The Redemption Factory (11 page)

“I know you discussed me with Shank – though it wasn’t Shank who told me.”

Paul was unprepared for the sudden direction of the conversation. It had all been a carefully planned trap, pretending to pick up supplies at the house. Someone in the abattoir had told her all about the questions – his questions. Nosey Balls. Nosey. Nosey. Nosey. This was why she had him here at this location, her home; this was why she was feeding him beer, loosening his tongue. Evidence. Enough rope and he’d be out of a job, out on his arse.

“Anything I said to Shank was my business.” He felt angry
having to defend himself, but a cold reality alerted him to be very careful. Extremely careful.

“And you weren’t enquiring from any of the workers – such as Raymond?”

Caught by the balls! “Look, you’re right, I should have just gone about my duties. I was simply curious.” It sounded feeble.

“Curious about me, or the violent sister?” She stared at him, her eyes motionless. “You know what curiosity did to the cat, Goodman?” Geordie brought the bottle to her lips and sipped its contents slowly before dropping the empty bottle at her feet. Before he could reply, she spoke, almost a whisper. “Violet has a ruthlessness in her which is beyond measure. We used to have cats all over this place, in the early days, when we first moved here. Cats, inevitably, bring kittens into this world, Goodman, and the Shank soon realised that Violet’s ruthlessness could be put to good use. She became quite proficient at drowning all kittens captured, but her problem was – and
is
– controlling that ruthlessness. After the kittens, came the cats …”

A finger of ice touched Paul’s spine. The beer now tasted like rust in his mouth – rust and blood – yet he desperately wanted another one. Truth be told, coupled with a cigarette, the beer would taste delightful.

“Now you know why Shank never allows her to work in the slaughtering. She sees the killing as pleasure – not necessity.”

The beer sat in Paul’s stomach. He thought about Violet’s words of warning to him; thought it best not to mention them to Geordie.

“Shouldn’t we be heading back to the abattoir, before it gets too dark?” asked Paul, hoping to change the conversation.
He thought about going across the matchstick bridge again. Surely she wouldn’t drive across in the dark?

“She used to turn the gas on in the house, while she sat there smoking Shank’s cigars, calm as the Red Sea, knowing someone would lose their nerve before she did, and turn the fucking thing off,” said Geordie, ignoring Paul’s question. “She could even throw up on command – usually over me.”

Paul had visions of Violet vomiting all over him, throwing her head back, laughing like a banshee. For a terrible second, he thought he could smell the poignant stench of vomit. He sniffed the bottle of beer.

“I had a dog like that, once,” said Paul, omitting it had to be put down for such rude manners.

“I hate to admit it,” continued Geordie, “but I’m afraid of her on some level because of her moods and her nature to fight dirty; her reluctance to concede defeat. I realised that it was better to let her win, because she would just keep throwing herself at you, over and over again …”

Had she moved closer to him? He hadn’t even noticed. He could smell the abattoir oozing off her body mixing with that smell processed only by women; slightly intoxicating when used correctly. Strangely, it was a smell of comfort and protection, a smell he once associated with his mother, before the dark times came visiting.

“Bring those beers with you, Goodman. We’ll sit over there, near the uprooted tree.”

They used the old tree to rest against, but placed a healthy distance between each other, fearful of contamination.

“I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, boss?” said Paul, laughingly, regretting it the moment her face tightened
into a scowl.

“Think I’m that hard up, Goodman? Think you’re something special?”

He thought about remaining silent, but had had enough of walking on thin ice and tiptoeing. “‘Why can’t you simply control that mouth of yours? Question after question,’” he mimicked.

Geordie froze. Her normally implacable eyes looked at him, sullenly, momentarily confused.

Had he overstepped? Probably. Perhaps he should apologise? Instead, he reached and opened another beer, handing it to her before producing one for himself. He smiled. “These are lukewarm. The next time you invite me to your house, make sure there is plenty of ice.” A tingling sensation deep in his chest accompanied the quickness in the small of his stomach, the delicious anticipation of what she would say – or
do
– next. He hated to admit it, but the feeling was akin to something sexual, something forbidden, close to the way an artist experiences the creative process, or the way a snooker player feels, about to assassinate the remaining black ball.

