Broken Case Extension

Both Tristan Sender and Lindsay Ratcliffe have, due to extenuating circumstances, officially granted each other and anyone else out there an extension of one week on this story. We have only just posted our Anniversary story anyway, so that should keep any avid readers who might be out there busy.
The broken case will now be due on Monday 7th of December.
We may also if we are lucky have a couple of extra entrants who have expressed an interest in participating.

Anniversary (Gertrude and Alice 2009 Short Story Competition)

The short story this fortnight must include the concept 'Anniversary' either literally or metaphorically.

This is also a special story in that we will be entering them into the Gertrude and Alice 2009 short story competition. The story for this competition must be no longer than 2000 words. We also have a little longer than usual as entries must be in by the 13th of November.

The prize is $1000, with 6 consolation prizes of $150.

For full details please go to their website at www.gertrudeandalice.com.au/ and click on notice board.

The next topic will start on Monday 16th November.

Good Luck!

The Poisoned Tree (Tristan Sender)

The Poisoned Tree

by Tristan Sender

The rain fell heavily washing away the earth to reveal a history of secrets.

Trafford felt a rush of tiny tingles passing through his body from his feet to his head. He understood more about himself now than ever before. Today was the first time in years that he had felt at peace with himself.

A month ago he had been sat in the economy class seat of a Cathay Pacific Boeing 747-400 on a journey from his old world to this new one. He had been full of trepidation and anxiety, calmed only by several large gin and tonics. Trafford had never left the United Kingdom; he had never really left England, except for a couple of short canoeing trips across the border into Wales.

Sydney was to be a new start for him, a place where no one knew him, or his past. He could begin again and become the person he wanted to be, and most of all forget who he had become.

Trafford had spent the first two weeks living in a backpacker’s hostel in King Cross. He had hated the lack of privacy and the constant noise of drunken Irish and English voices echoing through the dorm. He had spent most of this time visiting the various suburbs around Sydney in search of a more permanent residence. He had quite a bit of money saved, and intended to live alone for as long as he could afford.

It was sheer luck that he stumbled upon the place that was to become his new abode. Trafford had quickly realised that renting a house through a real estate agent was a competitive business. He could never compete with the barrage of people at every viewing each armed with a resume of top jobs and references to match. He had just been to a particularly busy open house in the once working class turned trendy, now posh, suburb of Balmain, and had decided to give up and find a pub. Trafford had been walking down a leafy street lined with Victorian houses on one side and an elevated view of the harbor and city on the other when he caught a glimpse of a huge old oak tree towering up above one of the slate roofs. He was at once mesmerised by the trees grand stature. Its thick branches swayed slowly in the wind and its dark green leaves seemed to hiss at him as they fluttered in the cool breeze. He must have looked strange standing in the middle of the road staring up over the roof of the old house. So strange the owner soon came out and tried to talk to Trafford.

“Can I help you?” enquired the owner. He was an old man with flashes of grey hair and bronze coloured spectacles.

When Trafford didn’t reply and just continued to stare as if in a dream that could not be broken the old man again inquired in a much louder voice “Are you OK?”

Trafford still continued to stare, not a muscle flinched, not an eyelid blinked.

Julius the owner began to worry and debated whether he should approach this strange looking man in the street, perhaps he had just escaped from a local institute, maybe he should call the police. Before he made up his mind the man in the street closed his eyes and plummeted backwards into the road hitting his head hard on the tarmac. Julius immediately ran to his aid, and as he reached the fallen body, the man opened his eyes and uttered “What happened?” Julius explained how he had been standing in the middle of the road for at least half an hour just staring up over his roof. Trafford remembered and replied “I was admiring your oak tree and then the next thing I knew I was down here.”

“How strange, maybe its dehydration, it can creep up on you and make you do the oddest things. Look why don’t you come inside for a bit and I will make you a nice cup of tea and take a look at that bump on your head.”

