Sin

by Shaun Allan

  Where to start? I didn't know whether to try and get out of the nursery and make my way back home - either by foot or attempted teleportation - or to go and find out what Dr. Connors was really up to. Gather my thoughts or plough in recklessly? I was never one for recklessness really, much preferring the more measured approach. I'd think before acting rather than wading in all guns a-blazing. I would have betted on being hit by any stray bullets in any shoot-out that may have resulted, and that was the case here. I knew something had to be done. But I also knew I might, or rather would, get hurt in the meantime.

  It's strange how things can spiral out of control. A simple suicide attempt had morphed into murder and experimentation and fear. Yes I was afraid. Who wouldn't be? If you knew Jack the Ripper was hunting you down, you'd be clenching your buttocks quite a bit, reaching for the Kleenex. If Crippen was creeping around, you'd most likely want to take a shower rather than a bath, preferring Bates’ knife to Crippen’s acid. Not that I knew whether Connors was in the lofty leagues of such serious slaughterers, but I wouldn't be surprised if he aspired to be reworked in wax and displayed amongst the killers, politicians and other monsters that populated Tussauds' darker domains. Why couldn't I have a better hold on the situation though? If my suicide had worked, would Jeremy still be alive? Would it have stopped Connors in his tracks, Lady-esque? Would the world have kept on turning, oblivious to the sudden lack of me? Would Thor have thrown his hammer out of the pram for losing a pawn? Chaos had spun its spidery web around me and caught me in its trap. And now it was pulling off my legs one at a time and snacking on me. Finger licking good.

  If only I could - if only I dared - toss a coin. Head you win, tails I lose. Flip and catch. Once upon a time that would have been so easy. Once upon a time the coin was leaving my hand and spinning through the air before I knew it had even left my pocket. Once upon a time little girls followed white rabbits down holes in the ground while witches hid out in gingerbread houses. Rats danced the conga behind pipers piping and wolves slept soundly in Grandma's bed. And, my, what big eyes they had. Oh, and ghosts haunted their lunatic brothers, and windows into the past existed amongst the hills.

  Oh yeah, that wasn't once upon a time. That was once upon a yesterday.

  It had been quite some time since I'd had any cash in my pockets, much like the Queen. But, unlike Her Majesty, I didn't actually have any pockets. Given my previous experiences with certain coinage, I wasn't too eager to have a pocket full of shrapnel - mainly because shrapnel of other kinds was usually involved. Even if I wanted to flippy-flop-catchy-monkey, I couldn't. For me, it wasn't a case of money burning a hole in my pocket; it was a case of money burning the whole of the world.

  Should I stay or should I go now. If I went would I be followed? Either way there would be trouble. My secret hidey-hole that was my parent's house had been discovered so I assumed nowhere was safe. Had that information been siphoned out of me during one of my sessions with Connors? Who knew what else he might have drugged out of me. Well, the Doctor knew, of course. He probably even knew that I like my bacon crispy and my boxers fitted. Home was definitely out then. But if he knew things that I didn't even know I knew then how did I know what I knew myself?

  Erm...

  I'd begun to rant with myself. My mind was spinning out of control, trying to catch up with the situation itself. I didn't know which would win the race, but it was fast becoming obvious that I'd be the one who lost.

  Right. Walk out of here and figure this out or stay and...

  Voices.

  Poo.

  * * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Typical, wasn't it. For six days out of seven, this building was deserted. Apart from the mist of a hundred water jets and the occasional buzz of an insect meandering amongst the plants, this was as quiet as a mausoleum. And I had to bring us - or rather, right now, myself - here right at the time that Glenn Rafferty, of Rafferty's Garden Services ("No tree too tall nor root too deep, your garden perfect we shall keep"), was being escorted in for his weekly spruce up. He knew his stuff, did Glenn, but then he had been in the business for so many years he may well have pruned the Eden’s Tree of Life. The nursery wasn't a window box by any means and it would normally take a whole heap of tendering to keep it from wilting and dying. Glenn Rafferty literally did have green fingers, in the way a hundred a day smoker has fingers the colour of mustard dipped in pepper. He was so in tune with plants I wouldn't be surprised if he had conversations with them and understood when they spoke back. He probably even went down the pub on a Friday evening for a game of dominoes with the rhododendrons and a pint of bitter. I assumed rhododendrons drank pints, not halves - they were thirsty plants after all.

