The Redemption Factory (16 page)

F
OR THREE FULL
days, Lucky had stuck to the plan of staying with a cousin, staying out of sight. As soon as Paul heard anything, Lucky would be informed.

“Just keep your head low for a while, mate” said Paul. “As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Probably tomorrow, at the latest …”

But tomorrow didn’t come. The three days – caged up in the attic of his cousin’s house – had done his head in. He had to get out, get the air about him. He had to find Paul …

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. To Lucky, the streets were as depressing as his cousin’s claustrophobic attic. The day wasn’t cold, but he was freezing. He quickened his pace and pulled up the collar of his coat …

The Tin Hut has seemed the most obvious of starting points. In fact, it was probably the only safe place he could venture near.

“You haven’t seen Paul about, Terry?” asked Lucky, nervously, stepping inside. He knew Terry hated him, thought him lower than scum. He had never said or done a thing against the man, but you’d have to be a fool not to notice the distain.

Terry wiped at a glass before placing it with a family of others. “No, I haven’t,” he growled. “Looks like he finally took my advice and got rid of you, you pissy whoring waster.”

A few sniggers could be heard from the card players in the far corner. “Nice one, Terry,” one of them shouted.

“If … if you see him, will you tell him I was looking for him?” said Lucky, walking away, not waiting for Terry’s response.

“No I won’t,” shouted Terry. “He’s better off without scum like you clinging to his arse.”

Outside the Tin Hut, rain was falling rapidly, but with a hushed silence normally associated with snow. Despondency had seeped into Lucky. He scarcely felt the rain soaking through his clothes, making his shoes squeak like sponge.

He debated whether or not to return to his cousin’s. Paul
could be over there now, searching for him, some great news to lift his spirits. Paul wouldn’t let him down; no matter what that pig Terry Browne oinked. Fuck him. What would he know? Lucky couldn’t wait to see all their faces when he and Paul walked in to the Tin Hut, cues at the ready. Fuck, that would show them, the bunch of –

“I said good evening, Mister Short.”

Lucky stopped in his tracks. The rain was more forceful now, soaking his face, stinging his eyes. He could barely see or make out the man standing before him, but something in his gut warned him to be wary.

“You’ve the wrong man, I’m afraid. He’s in the Tin Hut playing snooker as we speak. A lot of people mistake me for him.” A weird, plastic grin appeared on Lucky’s face.

“Oh? Perhaps you’re right,” said the man. “You see, I only wanted to return this to him, hoping this wasn’t a wasted journey.” The man opened the meat of his massive palm, revealing a gold bracelet.
“There’s only one Lucky
, it says on it. Your nickname name isn’t Lucky, either?”

Lucky swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple stuck out like a robin’s egg. He tried to swallow again, but couldn’t. He shook his head.

“Pity. A wasted journey.” The man shook his head, also, and then smiled. “Tell you what. Could you do a favour for me? It would save me a lot of time and bother.”

“I … I really have to get going. It’s my mother, you see. I was only out to get her some medicine. She has these terrible pains. And –”

“Won’t take a minute of your time. Promise. You know what he looks like. You can give him this for me. Tell him an
old friend found it for him, keeping it warm, like.” The man dangled the bracelet a few inches from Lucky’s face, slowly swinging it like a hypnotist.

“Can’t … can’t you just … just go in there, yourself? Ask … ask anyone. They’ll point me … they’ll point him out to you …” Lucky’s teeth began to chatter.

The man shook his head. “Against my religion, gambling dens. Know what I mean? I would go straight to hell if one of my dainty little toes touched the threshold of that terrible place. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t want me to go to hell, would you?”

“No … no, of course not, but I really must be getting back to –”

The man’s quick movement startled and mesmerized Lucky.

“This shouldn’t take more that two minutes,” said the man, calmly cocking an enormous looking revolver at Lucky. The gun made the sound of a knuckle being cracked. “Don’t do any funny stuff and we’ll all be away out of here before you can say Humpty Dumpty crapped on a wall.”

