The Redemption Factory (18 page)

K
ENNEDY SEALED THE
letters. One was address to Cathleen, the other to Paul. He debated whether they should be left on the table for Biddy to find in the morning, or left somewhere in Cathleen’s room. The latter won out. Biddy would open the letters, reading them thoroughly, deliciously spreading their contents for all to see and listen to. No, Biddy could not be trusted. He had learned that lesson the hard way. Catherine couldn’t be trusted either; but she was certainly the lesser evil of the two as far as gossiping was concerned.

The house felt dank, amplifying the mouldy odour of the old carpeting. A nice warm fire would kill most of the smell, but there was little point in any more mundane habits.

In the kitchen he filled a bowl with soup, accompanied it with some bread and a small glass of orange juice. He couldn’t help smiling. Cathleen would sniff suspiciously at the contents.

Moments later, Kennedy entered the bedroom.

“It looks like a storm gathering strength,” he said, placing the tray on the side table.

Cathleen ignored him, eyeing the tray, vigilantly. “What on earth is
that?
I didn’t ask for any of that health food garbage, did I? Did you put sleeping tablets in that? Think I’m as bloody daft as you look?”

He saw fatigue on her face and considered abandoning any lengthening of conversation.

“I’m concerned that you are not eating.”

“Very concerned, are we? Perhaps it’s the soup you’ve put the pills in? How many? Bet you didn’t even bother to count them? Just poured them in. Old Cathleen doesn’t know what day it is. They’ll say she did it herself. Silly old woman. That poor man, now a widow. And pigs will fly.” She swiped angrily at the tray, knocking it across the room. “I’m not hungry. Besides, I’ve told Biddy to come over and make my meals in future. You’re not to be trusted, Philip Kennedy. Not one bit. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know something is.”

“Don’t play the martyr. You’re no more innocent than me, my dear. You know exactly what’s going on. You took something belonging to me, thinking it would empower you to keep me here.” He laughed. “I am not going to harm you, Catherine. Not now …”

Catherine looked at him, her eyes tight with suspicion.

“You intend to leave me. Don’t you? Bastard. For better or for worse. Remember those fine words?”

“I never agreed to them. You did,” he retorted.

“I won’t let you leave. You’ll have to kill me. Otherwise, I will use everything in my power to keep you here.”

“A prisoner? Is that it?” He wanted to laugh at the irony of it.

Traffic could be heard in the distance. There was the sound of dogs barking.

“Lately, I’ve begun to feel like an hourglass, sand running out. Running out a bit too fast, telling me something …” said Kennedy, surprised at this admission to his wife.

Cathleen snorted. “An hourglass, you say? I was thinking you’re more like a giant balloon, all the hot air escaping through your arse.”

She seemed alive again, purged and ready for action.

This is her most dangerous, he thought, when she can convince people to trust her again. He had given her the chance to be civil, but she had slapped it away, just like the tray. There was no point in pursuing this discussion. It would only take an unpleasant turn, and a quarrel right now would be disastrous.

For the next few minutes, not a word was said, as if both were simply content to listen to the other breathe, waiting for the other’s blunder, or trap.

“There were times I thought I felt something for you, again,” said Kennedy, breaking the silence. He needed to exorcise the remaining amount of words assembled in his head, needed the next discussion to be on his terms. “But
there were other moments; moments when I was so stressed by fury and hatred of you that I wanted to kill you.”

“You’ve never loved me,” accused Catherine.

“I never once told you I never loved you,” said Kennedy. Cathleen wasn’t to be loved. Respected, yes. Loved? Indeed, he would have found it difficult at the moment to refute that there was at least a trace of truth in what she was saying.

“You never once told me you did,” retorted Cathleen, lightning fast, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, ever the pragmatist, yet excited in these rare glows of moments long gone.

He would have encouraged her with a smile – a negotiating smile – but he was far too raw for that.

