Sin

by Shaun Allan

  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?

  Well, hate is a strong word. Perhaps pity is more fitting.

  I took his hand. "Sin Matthews," I said before I'd given myself the chance to think of anything else. I decided I had to pepper my lies with some form of truth to help avoid being sucked in too far. I'd avoid the facts about the life of Sin-sin-sireee, of course. He might want to get me locked up in a mental home.

  "Sin?"

  "Sin."

  He pressed his lips together, obviously wanting to ask the same tired old questions I'd answered so many times before. He apparently realised I was long done with the name game.

  "Bacon butty do you?"

  Magic words.

  "Oh yes," I smiled.

  Bacon butties. Food of the gods, no less. None of that Ambrosia nonsense. Rumoured to have been how Delilah really made Samson fall head over ponytail for her, and what Nero was actually doing whilst Rome became a dusty pile of ash, possibly even cooking it over the embers of the Coliseum. Crispy, salty and hot enough to melt the butter. Yummy, scrummy in my fat tummy. Delish, in fact. Giles had used his whiles to make me smile. Or Martin Collins as I should now call him.

  The road was long and, yes, many a winding turn meandered it's way to who knew, or cared, where. For the most part, fields stretched each side, some furrowed and muddy, some smoothly tilled, as if an enormous rake had been dragged across the surface. Patches of wooded areas, second cousins twice removed to the semi-forest I'd spent the night in, dotted the landscape, lonely and forlorn with so much distance between them and their relatives, with not even a telephone to keep in touch. Long hedges snaked along the edge of the fields, dividing the landscape into a huge chessboard, perhaps for the pleasure of the giant Mister Rake Man.

  I hadn't seen a sign or a distinctive road marking since passing a National Speed Limit indicator a few miles back, and there had been nothing before that. I could have been in the middle of nowhere or the middle of Lincolnshire. Trees were trees and fields were squares of mud. I hadn't seen a Yellow Bellied oak or a Scouse hedgerow to show which county of Paradise I'd landed in and didn't want to advertise my ignorance to all and farmer.

  Did trees have accents? Apart from the fact that you didn't often see a giant redwood or palm sprouting on your way through town, did they have regional idiosyncrasies? Did a wee northern birch spread its branches wider than its southern brethren? Was the midland elm a touch more nobbled in the trunk area than those in, say, the Shetland Isles, or Deepest Dorset?

  Ask me another.

  We'd passed the odd turn off now and again, little roads that lead into the back, front and side of beyond, but none had anything to show what might be at the far end. I didn't know if there were towns, villages or simply the Flat Earthers' Abyss. Yesterday I'd have been happy to go along one of those small asides, just in case the fabled Abyss did exist for me to throw myself from, but I'd slept since then and my failed attempt at suicide had cleared the cobwebs of my miserable whinging arse away. The future was bright. The future might not have been orange, but it was definitely not so black. Maybe a murky grey perhaps.

  Well, sitting in the cab with Farmer Collins on my way to a mighty bacon butty, it certainly seemed to be on the right side of wrong, the bright side of billabong. Shadows were still stalking the edge of my vision, flitting away if I turned to see, but they seemed not brave enough to venture closer. Don't go near the light, chappies.

  I wondered if the road to hell wasn't actually Chris Rea's M25, but was in fact this black streak across the countryside. I'd read, once, a story about a man in a department store who'd taken the down escalator. He'd zoned out, a little like me, while it was descending and hadn't noticed, as he moved to the next and the next, that no-one else was aboard, cap'ain. Then he noticed that he wasn't in Kansas anymore, and he was on an ever descending escalator to nowhere. I can't remember what happened to the poor guy, but I think a combinati
on of my night in the woods and the looming prospect of crispy paradise had dragged the end of this particular road on towards the horizon. I felt sure that Martin's farm should only have been around the corner, but some unseen hand had grabbed that corner and wrenched it off into the distance, purely to spite me and my screaming stomach.

  But brighty-bright, lighty-light.

