Contrition Page 2

  Chastened, John looked away.

  The little prick was flicking through, and occasionally stopping to read, a stapled document of some kind. The wall-clock ticked inter­minably.

  10.57 a.m.

  No wonder John felt antsy. On his days off he began drinking at 10.45 a.m. sharp. This had been his habit for years. Why that particular time, he could no longer remember. He watched the clock.

  10.58.

  He pinched his upper lip between his thumb and forefinger. That sometimes helped. Maybe it was an acupressure point. Decades ago, back in high school, Meredith had told him about acupressure points. She had been an enthusiastic advocate of New Age bullshit, and used to talk about chakras, meridians, third eyes… She did not talk much about anything these days, apart from noisy cars and neighbourhood pets. She hated every kind of pet, but cats in particular. If she happened to spot a cat through one of the windows, she would bare her teeth and hiss.

  The little prick tapped at his keyboard and paused to read whatever had come up on the computer screen.

  11 a.m. Tick, tick, tick…

  God almighty, what could be the hold-up?

  Despite himself, John pictured a beer, the stubby cold enough for condensation to bead, cluster, and run down the bottle. The tantalising image made the thirst grow stronger. It ballooned up from his stomach, began to wither the mucous membranes in his oesophagus and sinuses, and spread throughout his mouth, desiccating his tongue. This was not an ordinary thirst. A gallon of water could not slake it. Only beer washed away the stricture in his throat, usually before he had finished the first stubby, sometimes on the first swig.

  “Okay, Mr Penrose,” the little prick said, offering a sheet of paper. “Here’s the lease agreement. Twelve months, like we discussed. We need a month’s rent in advance. The bond is the same amount as a month’s rent. You’ll get the bond back when you vacate, assuming everything’s in good order.”

  “Yep, I’ve done this plenty of times. No need to explain.”

  “Humour me anyway. My boss goes off the deep end if I don’t do my job.” The little prick handed over a stapled sheaf of papers. “This is the condition report. Write down any other observations of damage that aren’t mentioned.”

  “Sure.”

  “Some tenants like to take photographs as proof.”

  “Right. So, are we done?”

  “Not quite.”

  The little prick perused more papers. John focused on the clack clack clack of talons on keys. Glancing at the receptionist, he was just in time to see her scratch at the corner of her mouth, delicately, with a single claw. Ouch. John would never let a woman with a crazy manicure like that anywhere near his block and tackle. Then he found himself wondering if she ever injured herself while masturbating. The thought was strangely arousing.

  “Mr Penrose, you’re a plate mounter for a printing company.”

  John looked around. “What?”

  “You’re a plate mounter.”

  “Right, yeah.”

  “What does that entail, exactly?”

  He’s playing with me; he knows I want to get out of here. John took a breath, let his arms hang, and silently vowed to sit in this chair all day if that’s what it took.

  He said, “I work for a company that prints food packaging.”

  “Food packaging?”

  “The flexible kind: bread bags, packets for potato chips, biscuits, that sort of thing. Every print job has a set of plates. My job is to prepare them for the printer.”

  The receptionist paused her typing. John had a female audience. He sat up straight and pulled in his gut.

  “There’s a machine I use,” he continued. “I put each plate on its table.”

  “Yes? Please, go on, Mr Penrose.”

  “The machine irons the plate onto the sleeve. I tape the edges of the plate so it doesn’t lift up inside the press.”

  “Gosh. How fascinating. Isn’t this fascinating, Lisa?”

  In his peripheral vision, John saw the receptionist staring. Was she impressed? Hard to tell; he would have to look to find out. No, he decided, he would not look.

  “You have a trade qualification for this?” the little prick said.

  John hesitated. “I got on-site training.”

  “Ah. Which takes how long?”

  About an hour, John thought. Instead, he said, “Well, that depends on the worker, their smarts and willingness to learn. I managed it in about a week.”

  “Really?” The little prick gave a slow smile. “An entire week?”

