Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  Martin is still waiting by the reception counter of the Riversend police station for Mandy Blonde to be released. His mind is not entirely his own; unbidden, it keeps replaying incidents from earlier in the day: the confrontation upstairs at the pub, with Jamie Landers gloating and mad one moment, terrified and pleading the next; Mandy and himself searching for Liam and Jamie, oblivious to what was unfolding upstairs in the Commercial Hotel; driving across the endless plain to stand outside the Bellington police station, the site of his on-air execution. It’s all mixed up, all shuffled together, his mind throwing up scenes at random, as if independently trying to make sense of the day. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so disorientated; nothing truly terrible has happened, the boy is safe, the murderer in custody.

  Pretty young Constable Greevy from Bellington has been bringing him cups of hot tea and comforting words. Her name is Sarah, it transpires. To help distract him, she flicks on the television mounted on the wall next to the counter. There’s a game show on. Martin can’t follow it; the rules seem too complex, there are too many flashing lights, too many glaring teeth. Nevertheless he’s transfixed by the screen, even as his mind drifts away, sifting again and again through the events of the day.

  It’s snapped back abruptly to the here and now by Doug Thunkleton’s matinee-idol face, mellifluous voice and earnest tone. The game show has finished and the news has begun. Martin hadn’t noticed the transition. Thunkleton is standing outside Bellington police station. Martin catches the end of his introductory blurb: ‘…in dramatic scenes outside the magistrate’s hearing here in Bellington.’ The screen wipes to Thunkleton’s package, starting with Mandy entering the building that morning, the camera jostling for position, the voiceover urgent: ‘She’s been dubbed the suicide blonde. Mandalay Blonde—charged with perverting the course of justice, now a prime suspect in the murders of German backpackers Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün.’ The voiceover stops; the camera continues to fight for position as Robbie Haus-Jones tries to clear a way through the media pack. Thunkleton is leaning over Mandy’s shoulder, thrusting a microphone the size of a turkey drumstick, painted in the garish livery of Channel Ten, under her nose while he bellows in her ear: ‘What do you have to say to Herb Walker’s widow?’ The story doesn’t wait for her response, instead cutting to a still photograph of her, captured as she stares into the camera lens.

  Thunkleton’s voiceover resumes. ‘Mandalay Susan Blonde is formally charged with perverting the course of justice, accused of destroying evidence linking homicidal priest Byron Swift with the abduction and murders of the innocent backpackers.’ There’s a slow, almost imperceptible zoom into the photograph, into her eyes; there the viewer can see whatever they wish to see: confusion, or guilt, or madness, or whatever else Thunkleton’s voiceover might suggest.

  The story cuts back to the reporter, standing beside the Murray River. ‘Channel Ten can now exclusively reveal that Blonde is being linked to another death—that of respected Bellington police sergeant Herb Walker.’ On the screen now is a middle-aged woman, grey hair tinged with blue, identified by an onscreen title bar as Belinda Walker—Hero’s Widow. ‘He always said she was trouble—that no good would come of her.’ Another cut, this time to a new voice of authority, D’Arcy Defoe, as self-confident and smooth as ever: ‘She is the femme fatale of this story. I can’t reveal too much as yet, but suffice to say Mandalay Blonde lies at the very epicentre of police inquiries.’ Cut now to the scene of Mandy and Martin leaving the Riversend police station arm in arm, pushing through the media scrum. ‘It’s suggested that Mandalay Blonde has also been manipulating this man, disgraced former journalist Martin Scarsden, the same way she once manipulated homicidal priest Byron Swift.’ The story finishes with a close-up of Mandy, played in slow motion, as the voice signs off, redolent with gravitas: ‘In Riversend, this is Doug Thunkleton, Ten News.’

  Martin hears wild laughter echoing from further inside the police station, but there’s more. The glamorous newsreader is back on screen. The image behind her is of drug paraphernalia stamped with the words ICE EPIDEMIC. She turns to camera, frowning: ‘The drug plague sweeping rural Australia shortly, but first we understand there has been a major breakthrough in the backpacker murders. We cross live to our reporter Doug Thunkleton in the Riverina with the latest news.’

