The Redemption Factory Read online

  Obeying, Paul felt a bit silly. “Can I open them now?” he asked, impatiently while been ushered inside.

  “Almost,” said Geordie and he knew from the sound of her voice that she had to be smiling. “Now!”

  Opening his eyes, Paul’s immediately focused on the single item dominating the enormous room.

  “Geordie …” He was speechless, making her laugh.

  “Well? What do you think? Do you like it?”

  A full-length snooker table spread majestically along the centre of the room. It obviously had seen better days, but to Paul’s incredulous eyes it was the most beautiful table he had ever seen.

  “Where did you … where did you get this? Am I dreaming, Geordie? If I am, please don’t pinch me.”

  She pinched him playfully on the arse. “No, you’re not dreaming, Goodman. Do you like it? It’s ours. One of Shank’s old customers had it turning to dust. He gave it to Shank as payment or something like that. And even thought it gutted me to ask Shank for anything, I asked him for it – for you. Happy?”

  He could hardly hear her. Tomorrow he would set about cleaning it, brushing it lovingly like a thoroughbred. The cloth looked in pretty good shape, but he’d have to get a professional in to make sure the entire table was level, no runoffs. He would bring the snooker balls given to him by Kennedy. Perhaps Geordie would let the old man visit, just so Paul could show-off, show Kennedy his talent? Who said dreams don’t come true? If Geordie hadn’t been standing beside him, he doubted if he could have controlled his emotions.

  “There is a catch, Goodman,” said Geordie, her face deadly serious.

  “There always is,” replied Paul, wearily. He knew this had all been too good to be true. “What is it?”

  Geordie smiled. “You teach me how to play snooker.”

  He kissed her, holding her tightly. “Reluctantly, I accept.”

  “Reluctantly? By the time I’m finished with your balls, Goodman, you’ll not know if they’ve been snookered or potted!”

  They both laughed, falling to the floor, fumbling with buttons and zips.

  Within minutes, all thoughts of Lucky’s dilemma were gone. The forest? What forest? All Paul could think about was beautiful Geordie laying beneath him, naked, cupping his balls, feeling their texture, their weight. Truth be told, he was finding it hard to remember his own name, at this particular moment …

  Somewhere in the great hall of the house, a phone was gently lifted from its cradle. Fingers silently tapped in a number. A few seconds later, a muffled voice of a woman could be heard.

  “He’s not here. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong –”

  “Listen, you old bag,” hissed the secretive voice. “Get Shank on the phone. Otherwise, you will be afraid. Tell him his daughter is on the line. It’s an emergency. Now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DANCE WITH ME, ONE LAST TIME

  “Our freedom as free lances, we shall have no time for dances.”

  Louis Mac Niece

  “Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”

  Hemingway

  FOR THREE FULL days, Lucky had stuck to the plan of staying with a cousin, staying out of sight. As soon as Paul heard anything, Lucky would be informed.

  “Just keep your head low for a while, mate” said Paul. “As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Probably tomorrow, at the latest …”

  But tomorrow didn’t come. The three days – caged up in the attic of his cousin’s house – had done his head in. He had to get out, get the air about him. He had to find Paul …

  The filthy streets with handbills fluttering loosely from crumbling walls, conveyed a strong sense of abandonment and loss. Not even a ghostly reflection of an onlooker in any of the tenement windows. To Lucky, the streets were as depressing as his cousin’s claustrophobic attic. The day wasn’t cold, but he was freezing. He quickened his pace and pulled up the collar of his coat …

  The Tin Hut has seemed the most obvious of starting points. In fact, it was probably the only safe place he could venture near.

  “You haven’t seen Paul about, Terry?” asked Lucky, nervously, stepping inside. He knew Terry hated him, thought him lower than scum. He had never said or done a thing against the man, but you’d have to be a fool not to notice the distain.

  Terry wiped at a glass before placing it with a family of others. “No, I haven’t,” he growled. “Looks like he finally took my advice and got rid of you, you pissy whoring waster.”

