Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

“Nothing,” John said. “Why? What did she tell you?”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  John watched the road. “You’re paranoid.”

  They lapsed into an uneasy hush. The trees whisked by, thick rows of them standing shoulder to shoulder, leaning their branches over the road. The line of scrappy bitumen continued to rise, fall and zigzag as it wended through the bush. There were no other cars.

  Lyle said, “How come you always lie?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Lyle said. “I understand lying to parents, teachers and shit, but to me? I thought we were best mates.”

  “We are. Jesus. What’s got into you?”

  Lyle crossed his arms. After a while, John saw the turn-off, and steered the car onto a gravel track. Stones ground beneath the tyres. The rear-view mirror showed a plume of red, boiling dust. The radio finally lost transmission. John killed it. He was acutely aware of Lyle, sitting only centimetres away, emanating such anger and hatred that it churned John’s stomach.

  He had never told Lyle about his love for Meredith.

  In fact, he had never even hinted. God, just the thought of broaching the topic had always embarrassed him. And he had been pretty sure Lyle wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. Who wants to hear that their sister is hot? So, no, John had not told him about kissing Meredith for the first time at the bonfire party a few weeks ago, or all the times since. He had not told him about Meredith inviting him over yesterday afternoon, since she would be alone—Lyle out playing an important basketball match, their parents in attendance—and had not told him of Meredith’s request: Bring condoms. Because why in hell talk about sexual, intimate shit with a mate? What would be next, braiding each other’s hair? Forget it. John’s relationship with Merry was private. He would share the details with no one.

  The track narrowed further. The ground became rockier. John had to slow down to negotiate the ruts. Still, Lyle had not spoken. Well, go fuck yourself, John thought. When he had spotted Lyle walking along the highway, he should have driven straight on by…too late now. He focused his attention on the track. The trees crowded in close. If he scraped paint off the Commodore, there’d be hell to pay.

  Nonetheless, his mind wandered towards Meredith.

  Towards yesterday afternoon.

  The afternoon he had become a man.

  The high flush of her cheeks, the shine in her eyes, the way she had squirmed, licked her lips and whispered, Come on, what are you waiting for? Both of them naked and lying missionary on her single bed, her legs around him, while a quartet of stuffed toys including a couple of worn teddy bears sat like an audience on the nearby dresser. John had experienced a moment of panic. His cock, although hard as iron, wasn’t exactly sure where to go. He had begun to tentatively dab the head of it against her in the hope of locating the right spot. Merry chuckled—not with derision but with tenderness and affection—and had reached down and guided him inside her. The sensation was like no other. A revelation. Caught off-guard, he had murmured, I love you, and she had sobered, all of a sudden, and gazed into his eyes with such a desperate intensity that he had known, from that moment on, there would be no room in his heart for any other woman but Merry.

  “Where the fuck are we going?”

  John glanced at Lyle, who seemed angrier now than before. Much angrier.

  “Keep your shirt on,” John said. “In about a k, we’ll reach another turn-off.”

  When they reached it, the road was barely more than a walking track. John nudged the car forward, with great concentration. Low-lying switches from gum trees slid along the Commodore, too slowly to damage the paintwork.

  John heard the river before he could see it.

  The clearing was barely large enough to park the car. John pulled the handbrake, switched off the ignition and alighted. Lyle remained in the passenger seat. Tough shit, John thought, as he opened the boot and hauled out the fishing gear, the little polystyrene esky filled with ice and beer cans.

  As he walked towards the bank, he paused by the open driver’s side window to say, “You coming or what?”

  No answer.

  Prick.

  The river looked beautiful with the sun spangling off it, every wave and ripple shimmering like a jewel. John regretted bringing Lyle here. He should have kept this place to himself. Now it would be spoiled. Now, whenever he fished here, he would remember Lyle’s shitty face and shitty attitude.

  The bank sloped gently into a spread of grey stones that continued on into the water. Downstream lay the gnarled, twisted limbs of a felled gum tree. John sucked in a lungful of air, the scent so fresh, so cold, so much like a hit of pure oxygen it made his body tingle. Bird calls were everywhere: the chirp of fairy wrens, the raucous screech of cockatoos. Lyle got out of the car and slammed the door.