She continued. “I had a terrible pain last night, unlike any other I’ve had to face. Yet, when I awoke this morning, the pain had subsided. In fact, in had totally evaporated and the permanent throbbing in my side was no longer permanent. It was gone.”

Kennedy sighed softly, believing he was in for the usual monotonous self-pitying lecture, but was rammed by the force of the continuation in Cathleen’s next three words.

“I am dying,” she said, matter-of-factly, a voice flat and apathetic, almost as if she had not meant him to hear her. “I know this now because Moore told me two weeks ago, but I suspected it much earlier.”

She turned her head away, her eyes catching the last fusion of the day’s dying strings of coloured lights.

For a moment, Kennedy was confused. She had cried wolf so many times, yet something in her voice alerted him.

“Don’t be silly. You’ll be burying me, when the time
comes. God knows what garments you’ll force my corpse to wear,” he grinned woodenly, feeling uncomfortable by the conversation’s direction, approaching her bed cautiously. “The realities, for you, are still as endless as the possibilities; possibilities you have always strived after.” He wanted to touch her head, her face, but couldn’t. “You have always been an extraordinary woman, a strong woman.”

Shadows began flittering across the room. He eased the lamp’s glare on her bedside table while placing the letters beneath her pillow, hoping she wouldn’t open both, believing she would.

Night sounds were gathering outside in the street, but even they could not disturb the stillness and fullness of which now confused and infuriated him by its utter unfamiliarity. He was a stranger in his own home, yet familiar too, in that frightening way when the past that you so desperately want to forget suddenly comes calling.

Kennedy made his way down the stairs, switching off the lights in each room. Only the eerie orange glow from the living room, caused by the remnants of hot coals from the hearth, remained, guiding him expertly towards the box – the box that had long faded from recognition but which was brought to his attention the day he was searching for the snooker balls for Paul. He was convinced it was fate playing its shrewd hand, a harbinger laughing at him, asking if he thought all had been forgotten – or
forgiven?

Cautiously, he removed the box’s content and was immediately pleased by the condition of the sole remaining item. He had always been good at his old job – when he was young and willing, unquestioning – and the proof was
in the pudding. Oiled and ready, black and shiny, the old gun rested like a fat, contented eel in the palm of his hand. He was confident of its perfect working condition. In its own paradoxical way, the ugly piece of metal was beautiful, created flawlessly with inlays designed to exact tolerances and unparalleled precision and efficiency. It still hummed of lubricant when he handled it, the weapon feeling heavy yet light when balanced on fingers, admiring it like the young man who had once balanced a snooker cue, countless aeons ago, calculating the possibilities, the pros and cons.

He placed the weapon down, alongside the book of
Don Quixote
, opening a page at the designated place. He reread the paragraph, loving the formations of perfect words.
I shall never be fool enough to turn knight errant. For I see quite well that it’s not the fashion now to do as they did in the olden days when they say those famous knights roamed the world
…

A few minutes later, he closed the book for the last time, and walked towards the large front window, opening it. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the rain and tiny creatures flying home to safety. The wind sneaked in to the room and entered his mouth, tasting like withered crusts of bread.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, thinking he should feel something – the touch of a hand, cloth against his skin, but he felt none of it. Instead, he felt numb, as if a part of him had been amputated – like Cathleen’s toes – and he could no longer find it, could no longer remember what part was missing, only that it felt wrong.

Mixed emotion – regret tinged with an equal amount of self-justification – slowly began to build. He brushed all
self-debates aside. He no longer had to be in the mood for them, no longer had to tolerate their intolerable whining, their predictable dilemma and sanitized versions of memories fading, growing dim and blurred.

Knocking was sounding somewhere in the house. He smiled.
Cathleen, Cathleen, Cathleen. A nuisance, if ever one existed
… He placed the weapon to his skull, tightly, almost drilling it against his skin, feeling its weight press against him, simultaneously terrible and reassuring.

