The Redemption Factory (17 page)

Outside, a car rested in the street, exposed by the light from a streetlamp. The car’s metal skin was waxed in rain droplets the colour of blue ink making it look like a hastily drawn oil painting. He tried to see if someone sat in the car, but the doorbell interrupted his concentration.

Fuck!

Tiptoeing, he crossed the room and eased opened the door, just a sliver, just enough to be able to listen if not see the late night caller.

In wasn’t unusual for Lucky’s cousin, Jim-Jim, to get visitors at this time of night. Jim-Jim sometimes ran poker games, late into the night, and sold illegal cigarettes and any other black-market items that could help bring in some income, no matter how small.

What was that? He heard something; steps dangerously close. Someone was coming up the fucking stairs! He sucked all the air in, holding his breath.

He closed the door, gently, but kept his ear firmly to it. He speculated that it was probably Jim-Jim and a lady friend–no doubt the same noisy one from last night, all grunts and moans.

His face reddened slightly thinking about last night’s performance. He shouldn’t have been listening, of course, but it was difficult not to. All that noise. They were hardly fucking
miming!

Someone knocked on the door. Fuck! Lucky’s heart went mad in his head. He tried to control it, but it was impossible. Gingerly, he edge away from the door, tiptoeing backwards, doing a moon dance.

The door was rapped again, this time with a bit more urgency. The door handle turned, craftily, as if not wanting to be heard.

Lucky’s lips moved, but no sound came out, as if he were staring in a silent movie.

The door opened, slightly. Light bleached in from the landing.

“Mister Short?” Lucky could see a hand reaching for the switch. A second later, the room came to life in light.

“Who are … who are you? What do you want here? Where’s Jim-Jim?” Lucky squinted his eyes, sheltering them from the stinging light angling in from the opened door. He could barely see or make out the man standing before him, but something in his gut warned him to be wary.

“Jim-Jim …? Oh! Yes, he’s downstairs, in the parlour. He was kind enough to allow me to come up and talk to you.”

“Jim-Jim wouldn’t allow anyone up here … what did you say your name was? I didn’t catch it, the first time.

“At the minute, we need only be interested in
your
name, Mister Short. You
are
William Short?”

“William? Oh, him! You’ve the wrong cousin, I’m afraid. He’s in the Tin Hut playing snooker as we speak, that wanker. 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.” 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, I suppose.” 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.”

“If … if I can …”

“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.

Lucky’s hand slowly extended. He hoped his hand wasn’t shaking too much.

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? What do you want with me? 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, inside Jim-Jim’s house? 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.” Lucky’s teeth began to chatter.

“You don’t need to be dressed for this kind of party, Mister Short. The car is parked outside. 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 bolted for the door, follow by the ponderous enforcer.

Lucky made it down the first flight of stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time. He was already on the last flight by the time Taps had covered the first four steps at the top of the stairs.

“Mister Short, I’m warning you!” screamed Taps, ploughing down the remainder of the stairs. “Don’t force me
to shoot …”

But this threat hyped Lucky’s nerves even further, sending him scurrying down the stairs, faster, out the door and pass the nose of the car stationed outside the house.

He would wait until he was a few streets away, before finding a phone. 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 had he ever taken a shit in the woods?

His thoughts were interrupted when the door of the car swung out, violently smashing against his legs, forcing him to the ground.

“Wanker,” said Violet, emerging from the car, looking downwards at him. She smashed the sole of her boot into his face, crunching his nose, peppering bloody dots all over his clothes.

He vomited, narrowly missing the nose-breaking boots, and while Taps roughly bundled him into the car, disregarding the broken and bloody nose, Lucky believed he had never felt pain like it in his life. Little did he know, that soon, he would understand the true meaning of real pain. And just as he found the strength to move, Violet kicked him, again, more forceful this time, knocking him out.

L
UCKY AWOKE TO
pain. The surrounding gloom frightened him for a moment as he tried to clear his foggy mind, trying to remember what had happened or where he was.

He could hear a voice, calling his name. It was a soft voice; a reassuring voice.

“Mister Short? I hope you enjoyed your nap?”

