To Be Shot By The Sky

Chapter 2.

Village, October 1973.

“So what we’re looking at is probably about three to six months-”. 

Doctor Bob wore shorts in the examination room. Despite this, his pearly quads were not commanding Olga’s attention. At seventy three, her vision was still sharp as eyes could be, and right this moment they were locked in on a crudely drawn picture hanging from the wall. It was of a green dinosaur with a childish scrawl of “COMET TO LIFE” positioned ominously above its head. Olga hadn’t made her mind up on it yet. 

“And that’s only taking into account the lead, not the other miscellaneous substances-”. His voice was cutting in and out of Olga’s moment as she slowly re-adjusted the satellite dish in her head. Her gaze fell from the dinosaur to the “Doctor Bob” lanyard swinging from the medical professional’s chest. 

This really riled Olga up. This wasn’t the paediatric ward, she thought. At least, she didn’t believe so. She hadn’t been up for long. Last she remembered she was arguing with the man in the post office - Pete’s son Kent - about his interpretation of the term ‘haste’ and how it somehow managed to match Olga’s interpretation of the word ‘oafish’. Despite having bigger things on, her head began to lighten and hands go cold and knees had started to wobble in that annoying way which she hated because it made her seem nervous and she wasn’t nervous, she was, if anything, excited, because Pete’s son Kent the post-office-operator had annoyed her long before his indoctrination into one of the country’s longer standing mafia’s, and she had really quite wanted to lay into the boy ever since he urinated on her tomato plants about eighteen years back and oh my god this is the children’s ward there’s a bucket of lollipops on the counter.

“Pretty happy with how that one turned out,” Doctor Bob said, drawing Olga once again back into the room.

“Huh?”

“Sure, I’ve done better when I’ve had more time, but for freehand I think it’s up there.”

He was talking about the dinosaur. Olga smiled, the way you would at a small child showing you a rock. 

“I assumed it was a stencil,” she said.

Doctor Bob tried to hide a chuffed grin by burying his nose in Olga’s chart.

Why would they put her in the children’s ward with what is clearly an idiot after collapsing in a post office?

“Because I’m the only Doctor working today as it’s a Sunday” Doctor Bob answered, head still within his clipboard. 

That’s not right. “If it was a Sunday the post office wouldn’t have been open.” Olga smirked. Checkmate Doctor Bob.

“That was yesterday morning.”

Smug prick. 

“So, three to six?” Olga continued.

“Months. Yes. But as I was saying, difficult without being able to concretely nail down the-” Doctor Bob furrowed his brow and stared at Olga’s shoulder.

“Miscellaneous substance” Olga finished.

“SubstancES actually. It’s funny, I really can’t put my finger on what they could be.” Doctor Bob really did find this funny.

“So probably shorter?” Olga pressed.

“Probably”. Doctor Bob unstuck his hamstrings from the cold metal fold-out chair he was sitting on. This movement made an audible rip that cut into Olga’s chest. “Well, you know where to find me.” Doctor Bob let out a large sigh indicating the end of the conversation, then slapped his exposed knees for good measure.

Olga blinked. That was it? “Is there no treatment for-”

“Three to six months? Why piss in the fire, you know?” 

Doctor Bob stood up. Went for the door. Paused. Returned to Olga. He bent down to analyse the large, hastily bandaged bullet wound in her shoulder. “Interesting. It clearly came directly downward. As if you were shot from the sky.”

“I was shot by the sky?” Olga decided to directly target Doctor Bob’s medical licence. “I assumed it was something to do with all the digging and building and heavy machinery next to my house.”

“Oh no, not at all. It was that weird lad Hector Hoolihan without a doubt. Just wondered how he managed to get so high up. I’ve got him in the other room now. Kid’s fucked up; hippocratic’s not gagging me on that one”. 

A knock on Doctor Bob’s door. It opened to reveal Barb, Doctor Bob’s receptionist. She leant her head in, almost jovially. “Hector’s complaining of pain,” she sang out.

“He’s all fucked up, Barb, what do you want me to do?” Doctor Bob replied. 

