The Redemption Factory (19 page)

T
O KENNEDY, THE
slightly opened door served duality as an immediate invite and a challenge. He pushed it open, quietly, sneaky as an old fox. Unobserved by all, his eyes consumed the room and all its occupants. Geordie was arguing with – screaming at? – a man, probably Shank. Something about Paul; something about killing him. A burly figure – Taps? – was examining knives, proudly displayed atop the table.

So much for his order of pleading, begging if necessary. If
a young girl had little respect for his threats, what chance of Shank fearing him?

Shank stood over a naked figure, pinioned to a chair. A shape lay on the floor to Shank’s right, motionless, curled up like a question mark. It was naked, also. In the dim light, he wondered which was Paul, which was Lucky?

“You’ve killed him, you bastard!” screamed Geordie, into the face of Shank before being grabbed, unceremoniously by the hair, the eager fingers of Violet digging themselves deep down to the scalp, ripping the skin.

“Shut your sad treacherous mouth, before I shut it permanently,” hissed Violet, forcing Geordie to the floor. “Move and I’ll cripple the rest of your useless body.” Violet held the meat hook against Geordie’s skin.

“That wouldn’t be very lady-like, young woman. Would it?” said Kennedy, pointing the gun directly at Violet.

Violet froze, startled by Kennedy’s unexpected appearance; but it was the face of Shank which held surprise and shock, looking at Kennedy with utter disbelief and sheer hatred at being caught, off-guard, by an intruder who had the audacity to come, uninvited into his kingdom, and point a weapon at his face, as if he, Shank, were nothing. Worse: insignificant.

Taps remained motionless, but Kennedy’s peripheral watched his fingers resting on the knives. “Now, if you don’t mind, release Geordie’s hair and quickly release that horrible looking hook from your hand. Otherwise …” Kennedy waved the gun, slightly.

Reluctantly, Violet allowed the hook to slip from her hand.

“Good,” said Kennedy. “Very good. Now, stand over in the far corner, your face against the wall. Fighting in school
will not be tolerated. And we certainly do not allow meat hooks, young lady.”

For a moment, Violet appeared to be calculating what to do next. Her face was a ball of anger.

“I’m not going to count to three. I don’t believe in Mexican standoffs. I’ll simply shoot you in the knee.” He cocked the weapon and pointed it directly at Violet’s leg.

“Do what the man says, Violet,” commanded Shank.

A couple of defiant seconds passed before Violet complied.

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Kennedy.

“And you are?” asked Shank, calmly, not a care in the world. His bare knuckles were raw, covered in blood. He stood, towering over the limp, bounded body of Paul whose face had been used as a punch bag, barely recognisable. Small pools of blood rested, glued to Paul’s skin, mixing with bruises and distortions of bones.

Kennedy saw his own distorted reflection on the surface of the limpid blood pooling at Paul’s feet. The image of the battered Paul infuriated him with its mixture of brutality and hopelessness. He tried to ignore the cold in his stomach.

“That’s irrelevant, at the moment. What I really need from you are not questions, but simple compliances. Ease yourself slowly away from the man you’ve just beaten the life out of. Raise your hands while doing so – and pray. Pray you haven’t killed him.” Kennedy’s voice was strong. He wondered if it fooled anyone in the room?

“Do you know who I am?” asked Shank, reluctantly easing himself away from the battered body. “Know anything about me? If you do, you’re either a fool or a very brave man.”

Refusing to be distracted by the calmness of Shank’s voice,
Kennedy watched Violet closely from his peripheral, trying desperately to identify patterns or movements, anticipating the unexpected. “I am exceedingly afraid and trembling,” replied Kennedy, smiling. “So, I guess that rules out the very brave man.”

Shank’s face measured out a small grin – just enough to acknowledge Kennedy’s words. “Perhaps we are all in for what will hopefully be an intriguing evening?”

Taps made a slight movement, undetected by everyone in the room. Everyone, except Kennedy.

The shot sounded like an explosion in the room’s confine. The bullet hit Taps in the chest, startling everyone but Kennedy.

