Ironbark

by Jonsberg, Barry

  It isn’t like a proper dream. I don’t remember the beginning and there’s no story as such. Just broken images.

  Richie is there, but it’s all hazy. Then suddenly, everything is sharper. I see him in the distance. He’s facing up to a length of wood, a tree trunk of some kind. One of my gashes is visible. I recognise it. I catch a gleam of light along the face of an axe. There’s a regular sound – a thunk, thunk – as metal bites into wood. I’m getting closer to him, but slowly. It’s as though I’m being carried on one of those travelators you get in airports, because it’s a smooth movement. His body bulks before my eyes, but he doesn’t see me approaching. His eyes are on the wood and the axe is coming down quicker now. The thudding is louder, closer. The blows become impossibly close together, sounds merging. They resolve into a ringtone.

  I sit up as though I’ve been scalded and scrabble for my phone. It’s on the rock next to me and I knock it off the edge and have to scrabble further. There is a sharp pain in my back from where I’ve been lying, but I ignore it. I push the accept button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. It’s me.’

  I glance at my watch and have difficulty processing the information. It’s almost twelve-thirty and I’ve slept for over two hours. I try to sweep the dust from my thoughts. It must have been the combination of last night’s lack of sleep and the effect of the sun, I guess, but I feel really bad. Kris must have been waiting half an hour for my call. She must have thought I wasn’t going to. I switch the phone to my other ear. The pain in my back stings. I notice that the sun has disappeared and the day’s turned cold.

  ‘God, Kris,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry. I fell asleep.’

  I should explain. Tell her about the previous night, that I was up here two hours early. But I don’t. It would sound like I was trying too hard to convince.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I’m sorry, I really am. Look, hang up and I’ll ring you back. I don’t want to run down Janine’s credit.’

  ‘Justine.’

  ‘Yeah. Her. Give me a moment.’

  ‘No.’

  Her tone is sharp. I’ve almost disconnected, but the urgency in her voice stops me.

  ‘I can’t talk long, anyway,’ she continues.

  ‘Hey. I know it’s my fault. I should have rung at twelve. But you’ve still got another half hour of lunch left yet.’

  ‘I’m seeing Miss Millner in five minutes for maths tutoring. I can’t talk long.’ The repetition seems to rule out all argument.

  I’m in the wrong. I know that. But I’m getting seriously ticked off, anyway. If Kris knew she had an appointment she could have rung earlier. And, besides, what is more important to her? Give Miss Millner the flick. See her some other time. I tell her that.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Okay.’ I hold the phone against my chest for a moment, try to calm my breathing. Getting angry won’t cut it, that’s for sure. I need to keep control. And it is my fault. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep. I go for the bright and cheery disposition.

  ‘Look, Kris. I bought you a phone yesterday. Sent it off Express Post care of the school ’cos I didn’t want your dad to intercept it. It’s charged up, chock-a-block with credit and everything.’

  ‘You did what?’

  The bright and cheery disposition is all one way. If I could hold her tone in my hands it would slice through me. ‘It wasn’t expensive,’ I say, but I know I’ve made another mistake. I have no idea what it is, but I’ve been here before and I can read the signs. If anything, the silence from the other end is sharper than her voice.

  ‘I said I would think about it,’ she says finally. ‘I would think about it. What is wrong with you?’

  ‘What do you mean, “What’s wrong with me?” Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing. You don’t want it, fine. Throw it away. Not a problem. I thought it would be better to get it to you sooner rather than later. That’s all. What’s so wrong with that?’

  ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’ Boy, she is mad.

  ‘You know, Kris? I don’t. I don’t know why sending you a present is such a crime. Why don’t you explain it to me?’

  ‘Now you’re getting nasty.’

  ‘Hell . . .’ I have to take the phone away from my mouth again. It’s cool. I’m cool. This is too crazy for words. I’m getting nasty? Boy, this girl needs to listen to herself sometimes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I have to force my voice to sound calm and controlled. ‘I’m not being nasty. Seriously. But I don’t understand.’