“What … what’s this all about? Who … who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I had already introduced myself. My manners have become atrocious, lately.” The man smiled stiffly, and magically the words you are lying appeared on his gums.

Oh fuck
…

“People call me Taps. Heard of me?”

A sound came from Lucky’s arse. “I’ve … I’ve sort of heard of you. But what … what do you want me for?” Lucky tried desperately to control his breathing. He wondered if he
was to be shot here, outside the Tin Hut, in broad daylight? He farted, again, twice.

“Mister Shank is having a wee get-together. A party, you could say. He’s invited you.”

“Really? That’s very nice of him, and I really would love to go, but as you can see I’m not suitably attired for a party. I’m soaked to the skin, actually, and really need to go home and change. Please give Mister Shank my –”

“You don’t need to be dressed for this kind of party, Mister Short. The car is parked on the other side of the street. You’ll be there in a jiffy. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Mister Shank. Would we?”

But the nerves in Lucky took over. He had flashes into the future of straddling a wheel chair for the rest of his life, pushed by reluctant friends and disapproving relatives. Last week, before all this madness began, was probably his chance to have danced in the
Boom Boom Rooms
. God, how he loved his dancing. Then the terrible thought entered his head: murdered? What if –

But his thoughts were interrupted when Taps touched him on the shoulder and the entire scene became surrealistic as Lucky Feet-On-Fire Short started doing his best Fred Astaire. Not your normal by-the-book dance, but a this-is-the-last-fucking-dance-I’ll-have-in-my-entire-fucking-life dance.

And away he went, up and down the street, his nerves possessing his feet, his mouth denying them. “I can’t fucking help it! I swear to God and my dead Aunt Kate, It’s the fucking feet! They’ve taking control!”

Taps stood there, watching, gun by his side, mesmerised by the madness of it all.

Not too far away, in the next street, an ambulance had arrived for Mrs Harrison, an elderly lady prone to weekend heart attacks. Good food was allegedly served in the hospital at weekends, along with the viewing of a nice colour TV set, and this always caused cynics in the street to say Mrs Harrison was more interested in apple tart instead of a damaged heart.

“Mister Short? I’m warning you now. Stop the fucking about. Stand still!”

But this threat hyped Lucky’s nerves even further, sending him scurrying down the street, faster than his legs could carry, kicking them high in the air.

That was when his luck ran out, smashing straight into the ambulance carrying Mrs Harrison.

“He’s going to kill me! Help me, for God’s sake!” he screamed at the bewildered ambulance crew as they tried to calm him before placing him next to Mrs Harrison.

“I know you, don’t I?” said Mrs Harrison, tubes dangling from her nose. “You’re the Short’s boy, the one who keeps everyone awake at night with all that silly dancing. Aren’t you?”

Lucky didn’t answer. He was breathless. He wanted to remove the tubes from the nosey old bastard and ram them up her –

“It is you, isn’t it?” persisted the now not-so-sick Mrs Harrison, removing the tubes from her nose to get a better view. “You mark my words, boy. One of these days, that stupid dancing is going to get you into a lot of trouble. Stop it while you can …”

To Lucky’s relief, the ambulance started its engine. He would wait until it was a few streets away, before jumping out.
He’d have to warn Paul. What if they already had him? What if Paul was already dead, chopped up and buried in some dark and lonely place, over beside the abattoir, in the shitty forest?

Lucky wanted to weep. It was his entire fault. What an idiot he had been. Why hadn’t he listened to Paul, remained hidden in the attic? Why had he ever taken a shit in the woods?

His thoughts were interrupted when the ambulance stopped abruptly for a second time, and Mrs Harrison began to complain that she would miss her dinner tonight if they kept on stopping.

