Lench’s head lolls to one side, and spittle gathers at the corner of his mouth; he lets slip a low moan as he sinks into the dream.
He is lying on the surgeon’s table, and lights surround his body. He is the subject of the procedure that is about to unfold. To his left he sees a green cloth, draped over a stainless-steel trolley. On top of the cloth is a tray and on the tray are an array of instruments of the kind used to part skin from flesh, and bone from muscle.
There is no one else in the room. He is warm and naked except for a thin green sheet, covering his body. There are restraints over his wrists and ankles, holding him to the table on which he is lying. His mouth is dry. The ceiling reflects light from the various instruments lying ready on the tray. Unseen machines are humming monotonously in the sterile environment.
There are double doors at the end of the room and he hears them as they swing open with a light brushing sound. A figure enters the space, gloved, face covered with a green surgical mask. Lench cannot see the figure clearly but he knows who it is.
The adrenaline starts to enter his bloodstream. He suffers an overwhelming desire to grovel as he has done many times before, but he is strapped to the table and cannot move.
Apart from the machines everything is quiet. He knows he must wait and respond only when he is spoken to. The noise of the machines becomes a dull resonance, an insistent whining noise that cuts out as the figure starts to talk to him. He shivers at the sound of the surgeon’s voice.
The figure stands at the foot of the table; the features are indistinct, hidden by the surgical mask and the glare of the lights.
“Yes, my Lord.” The procedure has not even begun and already Lench’s voice is croaking. His desire to bow his head is almost overwhelming. He realizes he has been pressing himself against the restraining straps on the table and he tries to relax. The surgeon continues:
“Yes, my Lord.”
Darius shuts his eyes, and nods, he wants to swallow but he just gags on the sharp, clinical air.
“And so it shall be,” says the surgeon, spreading his hand in a gentle arc across the array of instruments on the green cloth. He looks across at them, waiting. Every one of those instruments seems to have its own personality; a specialism for each of the tasks at hand – slicing and cutting, parting and stretching and probing. Each may have a part to play in what is about to occur. The surgeon speaks with a quiet voice, but it carries within it the spite of a whip.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Darius feels his heart rate quicken again, and moisture forms on his brow. The room is warmer now, and there is another smell that he does not recognize, something sweet, intimate, physical, and devastating.
He hears the sound of an instrument lifted from the soft cloth, the slight disturbance of the material. The blade is balanced in the hand of the surgeon, it rests on his glove.
Lench strains to look down across his body, which is covered except for one square, cut in the material, exposing the flesh. The muscles of his stomach move under the skin as he braces himself. Now he can see the growth, manifesting as a discolouration under the fine hairs on his skin. He sees the shape of a face, her face as he remembers it from those months ago. The face of Alex Masters.
“Look more carefully, Darius,” whispers the voice. “I will show you how it is to be done.”
Now he can see that the growth is changing, taking on the form of other faces; one of them he recognizes as the whore cousin. Then there’s another face that he does not recognize, but it draws and repels him; it’s an old man, physically weak but spiritually strong, very strong. Finally, he sees Alex Masters’ stepbrother, a young, hopeful and naïve boy, ripe for the taking. There’s some weakness in the boy, and Darius realizes this is the first hint of what might be on offer to him.
Just then his neck muscles give out and he smacks the back of his head onto the table. After a couple of breaths, he glances up again.
The blade glints in the surgeon’s hand and Lench’s fingers creep to the edge of the table. The instrument draws near.
* * *
On the hard floor of the attic room, Lench twitches and pumps his left hand, gripping and releasing. He moans, and it is a loud, mournful sound that travels through house so that Tarmo, who is pacing the lounge downstairs, winces when he hears it. In the attic Lench rolls onto his side and then back to face the ceiling.
* * *
“Do it, Darius.”
The surgeon brushes fingers against the restraints holding Darius’ left hand in place, and all of the bonds fall away. Now unencumbered, Lench reaches out and takes the instrument from the surgeon, and passes it to his right hand.
He sucks in the dry air and tastes the disinfectant in his nose and the roof of his mouth; then he releases and sucks in more air. His sinuses register the alien smell again, the sting of the environment, and the roof of his mouth is dry. He gathers his strength of will, and after balancing on the edge of revulsion he slides the blade purposefully into his exposed flesh.
At that moment he feels both the inexorable white heat of the pain and beneath it the sheer sensation of the metal cutting into his body, the blood wells up and seeps into the theatre garment draped over him, dark-stained red spreading into the green. He gathers himself and wills his hand to move, drawing the blade in an arc around the growth in his stomach. The sharp metal passes through his flesh without any resistance and the face that was Alex Masters is now drowned in his own blood.
He is dimly aware of the fact that if this was another man’s dream the penetration of the knife would have been enough to explode him back into his waking life; breathless and aching.
But he is not released yet.
The surgeon views the procedure, dispassionately.
