Cain's Redemption

by A J Chamberlain

  As he was tuning his guitar the door opened, and a young woman who must have been Jessica came in. She was wearing a lacey turquoise dress and her blonde hair was tied back away from her face. She looked physically strong, well built but not heavy. She looked older than he had expected her to be, and he was also struck by the idea that there was some vast sadness hanging over her. She smiled, but it seemed to Conner that her eyes did not smile with her.

  “Conner Adams, I’m so excited to meet you.” She held out a cool hand and he shook it. Something in her accent suggested she was well educated.

  “You must be Jessica,” he said.

  She smiled again and moved towards him. “That’s right, I’m the birthday girl.” Her dress made a little rustling noise as she came closer, and when she leant her cheek towards him he instinctively kissed her. Her skin felt warm and faintly moist against his lips, it was not an unpleasant sensation.

  She went over to the table and he watched her pour out a glass of the mineral water.

  “You want one? I can get you something a little stronger if you want.”

  “How old are you today, Jessica?” he asked.

  For just a moment she looked at him, as if he had asked a question that made no sense, then she spoke.

  “Twenty-one; do you want some?” She gestured to him with the bottle of water and he watched her sip some.

  “Please.” He was actually quite thirsty after the journey. “So when are your guests arriving?” He drank deeply from the glass she handed to him.

  “Guests should be arriving in about half an hour,” she said.

  He asked if he could use the bathroom and she indicated a door opposite the lounge.

  He went to the bathroom, and when he returned she was gone. He drank some more of the water, but he felt a little dizzy and suddenly panicked, he didn’t want to get ill just before a gig. He stood up with some effort and went over to the window, opened it and breathed in the cool spring air.

  Why did she call me Conner Adams, he thought, that is odd, why not just Conner? What fan of Elvis ever met him and said, “Elvis Presley, I am so pleased to meet you.”?

  His head was definitely spinning now, and he flopped onto the chaise longue. He stared at his guitar floating around in his field of vision, as if it had a life of its own.

  “What the hell is the matter with me?” he whispered, shutting his eyes.

  He heard a voice, it was Jessica’s voice, and another voice, which sounded like the man who had driven him here.

  And as his senses began to shut down, Conner realized that something was indeed wrong. He thought about calling Alex, and then he whispered a slurred prayer:

  “Lord, have mercy, on me…”

  And then he was gone.

  Marie stared at Conner’s inert form for a few moments, looking for signs of movement. Finally she was satisfied.

  “Thank God he went to the bathroom before the drug kicked in,” she said as she moved towards him. “Come on, let’s get him stripped and set up.”

  With deliberate care, Marie closed the guitar case and moved it to the side of the room. Neither she nor Josef spoke as they pulled at Conner’s inert form, stripping the clothing from him. Then Josef arranged Conner’s limp body over to the chaise longue, left arm over the back of the chaise, right leg hanging over the front, with Conner’s foot brushing the floor. Then he left the room, and came back a moment later with a camera and tripod.

  “Help me get out of this dress,” said Marie when he had returned.

  Josef grunted and fumbled with the little plastic hooks that held the garment to her. He struggled with the final hook, ripping the dress as he pulled it undone.

  “What the hell are you doing there?” she hissed.

  “Keep still,” he said.

  “You are such a grunt,” hissed Marie, “it’s a wonder Lench finds use for you. Have you got the camera?”

  “Of course I have the camera,” he snapped. “I know my job, you make sure you know yours.”

  She looked back at him, naked now, pitch-black eyes staring at him. Her nakedness reminded him for a moment of Bridget in the moment before she slashed him.

  “I’ll get everything set up,” he said. A stirring of lust made him pause but he pushed it away.

  In the spiritual world the angels of God see all too clearly how things are, and Conner’s angel watched, full of fascination and horror as her precious charge was prepared for the abuse. It was all noted, all recorded, including the details of Conner’s drug-spoilt, incoherent prayer, which even now filtered up into the heavenly places.

  Conner’s spiritual guardian was prostrate, and doing the one thing she did best – worshipping her God, anxious to submit herself yet again to the Lord. From the start she had known this situation was deeply wrong, but she had not guessed how this would play out. She was horrified by the seething legion attending the driver of the car, barely keeping their victim on the leash. She sensed the spiritual stench of this place they were in, where desperate and destructive acts had given license to the enemy to establish himself here. Then of course there was this girl. When she saw at first hand the Spirit that infested her, she had simply closed her eyes and turned away.

  The demon sat just above Marie, presenting itself as a little girl of maybe nine or ten years old. Its top half, above the torso, was a replica of Marie as she might have been when she was that age. The same sad dark eyes, set in a younger face, hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a floral summer dress. The angel noticed that the likeness was uncanny, and unusually detailed, with one supplementary effect. Across the girl’s forehead, above the sad and lonely eyes cut into the skin of the forehead was the word: “ABANDONED”. The cuts were deep and seemed to go all the way through to the bone of her skull, and a dark liquid oozed from the wounds.

