1977

1977

Cars rolled into town, dotting the harsh road that ran through its centre. The bitter winter cold didn’t deter workers from throwing their salary into the local watering hole. Dalranald and its people slowly withered with time. One man – Ronald McMullen – entered the local pub with a political mate of his. A well-regarded member of the community, many greeted his presence with a cheer and a yarn.

‘G’day Ron – You’re doing good work mate – keep those bastards honest!’

However, despite the pleasantries, there were some who greeted his presence with a sneer. He talked about his work at length. While many were interested, others didn’t want to know. He was making powerful enemies with his comments. His comments to one local journalist reverberated over the pub’s radio.

‘I’m gonna crack down on the dodgy bastards poisoning our children with these horrible drugs.’

For many, this made them nervous. Dalranald had a marijuana problem. People grew it on the side; authorities turning a blind eye. While unstated, everyone knew that those who wore the expensive watches made their money this way. Ronald didn’t like this; he wanted to crack down on this scourge. This was a point of contention for many who saw this as a good business venture.

That was a message that some believed needed to be silenced.

2005

Marnie entered Dalranald for the first time in 20 years. Despite growing up in the town, she had moved to Sydney to become a lawyer. She was Ronald’s daughter, yet she barely knew her father. He disappeared when she was just four years old. She was now 32. She wanted to know more about her father.

This led her to Dalranald’s watering hole. She sat at the counter; the lingering smell of cigarette was a far cry from the clean, antiseptic odour of her inner-city offices. She silently observed the patrons. They moved and drank without any energy or vigour. It was as if they were only here due to muscle memory, a few pints of lager the antidote to a broken marriage or a tough day on the farm.

She took note of the owner, a burly man in his late 60s. His skin was leathery, his eyes withered. In his state, it was a miracle he was still alive. He showed every year of his age, with a few tacked on. He didn’t look friendly, with the patrons greeting his delivery of beer with indifference.

Marnie hadn’t ordered yet. This was unusual. This wasn’t the place for a sober person. Unlike many other country pubs, this wasn’t catered towards families; this was purely for the pissed. The owner noticed this.

‘Wanna beer love?’ he said, slightly derisively, not respecting her patronage.

Marnie got straight to the point. ‘Do you know what happened to my dad?’

‘Probably blasted out the back with the other fools.’ He replied, rather dismissively as he began pouring her a VB. He figured she was picking up her dad after having a few too many.

‘Ronald McMullen, do you know what happened to him?’ The pub owner stopped in his tracks, his energy levels picking up ever so slightly.

‘That’s a name.’

‘Do you know what came of him?’ The pub owner didn’t respond, unsure what to say. He knew…

1978

This day was different in Dalranald. Arnold Moseley, the politician had come to the pub with a bunch of people from the local press. The pub owner was surprised to see a television camera in his pub. This was the time he had seen one of these cameras up close. The pub was a place that still used a radio for music and news. Arnold Moseley and the reporters from the press were quite a sight. There were five reporters with Arnold Moseley. They looked very fancy in their clothes. You could tell they were not from around Dalranald because of the way they dressed. The reporters had never been to Dalranald before. They seemed curious, about the place. It took a man like Moseley to attract them out.

‘Pubs like this are the backbone of our country, and we’re not going to let those bureaucrats from Sydney impose this ridiculous beer tax. Locals should be able to enjoy a drop after a bit of hard yakka.’ For Arnold, he wished to hold off a challenge from local Labor politician Alan Marsden. Despite Marsden public disagreement with his own party’s alcohol excise, Moseley still used this as a crutch; touring country pubs across the region to make his case.

‘Owners like Bill here provide a vital service to these communities, I’m not going to let an ordinary Aussie like Bill go out of business. If elected, I’m going to promise him personally, and the locals of Dalranald, that he will keep the lights on and the taps flowing.

The reporters scribbled down the odd note, but the pub owner observed something interesting. They were champing at the bit to get their questions in. As Moseley delivered his spiel, the reporters occasionally tried to get their question in. They were unsuccessful, he just ploughed through.

Until one reporter; a confident young lady named Hayley O’Halloran, made an interjection that brought Moseley to a standstill. ‘Do you know why this owner wasn’t question about the disappearance of Ronald McMullen.’ The Pub owners face went white, so too Moseley. He stammered over his words. Bill tried to interject, but Arnold put his arm up, preventing him from saying something he’d regret.

