The Redemption Factory Page 19

  Shank nodded, his face slightly flushed with pride. “You’re familiar with the great man?”

  “Familiar? No, not exactly. I’ve come across his work, over the years. I have to admit, his paintings in this place, seem appropriate.”

  “You’ll never get out of here alive,” said Violet, seemingly agitated by the conversation, the calmness oozing from the mouths of Kennedy and Shank. “We have workers arriving soon. The day shift starts in less than an hour. They’ll never let you leave.”

  Kennedy could recognise parts of Shank in the girl. There was also a slight resemblance to Geordie. Big eyes, bleak but sharp. Defiant. There is something to her, something that draws the eye in, like uncompleted beauty. Only the smattering of those tiny scars ruined what could have been, thought Kennedy. She looks like someone who needs an almost daily fix of anger … just like Cathleen.

  Those same bleak and defiant eyes left him with little doubt: she hated him, could possibly kill him if given the chance.

  “Leave? Who said anything about leaving? I quite like it here, the unusual surroundings. Now, I must ask you to refrain from talking, commencing from here on in.” Kennedy spoke to Violet, but his gaze remained on Shank. He could picture Shank’s brain calculating the pros, weighting them against the cons, could practically see the gears spinning in his head. He’s a gambler. A gambler willing to take risks. What is he thinking? What will he try? Hurry, Kennedy. Get that old, dilapidated brain of yours in motion. He looks like he’s going to call your bluff. He knows you’re a fool, only good for chasing windmills. Hurry, he’s coming right at you, a speed train, right up your arse.

  “You look like a smart man, Mister Cowardly Barbarian,” said Shank. “Nobody in this room has to die. Nothing complicated. In fact, very simple: I get a little information, and all is right as rain. I will even go as far as to forget this personal affront.”

  Kennedy nodded, as if agreeing. “Geordie? Remove one of those knives from the wall.”

  In her eagerness to comply, Geordie’s awkward movements combined with speed and clumsiness almost stumbled into Kennedy, knocking him slightly to the side.

  “Easy, girl. Time taken is time saved. Cut the rope from Lucky’s feet, first. I don’t want him falling forward, in case he has internal injuries.”

  Shank’s face registered surprise. “Geordie …? You know each other?” The surprise turned to a begrudging acknowledgement. “You used her as a Trojan horse … very clever, Mister Cowardly Barbarian. Very clever, indeed. You have my admiration.”

  Kennedy ignored Shank’s words.

  Gingerly, Geordie did as asked. “What next?”

  “Check his pulse, his heart – anything,” commanded Kennedy.

  Fatigue had engraved itself firmly into Geordie’s face and for a moment, Kennedy reconsidered seeking her help. The whole situation was becoming discouraging. For a moment an intense wave of nausea rose in his stomach; a sense of something slipping away from him.

  “He doesn’t appear to be breathing,” replied Geordie.

  “Just like you, soon, Judas,” spat Violet. “You conniving little bitch. You had this planned all along, bringing strangers here to destroy us because you’ve never been part of this family. Well, you’ve turned your back on us for the last time. I should have fixed you a long time ago.”

  Kennedy stared at Violet, his head shaking disapprovingly. “You know what you did; and if you don’t, then you’d better think about it because I’m not going to tell you.” With his gun, Kennedy cracked Violet on the side of the head, her face contorting in a grimace of inevitability as it witnessed the single blow. She collapsed, groaning.

  “I did warn her about talking …” The strength of the blow was unintentional and for a moment Kennedy wrestled with an apology, but quickly decided an apology would imply unintentional force, and that could construe weakness. Shank gave the impression of being the sort of man who could smell weakness a mile away, and an apology in this situation would be disastrous. “Actually, truth be told, I was looking for an excuse to whack her. One less to worry about.”

  If it bothered Shank, his daughter being knocked unconscious by an intruder, he didn’t show it. His face remained impassive, impossible to read. A cold fish, indeed, our Shank, thought Kennedy before allowing a wry smile to creep onto his own face. A cold fish indeed, our Kennedy, boomeranged a voice from the past.

