Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

  Meredith gained control of herself. With a tilt of her chin, she glared at him with triumphant, glittering eyes.

  “Sunday October 19th, 1985,” she announced, “was my liberation day.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The day I freed myself from servitude. The day I won, and my brother lost.”

  “Go on,” John said, his body breaking into a cold sweat. “Keep talking.”

  She put her heels on the chair and hugged her knees in both scarred arms. “After he beat me, he took his schoolbag and left to go to Aaron’s house. It was my turn to have Mum’s car that weekend.” She sniggered. “Lyle was brave enough to bash the shit out of me, but not brave enough to go against Mum and Dad. If he’d taken the car, there’d have been hell to pay.”

  “When he left, what did you do?”

  “For a while, I cried. Then I felt panicked. I had to reach you first, you see? Had to tell you my side of the story before Lyle got in your ear and twisted the facts around. So, I left the house and I drove and I drove and I drove…”

  Smiling, she trailed off, gazing blindly into the mid-distance at nothing, as if watching an invisible movie-reel of memories spooling inside her mind.

  “Where did you go?” he said.

  “To find you.”

  “And where was I?”

  “Fishing, of course.”

  John’s legs trembled. Leaning against the bench, he felt his way to the table and sat down opposite her. His cigarette had gone out. He dropped it into the ashtray and lit another.

  “You’d told me about that spot in the Yarra Ranges, near Warburton,” she said, “and how it was great for trout. You showed me on the map, remember? Marked it out in my Melways with a little x.” She giggled. “X marks the spot.”

  He nodded.

  It came back to him.

  One weekend, he had caught so many fish that he had brought a couple of fat rainbow trout to the Berg-Olsen’s house. Mrs Berg-Olsen had fussed and made a show of going through her cookbooks for trout recipes—in fact, he could recall the recipe she had chosen, a dish with flaked almonds—while Mr Berg-Olsen had talked about big game fishing and how he had once caught a marlin off the shores of Cairns in Queensland. I belong here, John had thought. These people are like family. Lyle had picked up a fish and wobbled its dead head at Meredith, saying in a high-pitched voice, “Give us a smooch, sweetheart!” and Merry had rolled her eyes and said, “Piss off,” which made everyone laugh, including John. He had caught Merry’s eye. They’d kissed for the first time at the bonfire party a few weeks before, made out a few times since. Once Mrs Berg-Olsen had decided on the trout recipe, Merry had brought him a pencil and the Melways map book and asked him to show the fishing spot.

  X marks the spot…

  It was a warm and pleasant memory. One of the few that didn’t hurt.

  He had a feeling that was about to change.

  “Stop,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  There was a pain in his chest. Was he having a heart attack? He sucked hard on the cigarette and coughed. God, he should never have left Devonport. The carpet factory had closed down—so what? There would have been other job opportunities for an unskilled labourer such as himself, a position on the docks, perhaps. He had his forklift license. Why had he turned his back on the security of that Tasmanian town? To get away from Cheryl, the only girlfriend he’d ever had apart from Meredith? Was Cheryl the reason? Or had he come back in the hope of finding Meredith, of picking up where they had left off?

  “I feel pretty rotten,” John muttered. “I’d better call an ambulance.”

  Now, he reached for the mobile in his pocket. It wasn’t there. It must be in his room, perhaps on the bedside table. He didn’t know if he had the strength to get up. The chest pains scared him. He felt clammy, dizzy, unable to catch his breath.

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest of my story?” Meredith said.

  “No.”

  “But you’ll like it, John, I promise. It’s a good story.”

  He shook his head.

  “I drove and I drove and I drove,” she said. “On a winding road with trees on both sides, I saw your car up ahead. Can you believe it? Your dad’s Commodore. There was another car between us, but on the bends, I could see the back of your head and the back of Lyle’s.” Meredith frowned and bit at a bloodied cuticle. “I thought I was too late. That he was already spilling his guts to you. I’ve never been so mad.”

  “Don’t,” John said. “No more.”

  “You took the turnoffs to the river. I parked back in the trees and walked the rest of the way. I spied on you both, saw your stupid argument, saw you hit him, saw him fall.”

  John clutched at his chest.

  “You drove away,” she said. “Then I did what I had to do. What I’d wanted to do for such a long, long time.”

  There was colour in her pallid cheeks, a rare flush of blood. Unshed tears stood in her eyes. Her expression spoke of regret and shame. But only for a second. She smirked and began to tap her long, manicured fingers on the table top.

  “You killed him,” John said.

  “Damn right, I did.”

  John swallowed. A thudding pulse started up in his guts somewhere. “You picked up a rock and smashed in his skull.”

  “Yep.”

  John put his face in his hands. He was falling head-first into a yawning chasm, a dark and bottomless pit. This is where I lose my mind, he thought. He only had to resign himself, give up, and keep falling.

  Instead, he looked at Meredith.

  Pensive, she was gnawing on the inside of her cheek.

  “Was he conscious?” he said. “Was Lyle awake when you killed him?”

