Cain's Redemption

by A J Chamberlain

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “I’m not like you; I’m not like any of you.”

  “I know who you are,” she said. “I was your PA for five years.”

  They stood for a moment watching the rain fall onto the windowpane.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said. “I think I should be heading off now.

  He nodded and turned to the door. She followed him out and they walked back to the front of the house where Alex collected her coat. Before she left she hugged him, somehow managing to combine both passion and reserve in the act, and then she let him go and he opened the front door.

  “Drive safely,” he said.

  She nodded, and hurried out into the pattering rain.

  She waved as she left and then her car she disappeared down the road into the distance.

  After she had gone Lewis went back into his house and lit a cigar, and sat watching the flames in the hearth while he tried to work out what he really thought of Alex Masters.

  17

  During the following week, for the first time in a long time, Aiden began to talk about Cath. The facts broke out like water from a crumbling dam. A detail here and there, as much as he felt able to share, and then a little more, and then some more until it was a rush of as many things as people wanted to hear.

  For a few people, not least Caleb Wicks, the truth made some sense of that which had seemed incomprehensible – the silent pain of Aiden Kennedy, the quiet, hidden sorrow with no root or reason.

  With his past revealed, Aiden walked with a lighter step and a straighter back. Even now he could not quite say why he had kept quiet so long, although most of those close to him did not press him too hard for reasons.

  In all this liberation, two facts went almost unnoticed. First, although much of the burden was lifted, he still felt the pain, he had still lost the one he loved and in his most private moments, he still grieved. Indeed he grieved all the more as he felt another dam of sorrow burst within himself, unfreezing a process that had remained unfinished.

  The second thing was the fact that it had been Daisy who had unlocked Aiden’s secret. It was a mystery of circumstance and personality, and no one, not even Caleb, tried to fathom it.

  Nobody at SUMMER had time to reflect too much on what Aiden had said though, because in the middle of all this, Conner’s band released their album. It attracted muted praise from the critics who baulked at some of the more overt religious content, but the people loved it, and it charted in its first week. Even Darius Lench had to suffer the indignity of seeing a fleeting mention of Joel’s Garden in his morning paper. The success of the album was a team effort. The band had worked hard, and Lewis had worked his contacts, and helped them find their way around the maze of retailers, distributors, production companies and radio stations.

  The atmosphere in the office reminded Lewis Ashbury of the heady days of two years ago when his company had introduced the SEEKA project. He made phone calls to old friends and colleagues in the music business, opinion formers and journalists were invited to listen and provided with interviews. Conner switched from guitar practice to interview to TV appearance and back to guitar practice in a bewildering cycle, and the media enjoyed the narrative of the boy who made good after a checkered past. Most of the interviewers wanted a version of the stolen guitar story and in the end he had the script off by heart.

  Meanwhile Daisy and Poppy had their own work to do. The production schedules for their clothing lines were in place in time for the launch of SUMMER’s ethically traded clothing, to be known as “SUMMER Fare”.

  Aiden and Alex had been working hard to secure the acknowledgement of the World Fair Trade Organization, with Caleb drafted in to decode any legalese that crossed their desks. The whole operation buzzed with energy and expectation.

  Daisy and Poppy arranged to have the weekend off together, and Daisy even agreed to come to Poppy’s “dialled down” service, as she called it, the Quaker meeting on Sunday morning.

  On Friday evening, with everyone at last heading out to play, or home, Aiden sat at his desk and opened up some files, to review the weekly income figures. The money was, at least, beginning to come in and he realized, much to his delight, that for the first time in months, a week had gone by and no one had asked him about the financial situation of the company.

  It was a very healthy sign.

  Daisy was in a relaxed mood when she joined Poppy for the service at the Friends Meeting House on Sunday morning. She felt no need to have all her defences raised. She imagined this would be a good chance to sit and reflect, to switch onto autopilot while this gentle contingent of the religious types did their thing.

  She brought her own presuppositions to the meeting, and so she had expected them all to be sitting in rows, facing in the same direction, staring at an altar. But they weren’t like that at all, and the idea of having everyone facing each other unnerved her at first. At Daisy’s insistence they chose seats near one of the walls and in a corner.

  “You’ll be okay,” said Poppy, who could see Daisy staring around her. “Believe me, you are not going to be the centre of attention.”

  “I’m not dressed for this,” she whispered to Poppy. Daisy was wearing one of her favourite Day-Glo tee shirts, complete with sunflower, a rather loose black cardigan and a short tartan skirt.

  Poppy turned to her and looked straight into the wide blue eyes. “Just relax, you will be fine.”

  Daisy took a deep breath and looked at the little knots of modestly dressed people coming in. Some of them nodded and smiled at Poppy and her, but none of them made a fuss about what she was wearing.

  Daisy tried to take Poppy’s advice and relax. She was here now so she had better make the best of it, whatever that might be.