The tension in his knuckles had transformed into tiny skulls about to pop from their enclosure. Every nerve in his body tingled with adrenaline while the night closed in all around him, getting darker and deeper. There was no light except what glowed from the rusted ashes nestling in the fire’s open mouth.

Obligingly, Kennedy fixed his eyes on the wall opposite, his mouth slack. He cocked the hammer and the sound did not disappoint. He was now lost, overwhelmed by events and memories no longer controlled by him.

Kicking now followed the knocking – fierce, impatient kicking. Windows were being banged, ready to be caved in. Why was he listening? Let someone else worry. He smiled. He had more pressing matters at hand, in his hand, pressing against his skull.

Pull it. Hurry. Pull the trigger. Soon it will all be over. Soon …

In the distance, he could hear his name being echoed over and over again. It sounded like a ghost …

T
HE DARKNESS SURROUNDING
the abattoir sat waiting, patiently. It had no place else to go for at least another couple of hours, before the early morning light came to relieve it from its duty.

Geordie’s face was a pale spot framed by the fragment of moonlight creaking in through the broken stones marshalled all along the makeshift tunnel – the one-time pathway leading to the back of the abattoir. It had remained idle for years, after the crumbling stonework had fallen, killing one of the workers making his way home on a Saturday afternoon. Always a favourite shortcut, it now lurked officially unused,
condemned too dangerous. Too dangerous, even for cost-cutting Shank to consider keeping as a legitimate entrance.

Geordie cursed silently to herself. The noise from her leg braces seemed to be a million times louder than usual. Regardless of how she tried to cushion the noise, the scrap scrap scraping sound of metal against cloth became keener.

“Stupid crippled legs
,” she hissed to the figure walking cautiously behind her. “Great idea? Right? A stupid girl and an old man coming to the rescue, taking on Shank and Violet, rescuing a stupid snooker player because he’s loyal to a half-witted mate who got him into all this shit …”

Kennedy knew frustration mustn’t be permitted to sabotage their efforts – no matter how pathetic it looked. He was unwilling to consider the possibility of his own death, at this particular time. Otherwise, the hopeless situation of trying to rescue Paul would become direr. For a split second, something derailed his focus and he needed an anchor, something that would tether him to the familiar. He could hear Cathleen’s voice, mocking and laughing.
Quixote rides Rocinante, and Sancho rides his burro Dapple. You are the perfect pathetic bastard, always chasing windmills. Always the windmills …

An orange bulb, blackened by dirt and bugs, threw urine coloured light into the tunnel. If the tunnel was officially closed, it was obvious to Kennedy that few of the workers obeyed the yellowing warning sticker at the entrance.

Cautiously, Kennedy breathed the entombed air within. It reeked of the spew that was human excrement, piss and a smell not unlike that of decaying rats, hugging the inside curve of the tunnel in a kind of paralysis. Manure, muck and dead blood all banded together, joining forces. Kennedy could taste
it in his mouth. It wasn’t pleasant, and gave off some kind of vibration, like a tuning fork punctuated by too much feel.

As he progressed, his eyes adjusted to the cobwebbed-filled interior. They were greeted to the sight of carcasses of dead birds carpeted on the ground, their fragile bones gleaming like hulls from tiny ships caught in rocks, each blending wickedly into an origami of shadows and repulsiveness. The
ever-skilful
rats had been proficient in stripping the flesh. It was a massacre, a feasting of the dead, and he was baffled how creatures of flight could have been captured so easily. Used condoms, their loads drooping like Dali’s pancake clocks, hung over the edges of loose bricks and rusted beer tins. Old, corroded water pipes hissed and spat in his face, blinding him periodically. Dark and dank narrow spaces had never bothered him, but he was finding it difficult to stay orientated. Geordie’s self-criticism – balanced against the uncertainty of whatever lay ahead – wasn’t helping the situation. The need to maintain a calm demeanour was paramount.