  “Are you after money? Is that it? Blackmail?” asked Shank.

  “Blackmail? You’ve lost me.”

  “Such a liar.” Shank’s facial expression changed. Not a smile, just a hint of one. “Blake said ‘A truth that’s told with bad intent, beats all the lies you can invent.’ So, you either know, or don’t want to know, and the only reason why you wouldn’t want to know is because you intend to kill me.”

  “I know you’re scum, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean I would be able to blackmail you. Would it? And killing you? Well, that all depends on how you conduct yourself in the next few minutes.”

  Shank shook his head, seemingly amazed by the boldness uttering from Kennedy’s mouth.

  “He’s breathing!” shouted Geordie. “Paul’s breathing!”

  Relief eased into Kennedy’s face.

  “Geordie?” said Kennedy. “Do you know where the keys are to any of the vehicles outside?”

  Geordie nodded. “They’re usually kept in the a small box, over beside the table. The forklift keys are kept there. The truck keys are kept upstairs. Will I get them?”

  Kennedy thought for a moment. “No. We don’t have the luxury of time. Use the forklift. I need you to drag Paul out, perch him on top of the forks, if need be. Just get him the hell away from this place and to the nearest hospital. It’s slow, but it’ll get you there eventually. It’s his only hope.”

  “But, he’s ripped apart from the inside. We’ll kill him if we move him,” replied Geordie.

  “He’ll die if he remains here. At least he has a chance. Talking is eating precious time. Just take him.”

  “What about his friend, Lucky? What will I do with him,” she asked.

  “You’ll do nothing except what I instructed you to do. His friend is no longer with us, I’m afraid.”

  Clumsily, Geordie pulled on Paul’s arms, slipping and sliding in his blood. He moaned. It was horrible to listen to.

  “God … Goodman,” she whispered. “There’s no other way …”

  “But there is, my dear,” said Shank. “It’s not too late to rectify this mistake. Do you want him to kill me? Is that what you really want? Am I such a terrible father that you would gladly see me killed, murdered? You’re my daughter. Don’t ever forget that. I may not have shown a lot of love, but that is my nature. You know you were always my favourite, always the one who would eventually take over the business. Violet would never have had the brains for it, would never have been able to communicate with the workers. She would have destroyed all that I built. Only you could have guaranteed the continuation of the factory, my name. Only you.”

  Kennedy feared she was at breaking point. She appeared confused by Shank’s unexpected words, as if they were what she had wanted to hear all the long years.

  “I don’t believe you, Shank,” said Geordie, here voice a whisper.

  “No? Then believe this: you are signing my death warrant, the moment you walk out that door. We both know that. He will –”

  “Talking talking talking,” said Kennedy, angrily. “Just get the hell out of here, you silly little girl! Hurry!”

  To Kennedy’s relief, Paul moaned, stammering a few words through clenched teeth and busted lips. “Just do … just do as he says, Geordie. You’re doing great …” His words of encouragement faded.

  Geordie quickly linked her arms with Paul’s, desperation granting her strength.

  It seemed like an eternity, but less than a minute later, they were gone, much to Kennedy’s relief.

  Kennedy waited until he heard the sound of the forklift fading before talking.


  “Things happen, Shank, blending together sometimes, in a complex pattern of events called destiny. And that is what we have in out hands at this very moment. Destiny. Everything in its place; a place for everything.”

  “You must be suffering from insanity,” said Shank.

  “I don’t suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.”

  Shank smiled begrudgingly, almost admiringly. “You never intended for one second to allow me to live. Did you?”

  Kennedy knew that a momentary lapse in his strategy would allow awareness or compassion to interrupt his momentum or activate his conscience. He could no longer afford the human side of his nature to lead, and slowly permitted the animal to take control. “I would prefer not to hear your words. I respect you, Shank. I respect how dangerous you are. But tolerance isn’t high on my list of priorities, at this particular time in my life.”

  “And Violet? What do you intend to do with her? Murder her as well?”

  Kennedy considered the question. “No. I just need the organ grinder. The monkey can go free.”

