by Shaun Allan
It was me.
I felt something inside me twitch at that point. It was as if I shook without shaking. For the first time, I noticed the radio was playing. I didn’t realise I’d turned it on. I looked at the clock. It was almost half past ten. Time for the news.
Here’s the headlines at ten thirty. Seven hundred die as freak tornado hits sleepy Essex village.
The coin was resting on Joy’s letter. It regarded me lazily. It knew. Flip. Catch. I had flipped. I had caught. Not the coin, oh no. Me, myself and Ay-caramba!
It felt like someone was poking me in the chest from the inside. It would happen anywhere and at any time. Relaxing in the pub. Flip. Poke. Catch. A motorway pileup. Watching the TV. Flip. Poke. Catch. Etna erupts. Sitting on the crapper. Flipety-pokety-catch. Earthquake in Northern Scotland.
Doctor, doctor, doctor. You can check on each and every one, as I’m sure you already have. You want dates? Times even? I’ve got the lot. Even the earthquake in Scotland. Doesn’t happen very often that, does it? Two in one week is just the gravy on the Yorkshire Pudding, dontcha fink? Yes, Doc. Check it out. Three days, four hours, twenty two minutes after the first, a seismic hiccup way on down in Loch Ness was strong enough to capsize a survey boat on the surface. Now, Loch Ness is very deep and very wide. An educated man such as yersen, Doc, would know that it’d take a good ol’ bounce to even ripple the surface. Course, the survey crew reckon it was dear Nessie herself, and they’re going to be wasting a whole heap of money and time on searching her out. I reckon if Nessie was swimming about down there she’d have gone a-running with her kilt hiked right up to her hips.
So I had to make a decision. I had to choose. For Joy it was easy. Well, maybe not so easy, but she was always the one who could. Me? I guess I could have tossed a coin… John did it with a gun. I couldn’t do that. No-Guts was my middle name, and I wanted to keep them exactly where they were. I couldn’t jump off a bridge, although the Humber was just murky enough to be inviting. Driving my car into a wall was an option, but my right foot decided to have a mind of its own and not want to push that pedal-to-the-medal. A train mashing me to mush was another idea, but it would probably hurt.
In the end I did decide. I couldn’t kill myself, but I figured I could take myself out of the loop. I could disappear. I could forget myself – become a John Doe-zee-do-your-pardners. YeeHAH! That’s when I came knocking at your door, Dr. Connors. That’s when I rang your bell.
It wasn’t difficult. Not that you’re not good at your job, Doc. I don’t mean to imply anything like that. I have enormous respect for your abilities. I bet that surprised you. Honestly, I do. Granted, you are so totally off base with my case that you’re not even in the same time zone, but that’s just me. I’m a special case, so to speak. A real vintage.
But it was fairly simple to get my own room-without-a-view. Act nuts. A little doolilly, a little doolally. A little ‘I’m-a-little-teapot’ thrown in for good measure. You practically welcomed me with open arms, didn’t you? Thanks for that. Really. I mean it most sincerely folks. Yeah, there were no ‘12 good men and true,’ were there? Just that nice, bespectacled, slightly balding (yes, Doctor, everyone knows) man in the suit creased so sharply it could cut butter.
Thank you. You took me in and doped me up. Helped me pack up all my troubles. What a guy.
Unfortunately…
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.
* * * *
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
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Chapter One
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 (n
ot 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.
So anyway. I had a cunning plan. It didn't involve turnips or pushing pencils up my nose and saying "Wibble," or anything so loop-de-loo. I was going to teleport (that word again - if I say it enough times, do you think you might start to accept it?) straight out of my cell, padded nicely in a lovely glaringly serene white, right into the fiery heart of a dragon. Well, a reactor at least. Being licked by 20 foot flames flaring at a sliver below 1000°C wouldn't have been entirely pleasant, but at least, I figured, it'd be quick. And if it wasn't quick, well maybe I deserved that.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to find out either way.
Self preservation. What a wonderful, sick, twisted, spit-in-your-eye, spiteful thing it is. They should have a society named after it.
I couldn't do it. I wanted to, oh, how I wanted to! But I, the I inside, wouldn't let me. It didn't even ask if I minded. There was no conversation, argument or heated debate over coffee. I wanted to commit suicide, kill myself, end it all, but I wouldn't let me. I don't know whether I was doing it deliberately, or if it was the grand old Universe having it's little bit of fun. Maybe the school bullies had been replaced by something far greater, and the Cosmos was taking its turn in hefting a great size 10 where the sun doesn't shine.
