The Memory Tree

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Penny’s on her way,’ he told her inside.

  Sarah’s mouth had a bitter twist to it. ‘It was always her, wasn’t it? You never cared about me.’

  ‘Get the keys,’ he said. ‘You have to go.’

  Sarah stood her ground. ‘As long as we have that deal.’

  ‘We do,’ said Matt. ‘You get Theo. Now hurry, please.’

  With agonising slowness, Sarah collected her things. Matt escorted her down to the car park, torch shining on the path ahead. He gripped her arm when she lagged. A round, ruddy moon broke free of the horizon. It hung sullenly in the emptiness between mountain and stars. The motor droned louder. It didn’t sound like Penny’s jeep.

  Matt opened Sarah’s car door. At last she got in and turned on the ignition. Her window slid open. What now?

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ said Matt.

  ‘That’s a laugh,’ said Sarah. ‘I think I’ll ring you.’

  Somewhere out in the darkness, the sound of the motor dropped to a low hum. The engine changed gears, grinding back to life as wheels gained traction on the steep Binburra drive. Sarah’s car reversed and moved off. Now headlights climbed the hill. Matt recognised the vehicle in the moonlight. Charlie Cook’s ute. What the heck was he doing here?

  The headlights were approaching fast. Too fast. A trick of the night, perhaps, but there wasn’t much room for error on the narrow track. The speeding ute kept coming, AC/DC booming through the open window. Couldn’t Charlie see Sarah’s car? He was heading straight for it, driving like a bloody fool.

  Sarah must have seen the danger, for her red tail-lights swung right and stopped a distance off the track. Charlie’s headlights raced on faster than ever, then blinked off as clouds covered the moon. Where was he? It was hard to see in the darkness.

  Then Matt heard it. No screeching of brakes, just the sudden ear-splitting crunch of metal on metal. What on earth? If anything, the revs had risen before the impact. Charlie must be drunk to run off the road like that on a clear night, to smash into Sarah’s stationary car. Matt grabbed a torch and sprinted down the hill.

  The close crack of a rifle stopped him short. There was no mistaking the sound. It cracked again through the blare of music. Charlie’s shouts for help spurred him on again. Near enough now to see what was happening. It may have been Charlie’s ute, but the man standing beside it was too tall for Charlie. It looked more like Ray. What was up with him? He wasn’t shouting for help at all. He was ranting – screaming at the night.

  Despite Matt’s confusion, one thing was clear. The ute had nosedived into the side of Sarah’s sedan. He was too far away to see if she was still in there. Matt trained his torch on the car and then on Ray, who turned and saw him.

  What on earth? Ray had a rifle. He raised the weapon and aimed it straight at Matt.

  Matt switched off his torch and ran. Another fire cracker of a shot. Charlie’s ute roared to life and reversed away from Sarah’s car, its headlights searching. The slope of native grassland offered Matt no shelter, only silver-grey tufts of tussock grass and clumps of heath. He could double back to the trees along the driveway, or make a break across the clearing to the woodland beyond. Ray decided the point, hurtling straight down the hill, forcing Matt to bolt towards the forest. The music made for a nightmare soundtrack.

  Matt ran, crouching low, unable to properly judge distances in the dark. Yet his legs had a mind of their own and he trusted them. The rough ground felt solid beneath his feet, but didn’t things feel like that in dreams? Was this even real?

  There was no way he’d reach the trees in time. Matt dodged sharply left and set off down the hill, gambling that Ray’s wild driving wouldn’t allow for any quick swing-arounds. The bet paid off and the headlights swept past. He listened for the grind of brakes, but couldn’t hear a thing beyond the blasting sound system.

  Matt seized a breath and wiped sweat from his eyes. The advantage was his now. With the moon behind a cloud, Ray had lost him in the dark. Matt ducked as twin silver blades swung across the clearing. It wouldn’t be too hard to dodge them, and he had his night eyes now. If he could reach the trees down by the gate, Ray wouldn’t be able to follow.

  He was heading downhill in a stooped run, when the night turned suddenly bright, and he was pinioned in the blinding wedge of a spotlight’s beam. Matt shielded his eyes. He’d need a miracle now.

