reappearing on his face. “Never show mercy. That’s the crown for fools. Isn’t that right, Violet? You wouldn’t have shown mercy. Would you?”
“Of course not,” she replied and sat down on Shank’s leather chair. “I would have killed you, given the chance.”
Paul’s face registered shock at the words.
“Before you even contemplate doing that, please remove your arse from my chair,” said Shank, no longer smiling. “The day your arse becomes big enough, Violet, is the day you get to keep the chair. Now, leave. Mister Goodman and I have some matters to discuss. And don’t let me catch you eavesdropping at the door, either.”
“You won’t,” replied Violet, deliberately brushing against Paul as she left, touching his sweat-stain skin with her index finger before placing it in her mouth. “Very salty …”
Paul felt his skin creep.
Shank waited until the door closed before talking.
“Quite a girl, Violet.”
Expected to say nothing, Paul simply nodded, allowing Shank to continue. “I believe you’ve become friendly with her.”
Taken aback, Paul replied, “I really haven’t thought a great deal about friendships, Mister Shank. I haven’t had much time on my hands.” His throat felt sandpapery. He was straining to suppress his annoyance and could feel the start of acid fermenting in his stomach. Where on earth had Shank got such an outrageous idea about an imaginary friendship?
Removing the boxing gloves, Shank rubbed a towel vigorously against his saturated skin, transforming the palenessinto raw-wound crimson. “I do not mistake your hesitancy for reluctance or cowardice, Mister Goodman. I respect it. If I say so myself, I have a good track record of character; of finding that character, and honing it. No wastage, Mister Goodman. Remember?”
“Thank you, but …” mumbled Paul, wondering if he should be thanking Shank, smelling something wrong with the direction of the conversation. “I really don’t know what to say concerning –”
“I suspect you are not far in your thoughts of wanting to achieve great things, Mister Goodman,” Shank interrupted. “Can you imagine going through life as insignificant, causing no ripple, no disturbance in the pool of existence?”
Paul could think of nothing to say, except “No …”
“You see, Mister Goodman, I have lived my life driven by principles instilled in me by my mother – God bless her soul. She did not believe in order or institutions. She didn’t believe in Church, Law or State. She was the
only
woman I ever trusted completely. It was she who taught me that a person had to be self-sufficient, to question everything, to believe nobody if they want to realise their potential.” Shank wiped his hands before reinstating the boxing gloves back on his eager hands. “When I was growing up as a youngster, I wore oversized jackets, ill-fitting pants and other bits of random clothing which I scavenged from rag stores or hand-me -downs from my brothers. Each hour of my life I vowed that one day I would be rich, Mister Goodman, and I have neither disappointed nor betrayed that vow. It wasn’t easy.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” agreed Paul.
“Help me tie these gloves,” said Shank, extending his armsoutward.
Once the gloves were tied, Shank began to tackle they bag, changing his punching tactics to one of slow, delicate movements, and once again confounding Paul by his nimbleness, the rhythm of which was like the gentle stroke of an artist carefully preparing the canvas before committing to the picture.
Thankfully for Paul, Shank continued talking, unabated. “I am not a stupid man. I know there are men out there – not just the abattoir, of course – who would gladly give their right arm to marry Violet, knowing they would be well-off for the remainder of their stay on this earth. They mouth great swelling words, flattering to gain advantage. But you, Mister Goodman, are the man I’m looking for: quiet, serious,
“Of course not,” she replied and sat down on Shank’s leather chair. “I would have killed you, given the chance.”
Paul’s face registered shock at the words.
“Before you even contemplate doing that, please remove your arse from my chair,” said Shank, no longer smiling. “The day your arse becomes big enough, Violet, is the day you get to keep the chair. Now, leave. Mister Goodman and I have some matters to discuss. And don’t let me catch you eavesdropping at the door, either.”
“You won’t,” replied Violet, deliberately brushing against Paul as she left, touching his sweat-stain skin with her index finger before placing it in her mouth. “Very salty …”
Paul felt his skin creep.
Shank waited until the door closed before talking.
“Quite a girl, Violet.”
Expected to say nothing, Paul simply nodded, allowing Shank to continue. “I believe you’ve become friendly with her.”
Taken aback, Paul replied, “I really haven’t thought a great deal about friendships, Mister Shank. I haven’t had much time on my hands.” His throat felt sandpapery. He was straining to suppress his annoyance and could feel the start of acid fermenting in his stomach. Where on earth had Shank got such an outrageous idea about an imaginary friendship?
Removing the boxing gloves, Shank rubbed a towel vigorously against his saturated skin, transforming the palenessinto raw-wound crimson. “I do not mistake your hesitancy for reluctance or cowardice, Mister Goodman. I respect it. If I say so myself, I have a good track record of character; of finding that character, and honing it. No wastage, Mister Goodman. Remember?”
“Thank you, but …” mumbled Paul, wondering if he should be thanking Shank, smelling something wrong with the direction of the conversation. “I really don’t know what to say concerning –”
“I suspect you are not far in your thoughts of wanting to achieve great things, Mister Goodman,” Shank interrupted. “Can you imagine going through life as insignificant, causing no ripple, no disturbance in the pool of existence?”
Paul could think of nothing to say, except “No …”
“You see, Mister Goodman, I have lived my life driven by principles instilled in me by my mother – God bless her soul. She did not believe in order or institutions. She didn’t believe in Church, Law or State. She was the
only
woman I ever trusted completely. It was she who taught me that a person had to be self-sufficient, to question everything, to believe nobody if they want to realise their potential.” Shank wiped his hands before reinstating the boxing gloves back on his eager hands. “When I was growing up as a youngster, I wore oversized jackets, ill-fitting pants and other bits of random clothing which I scavenged from rag stores or hand-me -downs from my brothers. Each hour of my life I vowed that one day I would be rich, Mister Goodman, and I have neither disappointed nor betrayed that vow. It wasn’t easy.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” agreed Paul.
“Help me tie these gloves,” said Shank, extending his armsoutward.
Once the gloves were tied, Shank began to tackle they bag, changing his punching tactics to one of slow, delicate movements, and once again confounding Paul by his nimbleness, the rhythm of which was like the gentle stroke of an artist carefully preparing the canvas before committing to the picture.
Thankfully for Paul, Shank continued talking, unabated. “I am not a stupid man. I know there are men out there – not just the abattoir, of course – who would gladly give their right arm to marry Violet, knowing they would be well-off for the remainder of their stay on this earth. They mouth great swelling words, flattering to gain advantage. But you, Mister Goodman, are the man I’m looking for: quiet, serious,
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