Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

“Nate Rossi thinks you became a witch or a zombie.”

  “Is that right? Well, Nate always was a dickhead.” When she met John’s gaze, she startled. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was a question.”

  “Yeah, and I’m asking it point-blank. When you were in hospital and that other patient, Sebastian, attacked and bit you, he changed you, didn’t he? Made you into something else.” He hesitated. “Merry, are you still…human?”

  She offered a wan smile. “Define human.”

  “People eat. Why don’t I ever see you eat?”

  “Because you wouldn’t like it if you did.”

  He gripped the edge of the table. “You hunt at night, don’t you? Like a cat.”

  “Like a cat,” she replied, her voice rising, “like a huge, ginger tabby, fat from too many birds and mice. I’ve seen the whore’s cat at night. It hunts rats in particular.”

  His body went cold. “Leave Tiger alone.”

  “Tiger?” Meredith relaxed into the chair. “Ugh, what an uninspired name.”

  “I’m asking you, as a favour, not to harm that cat.”

  “And I’m asking you, as a favour, to stay away from that whore.”

  He didn’t—couldn’t—reply. Sulking, Meredith crushed her cigarette into the ashtray and picked at her nails. John drained his stubby and got another from the fridge. He returned to the table.

  “You haven’t touched your beer,” he said, standing over her.

  “I don’t feel like it now.”

  “Go ahead and drink. I want to see that you can.”

  “Oh, John,” she said with a reproachful look. “Stop it, you’re being gauche.”

  He dropped into the chair and worked on his beer. Out the window, sparrows fussed at the scattered remains of his seedlings. His temper flared.

  “You still haven’t told me why you ruined my vegie patch,” he said.

  “To show you how much I care.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Let’s move,” she said, eyes pleading, “far away, out in the country­side.”

  “What? And how am I going to get to work?”

  “Just you and me. We could live on a farm.”

  “A farm?” He curled his lip.

  “We’d be away from people, away from trouble and temptation.”

  “And who’s going to look after a farm while I’m at work? You? When you’re sleeping all goddamned day, or mucking around with your disgusting hobby boxes?” He shook his head. “I’m nearly fifty. My one skill is operating a forklift. Jobs aren’t exactly falling out of the sky for blokes like me. And you’re not earning any money.”

  “There’s another way,” she murmured.

  John flinched. Head cocked, she was inspecting him intently, roving her stare across his nose, mouth, ears, the fleshy parts of his cheeks, like a raven deciding on its first peck.

  “Give me your wrist,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  Uncoiling her leg from beneath her, she put one palm on the table and leaned towards him, holding out her other hand, fingers grasping. He pushed back in his chair.

  “We can both be free of this bullshit,” she said, “all this tedious, nine-to-five suburban crap. Free to be wild, free to be ourselves, true to our instincts. Give me your wrist.” She smiled. “I won’t hurt you. It doesn’t hurt. Not until the last bite.”

  John leapt from the chair, overturning it, dropping his beer.

  “Christ,” he said, “you want to bite me?”

  Her eyes glittered. “Come with me, John.”

  “Thirteen times on each limb,” he said, backing out of the room. “Then what, I become like you? Fuck that. You stay away from me.”

  Meredith slumped in the chair and gazed out the window.

  John hurried to his bedroom and locked himself in. He put his ear to the door and listened. Could he hear any movement? The rustle of her clothes, the sound of her bare feet padding across the floorboards? Nothing, he could hear nothing. When her voice came directly from the other side of the door, he staggered back.

  “John, please,” she cried. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

  14

  At 9.30 a.m. on a Tuesday, the mall’s car park was almost full. John found a spot by the supermarket, cut the engine, and got out. The cool breeze made him zip up his jacket. Shoppers thronged the footpath. The grizzled old alky was in his usual place, slouched on the bench near the real estate agency. John hurried past, striding towards the far end of the mall, his gaze fixed on the sign for The Brunch Corner café. After a restless sleep filled with nightmares, he wanted—no, needed—to see Donna. The dream, that terrible dream…

  Don’t think about it.