  “Groggy, but awake. Lying on his back, but half-raised on his elbows. I asked him if he’d told you about us, about our ‘Like-Unlike’ game. He told me you’d knocked him out before he’d had the chance.” She giggled. “I kicked him in the ribs. He rolled onto his stomach. I grabbed a rock. You want to know his last words?”

  Nauseated, John shook his head.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, bitch?”

  19

  Every muscle in John’s body quivered. His bare heels jittered against the kitchen tiles.

  “For thirty-one years,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak, “I thought I’d done it.”

  Meredith lit a cigarette. “I’m not the villain. Lyle wrecked both of our lives, and his own too.”

  Groaning, breaking down and weeping, John dug his fingers into his chest. His heart cramped like a charley horse. He could picture the cardiac tissue withering and turning grey. It was for the best. Death—oblivion—wouldn’t be so bad, would have to be better than this living nightmare.

  “You buried him, didn’t you?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Up there in the Yarra Ranges. You dug a hole and buried him. Right?”

  He took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it into the ashtray.

  “No one ever found his body,” she went on. “You must have buried him.”

  “I’m calling an ambulance. This is a heart attack.”

  She reached out and laid her hand on his. “A few more bites, John, and you won’t have to worry about shit like that.”

  “Don’t touch me.” He pulled away. “Wait, are you saying you can’t die?”

  “Well, not from a heart attack, at least.”

  “Why not?”

  She winked and offered a coy smile.

  It came to him in a rush. Feeling sick, he said, “I know why.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Because you don’t have a beating heart. It stopped beating when Sebastian bit you that fifty-second time. Am I right?”

  She crossed her arms. “Fuck you.”
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  “I need my phone,” he said, and found he couldn’t stand. “I think it’s in my room. Get me the phone.”

  “Get it yourself.”

  “I don’t understand you, Merry. I don’t understand you one bit.”

  “For fuck’s sake, dopey, it’s a panic attack. Breathe into a paper bag.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The knock at the front door jolted them both. Frantic, John checked his watch.

  Oh, no.

  Donna.

  She had finished her two hours at The Brunch Corner and had returned to speak with him about Tiger, the anonymous notes, the waggle-tongued witch. He had a wild desire to run through the back yard and jump the fence.

  “Tell the dirty whore to fuck off,” Meredith said.

  “Hey, I’ve got to handle this Donna situation with care, don’t you get it? Jesus, she wants to call the police because of you.”

  “Let her, I don’t give a damn.”

  Adrenaline strengthened his legs. He stood, clattering the chair, wiping the tears from his cheeks. Shit, he couldn’t talk to Donna now. He was a sweating, gibbering mess. “Okay, give me a second,” he said. “I’ll turn her away. Hurry up, Merry. Get to your room.”

  She sneered and wouldn’t budge. Shocked, he could only gape at her. She made a show of studying her fingernails.

  “What if Donna happens to see you?” he said. “Quick. Get going.”

  She poked out her tongue.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “You will go to your fucking room,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Right now.”

  He dragged her through the kitchen, down the hallway, and shoved her into her bedroom. Rubbing her wrist, she glowered at him, teeth bared.

  “Don’t come out,” he whispered. “You hear me?”

  She flipped her middle finger.

  He closed the bedroom door, gently, in case the sound might carry. Donna knocked again, louder this time. John smoothed his hair, straightened the waistband of his tracksuit pants, arranged his face into what he hoped resembled a mild and neutral expression, and opened the door.

  Donna’s jaw dropped in alarm.

  “Good Lord!” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your arm.”

  With a sinking feeling, he looked down at his bicep, at the bloodied tea towels secured with rubber bands. Oh, fuck. That’s the problem when you don’t feel pain, he thought. You forget about injuries. But he should have remembered this one.

  Donna clapped both hands to her cheeks. “What the hell happened?”

  “What happened? Well, it’s a long story…”

  He ducked the couple of metres down the hallway to the linen cupboard and took out a bath towel. As he wrapped it around his arm, the front door clicked shut. He spun around. Uh-oh. Donna had come inside. He hadn’t figured on that. He figured she would have stayed on the porch. Meredith’s doorknob didn’t move, thank Christ. Stay in your room, he silently begged. Please.

  “Listen, Donna, this is a bad time,” he said.

  “Where’s your first aid kit?”

  “I don’t think I’ve got one. Can we have this conversation later?”

  Donna took him by the elbow and walked him down the hallway and into the kitchen. There, she began opening and closing cupboards, hunting for the non-existent first aid kit. At least his chest pain had gone. Maybe it had been a panic attack after all. Shaking, he lit a cigarette.

  “Hey, I should go to the doctor’s,” he said. “I’ll drop in afterwards, okay?”

  “Tell me what happened to your arm.”

  He went to answer. Nothing came to mind. Momentary panic. Usually, a lie popped out of its own accord. How could he explain an injury like this? So much blood…

  “I was…” he began, “mowing the lawns…”

  “You did that on Monday.”

  “Yeah, okay. I was changing the mower blades, and I…”

  Christ, why couldn’t he think of anything to say? Donna paused, closed the cupboard doors, and turned to face him. Hot beads of sweat were running down his forehead, he could feel them. A big, fat drip gathered at the tip of his nose. As nonchalantly as he could, he wiped it away.