  ‘We had a conversation. You suggested sending me a phone. I said I would think about it and let you know. But you had to take control. Don’t you see? It was my decision to make, not yours. It’s like my opinions, my needs, don’t count at all. The phone was never about me, it was all about you.’

  ‘That’s nuts,’ I say. ‘What do you mean, it’s about me? It’s your phone. I bought it for you. A gift.’

  I have got to be on solid ground here. There’s no one else, no one at all, who wouldn’t think this conversation – or one side of it, at least – was just bizarre. Maybe she’s got PMS. I wouldn’t be surprised. But I reckon now is not the best time to explore that possibility.

  ‘I don’t want you making decisions for me. I don’t want anyone making decisions for me. Can’t you get that through your head?’

  ‘Apart from your dad, of course,’ I say. I regret it as soon as I say it, but the words escape before I can stop them. ‘He doesn’t want you to have your phone, so you just give up. “Yes, Daddy. If you say so, Daddy.” I tell you, Kris, this independent, free-thinking woman line you’re peddling seems a little flimsy. Particularly when your dad is controlling who you see, who you talk to.’

  There’s silence at the other end. It’s the first advantage I’ve detected in the argument, so I push it.

  ‘Well?’ I say.

  Her voice is much softer.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why I don’t need anyone else pushing me around.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Fine. No problem. You don’t want the phone, get rid of it. Throw it in the bin. Don’t even open the package. Just so long as you’re happy.’

  ‘I’m not happy,’ she says, but her voice isn’t hard anymore.

  ‘You mean you’re not happy with me, don’t you?’ I say. ‘You’re not happy with me because I’m like your father. Except, of course, he denies you things while I try to provide them. But hey, Kris, it’s all the same to you, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’

  Her silence tells me all I need to know.

  ‘So is it Steve, Kris? Is he the reason I’m suddenly such a crap person? Is he the reason you won’t text me or call?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she says.

  ‘Has he been sniffing around? Course he has. While the cat’s away. Is that it? Come on, Kris. Tell me. I can handle it.’ ‘You seriously think that when I’m mad at you, it has to be because some other guy is involved? Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Do you always answer a question with another question? Pretty poor, that, Kris. Tell you what. You answer my question first.’

  ‘I’m going now,’ she says and I can tell she’s on the verge of tears. Most times, I’d feel bad. Right now, I feel victorious.

  ‘That’s one way of avoiding the question,’ I say.

  But she’s gone. I listen to the hiss of the broken connection for a few moments. Dark clouds are building and the wind has picked up. Far off in the distance I see a flash of lightning. Even though I wait for ages, there’s no accompanying thunder. Only echoes in my head. Kris’s words and the thunk, thunk, thunk of an axe biting into wood.

  It’s only when I look down that I see my phone. I’m beating it regularly – thunk, thunk, thunk – into the rock. Splinters of plastic litter the ground.

  Branches sweep across my face, but I pay them no attention. The bike is beneath me, but I don’t pay attention to it either. As far as I can tell, I don’t have a thought in my hea
d. I’ve reached that stage where I’ve become part of the bike, and movement is simply an expression of my will. No thought required. It’s just as well.

  I’m not looking for gashes in trees. I’m not looking for anything. Movement is all I need. I surrender to speed. It’s dark all around me. I see clouds, black and broiling, scud across the sky. From time to time a flash of lightning etches the branches and the leaves in silver. I’m riding a strobe.

  I have no idea where I am and I don’t care. The route I’m taking is downhill, but only because that makes me go faster. Occasionally, I hit a log and the back wheel of the bike slews to one side. But I lean by instinct, correct the slide, keep going without losing speed. It’s all cool. I don’t fall. I’m one with the bike. Maybe it’s madness I feel. I want to laugh, riding with the throttle on full, down a steep slope in treacherous terrain. I see myself frozen in the lightning’s frame. I blink in and out of existence.

  I might die here.

