The Redemption Factory Page 16

  “Have I asked for your opinion?” Shanks glared at Violet. “But you could be correct. Perhaps I have been mistaken? Your stubbornness can be quite lethal, Mister Goodman. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.” Shank glared at Paul before shouting to Taps. “Connect the ceiling hook. See that it’s secure. We don’t want any accidents, do we …?”

  Tap’s smiled and began to harness the pulley to a wooden beam directly over his head. A heavy-duty hook dangled from it like an inverted question mark.”

  “Leave him alone, Shank!” screamed Geordie, lunging at her father, before being grabbed violently by Violet. “No one is going to say anything. You’ve got him the way you always have people: terrified out of their wits.”

  “Everything is in the hands of Mister Goodman. If he makes the right choice, he will prove he is part of this family. If he doesn’t, then I’m afraid he leaves us with little room to manoeuvre …”

  “You will have to kill me as well, Shank,” said Geordie, calmly. “If you kill them, you better make sure that I am dead. If the cops don’t get you, I promise you that I will.”

  “You will go home now,” said Shank, looking directly at Geordie. “Taps will accompany you until you calm down. You know that everything being done here is for the good of us all. Don’t you?”

  “I hate you, Shank. I’ve always hated you, for what you’ve done to us, what you did to our mother –”

  Taps lifted her, immune to the kicking and punching, and pushed through the door. “I’m sorry about this, Geordie. But orders are orders.”

  Shank waited until quietness had returned before talking directly to Paul, again. “Remember when you first started in the abattoir, Mister Goodman, you saw that saying from William Blake in my office?” Shank pointed to the maxim attached to the wall, directly above Paul’s head.

  Paul did not answer.

  “No? Let me refresh your memory. ‘It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend’. Well, I was fool enough to regard you as a friend at that time, someone to be trusted. Now? You placed yourself against my face, and that has only one conclusion. It’s time for all of us to get serious …”

  Shank eased his bulk from the fat chair and walked over to the dangling hook, and tested it with the strength of his pull.

  “Do you know how Saint Peter met his martyrdom, Mister Goodman? No? Well, according to legend, he was crucified upside down. He said he was unworthy to be crucified like Christ …”

  Paul held his breath while his nerves pulled tighter on a knot resting in his stomach. Sour food was moving about inside. He desperately wanted to vomit.

  Shank’s immediate movement caught Paul by surprise as the chair was pulled from beneath him, sending his body crashing to the floor. Effortlessly, Shank lifted him by the ankles, and pinioned him upon the hook, his feet held in the angry nose of its curve.

  Terrifyingly effective, Shank’s movement was over in less than five seconds.

  “Now, Mister Goodman, we can go about our work without any interruptions.” Shank removed his shirt. He was perspiring, slightly. An odour was nesting in his skin; not body odour, but something more repulsive; something toxic. “Quite soon, most of the blood in your body will drain to your head. It is not often that both mind and body are taken to their limits, but you could be unfortunate enough to experience that tonight. You will feel dizzy and light-headed, as if the very essence of yourself is being shredded to nothing. That’s to be expected. In a few minutes, the brain will be doing little calculations, deciding on where to distribute the remaining blood in your system. Because you are now inverted, there is only one channel where the brain can possibly flood: the area surrounding your throat …”

  Paul felt the blood beginning to pump, downwards. He had seen this process performed in the abattoir, when apprentices were initiated into blooding piglets, preparing themselves for bigger, stronger livestock later on in their careers. He remembered how the blood always shot outwards, almost in a tangible, straight red line. All it took was a tiny nick from a finely honed blade …

  “Violet?” Shank nodded to his daughter.

  As if reading his mind, Violet smiled, reached and unlocked a small cupboard ensconced in the wall, revealing a tribe of lethal-looking knives, paradoxically beautiful in their ugliness.

  “You’re privileged, Goodman,” said Violet, her words sniggering in Paul’s ears. “We only use these on special occasions.”

  Paul could hear her grinding the blade, sharpening it. The sound screamed in his ears.

  “Please, Violet … I’m begging you. I’ve never done anything to you … I wouldn’t do a thing to harm the abattoir. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Shank went back to resting in his leather chair. He opened a drawer and removed a cigar from its box. “You can’t beat Cuban,” he said, more to himself than anyone in the room as he snaked the cigar along his nostrils, inhaling gently before his thumb rolled over a lighter, scratching out a flicker of a flame.