Julius brewed a pot of tea and the two men got chatting. Trafford explained he had recently come over from the U.K to start a new life, and that he was out looking for a place to rent. The old man told him how he had also moved over with his wife from the U.K forty years ago. They had lived together all this time in the same house until she died four years ago. He told Trafford about the history of the neighborhood and its rise from a poor working class suburb to its current fashionable status. He talked at length about the colourful local characters that had lived and died on the Balmain peninsula. They got on so well that before they knew it several hours had passed. Eventually Trafford got up to make a move and head back to his soulless noisy dorm room existence. “Thank you so much for your hospitality; I am really sorry for my strange behavior earlier”

“Oh please don’t worry the heat can do strange things when you aren’t used to it.” Julius proclaimed. “Anyway I have really enjoyed your company”

“Me too, you are the first friendly face I have seen in weeks”

“Before you go would you like to take a proper look at the tree you were so fascinated with earlier?”

“I would love too and I promise not to go all strange on you again.”

“It is quite a site! In fact its one of the oldest Trees in the neighborhood; it was here long before this house was built”

Julius gestured Trafford towards the door that led out the back of the house. The garden was small charming and perfectly formed. Julius clearly took great pride in his little oasis. There was an abundance of plant life and smells to match. The sweet odor of jasmine mixed with frangipani hung in the late afternoon air, Trafford breathed it in enjoying the matching visual festival of colour. At the centre was the large oak tree which stretched up far above the houses. Its trunk was thick and dark, the bark had deep thick gorges that flowed up into the green foliage. Trafford placed his hand on the cool wood and ran his palms over its calluses. As he began to hug the thick trunk a flock of red, green and blue parakeets descended onto the branches above chatting loudly to each other. He looked up to see the birds perched on the end of every branch like a colorful blossom. The sound of their chatting became louder and louder and Trafford began to feel dizzy. He felt almost intoxicated by the colour, noise and strong sickly scent of blooming flowers. As he continued to gaze up, the tree began to spin, faster and faster, the colour of the birds, leaves and tree blended into a circular rainbow. He could just hear Julius shouting in the background but he couldn’t make out what he was saying, and his voice soon faded to nothing.

Trafford awoke with a jolt; he was lying in bed covered tightly by a perfectly folded sheet and woolen blanket. It brought back memories of nights spent at his grandparents, long since passed. He unfastened himself from the well tucked bedding and got out of bed. He opened the blinds to reveal a perfect view of the harbor and city. He was still in Julius’s house; he must have passed out and been put to bed. He felt embarrassed and was dreading having to confront his host. His clothes had been folded and placed carefully on a chair at the end of the bed. He dressed quickly, opened the bedroom door and headed downstairs to face the music.

The narrow stairs creaked under his weight as he sheepishly descended into the living area. The small cluttered room was empty and cold, he moved through to the front room which was equally devoid of his host. Lastly he checked the kitchen to find under a set of keys a piece of paper with his name on it. The handwriting looked somehow familiar as he read the note aloud.

Dear Trafford,

I hope you slept comfortably. I enjoyed your company and conversation yesterday. I have unfortunately been called away on some errands but should be back shortly. Please make yourself at home, and feel free to stay here with me as long as you like. I have left you a set of keys so that you may come and go as you please.

Best wishes,

Julius

Trafford was relieved to hear there was no mention of any strange behavior, and pleased that he had found somewhere different from the backpackers to stay. He made himself some tea and toast before heading back to Kings Cross to collect his gear and settle his bill.

He returned several hours and a few beers later to an empty house. Julius had not come home, so he had the whole place to himself. With a bit of rummaging he managed to rustle himself up a tuna sandwich and a glass of sweet sherry, which he carried up to the first floor balcony so he could enjoy the sunset views.