  A few sniggers could be heard from the card players in the far corner. “Nice one, Terry,” one of them shouted.

  “If … if you see him, will you tell him I was looking for him?” said Lucky, walking away, not waiting for Terry’s response.

  “No I won’t,” shouted Terry. “He’s better off without scum like you clinging to his arse.”

  Outside the Tin Hut, rain was falling rapidly, but with a hushed silence normally associated with snow. Despondency had seeped into Lucky. He scarcely felt the rain soaking through his clothes, making his shoes squeak like sponge.

  He debated whether or not to return to his cousin’s. Paul could be over there now, searching for him, some great news to lift his spirits. Paul wouldn’t let him down; no matter what that pig Terry Browne oinked. Fuck him. What would he know? Lucky couldn’t wait to see all their faces when he and Paul walked in to the Tin Hut, cues at the ready. Fuck, that would show them, the bunch of –

  “I said good evening, Mister Short.”

  Lucky stopped in his tracks. The rain was more forceful now, soaking his face, stinging his eyes. He could barely see or make out the man standing before him, but something in his gut warned him to be wary.

  “You’ve the wrong man, I’m afraid. He’s in the Tin Hut playing snooker as we speak. A lot of people mistake me for him.” A weird, plastic grin appeared on Lucky’s face.

  “Oh? Perhaps you’re right,” said the man. “You see, I only wanted to return this to him, hoping this wasn’t a wasted journey.” The man opened the meat of his massive palm, revealing a gold bracelet. “There’s only one Lucky, it says on it. Your nickname name isn’t Lucky, either?”

  Lucky swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple stuck out like a robin’s egg. He tried to swallow again, but couldn’t. He shook his head.

  “Pity. A wasted journey.” The man shook his head, also, and then smiled. “Tell you what. Could you do a favour for me? It would save me a lot of time and bother.”

  “I … I really have to get going. It’s my mother, you see. I was only out to get her some medicine. She has these terrible pains. And –”

  “Won’t take a minute of your time. Promise. You know what he looks like. You can give him this for me. Tell him an old friend found it for him, keeping it warm, like.” The man dangled the bracelet a few inches from Lucky’s face, slowly swinging it like a hypnotist.

  “Can’t … can’t you just … just go in there, yourself? Ask … ask anyone. They’ll point me … they’ll point him out to you …” Lucky’s teeth began to chatter.

  The man shook his head. “Against my religion, gambling dens. Know what I mean? I would go straight to hell if one of my dainty little toes touched the threshold of that terrible place. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t want me to go to hell, would you?”

  “No … no, of course not, but I really must be getting back to –”

  The man’s quick movement startled and mesmerized Lucky.

  “This shouldn’t take more that two minutes,” said the man, calmly cocking an enormous looking revolver at Lucky. The gun made the sound of a knuckle being cracked. “Don’t do any funny stuff and we’ll all be away out of here before you can say Humpty Dumpty crapped on a wall.”

  “What … what’s this all about? Who … who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I had already introduced myself. My manners have become atrocious, lately.” The man smiled stiffly, and magically the words you a
re lying appeared on his gums.

  Oh fuck …

  “People call me Taps. Heard of me?”

  A sound came from Lucky’s arse. “I’ve … I’ve sort of heard of you. But what … what do you want me for?” Lucky tried desperately to control his breathing. He wondered if he was to be shot here, outside the Tin Hut, in broad daylight? He farted, again, twice.

  “Mister Shank is having a wee get-together. A party, you could say. He’s invited you.”

  “Really? That’s very nice of him, and I really would love to go, but as you can see I’m not suitably attired for a party. I’m soaked to the skin, actually, and really need to go home and change. Please give Mister Shank my –”

  “You don’t need to be dressed for this kind of party, Mister Short. The car is parked on the other side of the street. You’ll be there in a jiffy. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Mister Shank. Would we?”