“Hello, Mister Short,” said Taps, grinning at the door of the ambulance. “That was very naughty of you …”

P
AUL’S EYES RESTED
on the severed pig’s head. It looked surrealistic, more so now than that first day he had entered Shank’s office. The pig’s smile seemed terribly real, as if it was having the last laugh at his expense. Real and terrible …

The unexpected call to Shank’s office, just as Paul readied himself to go home after his shift, threw him into a state of uncertainty. A part of him had the feeling that this call wasn’t in regards to anything negative, but it was so unexpected that he felt that something unpleasant was quietly waiting to
happen. He had no other option other than to ride the storm. That was three hours ago …

He now sat in one of the chairs in the room, his hands and ankles fettered rope.

Directly behind Paul, stood Taps, unmoving, speaking not a word. Geordie sat opposite, watched by Violet, her glaring eyes drilling into the back of her sister’s skull.

Shank had just finished his tea, and a tiny mist of grey filtered from the remaining tepid liquid in the cup. A scene entered Paul’s head. It was the Mad Hatter’s tea party. He thought he heard the Cheshire Cat whisper: we’re all fucking mad here, you know …

“Mister Goodman, in life there are always two paths. One easy; one hard. A stupid person will always take the hard path, making it difficult to find the way home. The smart person always locates the correct destination. You belong to this family, and I would certainly feel proud to have you as a son-in-law. I can see you running this place – or, at least, a significant part of it. You are someone to lead the workers to their potential. All I ask from you is a small piece of information. I’m sure you wish no pain on any of us because I know this has all been a mistake,” said Shank, leaning back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his massive baldhead. “One who makes no mistakes makes nothing, Mister Goodman. There is nothing to be ashamed about making mistakes. We all do it.”

Where is your friend, Mister Short?”

Paul swallowed the spittle resting in his throat. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in ages, since I started working in –”

Shank closed his eyes. It was a sign for Paul to control his
tongue, not to insult with such clumsy lies. Shank appeared to be whispering under his breath, counting, as if trying desperately to control his temper.

“I have become utterly mystified at the emergence of the situation and dilemma facing us. Things we do not know make us speculate. Information, no matter how delightful, is always dangerous in the aftermath. Surely you understand the futility of withholding information? Disloyalty to the family is not permitted. This rule is not flexible; it is nonnegotiable. Yet honestly, I can say to you, hand on my heart that I still believe an accommodation can be found. Wouldn’t you want that, Mister Goodman? An accommodation to suit us all?”

“Don’t trust him, Paul,” said Geordie, held by her sister. “He’ll kill you, once he has obtained all the information from you.”

In a flash, Violet had a meat hook pressing against Geordie’s neck. A tiny dot of blood appeared on the white skin. “You’re such a selfish bitch. Always the me me me,” accused Violet, glaring into Geordie’s face. “The rest of this family have never entered into your considerations. Have they? Always the me. Me me
meow
.” Violet hissed into her sister’s face. “
Mefuckingow
. Remember, Geordie? The kittens at play? Do you remember how cute and cuddly they were before going for their nice swim in the bucket of dirty rainwater? Remember how I used to chase you, holding their stiff tiny bodies in my hands? Remember that annoying fucking meow and how you always complained it gave you the shits? But it was always left to Violet to bring silence to your ears. Strange, it was always easier for you to kill a bull than it was to kill a kitten. Ha! I have never been able to figure that out. Perhaps you’re trying
to prove something to yourself? Just remember that I have no qualms, either. Don’t ever forget that. And don’t think for one moment I’ll allow you to destroy this family. Do you understand?” She pressed the hook tighter.

“Why are you taking his side? He has never loved you
or
me. He has hated us both from day one.”

Violet smiled and a sliver of panic began to move in Geordie’s stomach. Geordie called that particular smile the preparation smile, a coffin handle smile. Something ominous was always certain to follow.

“Because I was the one who killed the fucker in the forest …”

Paleness attached itself to Geordie’s face while Violet allowed the silence to fester, loving the reaction, waiting for the right moment to continue.

Geordie opened her mouth slightly as if to say something, but the words never came.