He had barely finished his sandwich before he descended into a deep sleep. Some hours later he awoke in bed choking for air, he was being strangled. He fought for his life tearing at the thick limbs that encircled his neck. He soon realised that it was not arms but branches of a tree that he was fighting. The oak tree was trying to kill him. He did not have time to reason why or how, it would only be a few moments before he passed out. He flayed his arms out to the side of him in search of a weapon, anything he could hit back with. His right arm brushed against the metal base of the deco lamp on the table to the side. He summoned all the energy he had left in his weakening body, grabbed hold of the lamp and brought it crashing down on the attacking branches. The lamp smashed sending tiny shards of green glass across his body. The tree hissed and released its grip for a second. He span and shook managing to release himself from its deathly grip. Leaping from the bed he shot out the door down the stairs, through the lounge and dining area into the quiet night. He ran naked, except for his white underpants, down the middle of the street, until eventually he came to a park. There he rested on a on a park bench and took his first real breath. As the oxygen filled his lungs and made its way back to his starved brain he took stock of what had happened and where he was. The park was quiet except for the rustle of branches and whistle of the grass in the wind. He felt cold and his teeth began to chatter. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could make out a white figure lying in grass.

He decided to approach the person and see if maybe they could help him. He couldn’t really go back to the house, and he didn’t want to wander around the streets in nothing but his underpants. This person might be his only way out of the situation he found himself in. As he got closer he could see that in the grass laying face down was a tall woman with long red hair wearing a flowing white cotton dress. He didn’t want to scare her, so he quietly asked “excuse me miss please don’t be alarmed but I really need some help.” The woman didn’t stir or move. He tried again but louder. Still no movement and it dawned on him that maybe the woman was in more trouble than him. He reached down and gently touched her. He could hear strained breathing and a low deep desperate murmur coming from her lungs. He quickly turned her body over and as he did he felt a thick warm sensation; he looked down to see his hands covered in blood. The front of her dress was soaked dark red and her neck was purple and bruised. She looked at him through frightened eyes and began to scream, a piercing terrified call for help.

He awoke again in bed. He was covered in a cold thick sweat and was shivering. It had all been a dream. It was nearly midday when he rose and went downstairs. His first reaction was to head outside to check on the tree just to make sure, but he decided to take a shower and clean up first. He felt much better and made himself a cup of tea before heading outside to the garden. The tree was still standing majestically in its place as if nothing had happened. The only strange thing was a large scattering of green leaves had fallen forming a carpet underneath. He found a broom and swept them up before finishing his tea in the early afternoon sun.

He wondered what had happened to Julius, as he had been gone for some time now. He was relieved on heading inside to find another note fixed under a heavy silver bracelet by the sink. He opened it and read it aloud:

Dear Trafford,

Sorry I missed you but you were fast asleep when I returned home last night and I didn’t have the heart to wake you this morning. Please help yourself to anything you need, and we will talk again when I am back.

Best wishes,

Julius

Trafford felt a warm glow inside. It was so rare to meet someone so nice and welcoming. He decided to head out and do some shopping for the house. He thought when he got back he would make a nice meal to thank Julius for his kindness.

His specialty was roasts; he had learnt his grandmother’s secret recipe for slow roasted pork shoulder in cider and decided this would be a good choice. He spent a good few hours shopping for ingredients in the local stores. He bought a couple of expensive bottles of wine, a red and a white, as he didn’t know what Julius favored, and headed home in anticipation of a nice evening.

It was around five thirty by the time he got the meat on for its three hour stint in the oven. He found some wood in the small outside toilet turned storage room and made about starting a fire in the open Victorian fireplace in the lounge. He cracked open the red poured a glass and sat in the soft armchair to wait for Julius. He must have dozed off for he awoke to the high pitched sound of the fire alarm above his head. He leapt up and ran into the kitchen to reveal the burnt cinders of his dinner in the oven. It was nearly two in the morning and Julius had still not returned, so he cleaned up the mess and headed to bed.

That night he once again dreamed a strange dream. He was back in the park and this time he was dressed but not in his clothes. He was wearing tweed trousers and a matching blazer similar to the ones he had seen in the wardrobe in which he had placed the contents of his backpack the day before. He was sat on the same bench and could make out a figure dressed in black lying face down in the grass. As he approached he could see that she had long dark hair and was wearing a flowing cotton dress. He asked quietly “Are you OK, can I help?” There was no sound. He knelt down and could hear the woman quietly crying into the grass. He touched her and felt the now familiar feeling of warm fresh blood on her body. As he turned her over she cowered hiding her beaten face from his. He stood over her and tried to speak, but she looked at him terrified and screamed a long gurgling cry for help.