The door closed and Bob turned back to Olga. “Kid’s got a tolerance to codeine like you wouldn’t believe. Tic Tacs.”

“You’re saying Hector shot me?”

“He’s been making bullets to try and kill the sun,” Doctor Bob answered casually. He briefly admired his dinosaur drawing, straightening it on the wall, “Police don’t want to go near him for obvious reasons. Maybe you shouldn’t have been standing in his way.” 

The Doctor gently ushered Olga out of the door. She hadn’t been standing anywhere near Hector Hoolihan, Olga thought. She had been in her garden staring at a faraway hill she often lingered on in the mornings. There was something wrong with it, she knew it. She believed it was a fake and in fact just a large canvas deliberately made up to deceive her. That, or it was alive and slowly moving around trying to get comfortable. Whatever it was, Olga was on to it. She wasn’t in anyone’s way.

Olga and Doctor Bob walked in step down the corridor of the small General Practice. As they passed the slightly ajar door to Examination Room 2 Olga could hear the smooth, controlled baritone of an insane man: “I told you once I told you four hundred times and I will keep telling you until I am submerged in victory or death: where the hell does it go at night?”

As they hit the reception area Doctor Bob quickened his pace toward Barb behind her desk. He may as well have had his tongue out. Olga slowed down near a large plant pot. She picked up a well worn backpack she had stuffed behind it then winced as the weight flared up her sky-shot shoulder. She gasped and the bag hit the floor with a defeated exhale of burlap. Hang on, if Barb was at her desk, then who was Hoolihan talking to? Olga took a knee and began to rifle through the bag to find her-

“You’re not driving out of here.” Doctor Bob had turned round and was watching Olga pull out her car keys from her bag. “You collapsed and will collapse again: no heavy machinery”.

“You want me to walk?”

“Oh you shouldn’t walk. You’ll catch your death.”

“Are you going to drive me?” Olga pressed.

“I don’t have a licence.” replied Doctor Bob.

“By choice, or force?” Olga jabbed. The resultant silence told a story that Doctor Bob could only touch upon the fringes of in his darkest of nights.

After an age - “Get a taxi.” 

“Are you going to pay for it?” Olga was already walking out of the door.

“I will!” Barb leapt up from her seat. “On the company account. I don’t want you out there in the cold.”

Bob glared at Barb who looked at Olga who glared at Bob who glared at Olga who looked at Barb who looked at Olga who glared at Doctor Bob who stared at the clock.

Doctor Bob pulled a wallet from his back pocket. Dropped it on the reception desk. Then Left. The slapping of his cheap flip flops against bare heels echoed across the linoleum until they were eventually vanquished by the heavy slam of the door to Examination Room 2.

Barb turned to Olga, smiling. “He’s just crabby because of the investigation.” She whipped the company card from Doctor Bob’s wallet with a practised flourish and put a phone to her ear. 

Olga shouldered her backpack with a discomfort she was going to live with and walked towards the automatic sliding doors, moving her hands slightly to try and spark a response. As they opened a huge wave of cold October wind crashed against her face. She breathed it all in. The first week of autumn. The air still carried with it the youthful optimism of her year in Ontario in 1921. For a moment, she is twenty, she is back there. It’s like jet fuel, explosive, each breath is never quite enough, she needs to burn it all. All that life lingering in the wind. That optimism lasted a few moments before the inevitable secondary gust of empty longing for what had gone battered down on the doorway as a shift of her shoulder released a torrent of electric fire. The winds pulled back and Olga stepped through the door. 

She’s going to wait in the carpark.

A small, red, Ford Escort with a full size pine tree strapped to the roof pulled into the car park. It didn’t sound healthy, Olga thought. Barb had cheaped out on the taxi. The passenger window rolled down revealing a woman with more facial piercings than you would usually expect. 

“Olga?”

First name, very informal. Barb didn’t know shit about GDPR. Olga nodded. Walked over to the car. Slung off her backpack. Tossed it in the back seat via the open window. Barely even acknowledging the pain as she pulled the handle. 

Locked. 

“Child lock!” The Driver made a face. Leant over to the passenger door, seatbelt still attached, and stretched towards the interior door handle as much as her limbs would allow. Olga let her try for a little while before reaching through the open window and pulling the handle herself. 