  “You were changing blades,” she said, “while the mower was runn­ing?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, you missed the mower and shoved the blades into your arm?”

  Oh, he recognised that look she was giving him. If you’re with a woman long enough, any woman, she will eventually give you the look which says: one more false move, buddy, and you’re falling straight through the ice.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you the truth. I just didn’t want to scare you.”

  “Scare me? About what?”

  “Considering Tiger is missing…”

  She flinched. Good. He was on firmer ground already.

  “It was a dog,” he said. “Some kind of big bastard, like a pit bull. I was in the front yard, and it bit me.”

  “It bit you?”

  “Yeah.” He indicated his bicep, clamped against his body to keep the towel in place. “Right here.”

  “And what were you doing in your front yard?”

  “Huh?”

  “What were you doing when the dog bit you?”

  Wait a second. Donna had that look again. He felt a fresh prickle of sweat in his hairline. Stalling, he sat at the table and worked on his cigarette.

  “Gee,” he said. “Thanks for your concern.”

  “Were you changing the mower blades?” she said. “Is that what you were doing in your front yard when this dog bit you?”

  The question was a trap. He could see it in her eyes. There was only one correct answer—yes or no—but he wasn’t sure which one it could be.

  “Well?” she said.

  He took a punt.

  “Yeah, I was changing the mower blades. And then, out of nowhere, this bloody big bastard of a pit bull—maybe it was a Rhodesian Ridgeback, it had these stripes on its back—this big bastard comes racing along the—”

  “Stop.”

  He dragged on his smoke, tried to smile. “What?”

  She put her hands on her hips.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “it latched onto my arm—”

  “You’re a liar, John. A born liar.”

  He wiped perspiration from his forehead. “What are you talking about?”

  “A natural born liar.” She pressed her lips together. “From the get-go, something felt a little off about you. Oh, I tried to ignore it because I fancied you. Desperation, probably. I hadn’t been laid in a while. But the signs were there. And, by the way, you squint whenever you spout a line of bullshit.”

  “Wait, what, I squint?”

  She wagged a finger. “This isn’t my first rodeo, mate. I’ve been with bullshit artists before. My ex-husband, Graeme, was the king of bullshit artists. You’re not even close to his level of expertise.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “You don’t have any kids, do you? Grown or otherwise?”

  That took him by surprise. He tried to snort out a derisive laugh and coughed.

  “What are their names?” she said. “I’ll give you a clue: they’re both daughters.”

  Frozen, he stared at her.

  “Okay, here’s an easy one,” she continued. “What’s your grandson called?”

  Damn it. Her eyes bored into him.

  “Well?” she said.

  Finally, he muttered, “Jake.”

  “Close, but no kewpie doll, thanks for playing. It’s Jack, you arsehole. Your make-believe grandson is called Jack.”

  “Yeah, nah, but we call him Jake too.”

  “Oh, man. What a piece of work you are.”

  A headache clamped his skull. He pi
nched at the bridge of his nose.

  “I’ve got no idea of the kind of person you really are, mate,” she went on, “but you know what? I don’t even care. And I don’t care what happened to your arm, either. Keep your dumb secrets. You’re nothing to me, understand? We’re finished. If you see me on the street, don’t bother to wave. Look the other way.” She jabbed a finger close to his face. “And you keep away from my daughter,” she hissed. “Is that clear? Or so help me God, I’ll fuck you up.”

  “Look, I can explain—”

  “With more lies?”

  “No,” he said, feeling weak, beaten down and defeated with nothing left to lose. “I’m ready to tell you the whole goddamned thing, I swear.”

  Maybe Donna would understand. If he laid it out, fact by awful fact, she might see the situation through his eyes and understand. Confession. Yes, he would confess. It would feel like lancing an abscess. Corruption and pus filled his soul, and he just had to…he only had to tell somebody, somebody who cared—

  “One last thing,” Donna said. “Where’s Tiger?”

  John’s breath caught. “What?”

  “You heard me. Where’s my fucking cat?”

  In the spare room, he wanted to say, in the big silver pot I use to cook pasta and corned beef. Your cat is beheaded, skinned, disembowelled, half-eaten. I can give you his tail to hang from your rear-view mirror as a good luck charm. The gallows humour made him groan. His cigarette had burnt down to the butt. He shook out a fresh smoke and lit it from the ember.

  “Well?” she said. “I thought you were ready to tell me the truth.”

  “Yeah, but…only from the start. If I tell it out of order—”

  She slapped the cigarette from his mouth. It landed in a brief shower of sparks on the tiles, bouncing twice. He stared at it in disbelief.

  “Tell me what you did to my cat.”

  He looked at her, his eyes wet with fresh tears. “Jesus, you think I hurt him?”

  “I think you know what happened.”

  “No, come on. I wouldn’t hurt Tiger. I love animals.”

  “Give it a rest. You hated Tiger. You couldn’t stand being on the same couch. Where is he? My little girl is breaking her heart. Answer me. Answer me right now.”