The Redemption Factory Page 18

  Geordie cursed silently to herself. The noise from her leg braces seemed to be a million times louder than usual. Regardless of how she tried to cushion the noise, the scrap scrap scraping sound of metal against cloth became keener.

  “Stupid crippled legs,” she hissed to the figure walking cautiously behind her. “Great idea? Right? A stupid girl and an old man coming to the rescue, taking on Shank and Violet, rescuing a stupid snooker player because he’s loyal to a half-witted mate who got him into all this shit …”

  Kennedy knew frustration mustn’t be permitted to sabotage their efforts – no matter how pathetic it looked. He was unwilling to consider the possibility of his own death, at this particular time. Otherwise, the hopeless situation of trying to rescue Paul would become direr. For a split second, something derailed his focus and he needed an anchor, something that would tether him to the familiar. He could hear Cathleen’s voice, mocking and laughing. Quixote rides Rocinante, and Sancho rides his burro Dapple. You are the perfect pathetic bastard, always chasing windmills. Always the windmills …

  An orange bulb, blackened by dirt and bugs, threw urine coloured light into the tunnel. If the tunnel was officially closed, it was obvious to Kennedy that few of the workers obeyed the yellowing warning sticker at the entrance.

  Cautiously, Kennedy breathed the entombed air within. It reeked of the spew that was human excrement, piss and a smell not unlike that of decaying rats, hugging the inside curve of the tunnel in a kind of paralysis. Manure, muck and dead blood all banded together, joining forces. Kennedy could taste it in his mouth. It wasn’t pleasant, and gave off some kind of vibration, like a tuning fork punctuated by too much feel.

  As he progressed, his eyes adjusted to the cobwebbed-filled interior. They were greeted to the sight of carcasses of dead birds carpeted on the ground, their fragile bones gleaming like hulls from tiny ships caught in rocks, each blending wickedly into an origami of shadows and repulsiveness. The ever-skilful rats had been proficient in stripping the flesh. It was a massacre, a feasting of the dead, and he was baffled how creatures of flight could have been captured so easily. Used condoms, their loads drooping like Dali’s pancake clocks, hung over the edges of loose bricks and rusted beer tins. Old, corroded water pipes hissed and spat in his face, blinding him periodically. Dark and dank narrow spaces had never bothered him, but he was finding it difficult to stay orientated. Geordie’s self-criticism – balanced against the uncertainty of whatever lay ahead – wasn’t helping the situation. The need to maintain a calm demeanour was paramount.

  “You wouldn’t have come to me if you thought for one moment I didn’t stand a chance against your father,” whispered Kennedy, hoping to keep Geordie’s confidence high. “We have the advantage of surprise on our side. It’s a good weapon to have.”

  Geordie snorted in exasperation. “If you’re trying to instil confidence in me, I’d advise against it. You’re the only one in this stinking town I know. I was hoping you could get some other people together, save Paul from Shank and Violet. I couldn’t call the cops – not on my own family; but if I’d known you were going to act out your Lone Ranger fantasies, I wouldn’t have gone banging on your door, either. And talking of weapons; that antique you have in your hand doesn’t actually fire, does it? If you think you can bluff your way out of this, then we’re in bigger shit than I thought. You should have grabbed one of those iron bars when I asked you.” Geordie made a motion with the mangled piece of rusted iron in her hand. “I can get to Violet with this, no problem. It’s your part of the plan I’m worried about. Actually, it’s the fact that we have no plan, is causing me to worry.”

  Kennedy forced a grin on his tired face. “There’s an old saying that snowflakes are one of nature’s most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together.”

  “Snowflakes?” Geordie laughed scornfully. “Ever see what a flamethrower can do to snowflakes? Well, that’s how I regard Shank. A human flamethrower. You better be prepared to get your arse burnt. I just wish we had another way of changing this.”

  Kennedy continued smiling, granting soft relief to the silence surrounding them.

  Geordie’s silence prompted him to ask. “Tell me the truth, Geordie. Why did you think that by coming to me, I could help?”

