When you drive through Alice Springs and head further north on the Stuart Highway, the landscape changes not long after leaving town. You see termite mounds on the side of the road, often dressed up in bras, hats, and high-visbility fluorescent vests – something of a cheeky tradition in the Northern Territory. Other things change too – the red rocks, boulder formations, and rough-hewn ranges that are such an iconic part of the Australian outback give way to flatter landscapes dotted with grasses and tall trees that grow in tropical zones. Also, dusty old towns spending their slow days sinking into the red soil.
If you require toilet facilities or a beer, you might stop at the tiny town of Larrimah. You might also make a photo of the giant fibreglass Pink Panther that stands out like a hot pink beacon off the highway. The garish statue seems to be the theme of the only pub in town – the Larrimah Hotel. It has been the local watering hole for years, and the cartoonish mascot seems to stand in stark contrast to the darkness that overshadowed the town in 2018.
That year, Paddy Moriarty and his dog went missing. The subsequent police investigation shed light on a possible local murder thread after an exhaustive search, but to this day, no one has been charged. The whereabouts of Paddy and his dog remain a mystery.
There seems to have been some argument about selling pies to tourists. If the photo of Paddy’s old place above is anything to go by, he seemed hellbent on making a name for himself as a pie seller in competition with another town-dweller. Who knows? It’s a strange story. One TV documentary on the murder in Larrimah identifies multiple possible motivations, none of which have ended in answers.
One of the interviewees in the documentary said something that struck me – small outback towns like Larrimah can be filled with jealousies and petty arguments, twisted into something bigger by the slowness of time in remote places. In those distant places, where social life for a dozen inhabitants revolves around a beer at the only pub in town, I’d guess that ideas about right and wrong also change shape in tune with the long days melting into one another.
The Rusty Ruin Journal 