Sin (14 page)

"Sorry," I said, managing a
somewhat lopsided grin. "Long shift."

"No worries. I don't know how
you guys manage it sometimes. My job's long hours, sure enough, but
at least it's only a day at a time, not two or three like your
lot."

"Yeah," I said. "I think I
started my shift around March-time."

Mr. Giles laughed, a deep boom
that threatened to blow the windscreen out.

"I don't doubt it," he said as
his laughter turned into a fit of coughing. I waited for his cough
to settle, wanting to let him lead the conversation rather than me
volunteer a lie. "Got to give up the fags!" he grinned. "But I
don't have to tell you that, Doc!"

Slipping into the persona of
Doctor Sin was easier than I'd expected. Smoother than a leather
glove and twice as snug. For some reason, I could see my whole life
as the good doctor and was ready to fill in any blanks I might have
to. Or at least I hoped so.

"Hey," I said. "You don’t have
to tell me. I'm trying to cut down myself."

I'd never smoked a cigarette in
my life apart from trying one in the school playground when I was
around 12. He didn't need to know that though. I figured that even
an imaginary bond like nicotine addiction was better than none at
all. It would help ease things along and make this stranger less
prone to being suspicious of a supposed doctor wandering around in
his scrubs in the middle of nowhere.

"You and me both," he said.

I saw his eyes flick to his rear
view mirror and the paranoid little imp sitting by my left ear
whispered to me that he might be checking for company. My heart
started to flutter as I glanced in the wing mirror to check for
myself. The road was deserted. Stop it, I told myself. Checking
your mirrors is a normal part of driving. He probably didn't even
realise he'd looked. Chill. And, whispered the imp, they'll
probably be waiting for you wherever he's taking you anyway.

Well, that could quite easily be
true. The farmer's disguise had taking me in immediately, but he
was big enough to swat me like a fly if I tried to buzz off. Not
that the idea of jumping from a moving vehicle appealed to me.

No. Stop it. If he was, he was.
If not, then fine and diddly-dandy. I'd just have to play the game
and wait until the fat lady sang. Hopefully she'd do a better job
than the noise that was spewing forth from the radio.

Could music change so much in so
little time? It wasn't like we'd taken a leap from the Sixties to
the Eighties. It hadn't been decades, yet the racket that was
happily dancing a jig on my ear drums was a far cry from the stuff
I used to listen to before my days of piped Musak. Thinking about
it, though, I had to admit that the stuff I enjoyed was more from
the Eighties than the Naughties. Rock anthem more than pop-pap. The
odd song would catch my attention and set my fingers tapping but in
the main, it probably was a good deal more than a mere couple of
years since I'd properly taken an interest in who was reigning
supreme at the top of the pops.

"Not enjoying the music?" he
asked.

I didn't realise I'd been that
obvious. "Not my sort of thing, really," I admitted. "But if you
like it..."

"I can't stand this racket
myself. I just like a bit of noise when I'm driving. It helps numb
the brain!" He laughed again, this time managing to avoid the
coughing fit.

If he needed something to help
numb his brain, I could point him in the direction of a man who'd
be more than pleased to help.

"I know what you mean. I just
prefer something a little less... noisy I suppose."

"No problem," he said pressing
the button on the car stereo to find something easier on the ear.
He settled on some Bon Jovi, one with a good ol' geetaaar solo and
big chorus. At least it had a tune. "That better?"

"Spot on," I said. I found
myself tapping my fingers on my leg as both the music and my
driver's attitude helped me relax.

There was a long period of
silence during with neither of us spoke. I didn't mind as it let me
breathe and think. I had no idea where I was or where we were
going. That wasn't particularly a good thing. I could easily be
being driven into a den of lions and, however innocuous my ride, I
didn't fancy being prey. Of course they'd be nice - "Come in.
Here's a made-to-measure jacket for you. Honestly, you'll look
fabulous. Trust us." It would only be a small prick, missus, and
all the pain would go away - for a while at least.

On the other hand, and this was
a scenario I daren't hope too much for, Farmer Giles here could be
genuine and simply be helping a guy he'd passed by on the road. He
could be driving home for his breakfast before ploughing a field or
mucking out the pigs.