  She sighed. “Do we need this? I mean, right now?”

  “It might help me more than you could ever imagine.”

  A crafty wind came rushing down the tunnel. Geordie shivered, slightly.

  “That night, those few weeks ago, when I first met you, I saw how you looked at Paul …”

  A puzzled look crawled into Kennedy’s features. “How?”

  Geordie cleared her throat. “I don’t think you really want to know my gut-feelings on that night.”

  In the darkness Kennedy composed himself dreading what Geordie might know – might think she knows.

  “I’m always interested in feelings, Geordie. Especially those that come from the gut. Most times, the gut is more perceptive than a million eyes.”

  Hesitantly, she continued. “I thought … that night … you wanted to have sex with Paul.”

  Kennedy laughed, relieved. “Sex with Paul?”

  Geordie sounded embarrassed by the disclosure. “That was my first impression. You seemed overly … keen. Afterwards, I put it down to simple nerves. Perhaps you were always like that, meeting people … meeting young people.”

  “And has your impression changed? Or do you still believe I’m some old pervert chasing after young boys?”

  Her tone changed. “No, I no longer feel that way, at all. I think perhaps you love him, but not in the way I thought. I think you’ve become a sort of, you know, father-figure to him.”

  Kennedy did not reply. He listened to the last sentence, over and over again, in his head.

  A sense of silence, reinforced by the tunnel’s density, settled all about him. He could smell rain and mud and it stank like blood, but his eyes were excited over the dark rings that had formed under them over the past two years.

  What seemed like an eternity, ended with the door to Shank’s office coming fully into view. They walked toward it, moving stealthily, carefully avoiding the jagged sheet of light quilting eerily from the office window. Rain was coming down, hard and filthy, its pellets as black and round as rabbit dung. A great deluge was drowning the building. The strong stench of decayed meat crept inside Kennedy’s mouth. He breathed in that smell as if he’d been born to it.

  “That’s it,” whispered Geordie. “That’s Shank’s office, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise coming from it. You don’t think something –”

  “I want you to pay careful attention to what I am about to say,” cut in Kennedy, prohibiting her from saying the unthinkable. “I need you to walk in, as calmly as you can manage, and beg your father to forgive you, that you didn’t mean to run away. You didn’t mean to doubt or question him. Tell him you were confused and apologise for distrusting him.”

  “What?” whispered Geordie. “Apologise? You really are flaky – as flaky as your snowflake theory. Shank doesn’t understand words, only violence. He wouldn’t believe a word from my mouth –”

  Geordie was unprepared for what came next, the Jekyll and Hyde transformation of Kennedy’s features, his voice, his entire being.

  “Listen,” he hissed, grabbing her tightly by the throat, his voice radiating a low but steady warning. “This is not a game, little girl. Not a game of hide and seek, peek a boo, or all-ends-well. Understand? Paul Goodman is not the only one in danger. We all are. Now, you will do exactly as I told you. I don’t care if you have to cry or kiss and hug that bastard, but you will do as I say. If you don’t, I’ll break your skinny petite neck, drop you right at this spot. Do you understand, little girl?” Kennedy tightened the grip on her throat, hating the terrible necessity of inflicting fear into Geordie’s hate-filled eyes. Geordie would never forget the look on Kennedy’s face, something terrible and indescribable at that
exact moment as he stared at her, his eyes burning like embers. Later, she would remember that look as the glare of a killer weighing up in a split second how he deemed to dispose of a body.

  A slight movement from her head told him all he needed to know. All blood had drained from her face, transforming it into a powdered death mask hue.

  “Your tears are tools; manipulators that can procure us confusion and vital seconds. Sometimes, that is all one needs – a few precious, but vital seconds. Now, little girl, if you truly love Paul Goodman – and I believe you do – a few tears is a small price to pay. Don’t you think?”

  Geordie nodded, slightly, her face a grimace of pain

  Boldly, he reached out and stroked her hair. In another time and place, it would have seemed a nice, innocent gesture, perhaps reassuring. Not here. Not now. He meant it to terrify, exchanging one fear for another, ruthlessly and efficiently.

