Sin (37 page)

In my folder were hundreds of
files. There was one document - the letter I'd written when I
escaped, scanned onto the computer with a brief addendum from
Connors himself. It said how he thought it was all rubbish and I
was, in his so called professional opinion, insane. Well, thanks
for that, mister. Thanks a lot. I didn't dwell on his lies. He
obviously knew I wasn't insane, or even if I was, I was still
telling the truth. It didn't matter now anyway. I'd written that
letter as a suicide note. It was meant to absolve me and appease my
conscience but did neither. It did, at least, convince Jeremy, so
that was something. It prompted his death too, I guessed, but it
also prompted his willingness to help.

Every other file, four hundred
and twenty seven of them, were videos. I couldn't believe it. I
could remember only a slack handful of times I'd been in his
presence. Over four hundred was as crazy as I was supposed to be!
Well, we were in the right place for crazy. Whether there were two
thousand video files or just two was neither here nor there. They
just needed to tell me something. They just needed to help me.

The files all had names rather
than just sequential numbers so I clicked on one called
'Induction.' The media player started up and the video began. It
was my first day here and my initial interview with the doctor.
He'd been very genial, seemingly kind and gentle. He fooled me good
'n' proper and lured me into his web. I, for my part in the
charade, lied completely and told a story of abject paranoia that,
in return, seemed to fool him. He welcomed me into his care. I
closed that file and looked further. I seemed so much younger then,
felt a hundred years older now. There were a large number that were
just called Treatment Room followed by a date. In some cases they
were suffixed by an A, B or C to show I'd been 'treated' numerous
times on the same day. To my knowledge days or weeks had gone by
between visits to the treatment rooms or this, Connors inner
sanctum. I opened a second file, picking one at random from around
the middle, assuming my secrets had been discovered and the real
fun had begun. There was no way I'd be able to watch every single
one before sunrise or the return of Connors, whichever came first,
so a planned attack seemed fruitless.

The chair. The table. The bolts
fixing them to the floor. The slightly fishbowled view.

* * * *

I was sitting in the chair, back
to camera, my head slumped forward. One hand was on my lap, the
other hanging loosely by my side. I wasn’t chained, but from the
look of me, shackles would have been redundant. Connors leant
against the wall. His suit jacket was folded neatly on the table
but otherwise he looked his usual pristine self. Even his dress
sense was precise, sharp like it could cut you. In his arms he was
stroking a cat. I wasn't aware of any feline friendliness (or any
other kind) in the man, but the cat's purring could just be heard.
He was looking at me, Connors, not the cat, in a kind of casual
staring into space and barely seeing me way, as if he knew I was
there, and I had been the subject of his attention, but his mind
had wondered off to sunnier climes and was sitting by the pool,
sipping a cocktail and reading the latest Clancy thriller.

"Sin," he said softly. He
sounded warm, like a night time malted drink, perfect for soothing
the worries and wearies of the day and sending you cosily off to
sleep. I could feel its effects over the computer’s speakers. No
doubt, considering the volume of files, it had been used on me on
many occasions and I was attuned to its soporific effects. I
blinked and shook my head.

Not this time, Doctor.

On the screen I lifted my head
slowly, drunkenly. It fell backwards until I was staring at the
ceiling and I hardly recognised myself. My eyes were bloodshot, my
face pale and drawn. Clearly Dr. Connors methods of care were
working.

"Look at me, Sin." As gently
spoken as it was, there was no mistaking the underlying authority
in his tone. He was asking me nicely but he was ordering me just
the same.

I complied, although it wasn't
entirely effortless. I had to force my head upright and seemed to
struggle to stop myself from lolling forward again. My head gave a
little eight pint, three vodka and an Aftershock wobble and then
managed to steady itself. I watched myself looking at the doctor on
the screen. It was an alien, a pod person that just looked like me.
But it wasn't me. I had no recollection. It was, though. It was
me.

"Good boy, Sin. That's a good
boy. How are we today?"