Inside smelt of pine and dust. Olga didn’t quite stop herself from enjoying it in time. The Driver noticed. “I’ve got a tree on the roof,” they said casually. 

“Is that right?” Olga replied. 

“It didn’t fit in the boot.” 

The straps were looped around the inside of the car so that, when leaning forward, they gently rested on Olga’s head. Olga looked at the woman, who smiled. “I’m driving,” Olga said firmly as she leant towards the Driver, fumbling for the driver-side door handle. She grasped it, pulled, and opened the door.

“What are you doing?” the Driver cried out. 

“Good point,” Olga replied, slamming the door closed. “Can’t have them seeing me drive. Don’t get out. You go right, I'll go left.” 

She began to clamber over into the driver’s seat. The Driver did not move. 

“What’s going on? Are you robbing me? Am I being robbed? I have nothing to rob.” Her voice dropped to a cool, clinical tone, “Are you the tree police?”

“No I’m not the bloody-“ Olga yelped in pain as her sky-shot shoulder got caught in the headrest. 

The car went silent save for Olga’s slowing breath. The windscreen steamed up a little. Tiny droplets formed in the corners of the glass and began to streak down towards the dashboard. The Driver watched as one of the streaks shot ahead of the rest, tearing down the slope and hitting the plastic with a small splash.

“I’ll go over the dash,” the Driver unclipped her seatbelt and slid over the dashboard of her own car. She landed in the passenger seat just as Olga was able to spin her first leg into the footwell. “It is never anyone’s first rodeo.”

“I have a licence,” Olga’s voice was muffled, quiet, as she contorted herself into the driver’s seat. “They’re not letting me drive.” She settled into the seat. “My car’s over there. You can have the keys if you like. We can swap... Here,” she pulled her car keys out of her pocket and tossed them to the Driver. “I’ll go the speed limit.” 

The keys flew out of the open window as the Driver failed to catch Olga’s fastball. They leant out the window and began groping at the tarmac to retrieve them, but paused when they heard the smooth mhmhmhmhmhm of an automatic door and the rapid thwack of plastic on skin. “Someone’s coming out!” she yelled, pointing at Doctor Bob storming across the carpark, knees to the wind. 

Olga fumbled with the ignition. “Shit shit shit.”

“Go!” the Driver yelled as she wound up the window. 

The car coughed to life then roared as Olga slammed down the accelerator. 

The bright red Ford Escort with a large pine tree strapped to the roof peeled off out of the car park, leaving Doctor Bob in the rearview.

“Where to?” the Driver asked, which felt odd coming from the passenger seat.

“I collapsed at the post office,” Olga responded.

“I think it’s closed today.”

“Irrelevant,” Olga tightened her grip on the steering wheel as her shoulder bore down upon her. 

“What were you posting?” the Driver inquired.

“I was collecting.”

“What were you collecting?”

Olga’s lip twitched in that way it often does and had been doing increasingly more as of late. “Do you have an off switch?”

“You’re driving my car.”

“Which is proving very difficult because there’s a huge great tree on the roof of it.”

“I was saving it,” the Driver exhaled. She poked her head out of the window and began adjusting the tree straps.

“For a rainy day?” Olga thought that was quite funny.

“The landscapers are destroying the land. They’re ruining my- the- So you want to go to the post office?”

“I never said that.” Olga took a corner hard. They were making their way along a tight country road, down the hill the GP Surgery sat on top of. Stupid place for a doctor’s office, Olga thought. She hit the radio and blasted it. She had no idea what the song was but sang along nonetheless. The Driver watched. Smiled. Joined in. Olga wound down her window and shouted the jargon lyrics into the wind- 

“ALABAMA NO BANANA YEA I’VE GOT THAT SWEET ROMANCER TAKE ME TO THE SPOTTTTTTT-“

Sheep in the road.

Olga braked hard. The wheels locked. The car skidded. Both women yelled. The car came to a stop a few feet from the disinterested sheep. Which looked up, nodded, then wandered off into the surrounding woodland. 

