The Redemption Factory Page 14

  A bone popped in Paul’s neck. It was loud in the room’s quietness. “He didn’t see you, did he? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here now. All you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

  “I know who did it …”

  “What?”

  “I know who did the murder.”

  Paul licked his dry lips, again. They felt like sandpaper.

  “Don’t tell me his name. I don’t want to know. Anyway, you can’t be certain of –”

  “Kojak.”

  “What?”

  “You know, that bald-headed cop from the old TV shows? Sucks on a lollipop? Massive baldy head? Isn’t that how you described him? We couldn’t remember his fucking name. Remember? Well, old Kojak made my shit come out quicker than a greyhound with six legs.”

  “You’re saying it was Shank? Even as a joke, that’s dangerous.”

  “It’s no joke. I know who I saw.”

  Paul shook his head. “It was dark. You can’t be one hundred per cent sure.”

  “Dark? Yea, but I was so close to the bastard I could almost reach and touch him. Do you want me to describe his cock? I got a good eyeful of that horrible beast – excuse the pun – while he pissed on top of me. The next time you see him, ask him if he is circumcised. That’s how sure I am.”

  Something cold and slimy had found its way into Paul’s body, housing itself inside his stomach’s lining. He was fearful of moving, as if any sudden movement would alert it. The blood seemed to have siphoned from his head into his feet.

  “What the fuck have you done, Lucky? Do you realise the shit you’re in?”

  Lucky remained silent. No smart remarks. No excuses. His face remained expressionless as a marble statue. Only the flush of whisky made his skin seem real.

  “How many people have you told this to? The truth,” continued Paul, nervously, steeling himself for the answer.

  “I’m not that stupid. You’re the first. I haven’t breathed a word to a soul. Why would I? I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep hearing the poor bastard’s screams. Horrible. Even more horrible? I keep hearing that bastard Shank’s whispering voice …”

  “You’re dead. Know that? If word reaches Shank that you know – think – he is somehow implicated in a murder, you’re dead.”

  “Go on. Keep saying dead. It’s almost as if you want me to be fucking dead. If I hadn’t went searching for you that fucking night –”

  “Don’t. Understand? Don’t try and lumber me with the guilt trip. It’s your moronic actions that got you into all this shit. Do you even realise the danger you’ve placed yourself in? I’ve seen Shank, up close and fucking personnel, and believe me, he is not a pretty picture at the best of times.”

  “So have fucking I,” said Lucky, flippantly. “In the fucking woods. Any other wise words of encouragement?”

  Paul realised that panicking Lucky would only add fuel to the uncertain fire. “Look, we don’t even know if this is true. There’s a possibility that you were mistaken, that you thought it was Shank because of his reputation. It happened at night. Right? Surely the darkness would have been an obstacle? Your eyes could’ve been playing tricks, couldn’t they? And why has no one even spoken of it? Not even a whisper?”

  Lucky allowed Paul to exhaust all possible theories, before talking. “I know you’re doing this to reassure me, mate, and I honestly do appreciate it. I’m sorry for what I said earlier, about you not showing up and all that shit. That was a load of nonsense. But you’re only clutching at straws. Do you want to hear something else, something so funny you’ll piss yourself laughing?”

  No, he didn’t. He wanted to be in the Tin Hut, having a laugh, playing snooker. He wanted to be a million miles away; away from Lucky.

  “I lost my gold chain; my good luck charm …”

  The muscles in Paul’s face loosened. “The one with Lucky engraved on it?”

  Lucky nodded reluctantly. “Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour?”

  “Oh fuck … where? Don’t tell me you lost it in the forest?”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you I lost it in the forest.”

  “Stop fucking about.”

  “It must have come off in the panic, while I ran. It was only when I got home, I realized it was missing.”

  Paul reached for the beer. He drank it quickly, feeling the rush hit his neck, scorch his throat. He coughed then spluttered, forcing some of the beer’s remnants through his nose. “Shit …”

  “Are you okay, mate?” asked Lucky. “Take another sip, easier this time. It’ll help stop –”

  “You’re not telling me the whole story about the gold chain. Are you? There’s little point in holding back, now. You’ve practically told me you saw Shank murder some poor fucker in the woods. I don’t think anything else will come close to that bit of information. Will it?”