“Where … where am I?”

“With friends, Mister Short. Genuine friends …” Lucky
heard a wink in the voice.

Blood had hardened and darkened on Lucky's face. It felt like he needed a shave. The stench of the place was everywhere, and despite his nose being broken, he could smell it, taste it resting in his throat. Thankfully, there was nothing left in his stomach as his eyes began to clear, exposing the figure sitting in front of him. There was little doubt in his mind that the figure was that of Shank.

“At last we meet, Mister Short. The last we met, it was rather … hastily.”

Each time Lucky glanced at the baldy head, he couldn't help having terrible flashbacks of Shank's baldy circumcised cock, glaring at him in the forest, keeping its eye on him. A quiver ran up Lucky's spine.

Shank continued. “I'm sorry about the unfortunate incident with your nose, Mister Short. An accident, I believe?”

“What … what is it you want?”

“Want? I want to show you some pictures, Mister Short, tell me what you think of them, describe them to me.”

From a drawer, Shank produced four Polaroid pictures, and placed them face down, on the table.

“Pick one, Mister Short.”

Reluctantly, Lucky's fingers strolled along the top of the table, touching one of the pictures, before gently easing it out.

“Good. Now, look at it, please.”

Lucky turned the picture over. His lips curled in distaste. A large piece of bloody meat sat staring at him from the picture. A carcass of a cow, perhaps, covered in shit?

“And the next one, please,” said Shank, his voice soft and encouraging.

Lucky repeated the process until all four picture rested there, glaring up at him. They all looked to be the same pieces of horrible bloody meat, each taken from a different angle.

“What do you make of those, Mister Short?”

Make of them? What the hell did that mean?

“I … don't know … meat, all bloody, ready for a butcher's shop?”

Laughter sounded behind him and for the first time, from his peripheral, Lucky saw the figure of Taps and that other bastard, the one who smashed his nose.

“Well, after all, this is the abattoir, Mister Short. Bloody meat is what you expect. Wouldn't you agree?” asked Shank.

“I suppose …”

Shank stood, then walked towards a large, opaque plastic screen which was centred in the room, dangling from the ceiling. He indicated for Lucky to come over, stand beside him. “Suppose, Mister Short?” Shank pulled back the edges of the screen. “I don't suppose at all.”

There on the ground, shaped like a bloody ‘S' was the horrible piece of meat from the picture. To Lucky's horror, it moved, slightly, squirming in its own blackened blood.

The air in Lucky's stomach began to spin, looking for food, hoping to toss it through his mouth.

“Fuck …” Lucky stepped back, a couple of inches, realising he was standing in chunky red and black liquid.

Without warning, the meat reached and touched Lucky's shoe.

“Fuck!” He kicked it away. “What the fuck …”

There was more sniggering from Violet and Taps.

“You don't recognise him, Mister Short?” said Shank.

“Him …?” Then it came, the shock, hitting him full force in the throat. “Paul …? Ah fuck … Paul …”

A sound whimpered from the meat; its fingers made a slight movement in the blood.

Shank ripped the screen from its encasement. “Yes, Mister Short. That is Mister Goodman. Now, I think it's best if you sit down. You look as if –”

“You baldy-headed cunt! What the fuck did you do to him!” Lucky made a feeble attempt to swipe at Shank, but his fist was quickly grabbed by Taps, who pushed him back, in the direction of the chair.

“Sit your arse down,” commanded Taps, forcing Lucky into the chair. “Don't talk. Not yet, anyway. Not until Mister Shank requires you. And when you're asked to talk, make sure you tell him every thing he wants to know. Understand? Everything …”

When Lucky didn't answer, it was left to Shank to break the silence.

“It's okay, Taps. Something tells me that we can do business with Mister Short. He looks a far smarter man that Mister Goodman.”

“Why? Why did you do that to Paul? It wasn't his fault He knew nothing. He was just trying to protect me. He's my best friend.”

“Best friend?” chided Violet. “Is that what he is? Then why did he tell us everything, right down to the room you were staying in?”