  John again felt the sting of humiliation. Clack clack clack went the receptionist’s nails. John leaned back into the chair and pinched at his upper lip.

  “Your working hours,” the little prick said. “I assume you’re part-time?”

  “Full-time.”

  “Ah, but today is Monday.”

  “Ah, that’s correct, very good,” John said, winking as if they were sharing a joke, trying his best to keep the edge out of his voice. “Today is definitely Monday. You’re right on the money. But I work a twelve-hour shift every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Right now happens to be my weekend.”

  Frowning, the little prick held out a pen. “Signature on the dotted line.”

  John, fingers sweating, managed to scrawl his name.

  Hopefully, Meredith would be happy about the new place. When­ever she was unhappy, she became difficult, unpredictable…feral. Some­times he felt afraid of her. Shit, which was ridiculous considering her slight build. Merry probably weighed about the same as your average ten-year old, and John was tall and heavyset, so there was no reason for him to be frightened. No logical reason, anyway.

  2

  John left the real estate agency with keys to the cottage and wads of paperwork in his back pockets. His quivering hands and locked throat urged him home for a drink, but his empty stomach growled. He had not eaten since the previous night. There was next to nothing in the fridge or pantry. Momentarily, he was torn, struck by indecision on the footpath.

  Other shoppers moved around him: swarms of tottering pensioners, women in sloppy tracksuit pants, unshaven men in jeans and bare feet, workers on their break wearing chemist whites, supermarket uniforms, or two-piece suits; everyone heading somewhere, except for John and a grizzled alcoholic slumped over a bench.

  The sight of the alky—aged anywhere from fifty to seventy, it was hard to tell—gave John a sharp fright, like a poke in the ribs. The man’s hair was matted, his face grimy, trousers piss-stained. If John got close enough, he would catch a whiff.

  One of his rules came to mind: You’re an alky when you ditch meals for booze.

  And the bakery was just four shops away.

  The doorway had plastic strips to keep out the flies. A dozen customers were ahead of him. John would have a long wait. He began to jiggle one leg, drumming the heel of his boot on the linoleum floor. The bakery was unpleasantly humid and smelled of yeast. The boy at the counter turned to the door that led to the ovens and called for someone to open the other register. A few seconds later, a bored-looking redhead walked through. Straight away, John remembered her name: Ginny.

  So, she was still working here. Two (or three?) rental properties ago, he and Meredith had lived nearby. He had frequented this bakery all the time for a quick lunch. Ginny used to talk to him about the appalling state of the public toilet block situated in the midst of the carpark. The council never cleans it, she used to say. It’s a health hazard. John would tsk-tsk and sympathise. Someone ought to get a dunny brush and detergent, she would add, bagging his order of pastries. He had thought about cleaning the block to impress her, but no, he had never done so, and then he had moved away.

  His heart began to beat harder as his turn approached. Should he say hello? Ask if the toilet block was as filthy as ever? When she looke
d at him, he felt himself smile, a genuine smile this time.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she said, with no flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  Mumbling, John ordered his food. Ginny bagged the pastries, took his money.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she said to the next customer in line.

  On his way to the car, John stopped to take stock of his surroundings.

  Nothing much in the shopping centre had changed. The continuity felt reassuring. Sectioned off with hoop bollards, a dozen parking spaces were now garden beds with shrubs and native grasses. The new landscaping offered a touch of much-needed class to the strip. Further along, the florist had become a two-dollar shop, the hardware store, a café. The latter had a hanging sign, hand-painted, The Brunch Corner. From the name alone, he could picture the menu: eggs any which way on sourdough, ham and cheese croissants, open sandwiches, soup, pasta of the day…

  The breeze swung the sign on its hooks, gently.

  Perhaps he could become a regular and strike up friendly relations with the waitresses. Even though tipping was not customary, John would be sure to tip, discreetly, a folded note pressed into a warm, grateful hand. It would make the waitresses happy. They would look forward to seeing him. They would know him by name. Hi, John, great to see you, they would say, and usher him to his private table, permanently reserved. What can we get for you?

