Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

  John shook his head. Sweat trickled down the small of his back and gathered in the band of his tracksuit pants.

  “You wrote those notes, didn’t you?” she said.

  He gaped at her, speechless.

  “Don’t give me that innocent look. You kidnapped my cat. You wrote those notes and pushed them under my door to scare me. Keep your hands to yourself. You are a dirty whore. What was the plan, John? To control me through fear?”

  “No. Jesus, no, I didn’t—”

  “I’ve read about sick fuckers like you.”

  “Read about…? I don’t know what—”

  “Fuckers like you make up a stalker to force a woman to want your protection. Pretty soon, she can’t even take a crap without checking in first with her guardian.” She leaned over him, eyes flashing. “Well, to hell with you, John Penrose, if that’s even your real name. I’m wise to your bullshit.”

  He put his hands to his temples and squeezed. “No. That’s not what happened.”

  “Where’s my cat?”

  “Please, you have to believe me.”

  “Tell me where he is.”

  John clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. His breath came shallow, ragged. The chest pain returned. Good, he thought. Let me die of a heart attack. After a time, he realised that Donna had fallen quiet. Uneasily, he opened his eyes. She was staring at him, face stony, her arms crossed.

  “We’re done here,” she said. “Expect a visit from the cops, arsehole.”

  “Donna, please. Wait. I can explain.”

  Her boots stamped across the tiles. When she turned down the hallway, a door creaked on its hinges.

  Oh, no.

  John leapt to his feet.

  Donna screamed. Rigid, she backed at speed into the kitchen.

  A few seconds later, Meredith sauntered to the doorway and paused there, grinning, admiring her captive audience.

  There was blood smeared over her teeth, her face, her hands, through the wild and crazy tufts of her hair. She must have sneaked into the hobby room while Donna and I were arguing, John thought, and further desecrated Tiger’s poor, wretched body in order to put on this freak show.

  The breath left him.

  For the first time, he saw Merry as a stranger would see her.

  As Donna must see her.

  A skeleton with mummified and papery skin, an undead thing with sunken eyes that glinted with an eerie, supernatural sheen. This monster wasn’t Meredith Berg-Olsen. A creeping horror tightened his flesh into goosebumps. No, Meredith Berg-Olsen had died a long time ago. On the fifty-second bite.

  Donna backed up until she hit the sink.

  “It’s the witch,” she gasped. “Do something! How did she get in? For God’s sake, it’s the witch!”

  “And you’re the dirty whore,” Meredith said. “Nice to meet you. Strictly speaking, we’ve already met. You opened your bedroom curtains and told me, if I recall correctly, to fuck off.”

  Donna blanched. “You’re the one who wrote those awful notes.”

  “Awful? No, just a couple of pleasant warnings, that’s all, from one woman to another.” Meredith stretched her lips across her teeth. “Stay away from John.”

  “John?” Donna rocked on her heels. “Don’t tell me you know this woman?”

  “Better than that,” Meredith said. “I’ve been his de facto for close to a decade.”

  “De facto…?”

  “That’s not true,” John said. “Look, I knew her from high school. She got sick, lived on the streets. I’ve been looking after her. Taking care of her. Out of mercy.”

  “See?” Meredith said. “He’s quite the hero. Did he tell you I killed your cat?”

  Laughing, she waggled her tongue and slurped at the palm of one gory hand. John felt pinned, unable to move. If only he could have told Donna everything in the strict order of events, from the beginning, she would have understood.

  Donna lifted a trembling finger. “Is that…is that Tiger’s blood?”

  “Yes, and it’s delicious. Tell her, John. Go ahead and tell your dirty whore what happened to her cat. I’m sure she’ll forgive you once you explain the circumstances. Or shall I bring out the silver pot and show her the remains?”