  Below the torso, the demon made no attempt to present itself as human; rather where there might have been legs, it seemed to have something like roots that reached down into its host, digging into her brain and heart.

  The demon viewed the angel dispassionately, seemingly unconcerned by her cries to God, then it looked down at its host, and at Conner’s inert body spread out before them, and grinned.

  In the physical world, Marie placed a mask over her face and donned a pair of surgical gloves. She straddled the inert form of Conner’s body and mimicked a number of sexual acts in a systematic and preplanned choreography. Josef worked the camera, moving it occasionally to get a different view. Outside, the dog barked again, and the sound of birdsong drifted in through the open window, a counterpoint to the sound of Marie moving over her victim’s skin, and the occasional squeak of the chaise longue as it took their weight.

  Marie was comprehensive and methodical; she took her time and Josef filmed it all with the professional patience he’d developed over a lifetime.

  Conner’s guardian continued to pray, averting her eyes from the site of the abuse; but even as she did so the Spirit that infested Marie leant forward, almost casually and spoke to the angel. There was no bravado, none of the bluster and arrogance that Josef’s horde might have exhibited.

  “I am alone,” it said quietly.

  The angel looked at the demon, knowing that she had no power to banish it, or stop the actions of its host.

  “And I am not,” said the angel quietly, “and neither is he.” She pointed at Conner’s naked form.

  The demon stared at the angel as if she’d just said something embarassing at a dinner party. Then it twitched and rearranged its roots, before composing itself again.

  “Look at my host,” it said, and spread a child’s hand out as if introducing Marie to Conner’s guardian angel.

  “See how disappointed she is,” it continued. “A constant well of frustration and anger; disappointed to be left alone; disappointed to be abandoned by them.”

  The angel considered for a moment: “Them?” Who were the “them” it referred to? Although she already had her suspicions.

 
“They were always there for the others,” the demon continued. “Where were they when she needed them?” It closed its eyes and seemed to suck at the host, feeding again on the vast reservoir of brokenness within.

  In the physical world, Marie looked up from her work and sighed. With all the activity, Conner’s drugged form had slumped down further and further, the fingers of his right hand touched the wooden floor.

  “Let’s get on with the next phase,” said Josef.

  “Patience,” said Marie, “pass the equipment.” She pointed down to his left.

  Without comment, Josef passed her a small translucent plastic box.

  The angel turned her attention from the demon and prayed again:

  “Lord, hear Conner’s prayer.”

  The demon sniffed and wrinkled its little girl nose.

  Across the void, Conner’s single, disjointed prayer had indeed been heard; and at around that time, Alex Masters saw the text message from her brother and sent a quick reply.

  “HOPE ALL GOES WELL. IF THEY GIVE YOU CASH PAY IT INTO YOUR ACCOUNT!”

  She sent the message and switched off her phone.

  Sitting over Conner’s body, Marie removed the lid to the box. Inside were a selection of small scalpels and a syringe. She decided to start with the cutting.

  Removing one of the smaller instruments from the box she held it in her hand and watched the light play on the edge, then carefully she brought the blade down to Conner’s chest and drew a line across his skin. She massaged the cut, and blood beaded up at the wound. The camera rolled. Then she lifted her right hand and touched the blade to her palm, watching as a single red bead appeared in her hand. The camera stopped, and the birdsong faded for a moment, and then the oppressive silence was shattered by the sound of a high brash voice, speaking with the cowboy accent of the American West:

  “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us!”

  “What the …?” said Josef, instinctively slipping one of his own blades from its holder.

  “Ignore it, it’ll be his mobile,” said Marie, still holding the razor, the blood welling on her palm. She looked down at the red line of Conner’s own blood.

  She was about to bring her hand down on his chest when the voice cut in on them again.

  “Reach for the sky!”

  Beneath her, Marie felt Conner stir.

  “Josef, quick,” she said, “we need to put him under again.”

  “No,” hissed Josef, “another dose is dangerous, we stick to the plan; we agreed one attempt at this, and another dose only for the journey back.” His voice went quieter still. “And no names, remember?”

  They stared at each other, and were only interrupted when Conner twitched slightly. Marie turned her attention back to the blade, drawing it across his chest again, making another bloody track next to the first one. Again Conner shifted slightly, and his right leg began to slide off the edge of the chaise longue so that his foot hit the floor with a dull thud. The ragged line of blood on his chest began to congeal. She leant forward examining his face through the mask.

  “It will have to do,” she said, and then and then in an act of dominance, rather than affection, she kissed his cheek and his eyelids flickered as she moved away from him.

  “Let’s see if we can turn the phone off,” she said calmly, standing up from him.

  Josef reached down to Conner’s jacket with a gloved hand, and took out the phone. He pressed the off button and slid it back into Conner’s jacket.

  “Let’s get him dressed,” she said, standing up. “Then we can give him another dose for the journey.”

