Sin (4 page)

Should have known, eh?

It’s almost like aerobics. And,
one and two and one and two and step and slide and flip and catch
and one and two and on and on. That’s why I throw a wobbler. It’s
why I go Lala every so often. Not because I’m a Teletubby, but
because it’s still with me, in here. I can’t escape it. Even with
the world a fading memory, I
know!
The brakes on Brenda
Thomas’s shiny new Audi failed as she was driving her daughter into
school. Not a single one of the Humber Flying Club’s parachute
display team’s chutes opened as they attempted, and failed, to
build a pyramid three thousand feet up. Flight HB762, returning
from Palma in Majorca, forgot to give its pilot control when they
were landing back at Humberside. Or the pilot forgot how to land.
Or it was the wrong type of snow on the tracks.

And step and slide. And flip and
catch.

You see why I wanted the drugs?
I think Jeremy (who really doesn’t have to be so nice to your
patients – half of them wouldn’t even notice) knows that I’m not
really crazy. When he comes to calm me down if I ‘wobble’, bringing
his trusty syringe, I’m sure he sees it in my eyes. He’s a clever
one, Dr. Connors. You want to treat him right. He does the same for
your patients, and most would prefer him to be the doctor and you
to be the orderly. Hey, just saying it like it is.

But the drugs are not enough,
not any more. Were they ever? I think at first, when they were new,
I think maybe I fooled myself into believing that they were
working. They kept me out of it enough so I didn’t feel the flip,
and I didn’t see the catch. It was still happening though. So they
are not enough. Joy knew. She understood that there was only one
way.

I’ve figured something else out,
Doc, and this one will lay you right out. You know how that damned
coin always kept coming back? It was like a pet dog I’d been trying
to get rid of. Kept nipping at my ankles, never realising I just
wanted to kick it. I threw it away. I chucked it into the bloody
sea! Yet it was always there, in my pocket, on top of the tens and
the ones and the fifties. Always ready to wave and smile and say
‘Hi!’ I figured out that
that
was me too. I was bringing it
back.

Yup-a-doozy.

Have you ever seen the film
Phenomenon, with John Travolta? Very understated and quite
excellent. I wonder if it’s a bit like that, except my light from
the sky was a two pence coin. I did, for a little while, hope that
I’d have some brain tumour that was eating away at my central
cortex wotsit and that was causing it all. No such luck. Fine and
dandy and healthy as can be, that’s me. So I couldn’t hope for Him
upstairs to help me out. Old Mr. Grim the Reaperman wasn’t going to
come a-calling either. I was on my own.

But the coin, yes indeedy. The
coin was the trigger, but, bless its sweet little copper heart, it
was also the key.

“What’s he on about?” I don’t
hear you say. Teleportation, that’s what. If you’re a believer, let
me hear ya say ‘I BELIEVE!’ A little louder, please. I can’t hear
you! Well, actually, it ain’t that at all, I don’t think. Don’t you
think? A question without an answer. Yes, I don’t think. No, I
don’t think. You could go round in circles with that one. Anywho.
Teleportation makes it sound like some cheap sideshow conjuring
trick. Cups and balls-a-go-go. It doesn’t feel like that, though.
It doesn’t feel like teleportation. I don’t know, but the coin
always ended up back in my pocket, safe and snug and warm. Maybe
it’s a flip without a catch? Ha. I just thought of that one. That
sounds more like it. A flip with no smack-in-the-palm-of-your-hand
catcheroony. By Georgy Porgy, I think he’s got it!

So I’m going to try it myself.
I’m going to flip, and I’m going to let the Universe
catch-me-if-you-can. Sound metaphysical enough for you? I can’t
shoot myself, not that I could get a gun in here anyway (or maybe I
could?). I can’t jump. Hey, I wonder if I’d bounce or just splat?
So I’m gonna flip.

Flipedy-doo-da, flipedy-hey, my,
oh my what a helluva day!

I know just the place. I don’t
know why I didn’t think of this before. I could have saved a lot of
pain and death. If my mind had not been fogged by those won’erful
drugs, would I have guessed? Who knows. Refineries are magnificent
places, you know? Ever been to one Dr. Connors? I don’t suppose you
have. They’ve got all sorts of deadly chemicals and things that, if
they went bump in the night, would certainly make sure half the
county wouldn’t wake up the next morning. Well, we’ve had a little
preview of that already, haven’t we? Furnaces. Loads of them.
Temperatures exceeding a thousand degrees centigrade held captive
in a little tin box. Oh, yes. You look into them when they are
going, and the flames, fifteen feet high and more, look ready to
jump on you for their morning snack.