  “Watch for snakes,” John said. “I’ve seen a copperhead around here before.”

  He put down the gear, opened the esky and grabbed a can. As he cracked it, Lyle tackled him at full speed. They fell in a struggling tangle of limbs.

  John hit the ground hard and got winded. A fist landed on his temple, another against his ear, another on his cheek. Jesus Christ, Lyle was attacking him. The unbelievable shock of it paralysed him for a few seconds. Then fury rose up from his belly. He grabbed hold of Lyle and threw him aside, with ease, since the skinny little bastard weighed next to nothing.

  Lyle rolled away, panting, and stood up. John stood up too.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” John shouted.

  Lyle slitted his eyes and glared with malevolence.

  When he attacked a second time, John met him with equal force.

  They did not fall to the ground but shoved and hit at each other. John punched and felt the satisfying pop of Lyle’s lips splitting open. Lyle retreated, gasping, pressing a hand to his bleeding mouth.

  “Okay, hold your fucking horses,” John said. “Tell me what this is about.”

  Cheeks blazing red, looking on the verge of tears, Lyle replied, “My sister.”

  Shit, John thought. Here it comes. No point avoiding it any more.

  “What about her?” he said.

  “You rooted my sister.”

  “So what if I did? What’s it to you?”

  Lyle blanched. “You fucking bastard.”

  “How am I a bastard? I love Merry, all right? There, I said it.” John scanned the ground and picked up the beer can. There were still a couple of mouthfuls in it. He drank them and tossed the can at the esky. “You want to know something else?”

  Lyle shook his head, slowly, as if stunned.

  John continued anyway. “I reckon she loves me too. She’s my girlfriend.”

  Lyle, eyes glittering, pressed the hem of his t-shirt to his bleeding mouth. Meanwhile, John opened a fresh beer and took a drink.

  “Get over it, you dumb prick,” he said. “Stop trying to mollycoddle her. She’s eighteen years old, mate. She’s old enough to vote, drink at a pub, drive a car, and certainly old enough to fuck. The age of consent is sixteen, remember?”

  “You’re a dog.”

  “Ah, for Christ’s sake—”

  “Only a dirty stinking dog would root his mate’s sister. How long have you been sneaking around with her behind my back?”

  John huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Listen, she was bound to lose her cherry sooner or later. Would you rather she’d lost it to a stranger? A one-night stand, a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of bloke? I even wore a condom. You don’t have to worry. I’ll treat her right.”

  Lyle seemed to regain his composure. Robotically, he strolled to the esky and helped himself to a beer. Once Lyle had consumed about half the can, John approached him with his hand out, ready to shake.

  “Friends?” John said.

  Lyle took another sip of beer, se
eming to contemplate the churn of the river.

  John refused to drop his hand. “Come on, mate.”

  Lyle continued to ignore him.

  “The way I feel about her,” John added, “we could be brothers-in-law one day.”

  That got Lyle’s attention, quick smart, and he hurled the can into the river.

  “Hey!” John said, as the can bobbed and twirled away in the current. “Don’t pollute this place. You arsehole, don’t you dare pollute this place.”

  “I gave her a lesson.”

  “You what?”

  “That dirty whore.” Lyle’s mechanical twitch of a smile showed bloodied teeth. “When I found out what she’d done with you, I gave her a manners lesson.”

  “Nah, mate,” John whispered. “You didn’t hit her, did you?”

  “Oh, you better believe it. I gave her a manners lesson she’ll never forget.”

  “Tell me you didn’t hit her.”

  Lyle began to laugh, a cruel and gloating bray.

  The sounds of laughter, burbling river and bird calls faded. In their place, a loud buzzing started up in John’s ears. The blood pounded in his head. Flowing out from his belly, the rage burned through his body, white hot, turning his vision into mist. Within a single moment, John was glowing with rage, incandescent with it, transformed, his mind scorched clean away. Like a baseball pitcher, he wound back his arm—as big as a tree trunk, solid as a rock—and smashed Lyle square in the jaw.

