Sin

by Shaun Allan

  "Erm," I said. It could, under the circumstances, have been "Blah, blah, bleeh, blah," but I'm sure it was "Erm."

  Farmer Giles stood looking at me with eyes cut from topaz. I stared back with my mouth hanging open and my hands still limp. I could have been Bender Benny's buddy Micky for all the life I must have seemed to have in me.

  Micky, as was the norm in the home - Home Away From Harm was the humorous twist on the classic phrase that Dr. Connors liked to employ - had a nickname. Mucous Micky. Unless the cold floor was the only option, you just didn't sit anywhere Mucous Micky had previously been. The guy could snot for England. A hook had been fastened to his colostomy trolley specifically for a roll of tissue to help keep the streaming snotties at bay. He couldn't help it. I think that every wayward flu bug that wandered through our illustrious halls fancied a bite of Micky's bum. The fact that he was permanently drugged up to Heaven on High didn't help. It meant he forgot how to sniff. He forgot how to tear off a square or two of Kleenex and wipe. He forgot how to use the innate talents of a three year old and use his sleeve. So you didn't sit in the same seat as Mucous Micky - not unless you actually wanted a sticky yellow or green patch on your derriere.

  Mucous Micky was Bender Benny's buddy. He was about the only one who couldn't easily get away from the Bender's ramblings. A captive audience, I think it's called. Micky may not even have known the Bender was sitting next to him most of every day, but it didn't stop Benny from claiming Mucous as his own.

  Nicknames were our - the residents' - way (or one of them) of bringing a hint of normality into the home of Abnormal. We were almost human if we could call each other something other than Patient XYZ. There was One Eye Joe, an old Scouser who's penis had a life of its own and steadfastly refused to stay 'indoors'. Jazzy Jazz Jaroo, the loony formerly known as Jarrod, had an incontinence problem surpassed only by the ferocity of his night terrors. Others in the Pseudonym Posse, as no-one called us because it's only alliteration if it's written down, included Big 'Un, a quiet man called Ian who was not much more than five feet and a fag paper tall. Penny Drop was Penelope, a woman of around fifty who, once upon another life, lived in a five bedroomed house with three cars and a chihuahua. She'd lost her son in a car accident whilst driving over the limit and had never recovered - mentally at least.

  No, that one wasn't down to me.

  Eddie the Eagle wasn't called Edward, but he did have a nose so long and sharp he could have skiied along it. I didn't know the reasons for his particular internment as he apparently hadn't spoken a word in the seven years he'd been at the institute. There were others - Windows with her obsession for all things glass; Muse and his epiphanies - such as when you turned the handle of a tap, water actually came out; Billabong who told everyone he was a kangaroo, even when he was quacking like a duck; and Car Crash Kenny, a sad man who could only talk in short mumbled sentences thanks to the fact that his head still had the dent from the accident that gave him his nickname. They all had their own story. They each had a tale to tell and some even made sense occasionally.

  Like Polly, the dolly lolly. She was beautiful. Slim with hair the colour of sunshine and a smile even brighter. That was when she wasn't crying through the night, mourning a daughter she'd never had or punching the face of any man stupid enough to come within a few feet of her. When she was... normal... she was wonderful. Sweet. Silly. Sharp and shining. Unfortunately, the normal fought a losing battle with the madness and her lucid episodes were fewer and further between as each week passed. As with my name, I blamed the parents. Her father at least. She still bore the scars on her stomach from when he couldn't or wouldn't accept she could be pregnant.

  Then there was me. The Vicar. Reverend Sin. Stitching good and evil, holy and un into one neat little moniker was a stroke of warped genius and I can't remember who wove the weave. It didn't matter whether I liked the name or not. Once given it stuck like Mucous Micky's mucous.

  As "Erm" didn't particularly convey my preference either way when it came to the proffered lift, Farmer Giles, or whatever his name might be, waited patiently for a few moments for me to answer properly. I couldn't really improve on my initial reaction - I was so sure that I'd been found the discovery that I hadn't been discovered was taking its time sinking in. While it did so the rest of me was waiting along with the big man before me. I blinked again. In so many films and stories, blinking is magical. It breaks a spell or gives ghosties, imaginary or otherwise, the chance to appear, disappear or sink an axe into your forehead. In my case it snapped me out of whatever zone I'd been visiting and brought me back to life, back to reality, back to the here and now with a high and mighty splat.