  Glenn was an OK guy. He was nice in a wholesome, genial way. He'd had a lifetime of caring, and it reflected in his demeanour - a gentleness that could calm, perhaps, even an Audrey II.

  But the patients of the institute scared the gladioli out of him. Pure and simple. In his bag, along with his gloves and secateurs, was most likely a roll of toilet paper in case a freako-psycho-sicko might jump out and eat his head. Or say "Hi," or something equally horrific. He'd fill his pants faster than my dad could down a shot of whiskey. His fears were entirely irrational. I could only think of one patient who had professed to be a cannibal, and he thought he was a dog, so he ate pooch rather than person. Any other patients were normally in such a state of doped-up dormancy that Glenn had more to fear from a Venus fly trap than Fido Freddy. Of course if said fly trap turned out to want to drink his blood and burst into song, thinking his name was Seymour, we all had a problem.

  If Glenn Rafferty, of Rafferty's Garden Services (You grow it, we'll mow it - he had at least a dozen different business cards, each with their own little 'humorous' - or ‘humerus’ in his case - ditty) were to walk in and see me, he'd scream like a banshee and spray me with weed killer, before running for his life. It had happened. A patient, I forget who, had fallen asleep by the indoor (not that there was an outdoor here) rockery and water feature after a visit from the local mayor. A simple newspaper, care in the community, propaganda-fest. The most docile residents had been allowed to wander - almost freely - around the nursery, and the staff was informed to keep them gainfully occupied in play-gardening. No trowels or flora were to be hurt, or used, in the making of this nonsense. After the mayor, his entourage and the journalist-cum-photographer had left, Glenn was brought in to undo any damage that the show-patients had caused. It was, to be honest, minimal. A few shrubs and bulbs had been pulled out, and someone had urinated in the fountain - which was understandable as they'd seen the little boy stood in the middle doing exactly the same. If they'd defecated it would have been another matter, but at least the gardener would have been along with his toilet roll to sort it out. In this case, he'd walked in, escorted as ever by an orderly, the orderly had left him to it, he'd discovered the sleeping beauty in the rockery, and his scream could have shattered glass. Even an aged set of lungs can reach the dizzy decibels of a scream when pushed, and Glenn's could pop an eardrum at twenty paces.

  Since that fateful day, he'd refused to enter unless the orderly went in first and looked around. Initially, this happened. The orderly, especially if it happened to be Jeremy... oh God, Jeremy... erm... yes... especially Jeremy, would go up and down the aisles, in and out the greenhouses. Thorough. Not because, except for Jezzer, they were conscientious, but more so that they didn't want to calm down a whole ward of agitated patients who had been scared half to death by the screech of a ghoulie kicked in the goolies. It was only to keep Glenn Rafferty's, of Rafferty's Backbone Recyclers, testicles from leaping into his gut so hard they could have played tennis with his tonsils. After a while, though, they made less and less effort until a cursory glance around was often too much.

  It meant I knew that it wouldn't just be Gardener Glenn who'd be walking through those double doors, it would be Garry, with the tattooed arms that had so scared Edith, the grandmother of the baby the
y'd found left in the Tesco trolley, pushed back into the trolley station. She'd even reclaimed the pound. The dragon really wasn't going to eat her whole, maybe just piece by piece. Or it would be Ian, skinny little Ian with his lank hair and his sly smile that made him look like he'd just killed a cat or abducted a schoolchild. It could even be Connors himself, making sure that none of his residents were hiding away, ready to urinate up the side of his money tree. Either way, Glenn wouldn't be alone and I was buggered.

  I'll say it again.

  Poo.

  I clicked my heels together three times. They didn't spark a little and nothing happened. Go figure. I closed my hands, clenched my fists tight and my teeth tighter, and wished for home, or Barbados, or the skip that was always parked at the end of Number 27's drive. Nothing.

  Poo.

  My choice, it seemed, was taken away from me. My mind was made up by Fate and all her minions. The Gods, sitting up there on their stars, had fancied a laugh. Or I'd been hit with the shitty end of the shit stick and was now in need of my own supply of tissue.

  Glenn...?