Lucky shook his head. “You can't try that shit with me. Paul would never tell, no matter how much you fuckers tortured him. He won a gold medal at the Olympics, for boxing. Know
that? Beat the shit out of Mangler Delaney. Bet you didn't? He can take your best fucking shot and spit it right back at you!”

Shank nodded, as if agreeing. “All I ask is that you tell me how many others were told, about what you
think
you saw in the woods.”

“Others? What others? There are no fucking others.”

“Taps? Please secure Mister Short. It seems he is as unwilling as Mister Goodman.”

As ordered, Taps tied Lucky to the chair.

“I know Lucky is only your nickname, Mister Short,” said Shank, approaching the chair. “I'm told people say you were born with a horseshoe up your backside. Is that correct.”

Lucky mumbled, a feeble grin on his face, the words sounding through his broken nose, “Some even say it was an entire stable.”

Shank smiled. “Good. I like a man with a sense of humour. But let me tell you something for nothing, Mister Short: luck never triumphs over reality, and I guess someone just left your stable door wide open, because you've run right out of luck. But that can all be rectified with the right answers.”

“Otherwise, you will be sliced and diced like the little frog you are,” replied Violet, bringing her face closer to Lucky. Her hand held a meat hook. “Perhaps you have more sense, Lucky Ducky, than your so-called friend. He didn't care shit about you. He would've let us kill you first. My advice to you is save yourself, tell us how many other people know about what you saw in the forest,” she whispered. “Just give us the names of the other people.”

Violet's voice had become so soft Lucky strained to hear what she was saying. She could easily have been a mother
whispering a bedtime story to her son.

“C'mere. Closer. I want to tell you where the others are hiding,” whispered Lucky, his voice barely audible.

Violet turned to Shank and grinned. He couldn't get the names, but she had secured them. He'd be raging. “Who are they and where are they hiding?” asked Violet, impatiently.

“Right up your scraggy, smelly hole,” he giggled, uncontrollably.

Baffled, Violet stood back in amazement at the madness that had just escaped from Lucky's mouth. Shank shook his head.

Angry at being made a fool of, Violet plunged the hook towards Lucky's head, drilling it for his eyes.

Only the sudden movement of Shank's feet tripping Violet, prevented the hook from finding its intended target, imbedding itself into Lucky's thigh, instead.

“Don't be so stupid,” growled Shank, staring down at the figure of Violet on the ground. “He's no use to us dead, you fool.”

Rising, Violet stared at Shank. “Don't call me that again. I don't like it. I don't allow anyone to call me a fool.”

Ignoring her, Shank turned his attention to Lucky.

“Not much brains, Mister Short, but you do have balls. I respect that. Balls. But I can't allow such insolence.” He twisted the hook, deeper into Lucky's thigh, until he felt metal against bone.

The shrieks coming from Lucky's mouth were chilling, like a dog severed in half.

“I think it is safe to say the application of justice has been done,” said Shank, removing the bloody hook from
the devastated leg. Blood flowed freely from the wound, but Shank made no action to prevent it. “Blood and time are both running out for you Mister Short. Your life is entirely in your own hands. I hope you understand that?”

Shank nodded to Taps who opened up a box and removed two items, one of which was an electric drill. Taps plugged it into the wall, and flicked the switch.

“Did you know that primitive people believed that madness was a sign of demon possession? They drilled holes in the front of the skull to serve as a gateway out of the mind,” said, Shank touching the drill's trigger, its whirl screaming in the room. “Very primitive, bur effective …”

Lucky's body was beginning to get cold. He felt exhausted, resigned. He wanted it all over with.

Shank held the second item inches from Lucky's face. The items were shaped like the figure 8 with long metal rods attached to it. Tiny teeth hugged the inside.

“Do you know what these are?”

“No …”

“Gelding tongs, Mister Short. The latest model. Pristine and ready for action. Are you sure you don't wish to help us? No? Very well. You leave me with no other option, I'm afraid. Violet?” Shanks handed her the gelding tongs.

Violet smiled a bottle-in-your-face smile. “I'm going to take such delight in removing your baggage …”

A shiver touched Lucky spine, making his balls shrivel.