Well. You never know.

"You're a long way from the
hospital, then."

I jumped. Here we go. Doctor Sin
ahoy. Be still my thumping heart.

"I broke down." I didn't say
that too quickly, did I? I felt like my palms were suddenly
sweating but resisted the urge to wipe them on my trousers. What
was I guilty of? All I had done was escape from an institute I'd
voluntarily walked into. Was that a crime? Why was I panicking?

What was I guilty of. Yeah,
right. I know a few corpses who could answer that one.

"Oh?" The big man frowned. "I
didn't see your car. It wasn't that smashed up one, was it?"

Smashed up? The boy.

"Smashed up?" I deliberately
looked surprised. "No, just a break down. I didn't have an
accident."

"I didn't think so," he said,
not seeming in the slightest suspicious. Was he just a very good
actor? "You probably wouldn't be walking if it was you! Besides,
there's an ambulance there. They seemed to be pulling someone
out."

"I didn't see any smash. Where
was it?"

"Further back from where I
picked you up. Where did you break down?"

"No idea," I said. I once broke
down driving along the M180, and my car wouldn't start in a
Mablethorpe car park one summer, but I doubted he meant that. "I
hung about for a bit to try and flag someone down, but didn't see
anyone so started to walk. I hoped I'd find a house or
something."

"It's a quiet road, this," he
said. "Barely half a dozen cars a day come along here. You would
have been waiting a long time. Where's your car then?"

In my driveway back home. Unless
it's been nicked in the time I've been in the mental home.

"It's a few miles back," I said.
"I saw the rain threatening, so I took cover under those trees back
there. I only just made it before it started pissing it down."

"Didn't it?" he said, nodding
vigorously. "I half expected to see Noah sailing by on his ark!
That's why I've spent the morning in my back fields. The rain
buggered up one of my walls. Rebuilding a stone wall buried in a
ton of sloppy mud isn't my idea of a fun-filled morning."

"Mine neither," I agreed.
Despite myself and despite knowing much better, I was warming to
him. I wanted to stay suspicious, and it was becoming more of a
struggle. The odd pangs of panic jabbed at my insides, but he was
doing a good job of dulling their edges. I had to keep them sharp
though. I had to keep them keen. Just in case. I thought it sad
that he was accomplishing this simply by being nice to me. Apart
from Jeremy back at the institute, I'd almost forgotten people had
that capacity. Firm hands and sharp needles had become the norm and
I couldn't help but be taken off guard by someone being actually
pleasant.

If I could have slapped myself
without him thinking I was more of a weirdo than he probably
already did, I think I would have done. I was pretty sure I
wouldn't have picked up a guy in the middle of nowhere, looking
somewhat past his sell by date and wearing a fashion victim's
version of hospital scrubs.

I don't pick up hitchhikers
though, not after my one and only attempt at that particular good
deed. I was driving through Healing, a smallish village on the way
from Grimsby to Scunthorpe. Yes, I know, classy towns. Anyway.
There's a sharp corner just after the school. Right on the corner
of the corner was a man. His thumb was out. I didn't think or give
myself the chance to keep on running, I simply pulled over.

"Where you going?" I asked,
pleased that I was doing my bit for the common good, although I
wasn't sure good was all that common.

"Brigg, mate."

He was tall and he was gangly.
He wore what looked to be Status Quo cast-offs (including the long
hair) and I remember thinking that if I have my X-ray specs on,
like those you could buy from the back of comics when you were
twelve, I'd be able to see the tattoos of big breasted beauties or
dragons (big breasted or otherwise) adorning his forearms. Maybe a
heart with an arrow through it and a banner sprawled across with
Mum inked in fading blue would beat its tune with every flex of his
bicep. All he needed was a warm can of Carling lager to be the
icing on the stereotypical cake.

