Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Ask for you. But you know it’s not up to me.’

  ‘I know. Thanks for trying, though.’

  Martin can see the anguish on the teenager’s face. He’s not sure what to make of it.

  ‘What happened, Jamie? Why did you do it?’

  ‘We didn’t mean to. We didn’t plan to. It just happened.’

  ‘How?’

  Landers looks into space again, eyes losing their focus, emotion dissipating, the impression of numbness returning. When he speaks, his voice has a faraway quality. ‘Allen had his Ps, so we went driving. Didn’t plan to go far, but we did. Just kept going. All the way to Swan Hill. No real reason, we just drove. We had some bourbon, some tequila; we ended up drinking by the river. The river there is so big. Just looking at it makes you feel cooler. It’s a good place to drink. I knew we shouldn’t be drinking, ’cos Allen needed to drive back. You can’t drink if you’re on your Ps. We met the girls there, by the river. They were pretty and fun. They tried the drink, but didn’t like it. Then they left.’

  Jamie is no longer looking at the wall; instead, his eyes are cast down, looking at the floor.

  ‘Later, when we were drunk, we drove into town for some food. We saw them walking, offered them a lift, they got in. That was it.’

  ‘That was it? You killed them?’

  ‘We weren’t planning to. I told you that. We stopped by the river again, to drink, but they wanted to go to their hostel. Then it went bad. They’d been to university. They started laughing at us when they found out we left school at fifteen, like we were idiots or something. Then they were teasing Allen, because he’d never seen the ocean. So I hit one of them in the face, to stop her laughing. I splatted her good. She stopped laughing. The other one screamed, so Allen punched her. It just kept going after that. We didn’t know how to stop.’

  ‘You brought them back here? To the Scrublands?’

  ‘We didn’t know what else to do. They were going to dob on us, tell the police. They promised not to, but I knew they would.’ Landers looks up, meets Martin’s eyes, gaze unflinching. ‘And you know what? It felt good. I liked scaring them. I liked being the one doing the hitting for once. It felt good. That’s sick, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you killed them?’

  ‘Yeah. We killed them.’

  ‘You raped them first?’

  ‘Yeah. We raped them.’

  There are no tears in Jamie Landers’ eyes; no tears for the dead girls, no tears for himself. No remorse. Martin knows he should probe further, extract the awful details, the timeline of depravity, the abominations that occurred in the Scrublands. Landers is ready to tell him, wants to tell him, and he knows the readers will want it too: a glimpse inside the mind of a teenage killer. It’s what journalists do, even if many of the details are too abhorrent to publish. It’s part of the job: witness the worst the world has to offer, then sanitise it for public consumption, make the events somehow explicable and twice-removed. But Martin feels sick in the stomach.

  He takes a deep breath, considers why he’s interviewing Landers. He’s fallen so easily back into the habits of the journalist, homing in on the confessional. He knows his former colleagues would give their eyeteeth to secure it, but feeding the news cycle is no longer his priority. The girls are dead, Newkirk is dead, Jamie Landers is fucked in the head. Does he really want to wallow in such evil? It’s not going to help him and Jack Goffing—an exploration of Jamie Landers’ twisted mind will do nothing to advance their investigations.

  So he changes tack. ‘Jamie, the priest, Reverend Swift—did you and Allen tell Sergeant Walker that he had abused you?’

  Landers’ face lights up. A smile. ‘Yes. Ha. That was me. I made that up.’

  ‘You made it up? It wasn’t true?’

  ‘Shit no.’ A look of contempt. ‘As if Allen and me would let him touch us. No fucking way.’

  ‘And he didn’t abuse anyone else? Any kids?’

  ‘Not that I know of. But you know, he was a priest. They do that sort of shit.’

  ‘So why make the allegation? Did it have something to do with the girls?’

  Landers nods. ‘Yeah, that’s it. You’re smarter than you look. He found them, or he found something. He was suspicious, but not of us. He warned us not to go out to the Scrublands, said something bad had happened out there. To be careful.’

  ‘He warned you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what was the idea? Were you going to frame him for the murders?’

