Contrition Read online

  She held up another photograph.

  “Who are these people?” she said.

  With Uluru as a distant backdrop, three teenagers stood in the sparsely foliaged red dirt, linking arms: John, Meredith, and her brother Lyle.

  John took a long drink of beer. This photo always hurt. Shit, how many stubbies had he consumed in the last hour? Four? Five? He had a harsh buzz going on.

  With an unsteady forefinger, he pointed at the joyous, youthful faces and gave his usual answer: “That’s me, you, and some bloke. I don’t recall his name.”

  She put the group photograph on the table and began to flip through the other snaps. John stared down at Lyle’s carefree and grinning face. Just over a year after that photo had been taken—

  Resolutely, he put the stubby to his lips and drank.

  John had moved house so many times, he had the routine down pat and could relocate within a day. His speed relied on eight rules, of which he felt quite proud:

  Keep few possessions. Nobody needs books, records, CDs, DVDs, picture frames, knickknacks, vases, et cetera, nor the shelving units such clutter requires. Have the bare minimum of dinnerware and cutlery. Work uniform aside, a couple of pairs of jeans, a handful of shirts and a jumper will suffice.

  Beds should have slat bases for easy disassembly.

  Choose compact, light furniture. With a hand trolley and a few occy straps and nylon tie-downs, you can manhandle a small fridge by yourself. Ditto a two-seater sofa.

  Pack larger items in the trailer, smaller items in the car.

  Always use the ramps to load and unload the trailer to avoid injuring your back.

  Before packing a single item, drive Meredith to the new house so she can prowl the empty rooms and touch every surface with her hands and forehead. By the time you arrive with your first of four loads, she will have calmed down.

  Unpack Meredith’s bedroom furniture and belongings immediately to give her something to do while you’re getting the rest of the stuff.

  Instead of cleaning the old place, let the real estate agency keep your bond.

  It was Saturday, first week of spring, with a cloudy sky but no rain. John steered the Falcon into the driveway of their new home, the faux miner’s cottage, and braked. The trailer squeaked and groaned on its springs. He cut the engine and alighted. In this second trip, he had the lounge and kitchen furniture, pots and pans, boxes of random indoor stuff. Only two more trips to go—one for the shed and its contents—and he would be finished.

  Jesus, what a relief.

  Goodbye and good riddance to Mrs Dwight and her stupid cat that liked to shit everywhere. Piss off Mr and Mrs Kapoor, who could shove their bloody tweeting budgies and paranoia, their phone calls to the cops.

  He glanced at the cottage. No sign of Meredith. The front had just two tiny windows so it was unlikely that neighbours would spot her. But she had a knack… Please don’t make trouble, he thought. Let me stay put for a while. Sighing, he hauled the hand trolley from the trailer. The muscles in his lower back twinged. After tea, it would be good to have a long soak in a hot bath. However, his en suite only had a shower. Would Meredith object to him using her bathroom? It would depend on her mood. Sometimes, moving house exhilarated her. Other times, it made her anxious and fearful.

  “Hello there!”

  The cheery female voice startled him.

  Breathless, he spun around.

  Directly across the road, at the clinker-brick shithole with the palm tree out front, standing next to a red Toyota Corolla parked in the driveway, was a slim, middle-aged woman. She waved at him. Hesitantly, briefly, John raised his own hand. He had not heard the car pull up.

  “Moving in?” the woman called.

  He nodded. In case she missed the gesture, he added, “Yeah.”

  “Well, I hope you like it here. I’m Donna.”

  “John.”

  Donna wore desert boots, faded blue jeans with holes in the knees, a red-check flannelette shirt. Her straight brown hair was long and parted in the middle. From this distance, he could not tell the colour of her eyes, but she had a square face with rosy cheeks, and a broad smile that showed white, strong teeth. She looked country, like the kind of woman who might own a horse.