I, the 'I' on the computer
screen sitting in a chair bolted to the floor, mumbled something I
couldn't hear. I could have been telling Connors all was good, fine
and dandy, everything in the garden rosy red as blood and coming up
daisies, even though I preferred lilies. Alternatively I could have
been telling him my cell was too cold and the mashed potatoes were
lumpy. Oh and was there any chance of a new pillow? The one I had
was doing no good for my back. I could, of course, have been
telling him that life in the institute was a bag of spanners - it
was heavy, would hurt if it whacked you over the head and it had
all these odd sticky out bit. Oh, and he could shove it up his
backside. Judging from Connors' expression, I guessed it was the
former.

"Excellent, Sin. That's
wonderful."

He pushed himself away from the
wall and put the cat down on the table next to his folded jacket.
He continued to stroke its back and scratch it behind its neck. It
yawned and stretched and purred and then curled up to enjoy the
ministrations.

"You see this cat, Sin?"

I stayed silent. Either I didn't
see it or I didn't hear. Or I was too drugged up to respond.

"Sin, come on. Play the game. Do
you see this cat?" A sliver of ice crept into his voice, chilling
me and making the digital me sit up a touch straighter.

"Yes, doctor." I could hear that
more clearly, the other me realising that he should take
notice.

"Good boy," Connors said. He
smiled but it had all the warmth of a scorpion. Never having held a
scorpion, I didn't know if they were hotter than toast or colder
than a bag of peas, but one would certainly get a frosty reception
if it decided to come and sit on my tuffet. "Do you like the cat,
Sin? Do you see how cute it is?"

Some words just didn't suit some
people. If Sylvester Stallone ever uttered the words 'How sweet,'
you'd probably ask him to repeat it, sure that you'd misheard. The
same went for Connors. He and 'cute' just didn't go together. Other
me didn't seem to see this and nodded languidly.

"It is, isn't it? Cute. Cuddly
even. But would you believe, my friend, that this cat is evil?
Would you believe that, Sin?"

Mumble.

"Sorry, Sin? I didn't get
that."

I was beginning to wish he would
stop using my name so much. I was the only other person in the room
with him, so I'd hardly think he was talking to anyone else, but he
employed the same techniques just before he killed Jeremy.
Unfortunately, Other Me was doped and duped and hadn't witnessed
his friends murder as I had. So...

Mumble louder.

"You wouldn't? I'm not
surprised, really Sin. Not at all. Some things really are not what
they appeared to be."

I understood that he was
referring to me and the talents he was trying to exploit, but
indirectly he must have also been talking about the treatment
itself and he himself.

"It is, though," he continued,
his voice almost a lullaby. "Evil as evil can be." Well, he would
know evil - it looked at him in the mirror each morning. "This cat,
this cute bundle of fur, Sin, hurt someone. Did you know that?"

I squirmed in my seat a little
and shook my head.

"Well, you wouldn't know that,
would you? But you believe me, don't you? You trust me?"

A pause, then a nod.

"Good. Very good." Connors
smiled an icicle smile and leaned closer to me, leaving the cat
alone. It was obviously content after the attention it had received
so didn't move. Other me, however, flinched back slightly.

The doctor didn't notice or
didn't care.

"It was a little girl's pet," he
said. "A little girl who'd always wanted her own cat. She'd had it
from a kitten and loved that little pussycat. She loved it, Sin.
But then, one day..." He leaned right in to say the next two words,
pausing for effect, close enough that I must have been able to feel
his breath on my cheek.

"It changed."

Where was Bela Lugosi when you
needed decent organ music?

He began to walk around the
chair, circling me just as he had my dear departed,, but so
recently... 'reparted'... friend. The serpent ready to strike. The
scorpion ready to sting.

"One day," he told us, me and
Other Me, "it was happy playing with its catnipped toys and balls
of wool. The next it was, and there's no other word I can use,
evil."

Round and round.

"It attacked her, Sin. It
attacked that little girl. For no reason other than it felt like
it, this here cat attacked her. It clawed her face, shredded it,
scratched her eyes, bit her nose. That girl, that little girl, Sin,
was attacked."