  But the nerves in Lucky took over. He had flashes into the future of straddling a wheel chair for the rest of his life, pushed by reluctant friends and disapproving relatives. Last week, before all this madness began, was probably his chance to have danced in the Boom Boom Rooms. God, how he loved his dancing. Then the terrible thought entered his head: murdered? What if –

  But his thoughts were interrupted when Taps touched him on the shoulder and the entire scene became surrealistic as Lucky Feet-On-Fire Short started doing his best Fred Astaire. Not your normal by-the-book dance, but a this-is-the-last-fucking-dance-I’ll-have-in-my-entire-fucking-life dance.

  And away he went, up and down the street, his nerves possessing his feet, his mouth denying them. “I can’t fucking help it! I swear to God and my dead Aunt Kate, It’s the fucking feet! They’ve taking control!”

  Taps stood there, watching, gun by his side, mesmerised by the madness of it all.

  Not too far away, in the next street, an ambulance had arrived for Mrs Harrison, an elderly lady prone to weekend heart attacks. Good food was allegedly served in the hospital at weekends, along with the viewing of a nice colour TV set, and this always caused cynics in the street to say Mrs Harrison was more interested in apple tart instead of a damaged heart.

  “Mister Short? I’m warning you now. Stop the fucking about. Stand still!”

  But this threat hyped Lucky’s nerves even further, sending him scurrying down the street, faster than his legs could carry, kicking them high in the air.

  That was when his luck ran out, smashing straight into the ambulance carrying Mrs Harrison.

  “He’s going to kill me! Help me, for God’s sake!” he screamed at the bewildered ambulance crew as they tried to calm him before placing him next to Mrs Harrison.

  “I know you, don’t I?” said Mrs Harrison, tubes dangling from her nose. “You’re the Short’s boy, the one who keeps everyone awake at night with all that silly dancing. Aren’t you?”

  Lucky didn’t answer. He was breathless. He wanted to remove the tubes from the nosey old bastard and ram them up her –

  “It is you, isn’t it?” persisted the now not-so-sick Mrs Harrison, removing the tubes from her nose to get a better view. “You mark my words, boy. One of these days, that stupid dancing is going to get you into a lot of trouble. Stop it while you can …”

  To Lucky’s relief, the ambulance started its engine. He would wait until it was a few streets away, before jumping out. He’d have to warn Paul. What if they already had him? What if Paul was already dead, chopped up and buried in some dark and lonely place, over beside the abattoir, in the shitty forest?

  Lucky wanted to weep. It was his entire fault. What an idiot he had been. Why hadn’t he listened to Paul, remained hidden in the attic? Why had he ever taken a shit in the woods?

  His thoughts were interrupted when the ambulance stopped abruptly for a second time, and Mrs Harrison began to complain that she would miss her dinner tonight if they kept on stopping.

  “Hello, Mister Short,” said Taps, grinning at the door of the ambulance. “That was very naughty of you …”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TWISTED SISTER? PUSSY CAT?

  “Never explain – your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe you anyway.”

  Elbert Hubbard

  “The master of the monstrous … the discoverer of the unconscious.”

  Carl Gustav Jung

  PAUL’S EYES RESTED on the severed pig’s head. It looked surrealistic, more so now than that first day he had entered Shank’s office. The pig’s smile seemed terribly real, as if it was having the last laugh at his expense. Real and terrible …

  The unexpected call to Shank’s office, just as Paul readied himself to go home after his shift, threw him into a state of uncertainty. A part of him had the feeling that this call wasn’t in regards to anything negative, but it was so unexpected that he felt that something unpleasant was quietly waiting to happen. He had no other option other than to ride the storm. That was three hours ago …

  He now sat in one of the chairs in the room, his hands and ankles fettered rope.

  Directly behind Paul, stood Taps, unmoving, speaking not a word. Geordie sat opposite, watched by Violet, her glaring eyes drilling into the back of her sister’s skull.