  “I wouldn’t call Violet a monkey. She wouldn’t be too happy with that description. No, not one bit” smiled Shank.

  Arrogance was seeping back into Shank’s voice.

  Too late, Kennedy realised why.

  “A monkey? Is that what I am?” whispered Violet into Kennedy’s ear, seconds before hitting the trigger of the stun gun. It sent him reeling, buckling and jerking, a puppet captured on invisible string. The wound at the side of his head was penny-wide and penny-deep and his hand instinctively moved to touch it. Bewildered, he watched as blood dripped softly from his head, pooling in a small, inconspicuous puddle, spilling on to his chest.

  He heard another pop from the stun gun and felt his left knee go on fire. It felt like acid.

  “You threatened to shoot me in the knee. Didn’t you?” said Violet, watching Kennedy squirm on the floor in agony. “Never threaten. Do.”

  Shank smiled with approval at Violet before directing his words towards Kennedy.

  “You really are a stubborn sort of bastard,” said Shank lighting up a cigar, grinning as Kennedy pulled his devastated knee up to his stomach in a foetus position. “Not only can these little guns stun a bull – they can kill it, if the correct spot is hit. Violet purposely hit that spot of yours, just above the left ear. Had she meant to kill you outright, I’d be speaking to a dead body.” Shank inhaled the cigar, his nostrils flaring at the pleasant aroma. “I’m sure the pain devouring your body at this moment is so terrible you don’t know if it’s a shave, shit or shower you need. If you really concentrate, you actually can distinguish one pain from the other. The knee probably fells the worse. That’s the brain’s defence mechanism kicking in, fooling you that all is A-Ofuckingkay. Like the captain of a sinking submarine, it is issuing orders to the lower ranks, telling them all is under control. Your brain is actually pissing itself. This is a continuous process, without end, before death.” Shank dislodged a fragment of tobacco from his tooth, examined it, and then wiped it on his pants. “You have my admiration, Mister Cowardly Barbarian. In another time and place, we could have been friends. A terrible waste. A terrible waste, indeed. Do you know something strange? I don’t even know your name.”

  Standing silently, the stun gun dangling by her side, Violet stared at the door where Geordie and Paul had disappeared a few minutes ago.

  “Don’t worry about them. They’ll not get too far – not in a forklift,” said Shank, smiling at her reassuringly before turning to the topic of Kennedy. “You shouldn’t have shot him in the head. That was stupid. He might have told us who else knows. We could have interrogated him. I doubt if he’s anything other than a vegetable, now. Have you ever listened to me? Didn’t I warn you about that dangerous pleasure you take in hurting for the sake of hurting? Hurting is something done for profit.”

  “Did you mean what you said, to Geordie?” asked Violet, confusing Shank momentarily. Bloodshot collected at the corners of her eyes. Her face was scarlet.

  “What? Did I mean what? Oh, that shite about being the favourite? Of course not. You know –”

  “You said I wouldn’t have the brains.”

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” replied Shank, forcefully. “We’ll talk about it after we –”

  “You said I would have destroyed all that you built. You built? Without me carrying out your every whim, unquestioning your every order, you would have had nothing. Geordie was always your favourite, wasn’t she? Never did a thing to help the family, but always your favourite”

  “Later, I said,” replied Shank, dismissively. “Right now, we’ve got to –”

  The black tiny mark on Shank’s naked skull oozed a wisp of smoke, like a spent volcano. Tiny droplets of blood trickled down the side of his face. To his credit, he did not collapse immediately. Psychically, Shank was stronger than Kennedy. He staggered back from the horror of calmness that lit up Violet’s face. It was angelic. Perfect control. He could hear something when she moved her lips, but not words. He couldn’t comprehend how such a tiny hole could generate such pain, and so much blood. It was sprouting in a tiny arch, like a fountain pen release.

  Shank placed shaking hands on the table as if to steady himself.

  It took another two shots from the stun gun to put him on the ground. Three in all, to Kennedy’s two. The third shot, the killer.