He woke up in bed. This time he was not sweating and he knew it had just been a dream. He headed downstairs to see if Julius had returned. There was no one home, he was still alone. As he headed into the kitchen to start his morning tea making ritual he noticed another note held in place by a gold ankle chain. He opened the hand written note and read it aloud.

Dear Trafford

Sorry I missed you again but I didn’t get back until very early this morning. I hope you didn’t go to any effort to make me dinner. I did attempt to wake you before I left but you wouldn’t stir. I will try to come back earlier tonight so we can catch up properly. I feel we have a lot more to discuss. Have a nice day, and please make yourself at home.

Best wishes,

Julius

P.S Please be careful when cooking not to burn the house down

Trafford did wonder what a man nearly in his seventies could be doing out so late every night, but guessed it was none of his business.

He headed into the garden to enjoy his tea in the sun, and everything outside was the same except for another even thicker carpet of leaves below the tree.

Every night that week Trafford would get home make dinner, and every night Julius did not return. The dreams continued. Each was the same except for a few things. The clothes he wore always changed, and the girls were always different. He became more confident within each one and by the end of the week they were becoming quite matter of fact. Everyday he would get up and find a new note from Julius under a different piece of jewelry. He had also become quite worried about the huge Oak tree as it was shedding more and more leaves as each night passed. Even the chatting birds had long since abandoned the great tree for a livelier meeting place.

After nearly two weeks alone Trafford had made the decision to leave the next day. The dreams whilst matter of fact, were bothering him, and they didn’t seem normal. He had thought perhaps a change of scenery might do him some good. That night he packed his bag and prepared to move on. He went to bed around eleven o’clock and lay in bed waiting for another strange dream. It never happened, he slept a long deep dreamless night and awoke surprised, happy and refreshed. He got up and headed downstairs to see what Julius had written today. There was no note so he headed outside to say good buy to the sick tree, only to find there were no more leaves furnishing its thick branches; just a skeleton of dead wood filled the sky above him. It was as if something or someone had slowly poisoned the tree dragging the life from this mighty beast. He cried deeply and genuinely for the loss of this great old man.

Trafford headed inside and got ready to leave. He sat down and scribbled out a note for Julius and then read it out to himself.

Dear Julius,

I have decided to move on up the coast and see a bit of Australia. It is a shame that we have not been able to catch up again, but it has been nice living in your house all the same. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality; staying here has been the real highlight of my trip.

I t am also sorry to inform you that it looks like something or someone has poisoned your oak tree. I do hope this doesn’t sadden you too deeply. I only wish there was something I could have done to save it.

If I am ever in town again I will be sure to drop in and visit.

Forever in your debt,

Trafford

With that he placed the note in the kitchen by the sink under a bottle of champagne he had bought to say thank you, and headed to the front door for the last time. Before he could open it and step outside he heard a loud crash of thunder and the sky lit up with electricity. The black clouds opened up and a heavy downpour began. Trafford wasn’t a very prepared traveler and didn’t have any type of protection against such a rainstorm, so he decided to wait a bit until it stopped.

He sat in the soft chair and waited and waited but the rain never ceased. After a few hours he got bored and decided to open the champagne he had bought as a gift. He thought the old man probably wouldn’t drink it anyway. He poured it into a mug and toasted to new pastures and adventures.

Trafford was woken, mug still in hand by a loud clap of thunder, and realised it was already past midnight. He would have to stay one more night, so he headed up the now well trodden creaky stairs to his soft bed, lay down and was asleep in seconds.

Trafford was pulled suddenly from his deep slumber. The crack of breaking wood and collapsing roof deafened him. Plaster fell off the ceiling above and showered him with bricks as the roof came clean off. The wind tore in and the rain soaked him, as the huge oak tree ripped through the house like it was paper. Its final fall missed him by inches taking the wall away on the opposite side of the room. He jumped up and ran downstairs. The front door was blocked but he managed to climb out the kitchen window into the relative safety of the garden.

