Contrition

By Deborah Sheldon

In her late teens, Meredith Berg-Olsen had 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.John Penrose has two secrets. One is the flatmate he keeps hidden from the world: his high-school sweetheart, Meredith. His other secret is the reason he feels compelled to look after her.Contrition is a horror story with noir undertones and an atmosphere of mounting dread.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IFWG Publishing International
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781925759723

Deborah Sheldon

Deborah lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her works include short stories, novellas and novels across the darker spectrum. Her credits also include TV scripts, stage plays, magazine articles, and award-winning medical writing.

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Deborah Sheldon is a professional writer from Melbourne, Australia. Her latest releases, through several publishing houses, include the noir-horror novel Contrition, the dark fantasy and horror collection Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories (winner of the Australian Shadows Award Best Collected Work 2017), the dark literary collection 300 Degree Days and Other Stories, the bio-horror novella Thylacines, and the monster-horror novel Devil Dragon. Her short fiction has appeared in many well-respected magazines such as Quadrant, Island, Aurealis, SQ Mag, and Midnight Echo. Her work has been shortlisted for numerous Aurealis Awards and Australian Shadows Awards, long-listed for a Bram Stoker Award, and included in best of anthologies. Other credits include TV scripts, feature articles, non-fiction books, stage plays, and award-winning medical writing.

Visit Deb at http://deborahsheldon.wordpress.com

Other IFWG Titles by Deborah Sheldon

Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories

Dark Waters / Ronnie and Rita (two novellas)

Contrition

By Deborah Sheldon

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the publisher.

Contrition

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1-925759-74-7

Copyright ©2018 Deborah Sheldon

V1.0

This ebook may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Printed in Palatino Linotype and Optima typefaces.

IFWG Publishing International

Melbourne

www.ifwgaustralia.com

For Allen and Harry

1

John Penrose got out of his car. The real estate agent, parked directly ahead, did not emerge. After a few moments, John walked up to the agent’s Volkswagen Golf and stared through the windscreen. The little prick was lazing in the driver’s seat, yapping on a mobile, in no hurry. John felt the familiar sting of humiliation. Like all real estate agents, this one did not give a shit because John wanted to rent instead of buy.

The winter breeze carried a chill. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and gazed about. The residential street had alternating eucalypts and bottle-brushes spaced along the nature strips. The houses looked rundown, each with a concrete driveway and flat-roof carport. It was a familiar scene. This suburb, some twenty-five kilometres east of Melbourne city, was blue-collar and falling into disrepair. And John should know, having rented around here for years.

He contemplated another cigarette. The agent was still on the phone. Why hadn’t the little prick revealed the property’s street number so that John could appraise it from the outside? Could it be the rendered house? The clinker-brick shithole with the palm tree out front? John resisted the urge to knock on the car window. Instead, he bit his lip and waited.

A dog barked. Traffic murmured in the distance. Magpies warbled.

The area seemed quiet.

John’s current home was next to a shopping precinct, which meant that it suffered from through-traffic at all hours. Meredith hated the hitching and whining noises that vehicles made while negotiating the speed humps. How many times had she raised a slat of the venetian blinds to glare at and curse the offending cars? When John was home from the factory, slumped in front of the TV, was it a dozen times a day? More than that? Arsehole, she would hiss at the window. You inconsiderate arsehole. Mostly, John tried not to care. He would drink his beers, steadily, one after the other, and ignore her. Once in a while, however, there was a program that interested him. Then he would tell her to ease up, that he was trying to hear the show. To hell with you, she would reply, turning her empty gaze upon him, her lifeless doll’s eyes that made his flesh creep.

Yet she was not always like that.

Occasionally, she managed to bring herself back into the world, like a picture coming into focus. The saucy tilt of her chin, a slow chuckle, the way she tucked her hair behind one ear, these flashes of old and familiar gestures reminded him of days long past, when he had loved her and, more importantly, when she had loved him. It almost hurt. Then Meredith would submerge again, lost and bewildered.

John exhaled, concentrated on his assessment of the street. No speed humps. The nearest shop was at least a five-minute drive away. Maybe this rental property would be the right one. He had already viewed two others this morning. Both had been wrong for Meredith. He had known that as soon as he had walked in; as soon as he had seen that the bedrooms in each house shared a common wall. She could not abide a common wall.

Mr Penrose?

John turned. The agent stood on the footpath, grinning in a way that seemed disdainful rather than friendly. The feeling is mutual, kid. John bristled at the shiny suit and open-collared shirt, gelled hair and gauge earrings, clipped moustache and goatee, the snotty attitude. You’re so young and stupid, John thought. Just wait until life starts kicking you around. But John needed a place to rent, and he needed to sign a lease today. No matter what, he must hold his tongue and smile, smile, smile.

Mr Penrose, are you ready to see the property?

Smiling, John nodded.

