by Shaun Allan
"So indeed," she said, lifting her eyes to me. The corners of her full lips raised slightly: "What are we going to do with you, brother of mine?"
I didn't answer. I wanted the question to be rhetorical so she'd provide her own response. Perhaps then I might have some idea myself. If not, this would be a short chat and, as good as it was to be reunited with Joy, I may as well wake up. If my mind, in the form of my sister, wasn't going to give me any answers whatsoever, then I'd have to fumble my own way - and that thought scared me way down the road to Shitless and half way into Witless.
"If only I could tell you the things you need to know," she said. "It would be so much easier. You'd be so much happier." She paused and chewed her bottom lip, a habit I'd grown tired of trying to slap out of her. "Maybe you wouldn't be happier actually, but at least you'd know."
"Know what?" I asked. Things I needed to know? I wasn't appearing on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I didn't need to phone a friend or ask the audience. Good job really because the only audience I currently had was maybe the odd owl or squirrel. Anyway, what did I need to know that I didn't already? This dream was going the way of a Twin Peaks episode. It was following some twisted path I couldn't see, swinging back on itself and then taking a completely different route. I felt like Kyle MacLachlan was conspiring with David Lynch to hijack my brain and turn it on its end. All we needed was some cherry pie, a damn fine cup of coffee, and we could all sit down, have a picnic and figure out which outcome would be the weirdest and as such the one we'd use. At least Kyle was investigating a murder whereas I was committing them.
I wondered if, in a court of law, murder in absentia was a punishable crime. If I had an alibi tighter than Jacob Marley's business partner, even though I admitted to having done the crime - and thanks to Mental Homes R Us, done the time - would I still be sent down, joining the chain gang on a one way trip along the Green Mile? Maybe I could get Tom Hanks' or Michael Clarke Duncan's autographs.
I doubted a defence of "I wasn't there m'lud" would be sufficient to get me off. But death by proxy. What would be the maximum sentence for that? Six months? Life? Would there be a frying tonight, with old Sparky, the electric chair?
Ask me another.
Death by proxy. That's a phrase and a half, ain't it? Murder by proxy, perhaps - get some other schmucky-duck to do the deed. But death by proxy? How did that work? If it's my time that's up, is DBP (as we affectionately don't call it) giving my extinction ticket to the next customer, like at the deli counter in Asda?
"I'll have half a pound of bullet to the brain and three slices of cardiac arrest please. Oh, hold on, you go first, pal."
"Cheers mate! Make mine a quarter of honey roasted dismemberment please. No, wait. Make it six ounces."
"Certainly sir. We've got a special three-for-two offer on aneurisms this week. Can I tempt you?"
"No thanks, I'm good with the dismemberment."
Death by proxy - giving your place in the queue for Snuffit & Keelover to the next bloke, nice guy that you are.
My sense of dread and guilt, which had been rebounding around the forest like a squash ball shot from a cannon, slammed back into me once more. What if that was exactly the case? What if I was missing my appointment with the Other Side by passing it on to other people?
If I was meant to die the day the number 5 bus drove into the Post Office instead of into me?
If I was meant to die today, the next victim of a teenage idiot more intent on his mobile phone than on the road?
I jumped when I felt Joy's hand on my shoulder.
"Sin?"
"Sorry," I said, shuddering. I suddenly felt cold even though the temperature hadn't dropped noticeably. The closeness of the trees, the canopy of leaves and the blanket of clouds all did their bit to keep the afternoon's warmth from escaping.
And me.
"What is it?" she asked.
I shook my head. What was the point? She'd only tell me I was being stupid. Maybe she was right. Maybe my head was running after David Lynch, hoping to be sucked down the convoluted drain of his imagination.
But still. As ever. What IF?
I so needed to get a grip! What if the world really was flat, with only the 150 foot wall of the Southern Ice between us and an eternal drop into Oblivion? What if the Bermuda Triangle was an extra-terrestrial King's Cross, with trains (or ships and planes) leaving every fifteen minutes or so, stopping at Peterborough, Newark, Doncaster and Alpha Centauri?