  Lucky coughed, clearing his throat. He glanced at the remaining segment of whiskey in the bottle.

  “I … I think Shank picked it up … I’m not a hundred percent certain, but …”

  Bubbles of anxiety burned in Paul’s stomachs, like an over-strengthen laxative. He wanted to run to the toilet.

  “Picked it up …?”

  “It’s like a flashback. I can’t be certain, just flashbacks of Shank holding it to his grinning, rubbery face.”

  “That’s enough,” hissed Paul. “I don’t want to hear any more of your story. I don’t want to hear his name being mentioned, ever again.” For a moment, Paul thought that Lucky was ready to cry. Shit, he felt like crying himself. But what good would it do?

  “What are you going to do?” a sliver of suspicion toned Lucky’s voice. “You wouldn’t …”

  “Wouldn’t what? Go on and say it. Hand you over to Shank? You bastard. Is that what you think of me? Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should hand you over. He’d love me for that. Already treats me like the son he never had.”

  “I’m sorry, mate … I … I’m just scared. That’s all.”

  “Scared? You should be. One massive pile of shite. That’s how scared you should be.” Anger was quickly replaced with remorse. “I’m sorry, Lucky. I know you’re crapping them. So am I. So am fucking I, but that’s not going to help either of us. Is it?”

  “No …”

  “We’re going to have to think of something; something fast.”

  Lucky nodded.

  “We’ll have to play this tight to our chests. Okay?”

  Lucky nodded, again. He was becoming good at nodding.

  “On the plus side, Shank may not even have an inkling of the chain’s significance. Maybe he didn’t pick it up. If he had, you probably wouldn’t be sitting there now.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Lucky, his face tired and haggard. “Those straws you’re clutching at, really makes me feel so safe. But you know as well as I do that eventually Shank will figure it out. If you believe all these nightmare tales about him, that it’s impossible to take a shit without him knowing its weight, then you know I’m fucked. Any other reassuring words of wisdom? Like, get the fuck out of town, Lucky, while you still can? I’m your best mate, Lucky, but I’ve got to save my own arse first?”

  Paul shook his head. “Calm down. Together, we can work something out. The thing is not to panic and to stop that whining. We’re in this together. For better or for worse. We’ve got to find a safe place for you, until the dust settles a wee bit.”

  “Sounds like you want to marry me,” said Lucky. “The two Musketeers. That’s us. All for one, and one for all. Isn’t that right, mate?”

  Paul smiled, reluctantly. “Yes. All for one …”

  “Just like the old days, eh?”

  Paul nodded. “Just like the old days …”

  “You know I wouldn’t let anyone touch you, don’t you Paul?” said Lucky, a crooked grin stitched to his face. “I’d kill the first fucker who even thought about it.”

  Cramps were beginning to take hold in Paul’s stomach. He needed to take a s
hit, real bad. He was now an accomplice. He’d be dead if Shank found out.

  If?

  When …

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A SECRET SHOULD REMAIN JUST THAT

  “I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered every where.

  Congreve

  “The leader of the enterprise a woman.”

  Virgil

  THE HOUSE HAD a constant coldness to it. Even in warm nights, wood perpetually burned in the enormous fireplace, sizzling and crackling loudly, spitting out angry sparks upon the wooden floor.

  Geordie and Paul were immersed in shadow, as if they had been welded together in a dark silhouette.

  “Weeping demons,” said Paul. “That’s what my mother always calls sparks. Weeping demons. Said they’re the tears of the condemned …”

  “I saw sparks coming out of your arse, one night, Goodman. What the hell are they called? Farting demons?” she giggled.

  “Have you been drinking?” he asked, puzzled. “Marijuana? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  She giggled again.

  “No. It’s called contentment, Goodman. You should try it sometime.”

  Paul did not reply.