  "Erm," I repeated. I know - not very original. "Sure. Thanks."

  Well, it was an improvement.

  Mr. Giles smiled. His teeth showed, even and white, and I had the sudden impression of a bear. I wouldn't have been surprised if his next comment had been a growl. I don't know if bears have white teeth, not having been close enough to one to find out, but I've never seen Sir David Attenborough squeezing a bleb of Colgate onto a big toothbrush for one of his ursine friends. As such, they may or may not have a lovely set of pearly whites. The farmer type bloke smiled, I saw his teeth, and I thought BEAR.

  He nodded his head, a shock of mussy hair falling over one eye.

  "Come on then. I want to get back in time for breakfast."

  The magic word. It didn't matter whether breakfast was a full English, with bacon, sausage and fried bread hiding out beneath a runny-yolked egg or a dry round of toast with not even a hint of butter. I could happily have scoffed dog biscuits at that moment. Just as blinking had broken a spell, the word 'breakfast' had opened the floodgates of my hunger. My stomach grumbled in protest at being denied sustenance and I had to agree with it. Just a nibble would have been wonderful. My meagre last meal had ended up being splattered over the ragged remains of a gull's wing so my body hadn't had the chance to digest it fully. As such my belly felt like someone had taken a big shovel and dug all the way to China. I stood, forgetting I had my shoes in my hands rather than on my feet. I was sure I heard my back pop, still recovering from a night snuggled up to the craggy bark of a tree.

  Gilesey-boy saw my mud sprayed sandshoes and shook his head.

  "Don't worry about those." He pointed. I saw dirt hiding beneath the ends of his fingernails. I don't know why it bothered me - the man was a farmer so muck was part of his daily life. It did though. Maybe it was because I'd spent so long in the confines of Sterility Central. I shook off the feeling of... not unease, just... not easy. "The truck needs a good clean anyway. I'll get round to it one of these days."

  I thanked him and slipped the shoes back on my feet. I'd scraped enough mud off them to no longer feel a foot or two taller and went over the passenger side of the van, holding my breath as I pulled the door open. I expected, given the state of the vehicle's exterior, that the inside would smell. Maybe not stink, but have the fusty aroma of dry dirt and stale manure. The seats would be stained and torn, the stuffing poking up like a meerkat sentry watching out for hyenas. Empty food wrappers would give me a rustling foot bath while we drove and an ancient Magic tree would be spinning from the rear view mirror, probably still hanging from the day the van was driven out of the showroom when Smiler Giler had promised himself he'd clean it every week. I paused as I moved to get in, shocked that the interior was so clean. The seat covers looked almost spotless. The dashboard gleamed as if it had only been polished that morning. There were muddy marks on the mat in the footwell of the driver's side, but that was all. The mat on my side could have been bought new not five minutes before.

  "Jump in. Don't worry about a bit of dirt."

  I followed the big man's instruction. I wasn't too sure that, if our positions had been reversed, I'd have appreciated a stranger dragging his filthy arse in my nice clean cab but I wasn't going to argue. He hadn't mentioned feeding me, but his mention of breakfast had temporarily overridden my fears about him bei
ng an Agent of Doom for Dr. Connors. I smiled and, whilst I didn't exactly jump in, I was quick enough in gaining my seat and strapping myself in.

  He nodded and turned the ignition key, spurring the van into life. A moment later, after he'd checked his mirrors, we were away, the radio informing us that the station was playing the best of the eighties, nineties and the noughties, which was probably spelled naughties. A song I didn't recognise sung by a group I didn't know filled the cab with music and I settled back into the seat, staring out of the window and feeling relaxed.

  After a while my new farmer friend turned the music down and smiled at me.

  "You okay Doc?" he asked.

  Doc?

  "You must've been in a rush to not change out of your scrubs," he said, gesturing at my clothes.

  Damn.

