Cain's Redemption

by A J Chamberlain

  “Yes, I do,” said Conner, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he added.

  “You are certain it’s not damaged?” repeated Mr Barrow, ignoring Conner’s apology.

  “Certain,” said Conner quite truthfully; he could feel his face going red.

  Mr Barrow looked at the guitar again and looked at Conner again, peering at him intently, as if the boy were some kind of interesting zoological specimen.

  “Well, thank you for returning it,” said Mr Barrow.

  “You’re welcome,” said Conner.

  “But what,” said Mr Barrow, “shall we do with you? Let me see.”

  Before Conner could offer any suggestions, the old man turned and paced across the floor, past the anonymous boxes and into the back office again. Conner thought he heard someone humming softly to himself, then the humming stopped, and the old man returned.

  “Are you going to be famous one day?” said Mr Barrow.

  Conner stared at him, nonplussed by the question.

  “I don’t know,” said Conner. “Maybe.”

  “Hmm,” said Mr Barrow, “well there is the raffle coming up I suppose.”

  Conner wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say anything else, so he kept quiet and tried not to fidget. The old man rubbed his chin and scowled; then he jumped as if someone had nudged him in the side.

  “I know what we can do.” He opened a drawer at the counter and took out a thick permanent marker pen. “Now, would you please open the case and sign the headstock for me,” he said, offering the pen to Conner.

  “What? Why?” said Conner, completely taken by surprise.

  “It is my business what I do with my property,” said Mr Barrow sharply. “But for your information, the local Chambers of Commerce are asking me to provide something for their annual charity auction; and it’s a confounded damn nuisance having to give up my stock for these things! But I would think a Martin signed by a local pop star should keep them happy. So if you would be so kind as to sign it, just above the sound hole, thank you.”

  Conner did as he was asked, signed the instrument and then handed the pen back.

  “Right,” said Mr Barrow, and he closed the lid of the case. “Now, was there anything you wanted?”

  “Can I have…” Conner glanced around. “Can I have a set of new strings, please.”

  “Of course,” said Mr Barrow and placed a packet on the counter. “I presume you’ll be paying for these rather than just taking them this time.”

  Conner paid, said thank you again, and went back home to tell everyone how it had gone.

  The charity auction was a citywide project, with a number of Chambers of Commerce joining forces, turning it into a major event. Despite his protests, Mr Barrow had been generous in the past in supporting what he privately felt to be a worthy cause and wasn’t in the least bit sorry to be able to offer the guitar as his contribution, especially since he hadn’t had to use any new stock. The auction was held in the Lancaster Ballroom at the Savoy Hotel in London. It was a risk to take the place, albeit for a much-reduced fee, but the event proved to be popular, and nearly all of the invited guests turned up.

  Of some interest was a 00L-17 whisky sunset acoustic guitar made by Martin & Co and signed across the headstock by the talented young performer, Conner Adams of the band Joel’s Garden. It was indeed a stroke of good fortune that by the time the auction was held; the band’s recently released single was enjoying some success in the charts.

  Interest in this particular lot was heightened by a rumour, alluded to in the programme, that Mr Adams had in fact stolen the instrument in his younger, more reckless days, and in the fit of conscience had since returned it to the shop. The donor of the guitar offered no comment on this speculation, and a good number of the guests, while disapproving of theft found that the story added some cachet to the item.

  The guitar was purchased for £3,000 by an anonymous bidder, and everyone was satisfied with the result.

  Alex Masters sipped some tea and then yawned. She sat in Caleb office, nestled in the corner of the expansive sofa, draped as ever with an incongruous selection of Mrs Wicks’ knitted covers. The sofa had always been a sharp contrast to the polished mahogany furniture and bookshelves of legal opinion that occupied the rest of the office.

  “I’m not boring you, am I?” said Caleb.

  Alex smiled.

  “Just tired, and it’s warm in here, and I suppose I feel relieved.”

  “Of course,” said Caleb “Conner has been returned to us, in more ways than one.”

  Alex had sat on this sofa as a child and as a young woman. She had seen the knitted covers come and go, changing with the seasons and Mrs Wicks’ evolving taste in styles and colours. This was indeed a safe place to be, but she hadn’t come to Caleb’s office to escape from the outside world, he had expressly invited her.

  “Well, here I am,” she said.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, my dear,” he said, fidgeting with his bow tie and sitting at his desk. “I wanted to have a chat with you away from the SUMMER offices. I do understand why you wanted a small ‘hot desk’ office, and I’m sure that’s wonderfully efficient, but…” He paused.

  “But?” she said.

  “But sometimes a warm desk is better than a hot one; I think,” he concluded and tapped the surface in front of him.

  Alex raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I was wondering whether you could assist me.”

  “If I can,” said Alex, “of course I will.”

  “You know it seems to me,” said Caleb, “that as soon as one of our number resolves their difficulties, another becomes a subject for concern.”

  She looked at him and waited. Caleb always approached any topic from an oblique angle and she found it was best to let him get there in his own time.

