The Redemption Factory (21 page)

“
T
HERE IS A
young man and woman looking to speak to you, Mrs Kennedy. Should I show them up?” asked Biddy.

“Are they selling something? Tell them we’re not –”

“No. They’re not selling. They want to speak to you about Mister Kennedy’s death.” Biddy crossed herself, before continuing. “The young man says his name is Paul –”

“Goodman,” intercepted Cathleen. She smiled a nervous smile; a smile of acceptance and anticipation.

“Shall I show them up?” asked Biddy.

Cathleen seemed in a trance. “Yes – no, wait. Tell them to
come back within the hour. It’ll give you time to freshen the room up. Speaking of which, the bedpan needs emptying.”

“I’ll be back in a tick, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll let the young people know what you said,” replied Biddy, turning to go back down the stairs.

“And some nice scones for our visitors, Biddy. Plenty of raisins in them. I’ve grown quite partial to raisins. Not as runny as the prunes …”

Biddy waited until she had left the room before mouthing secretively, “Not as runny as your stinking arse, Mrs Partial Prune.”

Almost one hour later, Paul and Geordie were shown into Cathleen’s bedroom. Windows were partially opened, allowing the faintest of breezes in.

“Well?” asked Catherine. “What is it you want to see me about?”

Paul’s face retained dying scars, their paleness resembling tiny strips of paper. He forced a smile and the tiny strips whitened. Remnants of stitches still hung ghoulishly from his busted lips.

“My name is Paul Goodman, Mrs Kennedy. This is my fiancée, Geordie –”

“Yes yes. Get on with it. What do you want? I haven’t all day,” interjected Catherine.

Geordie’s eyes narrowed slightly. She stood holding her newly acquired clutches. Paul had the terrible vision of Geordie cracking Catherine over the head with them.

“We’ve come to offer our condolences, Mrs Kennedy and to tell you how Mister Kennedy died, saving our lives,” said Paul.

Cathleen’s eyes locked onto Geordie.

“What is wrong that you need crutches?” asked Cathleen, impertinently, continuing her stare, ignoring Paul. “Have you broken your leg, also?”

“No,” replied Geordie. “A childhood ailment. I need crutches when climbing stairs, now.” Paul had warned her about this old woman, but for the sake of Kennedy’s memory, she had agreed to restrain herself.

“And you navigated the treacherous stairs just to visit me?” If Cathleen was appreciative of Geordie’s Herculean effort, she showed no indication. If anything, her look was one of contempt.

“To offer my condolences, actually,” corrected Geordie.

“A bit reckless and stupid. Don’t you think?” replied Cathleen, smiling like a cobra.

“The stairs? I’ve conquered bigger obstacles, in my time. The bigger the better. I enjoy being reckless,” replied Geordie, a mongoose preparing to strike.

Paul sensed things were turning nasty and quickly cut in. “You don’t need me to tell you how your husband was a hero, Mrs Kennedy. He saved my life, as well as Geordie’s.”

Catherine snorted. “A hero, eh? Perhaps if he hadn’t acted out his fantasies, he’d still be here in the real world, helping to run this shop, help pay the bills – most of which were caused by his generosity.” She looked away from Paul, and stared directly into Geordie’s eyes. “It was your father and sister, wasn’t it? The police told me. It was you who came to the shop, that night, banging and banging. Wasn’t it?”

Geordie nodded. “Mister Kennedy was the only person I knew. I didn’t want him to go to the abattoir. I thought he
would get help from somewhere.”

“Help? Ha! Pathetic Philip could hardly help himself.” The statement was full of brutality, void of mercy.

“We must be speaking about a different person,” said Geordie, defensively. “The man who was with me that night, was more than capable of defending himself. He was more than a match for Shank. I never saw anyone stand up to Shank the way he did, that night.”

“You knew him for how long? An hour? A day? And you’ve become an expert on Philip Kennedy?” sneered Catherine. “Did you know he was ready to blow his brains out – what little brains he had – all over my kitchen? Oh, did I shock you? I thought you already knew that, you being such an expert.”

Paul and Geordie stood there, numb, disbelieving.

Geordie’s mouth made a movement, as if to contradict, but nothing materialised from it.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” continued Catherine, unabated. “You probably prevented him from committing suicide here, only to bring him to his death, over at the abattoir.”

Like an angel sent from heaven, Biddy pushed open the door, steam rising lovingly from a teapot. A tiny squad of scones encamped themselves beside it.

Biddy placed the tray down and spoke directly to Geordie. “Now young lady, sit you over here, beside Mrs Kennedy. What are you doing standing, anyway?” she smiled, friendly. “If you’re waiting for Mrs Kennedy to ask you to sit, then I’m afraid you’ll be standing the entire visit. Isn’t that right, Mrs Kennedy?”

