by Shaun Allan
"It's fine. Don't worry." An edge of me felt that it wasn't fine, not really, but Joy had a habit of dulling the sharpest edge, so it was fairly easy to run my finger along it without drawing blood.
"Sure?"
"Sure."
And I was sure. There were bigger fish to fry, and they weren't all haddock in batter. One or two sharks had swum into the net too - a net that, I figured, would be closing in on me fairly rapidly. I was a dolphin caught up with the tuna and I didn't know if I'd be able to free myself or whether I'd end up in a can on a shelf in Asda. Sin in brine. Delicious with mayonnaise.
"Good."
She kissed my cheek, then stood up and started pacing. My room isn't as palatial as I might have liked. Even though its furnishings were sparse, a cat could be swung with just about enough room not to take its head off on the wall as you spun. Around the bed there was floorspace for some jeans and duds to be thrown without tripping over them the next morning, but that was about it. It mean that Joy's pacing would, if it went on long enough, wear a rut in my carpet. I assumed a ghost's or zombie's footfalls would have some effect similar to my own anyway.
Besides. She'd just used the word 'good.' Pacing, to me, didn't appear to be good at all. Pacing appeared to be, in fact, bad. The distant frown on her face did nothing to change my opinion of the complete absence of 'good,' convincing me instead that I was in the company of awful, appalling and dire, the three blind mice of my mood. Well bugger how they run, and bugger chopping off their tails with a chainsaw. Whack 'em over the head with a hammer instead. Say it like you mean it.
"Joy."
She stopped her striding and turned to me. She tried to look at me but for some reason couldn't quite make eye contact.
"Come on," I said.
We had to get this, whatever it was, over with. I understood she was unable to tell me whatever it was she knew. I didn't quite understand how she could have that restriction and yet still take me to Connors' office to witness a murder, but I was sure there was a completely irrational explanation. Whatever her reasoning, it was all irrelevant. We had a situation here, folks, and my fretting or her carpet thinning would have only a detrimental effect on the outcome. Not that trailing a rut in the rough pile of the polyester-wool mix could really influence the life and times of a raving loony and his deceased sibling, but you never know. Maybe it was taking Chaos Theory a step beyond the beat of a butterfly wing, but maybe that step was right on the line proving that no, officer, I hadn't been drinking or smoking something I shouldn't have been, and I was perfectly capable of driving this here automobile of my life right into the nearest tree. Thank you and good night. Wish I had an airbag.
To be honest, and I'm nothing if not honest...
Hold on. Does that mean my honesty is the only thing I've got going for me? Does that mean I'm a hollow shell of a man if I'm not a fine, upstanding, paid up member of Honesty International? If my family motto isn't 'Tell a lie, gotta die, stick a penguin in your eye' then I'm a mere shadow, a shade of substance with neither hope nor honour?
Nah. Don't be daft.
So. To be honest, and I'm lots of things if not honest, Chaos Theory may well play its subtle, sinister part in all of this, but it was like an extra in a Lord of the Rings battle sequence. There were thousands of others in the fray and unless it was wearing a pink hat, feather boa and a frilly little sequined tutu, it wasn't really going to be seen amongst the polystyrene armour and fake blood. No, this time it was... erm... Time. Something we were in as short supply of as we were salt and vinegar Pringles. It was a Mother Hubbard day today and the cupboard, both of Pringles and Time, was bare. With every tick of the clock, Connors and his hounds were closing in and once they popped, I doubted that they'd stop.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. What time is it Mister Wolf? Time to bite off your head from the twinkle toes up.
My 'what now' question hadn't been answered, but I hoped Joy would have some idea. I figured she'd have a plan that she'd love to come together. I also hoped that either one of us, but preferably both, would drag themselves up out of the Drums of Dol and get this showboat steaming along the Mississippi. The hesitant smile that played hopscotch across my sister's mouth indicated that she might just be the one to pull the whistle and yell out 'All aboaarrdddd!' And I would help by weighing anchor.