  Uh-oh. She was still looking at him and smiling, as if waiting. What should he do next? Perhaps she expected him to be more forthcoming. It seems to be a quiet area, he could say. A remark about the weather might be more appropriate.

  The passenger door of the Toyota opened and a child got out, a girl of around ten or twelve, wearing a netball skirt and her hair in a ponytail. The child scowled in John’s direction and slouched towards the front door of the clinker-brick shithole.

  Donna waved again. “Guess I’ll see you round.”

  He nodded, but vigorously this time, so she couldn’t miss it.

  Donna and the child went inside. John watched their door for a couple of moments, then wrestled the hand trolley impatiently to one side, and undid the tie-down straps on the trailer. Flipping back the protective blankets, he glared at the cheap sofa and shitty coffee table with a fresh set of eyes: Donna’s eyes.

  His cheeks burned.

  If Donna were peeking through the curtains right now, assessing his furniture, what would she surmise? That he was poor? On the dole? A cheapskate? Druggie?

  A knocking sound drew his attention.

  Barely visible through the lounge window of the cottage were Meredith’s knuckles rapping on the glass. Cursing, John wheeled the trolley to the rear of the trailer. He dropped the tailgate, grappled the metal ramp into position, and strode up the ramp onto the bed of the trailer, hauling the trolley behind him, all the while biting his lip as he listened to the urgent tap tap tap of Meredith’s bony knuckles. Shut up, he wanted to yell, as his back prickled with sweat. Shut the ever-loving fuck up.

  Instead, he glared at the window and put his forefinger to his mouth. SHH.

  The rapping stopped.

  His hands were trembling. He lugged the fridge onto the trolley and scraped his wrist somehow, drawing blood. Shit. He paused to suck at the wound. If Donna were watching, what would she think? But she wouldn’t be watching. John wasn’t the kind of man that women liked to watch.

  He closed his eyes. His throat felt parched. But another rule came to mind: You’re an alky when you drink and drive. No, he had to hold on, wait it out. The breeze riffled his hair, slipped beneath the neck of his t-shirt, fanned across his chest. He inspected his wrist. The bleeding had stopped. Now, the cut was a red line along a jagged slash of skin. Slowly, deliberately, he secured the fridge to the trolley with occy straps. He took his time backing down the ramp to the driveway. Feigning a cavalier attitude, he whistled on his way to the front door.

  The door opened. Meredith stood in the hallway, white and dishevelled.

  “Get back,” he said.

  She obeyed. He looked over his shoulder. Had anyone seen her?

  Once he got inside, he shut the door, and said, “You know better than that.”

  Meredith’s eyes blazed. John steered around her, aiming for the kitchen. Meredith followed.

  “Who was that woman?” she said.

  “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “She told you her name is Donna.”

  “So what if she did?” He stopped the trolley and removed the straps. The cut on his wrist throbbed. “It’s a neighbour being polite.”

  “You promised we wouldn’t have to deal with any neighbours.”

  “Jesus Christ, all she said was hello.”

  He could hear Meredith panting. Meanwhile, he manoeuvred the fridge against the wall and plugged it in. The compressor started with a click and a steady hum. He had paid the electricity account on Monday, the same day he had signed the lease. The gas should be on by now too. Meredith still had not sp
oken. Duct tape held the fridge door closed. He peeled it off.

  “Okay,” he said, “at least the fridge works.”

  Still, not a word. He turned. Meredith’s lips were tight and blood­less. John blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, I swear I don’t know Donna.”

  Chin quivering, Meredith left the room, steadying herself by sliding her hands along the walls, as if she were drunk or pitching around on a boat. Strong emotions affected her balance. He did not know why and had never asked. His assumption was that, long ago, a medical treatment had fried her brain somehow.

  At her bedroom door, Meredith hissed, “You better hope for Donna’s sake she doesn’t have a fucking pet.”

  Slam.

  And silence.

  John leaned against the bench. His headache was starting up again.