“You wouldn’t have come to me if you thought for one moment I didn’t stand a chance against your father,” whispered Kennedy, hoping to keep Geordie’s confidence high. “We have the advantage of surprise on our side. It’s a good weapon to have.”

Geordie snorted in exasperation. “If you’re trying to instil confidence in me, I’d advise against it. You’re the only one in this stinking town I know. I was hoping you could get some other people together, save Paul from Shank and Violet. I couldn’t call the cops – not on my own family; but if I’d known you were going to act out your Lone Ranger fantasies, I wouldn’t have gone banging on your door, either.
And talking of weapons; that antique you have in your hand doesn’t actually fire, does it? If you think you can bluff your way out of this, then we’re in bigger shit than I thought. You should have grabbed one of those iron bars when I asked you.” Geordie made a motion with the mangled piece of rusted iron in her hand. “I can get to Violet with this, no problem. It’s your part of the plan I’m worried about. Actually, it’s the fact that we have no plan, is causing me to worry.”

Kennedy forced a grin on his tired face. “There’s an old saying that snowflakes are one of nature’s most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together.”

“Snowflakes?” Geordie laughed scornfully. “Ever see what a flamethrower can do to snowflakes? Well, that’s how I regard Shank. A human flamethrower. You better be prepared to get your arse burnt. I just wish we had another way of changing this.”

Kennedy continued smiling, granting soft relief to the silence surrounding them.

Geordie’s silence prompted him to ask. “Tell me the truth, Geordie. Why did you think that by coming to me, I could help?”

She sighed. “Do we need this? I mean, right now?”

“It might help me more than you could ever imagine.”

A crafty wind came rushing down the tunnel. Geordie shivered, slightly.

“That night, those few weeks ago, when I first met you, I saw how you looked at Paul …”

A puzzled look crawled into Kennedy’s features. “How?”

Geordie cleared her throat. “I don’t think you really want to know my gut-feelings on that night.”

In the darkness Kennedy composed himself dreading what Geordie might know – might think she knows.

“I’m always interested in feelings, Geordie. Especially those that come from the gut. Most times, the gut is more perceptive than a million eyes.”

Hesitantly, she continued. “I thought … that night … you wanted to have sex with Paul.”

Kennedy laughed, relieved. “Sex with Paul?”

Geordie sounded embarrassed by the disclosure. “That was my first impression. You seemed overly … keen. Afterwards, I put it down to simple nerves. Perhaps you were always like that, meeting people … meeting
young
people.”

“And has your impression changed? Or do you still believe I’m some old pervert chasing after young boys?”

Her tone changed. “No, I no longer feel that way, at all. I think perhaps you love him, but not in the way I thought. I think you’ve become a sort of, you know, father-figure to him.”

Kennedy did not reply. He listened to the last sentence, over and over again, in his head.

A sense of silence, reinforced by the tunnel’s density, settled all about him. He could smell rain and mud and it stank like blood, but his eyes were excited over the dark rings that had formed under them over the past two years.

What seemed like an eternity, ended with the door to Shank’s office coming fully into view. They walked toward it, moving stealthily, carefully avoiding the jagged sheet of light quilting eerily from the office window. Rain was coming down, hard and filthy, its pellets as black and round as rabbit dung. A great deluge was drowning the building. The strong
stench of decayed meat crept inside Kennedy’s mouth. He breathed in that smell as if he’d been born to it.

“That’s it,” whispered Geordie. “That’s Shank’s office, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise coming from it. You don’t think something –”

“I want you to pay careful attention to what I am about to say,” cut in Kennedy, prohibiting her from saying the unthinkable. “I need you to walk in, as calmly as you can manage, and beg your father to forgive you, that you didn’t mean to run away. You didn’t mean to doubt or question him. Tell him you were confused and apologise for distrusting him.”

“What?” whispered Geordie. “Apologise? You really are flaky – as flaky as your snowflake theory. Shank doesn’t understand words, only violence. He wouldn’t believe a word from my mouth –”

Geordie was unprepared for what came next, the Jekyll and Hyde transformation of Kennedy’s features, his voice, his entire being.