“While you slept in your comfortable bed, dear
Kitten
, we were out
burying
the bastard who wanted to
bury
us. He was going to tell about the rotten meat. We would have been finished. And as usual, it was left to Violet to squeeze the kittens. Poor crippled Geordie wouldn’t have the stomach for it, only liked to profit from it. Isn’t that right,
Kitten? Isn’t it?
” she hissed.

“Enough, Violet. We do not need discussions from you,” said Shank, calmly, yet menacingly. “Place the hook away from your sister’s throat. She is not the enemy here. No one is – yet. Isn’t that right, Mister Goodman?”

The unknown can be a knowingly frightening place, but Paul was still focused enough in his conscious mind
to understand the direness of the situation. He couldn’t acknowledge what Lucky had told him. They would kill him – kill them both. Probably kill Geordie, also.

“If she isn’t the enemy, why didn’t she tell you about that bastard spying on us?” countered Violet. “Had I not come home early that night and heard every little word of betrayal, we would be in deep shit, right now. We don’t need him or
her
, Shank. Turn Goodman into fertiliser. I would get great pleasure from that.”

“Have I asked for your opinion?” Shanks glared at Violet. “But you could be correct. Perhaps I have been mistaken? Your stubbornness can be quite lethal, Mister Goodman. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.” Shank glared at Paul before shouting to Taps. “Connect the ceiling hook. See that it’s secure. We don’t want any accidents, do we …?”

Tap’s smiled and began to harness the pulley to a wooden beam directly over his head. A heavy-duty hook dangled from it like an inverted question mark.”

“Leave him alone, Shank!” screamed Geordie, lunging at her father, before being grabbed violently by Violet. “No one is going to say anything. You’ve got him the way you always have people: terrified out of their wits.”

“Everything is in the hands of Mister Goodman. If he makes the right choice, he will prove he is part of this family. If he doesn’t, then I’m afraid he leaves us with little room to manoeuvre …”

“You will have to kill me as well, Shank,” said Geordie, calmly. “If you kill them, you better make sure that I am dead. If the cops don’t get you, I promise you that I will.”

“You will go home now,” said Shank, looking directly at
Geordie. “Taps will accompany you until you calm down. You know that everything being done here is for the good of us all. Don’t you?”

“I hate you, Shank. I’ve always hated you, for what you’ve done to us, what you did to our mother –”

Taps lifted her, immune to the kicking and punching, and pushed through the door. “I’m sorry about this, Geordie. But orders are orders.”

Shank waited until quietness had returned before talking directly to Paul, again. “Remember when you first started in the abattoir, Mister Goodman, you saw that saying from William Blake in my office?” Shank pointed to the maxim attached to the wall, directly above Paul’s head.

Paul did not answer.

“No? Let me refresh your memory.
‘It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend’
. Well, I was fool enough to regard you as a friend at that time, someone to be trusted. Now? You placed yourself against my face, and that has only one conclusion. It’s time for all of us to get serious …”

Shank eased his bulk from the fat chair and walked over to the dangling hook, and tested it with the strength of his pull.

“Do you know how Saint Peter met his martyrdom, Mister Goodman? No? Well, according to legend, he was crucified upside down. He said he was unworthy to be crucified like Christ …”

Paul held his breath while his nerves pulled tighter on a knot resting in his stomach. Sour food was moving about inside. He desperately wanted to vomit.

Shank’s immediate movement caught Paul by surprise as the chair was pulled from beneath him, sending his body
crashing to the floor. Effortlessly, Shank lifted him by the ankles, and pinioned him upon the hook, his feet held in the angry nose of its curve.

Terrifyingly effective, Shank’s movement was over in less than five seconds.

