Ironbark (12 page)

I don't, though. I'm not a
complete
idiot.

Some parts are missing.

The old buzzard owes me beer and it's time to collect. I flick on the torch and head back up the track. The dog sticks close to my heels, panting in a way that suggests that if it collapses and dies of exhaustion it will all be my fault. But it actually seems cheerful now. It must sense its duty is nearly done. And the cobwebbed corners under the verandah are calling to it like a song.

Granddad has gone to bed by the time I return from my ramble, so I never get the second stubby of Boag's. I'm keeping score, though. That's an extra one he owes me.

Richie – muscle-bound woodchopper from hell – was
right. Well, about one thing. Dad did grease the wheels
of justice. He's lavish with grease.

Don't think he actually bribed anyone. Doubt it.
Not because that would be unethical - Dad believes in
winning at all costs. But because it's risky. He wouldn't
want the chance of it coming back to bite him. So he
threw money around. That's what he does. Most times,
he gets results. Throw enough cash at a problem, it generally goes away. Sneaks off to South America and
lives under an assumed name.

That depresses me. Doesn't seem to have the same
effect on others.

He hates that my real problem – the IED – is
dollar-resistant.

First thing Dad did after he bailed me from the cop
shop was talk to the general manager at the fast food
place. The cops told him I might be charged with resisting
arrest, disorderly conduct, and violent and threatening
behaviour. Everything except riding a bicycle on a public
road without a helmet. And property damage, which was
up to the management of the fast food joint.

Turns out they wanted to press charges.

Dad flung money like confetti. Offered a generous
sum to repair the damage. Offered to make a substantial
donation to the youth fitness charity associated
with the fast food chain. They could fill young arteries
with fat, then balance it with a widely publicised
fitness promotion. Conscience clear.

The store manager was an easy mark. He'd have
taken the cash and run. But Head Office said, ‘No
deal.' They didn't need the money. Small change. Anyway,
the damages claim was cut and dried. Might take
years to get to court, but Dad would have to cough up
eventually. No hurry.

Two ways of looking at this. 1: Dad as concerned
parent, doing the best for his son. 2: Dad as protector of
his own best interests, avoiding bad publicity.

I don't know. Maybe the tooth fairy exists.

As for the court case, money didn't talk. It yelled.

Expert witnesses – psychologists, psychiatrists – took
the stand and argued the IED defence. I was the victim,
the way they presented it.

I found it embarrassing. Dad didn't.

The court decided against detention. Not tricky to
work out why. Too expensive. The taxpayer pays
through the nose. Anyway, youth detention centres are
bursting at the seams. Plus, those places are for the
working class. My dad is loaded. No way I'd get
banged up behind bars.

Society doesn't function that way. Three cheers for
society.

The wealthy have other options. And Dad knew
them all.

My high-profile barrister – the real crime was how
much he was getting paid – gave the magistrate a
neatly packaged get-out:

I get shipped off to stay with my grandfather in
Tasmania.

I complete a reflective journal.

I take long walks where my IED is unlikely to flare
up (and if I do get angry here, it's mainly trees that are
in danger).

I undergo a full psychiatric evaluation – paid for by
Dad – on my return to Melbourne.

Tick the boxes. Done deal. Everyone happy. Case
closed. Time for an expensive lunch.

And the human element? Magistrate, police
officers, psychologists, learned counsel. They've forgotten
about it by now. Just another case.

But I've still got to deal with it. That's fair enough.

What about Granddad, though? What about a little
girl in a restaurant, clutching a tacky plastic toy? Who
cares about them?

I almost sympathise with the demon woodchopper.

He didn't invite me. No one asked if it was okay. Then
again . . . perhaps he deserves me. Perhaps I deserve
him. Whenever I see him, I'm going to have to be
careful. He could trigger an explosion.

If that happens, it won't be pretty. Guaranteed.

It's weird. I'm a city boy, through and through.

Never known anything else. I can't shop here. No
shops. I hate nature. Trees most of all. I can't stand old
people. Nothing personal. It's just that . . . they're old.

I'm addicted to all things electronic.

Figure this. Put me in a place where there's no
electricity, no shopping and only an old dude and
trees for company. What are the odds on me having
a full-scale nervous breakdown? A miracle it hasn't
happened.

Why? I don't know.

Yet.

I close the exercise book and place the pen straight along its edge. The fire has died down and the embers are glowing. I think about putting another log on. It's toasty in here, but once the fire goes out, it'll take no time at all for the chill to invade. It's probably a good idea to get another log. And there's something comforting about going to sleep with light and shadow from the flames dancing on the ceiling.