Cathleen glared at Biddy. “Why don’t you make me up a
nice prune juice for later on, Biddy? Make it an
extra large glass, please
.” The last four words came out like a hiss from a leaky radiator.

Biddy mumbled something before disappearing out the door.

An awkward silence had now settled into the room. Only the sound of Paul slurping his tea could be heard. Geordie’s tea and scone remained untouched.

“Geordie’s gonna have a baby,” said Paul, unexpectedly, his face flushed with pride. “If we have a boy, we’re going to name him Philip, in Mister Kennedy’s honour.”

If Paul thought Catherine would be happy at that little titbit, he had miscalculated.

“Isn’t that nice? I’m sure he’ll be well pleased – wherever he is,” replied Catherine. “To be frank with you, I don’t approve of babies having babies. I don’t approve of babies, at all. Thank God I never had the urge to have any.”

Paul glanced at Geordie. A storm was building in her face. Any second now, she would release it. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth.

“I think it’s time we went,” said Geordie. “I’m sure Mrs Kennedy needs her rest.”

“You’re beginning to sound like my doctor, little missy. And if there is one thing I do not need, it’s another doctor,” said Cathleen, scornfully. “Doctors?
Doctators
, is what I call them. Little
doctators
. I’ve had my fill of them and their damn pills, their expensive advice …”

“At least we have something in common,” replied Geordie, positioning the crutched under her arms, ready to go.

“And that is?”

“Our healthy disrespect of doctors. Mine told me it was unwise to have a baby, spoke to me as if I were some sort of strange creature from another planet, void of all human emotions. Told me –
ordered me
– to have an abortion. Advised it wouldn’t be
sensible
to have another disabled being on this earth. I wasn’t too long in letting him know what he could do with his advice.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Catherine. “Yes, I’m sure you did …”

Had a slice of respected crept into Catherine’s tone? Paul thought he detected it while setting down his cup, placing it on the table beside the window.

Cathleen’s eyes instinctively caught the movement. The letter, address to Paul Goodman, rested on top of the tablecloth, face down, just beside the lamp. It had sat there, all this time, as if waiting for its rightful owner to return and claim it.

The red flush entering Catherine’s face, when Paul’s fingers accidentally knocked the letter to the floor, did not go unobserved by Geordie.

He bent and picked it up. “I’m sorry about that, Mrs Kennedy. Guess I’m not used to being invited to tea,” smiled Paul, sheepishly, extending the letter towards Cathleen.

Catherine said nothing, staring intently at the outstretched hand, and the letter in its grasp.

“Mrs Kennedy? Mrs Kennedy?” asked Paul, startled by the dead look on Catherine’s face. “Are you okay? Should I call your maid?”

“It’s addressed to you,” said Catherine, her voice a whisper.

“To me?”

“It’s from your hero.”

“My …? From Mister Kennedy?” asked Paul, puzzled.

“Yes …”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not now, perhaps,” said Catherine. “But you will.”

Open it. Discover the real Philip Kennedy. Tell me if you still think he’s a hero. Go on. Open it now. Read it aloud. Let me see your devastated, hero-worshipping face
…

“Let’s go, Paul,” said Geordie, her voice recognising something not quite right with the scene unfolding before her.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” said Catherine, hurriedly stretching over to reach for the drawer. But the suddenness of her movement, coupled with weeks of inactivity strained her withered muscles. With a determined grunt, she overcame the stitches of pain in her rib cage and eased open the drawer. “You might be interested in this, also. Funny thing is, Philip Kennedy thought he had lost it. Searched high and low for it, he did, with no success. All the time it was down the side of my bed. Can you believe that for a coincidence? Perhaps if he had looked there …”

“What is it?” asked Paul, taking the item from Catherine’s hand.

“Some sort of tape, I believe. Probably some of his favourite songs on it. I’m sure you’ll find his taste of music … interesting.”

Paul glanced at the tape before putting it in his pocket.

“Thank you, Mrs Kennedy. I’ll always treasure it.”

“Good for you,” said Catherine, her voice hollow and faraway, no longer directed at any one in the room. “Good for you …”

A
S A CHILD
, Paul loved to listen to the wind while he waited for the school bus in the mornings. But this wind, skimming across tumbling sand and angry sea, made the hair on the back of his neck feel funny. It made him feel tired and strangely old.

He watched families gather up their belongings, leaving empty boxes and bottles to litter the beach’s sandy tongue. Parked cars shimmered in the evening heat, all silvery and scaly, like stranded salmon captured upstream upon the rocks.

