The Redemption Factory (9 page)

S
hortly after 11:00am, Paul was called to Shank’s office.

Baffled, a million reasons raced through Paul’s head: his timekeeping and attitude couldn’t be in question – he had always arrived enthusiastically each morning; he had worked as hard as the rest of the workers, never complaining, even when given the shitty task of cleaning out the manure pens.

Violet looked up from an outdated magazine just as Paul knocked before opening the door of the office. “Go straight in, Goodman. No stopping at go, no getting out of jail free, do
not collect one hundred …” she grinned a snide, unfriendly grin, immediately placing Paul on his guard.

Walking through to the next room, Paul was more than a little surprised to see the pugnacious Shank stripped to the waist, lacquered with sweat, bombarding a punch bag with a blizzard of killer punches. Shank’s rhino-formed body glistened, forcing the veins on his skull to bulge like shoelaces. The veins upon his forearms were cemented with power and looked ready to explode.

A rhino
, thought Paul, admiringly, whose own youthful body was formidable and nothing to be ashamed of. Yet he couldn’t help but be in awe of the chiselled physique of Shank, the seemingly millions of tiny ball-bearing-shaped muscles riveted to the skin rising angrily with each movement, fanning out over the landscape of skin beneath the lines of tendons matching the swell of muscle.

It was said Shank consumed five pints of animal blood each morning and it was this that had helped create the massive bulk of intimidation. Initially, Paul had dismissed the speculation as mere rumour, gossip and myth. Now? Well …

Shank’s bodyguard, Taps, seemed to be reading an assortment of sport magazines.

“Leave,” said Shank to Taps. “Go get something to eat.”

A few seconds later, Shank returned to punching the bag. “Close that door, tightly, please Mister Goodman,” requested Shank, never missing a step from his surprisingly nimble movement. “Eyes and ears are everywhere.”

With the door closed, Paul felt trapped. The walls seemed to have moved, slightly inwards.

“I am thinking of modernising the abattoir, Mister
Goodman; modernising ideas and how we do things in the future,” continued Shank. “Behind you, in those boxes is the start of the modernising. Open one up. Tell me what you think.”

Obligingly, Paul tore open one of the many boxes piled in the corner, and removed one of the items. It was a stun gun.

“Notice any difference?” asked Shank.

Paul studied the lethal piece of metal in his hands, clueless as to what he was suppose to be looking for.

“It seems lighter than the ones we have.”

“Correct, Mister Goodman. Much lighter. Any thing else?”

For fuck sake
. “I think … there is more of a grip on this compared to the ones we use in the building,” Paul replied, awkwardly.

“The main difference, Mister Goodman,” said Shank, putting Paul out of his misery, “is that they are cordless.” Shank’s voice was full of pride. “They are not even on the market, yet. So secret, they don’t even exist. They have been loaned to us by the manufactures so that we may be able to test their effectiveness. Nice, eh?”

Paul nodded. “Unbelievable, Mister Shank. No wires mean that the workers will have more manoeuvrability, won’t be getting tangled up.”

“Correct, again, Mister Goodman. You catch on quickly. Very quickly, indeed.”

“After a couple of clues!”

“I like a man who can laugh at himself. A bit like myself.” Shank smiled. “I hear you’re a bit of a boxer, Mister Goodman. Any truth?” Shank continued smashing ruthlessly against the battered, threadbare punch bag, his gravity-defying punches
buckling its stomach with ease. Without warning, Shank hit the punch bag with a devastating punch, sending it flying backwards in an out rush of air. Yet despite all the exertion, an absence of emotion was in his movement.

Classical music played in the background. Paul didn’t know the title, but it was familiar. Familiar, like the echo of a song heard, hundreds of times in his life.

“I haven’t sparred seriously in years, Mister Shank. I don’t have much time for it, anymore. What little time I have is taken up with –”

Shank snorted. The sound reminded Paul of the pigs they had slaughtered, earlier that morning. “Don’t have time to keep your body in shape? Nonsense, Mister Goodman! The body is the vessel upon which we depend to take us to war,” smiled Shank, not a friendly grin, but one that seemed to challenge.