  Grey clouds raced overhead, shredding in the wind. Rain was coming. John hurried to his car, making sure to give the alky a wide berth.

  “Hoi, you got a smoke, mate?” the alky called.

  John did not look back. He got into his car, manoeuvred out of the carpark, and soon joined the traffic on the highway. The trip home would take around a quarter of an hour. The smell of pastries made him salivate. With one hand clenched hard around the steering wheel to stop his fingers from trembling, he scarfed down a sausage roll. Then, fuck it, he ate the other one. There were still a couple of pies left. And Meredith wouldn’t care. When was the last time he had ever seen her eat?

  The unit he shared with Meredith was one of three arranged side by side on the block. As always, John parked at the kerb. Their single carport held his trailer and a garden shed secured with a padlock. Before getting out of his car, John observed the windows of the other units. No curtains moved. Hopefully, he could sneak inside before somebody buttonholed him.

  No such luck.

  As his boots hit the driveway, the door of the first unit opened.

  “Oh, John, there you are. Thank goodness. Can I have a word?”

  Freezing mid-step, he arranged his face into a smile. Mrs Dwight tromped outside. She was an elderly, flabby woman, with a double chin so large it swung like a dewlap. No matter the weather, she always seemed to wear open-toed slippers and the same kind of shapeless cotton dress. Her eyes were red and watering as if she had been crying.

  “Afternoon, Mrs Dwight,” John said. “Looks like rain.”

  “Have you seen Angel?”

  “Not yet. Like I told you, I’ll let you know if I do. Okay?”

  He took a step. Mrs Dwight put a hand on his elbow. He wanted to shove her away. Instead, he grinned, hard, and put his arm behind his back, clear of her touch.

  She said, “Angel’s a homebody. It’s not like him to stay away.”

  “Cats are funny creatures, Mrs Dwight. Sometimes they wander.”

  “He’s never gone missing before. It’s been six days. I’m literally frantic. What on earth could have happened to him?”

  John did not know for sure but had a damn good idea. An unpleasant one.

  The headache was creeping up on him, the type that squeezed like a giant pair of hands. He rubbed at his temples. A single beer and the headache would vanish. He must get away from Mrs Dwight. Had he remembered to put more beers in the fridge? His memories of last night were fuzzy. If there were no cold beers he would drink them warm from his stash in the laundry and put a couple of six-packs in the freezer.

  “I’ve called the pound,” Mrs Dwight was saying, “and the local vets and the RSPCA, and nothing. I’m absolutely beside myself.”

  “Have you thought about putting up posters around the neighbour­hood? Get a poster to me by tomorrow night, and I’ll photocopy it at work. A dozen copies, okay? Two dozen, I’m happy to help. Don’t worry. He’ll turn up. Righto, see you later.”

  Again, he went to step away. Again, she grabbed his arm.

  “What about your lady friend?” Mrs Dwight said.

  He froze, his headache momentarily forgotten. “What lady friend?”

  “You know, the blonde lady. Sometimes she looks out your front window.”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  Mrs Dwight began to stare at him, her eyes narrowing in disbelief or perhaps…suspicion? John glanced at his residence, expecting to see the venetian blinds pulled up and Meredith silhouetted there, white as chalk.

  No, thank God. The venetians were down and closed.

  “Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers, “you’re thinking of my cleaning woman.”

  “Cleaning woman?”

  “Yeah. She comes over every now and then.”

  Mrs Dwight gave a hopeful smile. “Perhaps she might have seen Angel?”

  “Nah. She’s hardly ever here. In fact, she hasn’t been around in weeks.” He began to stride away. “Okay, see you later. Let me know about the poster, all right?”

  Now, he just had to make it inside before the Kapoors in unit two spotted him.

