The Orchardist's Daughter

by Karen Viggers

  There was Fergus with Toby. Max raced up to them, hesitating a moment as his eyes were drawn to the gear hanging from Fergus’s belt: gun, baton, handcuffs, radio, Taser.

  Fergus looked down at him, and Max yelled into his ear.

  Then Fergus’s eyes shot down the street, and he pulled out his gun and moved faster than Max had ever seen him go. All the people stepped back like a snake had been let loose.

  Down the street Fergus ran towards the Toyota, Ken following. Miki was in the passenger seat; Max could see her lopsided face in the windscreen. Fergus and Ken were shouting and pointing their guns at the four-wheel drive. It was like in the movies, but it was happening here. Max was scared there might be a shootout because he knew Kurt had a rifle—everyone knew it. He wanted Miki safely out of the car before the shooting began.

  Some sort of struggle was going on inside the Toyota. Miki was trying to grab at Kurt’s arms, maybe to stop him from getting his gun. Kurt’s hand flew at her face, and she cowered like a dog. More shouting. Fergus roared almost as loud as the fire.

  Then the driver’s side door opened, and Kurt stepped out slowly with his hands in the air like a criminal.

  Fergus was yelling at him to turn around and put his hands on the roof of the car. Max thought Kurt wouldn’t do it—his lip had curled, and his eyes were hard and shiny like bullets. But he obeyed. Fergus locked handcuffs around Kurt’s wrists. That’s when Max’s legs went all wobbly; he wanted Fergus to drop the handcuff keys down the drain so Kurt’s hands could never be free again. Not after what he’d done to Miki.

  Fergus and Ken hauled Kurt up the street to the police car and pushed him inside. Miki swayed out of Leon’s Toyota and stood on the footpath, hands hanging by her sides. Max couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad about the police getting Kurt. Maybe she didn’t know how she felt about it yet because her home was burning. Max wanted to go up and hold her hand, but he felt awkward—she didn’t look like her normal self with her face all bruised. Then he felt bad, because he knew she would do it for him.

  He put his hands in his pockets and walked over and stood beside her. She didn’t seem to realise he was there, so he slipped his hand out of his pocket and took hold of hers. Her fingers were cold and limp, like the blood had stopped flowing into them, even though the fire was pumping out heat. He squeezed her hand and she looked down at him, her bloodshot eye like something from a horror movie.

  All the while, Toby and the other firemen were pouring water and white foam onto the shop, and the flames were flicking and writhing like they were never going to stop.

  45

  Toby was rolling out hay for his cows in the early evening. It had been a big day and he needed a beer, but the cows were cold and hungry and they wouldn’t wait. He was tired. Things had been crazy since he was called to the fire station this morning. So much had happened. Kurt chasing Leon with a rifle. The police special operations group flying in by helicopter, followed by a ground crew. Kurt being caught in the main street.

  While all this was going on, Toby had spent an hour fighting the fire in Kurt’s shop, then he’d joined the search to find Leon. By then, Search and Rescue had taken over, and another helicopter and handlers with dogs had been mobilised. Volunteers were needed for a search line, so Toby had put his hand up, along with many other people from town. He’d looked around at them all and been proud. They were a motley crew—but together they were a supportive and close-knit community.

  Up at the big tree they’d passed Kurt’s wrecked ute. Then they’d made a line and combed the bush, calling Leon’s name, fearing the worst. Shane had found Leon’s phone in the forest not far from Kurt’s ute, nothing else. Toby hoped the poor bastard wasn’t bleeding to death in the forest somewhere. He had a strong feeling Kurt had shot Leon.

  Late afternoon, Toby had excused himself then gone home because there were things to be done. Kids to be picked up from after-school activities. Dinner to be cooked because Steph was working late. Wood to be chopped. Cows to be fed. He’d felt guilty leaving the search, but there’d been plenty of other helpers and he knew they would be okay without him.

