Sin (16 page)

"Good, isn’t it," said Martin.
"It's great for if someone calls while I'm out in the back barn or
mending a wall or something."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "It's a landline
phone in the house and a mobile outside. It's even an internet
phone if I want it to be."

"Cool," I said, meaning it. Sad,
I know. And?

"Except he never takes it with
him," said Mrs. Martin. The big man rolled his eyes and she
playfully slapped him. "What's the point in having a gadget if you
don't use it properly?"

"Oh don't nag, Sarah," he
said.

So her name was Sarah.

She flicked his nose and then
kissed it. I pulled the spear from my heart.

Martin stood up, taking his arm
from around Sarah's waist, then smacked her bum. Like I needed an
excuse to look in that direction. He walked over to the
telephone.

"May as well listen to the
message now, seeing as we're talking about it."

He pressed a small button on the
top and a young man's voice said: "Hey boss. Not going to make it
in today. Feel like shit. Off to doctor's later 'n' I'll let you
know what he says then. Soz. Hope to be in tomorrow." There was a
cough and then a long beep, silenced by Martin pressing another
button.

"Great," he said. "That's Dean
off sick. Just what I need."

Great, I thought. That's one
less person to lose in a lie.

"He might be back tomorrow,"
said Sarah hopefully.

"Oh, he might be," said Martin
looking doubtful. "He's not sick often, but when he is he makes
sure he milks it more than he does the cows!" He looked at me with
a wry smile. "You any good with animals, Sin?"

I'd once trained my dog to sit
when commanded. If a cat sat on my lap, I'd be happy enough to
scratch it between its ears. I didn't think he meant that.

"Not really," I answered.

Even if I could turn a foal in
utero or spin a tractor around on a penny, including trailer, my
answer would still have been in the negative. I wasn't entirely
sure why, but I saw myself as a fugitive on the run, Harrison Ford
fleeing Hannibal Lecter. Well, Dr. Connors was certainly no Tommy
Lee Jones. Saying that, Lecter might have liked to dine on your
doodads, but even he was something of a refined gentleman, with
morals and standards - however warped they might be. Connors was
three steps down from base. But continuing the line of thought, was
I so very different? It's fine and dandy likening myself to a
wronged man running because he could do nothing else. I was
escaping a prison I'd incarcerated myself in, and from deaths - or
murders - I'd committed myself.

I couldn't help seeing myself as
a good guy, though. I wasn't bad, I was just drawn that way. Death,
destruction and misery weren't my friends - they were my shadows,
my stalkers. Was the fact that they picked me up Pinocchio-like and
strummed my strings like a harp my fault?

But I killed people. Like it or
not, I killed people. Innocents. Sure, the kid in the car had
knocked down a girl. He didn't mean to do it - it was his own
ignorance and arrogance that caused it. If I can excuse my own
horrors why couldn't I excuse his? Why was he in the wrong, but I
was still goody two-shoes? Ask me another. I could say that it was
because the boy was reckless and stupid. He was an accident waiting
to happen. I would rather have killed myself than another person. I
wanted to control this demon writhing in my gut and exorcise it.
That kid was the demon and was out of control. I really wasn't bad,
I was just drawn that way. He was his own artist.

But who was I to judge? Who was
I to sign-seal-destroy?

How could such a monster as
myself be a 'good guy'?

But I felt that I was. If you
looked past the body count, and you'd have to stand on your
tippy-toes to do so, I was pretty much Mr. Ordinary Joe.
Unassuming, apart from the power to rip seagulls apart. Almost shy,
if you ignored the ability to throw a bus through the window of a
Post Office.

Of course, I might simply have
had a 'dark half'. Hiding under the double divan of my conscious
mind, a sinister shade could have been waiting for me to be looking
the other way so it could slip out and wreak a little wreckage. No
uncontrollable power, no terrible curse - just the darkness
stalking the edges of where I could see or think or imagine.
Subdued by the dark side was I. Flip and catch. Heads - Obi Wan,
tails - Darth Vader. Except with better dress sense. And without
the asthma.