  Gotcha, I thought. I tried to think quickly, to come up with a spontaneous response. Unfortunately, the faster I tried to think, the less spontaneous any response became. I suddenly felt like a crash test dummy flying full pelt towards a brick wall. Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, kaPOW! My mind was whirling and I tried to grab it with both hands to steady its dervish. Doc, Doc, Dockety-Doc. Go with it, like a leaf on a river flowing to the sea. Let's just hope I didn't follow my strait jacket down to a dinner with Davy Jones.

  "Sorry," I said, managing a somewhat lopsided grin. "Long shift."

  "No worries. I don't know how you guys manage it sometimes. My job's long hours, sure enough, but at least it's only a day at a time, not two or three like your lot."

  "Yeah," I said. "I think I started my shift around March-time."

  Mr. Giles laughed, a deep boom that threatened to blow the windscreen out.

  "I don't doubt it," he said as his laughter turned into a fit of coughing. I waited for his cough to settle, wanting to let him lead the conversation rather than me volunteer a lie. "Got to give up the fags!" he grinned. "But I don't have to tell you that, Doc!"

  Slipping into the persona of Doctor Sin was easier than I'd expected. Smoother than a leather glove and twice as snug. For some reason, I could see my whole life as the good doctor and was ready to fill in any blanks I might have to. Or at least I hoped so.

  "Hey," I said. "You don’t have to tell me. I'm trying to cut down myself."

  I'd never smoked a cigarette in my life apart from trying one in the school playground when I was around 12. He didn't need to know that though. I figured that even an imaginary bond like nicotine addiction was better than none at all. It would help ease things along and make this stranger less prone to being suspicious of a supposed doctor wandering around in his scrubs in the middle of nowhere.

  "You and me both," he said.

  I saw his eyes flick to his rear view mirror and the paranoid little imp sitting by my left ear whispered to me that he might be checking for company. My heart started to flutter as I glanced in the wing mirror to check for myself. The road was deserted. Stop it, I told myself. Checking your mirrors is a normal part of driving. He probably didn't even realise he'd looked. Chill. And, whispered the imp, they'll probably be waiting for you wherever he's taking you anyway.

  Well, that could quite easily be true. The farmer's disguise had taking me in immediately, but he was big enough to swat me like a fly if I tried to buzz off. Not that the idea of jumping from a moving vehicle appealed to me.

  No. Stop it. If he was, he was. If not, then fine and diddly-dandy. I'd just have to play the game and wait until the fat lady sang. Hopefully she'd do a better job than the noise that was spewing forth from the radio.

  Could music change so much in so little time? It wasn't like we'd taken a leap from the Sixties to the Eighties. It hadn't been decades, yet the racket that was happily dancing a jig on my ear drums was a far cry from the stuff I used to listen to before my days of piped Musak. Thinking about it, though, I had to admit that the stuff I enjoyed was more from the Eighties than the Naughties. Rock anthem more than pop-pap. The odd song would catch my attention and set my fingers tapping but in the main, it probably was a good deal more than a mere couple of years since I'd properly taken an interest in who was reigning supreme at the top of the pops.

  "Not enjoying the music?" he asked.

  I didn't realise I'd been that obvious. "Not my sort of thing, really," I admitted. "But if you like it..."

  "I can't stand this racket myself. I just like a bit of noise when I'm driving. It helps numb the brain!" He laughed again, this time managing to avoid the coughing fit.

  If he needed something to help numb his brain, I could point him in the direction of a man who'd be more than pleased to help.

  "I know what you mean. I just prefer something a little less... noisy I suppose."

  "No problem," he said pressing the button on the car stereo to find something easier on the ear. He settled on some Bon Jovi, one with a good ol' geetaaar solo and big chorus. At least it had a tune. "That better?"

  "Spot on," I said. I found myself tapping my fingers on my leg as both the music and my driver's attitude helped me relax.

  There was a long period of silence during with neither of us spoke. I didn't mind as it let me breathe and think. I had no idea where I was or where we were going. That wasn't particularly a good thing. I could easily be being driven into a den of lions and, however innocuous my ride, I didn't fancy being prey. Of course they'd be nice - "Come in. Here's a made-to-measure jacket for you. Honestly, you'll look fabulous. Trust us." It would only be a small prick, missus, and all the pain would go away - for a while at least.

  On the other hand, and this was a scenario I daren't hope too much for, Farmer Giles here could be genuine and simply be helping a guy he'd passed by on the road. He could be driving home for his breakfast before ploughing a field or mucking out the pigs.

