The Redemption Factory (20 page)

Geordie quickly linked her arms with Paul’s, desperation granting her strength.

It seemed like an eternity, but less than a minute later, they were gone, much to Kennedy’s relief.

Kennedy waited until he heard the sound of the forklift fading before talking.

“Things happen, Shank, blending together sometimes, in a complex pattern of events called destiny. And that is what we have in out hands at this very moment. Destiny. Everything in its place; a place for everything.”

“You must be suffering from insanity,” said Shank.

“I don’t
suffer
from insanity. I
enjoy
every minute of it.”

Shank smiled begrudgingly, almost admiringly. “You never intended for one second to allow me to live. Did you?”

Kennedy knew that a momentary lapse in his strategy would allow awareness or compassion to interrupt his momentum or activate his conscience. He could no longer afford the human side of his nature to lead, and slowly permitted the animal to take control. “I would prefer not to hear your words. I respect you, Shank. I respect how dangerous you are. But tolerance isn’t high on my list of priorities, at this particular time in my
life.”

“And Violet? What do you intend to do with her? Murder her as well?”

Kennedy considered the question. “No. I just need the organ grinder. The monkey can go free.”

“I wouldn’t call Violet a monkey. She wouldn’t be too happy with that description. No, not one bit” smiled Shank.

Arrogance was seeping back into Shank’s voice.

Too late, Kennedy realised why.

“A monkey? Is that what I am?” whispered Violet into Kennedy’s ear, seconds before hitting the trigger of the stun gun. It sent him reeling, buckling and jerking, a puppet captured on invisible string. The wound at the side of his head was penny-wide and penny-deep and his hand instinctively moved to touch it. Bewildered, he watched as blood dripped softly from his head, pooling in a small, inconspicuous puddle, spilling on to his chest.

He heard another pop from the stun gun and felt his left knee go on fire. It felt like acid.

“You threatened to shoot me in the knee. Didn’t you?” said Violet, watching Kennedy squirm on the floor in agony. “Never threaten. Do.”

Shank smiled with approval at Violet before directing his words towards Kennedy.

“You really are a stubborn sort of bastard,” said Shank lighting up a cigar, grinning as Kennedy pulled his devastated knee up to his stomach in a foetus position. “Not only can these little guns stun a bull – they can kill it, if the correct spot is hit. Violet purposely hit that spot of yours, just above the left ear. Had she meant to kill you outright, I’d be speaking to
a dead body.” Shank inhaled the cigar, his nostrils flaring at the pleasant aroma. “I’m sure the pain devouring your body at this moment is so terrible you don’t know if it’s a shave, shit or shower you need. If you really concentrate, you actually
can
distinguish one pain from the other. The knee probably fells the worse. That’s the brain’s defence mechanism kicking in, fooling you that all is A-Ofuckingkay. Like the captain of a sinking submarine, it is issuing orders to the lower ranks, telling them all is under control. Your brain is actually pissing itself. This is a continuous process, without end, before death.” Shank dislodged a fragment of tobacco from his tooth, examined it, and then wiped it on his pants. “You have my admiration, Mister Cowardly Barbarian. In another time and place, we could have been friends. A terrible waste. A terrible waste, indeed. Do you know something strange? I don’t even know your name.”

Standing silently, the stun gun dangling by her side, Violet stared at the door where Geordie and Paul had disappeared a few minutes ago.

“Don’t worry about them. They’ll not get too far – not in a forklift,” said Shank, smiling at her reassuringly before turning to the topic of Kennedy. “You shouldn’t have shot him in the head. That was stupid. He might have told us who else knows. We could have interrogated him. I doubt if he’s anything other than a vegetable, now. Have you ever listened to me? Didn’t I warn you about that dangerous pleasure you take in hurting for the sake of hurting? Hurting is something done for profit.”

“Did you mean what you said, to Geordie?” asked Violet, confusing Shank momentarily. Bloodshot collected at the
corners of her eyes. Her face was scarlet.