At last, he took a deep breath, placed his finger on the ‘play’ button, and squeezed the sound from the tape, conscious of its whispery whirl. It crackled, like webs set on fire and his
heart began to beat furiously anticipating what he had heard a hundred times already, over the last few days.

For a few seconds, only the sound of a chair being disturbed could be heard as the tape whirled its white noise. Then came sporadic coughing in the background. There was another sound in the background, faint and faraway. Upon his initial hearing, he hadn’t quite captured what that sound had been. Now, after numerous playbacks, he knew it to be the sounds of gulls and crows fighting over food; fighting over dead things …

“Your name?”
asked a voice from the tape. Paul tried to picture the voice’s owner. What did his features look like? Angry? Calm?

Silence. Some coughing. Then …

“Thomas
…
Thomas Goodman. Most people call me Tom
…
”
There was a quiver in the voice, a nervous hesitance.

Paul’s heart never failed to reach his throat each time his father’s voice sounded on the tape.

From his pocket, Paul produced an old black and white photo of his father. His father was smiling in the picture, arms folded, not a care in the world. Paul’s mother stood awkwardly beside his father, smiling shyly, her face partially hidden from the camera’s eye. She looked so young – they both did.

Paul tried to push his memory back, tracing the very first time he had heard his father’s voice. He couldn’t recall. In all truth, he was probably too young to have remembered it. Now, hearing it on this – this nightmarish device – it stunned him into silence and a realization of such a vast expanse of time, only revealing itself in tortured words, his father’s voice a flimsy shadow living in hell, and it sounded so heartbreakingly
terrible it infuriated him, eclipsing his sorrow.

Initially, upon reading the letter from Kennedy, Paul had been confused. Was it the rambling of an old man contemplating suicide, his faculties dulled by an unbalanced mind? What if the words were from the sick fingers and mind of Catherine Kennedy, her jealous and bitter world tunnelling through her broken, hateful body?

He believed not a word of the letter, at first, almost tearing it up in defensive anger of Philip Kennedy, the man he regarded as a hero. But then came the tape, piquing his curiosity as it sat on the kitchen table, glaring at him with its hollow, owl’s eyes.

How much money were you given?

There was an immediate lull in the tape’s continuity, then came the voice, again.

I keep telling you. I wasn’t given any money. I don’t even know – arggggggggggg
…

Urgently, Paul hit the stop button. He felt dizzy, again. All his blood had been summoned to one spot. Every night for a week now, he found himself shocked awake with a pounding heart. Why was he tormenting himself, over and over again?

Geordie had asked that same question, but he couldn’t answer.

He pulled his mind back to what was going on around him, focusing on gulls hovering in the distance, thinking how he could just sit here for a very long time, especially in late summer, when the wind gets a bit blustery, and the gulls come out of the sea mist swooping up and down in their quest for food.

The sun began to slowly spill into the earth, bringing the
beginning of tomorrow’s cool wind bleeding northwards. The breeze off the beach felt cold on his face. White patches of foamy water hissed in his ears. He could smell ozone; could smell the keen smell of starched linen and it made him think of his mother, dressed for church on Sundays, and it made him feel so terribly alone.

No. A million times no. I did not – arghhhhhhhhhhhhh
…
bastards!

Bastards, thought Paul. Bastards.

Time slipped by, unnoticed, and when the sun finally died, the sky was still light from where it shone somewhere else, leaving fingers of silver and red across the sky.

A new moon began to appear, ghostly, sickly thin.

Closer to shore, roiling swells broke the moon’s reflections into a thousand tumbling pieces, while Paul’s eyes darted from surf to sand, searching for a telltale glint, a clue. Something. Anything …

He thought about Lucky, his terrible death and what if he, Paul, hadn’t told Shank everything he wanted to know, albeit under torture? What if he hadn’t mentioned it to Geordie while Violet listened to every word? What if … what if … what … if …

He became as still as death as he listened to the tape one more time, remembering Shank’s quote from Blake, that is was easier to forgive an enemy than a friend.

From his pocket, he removed Kennedy’s crunched-up letter and flowered it out. He lit it, allowing the flames to lick greedily at the tape, sizzling it into a blackened blob of plastic.

He remembered Shank’s quotes, but thought Kennedy’s more appropriate, wiser: forgiving is not forgetting. It’s letting
go of the hurt, and that once forgiving begins, dreams can be rebuilt …

Over the last few days, Paul had felt like something was being torn down and rebuilt inside him. Kennedy had found his redemption in the abattoir and Paul had forgiven him. Now it was time to forgive himself …