  Donna’s straight long hair and ready smile came to mind. He wished he had made small talk with her, had been quicker off the mark to respond. Chewing his lip, he contemplated the closed door of Meredith’s bedroom. Right now, Meredith would most likely be lying face down on the bed, legs together and arms straight by her sides, stiff as a doll. The first time he had seen her in that unnatural position, he had panicked, assumed her to be dead or dying. He had turned her over to perform CPR. And Meredith’s lashless eyes had snapped opened.

  Yes, he thought, it would be awful if Donna had a pet.

  Especially if it happened to be a cat.

  4

  John woke up the next morning with a thumping hangover that hurt all the way through to his eyeballs. The after-taste of last night’s beer sat thick and sour on his tongue. God, he needed water. He sat up in bed, gingerly. His stomach gave a trembling little heave, but damned if he would vomit. Vomiting was not allowed. Vomiting was a sign of alcoholism.

  When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was.

  Frightened, he gaped at the unfamiliar surroundings for a moment, and then remembered moving house the previous day. His shoulders sagged in relief. Shit. Once, back in Devonport, he had woken up on a stranger’s porch—sprawled over a weather-beaten couch that had stunk of wet dog—with a vague memory of singing a karaoke version of Rick Astley’s ‘Never gonna give you up’ to a pub full of cheering faces. He had fled the couch, running until he had chanced upon a main road and could hail a passing taxi. Inexplicably, he was barefoot, his shirt buttoned askew, bottom lip split and a loosened tooth wobbling in his jaw. Yet he could not remember a goddamn thing. That blackout, one of his worst, had stopped him drinking for a few days.

  John sat on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette. To settle his guts, he needed a big, greasy fry-up. The Brunch Corner café popped into mind. Yes, good idea, he’d visit the café for breakfast. With a full stomach and black coffee in his system, he could handle the supermarket. He put on his watch: 8.22 a.m.

  Exiting his room, he paused, listening. No sounds of activity in the house.

  “Merry?” he said.

  No response. He took a few hesitant steps along the hallway, looking this way and that. The kitchen appeared empty, as did the lounge. The doors to Meredith’s hobby room and bedroom were both closed. He hurried past.

  On the veranda, he paused to inhale. The crisp, cool air smelled of daphne. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he gazed at the sky. Bright blue and dotted with round, fat clouds: perfect gardening weather. Tomorrow, he would go to Bunnings and get supplies to build his raised vegie patch. He would plant old favourites—tomato, capsicum—and try his hand at something new, like sweet corn or rhubarb.

  Despite his lingering headache, he whistled as he strode to the carport. As he unlocked the Falcon, he glanced at the clinker-brick shithole across the road. The Toyota Corolla was gone. So Donna wasn’t home. Where might she be? He pictured her in a paddock, murmuring kind and loving words while she brushed down a piebald horse, which nickered and whisked its tail. The image made him smile.

  The drive to the shopping centre took five minutes.

  At this early hour, the car park was mostly empty. John drove to the far end and got a spot in front of the café. On the footpath were a handful of tables, each one shaded with a square red umbrella and topped with an ashtray and a menu.

  He took a seat, perused the meals on offer.

  A young and stocky waitress came out, wearing a red apron, her bleached blonde hair in a bun. She took a pad and pen from her apron.

  “Good morning, what can I get you?” she said.

  “The full breakfast, and a long black, thanks.”

  “White or wholemeal for the toast?”

  “White.”

  She stretched her face into a quick, professional grin and headed back inside.

  John lit a cigarette. The only people walking the strip seemed to be old farts. Every bench was empty. He wondered about the alky he had seen on Monday outside the real estate agency. Where might the poor bastard be sleeping? The entrances to the public toilets were sealed off with locked iron gates.

  “Oh hey, I thought it was you,” a female voice said. “It’s John, right?”