“What? Did I mean what? Oh, that shite about being the favourite? Of course not. You know –”

“You said I wouldn’t have the brains.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” replied Shank, forcefully. “We’ll talk about it after we –”

“You said I would have destroyed all that you built.
You
built? Without me carrying out your every whim, unquestioning your every order, you would have had nothing. Geordie was always your favourite, wasn’t she? Never did a thing to help the family, but always your favourite”

“Later, I said,” replied Shank, dismissively. “Right now, we’ve got to –”

The black tiny mark on Shank’s naked skull oozed a wisp of smoke, like a spent volcano. Tiny droplets of blood trickled down the side of his face. To his credit, he did not collapse immediately. Psychically, Shank was stronger than Kennedy. He staggered back from the horror of calmness that lit up Violet’s face. It was angelic. Perfect control. He could hear something when she moved her lips, but not words. He couldn’t comprehend how such a tiny hole could generate such pain, and so much blood. It was sprouting in a tiny arch, like a fountain pen release.

Shank placed shaking hands on the table as if to steady himself.

It took another two shots from the stun gun to put him on the ground. Three in all, to Kennedy’s two. The third shot, the killer.

“You defeated yourself, Shank. Pushing me to the limit, leaving me with little choice other than to turn on you. You
unintentionally freed me. Now, I don’t need you,” said Violet, leaning to touch him, noticing the unruly pool of shadows coalescing as light splintered in from the window preying on both downed bodies. “I don’t need any of you.”

Walking calmly towards the table, she sat down and opened the cigar box, separating a cigar from the enclosure. She lit it, inhaling it perfectly, just the way Shank had inhaled so many times under her watchful, envious eyes. Tiny greyish smoke streams emerged from her opening lips. Within seconds, the cigar’s aroma filled the room. “I guess my arse is big enough now …”

Kennedy’s gun lay bridged between his own body and that of Shank’s. It lay there useless and unused. He wished he could laugh at the irony of bringing it with him, but all he could do was breathe deeper, taking in the exquisite aroma of cigars. Ink was seeping into his head, forming behind his consciousness, escalating into blackness behind his eyes. Dark lights vied for his attention, telling him to stay alert, breathe easier while an omnibus of memories began to filter into his brain. He could feel his heart slowing down and, strangely, a calmness flowing throughout his entire body; a reassuring calmness foreign to him most of his life. He could see the face of Shank staring in his direction; eyes unblinking like those of a cobra, adoring the silence of his own death.

Kennedy’s eyelids became heavier, and he could hear sounds crashing down on a beach mixing with the cut of late autumn winds. He closed his eyes, listening to the waves breaking themselves upon the rocks while seagulls screamed for food. The lazy fragrance of salt and sand filled his nostrils. The wind rushed towards him and he opened his mouth to
see what the wind tasted like, and it ran into him, like a ghost, pulsing through his veins, making his every thought infinite. It rendered him motionless, like the stillness of an ice sculpture.

It made him smile …

F
OR HOURS IT
seemed as if Cathleen had screamed his name, commands, orders and curses. The banging from the door was ceaseless. “Where the hell are you?” she shouted, dragging her tired body out of bed, sweating and wheezing. “Philip? Answer the door, you bastard. I know you’re trying to torment me, but it will not work. Do you hear me?” One minute later, just as she neared the door, crawling, it came crashing in, almost taken from its hinges by the shoulders of three heavy looking policemen. She knew he was gone, even before they opened their mouths, their faces
acting out the part of heralds of sorrow.

“Get out! Get out of my shop!” she screamed, over and over again.

Two days later, she read his note. To call it a letter would be too generous, and Cathleen was not in a generous mood.

Cathleen

There is very little to say to you, only that I am sure you are relieved by the outcome of my action.

This letter makes me feel like I’m having a conversation with you, but just in my head, a conversation of no interruptions, no bickering. It is marvellous and you should really try it, some time.