  There were long periods of silence. This in itself was a strange experience for her. She assumed that a church service was like a variety act, with some singing, and listening to someone read the Bible, a bit of preaching and maybe some prayers. As the silences continued, her mind flitted from the designs to Aiden and then to Alex.

  Gradually she did begin to relax and look around the room they were sitting in. A couple of years ago the silence in this place would have driven her mad, but now she was beginning to learn to be at peace with herself, and so she did not feel so threatened.

  She was just studying the wooden ceiling panels of the room they were in when one of the old guys in the congregation rose very slowly to his feet and looked around at the others.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Daisy to Poppy.

  “He’s going to share something with us,” said Poppy.

  Daisy stared at the man, wondering what it was that he going to share with them all. She imagined the old guy producing a big jar of sweets and passing them round. Maybe, she thought, it was his birthday and he had some cake with him.

  The man held a small shiny book in his hand and he fumbled through the pages. The steady precision of his movements fascinated Daisy, the measured way in which he found the place he was looking for, the slow rhythm of his actions; these things seemed to lend weight to whatever he was about to say. She was unused to watching anyone do anything without hurrying and the sight of it mesmerized her. His face suggested answers to questions that were important to her, but she didn’t know what they were.

  “I would like to read a few verses from the Gospel of John.” He had a surprisingly strong voice that echoed lightly against the walls. The rest of the room was silent.

  The old man recited the tale of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well, and Daisy listened to the story and a little smile came to her face. She had never realized that there were women with attitude in the Bible. She found herself liking this busy, no-nonsense Samaritan woman who had bantered with the Messiah, and had had five husbands before this encounter.

  Respect to you, thought Daisy. In her mind she began to imagine this lady, busy about her daily chores, sparring with the Son of God before getting back to the house
with her water.

  The old man continued to read, but seemed to be coming to the end of the story.

  “Then,” he read, “the woman left her water jar and went back to her city and said to the people there, ‘Come and see a man who has told me about everything I ever did.’ Could this man be the Christ?”

  He shut his Bible and with deliberate care and looked around at all of them.

  “I think this story may have a particular significance for someone here,” he said, then he eased down carefully on his chair, his descent managed by the shaky hand of his wife.

  Nice story, thought Daisy, pondering on the Samaritan woman again. No doubt this lady was a well-known fixture in the town, and would be going round to all her mates, telling them she had met the Messiah, a man who knew about the events of her life – everything she had done.

  The rest of the town probably imagined she was introducing husband number six, she thought.

  As the service continued, some of the old man’s words echoed in her mind:

  Come and see a man who has told me about everything I ever did.

  Everything I Ever Did.

  And then like a jolt in her heart, Daisy remembered her dream, the events of her life, all the things she had done; she remembered the hand that had appeared at the end of the dream, with the ragged flesh. She’d recognized even then that her restless brain had conjured up an image of the hand of the Messiah, still sporting the hole from the Roman nail, and she thought about the series of dreams that had preceded the image of that hand, images showing her everything she ever did, everything that had been done to her. She remembered the last words of the story.

  Could this man be the Christ?

  Daisy frowned and fidgeted. Then she looked at the people around her, thankful that still none of them paid her any attention. She felt observed, as if someone just out of sight was taking a keen interest in her.

  Well, she wondered could he be the Christ?

  She thought about the derision with which she had treated Christians and their beliefs. She thought about the way in which she had laughed at Alex and teased Conner. Even in her wounded state she’d still had her pride, and she had treated all of them as weak, feeble individuals unable to hold their heads up and fend for themselves, unable to live without of their Jesus prop.

  And yet she had been the one on the floor of the lavatory, sobbing her heart out as those things, these “demons” as Conner called them, interfered with her.

  Even then, maybe even now, the chains she thought this Messiah would bind her with were heavier, and scarier, than the damage she had endured in her life. At least that damage came with some freedom; at least the demons left her free to despair.

  But then again she had been loved! She’d been loved! By these people, family and friends, and that love had been like water in a thirsty land. Almost too sweet for her, that she should be so valued when she knew she had no value, that she should be so loved, when she knew she was not lovable.

  And here was this man who told her everything she’d done and still loved her, she had learnt it through Alex and her crew, these people who cared about her and these people, like Alex, Conner, and Caleb and the rest of them, people who showed her what it was to love.

  She was aware of Poppy glancing at her and then looking away, but Daisy did not move. She did not want to answer any questions at the moment. The sense of being watched continued, but she did not feel judged or condemned or lusted after, she simply felt loved.

  What a fool he must be! she thought suddenly. What a fool to love me so much!

  And yet he did.

  I am acceptable. I am loved, as I am, not as someone I might strive to be. I am loved as I am.

  The revelation smote her heart, its point sinking deep, deep into the very core of her being. She had not even realized that any of herself existed at that level, where this truth now resided.

