A roar goes up, and through the entry comes one of the Bellington crews. The Riversend firefighters stagger upright. Hands are shaken, backs are slapped, smiles and laughter are exchanged, the reek of wood smoke overpowering. Tables are moved together, chairs pulled up. Errol is at the bar, ordering jugs for the newcomers; Moxie has started up again: ‘Jeez, I tell you, I thought those blokes were goners for sure…’
Martin gazes through the windows overlooking the empty river; somehow it has turned to night outside despite being late afternoon just a moment before.
The newcomers drain schooners, relate their own battles. Martin learns that the fire was slowed by the highway, that the Riversend crew narrowed the flanks, that the Bellington crews got to Glondillys Track in time to back-burn, to stop the front there and get into the scrub to take care of most of the spotting. A second crew is mopping up, another will guard the fire during the night; he’s told it could smoulder for weeks unless there’s rain.
Martin finds himself leaning on the bar next to Robbie, needing its support after all. ‘You reckon we should have left him out there overnight?’
‘Sure. Up to him. Could have come into town if he wanted. You heard him.’
‘Yeah. Even so. He’s lost everything.’
‘That’s true.’
‘What’s the story with his house? Did you notice? It was quite the grand affair.’
‘True. I knew he had the place. Springfields, it’s called. Didn’t know it was like that. You’d have to ask a local.’
‘Aren’t you a local?’
‘Fuck no.’ Robbie laughs. ‘I’ve only been here four years. Takes at least ten. Double for coppers.’
Martin smiles. ‘Double again for journos.’ He reaches for a jug on the bar, refills their glasses. ‘He certainly knew what he was doing, though, don’t you think? The way he took charge? Pretty together for an old derro.’
‘Yeah. I wonder about that sometimes.’
The two men turn to face the bar rather than watch the revellers.
It’s a long moment before Robbie speaks again, in a low voice. ‘Why did he do it, Martin? Why did he shoot those people? I still can’t understand it.’
‘Neither can I, Robbie; neither can I.’
‘Do you think we ever will?’
Martin sighs. ‘Probably not.’
They stand in silence, no longer drinking, lost in contemplation. Martin looks across at the policeman. He seems so young staring down into his beer. He is so young. Martin wishes there was something he could do, but he decides against interrupting the other man’s thoughts.
Finally Robbie turns to Martin. He no longer looks drunk. ‘He said something, Martin.’
‘Who?’
‘Byron. Before I shot him.’
‘You told me. Something like he’d been waiting for you.’
‘Not just that. There was something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘You can’t quote me or say it came from police sources, but it will come out at the inquest in a month or two. And there are other people in town who already know. You’re going to find out one way or another.’
Martin waits.
‘Just before he lifted his gun and fired, he said, “Harley Snouch knows everything.”’
‘“Harley Snouch knows everything”? Knows what?’
‘Can’t tell you; I don’t know. He’s been questioned, I know that. Extensively. But like I said, I’m not part of the investigation.’
‘What do you think he meant?’
‘Search me. If he knows, he’s not telling me or anyone else. It keeps me awake at night wondering, but I really don’t know. No fucking idea.’ The young policeman stares at his beer, but Martin can think of nothing to say.
A hush falls upon the room, and Martin turns to look. And there, standing just a few feet from them, regarding them, is Mandy Blonde. She is wearing a white blouse and jeans, her cleanliness accentuated by the dirty, sooty, smelly fire crews surrounding her.
‘Hello,’ says Martin.
‘Hello, Martin,’ says Mandy.
Robbie turns at the sound of her voice.
‘Hello, Robbie.’ And she steps over to them, kisses Robbie full on the mouth, and then does the same to Martin. She steps back, one hand holding Martin’s hand, the other holding Robbie’s. ‘Thank you. Thank you for saving him.’
Martin looks over her shoulder to where Codger is sitting looking at them, but not really at them. He appears to be checking out Mandy’s arse.
‘Not Codger, Martin,’ says the constable. ‘Harley Snouch.’
MARTIN IS BACK IN THE BOOT OF THE MERCEDES IN GAZA. BUT THIS TIME IT’S warm and dark and secure, and somehow it smells good. Outside, a baby is crying, wailing against the injustices of the world, but inside his cocoon Martin feels safe. He turns over, floating in his sleep, when abruptly, without warning, he’s hit in the ribs. He’s awake in a flash, fear coursing, but not before another kick hits him in the stomach. Even with his eyes open, it takes him a second to realise where he is: in bed, a large bed. Mandy is looking at him, laughing.
‘What the—?’ he begins, as another blow lands. He pulls back the covers. Between the two of them is a baby, flailing chubby legs.
Mandy laughs again. ‘Liam. He comes in with me most mornings.’
Martin rubs his ribs. ‘Christ. He’s got a kick like a mule.’
‘That he has.’
Later, as they eat breakfast at the kitchen table, Martin’s mind reluctantly kicks into gear. He feels wrung out: exhausted from fighting the fire, hazy from all the beer, exhilarated from sleeping with Mandy. He nurses the coffee, savours the muffins, swallows some painkillers to fend off an embryonic hangover. He just wants to sit, enjoy the moment, let his stomach settle, but he can’t prevent the thoughts from coming. ‘Mandy, about last night…’
‘Complaints?’
‘No. Of course not. Shit no.’ She’s smiling, teasing him. He realises he’s at a disadvantage; the disadvantage of an older man entangled with a beautiful and self-possessed young woman. But he pushes on. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘About what?’
‘Harley Snouch. I thought you hated him. But last night you seemed grateful that Robbie and I had saved him.’
Mandy says nothing for a long time. Her eyes grow moist, the tiniest frown creases her forehead. ‘I know. It doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘No, not really.’
‘It’s just, sometimes, I wish things were different. Like I dreamt about when I was a girl.’
‘Mandy, you’re no longer a girl.’
‘I know. What do you think I should do?’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘I think you should leave town. If Snouch did what your mother claimed, he’s no sort of grandfather for your boy. You have Liam to think about.’
Mandalay Blonde says nothing.
As soon as Martin leaves the bookstore, the hangover kicks in with a vengeance. He squints into the scolding brightness of Riversend and his head pounds; he steps into the oven of Hay Road and his stomach churns. The town stinks of wood smoke, no longer benevolent. He climbs into his car, parked where he’d left it the day before. Thankfully, it’s sitting in the morning shade of the shop awnings and has cooled overnight. There’s a bottle of water on the front seat. Martin takes a swig. The water feels good in his throat and rebellious in his stomach.