  “You defeated yourself, Shank. Pushing me to the limit, leaving me with little choice other than to turn on you. You unintentionally freed me. Now, I don’t need you,” said Violet, leaning to touch him, noticing the unruly pool of shadows coalescing as light splintered in from the window preying on both downed bodies. “I don’t need any of you.”

  Walking calmly towards the table, she sat down and opened the cigar box, separating a cigar from the enclosure. She lit it, inhaling it perfectly, just the way Shank had inhaled so many times under her watchful, envious eyes. Tiny greyish smoke streams emerged from her opening lips. Within seconds, the cigar’s aroma filled the room. “I guess my arse is big enough now …”

  Kennedy’s gun lay bridged between his own body and that of Shank’s. It lay there useless and unused. He wished he could laugh at the irony of bringing it with him, but all he could do was breathe deeper, taking in the exquisite aroma of cigars. Ink was seeping into his head, forming behind his consciousness, escalating into blackness behind his eyes. Dark lights vied for his attention, telling him to stay alert, breathe easier while an omnibus of memories began to filter into his brain. He could feel his heart slowing down and, strangely, a calmness flowing throughout his entire body; a reassuring calmness foreign to him most of his life. He could see the face of Shank staring in his direction; eyes unblinking like those of a cobra, adoring the silence of his own death.

  Kennedy’s eyelids became heavier, and he could hear sounds crashing down on a beach mixing with the cut of late autumn winds. He closed his eyes, listening to the waves breaking themselves upon the rocks while seagulls screamed for food. The lazy fragrance of salt and sand filled his nostrils. The wind rushed towards him and he opened his mouth to see what the wind tasted like, and it ran into him, like a ghost, pulsing through his veins, making his every thought infinite. It rendered him motionless, like the stillness of an ice sculpture.

  It made him smile …

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A LITTLE BIT OF READING GOES A LONG WAY

  “Pray you now, forget and forgive.”

  Shakespeare

  “An odd thought strikes me – we shall receive no letters in the grave.”

  Samuel Johnson

  FOR HOURS IT seemed as if Cathleen had screamed his name, commands, orders and curses. The banging from the door was ceaseless. “Where the hell are you?” she shouted, dragging her tired body out of bed, sweating and wheezing. “Philip? Answer the door, you bastard. I know you’re trying to torment me, but it will not work. Do you hear me?” One minute later, just as she neared the d
oor, crawling, it came crashing in, almost taken from its hinges by the shoulders of three heavy looking policemen. She knew he was gone, even before they opened their mouths, their faces acting out the part of heralds of sorrow.

  “Get out! Get out of my shop!” she screamed, over and over again.

  Two days later, she read his note. To call it a letter would be too generous, and Cathleen was not in a generous mood.

  Cathleen

  There is very little to say to you, only that I am sure you are relieved by the outcome of my action.

  This letter makes me feel like I’m having a conversation with you, but just in my head, a conversation of no interruptions, no bickering. It is marvellous and you should really try it, some time.

  There was a time though, when life was filled with emotion and anticipation was everything waiting just beyond the next corner and vibrant colours seeped out of everything that was life, when everything was semi-perfect just like one of those summer days, when we first met, lined with moments of surprising, touching beauty that somehow obscured the more.

  Despite our differences and the regular misery of our relationship, you are an exceptionally good woman even though I have been trying to dissuade myself from this very opinion for years now, with some slow and limited progress.

  On a more pressing and necessary issue, suicide is covered by the insurance policy, so that is an added benefit. I have double-checked that fact, so let them tell you nothing different. Once you get up to par for stocktaking, you will notice that the collections of books have disappeared. I decided to donate them to a worthy cause – and you know how much of a fool I am when it comes to worthy causes … I did not want your anger to burn them – that would be so wasteful – and you would only have regretted doing it, once you calmed down.

  I have left a letter for Paul Goodman, the young man who has been purchasing snooker items. He will be in the shop next Friday, the first of the month, to make payments which are no longer necessary as I have finished off the payments myself (no, not from your money). Please ensure he adds no further money to the shop’s coffers.