This is not an information swap. I can’t afford to reveal anything more about my purpose here. My superiors are already pissed off at my presence being so spectacularly outed by you on national television. I’m not so ecstatic about it either.’
‘So why talk to me now?’
‘Herb Walker. You spoke to him yesterday. He was angry with you. You and your paper had fucked him over. He may have been less likely to disguise his state of mind with you than he might have in the presence of his police colleagues. It’s not a culture that encourages any sign of emotional fragility.’
‘He seemed fine. Angry, but in no way depressed or despairing, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Resigned?’
‘Resigned to what?’
‘You know, that his career was over, it was all coming down on top of him, that it was useless to fight back.’
‘No. Just the opposite.’
‘How so?’
Ah, the rub. Martin takes another suck of his beer. He has to admire the ASIO man’s skill, leading him to this point. Does he cooperate? Does he tell him what he knows about Walker? Why not? He’s lost his job, Walker is dead, Goffing may be the only person interested in taking the matter any further. He drains more of his beer and talks.
‘I don’t think he was despondent. He was intrigued by the news of Mandy Blonde’s diary. And he remained determined to investigate the events leading up to Byron Swift’s massacre at St James.’
Goffing’s head is still, face smooth with concentration, eyes fixed on Martin. ‘Byron Swift and St James? Do you know anything of his line of inquiry?’
Martin nods. ‘I was able to speak to a witness to the shooting. Someone the police didn’t interview. He told me that Byron Swift appeared happy and unflustered shortly before the shooting. He’d been outside, talking to some of his parishioners, the early arrivals. Laughing and joking. He even talked to Craig Landers, one of his victims, apparently without rancour. Then he went into the church, presumably to prepare for the service. He came out after five or ten minutes and started shooting.’
‘Go on.’
‘So what happened inside the church? It occurred to me that Swift either spoke to someone inside the church, or spoke to someone by phone. Herb Walker was trying to find out if there had been any calls made to or from the church that morning.’
Goffing nods. ‘Right. And he drew a blank. We know. We checked the same thing. The only calls from the church that morn
ing were Robbie Haus-Jones calling Walker and the ambulance in Bellington after the shooting. So what else?’
‘No. Walker said he didn’t draw a blank. Yesterday, when I saw him at the police station, he said there had been two other calls, one from the church and one to the church. Before the shooting. He said he was trying to chase down the numbers.’
Goffing doesn’t say anything for a good thirty seconds or more. He’s looking at Martin, but the ASIO man’s thoughts appear to be working away on a different plane.
‘Which call was made first? Did he say?’
‘No. Perhaps Swift made a call, and then got a call back.’
‘Maybe. Anything else? Did Walker mention anything else?’
‘No. We weren’t exactly on the best of terms by then, if you’ll recall.’
‘Martin, thank you. What you’ve told me might prove to be very useful indeed. Very useful. Have you told anyone else of these phone calls? Your colleagues, Mandalay Blonde?’
‘You think they’re significant?’
‘Possibly. When we checked the records, the calls weren’t on the database.’
‘Someone tampered with the call records?’
‘Maybe. It’s curious, at the very least. So have you told anyone else about the calls?’
‘No. Just you.’
‘Very good. Please don’t mention this to anybody else, including the police. Especially the police. If I’m going to clear you of responsibility for Walker’s suicide, I need to keep this under wraps. Understand?’
Martin feels a surge of adrenaline, of hope. ‘Clear me? You think you can do that?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t raise false expectations; it may not be possible. But keep the phone calls to yourself.’
‘If you like. But what do I get in return?’
‘You mean apart from trying to clear you of Walker’s death?’ Goffing smiles, then grows more serious. ‘There is one thing. Your story in The Sunday Age, the one about Swift being a man without a past—it was right on the money.’
‘You can confirm that?’
‘Yes. Your story is correct. The real Byron Swift was an orphan and a ward of the state in Western Australia. Studied theology at uni in Perth and dropped out. Went to Cambodia, where he worked for a charity delivering development aid up on the Thai–Burma border. Died five years ago of a heroin overdose. All records, most records, redacted. Our Byron Swift assumed his identity.’
‘Do you know who he really was? Swift?’
‘I do.’ Goffing pauses, makes some mental calculation before continuing. ‘Martin, I’m going to tell you. It will most likely come out at the inquest.’ Goffing again pauses, as if weighing a decision, before speaking. ‘You should try to publish it before then but under no circumstances must my name or ASIO be mentioned. Just refer to reliable sources or however you want to phrase it.’
‘That’s kind of academic; I have nowhere to publish it.’
‘You’ll find somewhere.’
‘All right. Tell me. You have my word I won’t reveal where I got it from.’
‘His real name was Julian Flynt. He was a fugitive.’
‘A fugitive? I thought he was a former soldier.’
‘He was. A special forces sniper. Iraq and Afghanistan. By all accounts an amazing soldier: a born leader, fearless and charismatic. Until he was captured by the Taliban and held captive for eight months, during which time he was tortured, degraded and humiliated. Later, after he was freed, he passed all the psychological testing and was cleared for duty. Big mistake. Massive mistake. Seemed fine, everything normal, no sign of damage. Then one day, close to a year later, during a firefight in a Mujahedin compound, he lost it. Two women and their kids, unarmed, arms raised, surrendering. Five of them. He cut them down in cold blood. The army detained him, pending trial. Some wanted to try him for murder; others defended him, citing the fog of war. Those who had authorised his return to the frontline just wanted him to disappear. And he did: he escaped from custody. A warrant was put out for his arrest, for war crimes. There were reports he’d made his way to Iraq, was working as a private bodyguard. When the authorities went looking they were told he’d died in an ambush. That made everyone happy; they closed his file. But as we now know, he wasn’t dead. He came back here at some point, not on his own passport. Became Byron Swift.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘How indeed.’