  “Good. Very good. Now, just ease the pressure on your fingers. I’m going to remove the bar from your hand. You will not say another word to me. The next time I hear you speak, will be when you are facing Shank. It’s up to you how all this ends. All up to you …” whispered Kennedy, his face an arrangement of weird and delicate features, of calmness and callousness, known by the few as a war face, the face of death.

  Geordie pushed away from him, and he watched as she disappeared in the direction of the entrance. He admired her, admired the natural courage she possessed, her strength and determination. She would hate him, after this – not that it mattered. He didn’t want to think of possible disasters. Not this time. Not ever again. He had moved beyond the boundaries of reflection.

  Something was returning to him, to his brain, surging like a confidence of power, of possibilities unambiguous in their definite conclusion. There would be no going back. It was too late for that. Much too late.

  He calculated the passing of one minute before stepping expertly out of the tunnel, allowing his eyes to focus on any tiny obstacle limiting his field of vision. Feeble stars cast alternating wisps of light and shadow in the area, bringing to life images of industrial wasteland: stacks of hay were predominant along with the giant cutting machines used to detach the animals from their vital parts; a gaggle of discarded tools rested against the side of the building. Years of rain had cemented them to the ground, rendering them totally useless. A family of battered trucks lined the outer perimeter of the office collaborating with their lesser cousins, the forklifts and cement mixers.

  He could see the office up ahead. Lights glowed in windows; shadows flittered across tightly pulled shades. The night was closing in all around it, painting it darker and darker.

  If Geordie’s information was correct, there would only be Shank and her sister, Violet, holding Paul hostage, along with some unlucky bastard called Lucky. And not forgetting some brute known as Taps.

  Kennedy’s face was cleaved by the long spine of the moon’s silvery reflection, giving his appearance an eerie, distorted look of two faces meshing into one. He carefully stepped forward, sneaky as an old fox reaching for a snoozing chicken. He could almost sense the steps of the entrance and could hear voices, muffled and secretive. He forced his brain to pursue every possible conclusion with the same ferocity of anticipation gnawing at his stomach. His pulse quickened. The gun in his hand felt good; reassuringly good, like a friend, lost now found. It was supportive, intoxicating with arrogance and self-absolution. He marvelled at how calm he felt and had to admit: there’s no feeling on earth quite like it; sure as hell feels good …

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A STRANGE MIX OF PEOPLE

  “Above all things, never be afraid. The enemy who forces you to retreat is himself afraid of you at that very moment.”

  Andre Maurois

  “I wanted you to see what real courage is … It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

  Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

  TO KENNEDY, THE slightly opened door served duality as an immediate invite and a challenge. He pushed it open, quietly, sneaky as an old fox. Unobserved by all, his eyes consumed the room and all its occupants. Geordie was arguing with – screaming at? – a man, probably Shank. Something about Paul; something about killing him. A burly figure – Taps? – was examining knives, proudly displayed atop the table.

  So much for his order of pleading, begging if necessary. If a young girl had little respect for his threats, what chance of Shank fearing him?

  Shank stood over a naked figure, pinioned to a chair. A shape lay on the floor to Shank’s right, motionless, curled up like a question mark. It was naked, also. In the dim light, he wondered which was Paul, which was Lucky?

  “You’ve killed him, you bastard!” screamed Geordie, into the face of Shank before being grabbed, unceremoniously by the hair, the eager fingers of Violet digging themselves deep down to the scalp, ripping the skin.

  “Shut your sad treacherous mouth, before I shut it permanently,” hissed Violet, forcing Geordie to the floor. “Move and I’ll cripple the rest of your useless body.” Violet held the meat hook against Geordie’s skin.

  “That wouldn’t be very lady-like, young woman. Would it?” said Kennedy, pointing the gun directly at Violet.

  Violet froze, startled by Kennedy’s unexpected appearance; but it was the face of Shank which held surprise and shock, looking at Kennedy with utter disbelief and sheer hatred at being caught, off-guard, by an intruder who had the audacity to come, uninvited into his kingdom, and point a weapon at his face, as if he, Shank, were nothing. Worse: insignificant.