  She sat and absorbed this transformation for several minutes before she leant over towards Poppy.

  “That was me,” she whispered, still covering her face with her hands. “That was me, all that stuff about the Samaritan woman, and Jesus telling her everything she ever did. I had a dream like that.”

  Poppy stared at her.

  “Okay,” she said, “how do you feel now about it?”

  Daisy looked out over the sea of faces. The meeting was coming to an end, people were talking to each other, getting up and moving around. She got up herself and looked over to where the old man sat.

  “That was me!” she said in a clear voice that carried across the room. Everyone stared in her direction; most of them looking for the first time at this wide-eyed, stranger that Poppy had brought with her.

  She moved out from her chair and walked down to the centre of the room, and everyone watched her as she crossed the aisle and walked up to the chair where the man sat next to his wife. He was holding tightly to his stick, staring at Daisy as if she were an apparition that had appeared before him.

  She leant down. “That was for me, those words.”

  The old man looked up at her, startled by this visitor from another generation and culture. “Well then,” he said, “God bless you.”

  “Yeah, and you, mate.” She bent over and kissed him on the cheek.

  The old man looked like he’d received a mild electric shock and remained seated for some time after that.

  18

  The Assassin flicked off the lamp and listened to his own breath as he moved slowly, back and forth, rocking on the edge of the bed. The mattress squeaked and the rumpled blankets rustled together. He went through this procedure whenever he felt lonely or depressed.

  Just recently this had been happening more frequently. Other people might shed tears, but he could not remember the last time he had cried; it must have been years, decades ago. He could no longer remember how to cry, the concept was alien to him.

  There was a streetlight just outside his room and the dull glow shone past the half-opened blinds at his window. The light moved across his vision as he rocked backwards and forwards; orange stripes raking the wall of his room. Looking down, he could almost pick out the shape of his exercise equipment in the shadows on the floor.

  He picked up one of the dumb-bells in his left hand and went to work with it; back and forth, back and forth, grunting through the motion. In the course of this exercise he looked around the room, and then back to the grey blanket, and the faded colour photo placed on the bedside cabinet.

  He had spent quite a bit of time recently looking at the face of his mother, trying to scratch together some comfort from it amongst all of the violence. It had been a gross indulgence, and he despised himself for it, not least because it left the legion within him restless and angry at his flirtation with the comfort of human love.

  Many times the legion had told him to throw the photo away, rip it into pieces and flush it down the toilet, toss it in the trash. But every time he had resisted. This photo was the only connection he had with his history, his heritage, the only thing that allowed him to still think of himself as human. Some of the people in his trade forgot how many people they murdered; he did not. He had killed forty-six people individually in his career, the first being the man who murdered his mother and the last, the woman from SLaM.

  Killing Bridget Larson was the first time he had made a mistake. The first time he had killed the wrong person, and the first time one of them had laid a finger on him during the act. He would bear the evidence of it for the rest of his life, on his face, and in his heart.

  Back and forth went the dumb-bell. Then he changed to his right hand and started again, back and forth through the routine. He looked up at the slats of light on the wall, like a series of scars, like the scar on his own face.

  He had built his life around the control and application of violence. This was his craft, and he was good at it, but after nearly twenty years he was getting tired, tired of being a killer and tired of having to face the condescension of people lik
e Lench – people born with rank and privilege.

  He could feel that tiredness in his bones as well. He could not now wait motionless on a cold night without feeling pain, without feeling the ache of the tension in his muscles. It wasn’t a lack of fitness; it wasn’t even just physical deterioration. He was beginning to feel as if his time was running out; a feeling accentuated by Lench’s decision to sideline him in favour of Marie. He was starting to brood, the pressure in his head building as the walls closed in.

  Around him and within him, unseen, the spirits lingered, uncertain where this current line of thinking would take their host, hungry for the opportunity to bring him to a frenzy again, to torment his frayed personality and satisfy their own lust for violence. They repeated their essence in whispers to him:

  “We are violence, and the love of violence. Violence will bring resolution. Rage is the condition. Violence is the solution.”

  He closed his eyes and listened to their ancient call, the frustration, and he feared and loved what he heard.

  He threw the dumb-bell down onto the carpet with a dull thud, and the slight incline of the floor caused it to roll towards his feet.

  He turned to his other comfort, his other routine, hoping to find solace in it. He opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and removed the soft grey cloth that contained the instrument of his trade. A customized .45 calibre 13-round handgun with a silencer that he had designed himself. “Surely,” the voices told him, “this is your friend, your only friend.” Friend, confidante, intimate. This gun was his companion, the one he broke bread with, in the form of the bodies and blood of his victims.

  He thought again about Darius Lench as he unfurled the cloth and looked at the instrument of his trade. Lench had been trying to silence the Christian group by breaking the boy, using his new tart, Marie. She was from Lench’s world of course, clever, smart, another City type; no wonder Lench had preferred her.