Taps staggered forward, slightly, in slow motion. Kennedy fired once more, hitting the enforcer in the throat, buckling him to the ground. A few seconds later, the jerking body became still.

“You killed him, in cold blood,” accused Shank, staring at the gun in Kennedy’s hand.

“That’s the best way to kill anyone,” replied Kennedy. “When they least expect it.”

It was always going to be either Shank or Taps. Kennedy had calculated–rightly–that he could handle two protagonists; three was pushing it. He had already decided to eliminate one of them, long before he stepped inside …

Violet edged away from the dead body.

“I wouldn’t make any more movements,
Violet
. Not until I have everything under control. I won’t hesitate to use the gun, again.”

“A gun,” jibed Shank. “The preferred weapon of cowards
and barbarians.”

“Correct, Shank,” retorted Kennedy. “That’s my name. Mister Cowardly Barbarian.” Kennedy took stock of his surroundings, of the weird skeleton-like statues; paintings equally as weird, though beautifully rendered; the walls containing a cornucopia of knives, each imbued with the unpredictable power to slit a throat, sever a head, all within an effortless blow. He could feel an old sensation coming back, consuming every nuance that was him, the feeling he had tried to suppress all these years, and it felt good, damn good, god-like good. It had been years since he had felt so alive, so useful.

“Blake?” said Kennedy, admiring the amateurish yet almost perfect reproduction of biblical scenes.

Shank nodded, his face slightly flushed with pride. “You’re familiar with the great man?”

“Familiar? No, not exactly. I’ve come across his work, over the years. I have to admit, his paintings in this place, seem appropriate.”

“You’ll never get out of here alive,” said Violet, seemingly agitated by the conversation, the calmness oozing from the mouths of Kennedy and Shank. “We have workers arriving soon. The day shift starts in less than an hour. They’ll never let you leave.”

Kennedy could recognise parts of Shank in the girl. There was also a slight resemblance to Geordie. Big eyes, bleak but sharp. Defiant.
There is something to her, something that draws the eye in, like uncompleted beauty. Only the smattering of those tiny scars ruined what could have been,
thought Kennedy.
She looks like someone who needs an almost daily fix of anger … just like Cathleen.

Those same bleak and defiant eyes left him with little doubt: she hated him, could possibly kill him if given the chance.

“Leave? Who said anything about leaving? I quite like it here, the unusual surroundings. Now, I must ask you to refrain from talking, commencing from here on in.” Kennedy spoke to Violet, but his gaze remained on Shank. He could picture Shank’s brain calculating the pros, weighting them against the cons, could practically see the gears spinning in his head.
He’s a gambler. A gambler willing to take risks. What is he thinking? What will he try? Hurry, Kennedy. Get that old, dilapidated brain of yours in motion. He looks like he’s going to call your bluff. He knows you’re a fool, only good for chasing windmills. Hurry, he’s coming right at you, a speed train, right up your arse
.

“You look like a smart man, Mister Cowardly Barbarian,” said Shank. “Nobody in this room has to die. Nothing complicated. In fact, very simple: I get a little information, and all is right as rain. I will even go as far as to forget this personal affront.”

Kennedy nodded, as if agreeing. “Geordie? Remove one of those knives from the wall.”

In her eagerness to comply, Geordie’s awkward movements combined with speed and clumsiness almost stumbled into Kennedy, knocking him slightly to the side.

“Easy, girl. Time taken is time saved. Cut the rope from Lucky’s feet, first. I don’t want him falling forward, in case he has internal injuries.”

Shank’s face registered surprise. “Geordie …? You know each other?” The surprise turned to a begrudging acknowledgement. “You used her as a Trojan horse … very
clever, Mister Cowardly Barbarian. Very clever, indeed. You have my admiration.”

Kennedy ignored Shank’s words.

Gingerly, Geordie did as asked. “What next?”

“Check his pulse, his heart – anything,” commanded Kennedy.

Fatigue had engraved itself firmly into Geordie’s face and for a moment, Kennedy reconsidered seeking her help. The whole situation was becoming discouraging. For a moment an intense wave of nausea rose in his stomach; a sense of something slipping away from him.

“He doesn’t appear to be breathing,” replied Geordie.