It was me. Of course it was. But
I refused to believe it was some monstrous part of my psyche that
acted on urges I pretended I didn't have. It was my power, or my
ability, or my curse, but it wasn't
me
that wielded it. It
was me, but not ME.

"So how about it?" Martin
said.

"Huh?"

"If you don't fancy it, fair
enough. After the night you've had, you'll want to just get home
and get your head down, but you'd be doing me a real favour."

"Huh?"

"Maybe the bacon was too much
for him," said Sarah, her voice sparkling with humour.

"Or maybe you are," answered
Martin.

Oh. He'd noticed my interest.
Ah.

Martin stepped towards me and I
resisted the urge to flinch.

"I asked if you minded taking a
look at Dean for me. I could really do with him here today, or at
the very least tomorrow. If you could check him out, cos I know
he'll not get round to visiting the quack today, I'd appreciate it.
You could call it payment for the ride and the butty."

Damn. He wanted the Doc to play
doctor. I knew that you fed a fever and starved a cold - or was
that the other way around? I knew that dock leaves were good for
nettle stings, though I didn't know what a dock leaf looked like. I
knew that paracetomol got rid of a headache and ibuprofen eased
back ache, and I knew that it's good to let a cut breathe. I really
couldn't do this.

"Sure," someone who sounded like
me said.

"Excellent! Ready to go
now?"

Blimey, I thought. On the case,
ready to race! Come on man - give me a chance to wangle my way out
of this.

"Sure, why not," that person who
sounded so much like me said.

I stood and made to walk to the
door then stopped.

"I feel a bit..." like I've
slept in a forest with only my decomposing sister to keep me
company... "dirty. Any chance I could... " run away and don't stop
until my feet are stumps or I fall off the edge of the world...
"get cleaned up?"

Martin looked at his watch. He
wanted to get the doctor making his house call so he could get the
hired help doing their work.

"Well...," he said, implying
that me getting cleaned up was a great idea but time's a-wasting
matey, so let's get this show on the road and worry about sprucing
ourselves up later.

Sarah smiled. "Of course you
can." She put a hand on Martin's arm to silence his obvious
protest. I didn't think he was against me using his shower, but he
seemed to be a time-is-money kind of guy and while I wasn't
working, this Dean person was shirking.

Martin shrugged and smiled.
Argue with a woman? Not me mister.

"Of course you can," he said.
"Bathroom's top of the stairs, first door on the left. I'll grab
some clothes for you. They might be a bit big but they'll do you
for now."

"Are you sure?" I asked,
thankful for the chance to avoid playing doctors. I was no George
Clooney, and I doubted my ability to successfully pull off a Dr.
Ross act. With my history it'd be more Crippen or Frankenstein than
Dr. Jack Shepherd, though I was definitely lost. More Hyde than
Jekyll. More Donald than Duck.

Well, maybe not that last
one.

Martin nodded and I thanked him,
heading towards the stairs. As I walked I looked for any hint of an
address or a location of some sort. Mail or photo or anything that
would give me a clue. Perhaps I should have just asked "Where are
we?" but I felt like I was crazy now I was
out
of the mental
institute. I didn't want to help confirm the diagnosis.

There was nothing. No stray
letter lying on the hall table. No big map with a neon blue arrow
proclaiming 'YOU ARE HERE!'. I was up crap creek without a shovel,
and I couldn't find my way back.

Hey-ho, daddy-o.

With my mind wandering, my feet
did the same and, instead of turning left at the top of the stairs,
I turned right, finding myself in a spacious, minimally decorated
bedroom. The master suite, it seemed. All chromes and chocolates,
the bed looked almost as inviting as Sarah's smile, but I turned
quickly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me. As I
moved across the short landing towards the first door on the left
and straight on till morning, I heard Sarah's twinkling tones from
below.

"He's not a doctor."

* * * *

"What do you mean?" Martin said
quietly. The rumble of his voice carried through the bones of the
house. The words made my own rattle. They must have heard me close
their bedroom door and mistaken it for the bathroom.