It's another cold night. I follow the not-wallaby-proof fence to the woodpile and pick up a good-sized log. But I don't want to go to bed just yet. I stand the log on its end, sit on it, take out a last smoke and light up. There are no red eyes tonight. If I sense anything at all from the bush, it's a feeling of calm. Perhaps Gran
is
out there, a ghostly mobile phone in one hand, watching over me. It's a soothing thought. Dumb, but soothing. I'd get a warm glow if it wasn't for the fact that something – probably a huntsman the size of a dinner plate – has emerged from the log and is starting the long ascent up the north face of my sweatshirt.

I jump up pretty quick, brushing real and imaginary critters from my clothes. I thump the log against the ground to discourage anything else that might have taken up residence. When I'm satisfied there's nothing left but wood, I pick it up and take it inside. It snuggles down into the embers of the fire and makes satisfying crackling noises. I sit for a while and watch the shifting shapes within the embers.

Then I get out my pocketknife. I like the sense of routine as I carve a third line into the post.

I'm getting up earlier than usual. Mind you, that's not a real surprise. Back home I'd crawl out of my pit around midday. Except on school days, of course. Then I'd get up at about eleven. In my defence, I wouldn't get to sleep until at least three in the morning. Too much to do at night – watch DVDs, surf the net. Here, those options are not even on the menu, and it's lights out at nine-thirty while wallaby guards patrol the perimeter fence. Maybe I should start a one-man riot or dig a tunnel. I'm not having any trouble sleeping, though. No problem with that.

Maybe there's something in that old saying about fresh air being good for you. I just wouldn't want to risk it if I had a choice.

So, I'm up and at 'em by eight at the latest. Granddad's up before me, of course. I get the impression the old fossil is tooling around at four in the morning, milking wallabies or something. God knows why. It's not like he has to sink fence posts, castrate cattle or plough the odd paddock.

Anyway, I'm feeling kinda good. Body and mind. I even give his porridge a go, though it looks like quick-drying cement. Turns out it tastes like it, too. A hurried wash of the dishes and then we're outside on the verandah, in our regular places, doing our regular thing. Staring at trees. You can bet your life Granddad will die in that chair. The TAB have stopped taking bets. He'll be found, one day, stiff, vacant eyes staring out over the fence. I reckon it'll be tough to tell he's actually carked it, though. You could talk to him for a day or two and still not know for sure.

‘So what's on the agenda today, Gramps?' I say, full of quick-dried cement and enthusiasm. ‘White-water rafting, free-fall parachuting?'

He takes his time to answer, as always.

‘Nothin',' he says. ‘Nothin' to do.'

‘No chores?' I say. ‘Another shack to build, a few hectares of land to clear?' I'm serious. I'm tingly with energy and need to do something with my hands. If Granddad hears me, he doesn't let on. The silence stretches.

‘Whaddya say we chop some more firewood?' I continue. ‘You could teach me how to use a chainsaw.'

‘Don't need firewood. Got plenty.'

‘Aw, c'mon. You can't get enough firewood. I'll do all the work. You can just act in a supervisory capacity.' I thought he might be impressed with that last sentence. ‘Beats sitting here waiting for death.'

He mulls this over a bit and then nods.

‘Okay,' he says. ‘But any dicking around with the chainsaw and that's it. Understand?'

‘Gramps!' I say. ‘Language, dude.'

* The chainsaw is serious fun. All that power buzzing in my hands. I feel like donning a hockey mask and stalking Granddad through the bush. I don't share this idea with him, though, on the grounds he'd be unlikely to wet himself laughing.

He gives me the safety demonstration and tells me a million stories of people who have sawn off their own noses, arms and willies through not obeying the basic rules. It's instructive, particularly when he says the chainsaw can rear up if you hit a snag in the wood, and do serious damage to your fleshy bits. I'm pretty attached to my fleshy bits.

I take to it, though, like a fly to poo. It's great, the way the blade slices through the wood, all this fine dust spurting. I do it the way he tells me, cutting a log about two-thirds of the way through and then shifting it over to finish the cut. The smell is terrific, too. This resiny sweetness hangs in the air. I slice and dice about twenty decent-sized logs in just a coupla minutes and then Granddad taps me on the shoulder and signals for me to switch off the saw.

‘That's enough,' he says.

‘C'mon. Just a few more.'

He shakes his head.

‘Nah. No room to store it. It'd be a fire hazard.'

I snap the safety guard on the saw while Granddad backs up the tractor so we can load the logs. I pull out a smoke and sit on this tree stump. I can't imagine the loading and the splitting when we get back is going to be as much fun, and I deserve a break. This is only my third ciggie of the day, so I'm feeling seriously virtuous.