‘Is that what you’re doing here? Investigating Byron Swift?’
‘I’m not authorised to talk about that, Martin. I’ll let you join the dots. But the Julian Flynt story, you think you can get that into the public domain?’
‘I guess so. It’s not a bad story.’
‘Not bad? Do you understand what I’ve told you? He was an Australian soldier, wanted for war crimes. You reported on the Middle East, you know that story as well as anyone. Have you ever heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘And why do you think that is?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘For starters, the army doesn’t want his case publicised, not least because they sent him back into combat when he should have been in care. They were happy to have him forgotten. Next, there’s customs and border control. How the hell did he get back into the country? And then the police. He shoots five people dead and they don’t bother to find out who he really was? Really? Nobody wants the public to know. Now do you understand the scope of what I’m telling you?’
‘So what are you alleging, Jack? Some grand conspiracy?’
‘I wish. More likely cock-ups and arse-covering, everyone trying to pass the buck and deny their own culpability.’
‘So publish?’
‘Yeah. Publish. Let’s see if we can flush a few of them out.’ A smile passes between the men. And it seems to Martin something else passes between them as well, a kind of understanding. ‘You want some whisky?’ asks Goffing.
Martin has finished his second beer. ‘Shit. Why not?’ He locates a couple of grimy tumblers in the bathroom and gives them a good rinse, which does little more than impart the smell of chlorine and decay. When he returns, Goffing has relieved the bottle of its cap and Martin hands him the glasses. Goffing dispenses two healthy shots and the men clink glasses. Martin wonders what significance the gesture holds. He drops back onto the bed and savours the peat and smokiness of the drink. It’s been a long time since he’s drunk whisky.
‘Martin, I really can’t tell you anything more about my assignment, you understand, but I can tell you about the police investigation.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos I think you’re owed.’
‘Good. I’m all ears.’
‘Walker’s death looks like a copybook suicide. His body was found in the Murray this morning. He probably died about midnight. He drowned. Filled his pockets with rocks and jumped from a bridge, some way out of Bellington, where he was unlikely to be discovered in the act. He left a note in his car. For the police, the note is always the clincher.’
‘What did it say?’ Martin takes a gulp of whisky, a little too much, feels it burn at the back of his throat.
‘It was short and simple. I always did my duty. I did nothing wrong. The media are liars. My reputation is everything to me.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Shit.’ More silence. On the television, some hippies are dancing in a circle, part of a religious cult. ‘So why aren’t you convinced it was suicide?’
‘As I say, suspicious mind.’
The two men drink in silence then, exchanging small talk. Later, they flick the TV over to watch the ABC news at 7 pm. It’s politics at the top, the cult and the TV presenter second, with Martin coming in third. The bronze medal. The report is considerably milder, more balanced than Thunkleton’s. And more accurate. The confrontation between Martin and Doug Thunkleton is shown from a different, wider angle. ‘…you are the worst type of journalist, a moral vacuum who’d sell hi
s soul for a headline,’ says Thunkleton. ‘Well, in that case, why do you keep interviewing me? You know what you are? A hypocritical parasitic turd,’ responds Martin. Thunkleton looks like a bully, Martin looks like a petulant and uncaring schoolboy, the ABC looks impartial and morally superior to them both. But at least it’s clear his turd accusation is directed at the Channel Ten reporter and not the dead cop. Be thankful for small mercies—another of Max’s dictums.
After that, Martin kills the box and he and Goffing talk of sport and politics and all those other things that fill the conversational void when other matters are too confronting to be vocalised.
Later, when the sun is setting and the heat has begun to drain off the landscape for another night, they sit outside and Goffing smokes cigarettes. Martin isn’t sure, but he might even smoke one himself. At some point Goffing melts away and Martin is left by himself, with only the bottle, the blood moon and the blazing wash of the Milky Way for company.
The whisky does what strong alcohol always does: renders him unconscious the moment his head touches the pillow. And then later, in the early hours of the morning, it brings him back into semiconsciousness, unable to sleep, mind churning repetitively, incapable of properly marshalling his thoughts, so that they eat away at him, anxieties real and imagined. Not that he needs much imagination. Bits of the day come back to trouble him. The confrontation with Thunkleton, seen from three angles: Channel Ten’s, the ABC’s and his own, none of them pretty. Over and over the scene plays, like a television broadcast of an out-of-form batsman raising his bat to leave a ball pass through to the wicketkeeper, only to see it cannon into the stumps. Different angles, slow motion, fast motion, graphics, and always the same conclusion: the batsman trudging slowly towards the pavilion, eyes downcast, while the bowler pumps his fist and high-fives his teammates. The conversation with Goffing is on repeat too, Herb Walker’s demise re-created in his mind, the words of the suicide note echoing, an image of Julian Flynt, soldier, shooting women and children in the dust of Afghanistan.