“Ye–” He tries to speak the words, but his throat is dry. In his dream he can smell the taint of metal as his blood starts to run down the side of his body. He can feel the moist, sticky warmth of it against his side where it is already starting to congeal. He braces himself as best he can and revolves the blade again, digging further into the wound. He hears the pit-pit-pit of blood dribbling off the table and onto the tiled floor beneath him.
The surgeon steps closer to view Lench’s work. The mask covers the face and so Lench cannot guess at the reaction. Lench is aware that the machines have switched off, and there is silence except for the occasional tap of fluid onto the floor. The surgeon continues to inspect the wound and Lench can hear the dull roar of blood loss in his ears. He starts to feel detached from the experience.
Finally, the surgeon holds out a gloved hand. “Give me the blade, Darius.”
Lench obeys; passing over the blooded instrument, he braces himself weakly, in expectation of another touch from the blade. The surgeon leans over, inspecting the wound and frowning as if he is unable to discern the result of the procedure. He places the blade on the table and picks up a large object like a saw made out of silver metal. The surgeon leans over the face of the stricken patient.
“Look at me, Darius.”
In his mind, Lench speculates on what will come next, and his concentration wavers, his will wavers, and he looks aside from the measureless black eyes staring at him.
But the spiteful voice commands him to return.
Lench concentrates, listening to the will of his master.
“Yes, my Lord,” he says, grunting through the agony.
The surgeon nods and gives his instructions.
There will be two separate attacks on the boy. One will be intrusive and personal, an assault on the body; the other will be subtler but no less devastating, an assault on character and integrity, made possible by the boy’s own sin and lies. The beauty of the plan is that, just as the boy is attacked at his weakest point, so in the same action, SLaM will be attacked at its weakest point, and come apart.
Lench knows well that the pursuit of one opportunity may give rise to others, and so it is with the instructions he receives. Some of his other enemies may become v
ulnerable. The surgeon mentions Daisy, the whore cousin whom Lench already knows, and there is another one, a proud man who is full of shame and anger. Even through the pain Lench appreciates the beauty of the attacks, exploiting each victim’s vulnerabilities, crippling their effectiveness.
And there is meaning in this casting aside of the blunt instrument as well. Josef’s approach won’t do this time, and certainly there is no more room for “freelance activity”, no more thoughtless excursions into enemy territory.
“Do you understand all I have said?”
Lench nods; fear and blood loss have finally silenced him. Then the surgeon straightens and turns. Lench is aware of the receding footsteps, and again the quiet brushing of the swinging door. The patter of fluid to the floor has stopped and the warm blood is now drying, fusing him into place on the table.
He waits to see if anything else will be required of him. He is well aware that there will be no premature waking from this dream; he will not be released except by his own hand, and he hears himself whisper in his weakness and despair.
“Let me go, let me go and do this.” The pain in his abdomen has blossomed now into a pounding, absorbing ache, drying him, sucking his life, but he finds enough emotional energy to listen for the release.
The silence continues, and he feels himself drying out, dying under these lights.
He summons his will and then reaches out to the table. The already disturbed wound bleeds afresh and he is all but gagging on the pain now. He finds the first instrument he can, an object that looks like a large scalpel with a serrated edge. The end is sharp, and it should achieve his purpose. His breath is in rags and the sweat on his forehead is beginning to trickle into his eyes, making them sting. With an extravagant effort he uses both his arms to raise the saw above himself and holds it above the already gaping wound.
He takes one more breath, and then another, and then aided by the sheer force of gravity he brings the edge of the blade down into his chest and for a moment he knows an altogether different order of pain.
The agony is vast, dimensionless, he is lost in it, stripping thought and identity. It consumes him until he is no more.
Lench’s eyes snapped open, and in his disorientation he felt the expectation of the agony, but there was nothing beyond the cramp and the ache of his limbs.
By degrees he composed himself, overcoming the breathlessness, and assessing the situation.
He recognized where he was and involuntarily, he cried out, pushing his limbs into a stretch. Then he began the process of relaxing, trying to lower his pulse rate. Within his stomach he felt a dull ache where in his dream he had pushed in the blade and excised the tumour.
He was lying on his back looking up through a small skylight in the ceiling of the room. In contrast to the uncharted void of night he could see two stars twinkling and he was overwhelmed by a sense of the pointlessness of everything he did, as if all his striving, and all his struggles were for nothing. For some inexplicable reason he thought of his mother, and in his mind he saw an image of her, straightening his blazer as he went off to his first day at school. He felt her pride and love again for the first time in many years.
The sensation disturbed him, and he suppressed it. This moping around would do no good. He had to get up and find Tarmo, but the stars drew his attention again. Some people looked to the stars for inspiration, guidance, navigation, but he did not follow these little points of light; he had received all the guidance he needed. He closed his eyes, and recalled the details of his mission. He just needed one more moment to regain his composure, and then he had a battle to prepare for. He relaxed again, aware of the deep sense of exhaustion within himself, and the twinge in his arm and shoulder which surfaced from amongst the numerous aches and pains that was a consequence of lying on a cold, hard floor.