What if anyone actually gave a toss?
I took another one of those deep breaths people recommend to steady your nerves. Was there some magic medicine in air? I suppose there was. Oxygen. Daft question really.
"Nothing," I said, managing a half hearted smile. The other half had a go, but couldn't quite manage it. Oh well, a smile is always half full rather than half empty.
I needed to get this dream going, if, indeed, it was going anywhere. For all I knew it could be tomorrow or next week by now. It had been so long since I'd had a sleep that wasn't drug induced, I figured my body could be making up for lost time. Perhaps Joy was here to keep me occupied while my body recuperated. Dreams being what they were though, I could have just dozed off for five minutes. Either way, if there was a point, I wished Joy would get us to it.
"Are you sure?" she asked. How could anything be wrong with that voice caressing me? How could any problem be a problem while those eyes sparkled?
"I'm sure," I said. "I'm fine." I sat a little straighter, my slump becoming more of a slouch. It wasn't much, but it was an improvement. "You were saying?"
"Was I?"
"Yes. You said you wished you could tell me something. Something I should know."
"Oh, that." She shook her head. "Don't worry about it."
What? She couldn't do that!
"You can't do that! You can't lay something like that down, and then take it away again."
Joy looked nervous, as if she'd let a secret out and had only just realised.
"No, really. Forget it. It's nothing."
I wasn't about to let it go. Joy could be in this dream to carry me through to next year for all I cared. Or she could be here for a reason, the voice of my subconscious working its way up to granting me an epiphany of some kind. Or, of course, she could be a zombie deciding whether to start on my nose or a nice bit of rump.
"Joy," I said, gripping her hand. It was warm. I would have thought zombies would be cold to the touch, so that was comforting. Maybe she wasn't wondering if she should have mustard or plain old ketchup. "Just tell me."
She snatched her hand away as if she thought I was trying to steal it. "I CAN'T!"
"I don't understand," I said. "You can't tell me? What? What's so big a secret you'll implode if you share it? It can't be that bad, can it?"
"It's not that. Nothing like that. I just can't tell you."
"Why?" I insisted. There had been times in our lives when, although we normally hid nothing from each other, we'd had to keep certain things to ourselves. I don't believe anyone is totally open about every tiny little thing with anyone else - siblings, partners, no-one. Whether it's down to guilt, embarrassment or sheer spite, some things are simply meant to kept to one's self, hidden away, held close to your chest lest they get snatched away and held up to scorn, ridicule or horror. Usually it's something small and petty and not worth worrying about, but not always.
Joy and I didn't share our biggest secret with each other. The fact that we could manipulate others' lives, destroying them in my case and making them so much better in her’s, was something we'd not told anyone until it was too late. Joy let me know by posthumous letter. I'd told Dr. Connors in the comfort of an asylum; padded cells, padded seats, padded wallets.
This wasn't the time for my sister to be reticent. And anyway, it was my dream. If I wanted her to talk, shouldn't she concede? Was I, in effect, arguing with myself? Did I have not-so-hidden schizophrenic tendencies? At least I wouldn't be lonely.
Joy looked at m
e, her eyes doleful. She seemed to be struggling with something and I wished she would just let it go and tell me.
"You don't understand," she said sadly. "I want to tell you, but at the same time, I don't." She was right. I didn't understand. "Part of me wants to, but when I open my mouth to, the urge goes. It's like the words are stolen away."
"Who by?"
"I can't say."
"Come on," I said. "Is it the Big Man Upstairs? Is that it?"
"I can't say, Sin. I really can't."
"So, God, in all His infinite wisdom, chucked you back down here, to invade my dream and to tell me a whole lot of nothing. That was nice of Him."
"I'm not saying that, I'm..."
"You're not saying a thing," I interrupted. "You 'can't say' anything!"
"Stop it," she said fiercely.
I stopped. Joy was many things, but very rarely was she fierce. Pissed, peeved and, currently, paranormal, but not fierce. I let her continue, running my fingers across my mouth as if I was closing a trouser zip.
