Aunt Tabitha’s suicide note was clear. Before the police, her niece must call a man called Ernest Doran. Presumably, he would know what to do.
*
Aunt Tabitha had told her to call round, that afternoon, at 4 pm. ‘Just come in,’ she told her. ‘I’ll probably be having a nap, dear.’ But as soon as Nessa laid eyes on her, she knew something was off. Her aunt was too still. Then she took it in all at once. The syringe in Tabitha’s hand, the carefully arranged violets threaded through her hair, the legal documents beside her on the bed. No one knew that she had been planning this for ages and that, when it became legal, she visited her doctor and made the arrangements without fuss.
Nessa stood there shaking. Tears formed rivulets through her caked-on foundation. Her plastic bangles clanked together as she blew her nose. She covered her mouth, holding in grief and shock. Nessa didn’t know what to do, despite her aunt’s explicit instructions. Because, most confounding of all, there was a fresh, crusty ciabatta sitting on Tabitha’s chest. On top of it was the note about Ernest Doran.
Forgive me, Nessa. It was simply time. Believe me, I was content. But now I must finally pay for my sins and be on my way. Don’t throw away the bread. IT’S IMPORTANT
*
What sins? As far as Nessa knew, her aunt had lived a quiet life, most of it in a comfortable flat in the suburbs. Tabitha had aloe plants and cacti by the front door. Inside there were playful cat figurines, a frayed but cosy patchwork blanket thrown over the couch, and an orderly stack of books beside a cheap reproduction of an Art Deco flapper girl, draped with beaded necklaces.
Nessa backed out of her aunt’s room and shut the door quietly, as though not wanting to wake her. In the lounge room, Nessa sniffed, took a couple of big breaths and called the number.
‘Mr Doran? My name’s Nessa, I’m Tabitha’s niece. Tabitha McIntyre… she…’.
‘Is Tabitha dead?’
‘Dead’ was a blow to the back of her knees that made her sink onto the couch. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
The man hung up. She didn’t know what to do in the meantime, so she just sat there. She could not get the smell of warm, fresh bread out of her nostrils, no matter how hard she blew her nose. That it made her tummy rumble was just awful. What on earth, Aunt Tabitha?
*
When the doorbell rang, Nessa jumped, startled. She should have called the police, or an ambulance. That would have been the sensible thing to do. She brushed the hair back from her sweaty scalp and straightened her dress before she opened the door.
A tall, lithe man stood before her, smartly dressed in a charcoal suit, a dash of red handkerchief stiff in the front pocket. ‘I’m Ernest Doran. I’m sorry for your loss.’ He took Nessa’s hand and brought it near his mouth as though to kiss it. But he only covered it with his other hand and then looked up into her eyes.
She realised she’d been holding her breath. Nessa could only nod, dumbstruck.
‘Is there … did she leave the bread?’
‘You know about the bread? Yes! What’s this about? Who are you? I should have called the police …’ something was frightening about his dark irises. His stare hollowed her out and scraped her clean. He had a vaguely Eastern European accent but an English name. He was almost as still as Aunt Tabitha.
She took out her mobile, but he grasped her elbow, lightly, gently, but enough to stop her.
‘Do wait. It will only take five minutes. I promise you. It’s what she wanted.’
‘You knew her then?’ Nessa withdrew her elbow and tucked her whole arm behind her back.
The smile softened his face for a moment. ‘Yes. We spoke many times, at length. She confessed a great number of things.’
Curious, Nessa waited for him to go on, but he just stood quietly, hands clasped in front of him.
‘Can I see her now?’
Nessa reached up to fiddle with an earring, making her bangles clatter down her arm. She twisted her mouth.
‘Five minutes,’ he said, ‘then you can call the police.’
Nessa drew herself up. ‘Wait. I want more information. When did you meet my aunt? What did you talk about? Why the heck is there a ciabatta just sitting there, in the middle of her chest?’
‘A ciabatta?’ He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. ‘Of course. She would never have left a simple slice of white bread.’ He shook his head a little, at the folly of a ciabatta.
