‘No, I’ll stick to the terroir, thanks all the same.’
‘Goodo.’ And the old fellow drains his Vegemite jar, letting out a satisfied sigh, followed by a satisfied fart. ‘So what can I do for you, Martin? Reckon you haven’t come here for the grog.’
Martin smiles. Codger Harris is truly appalling, but the old man possesses an element of inexplicable charm. As if to underline the point, Codger reaches down and scratches his scrotum. Inexplicable is right. ‘Codger, I’m told the priest, Byron Swift, visited you sometimes?’
‘Oh yeah, the preacher. Fine fellow, fine fellow. Good lookin’ bloke, bit like yourself, only younger. Used to come out here a fair bit. Was very upset when I heard what happened, what he did. Never would have guessed it, not for a moment. Seemed a real gentleman. Who told you he used to come out here? Thought it was our secret.’
‘Does it matter who told me?’
‘No, guess not. You’re not a copper, are you?’
‘No. A journo. I’m writing a story about Riversend.’
‘Shit. That the truth? Christ. I could tell you a few stories. Make your hair curl.’
‘Please do.’
‘Shit no. I know your sort. Come out here, ply me with grog, get me to spill me guts. Next thing I know, paparazzi everywhere.’ There is a huge grin on Codger’s face, teeth stumps spread like tractor treads. He gives his balls a tug as if to emphasise the absurdity of his claim. Martin grins as well, inadvertently taking a sip of moonshine. He gags again; it’s no better the second time around. Codger hoots with glee.
‘So he did visit from time to time?’
‘Sure.’
‘How come?’
‘Dunno. For me wit and insight, probably. Maybe he wanted to save me soul.’
‘Seriously, Codger. What did he do out here?’
‘Sometimes we’d shoot the breeze. Drink moonshine, smoke weed. Mostly he used to go shooting.’
‘Shooting? Really?’
‘Yep. He liked shooting.’
‘And drinking and smoking dope? Doesn’t sound very priestly.’
‘You got that right. Bit of grog in him and he swore like a trooper, too. But a nice bloke. And he’d never drink or smoke when he was shooting, only afterwards.’
‘That’s interesting. Did you shoot with him? Was it targets or what?’
‘No. I went with him one time, but he preferred to go alone. He shot rabbits mostly. And sparrows. Saw him pick off a few sparrows.’
‘Sparrows? Shit, he must have been a hell of a shot.’
‘Fucken oath, Martin, you got that right. A natural. Never seen anything like it. Those guns, they would become like a part of him. You shoulda seen it. He’d go into the zone and pap, pap, pap. Shoot the wings off a fly. He had a twenty-two. You know what that is? Small calibre. Said it made it more difficult. Never shot roos or scrub wallabies; reckoned it was too easy.’ ‘How many guns did he have?’
‘Dunno. Three or four. The twenty-two. A hunting rifle. A high-powered marksman’s rifle with sights. A shotgun. I tell you, it didn’t matter: he was good with all of them.’
‘How did he learn to shoot like that?’
‘I think he grew up on a farm, but he didn’t like talking about his past.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Dunno.’ Codger Harris is thinking, remembering. ‘He used to come out sometimes, go bush, camp out overnight. Said he liked the solitude. This bush, the Scrublands, it goes a long way, thirty or forty kilometres, back to the hills. My place goes for ten k, after that it’s Crown land. Too shitty for farming, too shitty for a national park, too shitty for logging. Just shitty all round. But excellent for solitude.’
‘When you were drinking together, what did he talk about?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Philosophy, religion, politics. Girls with big tits. Racehorses.’
‘Codger, maybe you can help me. I’m having trouble reconciling the idea of Byron Swift as a priest and a pillar of the community with someone who drinks hooch, smokes dope and goes round shooting small birds. I can’t imagine a priest like that.’
‘Well, that was him all right.’
‘Sounds like you were impressed.’
‘Too right I was. Most handsome man I ever saw. Tall, square-jawed, could have been in the movies. But that was only half of it. The way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. He made you feel special just being with him. No wonder the sheilas liked him.’
‘Did they?’
‘So they say.’
‘So why did he want to be a priest?’
‘Well, I dunno, do I? But he had religion all right. Had it bad. Believed Jesus died for all of us, for all us sinners. It was no act.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, fuck yeah. He didn’t talk about it often, but when he did, it came from the heart. He never tried to convert me or anything, but for him it was real, like only part of him was in this world and part of him was somewhere else. He used to say a little prayer before he started shooting and a little prayer afterwards, for the animals he killed. Sounds strange, but there was something holy about him, something not of this world.’
‘In what way? Can you explain it?’
‘Nup. Not really. Just an impression. But he would have made a great Catholic, a great confessor. I told him things I’d never told another living being. In a way he saved me, got me to re-engage with people. Up until then I’d been a hermit.’
‘Why do you think he shot those people at the church?’
Codger’s half-amused affability falls away. He becomes serious, looks lost. ‘I don’t have a clue. And don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Lots of time to ponder the shit out of things in the Scrublands. I wish there was something I could have done to help him, to help prevent it.’ Codger takes a slug of moonshine, cracks a toothy smile. ‘That’s what I do out here: live in the past, drink grog and have an occasional wank. Not much of a life, is it?’
‘What do you think of this assertion that he was molesting local boys?’
‘Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Sometimes, when we was in our cups, we’d talk about it, doing the business. He had some good stories, I can tell you. But they were all about sheilas. He was into sheilas, not kids.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Martin repeats.
‘Well, I can’t be, can I? But tell a story like those he told and you get a gleam in your eye. You can’t fake that.’
Martin considers this for a moment as a searing gust of wind shakes the shanty. He looks around the one-room house: the makeshift kitchen with its piles of unwashed pans, the unmade bed with its yellowing sheets, the old books and random objects stacked in haphazard piles.
‘Why do you live out here, Codger?’
‘That’s my business. I like it.’
‘Can you make a living?’
‘You can. Not much of one, but you can. Running bush cattle. There’s a lot of them out there in the scrub. Have a big muster, make a fair old quid. But not now, not in this drought. They’d be skin and bones and chock-a-block with parasites. But come the rains and I’ll get a crew in, make a few bucks.’
‘And it’s just you out here, you and the Crown land?’
‘Nah, there’s a few of us dotted round the place. There’s an army vet and his sheila down the track a bit. Nice enough bloke, Jason, but not quite right upstairs. Keeps to himself. No idea why the woman stays. Harley Snouch is over the other side at Springfields, and there’s a few shacks and caravans here and there. People come out hunting from time to time.’
‘Harley Snouch? He has a bush block? Do you see much of him?’
‘Not if I can help it. Not after what he did. Bastard.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Raped that beautiful girl. Fuckin’ animal.’