I was going to make a joke there about the anchor weighing 18 stone 4 pound, but I won't. Especially as it would be more like around 30 tons or more. And ‘weigh anchor’ doesn't mean that anyway. But that's the point of the joke. But I didn't make the joke.
Erm... Anyway...
Anyway... I was beginning to feel like I'd swallowed some chewing gum and my shit was twanging back. The mood in this house was bouncing up and down faster than Zebedee on ecstasy. Or in ecstasy. It was a coin, yes, two pence probably, that was being constantly tossed. Flip and catch. Happy and sad.
"Come on, indeed," said Joy.
'Eileen?' Oh, sorry, 'indeed.'
"We need to get out of here." She reached out for my hand and I automatically held out my own. Before I stood, though, I asked:
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere."
"Somewhere? Where's that?"
I'd have to look at a map, or Google at least, one day and see if there actually was a town called Somewhere. It'd make a change from living in a town called Malice. Oooh, yeah.
"I don't know," she said. "We'll find out when you take us there."
When I...?
"When I take us there?"
"Yes. We can't stay here. He'll find us. He doesn't know this house yet, but it probably won't take him long. His pet has escaped and he wants it back in its cage."
"His pet? I'm his pet? What do you mean?"
"Sin, you saw what the video. He knows. He knows! He's not going to let a prize like that get away, not while there's a chance he can use it - control it."
A pet? A prize? I was neither of those. I was a person. I was me! I wasn't sure who that murdering, teleporting me really was, but it was still me! As for controlling me!?
I realised I was shaking my head and stopped myself, but Joy responded to it.
"Yes, Sin. As much as you might not like it, he knows. And he's known for a while. That was a fairly recent video, but there's others. So many others. Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?" I remembered, or thought I did, pretty much all of my time in the hospital. I couldn't recall any gaps. There were no slices of my memory's steak and ale pie being munched on by the Spirit of Forgetfulness, with a few chunky chips and some garden peas covered in lashings of gravy.
Saying that, I didn't remember, not even with a whisper of recall, the episode in The Room that Connors had been watching. What else was missing? What else had he made me do? I felt my face drop, the muscles sagging suddenly as if they'd been tensed up for days and the weight of all that skin had become too much for them and they'd had to let go, breathing a hefty sigh of relief as they released their grip.
He did know. That much was obvious. But how much did he know? Moreover, how much was there to know?
"He's had you as his little lab rat for months now." She sat on the bed beside me, her hand on mine. It felt cold. I felt cold. My blood had gone the way of my face - south for the winter - and I was shivering. Even her arm around me failed to give me any warmth.
See? Shit twanging day, all right.
A lab rat. That was what I’d been reduced to. I wondered if I’d even been an actual bona fide patient. But then, were any of the patients really patients, or where they merely a hobby to the Doctor, passing away the days whilst giving him something to vent his megalomaniacal tendencies upon. I know which I leaned towards, and it didn’t involve a modicum of care or a Hippocratic oath. Hypocritical, perhaps, but Hippocratic? I think not. When had I been promoted from mere loon to Teacher's Pet? When had I scampered up the ladder of Life, Love and the Lunatic's Way to become Connors' personal plaything? And what had I had to do to get there?
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br /> These questions and more were unlikely to be answered in the next thrilling episode of Sin: A Life Unfolding. Or should that be Unfeeling? Or perhaps even Unravelling. If only this had really been a Hollywood blockbuster, or even an old Ealing comedy. At least I'd have had a script and could potentially have looked ahead to see what was going to happen to my character. Was I going to go out in a blaze of gunfire, leaving behind the beautiful accomplice, her bosom heaving as she sobbed for her loss? Would I ride off into the sunset on my trusty steed, with only a trail of settling dust to show I'd ever passed this way? Would I wake up in the shower to find this had all been a horrible dream and that I was actually married to Victoria Principal?
Hmmmm...
No.
The doo-doo was twanging with yo-yo like precision and all we could do was duck to avoid getting whacked in the eye.