Nessa folded her arms and glared. This was all becoming rather too much.
‘Nessa my dear, we don’t have much time. My colleagues and I are in a special line of business. Your aunt looked us up, paid the required fee, knew exactly what the whole process entailed and proceeded with a booking. I would now like to carry out my duties.’
‘But what are your duties?’
He narrowed his eyes at her as though he were the one who had reason to be suspicious. ‘You really have no idea?’
‘None!’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘I am a sin eater. I am here to eat the bread your aunt left for me. It has soaked up all of her life’s sins and I am here to consume them, ingest them, and by doing so, liberate her soul so that it may soar straight onto the next world, unencumbered.’ He smiled benignly.
A silence swayed unsteadily between them.
In a small voice, Nessa could only squeak, ‘But she wasn’t even religious.’
‘And yet, this was her wish. Now, if I may see her …?’
Nessa felt bound to show him through. If it was her aunt’s desire, then who was she to stop him? But what sins? What on earth had she done to warrant this treatment? It’s true that Nessa hadn’t known Tabitha very long, had only met her five years ago, when Tabitha’s sister, Nessa’s mother, had died. She came to the funeral and hugged Nessa tight, as though she’d raised and coddled her since childhood. As far as she knew, her mother and Aunt Tabitha had not been in contact for decades. But when Tabitha had extended a hand in friendship, Nessa had gladly accepted and they saw each other often. She had become quite fond of her aunt.
She pushed open the door to Tabitha’s bedroom. When Nessa saw her again, supine, frail and sunken in, she burst into tears anew. Ernest moved past her and stood over her aunt. His broad silhouette did not flinch in the face of death. How many corpses had he seen? How many sins could a man consume?
Nessa moved around to the end of the bed. She hiccupped as the man reached out and gently took the bread. He narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Tabitha’s face. He whispered something but Nessa, leaning forward, did not catch a word. Maybe it was foreign?
He held the bread to his chest a moment, closed his eyes and breathed in hard and sharp through his nose. Then he opened his eyes, tucked in his chin and gazed into the middle distance. Without looking at it, he tore the bread in half and brought it to his lips. As he bit into the crunchy loaf, crumbs showered over Tabitha. Nessa could hear the man’s steady chewing, a quiet whistle as he inhaled through his nose. Her eyes were wide and transfixed by the rhythmic working of his jaw. She thought she glimpsed a shadow of a smile, a hint of pleasure from eating sin.
It took a couple of minutes for Ernest to work through the ciabatta. When he was finished, he paused for a moment, looking down at Tabitha. With a single finger, he brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and smiled. ‘As promised, my dear.’
‘Ok, that’s enough Mr Doran. It’s time for you to go. You’ve eaten her… the... sins, your bread, or whatever, and now I’d like you to leave.’
His glance held contempt, pity. ‘I need your signature, to confirm that I’ve eaten the bread.’ He held out a plain A4 paper with printed text that Nessa did not even glance at. Her hand shook so badly that her name was illegible.
*
He didn’t say another word but turned on his heel and left. She heard the front door close and footsteps moving away from the house. Suddenly her shoulders sagged and she realised how tense and wrought she’d been in Mr Doran’s presence.
She looked down at her aunt, brushed the crumbs to the floor and fingered one of the theatrically placed violets tucked into her hair. She bent down to kiss her forehead but squeezed her eyes shut and recoiled at the touch of Tabitha’s icy cold waxy skin. Nessa stood back and rubbed her arms, trying to warm her soul as well as her body.
She wondered about the sins of her aunt as she turned to call the police.
Tina Morganella is a freelance copy editor and writer. Her short fiction, personal essays and travel literature have appeared STORGY Magazine (UK), Entropy (US), Sudo (Australia), Litro (UK/US), Fly on the Wall Press (UK), Crannog (Ireland) and the 2021 Newcastle Short Story Award Anthology (Australia), amongst others, and her work was long listed for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize in 2022. Tina also has nonfiction work published in the Australian press (The Big Issue, The Australian, The Adelaide Advertiser).