  I miss trees by millimetres, but it’s not like I’m making conscious choices to miss them. Once, the bark of a tree takes skin off my arm. It feels good. After a while, it’s as if I’m still and the forest is sweeping past me. I’m suspended in space and the world blurs. It can’t last. I know that. Sooner or later I will hit something. Smash into a tree, be thrown through the air. I see myself hit a tree. I hear the crunch as my neck breaks. I even see my body lying crumpled and motionless next to the bike. One wheel is spinning gently while the forest returns to silence. Gran is standing over me. It’s cool.

  I don’t hit a tree. I hit a depression in the ground, covered with fallen leaves. The bike dips and my stomach lurches. I don’t know what lies beneath those leaves, other than the dip of land, but I hit it. I hit it hard. Maybe a rock. Maybe a fallen tree trunk. It doesn’t matter. For a few brief, glorious seconds, I fly. I’m not even aware of leaving the bike. It feels like death, this flight. It lasts forever.

  The impact punches the breath out of me. I lie where I land and it’s hard to breathe. There is a pain somewhere, but I’m not sure it’s mine. Right next to my face is a pile of leaves. I can see an ant climbing slowly up one brown leaf.

  I close my eyes, and when I open them again, it’s gone. It takes minutes for me to lever myself to my feet, brush leaves from my shirt. There is a gash down my left arm and it weeps drops of blood. The bike lies fifteen metres to my left. I can’t be sure, but it looks like one wheel is slightly bent. Then my legs go from under me and I collapse in the undergrowth. I come back to myself slowly. The lightning has stopped and clouds float, fat and dirty white, across the sky. The silence presses against my ears.

  A rustle of branches catches my attention. Down the slope. Maybe fifty metres, maybe less. The sound, the movement, drifts towards me.

  The eyes are back. Something out there is watching me and its gaze is hot. It bores into my flesh. I don’t think I’m going to avoid it this time. I don’t know how I know that. My legs don’t want to obey me, but I force them. I find my feet and hobble towards the bike. I try to keep the noise to a minimum. For what that’s worth. As I lift the bike, I sense the movement towards me quickens. I have little time to worry about the pain in my leg, or the slight buckle in the back wheel. It’s hard to get leverage under the bike’s frame. My muscles scream as I lift. When I kick the engine over, it splutters once or twice, but doesn’t catch. Flooded. I turn the throttle right down and try again. Nothing.

  Whatever it is, its pace is increasing. I’m muttering to myself, keeping my head bent over the handlebars, but I know it’s coming towards me. Right on the edge of vision, I see branches parting. I hear the crashing as it comes through the undergrowth. It knows. It knows there’s no need for quiet now. Its path is direct. I kick the engine over again. It splutters, a faint spark of life, so I twist the throttle and it roars. No time now. I slam into first gear, release the clutch.

  Trees streak past me. Something brushes against my neck, something clutching. It leaves a scratch down the side of my neck. A branch. Maybe. I duck my head, click down into second, keep the throttle to full. It’s like the engine is in pain. It screams. But I don’t change to third. I need traction.

  The ride is heavy, not just because of the dips and depressions, and the heavy matter littering the forest floor. I glance back and the rear wheel looks like it’s twisting as it turns. There’s a screeching noise. Metal is grinding on metal. I go into third, head straight down the slope. My head is thumping. Everything hurts. I twist my neck to look behind and it’s as if I have a knife embedded in my shoulder muscles. I ignore it. No movement from behind, but I can’t be sure.

  Then I am.

  It’s tracking me off to my left. Branches bend, keeping to my pace, moving slightly in as if to make a slow convergence. It’s fast. Too fast to avoid, but I try anyway. I drop the bike back into second, swerve to my right. The rear wheel wobbles, the engine protests. I’m not going downhill, but I’m not really going uphill either. I’m skating across the face of the slope and the wheels have trouble gripping. I slide almost imperceptibly down.

  Only when I see the branches sway off to my right, do I stop. There is no avoiding this. I know that. Perhaps I always knew it. I let the throttle idle. For a moment, the forest is silent around me. Then the thrashing begins again. Directly in front this time. Getting closer. I stay put.