  ‘Nah. We were going to kill him.’

  Martin stares at the young man, struggling to comprehend this new horror, but Landers merely smiles back, as if he’s just said something very witty.

  ‘Can you explain that?’ asks Martin.

  ‘I tell you, it was my idea. Allen was never that smart.’

  ‘What were you planning?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? We’d set the scene, told the cops he’d abused us. We were going to lure him somewhere and shoot him. With one of his own guns. Then we’d tell the police he’d tried to molest us again, that we fired in self-defence. That way, if they found the bodies in the dam, they’d think it was him as well. We’d be home free. Beautiful, hey?’ The boy is smiling again, proud of his scheming.

  ‘You think anyone would have believed that?’

  ‘Everyone would have believed it. He was a priest.’

  Martin considers that claim for a moment and surprises himself by concluding the scheme might well have worked. He continues, ‘There was a call to the police, Jamie. An anonymous call, to Crime Stoppers a year ago, not long after you killed the German girls. It was a tip-off that there were bodies in the dam at Springfields. The story was in the paper the other day. I thought it must have been Swift.’

  ‘Nah, that was us. Part of the set-up. Although we didn’t say the dam, just that the girls were dead and their bodies were somewhere in the Scrublands.’

  ‘Shit,’ says Martin, not knowing what else to say.

  But Jamie is on a roll now, happy to talk, happy to boast, happy they’ve moved on from the torture and murder of the girls. ‘In the end, we didn’t need to do anything. He went mental, mad cunt, and killed everyone at the church. Then his copper chum shot him. So we let it go. We figured the longer the bodies were in the dam, the better. Less evidence. And if they did get found, then they’d blame him, or that old rapist, or both. We told ourselves we were in the clear.’

  ‘That’s pretty amazing,’ says Martin, feeding the kid’s ego.

  ‘Pretty cool, hey?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Martin. ‘Pretty cool. But listen, you told Sergeant Walker that Swift molested you—is it true he told your dad and your dad believed it?’

  ‘Yeah. Dumb and dumber.’

  ‘You saw him, didn’t you, the morning he died, before he went to St James?’

  ‘My dad? Yeah, I did.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was in a fucking flap, I tell you, him and his mates, but especially him. Spitting chips. Funniest thing you ever saw. He was ranting on about killing the priest. Allen and me were cacking ourselves.’

  ‘But he didn’t really intend to kill him, did he? They didn’t take guns to the church.’

  ‘No. Mum turned up. I think she’d been to see him, to see Swift. Said he was leaving town, that Dad didn’t have to do anything. He calmed down a bit after that. He pulled me aside, demanded I tell him the truth, whether Swift had abused us or not.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him it was bullshit. That Allen and I were just getting back at him.’

  ‘For what?’

  Landers doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to want to.

  ‘For what, Jamie?’

  ‘For being a superior cunt, for thinking he was better than us.’ The assertion has the ring of truth to it, at least part of the truth. Martin lets it go.

  ‘Okay. So what happened then? With your dad?’

  ‘
Well, he calmed down. I thought they were going to go hunting and that was the end of it. Allen was going with them, to make sure they didn’t go anywhere near where we’d finished the Krauts or near the dam at Springfields. But then, I don’t know, Dad got kind of happy, started laughing. He said something to Mum, I don’t know what, but he was laughing and she was crying. The prick. And then Dad and his mates went to the church anyway.’

  Martin considers this. Why did Landers go to the church? His wife Fran had told him Swift was leaving, his son Jamie had told him Swift had not abused him after all. So why go? Martin looks at Landers; he can’t think of any reason the boy wouldn’t be telling the truth. ‘You’re worried about your mum, hey?’

  That brings Landers back to earth. He deflates, eyes cast downwards. ‘Yeah. She doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘What about your father, Jamie? Swift killed him.’

  ‘Best thing he ever did.’

  ‘Kill your father?’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’ Landers gets to his feet, starts pacing, suddenly menacing. Sitting on the floor, Martin feels vulnerable, Landers stalking the cell above him. He starts to get up, finds it difficult. One of his legs has fallen asleep, pins and needles running down his thigh and into his calf; his stance is unsteady. He recalls what Jamie said about the Germans: I liked being the one doing the hitting for once.