There was a time though, when life was filled with emotion and anticipation was everything waiting just beyond the next corner and vibrant colours seeped out of everything that was life, when everything was semi-perfect just like one of those summer days, when we first met, lined with moments of surprising, touching beauty that somehow obscured the more.

Despite our differences and the regular misery of our relationship, you are an exceptionally good woman even though I have been trying to dissuade myself from this very opinion for years now, with some slow and limited progress.

On a more pressing and necessary issue, suicide is covered by the insurance policy, so that is an added benefit. I have double-checked that fact, so let them tell you nothing different. Once you get up to par for stocktaking, you will notice that the collections of books have disappeared. I decided to donate them to a worthy cause – and you know how much of a fool I am when it comes to worthy causes … I did not want your anger to burn them – that would be so wasteful – and you would only have regretted doing it, once you calmed down.

I have left a letter for Paul Goodman, the young man who has been 
purchasing snooker items. He will be in the shop next Friday, the first of the month, to make payments which are no longer necessary as I have finished off the payments myself (no, not from your money). Please ensure he adds no further money to the shop’s coffers.

The letter for him is extremely important and I would appreciate it if you could see that he receives it. It will clear so many things up for him, things that perhaps should be left behind in the past, yet need to be told in the present. I had neither the courage nor inclination to tell him face to face while I lived, and like the coward I am (was) have left it all to paper and ink.

Ask Biddy to pardon the unpleasantness I left for her. I’m sure it was a shock for the old dear finding me sprawled out that way. I’m certain she fainted. I did it in the kitchen knowing it would be a lot easier to clean up, afterwards. Don’t say I wasn’t considerate to her. Or you …

Philip

Ps: Destroy the item you stole from my cabinet. I should have destroyed it a long time ago
…

Catherine had wanted to kill Kennedy herself, once she heard what he had done, over at the abattoir, acting the hero, dying for strangers, refusing to live
for her
. Then she wanted to kill him again, reading the letter, damning him for wanting to commit suicide
because of her
. Had he hated her that much? Despised her the way she had despised him?

“Mrs Kennedy? Can I bring you up some soup,” asked Biddy, timidly entering the bedroom. “Mrs Kennedy?”

“What? Oh … no, you go on home, Biddy. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to call in tomorrow. I must get better now. So many things to do …” whispered Cathleen, calculatingly low, as if she were on her deathbed.

“Don’t you worry about nothing, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll be at
your side for as long as you need me. It would be my pleasure,” lied Biddy, smiling a perfect melancholy smile.

“Thank you, Biddy. It’s great to know there is still someone I can depend on,” said Cathleen, sighing, returning the smile and the lie. “Just make sure you slam the front door downstairs. That new lock makes me nervous. I don’t trust it …”

Cathleen waited until an almost ideal silence returned to the room, quieted along with the curtains fluttering at the window. The only sounds that penetrated seemed far away and insignificant: the soft hum of traffic could be heard, but other than that, an almost perfect nothing, a negative hum that swallowed the sounds it made.

In the dark she lit a cig, refusing to break the chain.

A small evening breeze teased her hair while she studied the unopened letter resting on the table, almost admiring the two perfectly formed words on the envelope’s paleness: Paul Goodman.

She tapped her fingernails against it, debating, wrestling with the curiosity of a cat, desperately trying – half-heartily – to convince herself not to do what she knew was inevitable.

Slowly, expertly, she eased the envelope’s lip apart, careful not to tear; extra careful to leave no traces of forced entry.

Teasing the pages out, she rested them on top of the table, before making herself comfortable with the goose-feathered pillows firmly against her back.

There was a feeling coursing throughout her entire body, a feeling she hadn’t experience in a very long time, the feeling of power held within while some one else’s secrets were about to be exposed.