The dead tree had been torn clean up by its roots revealing a huge chasm in the earth around it. As he looked into the huge hole he saw something that sent shivers up his spine. Lying there was the bloated muddy disfigured body of a man. He could still make out grey wisps of hair and a pair of bronze spectacles attached to what was once Julius’s face. He screamed in horror but this time he did not wake up. As he looked in at the awful site he noticed Julius was not alone but part of a mangle of rotting dead body parts.

Trafford reeled back in shock and disbelief. He stood transfixed not knowing what to do next. Only the sound of sirens from the emergency services in the distance, and the noise of neighbors getting up broke him from his trance.

He ran and hurled himself over the six foot high fence at the back of the garden, into the muddy ally behind. From here he sprinted into the wet night. He felt he had been running for hours before he came to rest in a park. There in the middle was the bench from his dreams. Trafford sat and rested taking in what he had just witnessed. He looked over towards where he had found the women each night in his sleep and saw nothing. As he approached he noticed the grass was flattened as if someone had recently laid there. He knelt down and felt the compacted green space, it felt familiar and almost comforting. Then his mind flicked back to Julius and the dead people beneath the tree and he began to panic.

How could it be possible, the body he had seen looked as if it had been there for weeks, but Julius had been leaving him notes up until a night ago? He fumbled in his pockets looking for proof and pulled out the wedge of letters that Julius had written to him. They were real, so it couldn’t be true. He read through them one by one, until finally he came to the thank you letter he had written to Julius. He must have put it in his pocket accidently when he opened the champagne. As he read his words he noticed there was something strange about it, something similar to the other letters. Then in a moment of calm realisation it dawned on him, the handwriting on his and Julius’s letters was identical, and it was unmistakably his.

The Poisoned Tree (David Reid)

The Poisoned Tree

by David Reid

Not so long ago I used to fantasize about having time on my hands, time to write or draw or paint or play guitar or build or read or lie in the sun, and most of all, time to think my thoughts. A year ago my wish came true: retired forever through one moment of stupidity, one ill conceived lift which damaged my spine beyond repair. And now I sit staring out the window while my wife works and fantasizes about having free time.

So I sit and stare at trees and waste weeks at a time and pray for something new to occupy my thoughts, something big and important and worrying, something compelling enough to interrupt my unhealthy introspection. I look at the empty windows next door, and think about what was, what almost was, and I wonder if I could have done things differently, and if that would have changed anything. Five years ago would have been the time to do it, to maybe throw the switch and send destiny down another track. A tree, now five years old, but somehow, I suspect, so much older.

The house next door was empty back then, but that was all about to change.

…

I looked up from my computer to see a moving van out front of the place next door. It was a Saturday and I was wrestling with a spreadsheet which absolutely refused to behave. I’d come to two conclusions at roughly the same time; first, there was something odd about the formatting of the numbers which made the equations fall apart, and second, I really needed to get a job which didn’t encroach on my allegedly spare time. My wife of some twenty odd years was making kitchen noises in the kitchen. Somehow, she managed to make similar noises regardless of what room she was in, but that’s another story.

The house had been on the market for a few months, a situation we weren’t altogether comfortable with. We’d always liked our neighbors, inasmuch as they never called the cops on our invariably late and invariably noisy parties. I had a theory about suburbs and neighbours. You could live in the most exclusive burb and be surrounded by assholes, and apart from paying inflated land rates, you’d have little to show for your investment. Or, you could live in a shitty neighbourhood with good people on either side as a buffer, and live like a king. We had the best neighbors of all, people who went their own way and did their own things – whatever they were – and basically left us the hell alone. So the arrival of new people filled us with not a little trepidation.

I called my wife over for a look.

‘I’m busy,’ she said, dropping a few dozen saucepans into the sink by way of punctuation.

‘He’s young and hot.’ We’d been married so long and knew each other’s tastes pretty well. She could have just had easily have said the same to me about a woman. ‘He’ was lugging a depressingly large carton, tendons and veins bulging through otherwise lean forearms. The denim jeans and black T-shirt didn’t give away much – tradie or roadie would have fit equally well. Sharon – my wife – came and leaned across me, slowly parting the curtain a little more for a better look.