She smirked a sarcastic quiver of the mouth. "I'm not saying there's a Big Man Upstairs. I'm not saying there isn't. And don't ask me about lights, tunnels or bloody escalators! I just can't say! I won't tell you there's a Heaven or a Hell or a great bloody evangelical shopping centre with shops selling halos and Hail Mary's. You're not going to find out if the Jews were right, the Christians, the Muslims or the Jehovah's bloody Witnesses! I cannot say! Nothing and nobody has a hand clamped over my mouth, the words just don't want to come out, OK?"
"OK," I whispered.
"There's things I want to tell you, to help you, but I can't. I'm sorry."
"Help me with what?" I dared to ask. Silly me.
"I CAN'T SAY!" she shouted. I winced. Her velvet voice had developed some sharp edges. I wanted to file them away as soon as possible in case they cut me.
"You can't say," I repeated quietly. "Sorry."
"No," she said, reaching out to hold my hand. "I'm sorry. More than I can say."
"Or can't say."
Her smile was real this time.
"Yeah, or can't. Just... Just be careful." She squeezed my hand. "Be careful."
I wanted to ask why, but there didn't seem to be much point. She wouldn't have been able to tell me, it seemed. But I trusted her, so I supposed I'd be careful.
"I will," I said.
Joy looked out towards the edge of the forest. It was dark beyond the trees. The rain could be heard but not seen, like children supposedly should be. Or was that the other way around? Occasionally a flash of lightning was chased quickly by a throaty rumble of thunder. I followed her line of sight and was startled to see, as the lightning burst across the landscape, the after image of a figure on the edge of the tree line, silhouetted in my eyes. Another flash showed there was no-one there, but I was suddenly uneasy.
Why was hard to say. I'd voluntarily walked in to the mental home. I'd given myself to the doctor and his drugs. Why couldn't I walk freely from it when I decided I'd outstayed my welcome? You'd better ask the doctor about that. Once he'd had his hands on me, he didn't seem to want to let go. At first, he'd talked me around, his words trying to be as smooth as my sister's but tainted with a saccharin aftertaste. I didn't see him in his true colours, the monster beneath the sheep's overcoat until later. At first he could manipulate me under the guise of guidance. Once I'd realised the dark inner soul he festered, I found it was too late. My requests or demands to be discharged were met with denials and heightened dosages.
Once, I'd tried to just walk out. I'd walked in, so why not? Jeremy had stopped me then. He was the most human and humane of the orderlies at the institute, the majority of whom where pissed off Rottweilers who would be as happy restraining a patient as they would be tearing a young animal limb from limb. And they put as much fervour into their duties as said canine would.
Jeremy was different. He was a nice guy, and as such was completely out of place in the home. He cared about the residents and treated most as if they were members of his own family. If I hadn't been a resident myself, I could have come close to calling him a friend. Unfortunately, my address was 18 Looney Bin Hill, so the invisible but tangible line between psycho and social created a barrier to any such relationship being nurtured. Jeremy was pleasant and caring, but he was there to help, not to be your best pal.
So around tea time one day - a Tuesday I think - just before the soaps were piped in to keep the crazy hoards appeased, I had decided that I'd had enough. I didn't want to be there anymore. I knew what could happen if I left - that people could die - but I couldn't stand being trapped in that antiseptic, bleached environment any longer. I hadn't figured out the whole matter transference thing back then, so I had to rely on my two little legs. They managed, bless 'em, to get me to reception before Big Jeremy's big hand was on my shoulder.
"Come on, Sin," he said, his voice softer than his size implied. "You're going to miss Eastenders."
I thought about running. I thought about fighting. I thought about a swift kick in his prize begonias. And I thought better of it. His hand was firm and insistent. It told me that yes, Sin, you could run, fight or kick, but I ain't about to let go, so it's probably not a good idea. I agreed.
"Cheers Jezzer," I said. "Can't miss that."