Dryness covered her lips and she licked them before commencing. She hoped this letter was longer the note she received. She hoped it would last all night …

Paul

Hopefully this letter will find its way to you, unopened and unread, though something tells me it probably will have been consumed by someone else’s preying eyes before reaching its destination.

“Bastard,” mumbled Cathleen.

Only one thing will be certain: once you have read the letter’s contents, your perception of me will have changed, utterly and forever, for the worse.

It is said that in the dead of night that man is prey to his truths, when guilty secrets begin to emerge from their unpleasant retreat, torturing. I have found that to be totally true.

In a lifetime, people develop certain beliefs that they cling to, even at their peril. Often these beliefs are defective, but they are felt as truths until something happens in life to bring about a realization that, perhaps, they have been wrong. No one likes to admit a mistake, but what if that mistake lasted a lifetime? Think how difficult that acknowledgment would be?

I was your father’s executioner; murdering him for a crime he did not committee. At the time, the ‘evidence’ against him for being a police informer seemed overwhelming. I had no qualms carrying out my duty. Three good men had died because of the information your father allegedly fed to the enemy. In those days of guerrilla-warfare, madness reigned supreme. Normal, decent men committed inhuman and cruel acts. No side was blameless …

It wasn’t until two years after the terrible deed of killing your father, was it learned that the real informer, a highly respected member of our organisation, had set him up. To add insult to injury, this creature was permitted to die peacefully in his bed (he died two years ago in Italy)
because no one was prepared to acknowledge the devastation caused by such a senior figure.

Strangely, I had read an interview by Kim Philby, a few weeks prior to the terrible event. You’re too young to know who Philby was, but he worked as a double agent for the Russians during the Cold War, setting up his comrades to be killed for his own dirty deeds. His words in the interview were chilling and quite prophetic:
to betray, you must first belong …

If only I had thought about those words, a bit more cautiously. Your father was a low ranking member of our organisation. He never would have had access to the high level information given to the enemy.

Initially, I justified my act by simply claiming it was done under orders, in a terrible time, when terrible things were done. Little comfort to you, but they say conscience is the ultimate guide, even while men deceive it, trying to transform it into something acceptable. I can honestly say my conscience has tortured me all these long years, my own nightmares consuming me to the bone. The dead, I discovered, can talk volumes
…

These last few months, I have been overwhelmed by those events and memories I’d thought long since erased from my consciousness. As the years gain momentum, the memory becomes more and more suspect and open to error, but your arrival at the shop was the beginning of the end for me. Many times I wanted to scream in your face what I had done, wanting you to find a weapon to kill me.
Kiliing for a living.

For more than fourteen years I have held a stretch of sand in my mind. There is, on the south bank of Greenwood Beach, a tiny cottage, long gone to rot. A few times I struggled with myself to approach it, search where the old well used to be. Only three weeks ago, I walked along the beach, seeing the ruin in the distance, telling myself to do the right thing by digging and searching until I found your father’s body. But no. It wasn’t to be.

I know nothing can be done to rectify this terrible tragedy. All I can offer is remorse. But is remorse enough to gain absolution? Only you can answer that, Paul. Always remember, there is no revenge so complete as forgiveness …

Philip

Engrossed, Cathleen only noticed her surroundings when she managed to drag her eyes from the letter, her gaze falling aimlessly into the distance. She had been sucked into the very fabric of the letter, mesmerised by the words.

She read it twice – as was her fashion with other people’s mail – and it struck her deeper than the actual contents of the letter left to her by Kennedy. She closed her eyes and thought of him briefly. She could hear the murmur of his voice oozing from the page; picture him sitting downstairs, beneath his books, writing this terrible, devastating letter.

For a brief, secret moment, Cathleen was overcome with a regret rarely acknowledged, but this feeling quickly filtered from her, replaced by the wasting anger of dead years.

She replaced the letter in its enclosure, and with damp tongue, sealed it for its rightful owner, never truly believing she would ever meet him.