  “What I’m saying,” he continued, “is that now young Conner seems to have got over his crisis I am feeling more concerned about one of our other friends.”

  She looked at him and raised an eyebrow, implying the question: who?

  “Lewis,” he said.

  “Lewis?” said Alex, frowning.

  “Yes Lewis,” said Caleb. “I’m worrying about him because I have discovered how much he felt for your former colleague, Bridget Larson. Of course, they were lovers; but I did not realize that he also loved her, very much it seems. They had a history together, building up the business from the beginning.”

  Alex tensed slightly; she felt it in herself although she didn’t show it.

  “The thing is,” he said, “I just wonder what his feelings would drive him to. Tell me, Alex, do you think he loved her?”

  “Well, they were close,” said Alex, she really hadn’t expected this, “and when Bridget started seeing Martin Massey outside of work, Lewis found it hard to deal with.”

  “I am sure he did,” said Caleb. “And that is part of the problem, you see. Based on what you’ve just said, I suspect Lewis never came to terms with the relationship between Bridget and Martin, and he certainly never really recovered from Bridget’s death, or properly grieved for her passing, that’s very clear. And I suspect he has not grieved for her properly, because he does not know how to grieve.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Alex. “Yes, I think in his own way he did love her, they loved each other. But what do you want me to do?”

  “Well, that rather depends,” said Caleb, cryptically. “I’ll try and get to the point, Alex. Lewis is angry about Bridget’s death. I think he is so angry that he wants some sort of revenge on whoever killed her.”

  “Yes,” said Alex, leaning forward, “I could have told you that.”

  “You are aware of this?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “And you haven’t done anything about it?”

  “What can I do about it?” she said, sitting up straight now. “What do you think I can do about it, Caleb? Do you think I can just go up to Lewis a
nd tell him to stop being so silly?”

  “Well, maybe not with those exact words but, yes you could try that.”

  She was at a loss to know how to reply to this. Eventually she shook her head.

  “I don’t think I have that kind of influence over him, and I’m not sure I even want it. You know how things are between Lewis and I.”

  “Well actually, no,” said Caleb, “I am not sure that I know how things are between Lewis and you, perhaps you’d like to tell me?”

  “He’s my employee. He has specialist knowledge and I want to use that for the benefit of the company.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yes, of course, what are you saying?” She was beginning to get irritated now. It seemed as if Caleb thought he could ask her any question he liked, including about her private life.

  “I am not saying or assuming anything,” said Caleb, “and of course your private life is your own business, but you should try to answer this question for yourself, Alex, even if you don’t answer it for me.”

  “Well I’m not sleeping with him, if that’s your thinking,” she said.

  For a moment he said nothing and then she interrupted him before he could speak.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure that’s not what you meant.”

  “No it wasn’t,” he said, “and I am sorry if I was insensitive. I know most of what I say and do seems rather obtuse and even bizarre to you, but trust me, Alex, beneath all of that, I am serious, and I have my reasons. This is a war, and it is fought on multiple fronts in multiple battles. I think we’re winning the battle for Conner, but the war is certainly not over, and whether he likes it or not, Lewis is now involved.”

  “In what way?” said Alex.

  “I think,” said Caleb, “that Lewis is being tempted at his weakest point, no surprise there of course, and that weakest point is his grief over Bridget’s death, and his desire for vengeance.”

  “And you think I can help him through this, talk him back from the edge?” said Alex.

  “I think you are the best and perhaps the only person who could,” said Caleb, “because he is very fond of you, and you are, I think, very fond of him.”

  He continued before Alex could answer him.

  “Now there is nothing wrong with that, why shouldn’t you be fond of him, and he you? I think you two have formed a good friendship, and I am loathe to disturb this happy arrangement but I believe that the temptation to go off on this vendetta is growing in Lewis’ heart and you are the person who can stop him from doing something really stupid.”

  “Which he might.” Alex shook her head.

  “Indeed he might,” said Caleb. “I think he believes that Martin Massey knows something about Bridget’s murder and I think he will go to any lengths to find out what that something is.”

  “And if he finds this murderer,” said Alex, “you think he’ll go after him?”

  “I think that’s very likely,” said Caleb. “The temptation will be too much for him.”

  Alex put her hand to her mouth. “No, I don’t want him to end up hurt, or worse.”

  Alex’s mind filled with images of Lewis arguing with someone, maybe the man who had visited her first café. It was easy for her imagination to finish the scenario with the worst possible outcome.

  “So you see,” said Caleb gently, “I really want to persuade Lewis to think again. It is not going to go well if he threatens Martin Massey; and it’s going to be a lot worse if he goes after Bridget’s murderer. But I think only you can reach him, if you want to.”

  “So, I need to talk to him about it,” said Alex.

  Caleb smiled and sat back in his chair. “As soon as you can, yes.”

  “Okay,” said Alex, “I’ll talk to him, but it’s up to him in the end. If he wants to go off on some damn fool crusade to avenge Bridget’s death, that’s his choice.”

  “At least you will have done what you can,” said Caleb.

