The Redemption Factory (6 page)

“Ever watch Gene Kelly in
Singing In The Rain?”
asked Willie, undeterred by the anger in Paul’s stormy eyes.

“Rest your bucket mouth,” whispered Paul, menacingly. “You can be heard a mile away.”

To Paul’s chagrin, Willie began doing quick spins and high kicks, before bursting into a melody. “I’m singin’ in the rain. Just singin’ in the rain. What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again. I’m laughing at clouds. So dark up above …”

All I need is for it to start bucketing and this maniac to start bouncing off lampposts. He really does think he’s Gene Kelly. Scary. Very scary, indeed.

“The sun’s in my heart. And I’m ready for –”

Lightening – fast, Paul grabbed Willie by the shirt. “I know what you’ll be ready for if you don’t shut up. You’re bringing attention to us, you maniac.”

Defeated, Willie continued the journey in silence.

It wasn’t a two-minute walk. More like seven minutes. But when they reached Willie’s house, Paul felt relieved, as if reaching the sanctuary of a castle.

“Wait here, mate. I’ll be back in a second.”

Mate? No, that isn’t part of the deal,
thought Paul, watching
the figure disappear up the stairs.
Cream and goodbye
.

Willie’s judgement of time seemed totally out of sync with reality. A second turned into a minute; a minute turned plural, and just as Paul turned to leave, Willie came rushing down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“Sorry, mate. I couldn’t find, it for a while. He had it hid.” Willie was breathless. “Here, get that slapped on your face. Bloody magic, that stuff. My da swears by it.”

“Put it on here? Now?” asked an incredulous Paul. “Go home with cream all over my face like some woman out for the night? Wouldn’t I look the right one? Are you trying to wind me up, Will
ie?
”

“No! I wouldn’t do that, mate. But my da uses that every night. He’d go totally buck-mad if it was gone.”

“Buck-mad? I’m the one who must be buck-mad, listening to a raving lunatic like you.” Despite his reluctance, Paul knew he had little choice, and slowly dabbed the cream all over his face. It felt un-natural, girlish, but he was encouraged by the words of Willie.

“You can hardly see the cream, mate. And in the dark, no one will notice it. I’m telling ya, my da –”

“I know, swears by it. And stop calling me mate. We’re not mates. Understand?”

“Okay, Paul,” smiled Willie, undaunted.

“How come you know my name? I never told you it.”

“Are you kidding? Everyone knows you. Paul Goodman. The man you don’t fuck with.”

Paul felt his face go red and wondered if it was the cream burning his skin?

“Well … here, take your cream … thanks …”

“No sweat, Paul. Do you want me to walk you home? Badger and the gang will be over at –”

“No! No … I’ll manage.”

It was only the next morning when the miracle happened, did Paul appreciate the strange encounter he had had with the even stranger William Short. The swelling in his face had mysteriously disappeared. Only a few lines of damaged skin tissue turned purple and blue revealed any trace of the hammering the night before.

“Amazing. A fuckingmazing …” whispered Paul, studying his face in the mirror, delighted. He was so delighted, in fact, he decide to call over to William’s house to thank him.

When Willie saw Paul at his door he couldn’t believe it, such was his joy. No one had ever called for him. No one. So startling was this development that the neighbours glanced out their windows, witnesses to an event they believed was not possible.

“Look,” said Paul, sheepishly, “I just want to say thanks … you were right, the cream was magic. Even
I
swear by it, now.”

They both laughed. Willie’s mother, working in the kitchen, smiled. It was a long time since she had heard her son laugh. Willie’s father, up-stairs preparing for the afternoon shift at the steel works, nodded to himself. He always knew his son would be okay

“Can you get me the name of that cream? I’m gonna tell my trainer about it. He’d love that sort of thing.”

“You can get it over in
Thompson’s.
”

“The chemist shop?”

“Yes, over on Clifton Street.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Easy Shift
. It’s haemorrhoid cream.”

“Hema what cream?” asked Paul, puzzled by this strange sounding name.

“Haemorrhoid cream. You know, piles.”

“Piles? Piles of what?” This was becoming more confusing. Paul wished he hadn’t asked now.

“
Piles
. You know, those things old people get up their arse.”

“Up their arse …” Paul felt bewildered “What the fuck do you mean? What’s up their arse?”