After a few brief moments, he regained his composure. ‘Dalranald residents have a local brewing industry to be proud of…’

2003

It was a steamy day. The window of Marnie’s office was propped open. She felt filthy, due to the weather and this case. She was working on a pro-bono case of a man who was clearly guilty of murder. She continuously rolled her eyes as she read this man’s statement; what’s the point of trying?

Her reluctant focus was broken by a knock at her door. A woman in her 30s appeared. She looked rather nondescript like the hundreds of people you’d walk by every day. She wore a green scarf and a rather ordinary grey blazer.

‘Hello, my name is Maddi, may I take a seat?’ she asked. Marnie invited her to take a seat. This woman sported a polite smile, but Marnie could tell she wasn’t here for a friendly chat. She had a manila folder under her arm.

‘What can I help you with.’ Marnie asked, relieved that this woman has given her a distraction from this case. She leans a little further in her chair, not out of a particular interest for whatever she might say, but so that she can get her mind on something a little less mind-numbing.

The lady slid the Manila folder forward towards her. ‘I was going through mum’s old files, and I found something you might be interested in.’ Marnie opened the folder and flicked to the first page. It was a picture of her dad. She froze, unsure what to make of this. She was 3 when she last saw her dad; he’d disappeared without explanation. She’d asked her mother many times of the years about her father; the official story was that he left town without explanation. She never really questioned this, despite some misgivings around certain details.

The lady continued, ‘She was a journalist, and she had spent a large chunk of her career working on what happened to your dad.’ Marnie looked up at this woman, who’s pleasant demeanour turned to discomfort. ‘She never really got to publish this, she died 20 years ago to illness, but I thought you’d like to see what she found out about his disappearance.’

Marnie’s eyes snapped back down to the folder. She flicked through a few pages towards a bundle of pictures. Amongst these pictures, there was one that caught her eye. It was a bathroom, with a bloodstain on the wall.

Surely, this couldn’t be.

1977

Bill arrived at work one morning. He was in a foul mood. A rather nasty argument with the missus meant he had slept in the car. He was on the cusp of divorce, and on the verge of leaving this town. He’d spent his life in Dalranald, and he felt like he needed something difference. He had married the woman he’d loved since they were both 17. However, their relationship had devolved. From being madly in love to pleasant roommates, to actively hating each other, it had become a relationship of convenience. It made his time in this town feel like it was at the end.

He waddled into work, and the pub was in a state. The radio was left on, a couple of people were passed out in various corners of the pub and a few spilt schooners. It was unusual for him not to close. He left it to Denise, a young woman fresh out of school. It was frustrating, but he had other things on his mind. The tardiness of a few patrons was a mere annoyance.

He went about his daily chores. He wiped the pubs counter, emptied the bins, dusted the windowsills and hurried a couple of last night’s stragglers along. A few sprays of air freshener helped liven things up.

As he got to the bathroom, he heard a quiet, pathetic whimpering. It was pitiful, the sobbing of a grown man who should be tougher. He figured this was someone going through something like what he was going through.

He gently opened the door. He was greeted by a man he’d seen in the papers. It was the local politician. He was less kempt than he appeared in the photos.

‘Mr Moseley.’

‘I’m a disgrace.’ Bill looked to the left of this man. There was a little puddle of blood coming from under the bathroom stool. Bill had some of that blood on his unironed buttoned-up shirt. He had a little bit of vomit on his leg. His face was wet with tears.

The pub owner quickly shut the door behind him. Locking it, he scurried over to Arnold, thinking he may’ve been hurt by someone. He looked over him to see if he had any wounds. There were non-visible.

‘I’m going to gaol. I’m ruined.’ Moseley sulked, hiding his face behind his hands. He was slouched up against a bathroom door. For the pub owner, a picture was being painted.

‘Do we need to get the police down her…’

‘NO!’ Moseley started getting up. He grabbed Bill’s belt to hoist himself up. ‘Mate, this is a bad look. This bloke wanted to run against me at the next election. I can’t go to gaol over him. You got to help me.’ It was clear to Bill that Moseley had made a pretty big mistake. He felt a bit queasy, grabbing the door handle to support himself.

Moseley pleaded, ‘C’mon mate.’

‘Why would I help you when you’ve clearly messed up mate?’

Moseley rebuked the pub owner. ‘It’s not worth the trouble. I’m a community leader; I get stuff done.’ Bill went to open the door. Arnold rushed to shut it. ‘Mate, I can’t lose it all. We’re building something. You can be a part of that.’

Bill ran his hand through his hair, still coming to terms with what he was dealing with.

‘What even happened?’