  They pulled the clothing back on him, his tee shirt smearing the blood from the cut on his chest. Marie picked up the dress and then looked back at her victim. He was lying perfectly still now, mouth open, a couple of red patches showing against his shirt. Marie took the syringe and administered another dose into his arm. She held his wrist as she did so and looked at the little band hanging there: purple letters on a light green background.

  “WWJD,” she said.

  “What?” Josef stared at her.

  “Never mind,” said Marie, “you can take the short route to the station.”

  He said nothing as he unscrewed the camera from the tripod. He’d had enough of people telling him how to do his job, especially this woman.

  “Okay, a copy for him, a copy for us.” She indicated the camera.

  Josef ignored her, and walked into the kitchen. The surface of a small breakfast bar was covered in computer and camera equipment. The blinds across the window were heavy and drawn.

  He eased the chip out of the camera and slid it into a waiting laptop. File names appeared on the screen and Josef clicked on an icon, whispering under his breath. He copied the files to a waiting data tag.

  “Come on, come on,” he whispered to himself.

  A series of images flicked up on the screen, and he couldn’t help grinning at some of them.

  The door opened behind him, and she entered.

  “He seems to have quietened down now,” she said.

  “You should stay with him,” replied Josef without turning round. “If he revives now I will probably have to kill him.”

  She was looking at him, and he could feel her contempt, boring into him. He turned to face her, looking into the black soulless eyes.

  “He will be fine, and you,” she actually pointed at him as she spoke, “need to do your job.”

  He looked back to the screen and released a long, slow breath. The tag indicated that the file transfer was complete. He pulled it out of the computer port and handed it to her. She turned and left, and the little dress, now ripped at the collar, brushed against the floor.

  “Oh yes,” he grinned, “I’ll do my job, Marie.” He switched off the laptop and packed the camera away.

  Marie was waiting for him when he returned. She’d managed to prop Conner up against the chaise longue; his head flopped onto his chest. Josef picked him up like a rag doll and carried him out to the car; the body was satisfyingly limp as he strapped it into the front passenger seat. She followed on behind with the guitar, and put that on the back seat.

  “How are you going to dump him without arousing suspicion?” she asked.

  He just smiled at her as he started the car.

  “As you requested,” he said, “I will do my job.” Then he floored the accelerator and the car lurched across the gravel drive, spitting tiny stones in an arc as he drove away.

  Conner woke with a dry mouth, and aching head.

  Immediately, he knew something was wrong. He tried to remember where he was. There had been a girl, and a cottage, but now he was outside. He could remember the girl, and drinking some water, and going to the bathroom, but nothing else, no party, no guests, no music set. He reached out to his guitar case, which was lying beside him, and his ribs ached. His clothes felt odd, like they they’d been pulled around, and in some undefined way he felt dirty, violated.

  He opened his eyes and tried to take a deep breath.

  It was late afternoon, the light was fading and he was sitting on a bench, opposite a station, the station where the bearded guy had picked him up earlier.

  He looked at his watch, but he could not focus on it in the half-light, maybe it said five thirty. His head was hurting and he needed to go for a pee, badly. Feeling confused and scared, he wanted to get away from this place, now.

  He reached for the phone and scrolled through the messages and missed calls. The first text message was from Alex.

  “HOPE ALL GOES WELL. IF THEY GIVE YOU CASH PAY IT INTO YOUR ACCOUNT!”

  “God, what happened to me?” He tried to speak the words but his voice sounded rusty and alien.

  And his chest hurt. It definitely hurt, and it wasn’t just the fact that he ached; there was a sharp stinging pain there. He looked down at his tee shirt, and thought he could see a string of dark patches dots, bloodstains spaced like a constellation across the material.

  “W
hat the…?” he croaked.

  What had happened to him?

  My God, he thought, what did they do to me?

  He lifted his shirt, and the wounds stung where the blood had stuck the material to his chest. There were angry looking red tracks across his chest. He stared at them and repeated the thought.

  What did they do to me?

  He remembered a man’s voice, and the woman; they’d spoken to each other at one point.

  I need to go home.

  He summoned his strength, stood up and stumbled across to the station. He still had his wallet and he eased himself delicately onto a seat on the platform. He was lucky; there was a train back to London due in about fifteen minutes.

  * * *

  It was only when he got back to his apartment and was unpacking his bag that he saw the data tag.

  Someone had stuck a caption across the label side:

  “Conner Adams, porn king. More on the web”

  They hadn’t even spelt his name right.

  He slid the tag into his computer.

  The images were very clear, and well lit. He stared, fascinated and horrified, at his naked form. Above his body, a female figure in a devil’s mask straddled him, seemingly engaged in a sexual act with him. It looked like it was the girl who had called herself Jessica, but the mask did a pretty good job of obscuring her face.

  What had she done? What had she done to him?

  He went into the shower and ran hot water over himself; the wound on his chest stung, and began to bleed again as he tried to clean himself off.

  What had they done to him?

  The question kept coming to him, and then more questions; what if he was infected? What if they had done other things to him? What if she’d given him some kind of disease?

  My God, he thought. My God.

  What would it all mean for Poppy and him?