  Violet shook her head as she gazed at the inverted Paul. “I warned you, Goodman. Sleep with the enemy …” She grabbed one of his ankles and instinctively Paul began to wiggle and shake, rocking the hook to and fro as he felt the coldness of the blade touch his skin.

  “Please, Violet! You don’t want to do this!”

  “Oh, but I do. You just don’t know how much …”

  Paul could hear the tearing as she guided the blade down the leg of his jeans, stopping only when the highway of blue material ended at his waist. “Stop wiggling, you fucking cowardly worm!” She moved quickly to the other leg, slicing her way through. “Hey presto!” With one good jerk, Violet pulled on the ragged jeans, tearing them off completely.

  Violet feigned a gasp. “You naughty boy, Goodman! No underwear? You never struck me as the commando type.” She touched his languid penis, allowing it to rest on the flatness of the blade. “Not bad, Goodman. Almost the length of the blade. Balls could be a bit bigger, mind you, but all in all, not too bad. I guess that’s why crippled Geordie has been smiling, lately?” She laughed and quickly turned her attention to his shirt, disposing of it in less than ten seconds, the blade zigzagging through the cheap material.

  Completely nude, Paul could no longer talk. Something inside him had died, studding his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He felt like the edges of his sanity were on the move, spiralling out of control. A growing pressure swelled in his stomach, like a balloon being filled with water. The sensation moved along his gut, stabbing down into his bowels, seething, pushing through his arse.

  “You’ve shit yourself, Goodman! You’ve shit yourself upside down! Not too many people can boast of that!” Violet laughed until tears were in her eyes.

  Paul closed his own, feeling pain and shame. He didn’t care if they killed him, now.

  Violet pushed him, gently but firmly, watching him swing back and forth, like a pendulum. “Tick tock, hairy cock, shitty arse Goodman. Time is running out. Fast …”

  Lucky paced the floor in the upper room of his cousin’s house. He hadn’t slept in days, and was becoming more edgy with each passing hour.

  What the fuck was keeping Paul? He said he would call over, the first chance he got, let him know what was happening–if anything. Just keep your head low for a while, mate. As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Probably tomorrow, at the latest …

  But tomorrow didn’t come. The two days – caged up in this stinking room–most of it spent in darkness–was doing his head in. He had to get out, get the air about him. He had to find Paul …

  Chalky headlights suddenly lit up the room, and then were gone, startling him for a second, forcing him to stop pacing. He crept to the window, and eased the curtain to the side.

  Outside, a car rested in the street, exposed by the light from a streetlamp. The car’s metal skin was waxed in rain droplets the colour of blue ink making it look like a hastily drawn oil painting. He tried to see if someone sat in the car, but the doorbell interr
upted his concentration.

  Fuck!

  Tiptoeing, he crossed the room and eased opened the door, just a sliver, just enough to be able to listen if not see the late night caller.

  In wasn’t unusual for Lucky’s cousin, Jim-Jim, to get visitors at this time of night. Jim-Jim sometimes ran poker games, late into the night, and sold illegal cigarettes and any other black-market items that could help bring in some income, no matter how small.

  What was that? He heard something; steps dangerously close. Someone was coming up the fucking stairs! He sucked all the air in, holding his breath.

  He closed the door, gently, but kept his ear firmly to it. He speculated that it was probably Jim-Jim and a lady friend–no doubt the same noisy one from last night, all grunts and moans.

  His face reddened slightly thinking about last night’s performance. He shouldn’t have been listening, of course, but it was difficult not to. All that noise. They were hardly fucking miming!

  Someone knocked on the door. Fuck! Lucky’s heart went mad in his head. He tried to control it, but it was impossible. Gingerly, he edge away from the door, tiptoeing backwards, doing a moon dance.

  The door was rapped again, this time with a bit more urgency. The door handle turned, craftily, as if not wanting to be heard.

  Lucky’s lips moved, but no sound came out, as if he were staring in a silent movie.

  The door opened, slightly. Light bleached in from the landing.

  “Mister Short?” Lucky could see a hand reaching for the switch. A second later, the room came to life in light.

  “Who are … who are you? What do you want here? Where’s Jim-Jim?” Lucky squinted his eyes, sheltering them from the stinging light angling in from the opened door. He could barely see or make out the man standing before him, but something in his gut warned him to be wary.

  “Jim-Jim …? Oh! Yes, he’s downstairs, in the parlour. He was kind enough to allow me to come up and talk to you.”

  “Jim-Jim wouldn’t allow anyone up here … what did you say your name was? I didn’t catch it, the first time.

