‘But how can you reconcile that with what he did? He committed mass murder.’
‘I know. I know. I can’t reconcile it. I know he did it; I don’t deny it. And it’s been messing me up ever since. The one truly decent human being I ever met besides my mother turns out to be this horror show. But here’s the thing: I can believe he shot those people. I know he did it. It even rings true, feels right in some perverse way, even if I don’t know why he did it. But I can’t believe he abused children. As a kid I got bullied and bashed, as a teenager I got slandered and groped, and as an adult I’ve been ostracised and criticised and marginalised. I’ve had plenty of abusive boyfriends—almost the only kind of boyfriends I ever did have; narcissistic arseholes capable only of thinking of themselves. Liam’s father is one of them. I know that mentality. I’ve seen it up close and nasty. That wasn’t his mentality; he was the opposite. He cared. That’s what’s fucking me up. And that’s why I don’t believe he abused children. He cared.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say. He sees the passion on her face, hears the fervour in her voice. But a mass murderer who cared? So he doesn’t say anything, just looks back into Mandalay Blonde’s troubled green eyes.
MARTIN FINDS HIMSELF STANDING BACK IN THE STREET, AS IF WAKING FROM a dream; he hasn’t bought a book; he hasn’t asked directions to the hotel. He checks his phone, thinking of accessing Google Maps, but there is no service. Christ, no mobile phone. He hadn’t thought of that. He regards the town as he might a foreign land.
The early start, the long drive and the heat have drained him, leaving him feeling hazy. If anything, the day has grown hotter, the glare beyond the shop awnings more dazzling. Nothing moves, except the shimmering heat haze rising from the street. The temperature must have hit forty, without a breath of wind. He walks into the brightness. Touching the roof of his car is like touching a skillet. Something moves in the stillness, a shifting at the edge of vision, but when he turns he can’t see anything. No—there, in the centre of the street: a lizard. He walks across. It’s a stumpy tail, still as death. Bitumen is seeping through cracks in the road and Martin wonders if the lizard has become stuck. But it scurries away, blood quickened by the heat, rushing under a parked car. Another sound. A spluttering cough. Martin turns, sees the man shuffling along under the awnings on the other side of the road. The same man, in his grey overcoat, still clutching the bottle in the brown paper bag. Martin walks across to greet him.
‘Good morning.’
The man is stooped. And apparently deaf. He keeps shuffling, not acknowledging Martin’s existence.
‘Good morning,’ Martin repeats more loudly.
The man stops, looks up and around, as if hearing distant thunder, locating Martin’s face. ‘What?’ The man has a grizzled beard, streaked with grey, and rheumy eyes.
‘Good morning,’ Martin says for a third time.
‘It’s not good and it’s not morning. Whatcha want?’
‘Can you tell me where the hotel is?’
‘There is no hotel.’
‘Yes, there is.’ Martin knows; he read the clippings on his laptop during the flight down, including Defoe’s award-winning piece describing the pub as the heart of the town. ‘The Commercial.’
‘Shut. Six months ago. Good fucken riddance. There it is, over there.’ He waves his arm. Martin looks back the way he drove into town. How did he miss it? The old pub, the only two-storey building on the main street, stands at the intersection with its signage intact and an inviting wraparound verandah, looking not so much shut down as closed for the day. The man pulls the top of the bag back, unscrews the bottle and takes a swig. ‘Here. Want some?’
‘No thanks. Not right now. Tell me, is there anywhere else in town to stay?’
‘Try the motel. Better be quick, though. Way things are turning to shit round here, it might be next.’
‘Where can I find it?’
The man regards Martin. ‘Which way you come in? From Bellington? Deni?’
‘No, from Hay.’
‘Fuck of a drive. Well, head down here, the way you were going. Turn right at the stop sign. Towards Bellington, not Deniliquin. Motel’s on the right, on the edge of town. About two hundred metres.’
‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’
‘Appreciate it? You some sort of fuckin’ Yank? That’s how they talk.’
‘No. I just meant “thank you”.’
‘Goodo. Piss off then.’
And the derro continues on his shambling way. Martin extracts his phone and takes a snap of his receding back.
Getting into the car is no easy task. Martin wets his fingers with his tongue, so he can grab the doorhandle for long enough to swing it open, inserting his leg to stop the slope swinging the door shut again. Inside, the car is like a tandoori oven. He starts the engine, cranking up the air-conditioner, which does nothing more than pump hot air around the cabin. There’s an ugly smell, the residual vomit of some former hirer, lifted from the fabric seats by the baking heat. The seatbelt buckle has been sitting in the sun and is too hot to handle; Martin goes without. He drapes the once-damp towel around the steering wheel so he can hold it. ‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters.
He navigates the few hundred metres to the motel, swings the car into the shade of a carport by the entrance and gets out, chuckling to himself, spirits revived. He extracts his phone, takes a couple of photos. THE BLACK DOG MOTEL, says the peeling sign. VACANCY. And best of all: NO PETS ALLOWED. Martin laughs. Gold. How did Defoe miss this? Maybe the smooth bastard never moved from the pub.
Inside reception, there’s still no respite from the heat. Martin can hear a television from somewhere deep inside the building. There’s a buzzer on the counter, a doorbell adapted for the task. Martin presses it and hears a distant chirping off in the direction of the television. While he waits, he checks out a handful of brochures in a wire rack hanging from the brick wall. Pizza, Murray River cruises, a winery, a citrus farm, gliding, go-karts, another motel, a bed and breakfast. A swimming pool with water slides. All of them forty minutes away, in Bellington, down on the Murray. On the counter itself are a handful of takeaway menus printed in red ink. Saigon Asian—Vietnamese, Thai, Chinese, Indian, Australian meals. Services Club, Riversend. Martin folds one and puts it in his pocket. At least he won’t starve.
A blowzy woman in her fifties wafts out from behind a semi-mirrored swing door, bringing with her an ephemeral gust of cool air and the smell of cleaning products. Her shoulder-length hair is two-tone: most of it’s blonde, but the inch or so closest to her scalp has grown out into a doormat weave of brown and grey. ‘Hi, love. After a room?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Quick kip or overnight?’
‘No, probably three or four nights.’
She takes a longer look at Martin. ‘Not a problem. Let me check our bookings.’
The woman sits down and kicks an ageing computer to life. Martin looks out the door. There are no other cars, only his, under the carport.
‘You’re in luck. Four nights was it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Not a problem. Payment in advance, if that’s okay with you. Day by day after that if you stay longer.’
Martin hands over his Fairfax company credit card. The woman looks at it, then up at Martin, placing him in context.
‘You’re from The Age?’
‘Sydney Morning Herald.’
‘Not a problem,’ she murmurs and runs the card through the EFTPOS handset. ‘Okay, love, you’re in six. Here’s your key. Wait a tick, I’ll get you some milk. Turn your fridge on when you get in, and make sure you turn the lights and air-con off when you leave the room. Power bills are killing us.’
‘Thanks,’ says Martin. ‘Do you have wi-fi?’
‘Nup.’
‘And no mobile reception?’