  Well. You never know.

  "You're a long way from the hospital, then."

  I jumped. Here we go. Doctor Sin ahoy. Be still my thumping heart.

  "I broke down." I didn't say that too quickly, did I? I felt like my palms were suddenly sweating but resisted the urge to wipe them on my trousers. What was I guilty of? All I had done was escape from an institute I'd voluntarily walked into. Was that a crime? Why was I panicking?

  What was I guilty of. Yeah, right. I know a few corpses who could answer that one.

  "Oh?" The big man frowned. "I didn't see your car. It wasn't that smashed up one, was it?"

  Smashed up? The boy.

  "Smashed up?" I deliberately looked surprised. "No, just a break down. I didn't have an accident."

  "I didn't think so," he said, not seeming in the slightest suspicious. Was he just a very good actor? "You probably wouldn't be walking if it was you! Besides, there's an ambulance there. They seemed to be pulling someone out."

  "I didn't see any smash. Where was it?"

  "Further back from where I picked you up. Where did you break down?"

  "No idea," I said. I once broke down driving along the M180, and my car wouldn't start in a Mablethorpe car park one summer, but I doubted he meant that. "I hung about for a bit to try and flag someone down, but didn't see anyone so started to walk. I hoped I'd find a house or something."

  "It's a quiet road, this," he said. "Barely half a dozen cars a day come along here. You would have been waiting a long time. Where's your car then?"

  In my driveway back home. Unless it's been nicked in the time I've been in the mental home.

  "It's a few miles back," I said. "I saw the rain threatening, so I took cover under those trees back there. I only just made it before it started pissing it down."

  "Didn't it?" he said, nodding vigorously. "I half expected to see Noah sailing by on his ark! That's why I've spent the morning in my back fields. The rain buggered up one of my walls. Rebuilding a stone wall buried in a ton of sloppy mud isn't my idea of a fun-filled morning."

  "Mine neither," I agreed. Despite myself and despite knowing much better, I was warming to him. I wanted to stay suspicious, and it was becoming more of a struggle. The odd
pangs of panic jabbed at my insides, but he was doing a good job of dulling their edges. I had to keep them sharp though. I had to keep them keen. Just in case. I thought it sad that he was accomplishing this simply by being nice to me. Apart from Jeremy back at the institute, I'd almost forgotten people had that capacity. Firm hands and sharp needles had become the norm and I couldn't help but be taken off guard by someone being actually pleasant.

  If I could have slapped myself without him thinking I was more of a weirdo than he probably already did, I think I would have done. I was pretty sure I wouldn't have picked up a guy in the middle of nowhere, looking somewhat past his sell by date and wearing a fashion victim's version of hospital scrubs.

  I don't pick up hitchhikers though, not after my one and only attempt at that particular good deed. I was driving through Healing, a smallish village on the way from Grimsby to Scunthorpe. Yes, I know, classy towns. Anyway. There's a sharp corner just after the school. Right on the corner of the corner was a man. His thumb was out. I didn't think or give myself the chance to keep on running, I simply pulled over.

  "Where you going?" I asked, pleased that I was doing my bit for the common good, although I wasn't sure good was all that common.

  "Brigg, mate."

  He was tall and he was gangly. He wore what looked to be Status Quo cast-offs (including the long hair) and I remember thinking that if I have my X-ray specs on, like those you could buy from the back of comics when you were twelve, I'd be able to see the tattoos of big breasted beauties or dragons (big breasted or otherwise) adorning his forearms. Maybe a heart with an arrow through it and a banner sprawled across with Mum inked in fading blue would beat its tune with every flex of his bicep. All he needed was a warm can of Carling lager to be the icing on the stereotypical cake.

  I didn't say yes, I didn't say no, all I had said was "Where'd you want to go." The next thing I knew, he was sitting beside me and I hadn’t even seen the door open. I almost threw my curds and whey in his face and ran off, leaving my tuffet far behind. But I didn't. It was a warm and sunny day. My window was down and the fresh air was blowing my cares and my good sense away. I told myself to not be so quick to judge and pulled away. Brigg was on my way, more or less, so it was no bother to drop the guy where he wanted.