  Solo spotlighting was a tricky sport. A hunter had to swing hard when he found his target. He had mere seconds to aim his light, turn ninety degrees, and position the rifle in the window rest. Only then could he shoot, relying on dazzled animals to freeze. But Matt couldn’t be hunted like a scared wallaby. Now Ray could see him, Ray’s best bet would be to just run him down.

  As if reading his mind, the ute lurched into gear and took aim. Matt careened headlong down the hill, his way lit by the spotlight’s beam. No point looking back. This would either work or it wouldn’t. He veered right, towards the forest of moon shadows cast by trees on the clearing’s edge. To judge by the tearing noise of the ute, it must be almost upon him. He braced himself. There, a wide trench after that dead gum, invisible to a high beam. Matt leaped like a spring released, flying through the air for as long as he could, knowing there’d be no second chance.

  A dull crash sounded behind him, and the screaming engine fell silent. Matt’s ankle rolled when he hit the ground, but he scrambled to his feet, limp-running to a line of trees. His breath came in painful rasps. The trunks of white peppermints loomed like rows of ghosts on the edge of the forest. Matt grasped the nearest tree, hugged the rough collar at its base, rubbed the pale, papery smoothness of bark above. The tree was an anchor, a proof of life. He dared to look around.

  The ute lay upended in the drainage ditch on such a steep angle that he couldn’t see its headlights. The music still blared, Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, and the spotlight on the cabin roof still shone. It was surreal, a movie set. Matt stayed quietly watching. If only the bloody music would stop. A startled owl flapped past his head. Matt jumped in fright, forgetting about his injured ankle and collapsed to the ground. He’d be a sitting duck if Ray ever climbed out of that ditch.

  Matt found a stout stick for a crutch. His foot had swollen in the boot and his ankle couldn’t bear his weight. He managed to hobble a few more metres when the boom, boom of the stereo suddenly stopped.

  Fear settled on him like rain, seeped through his clothes, through his skin. He tried to lick his lips, but no spit would come. When he looked back, nothing had changed. He should keep going, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away from the ute. Was it his imagination or could he see movement? Yes, a faint beam danced within the halo of light around the stranded vehicle.

  Ray’s dark figure hauled itself from the ditch, rifle in hand. Matt knew now what that faint light was. A deadly firefly: a scope-mounted spotlight. Ray began to bellow: insults and curses and threats – along with confounding accusations.

  ‘Think you’d get away with cheating on my little girl? With her pregnant and all? Well think again, you bastard.’

  Pregnant? A jolt of joy broke through his fear. Was that what Penny had wanted to tell him? He thought back to the evening at Fraser’s. Why had he made it so difficult for her?

  Ray took a random shot in his direction. ‘You’re a dead man.’

  Matt prayed that Penny wouldn’t come home, that she wouldn’t come looking for him.

  Matt’s twisted ankle burned, but adrenaline was a fine painkiller. Quiet now. Even his breathing must be quiet. He focused on slowing down each breath, on its passage in and out of his lungs. In and out. In and out. Better.

  Clouds still covered the moon, leaving him blind, but the pale peppermint gums supported and guided him as he edged between them. He could hear Ray stomping around, getting nearer then moving away. Careful now, Ray sounded close.

  Suddenly Matt’s good foot stepped into thin air. It was the second drain, a disastrous misjudg
ement. Matt teetered on the bank for a moment, struggling for equilibrium. Then he crashed down, rolling through bracken before coming to a stop with a thud. He’d made about as much noise as an elephant and lost his walking stick as well. Matt lay still, listening to the rush of blood in his ears. He couldn’t hear Ray anymore. The moon emerged from behind the clouds to brighten the night. Footsteps. Matt held his breath.

  And there Ray stood, looming over him, silhouetted by moonlight. Matt heard a strangled sound escape his own throat.

  Ray’s silence was more unnerving than all his mad ranting. Should he talk to Ray, deny the charge of cheating? Should he plead for his life? But since when had Ray ever listened to him? Ray would shoot him if he wanted. Nothing would change that. If he was going to die, he wouldn’t die begging.

