The Redemption Factory (14 page)

Fuck you, Paul, you bastard …

He tried desperately to channel his thoughts positively,
that things like this could only happened to someone else, but the darkness in his brain taunted him, laughing at his naivety telling him that he
was
that someone else, and hurry, make peace with God because the inevitable was about to tumble down upon his head and shitty arse.

The man made a movement forward, and Lucky held his breath as the darkness – that lovely creature – returned, covering him with its blanket, like a protective mother at bedtime.

Momentarily, he seemed to be robbed of all breath as if under water, and felt pain beginning to swell his head. His face became redder. Any moment now and it would explode, just like his stomach had threatened, all over the place, all over Mister Killer’s shiny, something-about-you shoes.

Without warning, the rain began to drench Lucky’s face, finding tracks to his eyes, chin and mouth. It was gorgeous. He had always loved the rain. Now he worshipped it. It had come to rescue him. It would chase the killer, bring its righteous thunder and strike him with its lightning streaks of justice.

Only when it stopped, did he realise it wasn’t rain but urine from Mister Killer’s horrible hairy cock pointing straight at him. The yellow shower seemed to last forever before the sound of a zip ended it all.

Lucky’s clothing was completely soaked; his shirt, cold against his skin. In the anxious darkness, he remained motionless, watching as Mister Killer returned to his original spot, tight in the dark, just beyond the hill’s ugly facade of knotted root structures and angular, jutting rocks.

He couldn’t help it, that sound, that terribly embarrassing sound that echoed like a shot being fired in an empty room. It
was his nerves, the fart, nothing else, but he hated the sound more than he had ever hated any sound in his life.

“Who’s there?” whispered Mister Killer, instinctively dropping the unlit cigarette.

Silence in the forest but not Lucky’s head as night crows tumbled across the field, their feathers gleaming like a wave of black oil coated on the moon.
A murder of crows. Isn’t that what a family of crows are called?
He shuddered, wondering if they were an omen as blood pumped at the side of his skull, making it throb. He knew the killer could hear it, pump, pump pumping, screaming to be heard as a soft mist of whispery fog began to rise from the ground like an old horror movie, groping for places to land.

“C’mon. It’s okay. Really. We’re just having a lark,” said Mister Killer, louder this time. “We’re old friends. Just had an argument. That’s all. I’ve sent for an ambulance. He’s gonna be fine. Things just got out of hand …” He was inching his way forward, his weight barely making a sound on the carpet of wet leaves as the thumping in Lucky’s head became louder.

“Honestly, I’m not gonna hurt you. Just a little talk. Okay?”

Lucky’s chest seemed to have closed. He was finding it difficult to breathe and wondered if he was about to have a heart attack. His father had a history of heart attacks.

“Fuck! I don’t fucking believe this!” said Mister Killer. “Miles of fucking forest and I have to walk on some dirty bastard’s shit!”

Lucky’s face heated with shame at the words. He was about to be murdered and all he could think about was the embarrassment that someone had just stepped in a pile of his warm shit.

“My fucking shoes!” screamed Mister Killer, as if someone had just plunged a knife into his throat. “That was you, wasn’t it? That was why you came here. To take a shit. Wasn’t it? Your shit is still hot and soft, you fuck.” He walked forward a couple of inches. “Now that I’ve got a good sniff of you, you dirty bastard, I’m gonna be like a bloodhound on your shitty arse. You’re still there, aren’t you? I can tell. I can
smell
you. I can hear you trying to control your breathing. But that’s impossible, isn’t it? In fact, the more you think about trying to control it the more it wants to struggle. My voice is making you panic. Isn’t that right? I’m getting closer and closer …”

Nerves began to kick in as Lucky tried to forge a solid relationship with that which stood outside his own body. He felt a giggle in his stomach and knew he would start laughing like a maniac at the madness of it all. Quickly, he thought of the choices, the careful selection one needs to make, particularly when so many things happen at once, terrible and unbelievable things. He had to make a decision, and make it
now
.

