Ghost Of A Chance

He didn’t see the oil slick until it was too late. There was the sound of things breaking and tearing, splintering and smashing and a high thin keening in his ears that was not the wind screaming. The sparks that ignited the spilt fuel were the last bright things he remembered.

It was dark when he woke. With the darkness came pain. Agonizing, wrenching pain that gave voice to the fear lying within. He heard soft movements, the quick bustle of feet, the rustle of clothing. He felt the stabbing prick of a needle in his arm and then the blessed relief of unconsciousness took him deeper into the darkness.

When he woke again, he was expecting the agony. He braced himself for it. When he heard the soft patter of feet he gasped, “No needles!” The effort was almost too much. Sweat poured from his body. The darkness remained.

“My eyes,” he groaned. “What’s wrong with my eyes?” His hand lifted slowly from the bed and touched the bandages covering his face. Fear overcame the pain and he slid back in to oblivion.

He could hear talking. Low whispers and clearing of throats. Shuffle of boots. Jingle of buckles and keys. He could smell the odour of stale and fresh tobacco wafting towards him, mingling with the hot smell of too many male bodies in too small a space. He woke fully to darkness.

“Who’s there?” He asked, his voice a rasp in a throat desert dry from drugs and screaming.
“Hey, Bro! Yer awake, man! Howzit goin’? We’ze been real worried about cher…” the voice trailed off into the darkness.
“Grizz…mate…what’s wrong with me eyes? I can’t see, mate.” He spoke to the void and the hulking brother he knew stood by his bedside.
“Well, you got all these bandages wrapped round yer ‘ead mate. Can’t see nuthin. Nobody’ll tell us squat, coz we’re not rellies. HAH! Just bro’s! They tried to stop us comin’ in but we wasn’t gonna wait anymore. We didn’t know if you was real fucked up or what…”
“How long have I been here?” He asked. “What happened? I can’t remember….only thing I can remember are bright lights…”
“Aw, shit, man. I didn’t wanna have to tell ya this. You stacked ‘er mate. Oil on the road. Not your fault – couldn’t have done nuthin about it, it was there and that was it. You’ve been here for three weeks. It was touch and go, mate. They thought you’d die.”
“Is…she…alright?” His voice broke on the last syllable.
There was a long, long pause, punctuated only by harsh breathing.
“I’m real sorry, Bear. She’s gone, mate. Only the ghost of a chance could bring her back now.”
Bear let the pain from his wounds wash over him, but he didn’t feel it. The pain he felt in his heart and soul was greater than that of his broken and torn body. He grieved for his loss in a way that only the brother standing by the side of his bed could know. A large hot fist landed clumsily on his bruised shoulder and he felt the sympathy pour through. For a brief time, he wished he had died, too.

It was late November. Bear hobbled slowly out onto the verandah of the homestead, carefully cradling his coffee to his chest and wincing as each step dragged more hurt from his healing bones. Making his way carefully to the chair under the window, he leaned his cane against the small table and sat down. He took a sip of the steaming brew and looked out towards the mountains rising in blue mist from the heavily treed forest surrounding the house. He had come here just over a month ago to recuperate. The day he had decided he wasn’t going to ride again was the day he also chose not to do anything at all, ever again. He just gave up. He had thrown some stuff into his truck and driven miles into the bush, hoping to lose himself. He had already lost his way. But a sign on a fence had stopped him. ‘Lodger Wanted – rent free in exchange for light work’. He’d driven up the long, rutted dirt drive next to the sign, for what seemed like miles and then stopped, mesmerized. He decided at that point that he would stay for a while and think things through. The house drew him in a way he could not explain.

Movement came from within the house. The chink of kettle against mug. The soft cursing as foot thumped into chair. The clank of wood being thrown into the firebox of the old combustion heater in the centre of the lounge room. Bear laughed to himself. Old Charlie was a stickler for keeping the fire going. He supposed old habits, like old men, died hard.

“G’day, Ron. Have a good night?”
“Yeah, mate. I slept like a log. Always do here. Must be the fresh air.”
“That and the Jack Daniels, son.”
Old Charlie laughed. He sat down in the old wooden rocker that “…used to belong to the missus, God rest her soul…” and drank a great draught of tea from his mug, exhaling with satisfaction as he looked around him at the breaking day. The currajongs were calling from the tall mist wreathed trees. Sunlight slanted through the canopy and dappled the ground. Steam rose from the damp vegetation and the bush rang with a myriad bird calls as they greeted the new day.
“Great day.”
“Yeah.”
“Going to be a warm one, Bear.”
“Yeah.”
“Good day for a ride.”
There was silence broken only by the sounds of birds reveling in the warm, summer air.
“Said, it’s a good day for a ride…”
“Yeah. I heard ya the first time. Don’t push it”, Charlie.”

Bear lost himself in memories. They had finally taken the bandages of his eyes and he found his sight blurred but normal. The doctors assured him that it would take a day or two but his eyes would lose the blurriness and his vision would return to normal. Of the rest of him, they could make no promises. That day he had discharged himself from hospital and gone to see her. Looking at her mangled and twisted body, the tears he had not shed fell like the rain had that tragic night. He touched his fingers to her blistered paintwork. Ran his hand over her crumpled frame and mourned. He knew she’d never dance again. The day he decided to end it all, she went in the back of the truck along with the stuff he had thrown in there, all jumbled up together like his mind. What was a man without his bike?