  He walked faster, knocked into a delivery driver exiting the green grocer. Brushing off the man’s apology, John jogged the last few metres to the café. He ignored the outside tables. Donna worked the inside tables, he remembered. Pushing open the glass door, he paused to look around.

  Polished timber floors, pine tables and chairs, a red leather banquette along one wall, and terrible acoustics; the racket from music and the conversation of two dozen or so customers rattled at his eardrums. The service bar and kitchen were located at the rear. He could see four wait-staff.

  Where was Donna?

  A panicky chill moved through him. He should have called her first. Maybe she was home sick. Maybe Cassie had taken ill. Or maybe something awful had happened to Tiger. As John reached into his pocket for his phone, the kitchen door swung open and there she was, resplendent in her red apron, her shining brown hair tied in a low ponytail. He could breathe again. Relieved, he stepped inside and allowed the door to close behind him.

  Donna hadn’t seen him yet. She carried two plates of food. He watched her approach a table, smile and chat, put the plates in front of a couple of old biddies who smiled in return, bobbing their blue-rinse heads. John lifted his hand. Donna saw him and her eyes lit up. I love you, he thought. It’s only been a few days, but I love you.

  She hurried over, grinning, and touched his arm.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, blushing. “Don’t kiss me or anything, the boss is watching.”

  “Which one’s the boss?”

  “The woman making the cappuccinos.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her what a fabulous waitress you are.”

  “Sweet,” she said, and laughed. “You really want a table?”

  “Yeah, but only in your section.”

  “You’d better leave a good tip. Follow me.”

  She directed him to a table in the back corner.

  Sitting, he said, “Full breakfast with white toast, thanks, and a long black.”

  “No worries.” She took a pen and notepad from her apron pocket. “Want a glass of fruit juice?”

  “Sure, why not. Give me whatever you reckon.”

  “I’ll get you the cranberry.”

  “Cranberry?” He chuckled. “What the hell does that even taste like?”

  “Yummy,” she said, and winked. “Trust me.”

  She scribbled in her notepad and left the table, heading first to the bar and then to the kitchen. He watched her every move and gesture. She walked lightly and on the balls of her feet like a dancer. With each step, her long ponytail swung like a glossy pendulum. Yesterday in bed, when she had ridden him, moaning, her loose hair had whisked across his chest every time she leaned forward to kiss him. A bell sounded and she disappeared through the door into the kitchen. Pensive, John bit at a thumbnail. So now what?

  Meredith hates Donna.

  Donna has no idea that Meredith exists.

  How could he reconcile these two women in his life and keep them both? He didn’t want to choose. Why should he have to choose? Last night, in between bad dreams, lying awake and grinding his teeth, he
had contemplated this dilemma over and over. He still didn’t know what to do. As far as he could tell, it boiled down to either doing his duty or following his heart. Shit, if only he had someone to confide in; a friend. But the only friend he had ever had was dead. Visions from the nightmare reared up, Lyle screaming and suffocating under a steady rain of dirt from John’s shovel…

  Don’t think about it.

  A sudden noise startled him. John opened his eyes. Donna had put a coffee cup in front of him.

  “You feeling all right?” she said.

  He showed her a big grin. “You bet. In fact, I’m tip-top. Just tired from a marathon session I had yesterday with a certain pretty lady.”

  She laughed, colour rising in her cheeks. “Okay, Romeo, I’ll get your juice.”

  They didn’t have time to talk. The Brunch Corner café was too busy. Donna had a smile and a few words for every customer; a joke here, a giggle there. What a woman, he thought as he ate his breakfast. What a beautiful, special woman.

  Meredith’s words came back. I’m asking you, as a favour, to stay away from that whore. Or else…what? What would Merry do?

  Donna began to gather his plate, serviette, cutlery and cups.

  “My compliments to the chef,” he said. “Honest. Great stuff.”