  Taps remained motionless, but Kennedy’s peripheral watched his fingers resting on the knives. “Now, if you don’t mind, release Geordie’s hair and quickly release that horrible looking hook from your hand. Otherwise …” Kennedy waved the gun, slightly.

  Reluctantly, Violet allowed the hook to slip from her hand.

  “Good,” said Kennedy. “Very good. Now, stand over in the far corner, your face against the wall. Fighting in school will not be tolerated. And we certainly do not allow meat hooks, young lady.”

  For a moment, Violet appeared to be calculating what to do next. Her face was a ball of anger.

  “I’m not going to count to three. I don’t believe in Mexican standoffs. I’ll simply shoot you in the knee.” He cocked the weapon and pointed it directly at Violet’s leg.

  “Do what the man says, Violet,” commanded Shank.

  A couple of defiant seconds passed before Violet complied.

  “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Kennedy.

  “And you are?” asked Shank, calmly, not a care in the world. His bare knuckles were raw, covered in blood. He stood, towering over the limp, bounded body of Paul whose face had been used as a punch bag, barely recognisable. Small pools of blood rested, glued to Paul’s skin, mixing with bruises and distortions of bones.

  Kennedy saw his own distorted reflection on the surface of the limpid blood pooling at Paul’s feet. The image of the battered Paul infuriated him with its mixture of brutality and hopelessness. He tried to ignore the cold in his stomach.

  “That’s irrelevant, at the moment. What I really need from you are not questions, but simple compliances. Ease yourself slowly away from the man you’ve just beaten the life out of. Raise your hands while doing so – and pray. Pray you haven’t killed him.” Kennedy’s voice was strong. He wondered if it fooled anyone in the room?

  “Do you know who I am?” asked Shank, reluctantly easing himself away from the battered body. “Know anything about me? If you do, you’re either a fool or a very brave man.”

  Refusing to be distracted by the calmness of Shank’s voice, Kennedy watched Violet closely from his peripheral, trying desperately to identify patterns or movements, anticipating the unexpected. “I am exceedingly afraid and trembling,” replied Kennedy, smiling. “So, I guess that rules out the very brave man.”

  Shank’s face measured out a sma
ll grin – just enough to acknowledge Kennedy’s words. “Perhaps we are all in for what will hopefully be an intriguing evening?”

  Taps made a slight movement, undetected by everyone in the room. Everyone, except Kennedy.

  The shot sounded like an explosion in the room’s confine. The bullet hit Taps in the chest, startling everyone but Kennedy.

  Taps staggered forward, slightly, in slow motion. Kennedy fired once more, hitting the enforcer in the throat, buckling him to the ground. A few seconds later, the jerking body became still.

  “You killed him, in cold blood,” accused Shank, staring at the gun in Kennedy’s hand.

  “That’s the best way to kill anyone,” replied Kennedy. “When they least expect it.”

  It was always going to be either Shank or Taps. Kennedy had calculated–rightly–that he could handle two protagonists; three was pushing it. He had already decided to eliminate one of them, long before he stepped inside …

  Violet edged away from the dead body.

  “I wouldn’t make any more movements, Violet. Not until I have everything under control. I won’t hesitate to use the gun, again.”

  “A gun,” jibed Shank. “The preferred weapon of cowards and barbarians.”

  “Correct, Shank,” retorted Kennedy. “That’s my name. Mister Cowardly Barbarian.” Kennedy took stock of his surroundings, of the weird skeleton-like statues; paintings equally as weird, though beautifully rendered; the walls containing a cornucopia of knives, each imbued with the unpredictable power to slit a throat, sever a head, all within an effortless blow. He could feel an old sensation coming back, consuming every nuance that was him, the feeling he had tried to suppress all these years, and it felt good, damn good, god-like good. It had been years since he had felt so alive, so useful.

  “Blake?” said Kennedy, admiring the amateurish yet almost perfect reproduction of biblical scenes.