“Fee fay foe fum, I smell shit from someone’s bum,” hammed Mister Killer, his voice all pantomime, inching his way forward in Lucky’s direction.

Stealthily, Lucky eased himself up from the ground.
You can do it. You can beat this bastard, this animal. Take a deep, long breath. Easy. Let it out. Easy. Control your breathing. Good. Very good. Now, get ready, slowly, don’t make a sound. Wait! Don’t panic. Easy … wait until he opens that big fucking mouth of his. Wait …

“Enough fucking about. You’re making me very –”

Run!
Run like hell!
Run like you’ve never run in your sad wretched life!

The sound startled Mister Killer, knocking him off balance, but only for a moment as he quickly ran towards the sound of bushes and leaves crackling, alerting him to every step Lucky made.

“You’ve made me angry, now!” he screamed, running directly behind Lucky. “When I get you, I’m gonna kill you.
Sloooooowwwwly!
”

The last word followed Lucky, touching his hair, the skin on the back of his neck. He was disorientated. The darkness, the bony trees all played their part to capture him as he went spilling forward, old haggled tree roots like the thick, ropy trunks of elephants tripping him, the darkness swallowing.

Lucky wanted to get up and run, but his energy was sapped. Defeated, he no longer cared. He just wanted it over with, quickly. The killer would probably slice his body up before dumping it with the one in the ground. His disappearance would remain a mystery, a topic for discussion in weeks to come.

“I know you’ve stopped running,” said Mister Killer, his voice making Lucky cringe as he rolled herself up into a ball, tight against the tree’s hollow in such a way that his body seemed to be contained almost wholly within the trunk. “That’s good. You made me angry when you ran. But that’s okay. We’ve stopped running. Right?” Mister Killer allowed his voice to cascade, listening to its echo return to him like a homing pigeon. “Look, I’m sorry I scared you – fuck, you scared me, too, hiding in the shadows.” He attempted a laugh, but it sounded rusty, disused and foreign. “I’ll make you a deal. You tell me you’re sorry for scaring the shit out of me and I’ll apologise for scaring the shit out of you.”

Lucky could smell that smell again, and refused to open his eyes. He knew Mister Killer was staring into his face, knife trapped between half-rotted teeth and fetid breath.

Withered leaves cascaded to the ground, where they spread like tiny brown birds, settling all about him, as if trying to camouflage. In the silence of the dark he heard the sound of a thousand tiny fibres breaking, as footsteps came closer.

Mister Killer manoeuvred slowly, as if listening intently to every sound oozing from the forest floor. But the only sound was of the leaves settling back into their places.

“The bastard could still be here, watching me,” muttered Mister Killer, but there was defeatism in his voice. “Wishful thinking …”

As he turned to leave, something caught his eye, something gleaming. He bent and picked it up.

He held the find closer to his face, allowing the moon to become a lamp. A smile crept across his face. “Okay, you win – for now. But you better keep running until you recognise the horrible futility that one day soon I will find you …”

For a second, Lucky wanted to let himself slip into defeated unconsciousness as he battled with a part of him that wanted to linger, differentiating between reality and almost serenely, in the past of safe childhood days; days where bogeymen and monsters did not exist. But he knew that if he were to survive this nightmare, then he would have to muster strength – strength he was not certain he possessed.

The old wood became quiet and dark, waiting for him to move. Only sporadic animal sounds – and all of the other unfamiliar noises or the even less familiar natural sounds of the forest – broke the stillness. Living things were everywhere,
but he was dead. He knew that now. It was only a matter of time …

‘I
need you to come over to my house, immediately,” said Lucky’s whispering voice on the phone.

Paul had been dreading this. Lucky would force a guilt trip on him, asking–demanding–to know why he hadn’t been about, lately.

“I’ve only just got in from work. You’ll have to wait until I –”

“No, it can’t wait, for fuck’s sake. Can’t you give me a few minutes of your precious time? I need to tell you something …” Lucky’s voice didn’t sound right.

“What’s the big mystery –?”

“I don’t want to discuss it on the phone.”

“Don’t be daft. You’re sounding like –”

The phone went dead.