“Now, Mister Goodman, we can go about our work without any interruptions.” Shank removed his shirt. He was perspiring, slightly. An odour was nesting in his skin; not body odour, but something more repulsive; something toxic. “Quite soon, most of the blood in your body will drain to your head. It is not often that both mind and body are taken to their limits, but you could be unfortunate enough to experience that tonight. You will feel dizzy and light-headed, as if the very essence of yourself is being shredded to nothing. That’s to be expected. In a few minutes, the brain will be doing little calculations, deciding on where to distribute the remaining blood in your system. Because you are now inverted, there is only one channel where the brain can possibly flood: the area surrounding your throat …”

Paul felt the blood beginning to pump, downwards. He had seen this process performed in the abattoir, when apprentices were initiated into blooding piglets, preparing themselves for bigger, stronger livestock later on in their careers. He remembered how the blood always shot outwards, almost in a tangible, straight red line. All it took was a tiny nick from a finely honed blade …

“Violet?” Shank nodded to his daughter.

As if reading his mind, Violet smiled, reached and unlocked a small cupboard ensconced in the wall, revealing a tribe of lethal-looking knives, paradoxically beautiful in their ugliness.

“You’re privileged, Goodman,” said Violet, her words sniggering in Paul’s ears. “We only use these on special occasions.”

Paul could hear her grinding the blade, sharpening it. The sound screamed in his ears.

“Please, Violet … I’m begging you. I’ve never done anything to you … I wouldn’t do a thing to harm the abattoir. You’ve got to believe me.”

Shank went back to resting in his leather chair. He opened a drawer and removed a cigar from its box. “You can’t beat Cuban,” he said, more to himself than anyone in the room as he snaked the cigar along his nostrils, inhaling gently before his thumb rolled over a lighter, scratching out a flicker of a flame.

Violet shook her head as she gazed at the inverted Paul. “I warned you, Goodman. Sleep with the enemy …” She grabbed one of his ankles and instinctively Paul began to wiggle and shake, rocking the hook to and fro as he felt the coldness of the blade touch his skin.

“Please, Violet! You don’t want to do this!”

“Oh, but I do. You just don’t know how much …”

Paul could hear the tearing as she guided the blade down the leg of his jeans, stopping only when the highway of blue material ended at his waist. “Stop wiggling, you fucking cowardly worm!” She moved quickly to the other leg, slicing her way through. “Hey presto!” With one good jerk, Violet pulled on the ragged jeans, tearing them off completely.

Violet feigned a gasp. “You naughty boy, Goodman! No underwear? You never struck me as the commando type.” She touched his languid penis, allowing it to rest on the flatness
of the blade. “Not bad, Goodman. Almost the length of the blade. Balls could be a bit bigger, mind you, but all in all, not too bad. I guess that’s why crippled Geordie has been smiling, lately?” She laughed and quickly turned her attention to his shirt, disposing of it in less than ten seconds, the blade zigzagging through the cheap material.

Completely nude, Paul could no longer talk. Something inside him had died, studding his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He felt like the edges of his sanity were on the move, spiralling out of control. A growing pressure swelled in his stomach, like a balloon being filled with water. The sensation moved along his gut, stabbing down into his bowels, seething, pushing through his arse.

“You’ve shit yourself, Goodman! You’ve shit yourself upside down! Not too many people can boast of that!” Violet laughed until tears were in her eyes.

Paul closed his own, feeling pain and shame. He didn’t care if they killed him, now.

Violet pushed him, gently but firmly, watching him swing back and forth, like a pendulum. “Tick tock, hairy cock, shitty arse Goodman. Time is running out. Fast …”

Lucky paced the floor in the upper room of his cousin’s house. He hadn’t slept in days, and was becoming more edgy with each passing hour.

What the fuck was keeping Paul? He said he would call over, the first chance he got, let him know what was happening–if anything. Just keep your head low for a while, mate.
As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Probably tomorrow, at the latest
…

But tomorrow didn’t come. The two days – caged up in
this stinking room–most of it spent in darkness–was doing his head in. He had to get out, get the air about him. He had to find Paul …

Chalky headlights suddenly lit up the room, and then were gone, startling him for a second, forcing him to stop pacing. He crept to the window, and eased the curtain to the side.