  I looked around frantically. A key was pushed into the lock and jiggled, an almost musical jingle that made my nerves dance. There was a greenhouse nearby, but I knew the doors were kept shut by padlock. The ever-fluid boy was to my left, but his effluent was too shallow to dive into, and I wasn't a fish anyway. The hangar, for that was what the nursery almost was - you could pretty much park your plane in it with room to spare - was a haphazard maze of tables and display areas. A fountain stood next to a pile of shrub covered rocks which neighboured a long table covered in soil filled trays with various wildly coloured flowers sprouting forth. It was, supposedly, purposeful chaos created thus to keep the minds of the patients occupied and prevent them from becoming bored. In truth, the asylum's inmates would have felt all their birthdays and Christmases had come together if they'd been able to use the nursery as it was designed. But no. The slapdash arrangement was deliberate in that its chaos was mirrored in the minds of the patients. Connors wanted them to shy away. He wanted them to have a headache at just the thought of walking into what should been a place of serenity. It worked. On the day the mayor paid his flying visit, it was double doses all round just to get them shambling around and amenable. There was no wonder one fell asleep. He would practically have been a walking coma anyway.

  I heard an irritated mutter and the jangling of the keys. It had gone from a jingle to a jangle, from musical to menacing in a second. Wrong key, I assumed. A moment’s reprieve. I ducked, right where I was, and ran towards the door that the gardener and the orderly were about to come through. What else could I do? I could have stayed where I was, been captured, and figured things out as I went. And as Connors was sticking the needle into my neck, as he did with Jeremy, I could realise that perhaps getting caught wasn't such a good idea. I could crouch in the shadows, holding my breath tighter than my dad would hold his giro, and hope that I wouldn't be seen. And after Glenn Rafferty screamed in a voice that only dogs could hear, I'd realise that, as the needle went in, I maybe should have not risked capture. I couldn't leave the way I arrived, that doorway seemed to be slammed shut and bolted tighter than a hangman's noose, so I could only hide by the side of the door and hope I could sneak out whilst they were looking into the room. Luckily it was still fairly dark, so night-time was my friend.

  Oh.

  Night.

  Hmmm...

  I needed to wake up. Not that I thought I was asleep, but I needed to get hold on the grip I was letting slip. It was still dark. The stars were kicking back, watching the show. The chances of fraidy-cat Rafferty coming in here after dark were smaller than the chance of Angelina Jolie calling me on a Friday evening and asking if I minded giving her a back massage because, you see, all that acting made her soooo stiff, and Brad just didn't have the touch. Besides, he was a gardener. He worked day light, not night dark.

  So it wasn't him. Who could it be? Connors? No, he wouldn't have had enough time to get here from the house, unless he could trip the light fantastical like me. And if he could, why would he want me in the first place?

  I didn't have time to find out. I practically dived into the shadows in the corner by the door, just as the right key was found, inserted and turned. Clickety-click, I feel sick.

  I held my breath. Again. It was getting to be a habit. I'd wish for gills, so I could breathe with my mouth and nose closed, silently, but I knew my own personal three wish genie was otherwise engaged in Disney cartoons. And he wasn't manically voiced by Robin Williams either. Not even Robbie. Kenneth maybe, all nasal and condescending. "You want me to what? Really, the people of today, think they can wish for anything!"

  The door opened. The hinges squeaked quietly, as if they, too, were scared to make too much noise. The whole building, as quiet as it was, became even more hushed.

  "Go on, it'll be fine," a voice hissed.

  I knew the voice immediately. Jersey. I didn't think his name was actually Jersey, and he never wore anything other than t-shirts under his uniform, but I'd never heard him called anything else. Except perhaps Mr. Jersey by some of the patients, those that thought the orderlies were in charge and demanded respect rather than simply being fast food cast-offs. No, that was unkind. Dr. Connors didn't trawl very far up the (fast) food chain in his recruitment drives, but most of his employees weren't too bad. Jeremy was the only one I'd call decent, but others had varying degrees of apathy from not giving a flying fig to almost, if pushed, caring. Jersey was somewhere in between the two, depending on what he was after. He was so slimy I was often surprised he didn't leave a trail. Especially around Connors and the female or richer patients. He was the sort of person who'd make you want to wash your hands if he so much as walked past you, as if his aura was unclean. His voice, lowered, no doubt, because of the late hour, snaked over me, having the same effect. I felt like a bird on the beach after an oil spill.