  The impact lifted Lyle off his feet. Launched into the air, his eyes already rolled up inside his head, he landed full-length on the stones with a sickening crunch. John advanced.

  I want to kill you.

  But no, stop, breathe, step back. Dizzy, John dropped to his haunches. His face began to hurt where Lyle had first hit him. The little prick still hadn’t moved.

  “Get up,” John ordered.

  No response. Knocked out cold.

  John stood on shaky legs and approached, hands doubled into fists.

  No, I still want to kill you.

  Shit.

  There was only one thing to do: get away and calm down.

  He jumped into the car, executed a clumsy ten-point turn in the clearing, and drove back the way he had come. Once on the bitumen, he decided to go to the pub. He would have a couple of drinks, clear his head. When he felt quiet again, he would return to the fishing spot. Lyle would be penitent by then, ready to shake hands.

  The bartender, a fat bloke with a sweating bald head and a scrappy goatee, kept hovering nearby, keen to chat. At mid-morning, John was the sole customer.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” the bartender said. “I’m good with faces.”

  John shrugged. “I like to fish around here.”

  “Trout?”

  “That’s the goal. But I’ll take blackfish and eel if I can catch them.”

  The bartender winked. “My missus has an eel recipe. Know what she does?”

  John thought of Lyle and if he’d be panicking yet, out there in that isolated spot by the river, all alone. “No, I don’t know,” he said. “What does she do?”

  “Skins it, chops it, boils it, coats the pieces in flour and deep-fries it.” The bartender lifted a shoulder and chortled. “Ah, nice enough, but sometimes it tastes a bit muddy. I guess it depends on the age of the eel, don’t you reckon?”

  “Could be.”

  “Like yabbies, ya gotta put ’em in clean water first, let ’em shit out the muck.”

  “You’re right about that,” John said, and drained the glass.

  “One more for the road?”

  John’s anger had passed. Now he felt remorse. What if Lyle was afraid in the middle of nowhere? What if he had tried to walk to safety and instead got lost? “Nah,” John said. “I’m good.” He dropped a note on the counter.

  “Well, best of luck with your fishing, son,” the bartender said.

  John exited the pub.

  Grey-bellied clouds had formed. It looked like rain was on the way.

  As he drove back to the river, John fretted about Merry, about Lyle, about how he could manage these apparently contradictory relationships. He loved Merry, but shit, he loved Lyle too. Did he really have to choose? How could he choose between his woman and his best mate? Oh Jesus, he thought. Can’t I have both? My so-called family doesn’t give a rat’s arse about me, doesn’t care if I live or die, so can’t you cut me some slack? I’ll never ask for more, I swear. Grant me this, and I swear…

  Near to 11 a.m., he trundled the Commodore through the soft caress of eucalypt switches to the clearing. Where was Lyle? John cut the engine and got out. Nerves stirred in his belly. If that stupid prick had gone wandering through the bush—

  But no, there he was.

  The harsh reality took a moment to register.

  When John had left, Lyle had been sprawled, unconscious, on his back. Now he was on his front, as still as a fallen tree, the back of his head bloodied and smashed. He must have roused and turned over, right before he had…(oh no)…before he had….died…?

  Oh no, no, no…

  That wasn’t possible. Dead? No, he couldn’t possibly be dead.

  John approached.

  “Lyle?” he whispered. “Mate, it’s me. Are you right?”

  God, there was so much blood on the river stones. John’s heart skipped a dozen beats in a row. No, he’s alive, he’s alive… Kneeling down, John touched his friend’s shoulder, which felt cool. The back of Lyle’s head was a crumbled mash of soft, wet and red clots.

  “Lyle!” he screamed, shaking him by the shoulder. “Wake up!”

  Nothing…

  Oh God, oh shit, oh God…

  John rolled him onto his back. His face looked waxy and mottled, one eye half-open and unseeing. Desperately, John pressed his fingers, hard, repeatedly, into Lyle’s throat, searching for the carotid artery. The skin was cold. There was no pulse.