For a few seconds, Paul stared at the lifeless phone in his hand, before slowly replacing it in the cradle. Had he detected uncertainty in Lucky’s voice? What had the idiot gone and done, now? The Tin Hut, no doubt. Bet he’s run up a tab under my name, the fucking wanker. Nah, Terry wouldn’t entertain that, at all. What then? Paul racked his brain, trying to think of the worse case scenario. Had Lucky burrowed money? Was that it? Did he expect Paul to pay it off?

The filthy streets with handbills fluttering loosely from crumbling walls, conveyed a strong sense of abandonment and loss. Not even a ghostly reflection of an onlooker in any of the tenement windows. Rain was falling rapidly, but with a hushed silence normally associated with snow. The evening wasn’t cold, but Paul was feeling the chill of despondency soaking through to his skin.

A few minutes of walking found him standing outside Lucky’s house. He knocked at he door but received no answer. He thought he saw a curtain move slightly at the window. He knocked again, louder this time. He checked his watch. He hoped whatever this meeting was about, wouldn’t take long.

The door opened. Lucky peeped from behind it, his eyes scanning the dimly lit street.

Unnerved by Lucky’s strange behaviour, Paul enquired, “What’s going on?” He tried desperately to sound casual.

“Slam the door behind you. Make sure it’s shut.”

“Will this mysterious meeting take long? I’ve got a lot of
practicing to do.”

“Snooker, snooker, snooker. Can’t you forget about it for one fucking minute?” Lucky walked into the kitchen. Paul reluctantly followed. Something wasn’t right in Lucky’s tone of voice, his attitude.

Paul attempted a fake smile, but it quickly melted once he had a good look at Lucky’s face. The damp interior of the kitchen did little to ease the apprehension visiting his stomach. “You look like shit. What’s wrong?”

“Here. Take a beer. You’ll need it,” advised Lucky, handing Paul a beer from the fridge. “I need something a wee bit stronger.” From the top cupboard, he removed a bottle of
Jameson
.

“Haven’t seen you drinking that stuff in a long time,” said Paul, wearily. The last time Lucky had consumed whiskey, he started murder in the Tin Hut, culmination in the barring of both he and Paul for three long months. He promised Paul that he would never touch the stuff again.

“‘Haven’t seen you drinking that stuff in a long time,’” mimicked Lucky, mockingly. “You’re beginning to sound like some old lady friend.”

Reluctantly, Paul took a sip of beer. He wanted his head to remain clear, so he rested the beer between his hands, waiting for Lucky to say or do something.

Nervously, Lucky began to massage the label on the whiskey bottle, while words began to tumble from his mouth.

“I went looking for you, Tuesday night, over at the abattoir.”

“The abattoir? Why?” Paul looked puzzled.

“Why? Because I hadn’t seen you in almost a week. That’s
fucking why. I wanted the two of us to go out for a drink. I even borrowed a few quid for the occasion.” Lucky smiled miserably and immediately Paul felt like Judas.

“I know I haven’t been about much lately, mate, but I’ve been doing a lot of overtime at the abattoir, and stuff. Don’t worry, though, I’ll make it up to you.”

Lucky sipped the whiskey. “That’s the first time you’ve ever lied to me, mate,” accused Lucky. “I guess that’s what happens when you allow a woman to wedge herself between us. How long have we been best mates? Ten, twelve years? You’re seeing a girl, and I’m cast to the side like a dead dog. That’s not right, mate. Not right at all.”

“Look, you shouldn’t be drinking that stuff. Remember the last time you –”

“Will you just shut the fuck up! For once, stop your moral slobbering and think about me for a change.” Lucky made the remaining contents of the glass disappear before refilling it.

Paul knew it wasn’t good; whatever was coming next. Had he hoped to start a fight with his best friend, just to be able to walk out of the room, not hear a thing, not get involved? A few weeks ago, that thought would have been unimaginable. But that was before he met Geordie …

“Okay. Have it your way,” replied Paul, trying desperately to sound calm. He sat back on the sofa, lit a cigarette and watched the long stream of pale liquorice smoke drift aimlessly to the ceiling.