  I was just about to ask how far away we were, and if it could be measured in light years, when a gate appeared in the hedgerow with a small hand painted sign attached. The sign was somewhat mud splattered, and the writing was blurred in the muck, but I could just about make out what it said.

  "Shadow Hill Farm."

  "Shadow Hill?" I asked.

  Martin smiled. "Don't ask me," he said. "It was already called that when my grandfather bought the place. I seem to remember a big hill out back when I was a kid, but it's gone now. I don't recall it being flattened or anything but I suppose it must have been."

  "Didn't you fancy changing the name? Cherry Tree or Pig Swill Farm perhaps?"

  Martin laughed. The sound came from his boots and I could almost feel the bass through the seat, as if he'd had a subwoofer in his backside.

  "Pig Swill, I like that. Maybe I will. I don't like cherries though. Besides - Shadow Hill. Sounds a bit mysterious."

  I nodded my agreement. I would have preferred Shadow Hill to Cherry Tree myself. Pig Swill had a certain ring to it though.

  * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  The house we pulled up to didn't suit itself to the scruffy mud-slopped sign that greeted us at the gate. If there had been a traditional old farmhouse on this site, with knackered sash windows and drafty wooden doors, it had long since been knocked down. In its place was what I suppose looked like a mini-mansion. Windows were everywhere, and across the two floors looked to be a multitude of rooms. I didn't have time to count, but it certainly wasn't a mere two up-two down. A gorgeous garden, filled with any number of colourful blooms - hey, I know what a rose is and that's about it, remember? - spread from the front door, almost as if it had been spilled. The door itself was a great uPCV affair, half glazed with rose leading, that still looked dwarfed against the rest of the structure. I wondered if the wicked witch of the west was buried under there somewhere, I was so sure the house looked out of place.

  "Come on in," said Martin.

  He stepped from the cab and walked to the entrance, pulled off his boots. I did the same, noticing the mud on my shoes was dried now and flaking. He pushed open the front door and stepped in. Instantly I was assaulted by the smell of cooking bacon. Assaulted - that has got to be the wrong word. Caressed? Washed? My belly growled, a wolf waiting to dine on the carcass of a dead animal. Martin looked and me and grinned.

  "That's what I like to hear," he said. "Appreciation of the meal before the first bite."

  I laughed and followed him in through the hallway that was all washed laminate and pictures to the massive kitchen. Was it a prerequisite of farmhouses that they had big kitchens? Was more cooking done down on t' farm than in the suburbs? I didn't know, but this particular kitchen was enormous. Stainless steel appliances were everywhere, from the triple hobbed cooker to the four-slice toaster. A large island sat in the middle of the room covered in the same black granite worktop that adorned the rest of the surfaces. Hanging over it were pots and pans and spatulas, all keeping with the same steel theme. It could have been the main showroom of a Kitchens-R-Us catalogue, front page spread and centre page special pull-out.

  Bent over the oven, pulling out a grill pan covered in the best looking, crispiest bacon I'd ever seen, except maybe since the last time I'd had bacon (a long time ago), was a slim, small vision. She had short brown hair, large brown eyes with high arched brows. Slender fingers that deftly moved the bacon to the ready buttered buns, somehow without the hint of a burn. Small breasts that didn't look undersized on her equally small frame. Legs that seemed long. Behind that looked so right in her figure hugging jeans, Michelangelo couldn't have done better.

  I couldn't decide, for a second, which I wanted more, the bacon or the girl. Then I realised where I was and tore my eyes away from both. Some of the nurses in the hospital had been pretty, one or two even beautiful, but their simple white uniforms stripped away any semblance of sexuality. This was my first 'proper' female in a hell of a long time. She could have looked like a bag of spanners and it probably wouldn't have mattered. The fact that she looked elfen only added to her glory. But I needed to stop being the ignorant sexist I knew I wasn't and get back in the groove.

  "Hey babe," said Martin.

  The woman nodded and smiled. "Morning Marty." Her voice was soft, warm and just on the upside of a whisper. How else could it have been? "Timed to perfection, as usual." She indicated the bread buns steaming at the sides. "You didn't mention any guests though or I'd have made more."

