Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

  “Are you with anybody?” he said.

  “Why would I be?”

  “You’re alone?”

  “It’s safer that way.”

  “Safer?” He rubbed at his temples. “What about your family? Your parents?”

  Meredith shrugged, and regarded him pleasantly.

  “My God,” he said, choking up. “How long have you been homeless?”

  “I don’t know. What year is it?”

  “Are you serious?”

  She smiled.

  Dizzy, he couldn’t catch his breath.

  In the few weeks after Lyle’s disappearance, before John had moved to Devonport, he’d heard on the grapevine that Merry had gone to a psych ward. And why not? A missing sibling must be a terrible, suffocating kind of grief. And they had been twins, after all. Wasn’t there supposed to be a special bond between twins? Yet, he had assumed her recovery. Over the years, whenever he had thought of her—which was often—he had always imagined her comfortable in a suburban lifestyle: brick veneer house, husband, two kids, dog, station wagon, part-time job, PTA meetings—the middle-class cliché, he realised now.

  His vision blurred.

  “Oh, John,” Meredith whispered. “Are you crying?”

  Her face broke into the smile he remembered, the radiant smile that crinkled the corners of her blue eyes. Yet her teeth were now long and yellow, like those of a rat. This is my fault, he thought, and the realisation that he had taken Meredith’s life as well as Lyle’s made him want to scream in horror. He clenched his teeth against the scream, holding it in, feeling hot and giddy, sickened, overwhelmed with self-loathing. If John had never been born, Lyle would still be alive, and Meredith—the sophisticated, intelligent, sexy, eighteen-year old Meredith—would have had gone on to enjoy all the riches of the adulthood she had deserved.

  John had murdered them both. The two people he had loved most of all.

  Exhausted, he hung his head.

  “I know why you’re crying,” she said, and her familiar laugh tinkled, stabbing him through the chest. “You’re happy to see me. Well, aren’t you, John? Aren’t you?”

  Before he knew what he was doing, he leapt up, snatched the blanket from her and flung it over his shoulder, grabbed the plastic shopping bags.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “You’re coming home with me.”

  Obediently, she clambered to her feet. Christ, she was thin. The grubby, shapeless cotton dress hung down to her bony ankles. Her face held a blank expression.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You sure you remember who I am?”

  “Of course,” she said, and looked up coquettishly through non-existent eyelashes. “You’re my lover boy.”

  John’s apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building. The stairwell and landings were deserted. This close to Christmas, his neighbours must be on holidays or at break-up parties. He ushered Meredith inside and locked the door. She stopped in the centre of his living room and froze. John blushed. The place was messy, floors unmopped, the sink full of dishes. None of that could be helped.

  “Take a seat,” he said. “Relax.”

  Since there was no laundry in his four-room apartment, he kept the washing machine in the bathroom. He emptied Meredith’s plastic bags into the machine’s drum. Shit, her clothes were little more than rags. Amongst the clothes, he found a punch-card for a swimming pool centre, a train ticket, a Safeway receipt for soap, shampoo, feminine hygiene products. He put these papers aside. Heart thumping, he ran the washing machine with plenty of detergent.

  When he came out to the living room, he found Meredith standing exactly where he had left her. He approached, took her arm, and led her to the kitchen table.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Please?”

  She obeyed, her eyes staring vacantly.

  Oh God, the realisation hit again that John had done this to her, ruined her mind, sent her mad, derailed her life. From the moment his knuckles had connected with Lyle’s jaw, sending Lyle sprawling backwards and shattering his head against the river stones, John had sealed her fate.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

  She gazed straight ahead as if she hadn’t heard.

  He offered her a cigarette. She didn’t take it. He gave her a coffee. She didn’t drink it. He made her a toasted cheese sandwich. She didn’t touch it. At a loss, John sat opposite her at the table. Her expression stayed unreadable, unfathomable.

  “Do you know where you are?” he said.

  She nodded. “At your flat.”

  “That’s right. I’m washing your things. I don’t have a dryer. Normally, I hang stuff on a rack and put it out on the balcony.”

  “Okay.”

  He bit at his thumbnail. “Do you always sleep rough?”

  She shrugged.

  He said, “You’d be better off at a shelter.”

  “Oh no, too many addicts. I don’t like the fighting and yelling.”

  From his pocket, he took the papers he had found in her belongings and held them out to her. She took them and inspected them. He noticed marks on her forearms; silvery scars, a great many of them, and as fresh tears burned his eyes he wondered how many times she had tried to take her own life, this miserable, stunted life that he had given her.

  “This is my ticket,” she said, “to travel on the trains, back and forth, back and forth, so I can sleep without anyone bothering me. And this is for the public swimming pool. Twice a week, I go there to shower. And the supermarket…well, everybody has to buy things from the supermarket.”

  “How do you pay for all this?” he said, heart sinking, imagining the worst.

  “I beg. In the city, you can make twenty, maybe thirty dollars a day.”