“Who says there’ll be a next time, Goodman?” She sipped the beer but he knew she was covering a smile, a real smile. He wanted to pull the bottle from her lips, stop her from covering what she was not used to.

For the next few minutes, not a word was said. The city moved along outside beyond their knowledge, unheeding, unknowing, uncaring of what they were saying and feeling. Soon it would be pitch dark. Neither seemed in a hurry to prevent it, almost as if they were waiting for it, as if this great cloak of night would help them both, to say what they
couldn’t say, to speak what they never dared, not to anyone bar themselves, alone.

“A magician gets on the stage and starts building all his apparatus, talking to the audience who are anticipating tonight’s performance,” said Paul, breaking the silence before sipping on the beer. “Says he can pull a rabbit from out of his hat. No sooner has the old guy produced his black hat than someone from the audience shouts up: big fucking deal. I can pull a hair from out of my arse!” He took a bigger sip this time, and waited.

Geordie made a sound, like the sound of air being restrained, but he knew he had her.

“In the absence of illusions, reality often works just fine. Ask any magician. Go on. Let it out. You just know you want to piss yourself laughing. Don’t you? Go on …”

From the top of her shirt, she removed a small brass container, flipping the lid with an audible pop. Seconds later, she was rolling a cigarette, just like a cowboy, joining its paper skin with the dampness of her tongue.

Intrigued, Paul watched, fascinated by her expertise in rounding the homemade cigarette perfectly.

“Here,” she said, handing the cigarette to him, her free hand already working on another.

He lit the cigarette, drawing deep its claustrophobic smoke, forcing it down, down deep to his – “Fuck! What the fuck
is
this stuff?”

Now she laughed, loud and natural.

“What?” he pleaded. “What’s so funny? What the fuck is this stuff?”

Controlling her laughter, she calmly replied, “Marijuana,
Goodman. Don’t tell me you haven’t tried it before, you being a man of the world?” She laughed again, seeing the shock on his face, loving the terror she hadn’t even planned.

“Marifuckingjuana! We could go to jail for this. Wait until Lucky hears this. He’ll never believe me.” Paul stared in disbelief at the cigarette between his fingers, a bomb ready to explode.

“It’s no big deal, Goodman. Did you know that Christ smoked marijuana?”

“What?”

“True. It says in John, that when Christ went up to the mountain, that there was grass all about …”

She was giggling uncontrollably, marijuana relaxing her inhibitions, her anxiety and fears dissipating, if only for the now.

Paul began to giggle, also, unaccustomed to the slow drag and pull of marijuana through his body, the mounting sensation of euphoria and promise. He placed his hand on the ground as if to steady himself.

It felt strange, as if he were floating inches above his body. It was lovely. He noticed something odd in the way his words were forming, like they were dull around the edges. It was bizarre.

Geordie inhaled deeply, expertly, watching him smile a half-drunk, semi-stoned smile. She smiled back at him, but he didn’t notice, he was floating and finding it difficult to remain on the ground. He wondered what would happen if a night wind came along. Would it take him? Drop him off at sea like a big balloon? He giggled at the thought.

“This is great stuff,” he whispered.

“I know. As soon as it reaches the receptors in the brain and organs, usually in less than a minute, its effects can be felt. Especially when sprinkled with a little acid,” said Geordie.

“Acid? Will that not burn through, leave a big hole gaping from my stomach?” His eyes were seeing two Geordies. One looked familiar. Sad and angry. The other was happy, grinning, looking cute and pretty, even beautiful. He liked her the best. “I like you best,” he giggled, touching the smiling Geordie’s face.

“No,
this
acid doesn’t burn – at least not in the way you’re thinking.” She laughed, softly this time, as if not wanting to scare him, wanting him to keep his hand on her face.

“Why this stuff? What’s wrong with a good beer?”

