Minutes pass. Martin sips his coffee. It’s not bad; he’s had worse in Sydney. Again the curious longing for a cigarette. The silence is awkward, and then it’s not. More minutes pass. He’s glad he’s here, in the Oasis, sharing silences with this beautiful young woman.
She speaks first. ‘I came back eighteen months ago, when my mother was dying. To look after her. Now…well, if I leave, the bookshop, her bookshop, it closes down. It will happen soon enough, but I’m not there yet.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so direct.’
She takes up her coffee, wraps her hands around her mug: a gesture of comfort, of confiding and sharing, strangely appropriate despite the heat of the day. ‘So, Martin Scarsden, what are you doing in Riversend?’
‘A story. My editor sent me. Thought it would be good for me to get out and breathe some healthy country air. “Blow away the cobwebs,” he said.’
‘What? The drought?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Good God. The shooting? Again? It was almost a year ago.’
‘Yeah. That’s the hook: “A year on, how is Riversend coping?” Like a profile piece, but of a town, not a person. We’ll print it on the anniversary.’
‘That was your idea?’
‘My editor’s.’
‘What a genius. And he sent you? To write about a town in trauma?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Christ.’
And they sit in silence once more. The young woman rests her chin in one hand, staring unseeing at a book on one of the tables, while Martin examines her, no longer exploring her beauty, but pondering her decision to remain in Riversend. He sees the fine lines around her eyes, suspects she’s older than he first thought. Mid-twenties, maybe. Young, at least in comparison to him. They sit like that for some minutes, a bookstore tableau, before she lifts her gaze and meets his eyes. A moment passes, a connection is made. When she speaks, her voice is almost a whisper.
‘Martin, there’s a better story, you know. Better than wallowing in the pain of a town in mourning.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Why he did it.’
‘I think we know that, don’t we?’
‘Child abuse? An easy allegation to level at a dead priest. I don’t believe it. Not every priest is a paedophile.’
Martin can’t hold the intensity of her gaze; he looks at his coffee, not knowing what to say.
The young woman persists. ‘D’Arcy Defoe. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But he’s an excellent journalist. The story won a Walkley. Deservedly so.’
‘It was wrong.’
Martin hesitates; he doesn’t know where this is going. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mandalay Blonde. Everyone calls me Mandy.’
‘Mandalay? That’s something.’
‘My mum. She liked the sound of it. Liked the idea of travelling the world, unfettered.’
‘And did she?’
‘No. Never left Australia.’
‘Okay, Mandy. Byron Swift shot five people dead. You tell me: why did he do it?’
‘I don’t know. But if you found out, that would be a hell of a story, wouldn’t it?’
‘I guess. But if you don’t know why he did it, who’s going to tell me?’
She doesn’t respond to that, not straight away. Martin is feeling disconcerted. He’d thought he’d found a refuge in the bookstore; now he feels as if he’s spoilt it. He’s not sure what to say, whether he should apologise, or make light of it, or thank her for the coffee and leave.
But Mandalay Blonde hasn’t taken offence; she leans in towards him, voice low. ‘Martin, I want to tell you something. But not for publication, not for repetition. Between you and me. Are you okay with that?’
‘What’s so sensitive?’
‘I need to live in this town, that’s what. So write what you like about Byron—he’s past caring—but please leave me out of it. All right?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
She leans back, considering her next words. Martin realises how quiet the bookstore is, insulated against sound as well as light and heat. He can hear the slow revolving of the fan, the hum of its electric motor, the tinkling of the water on the counter, the slow breath of Mandalay Blonde. Mandy looks him in the eye, then swallows, as if summoning courage.
‘There was something holy about him. Like a saint or something.’
‘He killed five people.’
‘I know. I was here. It was awful. I knew some of the victims; I know their widows. Fran Landers is a friend of mine. So you tell me: why don’t I hate him? Why do I feel as if what happened was somehow inevitable? Why is that?’ Her eyes are pleading, her voice intense. ‘Why?’
‘Okay, Mandy, tell me. I’m listening.’
‘You can’t write any of this. Not the stuff about me. Agreed?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘He saved my life. I owe him my life. He was a good man.’ The distress eddies across her face like wind across a pond.
‘Go on.’
‘Mum was dying, I got pregnant. Not for the first time. A one-night stand with some arsehole down in Melbourne. I was thinking of killing myself; I could see no future, not one worth living. This shitty town, that shitty life. And he saw it. He walked into the bookstore, started his banter and flirting like usual, and then he stopped. Just like that. He looked into my eyes and he knew. And he cared. He talked me around, over a week, over a month. Taught me how to stop running, taught me the value of things. He cared, he sympathised, he understood the pain of others. People like him don’t abuse children; how could they?’ There is passion in her voice, conviction in her words.
‘Do you believe in God?’ she asks.
‘No,’ says Martin.
‘No, neither do I. What about fate?’
‘No.’
‘That I’m not so sure about. Karma?’
‘Mandy, where is this going?’
‘He used to come into the store, buying books and drinking coffee. I didn’t know he was a priest at first. He was attentive, he was charming and he was different. I liked him. Mum really liked him. He could talk about books and history and philosophy. We used to love it when he dropped by. I was disappointed when I learnt he was a priest; I kind of fancied him.’
‘Did he fancy you?’ Looking at her, Martin finds it difficult to imagine a man who wouldn’t.
She smiles. ‘Of course not. I was pregnant.’
‘But you liked him?’
‘Everyone did. He was so witty, so charismatic. Mum was dying, the town was dying, and here he was: young and vital and unbowed, full of self-belief and promise. And then he became more than that—my friend, my confessor, my saviour. He listened to me, understood me, understood what I was going through. No judgement, no admonition. He’d always drop by when he was in town, always check on how we were doing. In Mum’s last days, at the hospital down in Bellington, he comforted her, and he comforted me. He was a good man. And then he was gone as well.’
More silence. This time it’s Martin who speaks first. ‘Did you have your baby?’
‘Yes. Of course. Liam. He’s sleeping out the back. I’ll introduce you if you’re still here when he wakes up.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Thank you.’
Martin chooses his words carefully, at least he tries to, knowing they can never be the right words. ‘Mandy, I understand that Byron Swift was kind to you. I can readily accept he wasn’t all bad, that he was sincere. But that doesn’t equal redemption, not for what he did. And it doesn’t mean the allegations aren’t true. I’m sorry.’
His words do nothing to persuade her; she merely looks more determined. ‘Martin, I’m telling you, he looked into my soul. I glimpsed his. He was a good man. He knew I was in pain and he helped me.’