After a beat, there was a creak. A snap. A groan. And the pine tree slid from the roof down the windshield over the bonnet and onto the road. 

The Driver gasped and pulled at the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. The newly shifted unbroken tree straps were now holding it closed. They were trapped. 

“Some kind of taxi,” Olga remarked.

“I’m not a taxi. I’m Barb’s sister, we’ve got a thing going,” the Driver began slamming and pushing at the door to try and dislodge the straps.

The recent jolt resparked the pain in Olga's shoulder. Did it hurt more or less? Either way, she didn’t wait for an answer before climbing out her open window. 

“What are you doing?” the Driver cried out into the otherwise silent back road. “You could hurt yourself!”

What a shame that would be, Olga thought as she landed on the tarmac. Offering no assistance to the Driver, she inspected the tree. It was about nine feet tall and hacked crudely at the base. It was young. Green. A nice tree. The sounds of the Driver clambering out of her window did not deter Olga’s train of thought. Why had she taken this tree? There were countless pines around this area, in fact, Olga knew at least twelve personally from her garden alone. She counted them every morning from her kitchen window.

Olga’s kitchen was small, like the rest of the house, but well lived in. Some would say cluttered but those people would not be allowed in Olga’s house to begin with. Olga would not admit it, but she liked collecting things. Nothing in particular, just little things that brought her something. A smile, a chuckle, fear. Whatever they were, be them sketches, figurines, leaves, old dusty glass bottles she found at the beach, they were taking up prime real estate on Olga’s shelves, drawers, and countertops. I wonder what will happen to them when I’m dead? She thought. I hope no one moves them. She was already having problems with the building work happening next door. The constant shaking of the ground was disrupting her collection. Just the other morning a small group of army men fell from on top of a cabinet never to be seen again.

The two stared at the tree on the road.

The Driver bent down and tried to pull the pine towards the car. “Those fucking landscapers. They should be the ones doing this-”

Olga knelt down by the tree and began collecting the small spines that were now scattered across the tarmac. The Driver watched Olga. Furrowed her brow. Looked around. Dropped the pine and followed suit. 

After some time. 

“What were you collecting at the post office?” the Driver asked.

“Every year my company sends me a box of chocolates for my birthday,” Olga replied, eyes still scanning for loose spines.

“Oh,” the Driver is taken aback. “Happy birthday.”

“I work for the landscapers.”

The Driver stopped collecting pines. Glared at Olga. Stood. Walked back to the car.

“Can’t leave any evidence,” Olga remarked to herself as she stuffed the loose spines into her pocket. A few of them are going right on her shelf, she thought. 

The pine tree now took up the entire backseat and obscured the majority of the windshield but Olga was more annoyed that the radio no longer found a signal. They had been driving for about forty five minutes. It only took about ten to hit the area considered ‘the sticks’ so forty five took you to the edge of beyond. Dense pine and looming shadows.

Under the Driver’s instruction, Olga slowed to a stop at a road that had a sudden, immediate end. Engine off. Out the window. 

Dragging the pine was easier than expected for the first few yards. From there it was a shit show. The thin branches of the pine made perfect whips to the back of legs, necks, and face. The flaking bark broke away in their hands, got caught in the nails, and somehow found its way into both of their socks. Regardless, they marched on. 

Olga had never been to this part of the forest. She had lived in the East for all of her life. After Canada she returned home and immediately jumped into work. Her time out there had been exciting - working in the national parks rebuilding broken trails. So finding work within the environment sector seemed crucial. No one really wanted to hire her to do anything she really wanted to do, so she eventually fell into a job working with turf and never quite managed to get out of it. Close enough, she had thought at the time, it would eventually lead somewhere better; somewhere she cared about; somewhere that mattered. Eventually. Right now it had led to working on a new development that was actively damaging the land neighbouring hers, but she chose not to dwell on that.