  “At the minute, we need only be interested in your name, Mister Short. You are William Short?”

  “William? Oh, him! You’ve the wrong cousin, I’m afraid. He’s in the Tin Hut playing snooker as we speak, that wanker. 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.” 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, I suppose.” 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.”

  “If … if I can …”

  “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.

  Lucky’s hand slowly extended. He hoped his hand wasn’t shaking too much.

  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? What do you want with me? 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 ARE 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, inside Jim-Jim’s house? 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.” Lucky’s teeth began to chatter.

  “You don’t need to be dressed for this kind of party, Mister Short. The car is parked outside. 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 bolted for the door, follow by the ponderous enforcer.

  Lucky made it down the first flight of stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time. He was already on the last flight by the time Taps had covered the first four steps at the top of the stairs.

  “Mister Short, I’m warning you!” screamed Taps, ploughing down the remainder of the stairs. “Don’t force me to shoot …”

  But this threat hyped Lucky’s nerves even further, sending him scurrying down the stairs, faster, out the door and pass the nose of the car stationed outside the house.

  He would wait until he was a few streets away, before finding a phone. 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 had he ever taken a shit in the woods?

  His thoughts were interrupted when the door of the car swung out, violently smashing against his legs, forcing him to the ground.

  “Wanker,” said Violet, emerging from the car, looking downwards at him. She smashed the sole of her boot into his face, crunching his nose, peppering bloody dots all over his clothes.

  He vomited, narrowly missing the nose-breaking boots, and while Taps roughly bundled him into the car, disregarding the broken and bloody nose, Lucky believed he had never felt pain like it in his life. Little did he know, that soon, he would understand the true meaning of real pain. And just as he found the strength to move, Violet kicked him, again, more forceful this time, knocking him out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY, DON’T IT?

  “There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that is your own self”

  Aldous Huxley

  “What madness is it to be expecting evil before it comes?”

  Seneca

  LUCKY AWOKE TO pain. The surrounding gloom frightened him for a moment as he tried to clear his foggy mind, trying to remember what had happened or where he was.

  He could hear a voice, calling his name. It was a soft voice; a reassuring voice.

  “Mister Short? I hope you enjoyed your nap?”

  “Where … where am I?”

  “With friends, Mister Short. Genuine friends …” Lucky heard a wink in the voice.

  Blood had hardened and darkened on Lucky’s face. It felt like he needed a shave. The stench of the place was everywhere, and despite his nose being broken, he could smell it, taste it resting in his throat. Thankfully, there was nothing left in his stomach as his eyes began to clear, exposing the figure sitting in front of him. There was little doubt in his mind that the figure was that of Shank.

  “At last we meet, Mister Short. The last we met, it was ra
ther … hastily.”

  Each time Lucky glanced at the baldy head, he couldn’t help having terrible flashbacks of Shank’s baldy circumcised cock, glaring at him in the forest, keeping its eye on him. A quiver ran up Lucky’s spine.

  Shank continued. “I’m sorry about the unfortunate incident with your nose, Mister Short. An accident, I believe?”

  “What … what is it you want?”

  “Want? I want to show you some pictures, Mister Short, tell me what you think of them, describe them to me.”

  From a drawer, Shank produced four Polaroid pictures, and placed them face down, on the table.

  “Pick one, Mister Short.”

  Reluctantly, Lucky’s fingers strolled along the top of the table, touching one of the pictures, before gently easing it out.

  “Good. Now, look at it, please.”

  Lucky turned the picture over. His lips curled in distaste. A large piece of bloody meat sat staring at him from the picture. A carcass of a cow, perhaps, covered in shit?

  “And the next one, please,” said Shank, his voice soft and encouraging.

  Lucky repeated the process until all four picture rested there, glaring up at him. They all looked to be the same pieces of horrible bloody meat, each taken from a different angle.

  “What do you make of those, Mister Short?”

  Make of them? What the hell did that mean?

  “I … don’t know … meat, all bloody, ready for a butcher’s shop?”

  Laughter sounded behind him and for the first time, from his peripheral, Lucky saw the figure of Taps and that other bastard, the one who smashed his nose.

  “Well, after all, this is the abattoir, Mister Short. Bloody meat is what you expect. Wouldn’t you agree?” asked Shank.

  “I suppose …”

  Shank stood, then walked towards a large, opaque plastic screen which was centred in the room, dangling from the ceiling. He indicated for Lucky to come over, stand beside him. “Suppose, Mister Short?” Shank pulled back the edges of the screen. “I don’t suppose at all.”