‘You don’t need to know mate. Just help me.’ Bill took a step out of the bathroom, looking to regain his composure. He wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to let Moseley get away with murder. He wiped his brow.

However, there was a side of him that had second thoughts. Arnold Moseley was a fine local member. He was heavily involved in the community. He got things done, especially the new rail extension to the area. He was popular, especially to the young ones. It was a messy situation, but it could be messier.

He had one question to ask himself. Did people need to know?

2005

‘Do you know what happened to my father?’ Marnie asked the bartender once again. He tried going about his business, as if he hadn’t heard her. Marnie knew he knew something, his silence revealing. One more time, she pressed him, ‘I know you know something about my father’s disappearance.

‘You don’t need to know.’ He snapped, wilting under the pressure. A glass breaking in his hand as he hit his hand on the bar in frustration. He hastily felt around for a cloth as blood started pouring from his hand. As he looked down, he felt a sense guilt.

As he wrapped his hand, Marnie reached into her manila folder. She fished out the same photo of the blood-stained wall that’d caught her attention two years earlier. She placed it on the counter, letting him see the photo. It took him a moment. He examined the photo, silently. His lip began to tremble, a bead of sweat rolling off his eyebrow. Like a ghost of the past, he was looking at something he didn’t want to see.

‘Where did you get this?’ He snapped, wiping it from the counter. It flew back into Marnie’s possession.

‘That doesn’t matter. What happened to my father. Is this my father’s blood in the photo?’

He turned away, ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree mam.’

She persisted, ‘You know what happened to my father, don’t you?’ He tried to ignore her, although he was clearly agitated. ‘I didn’t come here to get lied to, you know what happened.

Bill broke down. He began crying at the bar. Marnie walked over and placed her hand on his shoulder. Like a geyser, his guilt began bubbling to the surface.

‘I don’t have the heart to tell you everything,’ He sobbed, ‘But I didn’t want people to hurt.’ He used the rag that was covering his hand to wipe away his tears. ‘Arnold Moseley, the former MP, you’ll want to talk to him.’…

A Day Later

Marnie found her way to the Cotters retirement home. An old colonial building with clear signs of wear and decay. The large red door at the front of the premises was covered with peeling paint and spider webs. It was clearly a place to throw those that society had no more use for.

However, there was one man in this home that was of use. Arnold Moseley was a popular member of this community. As Marnie stepped inside his room, he had another visitor, a younger man. They were both sharing a cup of tea. Both were in a jovial mood.

She got straight to the point, without the need for pleasant introductions, ‘Excuse me, can I have a moment alone with Arnold.’ The man obliged. Marnie took a seat. A comfortable leather that’d make any visitor feel important. She observed the room for a minute. It served as a shrine to his former life. Newspaper articles, photos with important people, Christmas cards. It told the story of a decorated career. His upstanding reputation in your face.

‘Do I know you dear?’ His sentence was interrupted by a brief bout of coughing. ‘I can’t quite pick the face.’ The man was in his 80s. His wiry hair and jowls showing a man nearing his end.

‘Mr Moseley, I came here to ask you a question.’ She pulled the picture of the blood-stained wall out of her manila folder. ‘Does this photo seem familiar to you?’ Arnold’s friendly demeanour quickly sours as he reached for the photo. He examined it for a second. His face turned white. A bad memory resurfaced.

‘How did you get this?’ he asked, trying to sit up. Weakened by age, he quickly sunk back into his mattress.

Her response was blunt. ‘That’s my father.’ Arnolds eyes grew wide, his lip began trembling. As if he’d seen the devil himself. A tear ran down his face.

‘I’m sorry Madam. It’s more complicated than it looks.’ A bout of coughing interrupted his train of thought. ‘He was ruining a good thing. I know this was hard to hear.’ Marnie sat there silently. This was hard for her to here. ‘You don’t need to tell anyone.’ Marnie looked around. She felt conflicted. He did a lot of good for the community. A note from a local school was plastered above him. She read a few lines, one sticking out to her

We wouldn’t be where we were without your grant Mr Moseley.

Bringing his hands together in a pleading manner, he whispered, ‘You know what this’ll lead to right? This’ll bring shame to Dalranald.’

‘I know. I don’t...’ Having come to the realisation that this is her father’s killer, she was left with an ultimatum. Let a man’s legacy get taken down by a moment of madness 30 years earlier? or let the legacy live? He wasn’t a good man, but was he necessarily a bad man?

She looked at the phone beside his bed. He mouthed, ‘don’t’ With a moment of hesitation, she reached over and began dialling.

‘You’re gonna make a lot of people mad.’