  Time seemed to stretch. So many regrets. That he hadn’t listened to Penny tell her news, and said that he loved her. That he’d lose his father as soon as he found him. That he hadn’t safely buried Theo up at Tiger Pass. That he’d never know his child.

  Moonlight flooded the scene. Matt watched Ray with a detached curiosity as he raised the rifle and nestled the butt high on his shoulder. He was having trouble getting his legs right. He shuffled about, trying to get his weight equal on both feet. At last he seemed happy. Ray aimed the barrel. At his head? At his chest? Matt couldn’t tell. Ray tucked his cheek into the walnut stock. Matt closed his eyes. He had not expected to hear the shot.

  * * *

  What happened next was impossible. Matt opened his eyes. He moved his toes, his fingers, raised himself up on an elbow, amazed that his body responded. He was alive.

  A figure armed with a rifle loomed against the moon. Not Ray this time, but a smaller man. His father. Fraser dropped the rifle, clambered into the drain and knelt beside his son. Tears glistened in his eyes. To their left, a flannel-sleeved arm dangled limp down the side of the ditch.

  Matt grasped Fraser’s hand and staggered to his feet.

  ‘Lean on me.’

  ‘Sarah … she was in her car,’ Matt pointed, ‘over there.’

  Fraser shone his torch up the hill in that direction. ‘Wait here.’ He scrambled from the ditch. Matt found his walking stick and struggled after him.

  Ray lay on his back at the edge of the bank. Moonlight showed the dark bullet wound in the centre of his chest. Matt turned away, the vile taste of vomit on his tongue.

  When Fraser returned, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. Sarah’s dead.’

  Matt stood with crutches, out on the verandah, surveying the bizarre scene below him. Four in the morning, and the medical examiner’s van was finally leaving to take Ray and Sarah to Hobart. The remote paddock beside the Binburra track was ablaze with floodlights. Police cars lined the driveway and yellow tape crisscrossed the grass. Crime scene tents covered the places where Ray and Sarah had died, and white-suited forensic investigators still wandered about.

  Penny was inside giving her statement to the police. She’d spent the past few hours sitting on the ground as close to where Ray’s body lay as the officers would allow, shell-shocked with grief. Matt had stayed beside her. He’d been afraid that she might turn him away; that she might blame him for this tragedy. But instead she’d clung to him, murmuring her thanks to God for his survival. Don’t thank God, he’d wanted to stay. Thank my father.

  A young policewoman came out of the house. ‘Mr Abbott? Your turn now.’

  * * *

  Penny was huddled at the kitchen table, staring at a hot mug of coffee that Sergeant Nick Byrne had placed in front of her.

  Nick caught Matt’s eye and pointed to the lounge room. ‘Shall we do this in there?’

  ‘I have nothing to say that my wife can’t hear.’ Matt gave a long and detailed statement, leaving nothing out, except the reason for Sarah’s visit. He’d already told Penny about that. She remained stony-faced throughout, but he could tell she was listening.

  ‘What about my father?’ asked Matt, when he’d finished. ‘Where is he? What will happen to him?’

  ‘Fraser gave his statement at Campbellfield hours ago. McGregor took him home.’ Nick put on his hat and laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder. ‘Your dad will be alright. Ray had already killed once. It was a clear case of your father acting in defence of another – namely you.’

  ‘I don’t understand why my uncle had to die,’ said Penny in a shaky voice. ‘Couldn’t Fraser have shot him in the leg instead?’

  Nick took off his hat and sat down beside her. ‘Shooting to wound is a myth, Pen. Same as shooting the gun from someone’s hand. It’s Hollywood movie hype.’ She gazed at him with anguished, uncomprehending eyes. ‘Fraser was out there in the dark, confronting a man intent on using deadly force. He aimed at the chest because he couldn’t afford to miss. I would have done the same thing.’ Nick stood up and put his hat back on. ‘From the sound of it, if Fraser had shot Ray in the leg, your husband would be dead right now.’

  Penny was staring into space, unfocused, as the officers moved around the room, collecting their things. Matt’s gaze never left her face. At last she looked at him and he took hold of her hands. ‘Pen … wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?’