The punch bag went spinning as Shank used an uppercut with his left hand. “The body must be maintained to the highest precision and oiled with blood, sweat but never tears. No, never tears, Mister Goodman. Tears are sacrilege and the currency of cowards.” He punched the hapless bag again, quickly steadying it before looking into Paul’s eyes. “Some people regard fists as the preferred communication of bullies and thugs. That is their prerogative. I regard myself as neither. I denied myself youth while preparing for adulthood, Mister Goodman, and it was a mistake – probably the biggest mistake I ever made. Now, I am on a mission to recoup some of that loss. Remove your shirt. Show me your skill.”

“Here? But I’ve –”

“Don’t be shy, Mister Goodman. Remove the shirt. Show
some flesh.”

Reluctantly, Paul removed his shirt.

“Not bad,” said Shank, admiring Paul’s physique. “You’ve a good built, Mister Goodman. With the right guidance, you can bring it to its potential.”

Shank swung the punch bag, violently in the direction of Paul’s frame.

Instinctively, Paul moved to the side, allowing the bag to brush him before landing a perfectly aimed right to its middle, spinning it back in the direction of Shank who was now grinning with eagerness at the oncoming leather intruder.

Bam! Shank thundered the bag, watching its staggered return move back towards Paul.

“C’mon, Mister Goodman! Hit the damn thing!” shouted Shank, grinning further. “There’s more power in my –”

The bag hit Shank full in the face, knocking him off balance. Before he could regain his composure, Paul sent the bag hurling again in Shank’s direction, catching his upper torso with a beautiful wallop that sang joyfully throughout the room.

Shank staggered, but not before the bag hit him again, full in the face, knocking him against the far wall. A lesser man would have crumbled to the ground, but Shank’s strength and pride kept him afloat. He was dazed and Paul wondered if he had hurt him.

“Go in for the kill, Goodman!” shouted a voice from the doorway. “Don’t just stand there staring at your fists. Finish him. Give him a good beating.”

Violet’s voice brought an unexpected stillness to the room. Paul did not know what to say – or do.

“You should have listened to her, Mister Goodman,” said Shank, a grin reappearing on his face. “Never show mercy. That’s the crown for fools. Isn’t that right, Violet? You wouldn’t have shown mercy. Would you?”

“Of course not,” she replied and sat down on Shank’s leather chair. “I would have killed you, given the chance.”

Paul’s face registered shock at the words.

“Before you even contemplate doing that, please remove your arse from my chair,” said Shank, no longer smiling. “The day your arse becomes big enough, Violet, is the day you get to keep the chair. Now, leave. Mister Goodman and I have some matters to discuss. And don’t let me catch you eavesdropping at the door, either.”

“You won’t,” replied Violet, deliberately brushing against Paul as she left, touching his sweat-stain skin with her index finger before placing it in her mouth. “Very salty …”

Paul felt his skin creep.

Shank waited until the door closed before talking.

“Quite a girl, Violet.”

Expected to say nothing, Paul simply nodded, allowing Shank to continue. “I believe you’ve become friendly with her.”

Taken aback, Paul replied, “I really haven’t thought a great deal about friendships, Mister Shank. I haven’t had much time on my hands.” His throat felt sandpapery. He was straining to suppress his annoyance and could feel the start of acid fermenting in his stomach. Where on earth had Shank got such an outrageous idea about an imaginary friendship?

Removing the boxing gloves, Shank rubbed a towel vigorously against his saturated skin, transforming the paleness
into raw-wound crimson. “I do not mistake your hesitancy for reluctance or cowardice, Mister Goodman. I respect it. If I say so myself, I have a good track record of character; of finding that character, and honing it. No wastage, Mister Goodman. Remember?”

“Thank you, but …” mumbled Paul, wondering if he should be thanking Shank, smelling something wrong with the direction of the conversation. “I really don’t know what to say concerning –”

“I suspect you are not far in your thoughts of wanting to achieve great things, Mister Goodman,” Shank interrupted. “Can you imagine going through life as insignificant, causing no ripple, no disturbance in the pool of existence?”