‘He’s probably gay. Or works for the removalists,’ she said. ‘No, wait, what’s this? Hmm. Looks like your luck might have turned too.’ Sharon didn’t sound entirely happy.

Like I said, I knew her type, and she knew mine. Mine was harder to define. It wasn’t as simple as blonde or tits or ass, although they were all definitely present in our apparently new neighbour, emerging from the back of the van. It was more stature – or lack thereof – and a certain vulnerability or shyness. It’s amazing how much one can pickup in a brief glance, but both my wife and I were instantly aware that our neighbourhood was suddenly and irrevocably changed. Sharon turned quietly and walked back into the kitchen.

‘What?’ I called after her, in a slightly offended tone, knowing full well. She admired young male flesh in a respectful, almost worshipful way, secure in the knowledge that her catholic guilt would derail any improper thoughts that went much beyond a handshake. On the other hand, on a semi-regular basis some poor young girl would make the mistake of finding me funny or interesting and I would spend the next year or so obsessing about her. I continued to watch the activity next door until it became painfully clear that the young couple next door were outrageously happy.

The next day was Sunday, and I left early to check out the local market. Sharon liked to sleep late on weekends. I came back with a small tree. I shouldn’t have as I’m really clueless about such things, but I saw it in a pot and it looked like a housewarming gift and so I bought it. I didn’t ask what it was, how to look after it, or how big it grew. I woke Sharon to share my excitement at being so neighbourly. She rolled over and muttered into the pillow:

‘I suppose you’d like me to get up and bake some fucking muffins too?’

I didn’t go next door immediately. I went back to the computer and spreadsheet, and I swear that it was only seeing her husband leaving the house that reminded me I had a present for her. Sorry, them.

By this time Sharon was up.

‘I’m taking that tree over now. Sure you don’t want to come?’

‘Not really.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

Which is how and where it all started. There was no shortage of chemistry between Chris and me. True to form I obsessed over her. True to form, Sharon tolerated it, just. Chris planted the tree on the boundary, between her place and ours, so I could see it from my computer and she, coincidentally, from hers.

…

It is only with 20-20 hindsight that you ever realize the things you thought were trivial weren’t, that the things that seemed so fucking important at the time were just noise, and that the truly important things were the things that you simply didn’t think about at all. It took a few years to even suspect there was something truly odd about the tree. Not having been gifted with a green thumb, the only thought I gave to the seasons was my yearly rant at the deciduous trees dotting our yard that made mowing such a pain in the ass for a few weeks each year. Consequently, the fact that the ‘gift’ blossomed and grew according to its own bizarre timetable was lost on me for ages, and would have continued to be lost on me if I hadn’t spent so much time at that damned computer desk, staring at it.

For the first year, the new neighbours - Chris and Trevor - appeared to be fantastically happy, but not so much when we were around. We had invited them to a couple of parties, and they invited us across for dinner. Chris and I always had a blast, less so our respective spouses. Sharon didn’t appear to particularly like either of them, and this was reciprocated by Trevor. That is, until Chris got pregnant. Everyone was suddenly over the moon, and for a while things went swimmingly. We were all suddenly best of friends, no doubt due to the insurance policy Chris was now carrying in her belly. Five months in, it seemed that even the tree was getting into the mood. One day, I looked out to see it had grown a foot overnight and was peppered with red flowers. I jumped on the computer and fired up the chat client, to share this revelation with Chris, on the offchance that she was online. She was.

She had miscarried the night before.

Autumn and Winter came and went, and to Trevor’s credit he supported her throughout. They may not have been happier as such, but the relationship was definitely stronger for it. Throughout, I had a clear view into their living room, as the tree was a barren stick. With Spring, Chris appeared to get her love of life back, and in the evenings we’d often spend hours online, using thousands of dollars worth of computers and ten times that in network infrastructure to chat back and forth across a distance of a little over ten metres.

One night in particular we’d been flirting a little, probably fuelled by red wine I was in the habit of drinking in the evenings after a tough day. There was nothing unusual in this, inasmauch as it was our sordid little secret and we had our boundaries which were fairly well established. Nevertheless, we were careful to delete the histories of our respective PCs after a session. I switched off my monitor, and went to the kitchen to make a coffee, and when the kettle stopped screaming I could briefly hear raised voices and a yelp. I switched off the lights in the kitchen and slid towards the window. At first I thought their lights were off too, but then I realized that the tree was obscuring her window.