“Piles – haemorrhoids. Bunches of swelling blood shaped like grapes. Old people stick the cream up their arse to make the swelling go down. My da uses it every single night. Swears by –”

“
Arse cream?
You made me stick arse cream all over my face? Are you fucking mad. If this ever gets out I’ll be called Arse Face for the rest of my life, you mad bastard.” Paul made a lunge for Willie, but it was too late. The front door had already been slammed. “You ever,
ever
breathe a word of this, Will
ie
, you’re dead,” hissed Paul, threateningly through the letterbox. “Do you hear me?”

“You’re my best mate, Paul. I would never tell a soul. Honest …” replied Willie, hunching down to speak to Paul through the other end of the letterbox. “The moment I saw you I knew I wanted you for a friend – a best friend. I’m so lucky …”

“I was over near North Queen Street, yesterday,” said Paul, handing Lucky his pint. “There’s an old pawnshop at the bottom of the New Lodge with a great collection of cues.
In about four weeks, I’ll have one.”

“Listen to Rockafella,” grinned Lucky. “Just make sure you get me a few pints in between, before you start setting the world on fire with all your money.”

Hugging their pints of Guinness, the friends strategically sat themselves down in the far corner, their backs against one of the two potbelly stoves heating the Hut on cool nights like this. Paul felt a satisfying glow emanating from the pregnant belly of the stove plus they had the advantage of seeing the competition in action, warming up in the rows of snooker tables.

“The owner – some old man with sideburns like Elvis – didn’t seem too enthusiastic when I started asking him the price of some of the cues,” continued Paul. “It was almost as if he didn’t want to sell any item in the place.”

“That’s Philip Kennedy. He’s not the owner. His wife is,” said Lucky, sipping on the beer.

“Still, you’d think he’d be only glad of a sale. Didn’t look like they were doing too much business, when I was there.”

“Would you listen to yourself, bursting with so much money, you don’t know what to do with it. Anyway, if you knew that poor bastard’s wife, you’d understand why he looks so fucking miserable. Cathleen ‘Zipper’ Kennedy. Know her?”

“Unlike you, Lucky, I’ve better things to do with my life than to know every one in this town.”

Lucky took another sip of Guinness. The only thing better than a nice cold pint of Guinness was a nice cold pint of
free
Guinness.

“Cathleen came from a well-to-do family. Rumour had it she looked like Marilyn Monroe … only ugly. Her da – Jacky
Denver – was in the scrap metal business. Loaded to the gills, the bastard. Years ago, he bought an old rusted ship down in the docks, repainted it and sold it to a dictator in some tiny country. Made a fortune – as well as all the headlines. Anyway, when he died he left most of his money to the Church – probably trying to buy his way into heaven. Cathleen received a few crumbs and from the crumbs came the pawnshop. Not much really, when you consider what her da owned at the time. You can imagine the bitterness eating away at her arse, all these years. A princess relegated to a pauper.”

“Well, she stills owns more than most people in town. Fair play to her,” Paul managed to say, just before the smirk appeared on Lucky’s face.

“Fair play, you say?” Lucky sipped the Guinness slowly, peering over the glass with razor eyes. Paul knew that look could only mean one thing: he, Paul, had walked right into a big pile of shit.

“Fair play, you say?” reiterated Lucky, placing the glass on the table, smiling his fox-with-a-chicken-in-its-mouth smile. “She wouldn’t know fair play if it bit her in the arse. Do you know why she is called Zipper?”

Paul didn’t answer. There was no point.

“She was also one of the main moneylenders in town. A great bitch of a woman. She carried her own bankroll, hid inside a concealed, zipped-up compartment of her sanitary towel, to deter would-be robbers. Shit, you’d have to be brave to venture near her undergarments. Talk about bloody blood money!”

Paul laughed so loud, snot and beer went flying from his nose, forcing him to snort back the snot just to breathe. “Get
the fuck out of here! You just made that up, there now.” Paul wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“If I could make that sort of shit up, I’d make a fortune as a writer,” grinned Lucky. “They say she still carries her money in one, even though her days are long gone. Can you imagine the look on the undertaker’s face when he comes across that? A sanitary towel on an old woman, and it stuffed with money? Fuck! What I’d give to be there when that pops out.”