“I went over to your work, and spotted you. I saw you coming from the entrance …” confessed Lucky.

“You saw me? Why didn’t you shout?”

“I did. You didn’t hear me – or pretended not to hear me.
You were with a girl – at least I think it was a girl!”

Paul’s heart skipped. “How long were you spying on us, in the dark?”

“Spying? Who the fuck was spying? That beer’s gone to your head. You’ve become paranoid.”

Paul envisioned Lucky hiding in the shadows, shocked at Geordie’s body, sniggering. Quickly, he tried to calm the burning blood rising dangerously towards his skull. It had been a long time since he had experienced this sensation. Usually it accompanied him into the ring, seconds before a fight, transforming him from human to animal. He had always detested the sensation but – oddly now – welcomed its return. Lucky wouldn’t know what hit him if he said the wrong thing now …

“Okay, you weren’t spying. Seems strange, coming all that way to see me, only to ignore me once you did.” Paul’s face had become tighter. His fists balled automatically. He wanted Lucky – his best friend since childhood – to say the wrong thing. He wanted to beat him to a pulp, teach him a lesson for spying on them.

Lucky tipped the neck of the whiskey bottle onto the edge of the glass, watching the amber liquid spill and fill. He stared at the glass for a long time before saying, “I was … I was fucking jealous. Okay? Happy now? I was fucking jealous of her being with you. I’m your mate. Not her.”

A calmness eased into Paul’s blood and bones and the anger was suddenly replaced with remorse. “Ah, Lucky … you’ll always be my best mate. Don’t you see? Nothing will ever change that. Just because I’m seeing a girl, doesn’t mean –”

“I saw someone murdered,” replied Lucky, so softly Paul had difficulty hearing the last word.

“What? Did you say murdered? You saw someone get their shit kicked in?”

“No, I mean murdered.
Murdered
. Dead. His throat cut … his body stabbed …”

There was silence in the room. Paul’s heart had moved up a notch.

“Were you drinking? Maybe you –”

“They fucking murdered him! Don’t you understand? I witnessed it, stone cold sober. Okay, maybe not stone cold sober, but I know what I saw.”

Paul’s lips felt dry. He licked them.

“Why wasn’t it in the papers, or on the TV? Surely it would have been on the –”

“They buried him, out at Warriors Field. That’s fucking why.”

“
Buried?
You saw them bury him? Are you sure?”

“No, I ran as fast as my fucking legs could carry me. I was alone … terrified. I only wanted to save myself. I just wanted to run and run and run. But they were talking about getting shovels …”

“They?”

“There were a couple of them. Maybe more. I can’t be certain.”

Paul tried to think.

“Look, okay, let’s say you were right. But there’s nothing you – we – can do. We can’t get involved. If you go to the cops, you’re dead. You know that, don’t you?”

“The killer knows someone saw him kill …” whispered
Lucky.

“What? What do you mean? You said you ran away.”

“I did fucking run, you wanker, but I slipped, right on my shitty fucking arse. I couldn’t do anything else but hide. He kept getting closer, calling out to me –”

“Tell me you’re winding me –”

“– telling me that every little thing was gonna be okay. Just come out. We were only having a bit of a lark …”

A bone popped in Paul’s neck. It was loud in the room’s quietness. “He didn’t see you, did he? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here now. All you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

“I know who did it …”

“What?”

“I know who did the murder.”

Paul licked his dry lips, again. They felt like sandpaper.

“Don’t tell me his name. I don’t want to know. Anyway, you can’t be certain of –”

“Kojak.”

“What?”

“You know, that bald-headed cop from the old TV shows? Sucks on a lollipop? Massive baldy head? Isn’t that how you described him? We couldn’t remember his fucking name. Remember? Well, old Kojak made my shit come out quicker than a greyhound with six legs.”

“You’re saying it was Shank? Even as a joke, that’s dangerous.”

“It’s no joke. I know who I saw.”

Paul shook his head. “It was dark. You can’t be one hundred per cent sure.”