Well, I reckon I might just be
lunch for one lucky flame. It’d be quick, for a start. He didn’t
feel a thing, Miss.

I’m trying to avoid asking
myself any questions about what might happen then. I don’t know if
I believe in ghosts or heaven or hell. Does reincarnation exist?
Would I come back as a frog perhaps? I reckon sitting by a pond
catching flies all day would be a pretty relaxing way to spend
one’s life. I wonder if Joy is driving a cloud way up there with a
sticker in the back saying ‘The Afterlife’s a beach!’ But enough of
that. I don’t know, so there’s no point in worrying about it. Well,
there is one worry. What if it doesn’t stop? What if I’m actually
stopping
the bad things happening, apart from the odd one
getting through? What if I’m some sort of dam with a few chinks in
the armour?

No. If only that were true. It’s
not. I’m certain it’ll stop. Just like with Joy, it ends with me.
Which, in a way, is a good thing. I suppose. I’ve got to go to the
great meringue in the sky, ‘cos life here’s a lemon, but at least
it’ll stop. So, yeah, it’s a good thing.

Well, this is it. This is where
I take my leave of Life, the Universe, and fish fingers. I wonder
if it’s true that the last thing the captain of the Titanic ever
said was to ask for ice in his drink? I wish I had something deep
and meaningful to say. Some inspiring words of wisdom to pass on. I
don’t.

This is one small step for Sin,
and one giant leap for the rest of you Muppets.

So long and thanks for all the
rotten eggs.

Take your pick, Dr. Connors.
Take your pick.

<
End of
statement
>

* * * *

Report by consulting
psychiatrist, Dr. Henry Connors.

Sin Matthews was extremely
paranoid and intensely delusional. His frequent bouts of erratic
and often violent behaviour resulted in the need to keep Mr.
Matthews sedated for much of the time. The claims made in his
statement are obviously ludicrous, although it is clear he has
researched these incidents thoroughly. Mr. Matthews’s reasons for
this are unclear. As he stated, Mr. Matthews voluntarily placed
himself under this hospital’s care. As yet, the investigation into
his disappearance is inconclusive. That he ‘flipped’ out of his
cell is naturally not being considered. It should be noted that, on
the day of his disappearance, there was a fault in the CCTV system
and it is my belief that Mr. Matthews took advantage of this to
discharge himself. He has been reported to the police as a missing
person. As he is no longer a resident of this hospital, my
involvement with Mr. Matthews has come to an end.

Dr. Henry Connors
MRCPsych, DPM

<
End of report
>

* * * *

It was Tuesday night. The rain
beat down outside like the cast of Riverdance in a Sunday matinee.
Jeremy “Jezzer” Jackson liked this shift. Some called it the
graveyard shift, and in this hospital, that wasn’t so far from the
truth. A sea of zombies lay staring sightless into the darkness in
the wards and cells. For Jeremy, however, it was calming. The
outside world was a shade, a silent shadow beyond the large
reinforced windows that lined the walls. Apart from the occasional
call, a lone wolf’s howl from the abyss, and soft sounds of
snoring, everyone’s favourite orderly could believe he was alone in
the world.

He’d been thinking about Sin.
Jeremy knew Sin wasn’t entirely what he made out to be. He’d had an
idea that the supposed insanity that he showed was enforced for
some reason, as if he was running away, or trying to forget
something that even the Foreign Legion couldn’t help with. Jeremy
liked Sin. They’d had long, intelligent conversations, something
that the orderly missed. The doctors here treated him as if he was
retarded somehow, not like the qualified nurse and ex-teacher that
he was. He’d left both professions because he wanted something
where he could make a difference. He knew nursing was rewarding,
and he wouldn’t disagree that teaching was indeed worthwhile, but
this job was different. He made people who couldn’t help themselves
feel that bit better. He didn’t really have to try either. Jeremy
had a natural air of peace that could pacify the most tempestuous
of patients.