  Chapter 40

  A flautist played a tune in wavering vibrato, the sweet sound hovering between enlightenment and sorrow. Matt gazed with pride at the people around him – at Fraser and Drake, Lisa and Lucky, the Murphy family. And most importantly at Penny, who was pushing little Ray and Charlotte in their twin stroller. All the people who’d worked so hard to make this day possible were here to celebrate.

  A crowd was gathering before the platform, where Premier Hellgrun stood in front of a microphone. ‘The Pallawarra Lone Tree Expo,’ he said, ‘is a permanent exhibition that marks a fundamental shift in Tasmanian forest policy.’ There was a burst of applause. ‘This fresh paradigm unites, at last, both sides of a deeply divisive debate. The wonderful displays you can see around you were created from the body of a single tree. They demonstrate the true importance of value-adding, for employment, and for the environment.’ A bevy of press photographers jostled for the best view. ‘It is with great pleasure that I declare this visionary exhibition … open.’ More applause.

  Penny was talking earnestly to a tall, sallow man wearing a bow tie.

  ‘Let me take the kids,’ said Matt.

  She shot him a grateful smile.

  Matt and Drake drifted away from the crowd, trying to take it all in. Not only was the beauty of Pallawarra’s timber showcased in the astonishing range of pieces on display, it was featured in the very construction of the vast purpose-built auditorium. Matt gazed up in awe at the high, vaulted ceiling beams. ‘I have to hand it to Fraser. He really came through.’

  ‘Did you know he made a huge donation to Sustainable Tasmania? It helped us buy loads of advertising. Your dad is the main reason we pulled in so many votes.’

  ‘So Tasmania is stuck with another party leader with Logan for a surname,’ said Matt, grinning.

  The building was packed with traditional wood-crafted furniture, sculptures, bark wall-hangings, toys and musical instruments. It looked like the entire Hills End community was there as well. Young Ben Murphy was patting a sculpted eagle, perched on a stand with wings unfurled, ready to take flight. ‘Don’t touch,’ said Matilda. ‘I’ll tell Dad.’ Ben ran to the dappled rocking horse, its arched neck stippled with the mottle of natural grain. He climbed aboard. ‘You’re too big,’ said Matilda. ‘I’ll tell Dad.’ Ben dashed off to the jewellery display cases, his bossy sister in hot pursuit.

  Matt and Drake laughed at the children and went for a wander. Past an inverted timber dome, lined with mirrors, designed to boil water with the reflected rays of the sun. Past a broad dining table made from just two solid planks, cut bark to bark. Past a gallery of Indigenous art. Past a range of stringed instruments: ukuleles, violins, flutes and even a lyre.

  An elegant Celtic-style floor harp took pride of place. Children played w
ith rhythm sticks and taut bark tambourines at little wooden tables. Folk music, played on limited edition Pallawarra brand guitars, sounded through loudspeakers. Luthiers plied their trade on a low stage, steaming plywood on jigs to bend it just so, sanding sound boxes to resonate with perfect pitch.

  Matt stopped to watch someone string a guitar. He squatted down. ‘Look, kids.’ Little Ray and Charlotte watched solemnly from their stroller as the craftsman threaded the string, looped it under, pulled it taut and wrapped the first wind back over again. Charlotte reached both arms out to her father. ‘Not yet, honey,’ said Matt and they moved on to the indisputable star of the exhibition.

  It was as if mighty Pallawarra lived again. His immense bole dominated the entire building. It served as the central pillar, load bearing, giving an unusual organic feel to the architecture. A jagged horizontal gash still scarred the tree where the chainsaws had torn through his twenty-five-metre circumference. Drips of congealed red sap showed where climbing spikes had pierced his trunk like crucifixion nails. Matt marvelled at the logistics. For Pallawarra’s trunk soared, whole again, twenty metres to the domed ceiling and extended many more metres beneath the floor.

  Epiphytes sprouted from high cracks and crevices. Swathes of hand-painted butterflies, authentic to the last detail, adorned his stringy bark streamers. Ramps and tunnels let visitors explore his labyrinthine root system, and tiny LED glow-worms lent a magical quality to this underground maze. Child-sized burrows and secret chambers, carved in his base, revealed all sorts of interactive wonders celebrating the life of the tree. Light spilled from strategic ceiling skylights to illuminate the carvings on the bark.