Paul could think of nothing to say, except “No …”

“You see, Mister Goodman, I have lived my life driven by principles instilled in me by my mother – God bless her soul. She did not believe in order or institutions. She didn’t believe in Church, Law or State. She was the
only
woman I ever trusted completely. It was she who taught me that a person had to be self-sufficient, to question everything, to believe nobody if they want to realise their potential.” Shank wiped his hands before reinstating the boxing gloves back on his eager hands. “When I was growing up as a youngster, I wore oversized jackets, ill-fitting pants and other bits of random clothing which I scavenged from rag stores or
hand-me
-downs from my brothers. Each hour of my life I vowed that one day I would be rich, Mister Goodman, and I have neither disappointed nor betrayed that vow. It wasn’t easy.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” agreed Paul.

“Help me tie these gloves,” said Shank, extending his arms
outward.

Once the gloves were tied, Shank began to tackle they bag, changing his punching tactics to one of slow, delicate movements, and once again confounding Paul by his nimbleness, the rhythm of which was like the gentle stroke of an artist carefully preparing the canvas before committing to the picture.

Thankfully for Paul, Shank continued talking, unabated. “I am not a stupid man. I know there are men out there – not just the abattoir, of course – who would gladly give their right arm to marry Violet, knowing they would be well-off for the remainder of their stay on this earth. They mouth great swelling words, flattering to gain advantage. But you, Mister Goodman, are the man I’m looking for: quiet, serious, strong – physically as well as mentally – and you have a certain curiosity mixed with a raw, almost evangelical faith. I remember how you scrutinised the paintings and sculpture in this same office, when you first started. I remember how you looked at me as I completed the jigsaw puzzle, probably wondering what on earth a man such as myself would find entertaining about simple jigsaw puzzles.” Shank smiled at Paul, knowingly, a smile too close for Paul’s comfort. “Violet may not be perfect. She is prone to sudden, sometimes violent, mood swings, a secret preference for the violent outcome. But I think you could tame a lot of the wildness in her, bring out the potential, which I failed to do.” Shank reached for a bottle of water, pawing it with both gloves, gulping the liquid down greedily.

Momentarily confused, Paul continued listening absorbedly, speechless, yet still susceptible to the infinite discharge of sounds parading from the mouth of Shank. A
parcel of intenseness sat in his lungs and tried to choke off rational thought, as if punishing him for not speaking when he had the chance.

Shank continued before Paul had time to recover. “Let me say that she is by no stretch of the imagination the prettiest flower in the garden. That I know. But even weeds have their place in the clay. Is that correct, Mister Goodman?”

A burning sensation had taken root in the base of Paul’s brain, slowly turning out the lights in his skull. He realised that if he didn’t speak now, the darkness would render him speechless.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mister Shank, but I do not have any strong feelings for Violet. I don’t know where you obtained your information, but it is wrong.”

Paul had amazed himself. Where the hell had he grown the balls to talk to the almighty Shank in such a manner?

Sweat trickled down Paul’s spine, pooling between his buttocks. He badly wanted to scratch his arse, but thought better of it. Shank could mistake it as an insult.

Shank nodded, slowly, as if reflecting upon this terrible piece of news and for some inexplicable reason a tinge of remorse touched Paul, as if he had terribly wronged this man who had given him a job and entertained the thought that he, Paul Goodman, was suitable for his daughter, bringing with it the comforts of money and respectability, regardless of how dodgy that respectability may become in the long run.

“There is no fool like an old fool, Mister Goodman. I should never have assumed anything on face value. No doubt, I read the signs wrong and have been punished for not doing my homework on such an important matter. I thank you for
your honesty. Other men would simply have lied to keep in with me. More my loss now.” Shank slowly removed the gloves, placing them on a nail above his head.

“Mister Shank. I do have … feelings, but they …” Paul could feel his face burn. He hated it when his face betrayed him. “Well … they are for … Geordie …”

Shank appeared dumbfounded while he ran a hand over the smooth surface of his baldy head. “Geordie? Geordie, Mister Goodman …? But she is … she is broken, not whole, and I doubt she would be shaped correctly to carry a baby, or make a man happy in bed.”