  “I’ll let her know. And how was the cranberry juice?”

  “Actually, I liked it.”

  “See? I’m trustworthy.” She hesitated, sobering. “By the way, I saw Cassie’s witch last night.”

  John took a sharp breath. “Where?”

  “Outside my bedroom window.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know, around two o’clock. It happened exactly like Cassie described: the scratching at the window, the white face, the waggling tongue.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Told her to fuck off,” she said, straightening up and taking the dishes in both hands. “I’m a grown woman, mate, not a little girl.”

  The breakfast roiled in John’s throat. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe. Donna had already moved away from his table and through the kitchen door. Tension tightened his body into a spring. Nauseated, he put his face in his hands and rubbed hard at both temples.

  I’m asking you, as a favour, to stay away from that whore.

  He scrabbled for his wallet. Jesus, he had to get out of there before Donna returned, before she could see his face, how sick he must look. For a $25 breakfast, he left a $10 tip. He bumped into a chair on his way out and didn’t turn back to apologise. When he got outside, the cool morning air hit him like a bracer. He jogged along the footpath towards his parked car.

  Meredith had some explaining to do.

  And he wouldn’t accept her blind, deaf and dumb routine, either. He would take her by the shoulders and shake the living piss out of her if that’s what it took to get her talking. Did she really think he’d allow her to stalk Donna and Cassie? This campaign of harassment had to stop. All of Merry’s bullshit had to stop.

  “Hey, you there,” said a gruff voice. “Spare a durry?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake… The alky, sprawled on the bench, extended an arm, dirty palm upturned. John was about to jog by.

  Until he saw the scars.

  He stumbled and froze.

  The alky’s coat sleeve had ridden up. On the inside of his forearm were scars, regularly spaced, each one a pair of crescents facing each other like waxing and waning moons. John couldn’t breathe. The alky watched him carefully, intently, without blinking; his eyes such a light blue they appeared almost white, his dilated pupils a pair of black holes. After a time, the alky dropped his arm to his side and began to tap his fingers on the bench seat. His nails were clean, manicured and sharp.

  “Who are you?” John whispered.

  The alky’s pleasant smile showed long, yellowed teeth. “You know who I am.”

  Desperately, John looked around. Shoppers walked the footpath, going about their business, ignoring them as if they were both invisible. John had the vertiginous feeling that the alky could stab him, slash his throat, chew off his face, and no one would notice. He stared at the man’s thick mane of salt-and-pepper hair, his sallow face, his penetrating eyes, and knew. Christ almighty, he knew.

  “Sebastian,” John said.

  As if bored, the alky sighed and briefly closed his eyes to shrug.

  “Hang on,” John continued. “I first saw you the day I viewed the miner’s cottage, the day I signed the lease. How did you know I was going to move into this neighbourhood?”

  “Oh, don’t get yourself in a lather. I’m not psychic. It’s coincidence. I happen to move around quite a bit to stay in contact with my associates.”

  “Your associates? You mean Meredith? And who else?”

  “Good gracious, you’re dumber than I thought.”

  “What’s going on?” John said, his voice rising and cracking. “What are you?”

  Sebastian began to laugh. “Come now, give me a cigarette and be on your way.” As he extended his arm once more, the scars glinted silver in the sunshine.

  John broke into a run. A gaggle of middle-aged women tutted and scolded as he pushed through them. He jumped into his car, gunned the engine, backed out and fled the mall, tyres squealing, heart thumping, his stomach in his throat.

  Nate, he had to see Nate.

  This time, he would tell Nate everything, the whole sordid, heinous saga, yes, even the circumstances of Lyle’s death, even that. And about Meredith and how he had been harbouring her, looking after her in secret these past eight years, and how she was…changing, somehow, changing for the worse so fast in just a few days…and that he was scared of her and what she might do, what she might be planning to do to Tiger, perhaps, or to Cassie, to Donna… And he would tell Nate about Sebastian.