"Those clothes. They're not
hospital scrubs. He's not a doctor. He's a patient."

"A patient? How do you know? He
said... He didn't deny it."

"I know because I wore the same
clothes when I was... you know."

"Oh."

Oh.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Sarah's voice had
lost its shine. Cracks had appeared in the velvet, rents that
ripped their way into me. "He made everyone wear them. Part of the
process, he said."

He.

Dr. Connors. It had to be.

Oh.

"You never said."

"You know I don't like to talk
about it. I'm better now, no thanks to him. It's the past. You're
the future."

I heard Martin's footsteps. I
could feel him moving towards her. Putting his arms around her.

"Still. We should call them. If
he's wearing those clothes, he might have escaped. He might be
dangerous."

"I know," she said. "I thought I
was done with that place."

"One call, and then you will
be."

A cold tingling started in my
calves and worked its way up my legs. Goosebumps prickled my arms,
Braille for 'What the hell do I do now?'

Then I knew. It was one of
those, I just knew moments we all love so much. I could almost feel
it creeping up on me that time though, much like a putty tat.
Instead of the knowledge simply being there, I could sense it
appearing. Like night becoming day, gradual enough for you to not
quite notice until the change was done. A bit faster, of course,
because that would have taken hours, but still steadily blossoming
in my head. I knew.

I knew why she was in the
hospital. Why she didn't want to go back.

I knew more than she did.

I knew about the rape one night
after the club. The baby that was a result. The stillbirth of the
child she'd come to want and to love. Her breakdown. Her committal.
Her abuse at the hands of the orderly. How Jeremy, good ol' Jezzer
himself, had discovered and stopped it. Her recovery. I knew that
and she knew that.

But more. I knew more.

Martin. Farmer Giles. Loving
husband. Carer. Friend and lover. Rapist. Father of her stillborn
child.

I didn't realise I was standing
on the top step until I almost fell down. I was dizzy and sick. A
deep, slow breath steadied me and I took a step back. I heard pages
turning from the kitchen. They were looking up the number.

"Hello?"

Pause.

"Yes, hello. Can I speak to Dr.
Connors please."

The line went dead. I knew that
too. I could almost hear the silence as the receptionist on the
other end - probably Claire, all chubbiness, smiles and red hair -
was cut off. I knew because it was me. I wanted it to happen. I
made it happen. Yes, I crashed the bus and the car and did all
those other horrible, awful things. But this time, somehow, I
made
it happen.

And the Braille on my arms had
gone. In its place was the uncertainty of what the hell I was going
to do now.

Martin was trying to get through
to the hospital still. He would be unsuccessful. I returned to
their bedroom and opened one of the built in wardrobes. It was his.
I took a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from hangers. The top was a
light brown with cream horizontal stripes. Not my colour really,
but I was going to pass on the Catwalk of Chaos for now. I changed
quickly, the clothes too big but more than suitable under the
circumstances, and went back to the landing leaving the wardrobe
door open. It wasn't going to matter in a few minutes. I walked
down the stairs, my panic gone. I was calm. I was... I was smooth.
A windless lake. A breath held.

There were no sounds from the
kitchen. There wouldn't be. Sarah was sitting in her chair, holding
her coffee. She wasn't noticing the heat was burning her hand.
Martin was holding the useless phone in his hand. He was staring
out of the kitchen window, possibly at the spot where the famous
hill had once been.

I picked up his keys from the
hall table where he'd left them and walked out of the front door. I
didn't hear the flames start to lick the wall behind the cooker,
but I knew they were. I didn't smell the smoke curling along the
hallway but yes, I knew it was.

Perhaps it was following me.
Perhaps it was saying goodbye. Perhaps the smoke was reaching out
to coax me back, so I could enjoy the same fate that I'd handed to
poor Sarah and her wonderful rapist husband.

He'd engineered their
relationship. Bumping into her so she'd spill her drink on him only
days after her discharge. The old ways were the best. He knew her
history. He could be sympathetic. Was he a monster for doing so?
Needing to be so much in control raping her wasn't enough - he had
to dominate her entire life?