  And now there’s another noise, mingled with the sound of something heavy moving through the undergrowth. A thudding sound, regular and dull. It’s like the beating of a cold and heavy heart. I’m in the middle of a small clearing. There’s a skitter off to my left, a flash of movement. I whip my head around, but it’s only a lizard pattering for cover. When I turn my eyes forward again, it’s almost upon me. The crashing sound is louder, the branches at the edge of the clearing bending, snapping.

  I slam down into first and let out the clutch. The bike responds. A hint of a wheel spin. I feel a cold joy. Then I’m accelerating across the clearing. Whatever’s there is almost at the edge. We speed towards each other. Collision course. And I’m calm. Something has lifted from me. I’m not scared anymore.

  I burst through the branches that whip at my face, but I don’t lower my head. A dark shape rushes up to meet me. In a moment, the blackness swells to fill my vision. We hit. As the world turns and keeps on turning, I feel like I’ve waited my whole life for this meeting.

  I hit the ground hard, roll and get to my feet in one movement. My body doesn’t need to think. It doesn’t register pain. But part of it acknowledges the sound of the bike, crashing somewhere far below me. The light is too bright and there is blood in my eyes, but I see the shape. I see it squirming and the sight is full of bleak delight. I reach around desperately for something I can use to protect myself. My hands close on smooth wood. It feels like a weapon, well-weighted. Sounds mingle. There are the dying crashes of the bike, a moaning, the pulse of blood in my ears, and screams. I think they are mine. I lift my arms high above my head. I gather all my strength, all my being, and channel it into a downward blow. As the shape cringes before me, I am in an ecstasy of power.

  The ringing snaps me back into myself.

  I am still screaming, head bent back. The sky is framed by my outstretched arms and the blade of an axe. I lower my head slowly. I let the screams fade and die in my throat.

  It’s a phone. I recognise the ring tone. It pulses in my head, mingles with a memory. The sound of plastic splitting, a phone smashed into a thousand pieces against a rock. The ringing stops. The memory remains.

  I stand on the edge of a sheer drop. The treetops sway gently far below. There is a scar in the mat of foliage, a slash across the face of the forest. The bike is down there. I know it. I think I see a flash of metal.

  But it is Richie’s face that keeps my attention. He is hanging onto the cliff face, clutching at a tangle of tree roots. A shrivelled gum tree is growing from the rock. Richie’s fingers twist into the fibres, try to find a crevice in the hard stone. There is blood on his face an
d his eyes are wide with terror. He is slipping. And his eyes are fixed on the axe above my head.

  I look around, see the carcasses of trees. Nearby one tree has survived. And beneath it, a mobile phone. The same model as mine, but a different colour. The tree is wide and bulky. But there are two broad gashes, one on each side of its trunk. They make the scratchings I’ve put in trees seem pathetic. Only a few more blows of the axe and it would fall, tumble over the cliff to join the bike. I know what Richie was doing here.

  It’s strange. I stand paralysed for only a second or two. But in those couple of seconds, there is a world of time. I see all the alternatives, all the possibilities. There is a cocktail of chemicals coursing through my blood and it makes me see clearly. I see a boy balanced between two worlds. A seesaw, with him standing in the middle. The slightest movement will tip it one side or the other. A downward thrust, a sweep of a blade and a problem will have gone. No evidence. A tragic accident. If they ever find the body. That’s one world.

  Or a hand extended in help. But rescuing Richie will bring with it a whole universe of pain. He can’t even begin to imagine that pain. And that’s the other world. The boy has to choose and he has to choose now. Only seconds remain, but it’s an eternity of thought.

  In the end, though, there’s really only one choice that can be made.

  I bring the axe down.

  ‘Richie, dude,’ I say. I place the axe head close to his fingers and brace my feet against the rock. ‘Hold onto this.’

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my good friends, John and Sal Holley, whose amazing property in Tasmania was the inspiration for the setting of this book. John also set me straight about the flora and fauna of Tassie.

  Thanks to Cam Rogers who not only cooked the breakfast of scrambled eggs and tomatoes for me, but also generously gave up the recipe.

  Also by Barry Jonsberg

  THE WHOLE BUSINESS WITH KIFFO AND THE PITBULL

  Short-listed: cbca 2005 Book of