  Stiffly, eyes bulging with fear, Donna turned towards him. He could see dozens of micro-expressions flitting across her face as her mind worked to put the pieces of this bizarre and unexpected puzzle together. Please, he wanted to say. I never meant to hurt you. We could have been a family: you and me, Cassie, Tiger—

  The flash of raw hatred in her eyes tore at his heart.

  Too late, too late. He’d had a chance at love and Merry had ruined it for him. The fucking bitch. His vision misted red. Nate’s words came to mind—forget about Meredith, all right? Donna is your future—as he launched himself across the room.

  Ducking his head like a rugby player, he slammed into Meredith’s mid-section, his impetus carrying them both through the plasterboard of the hallway. Merry’s spine hit a stud and her bones pop, pop, popped.

  Dimly, somewhere outside of the red mist, he could hear Donna screaming.

  He found his feet and grabbed Merry by the arms. She weighed next to nothing. He pulled her out of the smashed hole in the plasterboard and, as hard as he could, hurled her at the kitchen table. She hit it like a broken marionette, limbs sprawling at impossible angles, dislocating, joints folding back on themselves. The table fell, pinning her at the hips. He leapt upon her, shoved the table aside, and put his hands around her throat, closing his fists, crushing her windpipe. Yes, yes, he could feel the cartilage crumpling, grinding and cracking, splitting. And yet…

  Her eyes.

  Shock cleared the red mist.

  Merry’s eyes were two intense and flaming coals. And she was laughing. Christ, she was somehow laughing while he was choking the life out of her.

  She doubled up a spindly leg and kicked him flying across the room. He bounced off the kitchen bench. Agony shot through his elbow. Dazed and winded, he slumped to the floor. Who was screaming? He could hear screaming. He struggled to sit up. Donna was still backed against the kitchen sink.

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  Where was Meredith?

  A movement overhead caught his eye. He glanced up. Meredith had the microwave in both hands. She brought it down on his head.

  White kitchen tiles.

  Shards of plastic and metal.

  The microwave nearby, wrecked.

  And blood. Spots and splashes of it everywhere.

  John blinked.

  Pain.

  Oh, shit, so much pain. He reached up and touched his scalp. Wet. His fingers slipped into a gaping tear in his hairline. What the fuck? He looked at his hand. Bloody. He tried to move. Ow. What had happened?

  Exhausted, he closed his eyes.

  Whimpering sounds tugged at his attention.

  “Hello?” he said, lifting his head.

  The kitchen looked as if a cyclone had torn through it. The table and chairs lay scattered. Everything from the benches—the toaster, kettle, draining rack, knife block—strewn about, broken crockery from one side of the room to the other. A cool breeze fanned in through the shattered window. A jet of someone’s blood—his own?—had sprayed over the wall. The faint whimpering sounds continued.

  John struggled to sit up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a foot.

  Bony, as white as wax, the skinny toes like talons.

  “Merry?” he said.

  He leaned on his arm, trying to turn, and winced at the shooting pain in his elbow. Gingerly, he got to his knees and shuffled to face her. Meredith lay on her back, limbs sprawled in awkward postures, motionless.

  “Merry, are you awake?”

  It came back to him in a rush. Meredith confronting Donna. His figh
t with Meredith. Getting cracked over the head with the goddamned microwave. Christ, she could have killed him. He would have to be careful. Slowly, he crawled towards her.

  There was blood on her throat and t-shirt, blood on the floor in a halo around her, great gouts of it. At least, he figured the liquid must be blood, yet it was unnaturally thick and dark, like molasses, and its rank and mouldy smell reminded him of a stagnant pond. He shuddered.

  “Merry?”

  She didn’t respond. John’s heart boomed. He crawled as close to her as he could, being careful to avoid the puddle of blood, and reached out, grabbed her by the hair. Merry’s head bobbled without resistance, as if barely tethered to her body. Uh-oh. Carefully, he tipped her head back, and gasped.

  The laceration across her throat yawned open. Muscle, tendon, windpipe, the exposed tissues a pale, cooked-mutton brown.