  Now he finished unravelling the last bale and bent over to collect the twine; he didn’t want the cows chewing it and causing a blockage in their guts. Usually being out in the paddock cheered him up, but not today. He was worried about Leon, and disappointed in Mooney for not joining the search. He knew Mooney’s attitude shouldn’t bug him, but it did. Mooney was selfish—Toby shouldn’t have expected anything else. Fact was, Mooney’s wife and kids were his only redeeming features. But Leon was part of this town now, and it was time for Mooney to get used to it. People weren’t going to tolerate his crap anymore.

  As he was stuffing the twine behind the tractor seat, Toby caught sight of something on the ground up near the forest. He wasn’t sure what it was. A blanket blown from the washing line? A cow lying down? It didn’t look right.

  He revved the tractor uphill, tyres spitting chunks of mud in the soggy paddock. Two gates had to be opened and closed before he was near, and it wasn’t till he was almost there that he recognised the shape of a man on the ground. Something turned in his chest.

  Parking the tractor sideways across the steep slope, he jumped down and leaned over the body, a sick feeling in his throat. On the footy field Leon had checked Mooney’s pulse, and that was what Toby did now, pushing his fingers into the cold skin of Leon’s neck. Relief poured through him as he felt a beating pulse and saw Leon’s chest gently lift and fall.

  He pulled out his phone to ring Steph, who was home now and down in the house with the kids, out of this infernal wind. He would get her to call the ambulance, and then he would work out how to ferry Leon to shelter.

  46

  Two days after the fire, Miki was allowed access to the ruins of her shop. She stepped into the bed of ashes and debris on the concrete slab, and it was as if she was a ghost shifting between the present and the past. Her mind skidded in and out of her body, remembering a different ruin and comparing it to this one. In less than two years, she had completed a circle—twice now, finishing up with nothing except the clothes she was standing in.

  She wasn’t the same person this time. She was older and stronger now, and had friends, new knowledge, more confidence. She knew she could start over because she’d done it before. She also knew that the important things in life couldn’t be seen and couldn’t be burned. Freedom. Choice. Friendship. Self-determination. Courage. All things Kurt had denied her. Yet she still cared about her brother. He was all the family she had. Her only friend in childhood. Her saviour from the farmhouse fire. Her guardian. Her guide. She wondered how he was faring in the remand centre: whether he was angry with her, or just angry at life. She would visit him soon. But not now. Not yet.

  She scuffed through the ashes, astounded that the firemen had prevented the flames from spreading to the neighbouring shops. The margins of her shop were defined by the edges of the concrete slab. Like when the farmhouse had burned down, there was little left: the molten metal remains of the fryer, skewed tin from the roof, soot-scorched beams, a few bits of buckled furniture. Their home—the rooms at the back of the shop—had been annihilated. All the walls destroyed. Kurt’s filing cabinet gone. Everything erased. A stranger looking at the wreckage wouldn’t be able to tell what it was. They wouldn’t know what had gone on here. They wouldn’t be able to tell she had been locked in. They wouldn’t know Kurt had hit her here.

  Miki was surprised by the emptiness inside her, the lack of emotion. Last time, she’d been crushed by the loss of her parents. Back then, she’d known so little of the world, but through the shop and its customers she had grown wiser. After the farm, she’d looked forward to a new beginning with Kurt, but hope hadn’t delivered. This time she was somehow calmer.

  While Geraldine waited in the laneway, Miki wandered through the rubble, reflecting on the life she and Kurt had shared between the lost walls. It hadn’t all been bad. There had been moment
s of light in the darkness. There had even been times when she was happy. But that seemed long ago. Nothing was as it had seemed. She suspected Kurt had never really wanted to buy a farm. And maybe he didn’t even love trees. She doubted everything about him now.

  She couldn’t claim to understand him, and there was sadness in the fact she knew him so little. Like her, he had suffered from a restricted upbringing, and it had harmed him as it had harmed her. Isolation wasn’t healthy, of that Miki was sure. People needed each other, and they needed an opportunity to make their own choices and mistakes. So why had it been so important for Kurt to control her? Had he been trying to recreate their past life on the farm? Trying to emulate Father? Or had he enjoyed the power he’d held over her?