After that I had a succession of early starts and late finishes at work, and gave very little thought to the incident. But the following Saturday, as I left to get a newspaper, I looked properly at the tree. Again, it seemed to have put on a growth spurt, and was covered in red flowers. While I knew enough about trees to realize that such things tend to happen when the sun comes back out, I found it vaguely unsettling. I heard a door slam and, partially hidden behind the tree, I waited while Trevor started his car and drove off, very obviously angry.

I watched until his car disappeared, then knocked on her door. I waited, then knocked again. I could head muffled noises, so I knocked again, harder.

‘Who is it?’

‘Me.’

Silence.

‘Can I come in?’

After a moment I heard the chain drop, and the door opened. She was in a white bathrobe, wet, clearly just out of the shower. She looked away quickly, head down. She appeared to be trembling slightly. I moved through the doorway.

‘Hey. I just thought I…’ I began, but she spun around and looked up at me, close. She had a massive bruise on her cheek. I started to ask whether he had done it, but her look said it all. She threw her arms around me and it’s a measure of how thoroughly stunned I was that I completely failed to have a single inappropriate thought about the wet, naked body shuddering against me. I must have been in denial, as it didn’t even occur to me to ask if it was my fault.

…

She stayed with him for another year. Things grew increasingly cool between me and Sharon until one Thursday I left work early with a migraine, and walked through my front door only to bump into Trevor coming out the other way. Sharon was in bed, naked, and didn’t even do me the courtesy of looking embarrassed. I turned and watched Trevor leave. He went straight to his car and drove off. I sat on my porch and glanced next door. The tree was massive. I never saw Trevor again, and Sharon and I never spoke of it. I suppose on some level I felt I deserved it.

You’d be forgiven for thinking, as I’m sure Sharon and Trevor did, that I’d have capitalized on this and jumped straight into bed with Chris. Sorry if I’ve mislead you, but we weren’t like that, not at that stage anyway. I’d spent the past year trying to watch over her and protect her from the thug she’d married for some inexplicable reason. It would have been so very easy to take the opportunity to actually feel that skin and body I’d been imagining for so long, but it would have felt like an abuse of my role of protector.

On the other hand, I’m not a complete idiot. I allowed my wife to believe what ever she wished, and began spending more and more time next door. Some nights we’d just talk until the small hours, other nights we’d just lie on the couch together watching movies. The arrangement appeared to suit Sharon, perhaps balancing the books for her. All in all, we were pretty happy again – well, I was - although I couldn’t help but wonder about Chris’s future. Life was pretty normal, and one night I was sitting at the computer again, when I noticed I couldn’t see Chris’s window at all. Perhaps because I no longer needed to play voyeur, I simply hadn’t noticed how much the tree had grown.

The next day I went outside with my lopping secateurs and began trimming it back. It was late spring, and the tree was fully decked out in leaves, but no flowers. I spent a good two hours trimming it back, then went inside for a break. Sharon was watching television. I made her a coffee and kissed her on the top of the head. She smiled a contented smile. Things really were getting back to normal. I sat next to her and we watched a little TV, then went back outside to clean up the mess.

The tree not only appeared to be at least as bushy as before, but it was covered in red blooms. I sprinted to her front door and pushed it open. I raced through the house, my heart threatening to burst.

‘Chris!’

‘What!’

I pushed open the bathroom door and she stepped out of the shower, and stared at me. It’s amazing how much one can pick up in a brief glance, let alone a lingering look that screams what it is you’ve wanted to hear for as long as you can remember. I stepped towards her, and she held out her hands to me. She took a single step then her feet slid out from beneath her. I grabbed for her hands, but her head hit the edge of the bath anyway and that’s about all I remember except for the red.

…

I tried cutting it down but it grew back. I tried poisoning it but it grew back. I tried digging it out but it broke my back, and now it’s autumn again.