  “You’ve been so moody lately,” said Geordie, “that I’ve decided you’ve been punished enough. I’m granting you clemency. Your probation from this day onward has now been scrapped.” She kissed him playfully on the cheek.

  Paul would have loved hearing that news a few days ago, but Lucky’s predicament had dampened all emotions in him. An erection was out of the question. He hadn’t slept in days. Food was no longer enjoyable. Everything had become irrelevant, and he cursed Lucky, again.

  “That’s great news, Geordie,” he replied, smiling forcefully.

  “When it’s awfully quiet like this, you can almost hear the house breathing, as if it is a living thing,” whispered Geordie. “Listen.”

  Paul listened and the sounds became muffled, more soothing than he had imagined.

  Geordie was right; you could hear breathing, rolling across the floor, gently licking the windows, penetrated the walls and rooms.

  “I couldn’t live in a house this big,” said Paul, spooked by the sounds.

  “You big baby! Scared the bogeyman will get you?” she laughed, and moved quickly to force herself on top of him. “Besides, you did say you wanted to marry me, one day, didn’t you? Or at least you hinted that to Shank. So, this will be your home for quite some time, Goodman.”

  More sparks echoed in the dark.

  “Speaking of Shank; are you sure he won’t be home tonight?”

  “He’ll be back on Tuesday, at the earliest. So just relax. He’s on some sort of business trip. There’s no one here but us mice. Violet is still at the abattoir, doing the books. You’re talking midnight before she gets home. Feeling better? Feeling horny?”

  When he didn’t say anything, her voice became serious. “What’s wrong?” She squinted to read his face. “I thought you’d be rushing me up the stairs, ripping my panties off. Instead, I see a troubled face.”

  Geordie seemed to have developed an instinct for his emotions that allowed her to grab hold of them before they filtered through his skin. Lately, he had been able to gauge her frame of mind, also. It was uncanny, the similarities.

  “What’s wrong, Goodman? Why are you like this?” she asked.

  No particular reason except the profound sense of loss that my life could come to a dramatic finish, any day now … “Nothing. I’m just tired and stressed out a bit. I’ve got a tournament coming up …”

  “I’ve got a great remedy for stress. It’s in my medicine cabinet, next to my bed. No, actually, if I remember correctly, it is my bed.” She laughed, giggling shamelessly and he couldn’t resist it, couldn’t control the emotions bubbling up inside.

  “Geordie … have you heard of anything strange happening, lately, over the last few days?”

  She stopped laughing and her forehead lined. “Strange? What do you mean by strange?”

  He stumbled over the next few words, trying to sound casual, hoping to blunt the edginess in his voice.

  “Have you heard of anyone hurt – seriously hurt – in the abattoir?”

  “No … nothing serious. Just the usual cuts from the clumsy bastard, not paying attention. Why? Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing serious, at all? Any fights, if not in the abattoir, perhaps outside. Drunks fighting with knives? You know, too much booze in their veins?” He tried to laugh at the last sentence, but the laugh caught in his throat.

  “Fights …?” She looked at him oddly. “I don’t know what goes on outside the abattoir–nor do I care. If some idiot wants to prove his manhood, then let him. A few cuts never hurt anyone, Goodman.”

  “Not a few shaving nicks, Geordie. I’m talking about someone being killed, accidentally, in a knife fight.”

  She shook her head, and smiled slightly. “Have you been watching re-runs of Westside Story?” Her smile became broader, and suddenly, irritatingly, she began to hum the theme music of the movie, bringing her face closer to his, her voice louder and louder.

  “Stop it. Okay?” He eased her away, annoyed. “Look, if something happened, something like someone killed, it wouldn’t look good for the abattoir or Shank, would it? There have to be an investigation by the police. Wouldn’t there?”

  It was her turn to become annoyed. “What is all this about, Goodman? You’ve started to ruin what was going to be a great evening for us. Know that?”

  Fuck you, Lucky. How I’m beginning to hate the thought of you and all your fucking about …

  “Has Shank been behaving … strangely … I mean …” Paul’s voice trailed off. He couldn’t find the words; he didn’t want to find them.