So, (deep breath) I was a lab rat. Well, this rat was going to bite back. This rat was badder than its Seven Hills cousins and was going to crap in the lunch of the good doctor. This rat was going to give Connors a nice unhealthy dose of rabies before the day was out. Granted that was a metaphorical dose of rabies and a probably metaphysical bite. The crap in the lunch was too tempting an offer though... Either way, some arses need to be kicked and I had a size 9 ready and waiting.
I just had to figure out how. Well, I had a lot more than that to figure out. How? Why, Where and When, and their little brother What all wanted to join the club, become fully paid up members and sport the flash little badge and cap. Sign up here, guys. Thirty days free subscription and you get a nice shiny pen to boot!
This was making me crazy. It felt like I had a steering wheel down my pants that was driving me nuts. Yeah, yeah, so up until very recently, I was supposedly officially crazy anyway. Is that going to be held against me forever? Does shit stick like bugs to a windscreen? Give a guy a break and let bygones be gone by. I'm not, your honour, and never have been crazy. Teleportation, mental mayhem and seagull slaughtering might test that denial, but hey, you never believe the Wet Paint sign unless you're wiping it off your hands because you just can't resist checking. If you want me to prove to you that, with a thought, I can turn those innards into outards, then just say the word.
Hmmm. Didn't think so.
But obviously I jest. Even though I probably could, I didn't know how. It was all subconscious. All that death was dealt by the shiver that lived in the hell of my heart. He and I, Shiver and Sin, weren't on speaking terms. We didn't share a morning coffee while chatting about the weather and whether anyone had been ripped apart recently. So you're safe.
Not that I would anyway, of course. I might be a little strange, in fact I hope I am (besides the obvious talents), but I am not crazy.
Promise.
So. Labus Raticus was I? Fine. Pet project? Double fine. Snivelling little victim on the run and in hiding? I think not.
I didn't remember any videos. I didn't remember that session with Connors, nor any others where my particular brand of barbarism exhibited itself. I didn't remember being pushed into performing, like Marcel the monkey, missing only a tiny fez hat and a cup to collect money in. To my knowledge there were no blanks in my memory, no jagged edges where pages had been ripped out, screwed up and thrown into the bin, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. I wasn't sure if I ferreted enough I might be able to unearth them but I supposed it didn't really matter. If those memories were windows into the past, their glass shattered by the Doc swinging a nice big hammer, then there was nothing I could do. If, on the other hand, I could call in a glazier to do a quick repair job, then all the better. I'd flick through the yellow pages of my mind later. Right now there was a fan that was in dire need of some shit hitting it.
And I had a fistful ready to throw.
Joy leaned away from me at that point, a quizzical look on her face.
"You okay?" she asked.
Was I okay? We didn't need to take a stroll along the prom-prom-prom of my tattered life to see the myriad reasons why I wouldn't be okey-dokey-pig-in-a-pokey, but strangely, I was. A light bulb had been flicked on inside of me and all the darkness has fled for the hills. Well, most of it at least. A few shadows still lurked there in the nether regions, but I was sure I could handle them. So yes, I figured I was okay.
"I am," I said.
Joy was still looking at me as if I had grown another nose or something, maybe sprouted horns and a yukka out of my ear.
"Promise?"
To Joy and I, a promise was never made lightly. A promise was just that, a promise. If you said it, you meant it. It stemmed, I think, from an upbringing where not every word that came out of our parents' mouths could be trusted. You always had to take what you were told with a pinch of Lot's wife. Even if that magic 'P' word was used, we made sure to count to ten, then again, then not believe it anyway. Far safer that way. If you set yourself up to be let down, you were never disappointed when it actually happened. And if you weren't let down - if by some crazy fluke what you were told actually happened, then bonus. Small things or big things, it didn't matter. Disappointment was disappointment to a child. Whether it was asking for a Six Million Dollar Man toy and a Thunderbird 6 (was that the blue one where the middle came out and the dinky submersible appeared?) for Christmas and getting nothing, or finding out that cheques were written drawing money out of your account, but you weren't the one who'd signed them, it boiled down to the same thing. If the kid expected it, it didn't hurt him as much.
Or at least he could pretend it didn't.