  For too long, Miki had allowed herself to be contained and dominated without challenging him. She’d done it for a peaceful life, as Mother had taught her. And yet it hadn’t brought her peace—quite the opposite. It had caused her grief and sadness, restriction, suffocating loneliness.

  But now she had to let it all go. Loss and grief, she realised, were the ingredients of rebirth. She had to pass through them before she could grow.

  She could begin again.

  Feeling strangely unburdened, she ventured through the back door, which was no longer locked: it was gone. Then she walked slowly down the concrete back steps. The only part of the damaged shop she really wanted to see was Kurt’s room underneath, the only place spared by the fire. But the police had already emptied it. She was disappointed; anything left that mattered would have been among Kurt’s hidden things. She had hoped to find something that explained his reasons for the way he had treated her. She had hoped to find her precious books, but perhaps he had disposed of them after all. She had hoped to find Father’s black folder—who knew where it was now.

  She saw the vacant room, and turned away. Hope was in new beginnings and what she could make for herself.

  In the afternoon, Fergus came to Geraldine’s house to ask questions. Miki’s face was still sore, but the swelling was starting to settle. Even so, she noticed Fergus’s discomfort as he lowered himself into a chair in Geraldine’s kitchen. He obviously wasn’t sure which eye to look at: her right eye was bloodshot and her left one was fat with a purpling bruise. The graze on her cheek was bad too—Kurt had done a good job, nothing by halves with her brother.

  She wrapped her hands around the cup of tea Geraldine had made to help calm her nerves. She’d been feeling anxious, because she knew Fergus would outline all the charges against Kurt. Geraldine was certain Kurt would do time in prison and she thought he deserved it, but Miki didn’t like to think of her brother behind bars. When she’d mentioned this to Geraldine, the older woman had guided her to the bathroom mirror. ‘This is what he has done to you,’ she said. ‘He’ll do it again.’

  Feeling a strange sense of calmness, Miki now looked at Fergus. He was a big man like Kurt, but softer: dough instead of muscles, chins instead of a jawline, handlebar moustache instead of clean-shaven. He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry for what you’ve been through, Miki. I can see you’re in a bad state. Kurt shouldn’t have done that to you.’

  Geraldine was at the kitchen sink, furiously wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her mouth was set hard and Miki knew she was angry. Geraldine would have preferred Fergus to wait longer before presenting himself here with all his important information about Kurt and the fire. But Miki didn’t really mind. She wasn’t afraid of the policeman, even though she’d never spoken to him except to serve him in the shop. There was nothing he could say that would surprise her. While she waited for Fergus to speak, she was thinking how there would be no more fish and chips in her life, no more locked doors.

  ‘I thought it was best I come and tell you what we’ve found out about your brother,’ Fergus said. ‘Then I’ll need to ask you some questions to make sure you’re in the clear.’

  ‘She’s not an accomplice, Fergus, if that’s what you’re implying.’ Geraldine glared at him, screwing the tea towel into a ball in her hands. ‘And you shouldn’t be conducting a meeting like this in my kitchen. It could have waited till next week when Miki was better. You could have done it down at the station.’

  Fergus looked bashful. ‘Thought it would be less threatening for Miki here, but it can wait if she’s not up to it.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Miki said. Another week wouldn’t change anything.

  He fixed her with serious eyes. ‘Did you know about your brother’s room under the shop?’

  ‘Yes, but this morning was the first time I ever went there,’ she said. ‘He kept it locked.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘Thought as much. We had to cut open the padlock. Do you know what was in there?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was empty today. I know Kurt kept his gun down there and his gym. And the spare supplies for the shop.’

  Fergus folded his big hands on the table and his face was grave. His fingers were fat as sausages. His hands red as his hair. ‘He kept some of his drugs down there too, Miki. Did you know about that?’

  How could she have known?

  ‘And he had a house in Hobart where he’s been preparing his product for sale: a drug lab with irrigation and drying rooms for marijuana. Leon found his plantation in the forest the other day. We’ve found links to a drug-trafficking ring.’