Why was I uneasy about being discovered? Even though I'd caused the boy to crash, there'd be no evidence to point at me. To my knowledge there was no forensic test for a psychic push. A mental fingerprint wouldn't be detected with a bit of talcum powder and a brush.
Psychic push... Psychic... Was I? It hadn't really occurred to me before. A fortune teller? Medium? What?
No. I didn't have time to think about that. Whether I was cousin to Uri Gellar or ready to set up a tent at a local fair, professing to be able to read palms, tea leaves and the bumps on your head didn't matter. Not right now. I'd deal with thoughts of psychobabble later.
The fact remained that, contrary to the wishes of my beloved shrink, I'd escaped the institute. I had to assume Dr. Connors wouldn't be happy about it. That I was there voluntarily obviously meant nothing to his lordship. I'd given myself over to being his property, so I was certain he'd try to reclaim it. I could see pictures of myself plastered all over the morning papers and the six o'clock news:
"Mental patient escapes! Assumed to be dangerous! Do not approach!"
Of course, no-one needed to approach me to put themselves in danger, but it wasn't something I could help, or control. It just was.
Dr. Connors would be looking serious but calm as he was interviewed and photographed. He'd be saying that I would be a danger to others and myself. Call the police. Call him. Call anyone, but get me back in the home. It was for my own good. I had problems and couldn't be trusted.
Then he'd smile, the caring, professional hero that he was. The mask would never slip. The wolf behind would never be seen.
I wonder if he bayed at the moon.
Joy letting go of my hand brought me back from my thoughts. I blinked.
Standing again, she looked at me, her face serious. She gestured towards the edge of the woods.
"You see that storm out there?"
"Yes," I said, nodding slowly.
"Take it as a warning, Sin."
"A warning?"
"Yes, a warning. There's another one coming, only this one won't have rain and lightning. You could still drown though. And you could still get burned."
I opened my mouth to question her, but she held her up hand.
"Don't," she said. "I can't. I'm trying to tell you things without telling you anything. Just listen."
I listened.
"The storm. Wrap up warm. Watch yourself."
"I will," I said. I assumed my sister wasn't telling me wasn't telling me that El Nino was planning on dropping by for a visit. Or maybe she was, after a fashion.
"Good," she said. She rested her hand on my brow briefly, then let it drop to her side. "Bye."
I nodded and she turned and b
egan walking away, heading out to the rain.
"Thanks for the weather report," I called after her.
"No worries," she called back without turning around. "Maybe I could get a job on morning television!"
"Nah," I shouted. "You haven't got a ghost of a chance!"
She did turn then, almost at the edge of the forest. Her faint laughter drifted across to me, fading in and out with the sound of the downpour as if some mad DJ were playing with his panel, sliding the controls up and down to mix the next chart smash. She stood there and I watched, waiting for something to happen. Would she walk off, or disappear, or fade away with her laughter? Nothing happened. Joy simply stood looking back at me.
"Well, blink then!" she shouted.
Blink? Even as I told myself I wouldn't, my eyes flicked shut for a fraction of a second. She was gone. There wasn't even the pleasure of an afterimage.
I watched the spot where she'd been, this time not blinking for a long while. Lightning speared the sky, tearing the darkness. The rain, invisible against the black backdrop, beat down incessantly like a thousand tiny Duracell bunnies banging their drums, racing to find out whose battery would last the longest. My sister wasn't there, if she ever had been.
I wanted to wake up. The dream was draining and I was already tired, but wakefulness would have had to have been preferable to being visited by the dead. Why couldn't I had just slept normally, maybe dreaming of being in my pyjamas at school or knocking off my next door neighbour's sister? What was wrong with just a smidgeon of normality for once? I wondered if a load of miniature rabbits were running around in the woken world with AA's stuck up their behind. Was it dark? Was I still leaning against a tree with knots the size of Ayers Rock determined to dig their way into my spine? I wondered if, in a dream, I should be wondering about the world outside anyway. Wasn't a dream, whilst you were immersed, your reality? I was sure you weren't supposed to know you were dreaming. No outside world was supposed to exist because your subconscious was your universe. Wasn't that right?