But Sin was different. Sin had
been a friend. Jeremy missed him. He knew that Dr. Connors wasn’t
really trying to find out what happened. Oh, the doctor was a
decent man, but he felt he had enough patients at the hospital to
worry about without having to chase one that couldn’t sit
still.

It was a quiet night. Hypnotic.
Jeremy had been to Dr. Connors’ office and had taken the Sin
Matthews case file. He was sitting at his own desk, having finished
reading both Sin’s statement and Connors’ brief report.

He picked up the coin. It looked
brand new, shining fiercely in the glare of the strip lighting. He
turned it over in his hands. It was hard to believe all that Sin
had said. But what if…?

Jeremy blinked. The coin was
turning a long smooth arc in the air. His hand was beneath it
already, the fingers curled ready to close around the two pence
piece.

* * * *

Sin.

Yep. You heard me right. Sin.
Sin-sin-sirree, there's no place for me. Or 'thee' as my dear old
father, God rest his weary shade, used to say.

"You're a waste of space, boy!"
he'd yell when he was feeling in a good mood. "Sin-sin-sirree,
there's no place for thee!"

And he'd laugh. He'd laugh until
he cried.

I just cried.

But that was then and this is
now. So no matter, eh? Let's be cheery. Let's be happy. Let's be
a-smilin' all the love-long day. Why not? Life's too short, so they
say.

Weird that. "So they say" is
also something 'They' say. So really, I should put it as "Life's
too short, so they say, so they say..."

Or not.

Anywho-be-do. Name's Sin. That's
me. And, I should coco, me and nobody else. If that's not the case,
then my apologies to any other Sins out there. I hope you either
changed your name or had big, hard fists. Really I do.

Sin. The kids at school loved me
for that one. I wasn't fatter than a turkey three days before
Christmas grace, or covered in raging acne as if Vesuvius had
decided to dine out on my face, being a right pig in the process by
having starter, main course and a big old yummy dessert. I didn't
speak like I'd had a hearty meal of helium for breakfast, nor did I
wear specs the size of full-fat-full-cream-full-cholesterol milk
bottle bottoms. It was just the name.

Sin.

That's worth a punch or two,
don't you think? Worth a kick between my legs once a day and twice
on Fridays, no? No, but I'm biased. I'd rather be the kicker than
the kickee. Well, to be honest, I'd rather be neither, but if it
came right down to dancing on the edge of a knife, kicking or being
kicked, punching or missing teeth, a choice isn't a choice. Not
really.

So. That's me.

I tried to kill myself once. I
thought I'd mention that just to keep the mood up. Just to keep us
all smiling, you know?

It wasn't with pills, or razor
blades, or leaping from tall buildings in a single bound. I used
none of those mundane, ordinary, everyday techniques. My method of
self-destruction was (drum roll please)
teleportation
.

Hah. Got you, that one, didn't
it? You were expecting, perhaps, that I'd tied myself to a train
track like in some old black and white film. Maybe you thought I'd
tell you I'd stepped out in front of a truck down on the M180, in
the rain, and at night. Better to make sure the truck didn't stop.
Better to add a little dash of Craven-esque melodrama to the
mix.

I could even have said that I'd
had an all-day breakfast (served until 3:00 pm) at that little cafe
down the end of Freeman Street. You know the one - next to the shop
that sells unusual pets; geckos, tarantulas and the like. Is that
shop still there? I can't remember. I've only ever been in there
once, just to have a look. They had a komodo dragon in there the
size of next door's cat. It was in a case not that much bigger than
itself. One long stump of old tree branch for company. No wonder it
did little more than sit and stare. Maybe it was eyeing me up for
lunch - it obviously wouldn't have fancied the rat-burgers from
next door. It's been a while since I was along that way, so maybe
it's long gone now. But me and King Komodo agree on one thing -
apart from the fact that I'm not on the lunch menu (not even the
Chef's Special). The cafe's breakfast, Alfonso's according to the
sign but Greasy Joe's to everyone else, was not a preferable method
of suicide, even though it would no doubt be a successful one. I
mean, if one of Joe's homemade hash browns didn't kill you...

Teleportation. There, I said it
again. No, before you ask, if you were going to, I'm not crazy. The
fact that the teleportation was actually out of a 'loony bin' - a
bona fide mental institution - doesn't sign, seal and deliver my
certificate of insanity. I just told them that so they'd keep me
pumped full of those nice drugs that let me forget. Well, while
they worked.