An hour later Tarmo found him, bare footed and shivering in his sleep. The big man regarded Lench with pity and shook his head.
“I trust your anguish has been worth it,” he whispered. Then with a grunt he lifted Lench as if he were just a child, and slung him over his shoulder, ready to deposit him onto the pallet bed in his spare room.
2
Alex arrived early, her breath steaming in the crisp dawn air. The sky was shading towards a soft mauve as the winter sun emerged above the skyline of the city.
An empty office always struck Alex as a strange, unnatural place. The whine of the office alarm faltered as she typed in the security code, and the furniture took on a surreal aspect in the silence. Grey, angular shapes stood, waiting for light and sound and the traffic of people to give them function and meaning.
She snapped on the lights, and felt that old sense of reassurance, of being in control by being in early, switching things on, getting everything organized. She might be the Chief Executive now, but some of the habits she developed when she was the PA had never gone away.
In the boardroom, the chairs and the table were already arranged, and she resisted the temptation to adjust the pads of paper she had set out the previous evening. Instead, she turned to prayer, acknowledging that, for all the work she had done, there was so much more that was beyond her control, all of which she would have to commit to Jesus.
Some important decisions would be made today, with consequences for SLaM, and for the people who worked for the company. There was so much to pray about, so many different and conflicting issues and challenges to offer up in prayer, and she wondered if she should get a piece of paper and a pencil so she could write them all down; but when she centred herself, and tried to open herself up to the will of the Spirit, all she could utter was one word:
“Daisy.”
And maybe that was right, because whatever else they discussed at the meeting today, the main event was Daisy, her ideas and her future at the company.
Alex continued with her prayers, while outside, the winter sun crept higher above the urban skyline, a golden red glow, silhouetting the office blocks beneath it, defying the bitter wind and frost of a winter morning.
When she was done, she went into the small kitchen just off the main office suite and looked at her watch. She wondered who from her team would be in first, and she didn’t have long to speculate before Aiden Kennedy, SLaM’s newest recruit appeared at the door.
Aiden was an accountant by training, and he had a sharp methodical mind which had been put to good use as he picked up the pieces of her old company, Sound Light and Music, or SLaM as it had been known, after Alex had bought it from her old boss Lewis Ashbury.
SLaM had almost been ruined by its disastrous involvement in a venture called SEEKA, an attempt to sell merchandise that reflected and glorified the drugs culture. When that venture fell apart Lewis had been glad to sell what was left of the business to his old PA, Alex Masters, and she had drafted Aiden in to stabilise the finances and secure the business.
She had met Aiden through a church contact and although she trusted him, she knew little about him other than the fact that he had trained as an accountant before moving into one of the big City partnerships. SLaM was just one of the companies that he looked after, and she was grateful to have him on the team.
“You’re the early bird today, Alex,” he said as he dropped his coat and bag onto his chair.
“As always,” she replied, “but I bet you had a late night preparing the financial reports for us.”
“I might have,” he said, and smiled.
Alex always found Aiden’s accent comforting and reassuring. He’d been Chief Financial Officer for nearly a year now and his calm, competent approach had been the perfect antidote to SLaM’s rehabilitation after the chaos of SEEKA. Aiden was the calming influence that had given the others, especially Daisy, license to dream dreams and think their crazy thoughts.
But even Aiden’s reassuring competency couldn’t disguise the reality that hung over them all: SLaM was running out of money.
Without saying any more he sat down and took some sheets of paper from his bag. Then
he muttered under his breath as his pencil flicked across the columns of figures he would be presenting today.
Alex looked at him and then went back to the kitchen. Where many of her old colleagues needed a cigarette to help them face the day, she preferred caffeine. She brought back two cups.
He was still hunched over the figures when she returned, and when he did look up to take the cup, she looked him in the eye and said:
“Aiden, I want to change the name of the company.”
“What? Why?” He put down his pencil.
“I don’t like ‘SLaM’,” she said. “We aren’t Slamming anything. I want a name that says who we are, what we hope for.”
“Well it’s your call,” he said. “Have you talked to Lewis about this? Branding and image is his thing, and I’ll have to work out how much it’s going to cost to rebrand, but I think you know that. It’s not a small thing, Alex.”
Then he turned back to his numbers.
She looked at him for a second longer and frowned as he scanned the document in front of him. What she was saying was important, and all he was doing was adding up the numbers he’d already worked through.
“Aiden!” She almost shouted his name.
He jumped. “What?”
“I need your support, Aiden. I know the figures are important, but I need to have you with me on this.”
Aiden leant back in the chair, tossing his pencil onto the table. “Alex, you know you have my support.”
She was still staring at him.
“So, what’s this really all about?” he said. “Come on, talk to me.”
“I want us to stand for something that is full of light and hope,” she said, “not aggression and darkness. I see so many young people crushed under the wheels of self-hate and self-harm, lost in all that social media confusion, I hate it. They’re in such pain but they have to pretend everything is okay.” She paused, trying to think of the words to sum it up. “It’s evil masquerading as cool.”
Cain's Redemption Page 2