  Thunkleton appears, hair perfect as always, but his tie is askew and his face is shiny and flushed. His voice is deep and rich, but his diction is ever so slightly slurred. ‘Thanks, Megan. Yes, Ten News can confirm that police believe—our sources confirm there has been a major breakthrough. We believe an arrest is imminent. However, for legal reasons, we cannot at this point reveal the identity of the accused. But we do understand it is not, I repeat not, Mandalay Blonde. Her role in the affair is still to be explained. Just repeating, there has been a major breakthrough in the Riversend backpacker murders, with police expected to make at least one arrest in the near future.’

  Megan is looking serious and professional, but there is a hint of poison in her follow-up question. ‘Thanks, Doug. And how does that fit with allegations against the woman you’ve branded the suicide blonde?’

  Thunkleton shifts balance from one leg to the other. Perhaps it’s the lag on the satellite, but for a moment he looks like he’s been frozen by a roo shooter’s spotlight. His comeback is good, though. ‘Megan, I think it’s safe to say that as the details of this case, this extraordinary case, come to light, we’ll be able to see how these and other factors are all inextricerr…how they are all interlinked. As Fairfax reporter D’Arcy Defoe said earlier, Mandalay Blonde is at the very epicentre of these events.’

  The newsreader nods, lips pursed. ‘Doug Thunkleton in the Riverina, thanks for bringing us up to date.’

  There is more laughter from inside the police station, then Robbie Haus-Jones emerges, smiling broadly. He looks up at the television. ‘Did you see that idiot?’

  Martin nods.

  ‘Use the phone on the counter if you like. Ring that ex-colleague of yours in Sydney. Bethanie what’s-her-face. She can report the facts for once.’

  ‘What about the magistrate’s orders? I’m not meant to be reporting, remember.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about him. He’s been pulled over for drink-driving in Corowa. We’ve thrown him in the can. Here.’ Robbie holds out a piece of folded paper.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your bank cheque. For God’s sake, don’t lose it.’

  Martin rings Bethanie from the phone behind the counter. She answers with a barked hello, clearly under the pump.

  ‘Bethanie, it’s Martin.’

  ‘Martin? Where are you?’

  ‘Riversend.’

  ‘Good. Do you know what the fuck is going on? The ABC are promoting a big breakthrough to be revealed on their seven o’clock news. The commercials seem to be clueless. Terri Preswell is screaming her tits off at me but my contacts aren’t answering. Defoe claims he’s across it, but won’t tell me what it is and now he’s not answering his phone.’

  Slowly, methodically, Martin sets out the facts: that it was Jamie Landers and his mate Allen Newkirk who killed the backpackers, that Landers has confessed and is in detention. He’s not denying anything. Martin tells her that Mandy Blonde is in the clear, to ignore the commercial television reports, that the young mother nearly lost her child in horrifying circumstances, almost murdered by Landers.

  Bethanie is all ears, only interposing questions for clarification, respecting Martin’s ability to order the facts. Only at the end does she seek advice on how to frame the story.

  ‘Martin, I should give you a by-line. What do you think?’

  ‘No. You’ll only antagonise management. Don’t refer to me at all, or call me a reliable source if you need to, but no names. And do yourself a favour: file before seven so people know it’s all your work—but after Defoe sees the ABC and files, share the by-line with him. You’ll want to keep him onside in future; don’t
humiliate him.’

  There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. ‘Martin, that sucks.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Now get moving, it’s already six-thirty.’

  ‘Absolutely. And, Martin, thanks.’

  Martin sits alone in the foyer of the country police station, imagining the frenetic scene back in the Sydney newsroom: Bethanie yelling that she’s got it, the editors crowding around, the front page being remade. It will be a corker, one of his best, certainly one of his biggest, even though his name will be nowhere to be seen.