The little prick strutted across the road towards a cracked driveway. John followed. The weatherboard miner’s cottage looked battered; hunkered into the ground. The gabled roof was tin. Two narrow windows flanked the door. The yard was hard-packed earth, a smattering of tall fescue and yellow dandelions.

Unexpectedly, nostalgia for the small Tasmanian town of Devonport squeezed at John’s throat. Every house along his street had resembled this hovel in one way or another. He had lived in a cabin at a caravan park that overlooked Bass Strait, and had stayed there for six years, the longest he had ever resided at the same address. He could almost hear again the horn-blare of ships leaving the harbour. The ships had woken him once or twice every night as they had steamed towards the mainland, always saving him from bad dreams. No; from the same bad dream. Sometimes, he wished he were back there, sitting in a canvas deckchair on his porch, surveying the docks far below and the shimmering line where the sky met the sea, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, alone and lonely, but safe. Safe from—

Mr Penrose?

John rubbed at a temple. I’m sorry, what did you say?

That it’s not an authentic miner’s cottage. It was built in the seventies, I believe, originally as a two-bedroom property. The little prick approached the front door. Back in the nineties, a previous owner added an extension; an extra bedroom with an en suite and separate exit. The owner-occupier used the extension to accommodate a boarder. Impressions?

I don’t know yet. Let me inside.

The little prick turned the key and entered. The cottage exhaled a stale breath of dust, mildew, and neglect. The light was dim. John crossed the threshold and hesitated, waiting for his sight to adjust to the gloom. A hall lay directly ahead.

Lounge is first left. Naturally, in this price range, there’s no air conditioning.

Naturally, John said, feeling the sting of humiliation again.

He trailed behind the little prick.

Master bedroom, first right. Next left, bathroom, then kitchen. Yes, it’s cramped, hardly any bench space. Put a chopping board over the sink: problem solved. Behind the kitchen, a separate laundry. The little prick gestured across the hall. You’ve got a second bedroom over there.

Yes, that would be perfect for Meredith’s hobby room, John thought. So far, in the dozen or so rental properties they had shared, she had never allowed him inside her hobby room. Not once. But, of course, he had gone inside, in every house and on many occasions, usually at night when she was asleep or out roaming. Curiosity can only be denied for so long. And besides, he had a right to know. He was paying the bills, wasn’t he?

Next, they came to the closed door at the end of the hall.

Here we have the extension. The little prick grabbed the handle and pushed.

John gave a small gasp. In contrast to the rest of the cottage, natural light flooded the room. A floor-to-ceiling window had a glass door to the back yard. John’s heart galloped. I could come and go as I please. He peeped around the half-wall at the tiny en suite.

This is fine, he said. What about the back yard?

Through the window lay a jumble of soil and weeds, a high timber fence greying and cracked with age.

The little prick sighed. Yes, it’s a bit of disaster.

They went out through the glass door. The extension turned out to be nothing but a skillion tacked on to the rear of the single-gabled cottage. Whoever had done the extension had botched the job, but John could not have cared less. As he tramped the yard, the earth gave beneath his boots, suggesting that it did not have too much clay in it. There were no trees in the yard either and no overhanging boughs from surrounding properties, which meant the grounds would enjoy full sun. John experienced a hiccup of excitement.

This would be perfect for a vegie patch, he said.

A vegie patch? Seriously? You’re into that kind of thing?

You bet. Nothing tastes better than food you grow yourself.

Well, the little prick said, with a polite laugh. I’ll take your word for it.

John looked straight up, a hand shielding his eyes. The clouds had cleared. The sun beat weakly on his face. This is the one, he said.

Are you sure? We’ve still got the two-storey unit.

Sign me up for this place. When can I move in?

Oh, Mr Penrose, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll present your application to the owners. That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.

No, it isn’t. You can make the choice for them if you want.

True, but only when one applicant is clearly better than the others.

The others? Jeez, as if this dump was in demand. John wanted to laugh.

Instead, giving his rehearsed and pleasant smile, he said, Let the owner know I want to value-add to the property by improving the garden. Free of charge. Not just the vegie patch, mind you, but garden beds, here along the fence.

The little prick did not answer. John concentrated on the clucking of an unseen wattlebird and tried to hold his growing impatience in check. Smile, smile, smile… He could feel his fingers tingling. Soon they would start to tremble. He needed a drink.

The little prick said, Sorry, but I’m still a touch bothered, to be honest.

And I’m bothered by your fucking stupid earrings, John thought, but do you hear me bitching? I’ve got full-time employment, he said, a good rental history, good credit. I’m not a risk.

On paper, yes, but I’ve been in the business for three years now.

Wow, three years… John smiled and said, Meaning?

Meaning I don’t understand why a single man who lives alone would want a three-bedroom place, especially one with two bathrooms. Apart from the extra expense, there’s the extra cleaning to take into consideration.