He remembered driving and driving, but not where he had driven. The roads and byways did not register on his anguished mind. When he reached the end of a road and was forced to choose between ending it there or turning around and finding somewhere else, he had seen the sign on the fence. The road had ended somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere lost in time and space. He had no idea where he was. All he knew right then was that he didn’t want to die anymore. He just needed some time to think. Old Charlie had greeted him as he pulled up in front of the old homestead. Told him to park his truck out back, seemingly not interested in the tarp covered wreckage roped down in the tray. It wasn’t until much later that Bear had noticed she was gone.
At first, he had been outraged, furious that someone had touched his dead lady. Charlie had let him bluster himself into silence before leading him into the large workshop behind the barn. Bear had been stunned by what he saw there. His lady had been stripped and lay, a naked frame, on a huge central bench under the bright neons that illuminated everything. Her parts lay on benches that ran down the sides of the workshop. Everywhere there were bits and pieces of motor cycles. He thought he was the frame of an old Indian resting peacefully against the shadow of an Ariel. Charlie smiled at his amazement and led him through the workshop into a space at the rear. There, sparkling and gleaming, were the finest motorcycles Bear had ever seen outside a bike show. Old Charlie had let him look and touch, dream and dawdle. Read the thousands of clippings papering the tin walls. At last Bear had turned to him, overwhelmed and Charlie had told him that if anyone could fix his lady, he could and he would.

Bear came back to the present with the thud of the rocker. For three days now, Charlie had said the same thing to him. Nice day. Nice day for a ride. He couldn’t stall him for much longer. He’d been to the shed. He’d seen his lady restored to her former glory. He’d heard her roar in the hollow chamber of the workshop – begging for release. His bones and body had healed as well as they ever would. Why then was he so afraid?
“C’mon, son. I’d like to feel the wind in my face one last time. I’d like to ride with a friend beside me again. I’d like to feel my old bike dance beneath me. It’s in your blood, Ron, no matter how you try and deny it. There’s only one way, son…”

Charlie got up and went back inside. He returned moments later with his boots and jacket. He sat down on the front step and pulled his boots on, looking at Bear the whole time. Slowly he stood up and stretched into his jacket. He plaited his thin snowy white hair into a short ponytail and then, with a last challenging look, stepped down onto the path and began to walk to the shed. Bear heard nothing for a little while and then cam the cough and roar of a large bike firing up. He felt the adrenalin surge through his body like wildfire. He felt the itch in his hands and the ache in his heart and the fear in his head. He slowly got to his feet and looking at his cane, he turned away and hobbled to the step where his boots lay, dusty and dull. Pulling them on he slowly got to his feet and walked back inside to where his jacket rested on a peg on the wooden framed wall. He pulled it on slowly, relishing the creaking scent of old worn leather and realizing just how much weight he had lost when he zipped it up. When he walked back down the stairs and around the corner, the surge of adrenalin pumping into him was almost more that he could stand.
Old Charlie was waiting for him. He had wheeled his lady into the sun, where she rested, gleaming and sparkling in the clear warm light. She looked clean and mean. Next to her, Charlie was astride the big full dresser that was his pride and joy. He grinned at Bear. An ear to ear, gap smiled show of joy and brotherhood.
“C’mon, son! Quit wasting the day! Let’s ride!” He roared over the throaty purr of his bike. Bear quit wasting time and they rode out on a cloud of dust.

Bear woke with a smile on his face. Never had he felt so alive, so good. Every day now for the past three weeks, he and Old Charlie had got up every morning and ridden until the sun set. He smiled again. It was the week before Christmas. He had decided that after Christmas Day, he would go home. Back to the land of the living. He wanted to stay and share that special day with Old Charlie – the man had become more than just a mate, he’d become the father Bear had never known. He knew that he would always be welcome here.

He got up and limped to the kitchen. His leg was nearly completely healed. The major breaks had knitted together and although Old Charlie had warned him of the arthritic pain to come, Bear felt fit and healthy. When he walked into the kitchen, he frowned. The fire was out. Not like Old Charlie to let that happen, he thought. He called to him but there was not answer. Even stranger. Possessed by the feeling that something was terribly wrong, he went back into the hallway to the old mans bedroom. Knocking loudly on the door he called again. When there was no answer, he pushed the door open and looked into the room. There was no one there. As he looked around, Bear realized that there was nothing there at all. Just a bare old iron frame bed. A rotting mattress. Dust thick on the floor. He looked around him in confusion and bewilderment. Dust was thick everywhere. Cobwebs hung in sheets from the ceiling beams. He backed out of the room and turned into the lounge. There were no armchairs. The old combustion heater was rusting and disused. The flue had collapsed and he could see daylight through the buckled roof. Dust was thick in there too. There was no sign of life. He walked through into the kitchen and saw what he had not seen before. No kitchen table. No chairs. No pantry. No food. No Jack Daniels. No Charlie.