So. We made sure that, if we couldn't trust our parents completely, we should be able to trust each other. Perhaps that's a fairly grown up attitude for an 8 year old, or however many solar revolutions I'd seen. Perhaps not. But we seemed to realise that we needed someone who we knew, if they said something, they meant it. Someone who wasn't going to 'borrow' our paper round money and never pay it back. That kind of thing. Sibling rivalry was one thing, and we had our fair share of bickering and battling, but when it came down to it, as I've said, a promise was a promise.
"Promise."
"You're a strange one, Sin."
"I take that as a compliment, sis. Especially from a walking corpse."
She smiled and I returned the grin. The pair of us had joined in the game of doo-doo-twanging and, even though we were up to our elbows in it, for a moment it actually smelled sweet. For a moment.
"So where are you taking us?"
She had to go and spoil it, didn't she. A second or two of actual semi-normality shattered by a simple question. If this had been another life, another pair, another world, that question may well have simply meant 'Pub or restaurant?' or 'Park or beach?' Unfortunately, this was this life, this pair and this world. It meant one thing.
Flip and catch.
My problem was that I didn't know how to do either. Dr. Connors had obviously been pushing me to discover exactly that, but it was under the influence of drugs. It was chained to a chair. It certainly wasn't sitting on my bed at my parents' house. True, I'd managed to flip out of my cell hoping a nice passing furnace would catch me, but that hadn't quite worked as I'd planned. I'd figured out how to do that, after a fashion, but I'd ended up on a beach that was only by chance not in another country. What if, this time, we did end up in Outer Mongolia. What if we landed right smack in the cooking pot of a lost Amazonian tribe of cannibals? What if, indeed, we ended up in the fires of hell itself? I couldn't control it. The fact that I'd managed to get myself out of the hospital at all was something I wasn't sure I could repeat. The possibility of what could easily go wrong, basically, scared me.
I was still okay. I was still positive. The non-existent plan of action was still, essentially, a plan. But to take my sister's hand and jump to who knew where wasn't something I felt I could risk, and I told her so.
"Sin," she said quietly.
"Yes?"
"It's up to you, brother. We could simply wait here and face whatever consequences are dumped on our heads. Or
we can do something and get out of here."
"But you could get hurt," I insisted.
Joy laughed then. A sparkle of real humour. I didn't see the joke.
"I'm DEAD!" she said. "How am I going to get more hurt than DEAD?"
She had a point. But she could, it seemed, come and go as she pleased. She could, it also seemed, take us into a crazy Twilight Zone version of the Seven Hills in which psychopathic psychiatrists murdered friendly orderlies. Why couldn't she get us out of here?
I asked her. If you don't ask, you don't find anything out.
"Because I can't," she said simply.
Well that told me.
So, it was down to me. Teleport (even the word made me cringe) or wait. Hold on...
"Why can't we just walk out of here? Get a taxi or something and go somewhere?"
"We could," she admitted. A flash of relief sparked inside of me at the prospect. "But there'd be witnesses. There'd be a record at the taxi office. We could bump into someone we knew, like Wendy. If you take us, then even we don't know where we'll end up.
My point exactly! But the brief spark was extinguished. I took a deep breath and...
A knock at the door.
* * * *
Chapter Seventeen
Joy and I stared at each other for a breathless moment. I wasn't sure if she was actually breathing anyway, being deceased, but it was a breathless one for me. My whole body went still. I think even my heart stopped beating for a second.
Yes, I know. Joy's wouldn't have been beating anyway.
A knock at the door again. The doorbell.
Joy stood and moved slowly to the window. Even though I hated them, a simple net curtain draped across the glass. I'd always meant to take it down, perhaps replace it with a blind, roman or venetian maybe. Or a tab-bottom, I sort of liked them. I just hadn't got round to it. I was thankful now. It hid my sister from sight as she peered down to the front door. I could see by the look on her face that the visitor wasn't just the milkman wanting his money. It may have been a Jehovah's Witness, but her look was blacker than the night sky with your eyes closed. Santa Claus hadn't passed by and not been able to get up to the chimney. It wasn't the tooth fairy on the hunt for a molar or two, bag full of coins strapped to her waist for the exchange.