  Dry heaving, he let go and scooted backwards across the tiles until he hit the wall and could retreat no further.

  Meredith was dead.

  Not undead-dead, not zombie- or vampire-dead, but honest to God dead.

  He couldn’t remember doing it. Next to her body was the cleaver, the same knife he had taken earlier from the block and laid on the bench, just in case. After she had smashed the microwave over his head, John must have…what? Rallied…how? Snatched up the cleaver and… Yeah, well, who could blame him? Theirs had been a fight to the death. He waited to feel grief, remorse. Instead, he felt nothing.

  Now what?

  Well, shit, he had to figure out how to dispose of the body.

  That’s when he realised he could still hear whimpering.

  And since it wasn’t coming from Meredith… Oh, Jesus. The whimpering was coming from the other side of the kitchen bench.

  Oh, no.

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—

  “Donna?” he said. “Is that you?”

  The whimpering continued. He jumped to his feet, swooned, and almost fell. The head injury, shit, maybe his skull was fractured. Stepping over Meredith’s corpse, wincing as his feet crunched over broken ceramic, he approached the bench. Then stopped. Unable go any further. He couldn’t bear to look.

  The whimpering went on and on.

  Faltering, legs trembling, he tried again to walk around the end of the bench. Found that he still couldn’t move. Fuck. Donna needs you, he told himself. Man up. Help her. Taking a breath, he stepped around the bench.

  And screamed.

  20

  Donna sat on the kitchen floor, curled up with her knees at her chest, cowering, face pressed against the cupboard doors, naked except for her underwear, her bare arms and legs streaming with blood.

  John dropped down beside her.

  “Let me see,” he said. “How many times did she bite you? How many?”

  When he hauled Donna from her crouched position, she moaned and her eyes rolled as if she were close to losing consciousness. As if she were entering some kind of fugue state. Oh, no, no, no—

  “Donna, can you hear me? It’s John. Say something.”

  Her eyes focused on him and opened wide in terror. Her mouth dropped as if preparing to let out a long, loud shriek. Panicked, John put his forefinger to her lips and shushed her. She recoiled and began whimpering again. God, how much had the neighbours heard already? What if somebody had called the cops?

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, fast and urgent, “everything’s going to be okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Donna, please, I’m here to help you. Can you hear me?”

  She gaped at him for a few seconds and nodded.

  “Let me see your arms,” he said.

  Shaking, she held them out. And there was the characteristic wound pattern, waxing and waning moons facing each other, in a long column down the inside of both her arms. He wiped sweat and blood from his eyes, grabbed her left arm to begin, and tried to count the wounds. One, two, three—

  “She bit you too, didn’t she?” Donna said, teeth chattering.

  “Yeah.”

  Four, five, six—

  “On the arm.”

  “Yeah.”

  Seven, eight—

  “Not mower blades, not a dog. The witch.”

  “Yeah.”

  Nine, ten, eleven—

  “Is she dead?” Donna said.

  “And then some. Her head is virtually cut off.”

  Damn, he’d lost count. Okay, start over. One, two, three, four—

  “I had to do it,” Donna said.

  “What?”

  “I had to do it.”

  He sat back on his heels. “You killed Meredith?”

  “She came at me like an animal,” Donna said. “How could a skinny old lady be so strong?”

  Because she wasn’t human.

  “She ripped off my clothes and started biting me.” Donna’s wild eyes filled with tears. “And I saw strange things, weird things.”

  He held his breath. “You were in the outback?”

  “No, on a boat. A huge, beautiful boat with white sails, some kind of yacht. The ocean was deep blue; nearly purple.” Her gaze became faraway. “The sun shone. I could smell salt on the wind. And dolphins were jumping ahead of the boat.” She closed her eyes. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “I felt happy. Blessed.”

  “What snapped you out of it?”

  “I looked around for Cassie and she wasn’t there. Nobody was there. I was the only one on deck. How the hell am I on a fucking boat in the middle of nowhere? I can’t even steer a rowboat for the life of me.”