  I felt my cheeks redden as she mentioned me. I took a deep breath to steady myself. Spinning a yarn longer than a spider's web was hard enough with one person. Adding another into the mix complicated matters.

  "Sorry about that," Martin replied. "I picked up a stray along the way. Couldn't you just chuck another slice or two on the grill? My man here could just about kill a pig himself I think."

  I didn't know about that, but I could feel a black hole forming where my stomach had been, threatening to suck the rest of me in along with it. The point of singularity was just about where my belly button had once been.

  "I don't want to be a pain," I said. "Don't worry about me."

  "I'm not," she said. "But I can still manage another sandwich. Have mine and I'll do another."

  Martin, the Mighty Marty, indicated a seat at the large terracotta topped table he was sitting at. "Plonk it."

  I did as instructed and within what seemed like seconds, had devoured the buns on my plate. Somehow a coffee had appeared before me, hot, strong and black ("Just like my men," Joy used to say) and I'd downed half the cup in one gulp before realising I was being stared at.

  "Hungry?" said Martin's wife/partner/sister/mistress. She was filling her own bun with bacon hot enough to make the butter sizzle. I bet myself she could make plenty of things sizzle.

  Stop it.

  I stifled a belch, not entirely successfully, and nodded.

  "Sorry," I said. "I was just a bit peckish."

  "A bit? You want me to fry up the whole pig?

  She was smiling. It was like a beacon in the darkness. The sun on a spring morning. A punch in the face from her fella if I didn't snap out of it and sort my head out. Where was my focus? Where was the idea of not bringing more attention to myself than an escaped lunatic could bring? I wasn't completely stupid - some of the parts were missing. If I didn't get it together, I'd be back in pokey gnawing the bark off twigs for lunch while they had fun flicking the switches to the electrodes they'd stuck on my head. While the electrified Medusa image was something of a fashion statement, I didn't really see it catching on at the next Clothes Show catwalk.

  "I'm fine thanks," I said. I turned my attention to Martin, partly to avoid showing too much where I shouldn't, and partly to move this little interlude on. I needed to find out where I was and get out of here.

  Would I have been better staying where I was? Would doing my Johnny Blaze impression in the furnace have been preferable to going on the run and panicking at the hint of a wrong look or phrase or phone call?

  The telephone rang. The sudden noise scared the Beetlejuice out of me, making my heart jump high enough into my throat it made my ears ring a karaoke duet along with the phone. Neither of my hosts made a move to answer the call and after a few seconds it clicked off, an answer machine kicking in to, no doubt, invite the caller to leave a message after the beep.

  How original were answering machine messages? And how many people suddenly found themselves at a loss for words when confronted by the expectant silence of the waiting tape? Why did it feel strangely like you were standing naked in front of a thousand facele
ss shadows, each of which was expecting you to spout forth insight and genius, instead of the "Erm..." you managed?

  Or was that just me?

  The telephone was a folding design I'd never seen before. It seemed a curious mix of mobile phone and standard cordless handset, but was struggling to decide which. Martin caught me looking.

  "We never answer it at meal times," he said. "If it's that important they'll leave a message or ring back."

  Great sentiment, I thought, but I wasn't aware it was humanly possible to not answer a ringing phone. Just like you're going to say "Ouch" when someone kicks you in the gazoingas, you're going to pick up a phone when it rings.

  Or, I say again, was that just me?

  Sometimes, I'm like a human cucumber. No, I don't mean a bit green or a bit bent, although I'm not actually denying either. I mean I sometimes repeat myself.

  I decided to do my gadget-geek bit and ask about the telephone. Partly this was to avoid any possible questions about myself but also because I really was interested. If it took batteries (and didn't have the words 'rabbit' or 'rampant' in the name) or plugged in, I was automatically interested. Hey, even if it was based on a decidedly bunny design. I was energised by energy and electrified by electricity. Or something like that anyway.

  "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?"