  John’s lungs unclenched and allowed a full breath. “All right, that’s it, enough. Merry, you don’t have to beg any more. You don’t have to sleep rough.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks. He put his face in his hands and began to sob, hard, as if he would never stop.

  “John, are you okay?”

  He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. The moment of disorientation caused a flood of panicky adrenaline. No, wait, he was in Donna’s back yard, sitting at the table beneath the pergola, Donna standing rigid at his side with a beer in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She looked frightened, shocked. He had to steel himself.

  “John,” Donna repeated, “are you okay?”

  “What?” he said, trying to quickly wipe away the tears, but his eyes were dry, his cheeks were dry. “What’s the matter?”

  She clattered the drinks onto the table in front of him and gripped his shoulder. “Fucking hell, you’re white as a sheet.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, pulling his mouth into a smile.

  “You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

  He sat up, adjusted his shirt, pulled at his collar. “Maybe it’s an ulcer.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “What? Nah, forget it. I’m fine now, honest.”

  Donna sat down and eyed him dubiously. “Have you really got an ulcer?”

  “I don’t think so. Actually, no, I haven’t.”

  “My aunt died from a burst ulcer. No shit.”

  “Sorry. Look, I was kidding. Bad joke.” He forced a chuckle. “There’s nothing wrong with me. A touch of indigestion, that’s all. Too much roast chicken.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure.” John wiped the sweat from his upper lip and took a long drink of beer. “Right as rain.”

  He could feel her gaze on him. What must she be thinking? That he was some kind of lunatic? Thank Christ he hadn’t started crying. But the memory had felt so real… He had to be more c
areful from now on, be sure to guard himself against making any more dangerous slips.

  “You’re mulling over that accident, aren’t you?” she said.

  He startled. “What do you mean?”

  “That thing you blame yourself for, even though you didn’t mean for it to happen. Whatever it is, you’re thinking about that again, aren’t you?”

  Sighing, John nodded.

  Donna rested her hand over his. The gesture brought a lump to his throat.

  “I want you to know,” she said, “your secret would be safe with me. If you ever need to talk, you can trust me. I promise, John. I promise.”

  He stared into her eyes. They weren’t the cool blue of an ice sheet like Meredith’s but a warm and rich grey, the colour of river stones under a summer sun, and the coincidence seemed like some kind of sign but whether good or bad, he couldn’t say. He put his other hand over the top of hers. Donna smiled.

  The small, joyous leap inside his chest took him by surprise.

  Goddamn, he marvelled, as he smiled back through a veil of unshed tears. If he wasn’t mistaken, this feeling might actually be love.

  He couldn’t believe it. John stared at the vegie patch and could not believe it.

  Upon returning home from Donna’s place at around 3.15 p.m., he had changed back into his old t-shirt and blue work trousers, emptied the clippings from the mower’s catcher, and started mowing the back lawn. Whistling, preoccupied with thoughts of Donna, he had made two passes alongside the vegie patch before noticing its destruction and switching off the mower.

  Fucking hell.

  Incredulous, he shook his head.

  His home-made greenhouses of chicken wire wrapped in plastic lay in a trampled pile by the fence. The tomato plants and capsicum plants had been wrenched from the soil and strewn for metres in every direction as if furiously, wildly flung, their brown and withered leaves telling him they were already dead. The wooden stakes were speared in a neat row along one edge of the vegie patch.

  He dropped to his haunches and picked up the nearest seedling. It had been crushed and mashed, perhaps underfoot. He stroked and patted the shrivelled roots, gently crumbling away the soil, ranging his gaze across the devastation.

  Something white caught his eye.

  Nestled within the closest corner of the vegie patch was their jumbo box of iodised table salt. Dropping the seedling, he snatched up the box and shook it: empty. He scrutinised the dirt. Now he could see it; the tiny granules of salt, carefully and evenly sprinkled from one side of the vegie patch to the other. He trickled a handful of soil through his fingers. Nothing would grow here ever again. And then he spotted something much worse.

  He recoiled, felt himself blanch.

  No, uh-uh, no way. Right there in the middle of the patch, difficult to spot because it blended with the colour of the dirt, sat a big fat human turd.

  A red mist descended over his vision. He began to grind his teeth.

  That…

  fucking…

  bitch.

  He burst through the back door at a run.

  “Meredith!” he bellowed.

  He made it halfway across the kitchen before he saw her, sitting at the table with a leg tucked beneath her, smoking one of his cigarettes. He hesitated, wary now, his heart knocking inside his throat. Gone was her familiar blank expression. With bright and clear eyes that seemed to mock him, she took a theatrical puff of the cigarette. Dragon-like, smoke poured from her nostrils. She laughed.

  “How do you fancy my handiwork?” she said. “Not much by the looks of you.”

  “What the fuck is going on here? Why did you wreck my vegie patch?”

  “It was time to make a statement.”

  He approached, breathing hard, his mind racing. The ashtray had two butts in it, neither of them his. So, she had been watching through the window the whole time he was mowing the back yard, waiting for him to notice.