“
Listen,
” he hissed, grabbing her tightly by the throat, his voice radiating a low but steady warning.
“This is not a game, little girl. Not a game of hide and seek, peek a boo, or all-ends-well. Understand? Paul Goodman is not the only one in danger. We all are. Now, you will do exactly as I told you. I don’t care if you have to cry or kiss and hug that bastard, but you will do as I say. If you don’t, I’ll break your skinny petite neck, drop you right at this spot. Do you understand, little girl?
” Kennedy tightened the grip on her throat, hating the terrible necessity of inflicting fear into Geordie’s hate-filled eyes. Geordie would never forget the look on Kennedy’s face, something terrible and indescribable at that exact moment as
he stared at her, his eyes burning like embers. Later, she would remember that look as the glare of a killer weighing up in a split second how he deemed to dispose of a body.

A slight movement from her head told him all he needed to know. All blood had drained from her face, transforming it into a powdered death mask hue.

“Your tears are tools; manipulators that can procure us confusion and vital seconds. Sometimes, that is all one needs – a few precious, but vital seconds. Now, little girl, if you truly love Paul Goodman – and I believe you do – a few tears is a small price to pay. Don’t you think?”

Geordie nodded, slightly, her face a grimace of pain

Boldly, he reached out and stroked her hair. In another time and place, it would have seemed a nice, innocent gesture, perhaps reassuring. Not here. Not now. He meant it to terrify, exchanging one fear for another, ruthlessly and efficiently.

“Good. Very good. Now, just ease the pressure on your fingers. I’m going to remove the bar from your hand. You will not say another word to me. The next time I hear you speak, will be when you are facing Shank. It’s up to you how all this ends. All up to you …”
whispered Kennedy, his face an arrangement of weird and delicate features, of calmness and callousness, known by the few as a war face, the face of death.

Geordie pushed away from him, and he watched as she disappeared in the direction of the entrance. He admired her, admired the natural courage she possessed, her strength and determination. She would hate him, after this – not that it mattered. He didn’t want to think of possible disasters. Not this time. Not ever again. He had moved beyond the boundaries of reflection.

Something was returning to him, to his brain, surging like
a confidence of power, of possibilities unambiguous in their definite conclusion. There would be no going back. It was too late for that. Much too late.

He calculated the passing of one minute before stepping expertly out of the tunnel, allowing his eyes to focus on any tiny obstacle limiting his field of vision. Feeble stars cast alternating wisps of light and shadow in the area, bringing to life images of industrial wasteland: stacks of hay were predominant along with the giant cutting machines used to detach the animals from their vital parts; a gaggle of discarded tools rested against the side of the building. Years of rain had cemented them to the ground, rendering them totally useless. A family of battered trucks lined the outer perimeter of the office collaborating with their lesser cousins, the forklifts and cement mixers.

He could see the office up ahead. Lights glowed in windows; shadows flittered across tightly pulled shades. The night was closing in all around it, painting it darker and darker.

If Geordie’s information was correct, there would only be Shank and her sister, Violet, holding Paul hostage, along with some unlucky bastard called Lucky. And not forgetting some brute known as Taps.

Kennedy’s face was cleaved by the long spine of the moon’s silvery reflection, giving his appearance an eerie, distorted look of two faces meshing into one. He carefully stepped forward, sneaky as an old fox reaching for a snoozing chicken. He could almost sense the steps of the entrance and could hear voices, muffled and secretive. He forced his brain to pursue every possible conclusion with the same ferocity of anticipation gnawing at his stomach. His pulse quickened. The
gun in his hand felt good; reassuringly good, like a friend, lost now found. It was supportive, intoxicating with arrogance and self-absolution. He marvelled at how calm he felt and had to admit:
there’s no feeling on earth quite like it; sure as hell feels good
…