  Shank had just finished his tea, and a tiny mist of grey filtered from the remaining tepid liquid in the cup. A scene entered Paul’s head. It was the Mad Hatter’s tea party. He thought he heard the Cheshire Cat whisper: we’re all fucking mad here, you know …

  “Mister Goodman, in life there are always two paths. One easy; one hard. A stupid person will always take the hard path, making it difficult to find the way home. The smart person always locates the correct destination. You belong to this family, and I would certainly feel proud to have you as a son-in-law. I can see you running this place – or, at least, a significant part of it. You are someone to lead the workers to their potential. All I ask from you is a small piece of information. I’m sure you wish no pain on any of us because I know this has all been a mistake,” said Shank, leaning back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his massive baldhead. “One who makes no mistakes makes nothing, Mister Goodman. There is nothing to be ashamed about making mistakes. We all do it.”

  Where is your friend, Mister Short?”

  Paul swallowed the spittle resting in his throat. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in ages, since I started working in –”

  Shank closed his eyes. It was a sign for Paul to control his tongue, not to insult with such clumsy lies. Shank appeared to be whispering under his breath, counting, as if trying desperately to control his temper.

  “I have become utterly mystified at the emergence of the situation and dilemma facing us. Things we do not know make us speculate. Information, no matter how delightful, is always dangerous in the aftermath. Surely you understand the futility of withholding information? Disloyalty to the family is not permitted. This rule is not flexible; it is nonnegotiable. Yet honestly, I can say to you, hand on my heart that I still believe an accommodation can be found. Wouldn’t you want that, Mister Goodman? An accommodation to suit us all?”

  “Don’t trust him, Paul,” said Geordie, held by her sister. “He’ll kill you, once he has obtained all the information from you.”

  In a flash, Violet had a meat hook pressing against Geordie’s neck. A tiny dot of blood appeared on the white skin. “You’re such a selfish bitch. Always the me me me,” accused Violet, glaring into Geordie’s face. “The rest of this family have never entered into your considerations. Have they? Always the me. Me me meow.” Violet hissed into her sister’s face. “Mefuckingow. Remember, Geordie? The kittens at play? Do you remember how cute and cuddly they were before going for their nice swim in the bucket of dirty rainwater? Remember how I used to chase you, holding their stiff tiny bodies in my hands? Remember that annoying fucking meow and how you always complained it gave you the shits? But it was always left to Violet to bring silence to your ears. Strange, it was always easier for you to kill a bull than it was
to kill a kitten. Ha! I have never been able to figure that out. Perhaps you’re trying to prove something to yourself? Just remember that I have no qualms, either. Don’t ever forget that. And don’t think for one moment I’ll allow you to destroy this family. Do you understand?” She pressed the hook tighter.

  “Why are you taking his side? He has never loved you or me. He has hated us both from day one.”

  Violet smiled and a sliver of panic began to move in Geordie’s stomach. Geordie called that particular smile the preparation smile, a coffin handle smile. Something ominous was always certain to follow.

  “Because I was the one who killed the fucker in the forest …”

  Paleness attached itself to Geordie’s face while Violet allowed the silence to fester, loving the reaction, waiting for the right moment to continue.

  Geordie opened her mouth slightly as if to say something, but the words never came.

  “While you slept in your comfortable bed, dear Kitten, we were out burying the bastard who wanted to bury us. He was going to tell about the rotten meat. We would have been finished. And as usual, it was left to Violet to squeeze the kittens. Poor crippled Geordie wouldn’t have the stomach for it, only liked to profit from it. Isn’t that right, Kitten? Isn’t it?” she hissed.

  “Enough, Violet. We do not need discussions from you,” said Shank, calmly, yet menacingly. “Place the hook away from your sister’s throat. She is not the enemy here. No one is – yet. Isn’t that right, Mister Goodman?”

  The unknown can be a knowingly frightening place, but Paul was still focused enough in his conscious mind to understand the direness of the situation. He couldn’t acknowledge what Lucky had told him. They would kill him – kill them both. Probably kill Geordie, also.

  “If she isn’t the enemy, why didn’t she tell you about that bastard spying on us?” countered Violet. “Had I not come home early that night and heard every little word of betrayal, we would be in deep shit, right now. We don’t need him or her, Shank. Turn Goodman into fertiliser. I would get great pleasure from that.”