They both laughed, quietly this time, heeding the warnings from serious faces painted on the snooker players.

“Do you want to hear something even funnier?” asked Lucky.

“Funnier than Zipper?”

“Rumour has it that her husband, Philip, was a member of some sort of gang, years ago. One of their top men, I heard.”

“A gang? That old guy? What kind of gang?”

“It’s hard to pronounce their name. One of those secret gangs that everyone knows about! Something like N R Key. You know, one of them that goes about causing mayhem, shooting people and all.”

Paul grinned. “Don’t be daft. That old man couldn’t hit the toilet when he pisses. This time, Lucky, you’ve
out-exaggerated
yourself, mate. Could you picture him holding a gun, his hands shaking like jelly, before he shoots himself in the foot? I’m only telling you what I heard. He was a bit of a hard man, in his time. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?”

Paul grinned. “What happens all the time? You not buying a drink?”

“Go on, grin like a fucking baboon. Suits you right down to your red arse. Time. That’s what I’m talking about.
It mellows a person. Doesn’t it? All that fighting has to do your head in after a while. Right? The old bones and reflexes no longer working. You want a bit of peace in your old age. Right? Anyway, it’s the quiet ones you need to keep an eye on. You can’t tell a book by the trousers it wears.”

They both laughed.

Apart from the bright lights hovering over the tables, the snooker room was a dark chamber of faded green wallpaper and woodworm-infested trimmings. A dim light was oozing through orange curtains painting everything in a misty colour of burnt copper. Racks of skinny cues lined the hall like rifles equipped for war. A montage of battered photographs – depicting snooker heroes – covered what the green paint missed.

“Now, tell me again about all those workers,” encouraged Lucky. “Seem a right bunch of nutcases. Thank god it’s not me working in that place. Did you get to see Shank, the owner? Heard he’s a real hard fucking case.”

“
See
him? He gave me a personal tour of the shit-hole. Do you know who he looks like?”

“No. Surprise me.”

“Do you remember that cop on the old TV show, years ago? The one who always sucked a lollipop and said something like ‘who loves ya, baby’? Big baldy head, all massive and lumpy? I can’t remember his name, but he’s a spitting image of him, only more muscular. Looks like two men built into one.”

“Yes. I think I know that cop show. What the fuck was his name? Ironside, wasn’t it? That was it,” stated Lucky, grinning, appreciating his knowledge of all things useless. “I’m
one hundred percent certain. Ironside was his name.”

“No. He was the one in the wheelchair. He had plenty of hair.”

“Fuck! You’re right. Now I’ll torture myself all day until I get his fucking baldy name. Wish you hadn’t told me.”

“You asked”

“Did you get to see Taps? What’s he look like? I heard he makes King Kong look small. And what about that tattoo in his mouth? Is it true, or what, about his smile?”

It was also rumoured that Taps had the words
YOU ARE LYING
tattooed on his gums, visible only when he smiled; the smile soon becoming a poisoned chalice for the recipient.

“He didn’t smile at me – thank fuck. And as far as the rest of the workers, well, I can honestly say that you, Lucky Boy, would not last a minute in there. Geordie would have you for dinner.”

Lucky killed the last of his Guinness, belched before commenting. “You might be surprised, Mister Tough Guy. I may not be a boxer, but I could still end up kicking Geordie’s balls in.”

“I would be more than surprised, seeing as Geordie’s a girl,” laughed Paul. “And a handicapped girl, into the bargain.”

“A girl, working in the slaughterhouse? And handicapped? You don’t think I could beat a wee crippled girl? Have you no respect for me as a mate?” Lucky sounded wounded.

“Don’t worry about that. She’s not your average girl. In fact, she is unashamedly frightening.”

“To look at?”

Paul thought for a moment. “No. Actually … she is quite pretty. But there is something about her, all that anger, as if it
is all bottled up, ready to explode at any minute. She probably – deliberately – picked the abattoir to release all that anger on the creatures in there – human as well as animal …”

Paul seemed to drift, as if something was coming to him, hazily, something in a thought that refused to linger more than a second, then was gone when Lucky interrupted by saying, “Speaking of the abattoir. How are you fixed for getting some steak for my ma? She’ll give you half of what
Norton’s
charge.”

“I haven’t even done a day’s work in the place and everyone is hitting me for cheap meat.”