“People choose marijuana because it is completely natural, and provides much needed relief from a multitude of ailments. The dosage is easy to regulate when smoked, providing just the amount required to be effective. And the side effects are quite pleasant – as you bear witness to. It can also provide effective pain relief from backaches to migraines, thought it is not a miracle cure. It certainly can’t make the lame walk, or the crippled whole …”

Surrendering his thoughts to Geordie’s voice, Paul entwined his fingers with hers. They fitted perfectly together. Better than gloves. More like thin magnets. The scent of marijuana and the unwashed odour of work rested in his nostrils.

The reluctant dying light appeared for a few moments, defiantly, throwing bleeding patches of orange and red on to the withered parchment of patchy grass all about them, before splintering into dazzling streams of almost wet light
swelling with bleached-out colour. Moments later, it was gone for good, replaced by crawling darkness. The pale yellows of occasional car lights flashed by, washing out pieces of the house, making it deserted and haunted. It was perfect for ghosts. Naked ghosts …

Paul turned on his side, staring at her profile. He lifted his face and her eyes caught his immediately. “You planned this whole thing. Admit it. You wanted me from the first day you spotted me.”

“Ha! You wish,” she replied, blowing smoke effortlessly into the air.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, his voice no longer sure, the words slightly slurred. “Will you stop me?”

She said nothing, simply sucked on the cigarette, watching its angry nipple brighten the outline of his face.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek before moving awkwardly to her lips. He smelt a light mist of perfume rising from her and wondered if that was what she had been doing in the house, all that time, putting on perfume? Had she anticipated this, known his feelings? He kissed her harder now, trying desperately to open her mouth with his tongue, but she resisted.

“Enough, Goodman,” she said, gently but with command. It was sufficient to deflate his semi-hardness.

Defeated and angry, he made a movement to go.

“Stay where you are, Goodman. We’ll go when I decide.”

“Yes, sir, boss. I be waiting. Don’t flog me, boss. I a good slave, boss. I don’t want to –”

She rolled on top of him and kissed his mouth, hard, parting his lips with her tongue, stabbing in and out frantically, like a
tiny bird fearful of capture. Her saliva tasted of beer, lipstick, and the sweet sickly taste of marijuana and he couldn’t get enough of their divine, potent mixture. There was a soft purr in her throat, a low frequency gurgle, elevating the mundane experience of kissing to the level of something sexual.

He felt the weight of her breasts pushing powerfully against him, like two invisible forces holding him in place, teasing and pleasing.

For Paul, the urge to pursue the quickest route for sex took over. His head was swimming. He fumbled for her jeans, but the metal surrounding her stood guard, unwavering like a medieval chastity belt, frustrating his efforts.

“C’mon,” was all he managed to say, before rolling on top, reversing the positions, fumbling at her shirt, popping two of her buttons in the struggle. “I can’t get this bastard shirt off!” he screamed. “Help me, for fuck sake,” he pleaded.

“No,” she whispered through her nostrils, shaking her head. “Find a way …” Her tiny eyes scanned his face, watching, seemingly fascinated.

More buttons popped into the air, making good their freedom, until only her bra remained between him and the sight of her breasts.

“By the time I get this off, I’ll be too tired to do any thing …”

She took one last draw of her cigarette, then flicked it into the air, watching it somersault into the darkness. “I suppose I’ve no other choice, now? I’ll do it. Obviously, you’ve never done this before, Goodman.” Within seconds, the bra was gone, her breast exposed, her nipples slightly raised and waxed in sweat.

“Oh …” he managed to say.

“Oh, indeed, Goodman,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

He kissed the deepness of her neck, snaking his tongue down between her breasts. He was aware of her nipples watching him, as if wondering what awaited them. It was weirdly disconcerting. He thought he saw the left one wink before hiding beneath the heaviness of her breast.
Come and get me
, it said.

“This marijuana does strange things …” he mumbled, his voice muffled on her breast, the right nipple giggling with delight as his tongue massaged it with tiny circles.
Stop it! I love it! You’re killing me, boy! I love it!
screamed the nipple. “Strange fucking things …” He wanted her nude, now – no, he wanted her the way he had imagined her late at night, his hand tight against his penis: he wanted her naked, wrapped in metal, powerless to do anything to prevent him. He wanted to see her mangled legs, bare, covered in scaffolding. He wanted to see the darkness of her hair, between her mangled legs, crying to be touched with his probing fingers.