She probably wouldn’t have noticed the building work if it weren’t for this horrid little dog that had presumably scurried in from a neighbouring farmer. The day it arrived Olga made what she would argue to be the gravest error of her life and threw the dog a bone. Such a simple gesture which provoked such a life altering outcome: Olga then owned that dog. She had never wanted a dog. She was happy spending the rest of her days never seeing another dog in the wild. They were yapping and scratching and made her eyes itch. Yet, there was something about this dog. It was tiny, legs built for a far smaller frame, but powerful; it would dig for hours in the garden. Something Olga did not support. Yet, after a brief disagreement with regards to her blackberry shrubs, the little bastard ended up becoming quite the little farmer. Tilling the land for hours, eradicating pests, and on occasion - although Olga would never admit it - producing a small smile. He would bark incessantly at any builder or developer that wandered too far from the site next door, which meant he was barking non-stop.

“He’s called Rat,” Olga muttered into the cooling evening air.

“I’ve always wanted a dog,” the Driver replied. She had cooled off during the drive over, yet her voice had lost a certain bounce. 

“Well, Rat is pregnant, so by all means-“

“How did that happen?”

“That's how he came.”

“I can’t take that many dogs.”

“Just take one.”

“Give the puppies to Barb. She’s just had twin daughters. Maybe she’ll see the funny side.”

“I wouldn't.”

“I don’t like kids either. Feels strange enough being an aunt, still hasn't sunk in. Marjorie and Margarine. I can’t tell them apart. All babies look the same”

“Margarine?” Olga confirmed this delicately but was absolutely livid.

The trees began to thin as the land grew steeper. Olga’s footing became more hesitant.

“You don’t have to keep going, you know. You’ve done so much already I really can’t thank you-“

“Don’t patronise me.”

“I wasn’t- Didn’t mean to-“

“I’m perfectly capable of walking up a hill.” This was an unfortunate time to fall over but Olga chose not to dwell on it. She lay in the dirt and looked up at the canopy. 

“I suppose you will have me lying here until the foxes take me.” Olga said.

“I didn’t want to patronise you.” A small smile.

Olga clumped some dirt in her hand and held it tight so that it moulded into the shape of her palm. Pocketed it. 

“Where exactly are we going?” 

“Over there.”

The Driver did not point, Olga did not care. She stood up, grabbed the tree with a-

“OnetwoTHREE”

A particularly long and thin branch whipped round and smacked both of them in the back of their knees. 

Near the top of the hill the trees were all but gone. Small mounds of dirt set next to holes of various sizes. Staring at the holes, Olga considered the chance that she may soon be killed by the Driver: a stranger who has taken her to a remote secondary location. Are these holes Olga-sized? There was a chance she could fight the Driver off. Olga was larger than her. If it weren’t for her bum shoulder she could probably put up a good fight. She had upheld a promising albeit brief career within pub brawls in her late teens, although that was mainly because of a bad relationship. Her one and only. He had ruined it for the rest of them. Oh whoops, the Driver had been talking that whole time. 

“…and that is pretty much it. That’s why I'm here. Why I am doing this. That’s what I have decided matters to me.” She turned to Olga, “What do you think? Am I being insane?” 

Shit shit shit. 

“I… don’t… believe… so,” Olga let out slowly. 

The Driver audibly sighed. “Thank you so much.” 

Stuck the landing.

“I really thought you’d be upset”

Interesting. 

“Me?”

“Well, yeah. You’re the bad guys.”

Oga’s head went light and hands cold. Her knees began shaking in that annoying way. She felt as though she was hollowing out.

The Driver inspected a nearby hole. “This’ll have a great view,” they said, “Let’s put it right here.” They turned to smile at Olga, who was staring at the tree in her hands.

Was this, she supposed, her tree? Condemned to mulch by her hand? Is that what she’s been doing this whole time? Was the Driver right, was Olga the enemy? Looking outwards she could see the town, follow the roads, found her house, the building site she had signed off on. One of many. A small plume of smoke rose up from the area. If the wind blew strong enough, Olga thought, she would probably be able to hear that horrid dog. This was the hill, she realised. The hill she didn’t believe was real. The hill that never looked quite right. The hill she had, for some reason, never taken the effort to explore. Why had she never been here before? There was no barrier, no real obstacle other than her own will. And now that she was here- She dug her heels into the ground. Twisted. Yep, it’s real. Now what?