  ‘Was he violent, Jamie? Did he hit you? Did he hit your mum?’

  Landers’ eyes turn volcanic. His fist comes from nowhere, Martin swaying his head at the last moment, turning it into a glancing blow. But it’s enough for his knees to buckle. ‘Robbie!’ he calls as he falls. ‘Help! Robbie!’ Landers is standing over him, seething, fists clenched, but not moving, not lashing out. The cell door opens and Martin is pulled up and out.

  ‘You all right?’ asks Robbie, leading him back into the main station, into the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, I think so. He blindsided me.’ Martin touches his left cheek where Landers connected. It’s tender to the touch and beginning to swell.

  ‘Let me take a look at it,’ says Robbie, sitting Martin down. ‘It’s not cut, but you’ll have a decent bruise. I’ll get you some ice. You want to press charges?’

  Martin shakes his head. ‘What’s the point? Rape and murder. He’ll be inside for years.’

  Robbie gets some ice cubes from the freezer, wraps them in a tea towel.

  ‘You heard?’ asks Martin.

  ‘I was listening,’ says Robbie.

  ‘He lost it, hit me when I suggested his father had been abusive. Is that true?’

  Robbie nods, eyes more sad than angry. ‘Ask any country cop. Domestic violence is half of what we do. It’s endemic.’

  ‘So he was violent? Craig?’

  ‘Sure. Drought like this, times like this, heat like this. The pressure builds up; throw in a bit of grog and tempers become hair-trigger. I’m not excusing it, but that’s life for a lot of women. In the bush and in the city. Craig Landers beat his wife from time to time when he was in his cups. So do a lot of men.’

  ‘Did you intervene?’

  ‘I locked him up a couple of times. Talked to him. But after that, you really need to be guided by the women. No good going further if they don’t want you to; it might achieve nothing more than inciting another beating.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Welcome to my world.’

  ‘And Jamie? Did Craig beat him as well?’

  ‘Couldn’t say. Jamie never said anything; Fran never said anything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Well, something fucked him up, that’s for sure. Did you hear what he said in there? About the backpackers?’

  ‘That’s nothing. You should hear the full confession. What they put those girls through. It’s not human, makes your skin crawl. Montifore is insisting on counselling for the lot of us.’

  Robbie pauses and Martin takes the opportunity to change subject. ‘Hey, there are a few other things I’d like you to help me with. Off the record.’

  Robbie shrugs affably. ‘Sure. Montifore’s commandeered my office, but we can talk here.’

  ‘Remember that first time we met, when I interviewed you at the police station. You said that you and Byron Swift had been friends. You remember that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You just heard what Jamie said, that Swift warned him and Allen that something bad had happened out in the Scrublands. Did Swift ever say anything to you?’

  Robbie is unable to meet Martin’s gaze, staring at his hands as he picks at his nails. ‘No. No he didn’t.’

  ‘Any idea why not?’

  ‘Not really. I guess he didn’t want it made public for some reason.’

  ‘Walker told you his theory, didn’t he? That Swift was an imposter. It wasn’t his real name.’

  Robbie looks at him then, eyes intense. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Who was he then? Do you know?’

  ‘A former soldier. He was wanted by the authorities. I’m guessing that’s why he didn’t tell you. He knew you’d arrest him.’

  Robbie nods, as if endorsing Martin’s interpretation. ‘And you intend publishing this?’

  ‘I do, as soon as I find someone who’ll run the story.’

  Robbie stares at him, hesitating before speaking again. ‘Did Harley Snouch know? Byron’s last words. Was that what he was trying to tell me?’

  ‘I think maybe it was.’

  Robbie just shakes his head, as if in disbelief. Or in despair. ‘Shit. Harley Snouch knew, Herb Walker worked it out. Just poor dumb Robbie Haus-Jones left in the dark, sucked in and spat out.’ He shakes his head again. ‘I’m going to look the right fool when your story comes out. Fuck me.’ A third shake of his head. ‘But thanks, Martin. Thanks for telling me. For warning me.’