  He’ll miss it, he knows he will. In the whole confused and confusing day, the whole confused and confusing week, the only periods of clarity and purpose had come when he was reporting events he’d witnessed, first to the paper, then to the police and now to Bethanie. The old thrill, one last time. He’s still sitting there when the ABC news comes on at 7 pm. It’s a national broadcast out of Sydney, all states receiving the same signal, that’s how big the story has become. The newsreader is grim, urgent and professional. ‘The ABC can reveal a major breakthrough…’

  The report says police have arrested a suspect, a Riversend local, a teenage boy, and are expected to charge him this evening with the murders of the two German backpackers. There is no mention of Allen Newkirk, no mention of Liam Blonde, no mention of the confrontation in the Commercial Hotel. The new facts, sparse and lacking context, are at the top of the package, the remainder a rehash of the day’s events, Mandy and himself again caught in the storm of camera flashes even as the voiceover exonerates Mandy of any guilt. But there’s a sting in the tail, just before the reporter signs off: ‘It’s believed the police may have been denied vital information, delaying this evening’s arrest.’ That’s it then; the police are already preparing to hang him out to dry.

  He’s still sitting there an hour later when Mandy emerges. She looks frail, exhausted. She is clutching Liam to her, soothing him even as he sleeps. Mandy turns to Martin then, and there is no barrier, no pretence in her eyes; he sees her anguish and he sees her relief.

  ‘Martin,’ she whispers, reaching out, taking his hand. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ And then she smiles: a smile so pure, so free of calculation, that it takes his breath away. ‘I need to look after this little one tonight, but come and see me tomorrow. Say you will.’

  ‘Of course I will. If you’ll see me.’

  And another smile, more illumination lighting his soul. ‘Of course.’ And quickly, still holding her son, she kisses him. A weight lifts from his shoulders and he feels, for the first time in a very long time, that things are turning for the better.

  He’s about to offer to walk her home when Jack Goffing comes back through the door, urgency plain on his face. The evening isn’t over yet.

  GOFFING WAITS UNTIL MANDY AND LIAM ARE OUT THE DOOR, ESCORTED BY Constable Greevy, before speaking, his voice low and urgent. ‘The phone number, Martin. It’s disconnected, but I got an address here in Riversend. Hay Road. Registered to someone called Avery Foster.’

  ‘The publican.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘His name’s written above the door. It’s on the licence sign.’

  ‘Isn’t he dead, though?’

  ‘Yes. Suicide. Six months ago.’

  ‘Fuck,’ says Goffing, losing some of his urgency. ‘He won’t be telling us much, then. Bugger it.’

  ‘Listen, Jack. Maybe there is something.’ Martin explains his first visit to the Commercial Hotel, seeing the locked room at the end of the corridor with its gold-painted sign: PRIVATE. ‘Should we take a look?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘The door is locked. Two or three locks.’

  ‘I’ll bring my picks.’

  ‘You can do that? Pick locks?’

  Goffing looks at him like he’s an idiot. ‘I’m ASIO, remember. We do it in basic training.’

  Night is almost complete as the two men leave the police station. The western horizon is rimmed with blood and the scarlet moon hangs above it; there is the smell of wood smoke and desolation. Three large moths circle the POLICE sign, but they seem lethargic; having survived the heat of another day they can barely raise the energy to circle their blue-and-white beacon. There’s no such lethargy among the gaggle of journalists who also flitter around the police station, lured back across the plain by news of the arrest. They buzz with energy, desperate to report on the police breakthrough, the story that has somehow eluded them and arrived independently into the newsrooms of the capital cities. Alerted by the ABC news, they have come dashing from Bellington, breaking speed limits and playing Russian roulette with kangaroos but, now they’re here, there’s little for them to do: recording pieces to camera and filming guilty buildings. Montifore and his team will spend hours grilling Landers, teasing out every last detail while the young man remains willing to talk and before any lawyer can counsel him otherwise. For now, feeding the media will be a very low priority. Carrie, the Fairfax photographer, captures a couple of frames of Martin and Goffing as they leave, her camera flash abrupt and insistent. She shrugs apologetically and takes a couple more shots. Martin can see a few locals have joined the media but, away from the police station, the town is closed for the day, slowly surrendering its pent-up heat into the clear night skies.

  The hotel looks little different; only the crime scene tape draped across the entrance to the back laneway suggests anything amiss. Goffing doesn’t hesitate, lifting it, passing under it, holding it for Martin to follow. He has a torch in one hand and is carrying a small backpack in the other. Martin is using the flashlight on his phone, leading the way up the outside stairs and into the darkened interior. The glass from the broken door pane crunches under their feet. The air is unchanged, laden in the enclosed space with the smells of the afternoon: dust and neglect and residual fear. Martin’s muscles tighten, the hairs on his neck lift once again, he reminds himself to breathe. He shines his light down the corridor, towards the corner of the pub, but there is nothing to see, only darkness.