The Driver strained with the pine as Olga did nothing. They had clearly done this before, they even had the right gloves. Look at those shoulders take the weight of the tree with ease. I wonder if she could get it over her head, Olga thought, like a javelin just spike it into the ground from a hundred yards out. She would probably be able to hit her house right now. Just launch the pine like a missile, arc it down right into her kitchen and obliterate the place. What a dream. How had Olga become the enemy? She used to build trails. She used to sit by rivers drinking warm beers talking about restoring the woodlands with likeminded people from all over who had decided to go to that one spot and save it. That person was stuck in the wind. All while a stranger had been living in her house for years staring out of her kitchen window letting developers tear down her trees she had so passively observed every single morning. If the Driver threw a pine directly into that kitchen window then she could finally just leave, the perfect excuse. Maybe the Driver would drive her somewhere. Or she could drive her. It was a nice car, afterall. There was something about it, she felt energised within it. Like it could drive straight off a cliff and then directly upwards and everything would be absolutely fine. Maybe that’s what she wanted, to drive off a cliff and directly upwards with the Driver and possibly another tree-

A branch whipped the Driver directly in the eye. She yelped and dropped the pine tree. It fell to the ground, narrowly missing the Driver’s foot, then bounced upwards, hitting the Driver’s knee before falling down again and directly landing on the Driver’s foot.

“FUCK ME,” the Driver rightfully screamed. Leaping into the air before being yanked downwards, foot anchored to the ground by the tree. 

Olga exhaled. Back in the moment. Rushed over to the Driver. Knelt down. Grabbed the tree. Hauled it upwards. She yelled. As did the driver. Their combined screams broke through the otherwise silent half-forest. 

Olga got the tree to knee height. Then waist. Confident, she hauled it forward to secure one end within the pre-dug hole. Then crouched low and shouldered it. Then pushed upwards. Which briefly went well before fuckmeit’sheavierthanshethought she began to sink to the ground; Atlas waned. 

Recovering, the Driver squatted down and shouldered the tree alongside Olga and began to push. The spines jammed in their face and the bark tore at their palms but they were going to win. With one final yell they righted the tree into its hole where it remained dead straight. Not trusting it, they both kicked the large pile of dirt back into the hole it came from and stomped down until the tree was firmly in place. 

The Driver sat underneath it. Olga followed. It creaked slightly. The sun was just dipping below the horizon. Olga stared out from the view she had dutifully looked towards each morning, never noticing the gradually increasing treeline of stolen trees as her foreground decreased around her. She reached her hand into her pocket and removed the dirt from her previous fall and dropped it into the freshly packed earth beneath her.

“By the time I’m done this will all be forest,” the Driver said. She pointed to the distance. 

“And then what?” Olga asked.

“Then there will be a forest.”

The sounds of soft footfall. Twigs breaking. Weight moving around. Below them, Hector Hoolihan appeared from the woodland. He was a short man, covered in burns and ash with a freshly bandaged ear. He carried a 5 foot long rifle over his shoulder and a postman's bag filled with jingling, loose bullets. He found his way to a fallen log and took a seat. He cracked the rifle in half over his knee and loaded in a giant makeshift round.

A strong breeze hit Olga and the Driver head on. It carried with it the same effect as the previous. Addictive, explosive nostalgia. She wanted to breathe in every last wisp. Let her lungs collapse with it all. Only this time, there was something new in the exhale. A comfort. A release. The old brought on the new, Ontario became pine, became the Driver. Her eyes focused in on her world, she was here and now and everything was real and mattered. This mattered. She was alive. This is it, this is exactly what she wanted to do. She’s going to rip those trees from the ground with her bare hands and haul them over to this hill with the Driver. She should probably learn her name. They were going to save a forest. 

Olga had never felt a greater sense of purpose as she took a deep, spine-cracking inhale. Her exhale sparked a fire from within her shoulder that shot all over her body. After the initial strike, a dull ache lingered. 

Oh, right. 

She looked over at Hector as he snapped his rifle back into position. “Aim a little to the left next time,” she yelled. 

Hector did not acknowledge her as he loaded up his rifle and fired it directly at the sun.