“Just like you, soon,
Judas
,” spat Violet. “You conniving little bitch. You had this planned all along, bringing strangers here to destroy us because you’ve never been part of this family. Well, you’ve turned your back on us for the last time. I should have fixed you a long time ago.”

Kennedy stared at Violet, his head shaking disapprovingly. “You know what you did; and if you don’t, then you’d better think about it because I’m not going to tell you.” With his gun, Kennedy cracked Violet on the side of the head, her face contorting in a grimace of inevitability as it witnessed the single blow. She collapsed, groaning.

“I did warn her about talking …” The strength of the blow was unintentional and for a moment Kennedy wrestled with an apology, but quickly decided an apology would imply unintentional force, and that could construe weakness. Shank gave the impression of being the sort of man who could smell weakness a mile away, and an apology in this situation would be disastrous. “Actually, truth be told, I was looking for an
excuse to whack her. One less to worry about.”

If it bothered Shank, his daughter being knocked unconscious by an intruder, he didn’t show it. His face remained impassive, impossible to read.
A cold fish, indeed, our Shank
, thought Kennedy before allowing a wry smile to creep onto his own face.
A cold fish indeed, our Kennedy
, boomeranged a voice from the past.

“Are you after money? Is that it? Blackmail?” asked Shank.

“Blackmail? You’ve lost me.”

“Such a liar.” Shank’s facial expression changed. Not a smile, just a hint of one. “Blake said ‘A truth that’s told with bad intent, beats all the lies you can invent.’ So, you either know, or don’t want to know, and the only reason why you wouldn’t want to know is because you intend to kill me.”

“I know you’re scum, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean I would be able to blackmail you. Would it? And killing you? Well, that all depends on how you conduct yourself in the next few minutes.”

Shank shook his head, seemingly amazed by the boldness uttering from Kennedy’s mouth.

“He’s breathing!” shouted Geordie. “Paul’s breathing!”

Relief eased into Kennedy’s face.

“Geordie?” said Kennedy. “Do you know where the keys are to any of the vehicles outside?”

Geordie nodded. “They’re usually kept in the a small box, over beside the table. The forklift keys are kept there. The truck keys are kept upstairs. Will I get them?”

Kennedy thought for a moment. “No. We don’t have the luxury of time. Use the forklift. I need you to drag Paul out, perch him on top of the forks, if need be. Just get him the hell
away from this place and to the nearest hospital. It’s slow, but it’ll get you there eventually. It’s his only hope.”

“But, he’s ripped apart from the inside. We’ll kill him if we move him,” replied Geordie.

“He’ll die if he remains here. At least he has a chance. Talking is eating precious time. Just take him.”

“What about his friend, Lucky? What will I do with him,” she asked.

“You’ll do nothing except what I instructed you to do. His friend is no longer with us, I’m afraid.”

Clumsily, Geordie pulled on Paul’s arms, slipping and sliding in his blood. He moaned. It was horrible to listen to.

“God … Goodman,” she whispered. “There’s no other way …”

“But there is, my dear,” said Shank. “It’s not too late to rectify this mistake. Do you want him to kill me? Is that what you really want? Am I such a terrible father that you would gladly see me killed, murdered? You’re my daughter. Don’t ever forget that. I may not have shown a lot of love, but that is my nature. You know you were always my favourite, always the one who would eventually take over the business. Violet would never have had the brains for it, would never have been able to communicate with the workers. She would have destroyed all that I built. Only you could have guaranteed the continuation of the factory, my name. Only you.”

Kennedy feared she was at breaking point. She appeared confused by Shank’s unexpected words, as if they were what she had wanted to hear all the long years.

“I don’t believe you, Shank,” said Geordie, here voice a whisper.

“No? Then believe this: you are signing my death warrant, the moment you walk out that door. We both know that. He will –”

“Talking talking talking,” said Kennedy, angrily. “Just get the hell out of here, you silly little girl! Hurry!”

To Kennedy’s relief, Paul moaned, stammering a few words through clenched teeth and busted lips. “Just do … just do as he says, Geordie. You’re doing great …” His words of encouragement faded.