Round and round, dipping in and
out occasionally to speak close to my ear. I was becoming agitated,
shuffling in my chair, rocking, my hand no longer hanging down but
joined with the other, rubbing and wringing.

"It clawed her eyes, Sin. Clawed
them until she could no longer see. Clawed them until they were
useless and blind. It scratched her cheeks until no flesh remained
and it bit her nose until there was nothing left but bone and
gristle. That's what this sweet, little cat did to that poor
girl."

He stopped his circling and
became the panther, ready to pounce. In the chair on the screen I
stopped moving too. I thought that Dr. Connors, me and Other Me
held our breath at exactly the same moment. Then he asked:

"What should we do about that,
Sin? What should be done with a viscous animal capable of maiming a
defenceless child?"

I, either of the me's, didn't
move. Connors waited for an answer. It seemed he believed no more
prompting was required. It seemed he was well versed in this.

"Kill it."

That wasn't me. It was, but it
wasn't. My voice said the words but I couldn't believe they'd come
from my mouth. I wouldn't, outright like that, callously, say to
kill anything. Even if what Connors had said about the girl was
true, and if it was then I was sorry for her, I couldn't just think
that. Even with all I now knew and had seen of the eminent and
psychotic doctor, I hadn't come here to kill him. Stop him. Kill
him? Yes, I wanted him. I wanted him dead. It had even run through
my head about the wheres and hows, but I couldn't kill him
myself.

All the others had been
accidents. Or if not accidents, they'd been unintentional. To me,
anyway. I hadn't set out with the intention of anyone dying, not
even Jersey. I only wanted to live my life, not pass judgement on
the toss of a coin.

"What did you say?"

"Kill it."

Round and round again.

"Well, my friend, I can see your
reasoning. Who's to say it won't happen again? Who's to say the
taste of blood hasn't turned this cat for good? But how? How would
we do that? I couldn't. I couldn't kill a soul. I've dedicated my
life to others. To those poor unfortunates who find themselves
under my care, for whatever reasons. People like yourself, Sin, who
need my help."

In the chair I was silent, but I
could see, from the incline of my head, I was staring at the
cat.

"Perhaps you could help, Sin, as
I try to help you. Do you think you could?"

A nod. Definitive.

"Thank you. I knew I could rely
on you. I really did. But how? How would you stop this evil?"

How indeed.

Other me looked at his, my,
hand, then back at the cat.

"Of course. Why didn't that
occur to me?" He was standing next to me. his hand on my shoulder.
"You have your special way, don't you my friend. Go on then. Give
that little girl her retribution."

Other me, whom I had to believe
didn't know what he was doing, had to because I couldn't remember
it so it didn't happen and I was drugged and Connors was...
Connors, sat upright, leaned forward and stretched out his hand,
fingers splayed, towards the sleeping cat.

I, the real I, waited. I could
see Connors waiting too. The cat slept. I expected it to explode or
suddenly screech as its eyes started oozing blood. But nothing
happened.

"Come on, Sin. Come on son. You
can do it. You know how." The doctor was bent close to his ear. I
could no longer think of him as me. A whisper that was almost not
picked up: "Do it."

Sin leaned forward, both hands
out now. His head went down in concentration. He was trying. He was
attempting to force it out. It wasn't coming. The beast within
wasn’t leaving his cage, even with the door wide open.

"Come on," Connors insisted. His
teeth were clenched, his voice tight. "You know how. Don't try.
Don't think. Just feel it. Just do it. Just let it go, then, when
you're done, just stop it. You know, Sin. It's like breathing."

Sin took a breath then. He
lowered his hands and let the breath out.

I wasn't fast enough to click
the 'X' to close the video. I sat, cold, afraid. What else had
Connors made me do? Had it been confined to pets or other animals?
Or had James Benjamin or David Docherty suddenly had no further
need for the doctor's care. I closed my eyes and forgot to control
my own breath, short and ragged.

Then.

You know when you look at
something and see one thing, then look again and see the same
thing, then
don’t
look and see something completely
different?