  He looked around. The first thing he recognised was the long brown hair, parted in the middle. His heart tripped up. Donna’s eyes were grey, the colour of polished river stones. She had freckles scattered over her broad, straight nose. And yes, her teeth were even and bright, as he had thought yesterday when she had waved at him. By Hollywood standards, it was a plain and unremarkable face, but the high colour of the cheeks, the warmth in the eyes, and the full lips made it very beaut­iful.

  She touched a hand to her chest and said, “Donna. From across the road?”

  “Yeah, of course, I remember,” he said, trying to chuckle. She had caught him off guard. “What a coincidence,” he continued. “You’re here for breakfast too?”

  Smirking, she held up a corner of her red apron and shook it.

  “Oh, right, you work here?” he said.

  “Three days a week, yeah: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday.”

  “Well,” he said, lost for words. “Gee. It’s a small world.”

  “Sure is. How are you settling in?”

  “Oh, yeah, good,” he said, nodding. “No worries.”

  He could not think of anything else to say. Stomach clenching, he drew quick and hard on his cigarette, and stared at the door to the café.

  “What did you order?” she said.

  “Uh, the full breakfast.”

  “Good choice. You’ll love it. The chef makes the baked beans herself, can you believe it? She thinks canned beans taste like shit. You moved here with family?”

  “Nah. By myself. To be honest, I’ve got no family within cooee.”

  “Aw, that’s a shame. You know many people around here?”

  He glanced up. Donna was looking at him with her head tipped to one side, as if considering…no, as if weighing him up. He sat straighter and pulled in his gut.

  “I don’t know a soul,” he said, “apart from you.”

  She took a few strands of her long hair between her fingers and twirled them in a repetitive, practised manner, as if from habit. For some reason, the sight of it sent a flush of blood into John’s cock. He could see her kneeling on a bed, in bra and panties, head tipped on one side as it was now, and twirling her hair just like that. He stared into her grey eyes for a few seconds too long. She stared back. A fluttering sensation passed through his solar plexus and into his groin.

  “Why don’t you drop over to my place tonight after tea?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure, why not? Bring some booze. We’ll make a few house-warming toasts.”

  He took a punt. “Won’t your husband mind?”

  The sly cast to her grin indicated that she knew damn well he was fishing and didn’t mind. “I’m divorced, actually.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  �
��Don’t be. He was a right prick.”

  John laughed. “What time then?”

  “Let’s say…eight o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  The café door opened and the stout blonde waitress came out with John’s coffee. As she placed it in front of him, she said to Donna, “What about your tables?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming now.”

  Donna smiled at him, her grey eyes crinkling at the corners, and followed the stout waitress inside the café. John watched her every step.

  He couldn’t decide what to wear. Jeans, naturally, but what else? The wardrobe contained half a dozen shirts and t-shirts, all of them crap. When had he last gone clothes shopping? Two years ago? With increasing agitation, he slid the hangers back and forth along the rail, scrutinising the crumpled items with their baggy, scalloped necklines or curling lapels…no, no, no… Okay, what about this one?

  The beige shirt looked the newest, simply because it was long-sleeved and he hardly wore it, preferring short sleeves. Good enough. A quick check of his watch: 7.41 p.m. Shit. He wrenched the shirt off the hanger and hurried to the laundry.

  The iron had rust stains on its plate, which he scrubbed off with a bristle brush. He had been extremely careful all day with his drinking, pacing himself. The last thing he wanted was to show up hammered.

  As he pressed the shirt, he heard footsteps behind him, and braced. He turned a little, so he could watch her in his peripheral vision.

  “What are you doing?” Meredith said.

  “What does it look like?”

  She edged into the room. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  He glanced at her leggings: shabby. Since Meredith never left the house—at least, not in the daytime—he had to buy clothes for her. Every once in a long while, he’d visit Target for a bunch of tops, tracksuit pants, dresses, underwear, but everything had to be patterned or she wouldn’t wear it. Perhaps block colours brought back memories of the years she had spent caged inside various wards. She never tried to coordinate the patterns so her tops and bottoms always clashed: stripes with polka dots, checks with paisley, differing floral prints.