Confused and worried, he ran outside to the workshop, his heart thudding in his chest. The double doors hung open, rusted hinges unable to support their weight. Inside, haloed by the rays on light pouring through the holes in the roof, was his bike. Perfect, undamaged, restored. He breathed in wonder and shock, ran a loving hand over her smooth lines then made his way to the small room at the back of the shed. Everything lay canopied under dust and grime, draped in web. The bikes were still there. Bear shook his head in total amazement and walked slowly back to his bike. He wheeled her outside, next to where his truck was parked. As he did so, he heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway and the revving of a small engine. He looked up to see a small red car pull up in a cloud of dust.
A woman got out of the car. Pulling her waist length red hair into a thick ponytail, she walked up to him.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? This is my Dad’s place!” She spat angrily at him, her hands on jean-clad hips.
“Is your Dad Old Charlie? If so, then I’d like to know where he is, too! I got up this morning and he wasn’t here. There’s something really strange going on. The house is falling apart and it looks as though it’s been derelict for a long time! Oh, my names Bear…I mean, Ron.”
He held out his hand.
She ignored it and glared at him, her green eyes flashing in the hot summer light. She was looking at him in much the same way as her old man had looked at him. Challenging. Direct.
“You trying to be smart or something? Bear…Ron, whatever your name is?”
“No! I’m not! Honestly! He fixed this bike, my bike, and in many ways he fixed me too! I’ve been here for over two months – I got lost out there, saw the sign on the fence, and followed the driveway up here. He was waiting on the verandah and said I could stay if I helped him out about the place a bit. Not that I could do much, I was all broke up after a motorcycle accident. Besides, he did more for me! We’ve been out riding every day since he rebuilt my bike, him on his big dresser. I swear I know every single road on this mountain! But when I got up this morning, he was gone! Hell! Everything was gone! Nothing left but dust! You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
She looked at him. He could see tears filling her emerald eyes. Walking away into the house, she beckoned with one limp hand and he followed. Saw her standing by the firebox in the kitchen.
“That’s what made me know something was wrong,” he whispered. “Old Charlie’d never let the fire go out…”
She whirled on him, tears running down her tanned cheeks.
“How could you possibly know a thing like that? Unless…”
She looked curiously at him.
“What did he look like?” she asked.
“He was about 5 foot 6 with thin silver hair he always would plait before we went for a ride. He used to call his mo and beard his ‘bug strainer’, but I reckon it strained food too! Favourite tipple – Jack Daniels – we drank bottles of the stuff! He was a bit on the plump side, but strong with it. Oh and in the mornings, he’d whinge about the arthritis in his knees and hip. Umm…green eyes, sort of like yours actually, and a wicked sense of humour. Always wore his boots and jacket – y’know, the one with the wings on the sleeve…”
She looked at him, amazement obvious in her open-mouthed expression.
Just at that moment, there was a creak and a crack and with a groan, part of the roof surrounding the firebox flue fell to the ground. Bear grabbed the woman and dragged her to safety. He could feel her warmth in his arms, the well-rounded goodness of her. Smell her woman smell and the scent of the fragrance she wore. She pulled away from him and brushed herself down.
Together they looked at the mess. As she looked up at the sunlight streaming through the hole, she started.
“What’s that?” She said.
Bear looked up. Hanging precariously from one of the rafters was a dusty package. He looked around and realizing the chairs and table had disappeared like everything else, climbed onto the iron stove. Reaching up, he carefully pulled the package from its resting place and getting down, handed it to the woman who stood with her hand out, waiting.
She walked out of the kitchen, through the lounge and onto the front verandah, where she sat down on the stairs and held the package for what seemed like a long time. The bush held its breath. Bear followed her and sat down beside her.
“Well?” He said. “What is it? You gonna open it or are ya just gonna sit there and admire it?”

She looked across at him, a puzzled frown on her pretty face.
“My Dad…Old Charlie…he’s been dead for over five years, Ron. This is his will. I could never find it. I came up here today to say goodbye to the place because his greedy brother decided to take me to court and he won. Won the right to own this place. To take it from me. I know my Dad didn’t want that – he hated his brother. I know he wanted me to have this and the 500 acres that goes with it – he told me so many times…Jess, he’d say, this is your place when I go, don’t let any other bastard get their hands on it, especially not that no account, cheating, lying, mongrel of a brother of mine…”
She broke off and ripped open the package. Inside there was a legal document and a bundle of papers. She looked at the bundle in her hand.
“That’s funny.” She frowned. “This paper is new”.
They looked at each other in shock.
“The will states clearly that all this property is mine, lock stock and barrel.” She paused and her eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped.
“What did you say your name was?” She looked at him in amazement.
“Ron…Ron Williams. Or Bear to me mates. Why?” He replied.
“Because, Ron Williams, there’s a letter here for you and in this will it states that Dad wants you to have all the old bikes in the back of the shed!”

And far away into the distance, they heard the roar of a big bike on its last triumphant ride.

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Tags:

maggie summers, marg thomson, short story, story and writing