  I shuddered, not at the prospect of being caught, but at the feeling of my skin suddenly feeling slick and greasy.

  "I don't..." A woman's voice. A stumble.

  "Go on, I said. Quick!"

  A pair of silhouettes entered the nursery, the first, small and obviously female, coming a little too fast, feet not keeping up with the rest of her. She fell forward, hand on mouth as knees met floor. She clearly knew to be quiet as barely a whimper, not much more than a gasp of air escaped her mouth as she landed. She was used to this. A veteran. The second was bigger, though not much more so. He was... spindly. I could already feel the oil making my feathers slick. I knew immediately who he was bringing to the nursery. He hung around her when he was on duty, treating her like his personal pet. She was quiet, unassuming, introverted. Caroline, that was her name. I knew nothing more about her, which was unusual. Normally everyone's conditions were the subject of much discussion. No-one kept their particular version of insanity to themselves. Some like to brag about it, some even gloat that they were more tapped than the next person. Others told their tale as a sort of therapy.

  A problem shared is a problem gossiped about, except no-one really gossiped about anyone else. It was all just chit-chat. Non-judgemental, casual chat. You didn't go on holiday, you rarely saw your family, you, in some cases, didn't even know what day it was. Talking about each other's individual degree of dementia was often all you had. For me, my own personal problem was paranoia. It was the best I could come up with. I could have, I guessed, told it straight - that I could kill people with my thoughts even when I hadn't thought about it - but that was a step too far from mental to monumental. I wanted them to think I was unbalanced, not imbecilic. I wanted to be kept sequestered in my own little cell, with just enough chemical help to stop my demons becoming everyone else's. How this had progressed from that to this, from my voluntary, if not quite factual, incarceration to my being the fox with a thousand hounds sniffing out my tail, I couldn't guess. How Connors had discovered, unearthed or just beaten out of me my secrets was something I
would have to ask him one of these days, maybe over tea and biscuits. I wonder if he liked chocolate hob-nobs.

  Caroline was different. She spoke to people, had friends in here, but still, no-one knew the real her. No-one knew who she really was or why she was in the institute. She just turned up one day, sat quietly in a corner staring at the floor, and that's pretty much been it for her. She interacted with the others, including myself, wasn't nervous or jumpy, and had been known to have a sharp sense of humour, but if she was sitting in a room, even being the only one there, you could overlook her. Caroline blended in, like she was lost in the maze of Being and her inability to escape resulted in your eyes skimming over her, looking past her, forgetting there ever was a Caroline. It could easily be days between anyone saying more than three words to the girl, but she didn't seem to mind. She simply sat, in her chair, staring at the floor.

  Jersey noticed her, but that was in the way a spider notices a fly. Once she was caught in his web, Jersey proceeded to pull her legs off one by one, slowly over the months, until she could barely walk without him. Figuratively speaking, of course. She didn't go from able-bodied to limbless, shuffling across the floor on her belly, she just lost whatever identity she arrived with. She was Jersey's when Jersey wanted her. That was noticed. That made her be noticed. But when Jersey wasn't there, in an abstract way, neither was Caroline. She faded into her seat as if she were part of its upholstery.

  Now, Jersey was making her his own again. This time he was deflowering the wallflower.

  It was like an episode of Lost or Coronation Street. Granted those two programmes were completely unrelated, but the appearance of polar bears in Jack Duckworth's bath tub or the Rover's Return being frequented by the survivors of an airplane crash or employees of the Dharma Initiative was not the issue. There hadn't been any opening credits and there wouldn't be closing ones either, but I could suddenly see how this was going to unfold. I realised who Jersey, the vile with the smile, reminded me of. More so than Connors, Jersey was Percy Wetmore, slimy prison guard who patrolled the Green Mile. A man you could despise simply by hearing his voice in another room. Yet, still he had his way. Still he, being an orderly and as such one of the Lords and Masters of the Institute, had the patients in his thrall. Still he could take Caroline from her bed where she'd be sleeping (for, if you weren't asleep after lights out, they had a pill that could help you with that) and bring her to the nursery. A nursery that should have been a place of caring for flora or children, not one of money making schemes and grand empty gestures. And not one of abuse and loathsome things that raped the smile from your face.