“Dark? Yea, but I was so close to the bastard I could almost reach and touch him. Do you want me to describe his cock? I got a good eyeful of that horrible beast – excuse the pun – while he pissed on top of me. The next time you see him, ask him if he is circumcised. That’s how sure I am.”

Something cold and slimy had found its way into Paul’s body, housing itself inside his stomach’s lining. He was fearful of moving, as if any sudden movement would alert it. The blood seemed to have siphoned from his head into his feet.

“What the fuck have you done, Lucky? Do you realise the shit you’re in?”

Lucky remained silent. No smart remarks. No excuses. His face remained expressionless as a marble statue. Only the flush of whisky made his skin seem real.

“How many people have you told this to? The truth,” continued Paul, nervously, steeling himself for the answer.

“I’m not that stupid. You’re the first. I haven’t breathed a word to a soul. Why would I? I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep hearing the poor bastard’s screams. Horrible. Even more horrible? I keep hearing that bastard Shank’s whispering voice …”

“You’re dead. Know that? If word reaches Shank that you know – think – he is somehow implicated in a murder, you’re dead.”

“Go on. Keep saying dead. It’s almost as if you want me to be fucking dead. If I hadn’t went searching for you that fucking night –”

“Don’t. Understand? Don’t try and lumber me with the guilt trip. It’s your moronic actions that got you into all this shit. Do you even realise the danger you’ve placed yourself in?
I’ve seen Shank, up close and fucking personnel, and believe me, he is not a pretty picture at the best of times.”

“So have fucking I,” said Lucky, flippantly. “In the fucking woods. Any other wise words of encouragement?”

Paul realised that panicking Lucky would only add fuel to the uncertain fire. “Look, we don’t even know if this is true. There’s a possibility that you were mistaken, that you thought it was Shank because of his reputation. It happened at night. Right? Surely the darkness would have been an obstacle? Your eyes could’ve been playing tricks, couldn’t they? And why has no one even spoken of it? Not even a whisper?”

Lucky allowed Paul to exhaust all possible theories, before talking. “I know you’re doing this to reassure me, mate, and I honestly do appreciate it. I’m sorry for what I said earlier, about you not showing up and all that shit. That was a load of nonsense. But you’re only clutching at straws. Do you want to hear something else, something so funny you’ll piss yourself laughing?”

No, he didn’t. He wanted to be in the Tin Hut, having a laugh, playing snooker. He wanted to be a million miles away; away from Lucky.

“I lost my gold chain; my
good luck
charm …”

The muscles in Paul’s face loosened. “The one with Lucky engraved on it?”

Lucky nodded reluctantly. “Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour?”

“Oh fuck … where? Don’t tell me you lost it in the forest?”

“Okay, I won’t tell you I lost it in the forest.”

“Stop fucking about.”

“It must have come off in the panic, while I ran. It was
only when I got home, I realized it was missing.”

Paul reached for the beer. He drank it quickly, feeling the rush hit his neck, scorch his throat. He coughed then spluttered, forcing some of the beer’s remnants through his nose. “Shit …”

“Are you okay, mate?” asked Lucky. “Take another sip, easier this time. It’ll help stop –”

“You’re not telling me the whole story about the gold chain. Are you? There’s little point in holding back, now. You’ve practically told me you saw Shank murder some poor fucker in the woods. I don’t think anything else will come close to that bit of information. Will it?”

Lucky coughed, clearing his throat. He glanced at the remaining segment of whiskey in the bottle.

“I … I think Shank picked it up … I’m not a hundred percent certain, but …”

Bubbles of anxiety burned in Paul’s stomachs, like an over-strengthen laxative. He wanted to run to the toilet.

“Picked it up …?”

“It’s like a flashback. I can’t be certain, just flashbacks of Shank holding it to his grinning, rubbery face.”

“That’s
enough
,” hissed Paul. “I don’t want to hear any more of your story. I don’t want to hear his name being mentioned, ever again.” For a moment, Paul thought that Lucky was ready to cry. Shit, he felt like crying himself. But what good would it do?