  Jesus Christ, there was no pulse.

  Lyle is dead.

  John rocked back on his haunches.

  The air felt thin and empty. Black dots swam in his vision. His punch had dashed Lyle’s skull against the river stones.

  Lyle is dead.

  For a time, John wept. Then a prickling sensation of dread crawled over him.

  I’m a murderer.

  No, no, no. Oh, Christ. He didn’t want to go to prison. He couldn’t go to prison. And yet, here was Lyle, dead at his feet. And John had killed him.

  So now what?

  Think. Goddamn it, he had to think…

  What the fuck should he do now?

  8

  Gasping from exertion, retching, John hauled Lyle away from the river and back through the trees. He held Lyle by the ankles. It was awful watching the ruined head bump and bounce over the uneven ground, but if John held the body under the arms, he risked getting blood on his clothes.

  Jesus, for such a skinny bastard, Lyle felt heavy now.

  Dead weight…

  Tears pricked at John’s eyes.

  The land rose in a slow gradient. He had to bury Lyle on high ground, well above the river. Generally, the Upper Yarra Dam prevented any flooding around here, but John had piss-poor luck. If he dug the grave too close, no doubt the next time the Yarra broke its banks the current would wash away the dirt, grab the corpse, float it downriver, and press it against bridge pilings where some bastard walking a dog would find it. No, Lyle’s remains must never be found.

  After a fifteen-minute struggle through the trees, John stopped and put down Lyle’s feet. The shrubs and trees stood close together and the ground was a carpet of leaf litter. John hurried back down the hill to the car. His old man always carried a large plastic tub full of emergency items in the boot. John rummaged through the tub—first aid kit, torch with spar
e batteries, jumper cables, reflective triangle, duct tape, WD40—and as the seconds dragged by his stomach began to knot with tension.

  Surely, the old man would have a shovel.

  At the bottom of the tub, he found a canvas carryall. He grabbed it with shaking hands, unzipped it, and delved around, scraping his knuckles on the tools inside. Pinch bar, screwdrivers, tyre gauge… Sweat popped on his forehead. At last, thank Christ, he found what he was looking for: the collapsible steel shovel.

  Oh fuck, it was tiny.

  He unfolded the handle and locked it into place. The tool was only about half a metre long, the shovel blade no wider than a hand-span. Shit, he would be digging all day. Still, it was a million times better than nothing. He took Lyle’s schoolbag and headed into the trees.

  Scraping the ground over and over, he carefully piled the leaf litter some distance away. Then he got to work. At first, the red, volcanic soil gave easily beneath the shovel. As time passed and the hole got deeper, the dirt became more compacted, harder to shift, and tangled with roots. John removed his t-shirt. Soon, he was running with sweat. He tried to avoid looking at Lyle. Already, flies congregated on the nose and mouth, along the eyelids, upon the surface of the half-open eye. It made the bile roil in John’s throat. Keep digging, he thought as he puffed and strained. Don’t look; just dig.

  An hour went by, then another.

  God, he had to stop and rest.

  He washed at the river and drank a couple of beers. Spotting the bloodied stones, he clawed them out of the mud and flung them into the water. He drank another beer and felt a little better. Lightheaded, but better. Even so, it took every ounce of self-discipline to walk back through the trees.

  He didn’t want to look at his friend.

  Picking up the shovel, he recommenced digging. The muscles in his arms, shoulders and back ached terribly.

  “It’s your own fault, Lyle,” he panted. “You shouldn’t have hit her.”

  I gave her a manners lesson she’ll never forget.

  “And why did you attack me? I wouldn’t have punched you otherwise. Understand? This is on you. So get fucked. You can go and get fucked.”

  Then John broke down, sobbing. Anguish took the strength out of his legs and he fell to his knees. Flies kept buzzing and flitting over the corpse in ever-increasing numbers. Lyle is dead. And I killed him. The horror rolled over John in such a powerful wave that it tore a scream from him and made him pull at his hair.