  “So, you woke up.”

  “Yeah. To the witch biting me. I went ballistic.”

  John tried to smile. “I can tell. The kitchen’s a mess.”

  “I’m a mother, John. I’m a fucking mother. I’ve got my little girl to think about. I wasn’t about to let that witch kill me, no way, no chance.”

  Meredith wasn’t trying to kill you, he thought, but change you so we couldn’t be together. Gently, he took hold of her wrist and straightened out her arm.

  “I need to count the bite marks,” he said. “It’s important.”

  One, two, three, four, five, six—

  “Somehow, I got the big knife,” she said. “Back in high school, I used to play softball. And I was good at it, too. The lead-off batter. I swung that knife like hitting a fastball. The power comes up from the legs and into the hips. Through the twist of the hips and into the arm, like a boxer throwing a punch. I slashed her. Just once. You know what it sounded like when I cut her throat?”

  “Be quiet. I’m trying to count.”

  “Like cutting into a pumpkin.” Donna’s breath seesawed into a giggle. “A giant, woody pumpkin.” She shivered. “And her head fell back on her neck. It took her a second to start bleeding. You know what I saw in that second? Up inside her windpipe. It looked like a yellow hose. I’ve never seen inside anyone’s body before. Her blood was black, John. Why would it be black?”

  “Shut up for a minute.”

  She pushed him away and struggled to stand, gripping the cupboard handles, the benchtop.

  “What are you doing?” he said. “I’m still counting the bite marks.”

  “We have to call the police.”

  “What? No.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  He got up. “Are you insane? You’ll go to prison.”

  “For self-defence?”

  Involving the law would unravel the whole sordid mess, all the way back to Lyle’s disappearance. John couldn’t let that happen. Not under any circumstances. Not even for Donna. For the first time in a long time, he saw a glimmer of hope, a way out, and he intended to grab hold of it with both hands.

  “Stop and think,” he said, and spread his arms to indicate the gore and chaos of the kitchen. “How is this g
oing to look to the cops?”

  “Huh? No, we only have to explain—”

  “You’ll lose custody of Cassie.”

  “Lose custody? But I—”

  “At least during the investigation. Maybe permanently. Graeme could petition the court. And he could win. I mean, why not? Jesus, you murdered somebody.”

  “Self-defence!” Donna cried in anguish. “It was self-defence.”

  “You reckon the Family Court will give a stuff about minor details? You killed someone, slashed their throat. An old lady, too. Almost cut her goddamned head off.”

  “She attacked me. Surely, the judge would—”

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t kid yourself. Use common sense. Can you see the Family Court granting a killer, a savage killer, custody of a child? You’d be lucky if they allowed you custody of a ten-cent goldfish.”

  She gaped at him. “I can’t lose Cassie.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She’s my whole world.”

  “I know. That’s why we have to avoid the cops.”

  Donna put both hands to her mouth. She appeared young and scared. “But what…what are we…what are we going to…”

  He looked around at the floor. When he finally spotted her flannelette shirt, he picked it up and put it over her shoulders. She grabbed at the collar, trembling. Next, he righted a chair and sat her down. Finding his cigarettes and lighter amongst the debris took some time. He lit a smoke, righted another chair, and sat opposite her.

  “First things first,” he said. “Call Graeme. Tell him you’re sick. Tell him to pick up Cassie from school and keep her overnight.”

  “How come?”

  “We need time to sort out this shit.”

  “You’ve got a plan?”

  “It’s coming together, yeah,” he said. “You clean up the kitchen and clean it up good. Mop the floors, the walls, the ceiling if you have to, okay? Straighten everything. The room has to pass inspection with a real estate agent on Friday.”

  “What about the broken window?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll arrange for it to be replaced tomorrow. The cleaning products are in the laundry. When you’re done, throw the mop-head, sponges, rags, anything you’ve used into the bin. I’ll dump it at the tip.”