A ute makes its way down from the highway, its driver flicking the ubiquitous finger of acknowledgement to Martin, who awkwardly returns the gesture. The vehicle continues on its way, heading up onto the bridge and out of town. It’s Tuesday morning. Martin recalls Mathilda’s Op Shop opening only on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Were other businesses the same, the ones still surviving, their owners conspiring to concentrate their meagre earnings into a couple of hours each week, townspeople and farmers doing their best to support them? A town circling the wagons against drought and economic decline? If so, Martin knows he needs to make the most of it, introducing himself to people while they’re out and about, canvassing their views and probing their feelings, judging how much life is left in Riversend. He walks across to the bank. Sure enough: open Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It’s the same at the dry goods store, Jennings, diagonally opposite, but the Commercial Hotel, freshly painted, will remain closed no matter what the day of the week. Next to the pub, closer again to the bridge, is Landers’ General Store and Supplies. Open seven days. Martin makes a mental note: Craig Landers was one of those killed in the shooting. Who is running the store now? His widow? Mandalay had mentioned her name, Fran, said they were friends.
For a moment he’s distracted by what sounds like distant thunder. He searches the sky for confirmation, but there’s not even a wisp of cloud, let alone a thunderhead. The thunder comes again, persists, grows closer. Four bikies appear, coming down Hay Road from the highway, riding two abreast, faces unsmiling. Their machines throb and pulsate, the sound bouncing off the buildings and reverberating in Martin’s chest. They wear matte black helmets, sunglasses, beards and moustaches. They aren’t wearing leather jackets, just their colours on thin denim with cut-off sleeves: Reapers, with a silhouette of the grim reaper and his scythe. Their arms bulge with muscles and tattoos, their faces with attitude. The men pass, seemingly oblivious of Martin. He takes a photo with his phone, then another, as they continue on their way, heading up onto the bridge. A minute or two later, the thunder is gone and Riversend returns to torpor.
It’s half an hour before another vehicle appears. A red station wagon turns in from the highway, passes the soldier and parks outside the general store. As Martin approaches, a woman emerges from the car, springs the boot and picks up a small bale of newspapers. She looks about his age, with short dark hair and a pretty face.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ offers Martin.
‘Sure,’ says the woman. Martin reaches into the back of the car, pulling out a tray with a dozen loaves of bread in brown paper wrappers. The bread is warm and the smell enticing. He follows her into the store and sets the tray on the counter.
‘Thanks,’ says the woman. She’s about to say something else, but stops, her mouth contracting from a flirtatious smile to a puckered scowl. ‘You’re the journalist, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘You’re not that Defoe man, are you?’
‘No. My name is Martin Scarsden. Are you Mrs Landers? Fran, isn’t it?’
‘I am. But I have absolutely nothing to say to you. Or to any of your ilk.’
‘I see. Any particular reason?’
‘Don’t be obtuse. Now, unless you want to buy something, please leave.’
‘All right. Message received.’ Martin makes to leave, then thinks better of it. ‘Actually, do you sell bottled water?’
‘Down the end there. Cheaper by the dozen.’
At the end of the aisle there’s a stack of generic brand one-litre bottles of mineral water held together in half-dozens by cling wrap. Martin picks up two, one in each hand. At the counter he selects one of the loaves of bread.
‘Look,’ he says to the widow, who is cutting free the newspapers, ‘I really don’t want to intrude—’
‘Good, then don’t. You people have done enough damage.’
A retort comes to mind, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he takes the two Melbourne newspapers, the Herald Sun and The Age, plus the Bellington Weekly Crier, pays and leaves. LABOR RORTS, yells the Herald Sun; ICE EPIDEMIC’S NEW WAVE, warns The Age; DROUGHT DEEPENS, weeps the Crier. Outside, he desperately wants to break open one of the sixpacks of water, but realises that once the cling wrap is compromised, the bottles will be all but impossible to carry, so he heads back towards the Black Dog. On the way he checks the Oasis, but the bookshop and its coffee machine are not yet operating.
At quarter past nine, having feasted on bread, bottled water and instant coffee amid the Black Dog’s cigarette butt-strewn car park, Martin is at the police station. It’s a converted house, not a purpose-built station; a solid-looking little red-brick affair supporting a new grey steel roof, dwarfed somewhat by its large blue-and-white sign, sitting on the corner of Gloucester Road and Somerset Street, next to the bank and opposite the primary school. This is the one interview he was able to organise in advance, calling through on his mobile from Wagga the morning before. Inside, working at the counter, is Constable Robbie Haus-Jones. Ever since the shooting he’s been hailed as a hero, but to Martin he looks like a teenage boy, with acne and an unconvincing moustache.
‘Constable Haus-Jones?’ asks Martin, extending his hand. ‘Martin Scarsden.’
‘Martin, good morning,’ says the young officer in an unexpected baritone. ‘Come on through.’
‘Thank you.’
Martin follows the slight young man through to a plain office: desk; three grey filing cabinets, one with a combination lock; a detailed map of the district on the wall; a dead pot plant on the windowsill. Haus-Jones sits behind the desk; Martin takes one of the three chairs arranged in front of it.
‘Thank you very much for agreeing to speak to me,’ says Martin, deciding to skip the normal small talk. ‘I’d like to record the interview for accuracy, if that’s okay with you, but just let me know if at any stage you want to go off the record.’
‘That’s fine,’ says the policeman, ‘but before we start, can you run me through what you’re after? I know you explained yesterday, but I was a bit distracted. To be honest, I was being polite; I didn’t think the interview would be approved.’
‘I see. What changed?’
‘My sergeant down in Bellington. He urged me to do it.’
‘Well, I must thank him if I see him. The idea for the story isn’t to dwell on the shooting as such, although that’s the starting point. The idea is to report on how the town is coping a year later.’
The young officer has let his eyes drift to the window as Martin is speaking, and he leaves them there as he replies. ‘I see. Okay. Fire away.’ His eyes return to Martin, not a hint of irony in them.
‘Good. As I say, the shooting won’t be the focus of the story, but it makes sense to start there. Am I right to think this is the first time you’ve spoken to the media on the subject?’
‘First time for the city press, yes. I gave a few quotes to the Crier early on.’
‘Good. So let’s start.’ Martin activates the voice recorder on his phone and places it on the desk between them. ‘Can you take me through what happened that morning? Where you were, what happened next—that sort of thing.’
‘Sure, Martin. It was a Sunday morning, as you probably know. I wasn’t rostered on, but I’d come into work to clear up a few things before going to church.’
‘At St James?’
‘That’s right. I was right here, sitting at my desk. It was a warm morning, not as hot as today, the window was open. Perfectly normal day. It was about ten to eleven. I was just finishing up. Didn’t want to be late for church. Then I heard what must have been a shot, then another, but I thought nothing of it. Cars backfiring, kids with crackers, something like that. Then I heard a scream, and a man shouting, and then two more shots, and I knew. I wasn’t in uniform, but I got my gun from the locker and went outside. There were two more shots, in rapid succession. There was a car horn, more screaming, all coming from the direction of the church. I saw someone sprinting up to the corner of the primary school grounds, heading this way. There was another shot and the man fell. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. It was real but not real, like I’d been dropped into a bucket of madness.