  Holy shit: Sebastian.

  John’s heart gave a mule kick to his ribs.

  What did Sebastian mean about his ‘associates’? How many others were like Meredith? How many had the bastard attacked and bitten over the years? And come to think of it, who had bitten Sebastian? Maybe Nate was right. Maybe the scars were part of an initiation ritual into a cult that killed and ate animals raw—but for what purpose? Some kind of religious devotion? They could be Satanists. But did such people exist? John had read, somewhere, long ago, that despite police investigations into satanic cults, no hard evidence had ever been found. Or was he remembering a specific case? Surely, if people could worship gods, it was also possible to worship devils. John’s hands shook on the steering wheel. God, he needed a drink. He needed a drink so bad. His throat was drying out, withering, closing over—

  Shit!

  John slammed his foot on the brake. The car fishtailed. The tyres gripped the road and stopped just in time. He blew out a shuddering breath. He had narrowly avoided hitting the stationary vehicle in front. The light was red, for Christ’s sake, red, he had to pay attention to the road, had to focus on the traffic.

  Fumbling, he lit a cigarette. He cracked the window and glanced about at the other cars. The driver of the coupe in the next lane was glaring at him and shaking her head. She must have seen his near-miss. Well, she could go and get fucked. He noticed her hand on the steering wheel, her long fingernails. Quickly, feeling a wave of panic, he looked away. What if she were one of them? Maybe the cult members were everywhere. Maybe some of them were shadowing him right now. Maybe they had been shadowing him for a long time, ever since he had found Meredith homeless in the park and taken her back to his apartment.

  The light turned green.

  John drew on the cigarette. Gently, he put his foot on the accelerator. He had to cool down, concentrate on driving. The circus wasn’t far. Ten minutes away, tops. They had pitched their tent and parked their caravans in a giant paddock at a major intersection, a paddock that was no doubt already earmarke
d by the council to be subdivided one day into hundreds of townhouses, crammed in cheek by jowl. Dozens of such developments were springing up all over the outer-eastern Melbourne suburbs. The typical Aussie home on a big block was going the way of the dinosaur.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, John lit another. See? He was calm now. He was thinking sane, rational thoughts. Everything would be okay. He would talk this whole thing through with Nate, and in the telling, might experience an epiphany. Speaking the truth would remove the blinkers from his eyes, he was sure of that. After confessing, he’d know exactly what to do and how to do it.

  Even so, the thirst for beer felt urgent, maddening. He pinched his upper lip between forefinger and thumb, hoping that ‘activating’ the acupressure point might help, but doing so reminded him too much of Meredith explaining acupressure points to him in high school, and he dropped his hand back to the steering wheel.

  He turned at the next set of lights. The posted limit was eighty kilometres per hour, but he nudged the speedo closer to ninety, moving from lane to lane, overtaking at every opportunity.

  Not long now. In a few moments, he would see the orange and yellow stripes of the Big Top. Any moment now…any moment…

  His mouth dried out as he steered into the service lane alongside the paddock. Behind the wire fence, the paddock stretched into the distance, wide, flat and empty. Empty. The circus had gone. Sometime overnight, they had packed up their tent and their mobile homes and gone. Nate Rossi was gone.

  Pulling over, John cut the engine and got out. The cool wind nipped at his nose and ears. Lightheaded, he walked across the footpath to the wire fence. He could see where the circus had been. The earth was churned into muddy ruts.

  Now, what had been the bloody name of the circus?

  He had thrown away the brochure, put the recycle bin on the nature strip for the garbos on Sunday night, and the rubbish had been taken yesterday morning. But there was always Google, right? He felt a lifting of hope that didn’t last long. Why bother to find the circus at all? The caravans and semi-trailers were probably headed for Sydney or Adelaide, and if he chased them, what was his plan? Abandon Donna and Cassie to an unknown fate while trying to get some kind of sense out of Nate Rossi? Forget it. Nate was a drunk, not a guru.