  “Now,” Alex paused to remember some part of the conversation she wanted to return to, “what was it you were saying about Daisy? Are you worried about her as well?”

  “Before we talk about Daisy,” said Caleb, “there’s something I want to show you. Could you come and have a look at this, please?”

  She pulled herself up from the sofa and came over to his desk, where he had laid out the photo-fit of Bridget’s murderer, which Alex had seen before, and the CCTV images that Orlando Shand had sent him, which she had not.

  “Where did you get these?” she said.

  “I bumped into Bridget’s lawyer,” said Caleb. “He has taken her murder very personally, and has tracked down these images from some local CCTV, taken on the day she was killed.”

  “Is this the man who killed her?”

  “He thinks so,” said Caleb. “What do you think?”

  “It could be the same person as the photo-fit,” said Alex. “But I can tell you one thing – I’ve seen this person before.”

  “Really, where?”

  “This is the guy who came into the café,” said Alex. “I think I recognize his face, and I can see the scar he had in some of these images. It is him.”

  Caleb was silent for a long time.

  “I am going to show these images to Conner as well,” he said, “and if he thinks this is the man who played a part in the attack on him, then we can connect him to all of these incidents, and we have a name: Joseph.”

  “Will you go to the police with this?” said Alex.

  “Yes,” said Caleb, “but I also want whoever is directing him, whoever ordered him to do these things. Leave it with me, Alex, I’ll let you know how I get on, and as ever, thank you.” He smiled.

  “You’re welcome,” said Alex. “Now I had better be going, thanks for the tea.” She picked up her coat and bag and they both stood and walked across the room, and Caleb reached out to open the door for her, but before he turned the handle, he placed his hand on her shoulder; when she looked at him, she thought he was actually going to cry.

  “This thing with Lewis,” he said, “I’m not playing games with you, Alex, God help me, I never want to do that. I have watched you and cared about you for nearly twenty years, and I, well,” he was lost for words for just a moment, “well, look after yourself, dear, and if I can help you, you only have to ask.”

  He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Take care, my dear, and bless you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said to him, “I know you love me, and I trust you.”

  As she stepped out into a cold spring morning her phone rang, and five minutes later she had accepted a dinner invitation from Lewis.

  15

  The four members of Joel’s Garden waited out of sight and listened to the crowd. They clustered at the side of the stage, feeling the energy of the fans and hearing an occasional comment from one of the crew.

  The support band had got a good reception from the crowd but they’d only served to whet people’s appetite for the main event, and now the stage was empty and the audience was getting restless. The whistles blew and huge balloons bobbed sideways across the heads of the crowd; the canned music vied with the increasing volume of human noise.

  “Hands in,” shouted Conner above the din. “Okay?” he said, looking at each one of them. This was it, the biggest concert they had ever played; two thousand people were standing just metres away, expecting the best that these guys could give.

  “Your kingdom come, and your will be done,” Conner whispered to himself; then he stepped out onto the stage, clutching a brand new guitar. As they all moved across the stage the lights dimmed, and thunder rolled through the house as the sense of expectation in the crowd welled up to the surface. Conner could hear and feel the roar of the people as he picked his way in the darkness up to the centre of the stage.

  He stood, transfixed by the heat and the vibration of sound, all of it coming at him, the people baying for the set to start. A single bass note began to blend in with
the crowd and Conner clutched at the microphone, waiting. And then for a moment, just for a moment, he forgot everything – the lyrics, the set, the chords, everything. He remembered that he had spent these last few years playing songs with a stolen guitar, and he remembered how incredibly angry he still was with whoever it was who had done that thing to him. He thought about photos that might, even now, be on a website somewhere, spreading from computer to computer, phone to phone. He thought about his sense of worth, his body, his blood, abused by these people and he was angry, and that hadn’t gone away, at least not yet. And then he thought about Alex and Daisy and Caleb and Poppy, especially Poppy who was beautiful in his eyes, and who knew about all of it and still loved him. He closed his eyes and recommitted himself, whispering what should have been a private prayer in darkness:

  “All for you, Jesus, all for you.”

  But this was not a private prayer. His words were snatched up by the PA, amplified out, and that prayer carried out over the crowd who roared their approval; and then two drumsticks cracked together:

  Snap snap snap snap

  Conner’s hands jumped into the first chord, instinctively, responding to hours and hours of practice, and then the lights came on and the whole stage was bathed in revolving circles of white light, and acting on instinct, the band leapt into the first song of the set.

  At the back of the auditorium, Daisy, Alex, Poppy and Aiden were standing by one of the bars watching the show. Caleb, though invited, had politely declined, citing the fact that he did not wish to be the oldest person in the building. Even from this distance, Alex could sense the liberation in Conner’s performance, and it blessed her to witness it. ,

  “So where is this party we are going to afterwards?” shouted Poppy above the noise.

  “Hotel near here with a big function room,” replied Alex in an equally loud voice. “Conner tells me that a lot of bands use it for after-show parties; it’s always good to have some big event just before a new album comes out, we’ve invited a lot of press people.”