I didn't say yes, I didn't say
no, all I had said was "Where'd you want to go." The next thing I
knew, he was sitting beside me and I hadn’t even seen the door
open. I almost threw my curds and whey in his face and ran off,
leaving my tuffet far behind. But I didn't. It was a warm and sunny
day. My window was down and the fresh air was blowing my cares and
my good sense away. I told myself to not be so quick to judge and
pulled away. Brigg was on my way, more or less, so it was no bother
to drop the guy where he wanted.

Chit-chat-rat-a-tat.
Nice weather, blah-de-blah. Are
you from around here, blah-de-blah. No, just been released from a
spot in the cells, blah-de-er... huh?

Apparently my new denim coated
friend was on his way home from spending the night in a police
cell. It was nice of those policemen to let him have a rest and
sleep off his alcohol-induced rage. Even more so when he was
suspected of grievous bodily harm. He was angry they'd kept his
knife. I supposed I would be too.

I suddenly entered one of those
dark corridors on horror films where they inexplicably extend until
the far end is lost in blackness. I was driving along expecting my
passenger to introduce himself as Johnny and start discussing
Redrum, but not in an equine sense. His name, apparently, was Kev,
but he could have been using an alias to escape the mighty sword of
justice. Police response units could have been mobilising right at
that moment, hut-hut-hutting into the back of a discreetly large
black van, armed to the nose-hairs, waiting for the nod to spring
into action if your friendly neighbourhood murdering son-of-a-gun
so much as picked his teeth.

Strangely, after my initial
shock had subsided and we'd moved on from the subject of beating
someone to a pulp because they pinched your girlfriend's arse,
Psycho Kev turned out to be a fairly pleasant, and almost eloquent,
companion. Who'd have thought serial killers could be so
personable.

OK, so Psycho Kev, the Denim
Demon probably wasn't a serial killer. He may well have simply had
a moment of drunken stupidity and his confiscated blade could
easily have been ritualistic rather than murderous - defensive
rather than despicable. Still, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief
when Brigg appeared out of the darkness of that tunnel and my new
mate, pal, old bone china said his farewell.

It was his farewell too, rather
than his farewells. Singular as opposed to plural. Considering I'd
taken my life, limb and testicles into my hands and thrown them out
of the window, I at least expected something along the lines of
"Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it." Instead I was treated to a
barely heard "Ta," as he climbed out of the car and disappeared
around a corner. I think there may have been a newsagent along that
road that he wanted to relieve of some cigarettes. He might
actually have been planning on paying for them too. What a guy.

"We'll get you cleaned up, then
I can bring you back to your car."

I jumped. This zoning out was
getting to be a habit, and one I couldn't afford to fall into. I
thought it strange that, after the past few hours, I was thinking
about picking up strangers of all things, but I knew I needed to
focus. I needed to be aware and be awake.

"Soz," I said, stretching to
pretend a tiredness I wasn't really feeling, at least not too much.
I felt wired. I felt as if I'd had a gallon or two of coffee washed
down with a few cans of Red Bull. "I think I was drifting off a bit
there."

I faked a yawned and he picked
it up and ran with it, taking my yawn and raising it. At least my
faux fatigue was real enough to be infectious.

"That's OK," he said. "After a
night in a forest, I think I'd be flaked out myself."

I smiled and nodded, then
realised what he'd said. He'd take me back to my non-existent
car.

"I'll just call the AA," I said,
hoping I didn't sound too panicked. "I'll let them pick it up and
I'll make my own way home, thanks."

Of course I didn't know where I
was, or even if I dared return to the house I used to call 'home'
before taking up residence in a padded cell, but I had to play it
by ear, even if I was a little tone deaf.

"You sure?"

I nodded. "That's what I pay my
membership for."

"OK," he said. "It's up to you."
He paused then reached out to me. I flinched before realising he
just wanted to shake my hand. "Martin Collins," he said.

I took his hand, trying to be
firm and manly, and wondered if I should give him my real name. How
many questions would it prompt? Could I be bothered to tell him
that yes, I did get bullied at school because of it and yes I did
hate my parents, but for entirely different reasons. How far would
I go? Would I tell him that the Universe had decided to let my life
mirror my name literally? That my Sin-o-meter had filled all the
way up to ding-a-ling?