  ‘Sorry. There are a couple of other matters. I keep seeing bikies riding through town. What’s the story with them?’

  ‘The Reapers? No idea. They stay down in Bellington. There’s a pub there they like, owned by a former member.’

  ‘So not around here?’

  ‘No. No bikies around here.’

  ‘What about Jason, out in the Scrublands?’

  ‘Jason? He’s not a bikie. He’s an invalid with a Yamaha.’

  Martin nods. ‘The publican—Avery Foster. You knew him?’

  Robbie frowns, looking confused by Martin’s question. ‘Sure. Everyone knew him. He served behind the bar most lunchtimes, most nights. Can’t say I knew him well, though. He was a pleasant bloke, but quiet for a publican. Not prone to banter.’

  ‘Accepted by the community?’

  ‘Oh yeah. People were happy someone was trying to make a go of the pub.’

  ‘Was he mates with Byron Swift?’

  The frown deepens. ‘No. Not particularly. I don’t think Byron went to the pub much. He wasn’t up here that often. But maybe he did. I know Foster donated some money to our youth group, so they must have known each other somehow. Byron organised that. Either that or Avery got wind of what we were doing and decided to help off his own bat.’

  ‘He killed himself; am I right?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t good. Put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Down by the river. One hell of a mess. I should tell Montifore’s counsellors about that while I’m at it.’

  ‘Do you know why he did it? Did he leave a note?’

  ‘No, no note. But the reasons were pretty clear. His wife had left him. She’d never liked it here, never fitted in. The week after the shooting at St James, she packed up and headed back to the city. You can understand why. And he was out of money, so they say. The drought. It’s tough times, Martin. Desperate times.’

  ‘What happened to his body? His affairs?’

  ‘Why are you so interested in Foster?’

  ‘I think he may have known Swift’s real identity.’

  ‘What? How?�
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  ‘They were in the military together.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Jack Goffing and I, we broke into his apartment over at the Commercial.’

  ‘But the pub’s empty. The wife cleared everything out.’

  ‘Not everything. Goffing’s on his way to Bellington to pick up a criminal investigator.’

  OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION THE DAY GROWS HOTTER, A HIGH - PRESSURE system suspended above eastern Australia like a spiteful god, banishing clouds and forbidding moisture. Martin can feel the sun on his bare skin like a physical assault, as if the hairs on his arms might catch fire like the mulga of the Scrublands. The temperature must be approaching forty. He’s been here for more than a week and he’s yet to experience a cool day, yet to see a cloud. The only variation is the wind: too much and there’s the risk of fire, too little and there’s no relief whatsoever. Today is windless.

  Across the road, in the shade of a tree, the gaggle of media, beaten down by the heat, come alert at the sight of him. A couple of photographers notch up some lazy frames, more out of boredom than interest: he’s yesterday’s story. The media will get a doorstop with Montifore, then the spectacle of Landers at the Scrublands crime scene, recounting his atrocities. Then they can be on their way, the story that drew them to Riversend, the murder of the backpackers, resolved.

  A thin figure of a man, wearing moleskins, riding boots and a light linen shirt, breaks away from the group and makes his way towards Martin. D’Arcy Defoe, dressed the part.

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘D’Arcy.’

  They shake hands.

  ‘Looks like I got here in time to turn around and go back again,’ says D’Arcy.

  ‘Sorry to inconvenience you.’

  Defoe laughs. ‘Yeah. I reckon you did it on purpose.’

  Martin smiles. His rival has always possessed an easy line in banter.

  ‘For what it’s worth, Martin, I think you have been most shabbily treated. Most shabbily. Our management is a disgrace—but you already know that.’

  ‘Thanks, D’Arcy. I appreciate it.’

  Defoe flicks his head in the direction of the police station. ‘Any developments?’

  ‘No, not a lot. Jamie Landers has confessed to everything. He isn’t holding back. It’s not going to be much of a trial; very open and shut, I should think. The coppers are going to drive him out to the bush to film him taking them through it.’