  For months, the Kapoors had been receiving anonymous notes in their letterbox. Mr Kapoor had shown them to John. The notes, handwritten on thick and creamy sheets, folded twice and delivered without envelopes, bore angry messages such as YOUR BIRDS ARE TOO NOISY!! A retired couple, the Kapoors owned a dozen budgerigars in a cage the size of a pantry cupboard. In fine weather, the Kapoors would wheel the cage into their back yard so the budgerigars could enjoy fresh air and sunshine. MAKE YOUR BIRDS SHUT UP!! The perpetrator must live nearby, Mr Kapoor had confided. Only close neighbours can hear such little chirps and whistles. And then, only last week, a note had been pushed under their front door. YOUR BIRDS WILL DIE!! Apparently, Mrs Kapoor was terrified. Apparently, Mrs Kapoor wanted to call the police. And so, John had started calling real estate agents.

  He made it past unit two. The Kapoors must be out.

  At his own door, he hesitated. The handle felt cold. He put his ear to the jamb. No sounds. This was typical. Meredith never played music or watched TV. His teeth clicked as they came together. His stomach muscles tightened. Coming home always felt like this. He always had to take a moment to brace himself.

  It reminded him of that one time in Devonport when he had finished his shift and returned to his cabin in the caravan park, tired and thirsty. Lifting his key to the door, he heard the screech of the cutlery drawer scraping along its wooden tracks. Somebody is inside. A zap of electricity shot through his limbs. He unlocked and threw open the door. A startled teenager gaped, empty-handed. John laughed. What had the kid expected to find? When the kid dashed for the door, John let him go. A quick search revealed nothing had been stolen. The kid, rifling through the cabin for Christ knows how long, had not found one single item worth stealing. And yet, that initial pop of fright, that fear of what lay beyond the door…

  Viscerally, John felt it now.

  With the key inside the lock, he steeled himself. Something caught his eye. Mrs Dwight stood on her porch, watching him, hands clasped and held tight against her chest. Shit. You know it’s time to leave when neighbours start to watch you like that. With a jaunty wave at Mrs Dwight, he turned his key and went inside.

  He leaned against the door to close it behind him. For a few moments, he could not see Meredith. He raked his gaze across the sofa, armchair, coffee table, as if she might be hiding, crouched,
waiting to spring. His unease went up a notch. Perhaps she was in the hobby room, quiet and docile.

  “Merry, I’m back,” he called. “I’ve got news. Where are you?”

  He took a step from the door.

  Then he saw her.

  Tension ebbed from his shoulders. Ever since they had begun living together, it had been this way: he needed to know her location before he could relax.

  “Hey, did you hear me?” he said. “Meredith?”

  A servery bench separated the lounge from the kitchen. She was standing at the sink, as motionless and stiff as a mannequin, arms by her sides, facing the window. The view consisted of a fence, some two metres away. Knowing Meredith, she had probably been standing like that for hours. Maybe the whole time he had been gone. He slung the greasy bag of cold pies onto the bench and went to the fridge.

  Eight stubbies of Victoria Bitter.

  Well, good enough for now. More could be put in the freezer.

  He grabbed a stubby, twisted the cap, and took a long, long drink. Magic… There was no other word to describe the sensation. The bolus of beer released a familiar, tingling wave of relief as it slid down his oesophagus, easing the stricture in its wake, opening his throat like a blossoming flower.

  “I’ve signed up for a new place,” he said.

  He finished the stubby and opened another. Thank Christ, his hands had stopped shaking. The headache let go of his temples and slid away. He finished the second stubby and reached for a third. He shut the fridge door. Since he was feeling better, he could drink at a more leisurely pace. He took a neoprene stubby holder from the top of the fridge and slid the bottle inside.

  “Did you hear me?” he said, leaning on the draining board. “Merry?”

  He regarded her profile. She was still beautiful: at least to him.

  Meredith Berg-Olsen had a Danish father and a Swedish mother. This combination of Northern European genes had made her tall, slender, blonde, blue-eyed, with skin as white and clear as porcelain. In her late teens, Meredith Berg-Olsen had all the makings of a runway model. Now in her late forties, after everything she had been through—including horrors that John could only guess at—she looked bloodless instead of pale, skeletal instead of slender, more dead than alive.