  “I can smell her, you know,” Meredith said. “Every single note.”

  “What?”

  “She’s all over you. Perfume, shampoo, face cream, laundry detergent. And the smell of her muff, naturally. Was she a good fuck, John? Was she worth it?”

  “Worth what? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Meredith made a dismissive gesture and dragged on the cigarette.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he said, “you took a dump out there.”

  “I’m surprised you can’t figure out why.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  Her eyes flashed. “To show you what it feels like to be destroyed.”

  “Destroyed?” He felt the blood drain from his face. “I’ve done everything in my power to help you, Merry, to take care of you. You must know that.”

  Indicating a chair, she said, “Take a load off, dopey.”

  He sat down, bewildered and alarmed. Keeping her in his sights, he reached across the table, got a cigarette from the pack and lit it. Meredith stared at him with an arrogant tilt of her chin. Jesus, it felt like seeing a ghost.

  “Where did you find my smokes?” he said.

  “In your dresser, of course.”

  He tightened his jaw. “You’re not supposed to go in my room.”

  “And you’re not supposed to go in mine.”

  She arched an eyebrow. Her behaviour reminded him of her old self, but not quite. The performance was off somehow, in a way that he couldn’t identify.

  Smiling, she said, “Do you remember the first time I ever spoke to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When was it? Tell me.”

  “December, Year Ten. Your house. I was sleeping over.”

  “That’s right. You and Lyle had just watched Mad Max, the original.” She tapped the ash from her cigarette and admired the burning red tip. “Let me tell you something. I liked you from the first day of Year Seven. You watched me as if you liked me too. Want to know why I ignored you for most of high school?”

  Something painful twisted inside his chest. He nodded.

  “Because you started hanging around with Lyle,” she said. “I’d already endured twelve fucking years of sharing everything with him. Birthdays, clothes, presents. Every Christmas, our parents felt compelled to give us exactly the same fucking gifts. If he wanted a telescope, I got one too. If I wanted a camera, he got the exact same make and model.” She offered a rueful smile. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sharing John Penrose as well. But, hand on heart, I always liked you.”

  The pulse beat in his ears. He didn’t know what to say.

  With a sudden laugh, she stubbed out her cigarette and leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Remember the first time we kissed?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “You don’t remember.”

  “Sure, I do. Bonfire night down at the creek. You brought a bottle of gin.”

  “Vickers, from my mother’s liquor cabinet. Lyle got the blame, poor sod. Yes, the bonfire night.”

  She ran a hand through her hair and down along her throat, licking her lips as if intoxicated by the memory. John’s cock roused a little.

  “And when we ran from the cops and jumped the fence into Darren Shaw’s yard,” she continued, “you walked straight into the pool. We kissed in the cabana. It smelled like chlorine. Or maybe that was you, drenched like a drowned rat.” Her face clouded, and she sat back in the chair, pouting. “And now you smell like that whore.”

  John pinched at the bridge of his nose and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  “I need a beer.”

  “Get one for me too.”

  Another first; he had never seen Meredith drink beer in the eight years they had lived together. When he took the stubbies from the fridge, he realised his hands were trembling. He w
as afraid, deathly afraid. No one else knew he was locked inside this house with Meredith. Not a soul in the world.

  He crossed to the table, opened the beers and gave one to her.

  “Cheers,” Meredith said, holding out the bottle.

  After a moment’s pause, John reluctantly obliged, and clinked stubbies. He had a long drink and sat down.

  “I’ve got questions of my own,” he said. “You haven’t been sandbagging? All these years, playing me for a fool? There doesn’t seem to be much wrong with you.”

  Her chuckle sounded flippant. “Oh, there’s plenty wrong with me.”

  “But not right now?”

  She shrugged.

  “Most of the time,” he said, “you’re on another planet. You can’t talk, can’t hear, don’t react. How come? What’s the matter with you?”

  She waved a disdainful hand. “Some conditions are too difficult to explain.”

  “Give it a try.”

  Gazing at the window, she tapped her long fingernails in a rhythm against the stubby. John waited, breath held. After a time, the muscles of her jaws began to flex and stand out. Then she stared at him with a strained, anxious expression.

  “It runs through me like a fever,” she said.

  He sat forward. “What does?”

  “This…otherness. You know what it’s like to have the flu? It’s as if another living thing has taken control of your body. This thing makes you shiver, sweat, cough, ache, sneeze. You want to get out of bed, but you can’t. You’re possessed by a creature with a stronger will than your own.” She took another cigarette. “That’s the best way I can describe it.”

  “You’re possessed?”

  “I suppose I am. Occasionally, I’ve got the passion to fight it. Times like now.”

  Meredith lit the cigarette. They lapsed into silence. John listened to the nearby cawing of crows, music from a distant car stereo, the sounds of Meredith drawing on the cigarette and exhaling. He tried to swallow but didn’t have enough spit.

  “Merry,” he said at last. “What are you possessed by?”

  “Hah. You definitely wouldn’t understand.”