  Miki felt everything piling on her like clouds on the mountains. Fergus began listing the charges against Kurt. Drug-related offences. Assault. Intent to murder—Leon had made a statement from hospital about how Kurt had shot at him many times, trying to kill him. Arson, for setting fire to the shop by igniting the fryer.

  By the time Fergus finished, Miki was exhausted. Her vision was blurry, and Fergus’s uniform shimmered in the bright light of Geraldine’s kitchen. She was about to excuse herself so she could lie down and rest, but then Fergus reached into his satchel and drew something out: her three books and Father’s black leather folder.

  She stared at the folder, a sudden fluttering in her heart. Fergus had surprised her after all—she had thought these things were gone. He placed the books and folder on the table and pushed them towards her. ‘We found them in the storeroom.’

  Miki couldn’t examine the folder while Fergus was there, so she thanked him quietly. Somehow it was important to appear calm, even though she was in turmoil.

  Geraldine must have understood. She escorted Fergus to the door, and Miki heard him say, ‘Tell her to call me if she has any questions. It’s probably been quite a shock for her.’

  Miki heard Geraldine return to the kitchen, felt the touch of the woman’s soft hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll be in the garden if you need me. Take your time.’

  The house lapsed into stillness and Miki sat staring at the black folder. She could hear Geraldine’s crystal clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the low grinding hum of the fridge, the background buzz of the fluorescent light in the kitchen.

  She lifted her hand and placed it on top of the folder. She’d never touched it before. Both Father and Kurt had locked it away. But she’d always known it was important. With quivering fingers, she slowly unzipped the cover and laid the folder open.

  The top sheet of paper was the rental agreement for the shop, and Miki heard herself sigh—at least that much had been legal. The next document was more interesting: a photocopy of an agreement for a monthly transfer of two thousand dollars into an account under Kurt’s name. It was signed in a scrawl Miki couldn’t read. Something opened inside her, a vault of hope. This was a relief: the extra money hadn’t all come from Kurt’s drugs.

  Scanning through the agreement, she saw her name embedded in the typing. These payments are for the care of Mikaela Gretel Muller, payable monthly until she attains twenty-one years of age unless she elects to establish contact earlier.

  Establish contact? Miki’s heart tumbled. Who could be paying her?

  Her hands shook as she shifted the document aside. Beneath it: her birth certificate. Register of Births. Her surn
ame: Muller. Given names: Mikaela Gretel. And below that, the names of her parents: Klaus and Heather Muller.

  Miki slid the birth certificate aside and found an envelope beneath it with her name written on the front. She turned the envelope over and found that it had been opened and resealed—Kurt must have read it. She drew the letter out, unfolded it and read the first words: Dear Mikaela, I am your grandmother, though you may not know of me.

  It was handwritten, dated a month after the fire in which Miki’s parents had died.

  Tears welled, and she couldn’t go on. She was trembling, as if a great wind was blowing over her like it did up in the forest.

  Taking a moment to compose herself, she set the letter down and rested her hands on the folder. There was a bulge in the back pocket. Something more? She slipped her hand in and tugged out a bundle of cards tied with blue ribbon, just like the ribbons Mother had used in Miki’s hair when she was small.

  The cards spilled onto the table when she untied the bow. They were birthday cards with glittery numbers on the front. Miki flicked through them. One for every year of her life up to sixteen. She opened one and recognised the same scrawl as the handwritten letter: To dear Mikaela on your 6th birthday. With love and best wishes from your Grandma.

  Closing her eyes, Miki tuned in to the sounds all around her, the hush and quiet, movements outside the house: a car going by in the street; wind buffeting at the windows; the thump of Geraldine hacking at something in the garden with a hoe; the sound of children’s voices next door, arguing and then unexpectedly breaking into laughter.

  That was life, wasn’t it? Tears and then laughter. Knocks and recovery. Injury and healing. Loneliness and then friends.

  Miki breathed into the enormous wave of emotion that had taken hold of her, knowing she was about to discover what she had always wanted to know. She lifted the letter again and read: