Cain's Redemption

by A J Chamberlain

  But she had failed, as he secretly hoped she would. They had been too subtle, again. Trying to dirty the boy with photographs, upsetting him with lame accusations of theft. It was pathetic. Well, the boy was still on his hind legs singing his little songs with his friends, and stealing the hearts of teenage girls, and Lench’s new whore was in disgrace, consoled only by the fact that the police had not worked out who she was. Indeed, the fact that her firm wanted her to take up an assignment in America for a few months had come as a blessing. She needed to get out, and Lench was more than happy to let her go.

  Josef despised them both, and then he found himself despising their cause, the cause he thought he wanted to live by, and the revelation came to him, at last. He realized, dimly, that he was having a crisis of faith. Having been a willing and faithful servant to Lench, and to the master for all these years, he was beginning to wonder what it was all for. He could feel the horde within him fidgeting at the heretical thoughts flitting through his mind.

  He looked down at the gun in his hand. He was able to say, without any hesitation, that he loved this weapon more than anything or anyone else in the world. It was beautiful in his eyes, a symbol, a maker of the sudden and devastating violence that he craved. He began to clean the weapon with the soft cloth, touching and caressing the metal, reminding himself of its solidity, the sureness of its grip.

  Gradually, the tension in his mind began to subside and he felt his pulse rate settle. He replaced the gun with loving care and flicked on the TV.

  For the sheer perverse amusement of it, he settled on an episode of Crimescene, a programme where the police asked the public to help solve crimes. There was the usual parade of petty criminals and thugs, turning over post offices and raiding factories on payday. He despised them all with their ugly faces and their impoverished ambition.

  The presenters reached the final item, and Josef Durand reached for the remote control in advance of some idle channel hopping. He was about to press the button when a photo-fit image appeared that made him pause, and then stare in mute shock.

  He was looking at a very blurred image of himself.

  The presenter began to speak:

  “Some of you may remember a disturbing case that we featured on the programme a couple of years ago. The murder of Bridget Larson was a particularly brutal act, and one that left police wondering at the motive of the perpetrator.”

  Josef leant forward and concentrated, listening to every word. So far there was nothing here that was new.

  “Bridget was murdered in her apartment when she disturbed an intruder.” The presenter continued speaking and a picture of the apartment appeared on the screen. “The police are keeping an open mind on the motive for the killing; it may be that Bridget simply disturbed a burglar, although nothing was taken. So far no one has been arrested for Bridget’s murder, although a number of people were interviewed at the time.”

  “Ha,” Josef barked out a laugh despite the tension he felt within himself. “Including that idiot Martin Massey,” he whispered.

  That had been another of Lench’s mistakes, letting that soft arrogant fool Martin Massey get so involved with the group. Josef had singled him out as the weak link, the one most likely to blink, most likely to talk if the pressure got too much for him.

  The presenter continued talking:

  “But now, new evidence has come to light, we think the man in this photo-fit is called ‘Joseph’, and he may well now have a scar on his right cheek from a wound he picked up at this attack.”

  The blurred image of Josef from the CCTV appeared again on the screen. There was no doubt it was him, but now they had a name as well.

  The screen flicked back to the studio, and the presenter muttered something reassuring about violent crime being a rare thing, and for no one to get too worried. The closing comments were lost on Josef who was now engulfed by a rushing, boiling, sensation that closed out all sound. The veins on the side of his neck bulged and his hands clenched at the bedclothes.

  They had his name now.

  They had his name.

  Around and within him the spirits hammered his skull, sensing a rare opportunity to bring their host to the absolute pitch of rage.

  In his fractured brain Josef tried to make the connections. Who spoke that name? Who knew it?

  It would have been someone who knew Bridget, and also him. Someone questioned by the police. So who might have buckled under renewed pressure? Who could have blabbed to the police, given them a name, his name?

  Of course there was only one person who it could have been.

  “MASSEY!” he spat in his fury, then he scooped up the dumb-bell and flung it with all his might at the TV screen. It shot across the room, not even dipping before it exploded into the screen sending shards of glass over the carpet.

  He knew he should stop and think. He knew he should consult with Lench. He knew that there were so many good reasons to pause, to think, and to do the wise thing, the considered thing. Lench’s voice was even now, in his head, urging caution.

  He ignored the voice. Not because he wanted to but because he knew there was nothing he could do to calm the rage inside him now.

  He stood up and crunched his way across the broken glass to his wardrobe. He pulled out his work clothes, the anonymous uniform of his trade, and then he picked up his car keys and the weapon.

  Some years ago he’d tried to resist the anger, to bring some discipline to his life by practising meditation, but the horde would not allow him even a moment of silent self-reflection, it was impossible. All he could do at times like this was submit.

  Then, for a reason he could not fathom, he walked back to his bedside cabinet, opened a drawer and carefully, carefully picked out the photo of his mother. He slid this into his pocket and then he walked out of the cramped room into the bitter, clear night.

  It is ten thirty at night. The Assassin sits in his car, staring at the total darkness that is Martin Massey’s flat. The man is either out or asleep. His car is still in the communal garage, so maybe he has just had an early night. The Assassin’s handgun sits snug inside the specially sewn pocket of his jacket. He does not touch the weapon once it is in place, until he needs to use it.

  He checks his watch, and listens to his breathing, uneven, urgent despite his attempts to calm himself, and he waits. He thinks he will move when he is ready, but that decision lies with the host within him.

  At just before a quarter to eleven he is walking swiftly and quietly towards the building. The main door of the block isn’t even shut properly, and affords him the easiest of access. He has opened the door of Martin Massey’s apartment before, and can do it now without even using a torch. Now he is working he feels relaxed and alert, playing to his strengths again.

  He thinks of all the questions he will have to answer when what he is about to do is discovered. Lench will know it was him, and Josef won’t simply acknowledge it, he will own this act in front of Lench, he will revel in what he has done. He will defy his former leader to his face, because Lench has now lost his respect.

  He remembers the layout of the place from his last visit, and he smiles at the realization that unless Martin had reorganized the place, he would be able to move around, even in the darkness, with perfect ease.

  He is in the lounge, listening for any sound, a creak, a breath, the rustle of clothing. There is no sound, the apartment does not feel occupied; the Assassin has a hunch for these things.

  He pulls a small, narrow-beam torch from his pocket and flicks its beam around the room. Immediately in front and to the left of him, he sees a sofa and two armchairs, exactly as they had been on his previous visit. There is the hi-fi system on a glass shelf in an alcove, and there a widescreen TV and set-top box, flickering with numbers in different shades of green and blue.

  To the right is the bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. He turns the torch off and removes the weapon, silently sliding back the safety catch. He recalls that the hinges of the bedroo
m door whine when it is opened slowly and so he pushes it, with a smooth swift action and then stops it immediately when it stands just over half open. He now has a view of the room; the small dressing table over by the window seems rather effeminate for Massey, but there is no accounting for taste. The wardrobe is still there to the right, the bed directly in front of him. He moves to get a better view of the bed and raises the gun.

  But he can already see that it is empty.

  He can hear his own breathing beginning to labour at the frustration within. For a moment he is tempted to smash the place, but he rejects the idea. Destruction is a slow and noisy process, and would not satisfy him. It is murder, done well, quick and silent that is the meat and drink he craves.

  He tries to calm himself down; there is no point in losing composure now, he can leave without a trace.

  He takes one pace back towards the living room area again when he notices a piece of paper left in the middle of one of the sofa cushions. It has been ripped from a TV listings magazine, the page for this evening’s viewing. He can see that the listing includes details of the Crimescene programme. His curiosity is aroused and he shines the torch onto it. On the paper, around the edge of the print are three hastily scribbled words in small capital letters:

  IT WASN’T ME.

  The Assassin switches the torch off. “Liar.” He mouths the word, and then mouths it again, although in his heart he knows that the scribbled words are true. Massey is too much of a coward to betray him, and what would be the point of doing so now? For all his weaknesses, Martin Massey is not a vindictive person, neither was he a fool.

  That means someone else has mentioned his name to the police, or someone has let it slip in a careless moment. He stops and, in the silence, thinks. He listens to his own breathing and thinks back. Not many of the others in the group even know his name, Lench had at least granted him that concession when the Assassin had become useful to him. There are a couple of the long-term members who he knows will also be loyal to his need for discretion, and apart from that, the woman Marie is the only other person who knows that name. But she won’t give him away, even if she hates him, her professional pride, and her reputation with Lench would stop her.

  Unless she has done it by mistake.

  He walks to the bedroom window and looks out through the crack in the curtains to the stale yellow streetlight and the pavement below. He thinks back to their assignment, when they worked on the boy, Conner. He thinks about the conversations they had when the boy was drugged, when he was starting to regain consciousness.

  And now he feels the host stirring in him, jibbering, fidgeting. He hears his breathing again.

  “Marie,” he whispers the name. “Anne-Marie.”

  He takes the scrap of paper that Martin has left and walks into the study. He finds a pen and scribbles two words on the other side of the scrap of paper, leaving it face up on the desk.

  STAY SILENT.

  He wants Massey to know that he believes him. But he also wants him to know that he, the Assassin, was here.

  He replaces the pen and moves silently to the exit. He eases his way outside, and closes the door. There is no sound, and there are no witnesses.

  Four minutes later he is sitting in his car again, listening to his breathing. He grips the steering wheel tight with his leather gloves. He can feel the urge coming upon him again, welling up within him, the desire that cannot be resisted.

  “Oh Marie,” he whispers again. The reckoning that perhaps was always going to come will fall due tonight.

  But then another thought comes to him, another desire. Now he really is off the leash, he is going to pay a visit to one other person first.

  Alex Masters had come to the conclusion that running a media company was easy compared to knowing how to handle personal relationships. Family, friends and colleagues all slipped into and out of her mind. The hot mug of tea in front of her was not going to solve these problems, but still it was a comfort to her.

  She tried to reconcile the success of SUMMER with her own inner longing, still nagging her – some ambitions fulfilled, others still waiting.

  Her mind moved on to other concerns. She thought about the men she knew. There was Aiden, and the undeniable truth was that while she liked him and she respected him, she simply did not love him, at least not in the romantic sense.

  She had talked to Daisy about him recently.

  “There is so much to admire in him,” she had told Daisy.

  “That’s pretty lame,” Daisy had replied. “Admiration isn’t going to make you want to go to bed with him, or choose him as a partner.”

  “I do like him,” Alex had replied. “And he knows what’s going on with the business, what’s going to be good for SUMMER.”

  Daisy had rolled her eyes. “Alex, you don’t fall for a guy because he is good with a spreadsheet.”

  No indeed, thought Alex, staring in the darkness at her bedroom ceiling, you do not.

  She whispered the words to herself:

  “You don’t fall for a guy because he is good with a spreadsheet.”

  She could never imagine herself with Aiden, not in that way. It wasn’t so much that it was an indecent thought, quite the opposite in a way, the idea just didn’t interest her.

  And the irony was, it had been Daisy of all people who had sat and listened to Aiden, confessing his secret past life. He had said nothing of it to Alex, not even in their most intimate moments two years ago. She could not help feeling a twinge of jealousy at the thought of it.

  Then there was Lewis. She did love Lewis, she knew it deep down, but the idea of being with him seemed shocking, much more indecent than being with Aiden. It didn’t help that she’d spent five years of her life keeping him at a distance while they engaged in a very professional relationship. He had asked her about her feelings for him once, and, taken aback by the question, she had said she wished their relationship to remain entirely professional, and he had always respected her wishes.

  She admitted only to herself that she hadn’t actually answered his question; she had not talked about her feelings in her reply to him because she had no wish to do so. She had been his Personal Assistant, and undertook the duties that the position required. But she knew what she felt, and that tension would always be there.

  She thought about Lewis being here with her now. She thought about him speaking to her, imagining him smiling at her. Somehow the darkness of the room made such things possible to contemplate. How she needed the wisdom of God! How she longed for the love that had eluded her so far.

  “No,” she spoke out into the darkness suddenly, scolding herself. She would not go there.

  Who was Lewis anyway? An older man who had doubtless bedded plenty of women, including the infamous Bridget Larson. Alex found herself wondering how she could possibly compete as a lover with someone like Bridget, what could she offer Lewis that Bridget had not already given him? It was a horrible thought and she didn’t want to linger on it for any length of time, even though the answer, obvious and powerful, lingered at the edge of her consciousness.

  Love.

  That was the irresistible answer to all the questions. But if those questions made her nervous, it was the answers that made her really feel scared.

  Angel stood in the corner of her room, sensing these thoughts in the distance, seeking constantly to be open to the will of his master. Vehicles came and went along the main road outside Alex’s flat. The night was inevitably a quieter time for him. Alex was safe in this place; he did not need to sleep but the quietness wasn’t unpleasant to him.

  The phone rang. It was rather late for a call, but Alex knew that some of her friends didn’t get ready for bed at ten thirty, like her.

  It was Bernice.

  “Alex!”

  “Hey, Bats, how are you?”

  “Oh, you know how it is for me, dear, always looking forward to the next adventure. Anyway, look I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, we’re going to have to po
stpone our little surprise party.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” said Alex, but her thoughts weren’t on the party. Bernice’s call would provoke a conversation she had been contemplating for a couple of days now.

  “I’m glad you phoned though,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Oh? Well you’ve got me,” said Bernice cheerfully.

  “I was just wondering how you were getting on with God and with the whole spiritual side of things.”

  “Oh, why do you ask?” said Bernice.

  Alex hesitated; she wanted to be honest with her friend.

  “Well you know my aunt and uncle have kept in touch with your folks, you know how these old guys chat to each other.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Bernice. Alex thought she could detect a hesitation in Bernice’s voice.

  “Well, your guys were saying that you had got out of the loop a bit. I think they were worried about you.”

  “Oh, they do worry, bless them,” Bernice laughed, “and I guess it’s true. It’s difficult, Alex. Maybe I’ll talk to you about it sometime. Mum and Dad think I’ve moved right away from spiritual things, but that’s not true, it’s just with God and me it’s complicated.”

  Alex could believe that, things always got complicated.

  “We’ll talk about it sometime,” said Bernice. “Anyway, look I’m sorry about the event, I’ve got a work assignment coming up. It’s going to take me away for a while, you know, around the world a bit.”

  “Oh,” said Alex, “so you are going on a bit of an adventure then after all? So how long are you going to be away?”

  In the spiritual realm, Angel is hardly aware of the call. His senses are reaching out, even now, towards a car that has stopped outside Alex’s flat; a man gets out of the car and is even now making his way into the building. The spiritual presence around him screams like the grinding of metal, it is a sound both terrible and familiar.

  Angel has witnessed the presence of the host before, and would never forget the experience.

  “I’ll be back in a few months,” said Bernice.