  “Shank? Why Shank …?” Geordie stiffened. “What’s this all about, Goodman? If you don’t tell me the truth and stop treating me like a moron, then you’re heading out that door, and we are finished for good. No if ands or hairy fucking butts. Got that?”

  Once again he could detect that hint of menace in her voice; knew that if he didn’t tell her everything, he would surely lose her forever.

  Paul nodded, and the reluctant words stumbled from his mouth.

  “I’m in serious trouble …” He sounded just like Lucky, pathetic and whiney. How he hated him at that moment

  Geordie’s face transformed from anger to concern. “What kind of serious trouble? What’s wrong? There are no secrets between us, Goodman. If you love me, then you must trust me. Otherwise …” It sounded like an ultimatum.

  For the next ten minutes, Paul’s voice was detached while he relayed Lucky’s terrible night in the forest. At one point, he heard her breathing strangely, trying desperately to control herself. When he finished, she spoke quietly but harshly.

  “You’re a bastard, Goodman. No one knows better than me what Shank is capable of doing, but murder isn’t one of them,” she said, furiously.

  “I can only tell you what Lucky said he saw. You’ve got to believe me, Geordie.”

  “I don’t got to do anything, Goodman. You said yourself that you’re stressed out. Stress does strange things to people. Believe me, I’ve been full of the stuff at one time or another. It messes with your head until you don’t know what day it is.”

  “But Shank murdered some guy, years ago. He could do it again.”

  “Oh, that old rumour,” she replied sarcastically. “Shank never killed anyone in his life. I’ve heard those rumours myself at some time or another. The last I heard he had killed six men over a pair of socks.”

  “This is serious.”

  “I’m serious. Yes, he might have beaten a couple of men until they were an inch away from death, but he has never murdered or killed anyone, Goodman. This you must trust me with. Okay? Surely if anyone has an axe to grind against Shank, it’s me. Right?”

  Paul nodded.

  “And how come Shank is going about his normal duties in the abattoir? Wouldn’t I have notice somethi
ng? Wouldn’t his behaviour have changed in some way?”

  Paul sighed. “I suppose so. It’s just … I don’t know. Perhaps your right.”

  “No perhaps about it. I want you to forget all about this field trip your so-called friend had. If you ask me, he was probably sampling the magic mushroom littered about the place. Maybe this so-called friend Lucky can’t handle competition? Maybe he perceives me as a threat, and wants to cause problems between us? Did you think of that?”

  Reluctantly, Paul nodded. No matter what Geordie said privately about Shank, the man was still her father, and blood was always thicker than water. But what if she was right? What if this was Lucky’s perverse way of trying to cause problems, pretending to have seen something in the forest? Surely, Geordie would have detected something about Shank’s moods if the man had just murdered someone? Worse, if he thought someone knew he did it?

  Doubt was now creeping into the equation. Had Lucky manufactured the entire thing? Was he spaced out of his head, munching on mushrooms, fuelling the hoax with his bitterness?

  “I don’t want you to mention this nonsense ever again. You’re not that gullible, Goodman,” said Geordie. “In fact, you’re quite shrewd when you wish to be. From here on in, it is you and me. No-one – and I mean no-one – must be allowed to come between us. Agreed?”

  Her words administered balm, lifting a great weight from his shoulders. Secretly, he had wanted to hear those exact words, clear his conscience. “Agreed.”

  Geordie eased herself off the sofa and walked in the direction of the door, stopping directly beside it. For a heart stopping moment, he thought she was about to throw him out of the house, but the way she looked at him was an invitation. She opened the door, pausing in such a way Paul knew he was supposed to follow.

  “Trust me, Goodman. In about an hour, you’ll be laughing at all this.” She held out her hand. “And I better be laughing, as well. Or, at least, smiling …”

  They walked down the hall, instead of taking the steps up to her room – much to Paul’s disappointment.

  “Close your eyes,” commanded Geordie, opening the door of a room foreign to him.