John lit a cigarette. Shit, his fingers were trembling. I told you why already.

"And Mr Penrose, I told you already, our agency doesn’t allow sub-letting. I want to make that point very clear."

I’m not sub-letting. How many times do you need me to say it?

The little prick made an exaggerated show of looking at his watch.

Okay, I’ll tell you the whole story, even though it’s none of your business, John said, and blew a twin stream of cigarette smoke through his nostrils. A young bloke like you wouldn’t get it, and that’s fine, you’re at a different stage of life than me. But I’m nearly fifty. I’ve got a couple of grown kids, one of them married with a baby. They visit me from time to time. And when they do, I want to offer them more than just a blow-up mattress on the floor.

The little prick blushed. Yes, those air beds can be uncom­fortable.

The extension is for my family. I won’t have to clean it that often because most of the time it won’t be used. Okay? There’s the answer to your question about housekeeping. Not an issue.

Right, yes, I see.

I’ll sleep in the main bedroom and use the second bedroom as my study. I’m doing a part-time university course. Shutting a door behind me once I’ve done my homework helps to clear the mind, right?

Don’t oversell it.

John dangled the cigarette from his lips and tried to look honest by widening his eyes. Meanwhile, his hands, stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, were clenched and sweating. Of course, he didn’t actually have any children. In fact, he didn’t have any family at all, not even a second cousin as far as he knew. He wasn’t enrolled in any university course either, because he had dropped out of high school before the Year Twelve exams. But this tale had allayed the suspicions of every real estate agent he had encountered since living with Meredith. There was no reason why this agent would react any differently.

Mr Penrose, the little prick said, I apologise for casting aspersions.

That’s okay. No offence. I understand you have a job to do.

Every day, we deal with terrible renters.

I’ll bet.

Just last week, we sprang a couple that had sub-let their second bedroom, lounge and garage to three different families. Can you believe it?

Three families? John tossed his cigarette butt. Despicable.

Two people on the lease, but eighteen people living in the place. My God, you should have seen the state of it. Now the owner has to replace the carpet, the tiles, repaint the walls… He wrinkled his nose. Oh, the stories I could tell. Some would make you sick to your stomach. My duty is first and foremost to the property owner.

Yep, makes sense.

The little prick wandered towards the fence and gestured vaguely at the dirt. So, you’d put garden beds here?

That’s right. John walked over. All the way along the boundary: raised garden beds, using sleepers. I’d put in clematis and foxglove in this section, maybe a few roses over there. A bit of Mexican sage and Snow White never goes astray.

The little prick laughed. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.

Check out the place in a few months. You’ll see what I’m talking about.

A keen gardener, hey?

Very keen.

The little prick held out his hand. John took it. The relief lifted a heavy stone from his guts, and almost stopped his fingers from trembling. Almost.

So, we’re good? John said.

As gold. Is a twelve-month lease all right? He dropped his hand and started towards the glass door of the extension. Let’s finalise things at the office.

No worries.

They walked through the cottage without speaking.

Back in his car, John watched the little prick’s Volkswagen Golf zoom off down the street. John turned the ignition key and glanced at the miner’s cottage. It struck him, again, with powerful memories of Devonport. Every time the deafening blat of a ship’s horn had shocked him awake, he would find that he had sweated through his sheets. Year-round, snow and ice from Antarctica, the very bottom of the world, shunted a cool wind over the isle of Tasmania, yet despite this chill, despite sleeping without blankets, John would sweat because of the dream.

Don’t think about it.

He pulled away from the kerb, the tyres of his old Ford Falcon emitting a brief squeal. The real estate agency was only a few streets away. John would finish the paperwork, return to Meredith, and tell her the good news. Hopefully, she would be happy. And hopefully, they could move within days. Meredith had so antagonised their current neighbours that John feared the police might get involved. Just the thought parched his mouth.

No, stop, it would be okay.

He and Meredith could make a new start. The miner’s cottage with its picture-perfect extension was an omen that everything would be all right from now on. The bad dreams—and maybe the bad times—could be laid to rest.

The front window of the real estate agency was covered in posters of houses for sale. Inside was an open space with desks, pot plants, and a sagging couch for clients who might have to wait. The place was deserted apart from the receptionist. She smiled at her colleague. By the time she flicked her gaze across John’s face, most of her smile had worn off. The little prick went behind a desk, waved John into the opposite seat, and began searching through a stack of papers.

John wanted a drink. Very much.

To distract himself, he watched the receptionist.

Her fingernails were incredibly long, as curved as talons, and painted red. She typed with their tips. After a while, she stopped typing and tried to pick up a pen. It was like she wore mittens. She had to clumsily roll the pen along the counter and trap the implement between her palms. Christ, she had disabled herself with those ridiculous nails. How could she manage anything at all? Trying to wipe her arse after a crap, for instance, must be fraught with danger. The thought made John snigger. The receptionist froze, glared at him.

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