  ‘This way,’ he says, almost a whisper, despite knowing he and Jack Goffing are alone in the abandoned building. He guides Goffing to the locked apartment, holding both lights as the ASIO man picks first one lock and then another and then another, taking remarkably little time to do it.

  ‘Like riding a bike,’ says Goffing, his voice clear. If Martin is tense, Goffing almost seems to be enjoying himself. ‘Here, put these on.’ He hands Martin some latex gloves and retrieves a second pair for himself from the backpack.

  Inside, the apartment is like a tomb, the air still and bone-dry. The absence of moisture has mummified its contents: a budgerigar lies desiccated at the bottom of its cage, like one of Horrie Grosvenor’s trophies, feathers intact, beak open; a half-eaten bowl of spaghetti sits on a coffee table, the pasta returned to its original pre-cooked state; slices of bread sit brittle and dehydrated next to it, no sign of mould or decay. There’s a pot plant, now nothing more than bare stalks, surrounded on the windowsill by a ring of brown leaves. By the light of Martin’s phone, Jack Goffing looks like Howard Carter, come to raid Tutankhamun’s burial chamber. Martin feels a strong sense of trespass: they have entered the dead man’s domain, uninvited, like graverobbers in the Valley of the Kings.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Goffing. ‘It’s untouched.’

  The men explore further: a kitchenette with unwashed dishes, a bedroom with an unmade bed, a bathroom with underwear on the floor. A study, papers strewn across the desk, chair pushed back, as if the person working there has gone to get a cup of tea and will be back at any moment.

  ‘Look,’ says Martin. On the wall, framed and mounted, is a certificate recognising the service and dedication of Captain Avery Foster, 1RAR, Afghanistan. ‘He was there. Infantry, not special forces. But he was there.’ Next to it hangs another framed certificate, this one from the Central Orphanage Kabul, thanking Avery Foster for his support and generosity.

  ‘Interesting,’ says Goffing, examining it.
<
br />   ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’

  The desktop reveals invoices and orders, demands for payment and bills, booking calendars and bank statements. Goffing takes a seat and starts sifting through the papers, dividing them into two piles: the mundane and the noteworthy.

  He pauses. ‘You say he suicided?’

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘Curious. It must have been very spur of the moment by the look of this place. Do you know why he did it?’

  ‘I was told money problems—the pub was sinking under debt.’

  ‘Who told you that? Police?’

  ‘No, just a local, an old bloke called Codger Harris. He was probably just repeating the accepted wisdom. He told me Foster shot himself.’

  ‘Did he say where?’

  ‘No, not that I recall.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about the money problems. Here, look.’ Goffing hands Martin a bank statement for Riverina Hotels and Food Pty Ltd. The balance is eight thousand dollars; not a fortune, but not scraping the bottom.

  The men keep searching, Goffing at the desk, Martin returning to the small lounge. There’s a bookcase, its shelves containing little fiction, just an airport thriller or two. Most of the books are history and biography, some military books and a few textbooks. Psychology and sociology. And on the bottom shelf, a series of photo albums. The most imposing is a professionally produced wedding album bound in burgundy leather. Martin flicks through, the feeling of transgression strong. A handsome young man, hair dark and eyes shining; a beautiful young woman, lustrous smile and a face luminous with self-belief. The couple look at Martin out of the photo, out of the past, dressed in their wedding finery, confident of themselves and their future. In the first photos it’s just the two of them, standing at the shores of a lake, the foliage green and the water blue and expansive. So much water. There are more images, with the best man and maid of honour, the parents, siblings, children with flowers. There are pages of the ceremony itself, the ring, the celebratory kiss, smiles and goodwill. And on the last page of the album, preserved for posterity, an invitation, requesting the pleasure of your company at the wedding of Avery Foster and Dianne Webber. The card is white, the edges gold, the writing raised black cursive. Martin flicks back to the first photos. Avery Foster, before life went awry.