Sin

by Shaun Allan

  At least he could give me some warning that he was going. He didn't just vanish when my back was turned without waiting for it to turn.

  "OK. It was good to see you. Thanks for the help." I took a breath. "I'm sorry about what happened."

  "Me too, in a way. But, to be honest, in a way I'm fine with it. Being dead isn't too bad. It's hard to say, because it's not something you can actually experience. It's just something you are."

  I could relate to that.

  "Besides," he continued. "It can't be helped. It's done now. Just stop him Sin. I don't want, don't need payback, but just stop him, ok?"

  I nodded. That was my intention.

  "I promise I'll try."

  "Good enough," he said. "Bye."

  "Goodbye, Jeremy. Say hi to Joy."

  Jeremy, or what was left of him as Caroline slowly became more solid, laughed.

  "Don't need to."

  Then he was gone.

  Did they all go to the same school of awkward answers?

  He'd gone. Caroline was once more in focus and I felt the loss of my friend all over again. The fact that it had happened here in this room, in that chair, didn't help matters. But no. This was the new me. The positive, good me. Jezzer was OK with his fate so I had to be too. Anyway, I had other things to deal with. Two fat ladies, clickety click. The computer screen was sparse. There were the usual icons for the Documents folder and Recycle Bin etc., but not much else. What there was, however, was sufficient.

  A folder named 'Patients.' Let's try there shall we?

  Simple structures were usually the best. Less chance for things to be lost or misplaced. In chaos lay frustration and aggravation. Luckily for me, Dr. Connors was a man of simplicity. He didn't subscribe to the idea that a tidy desk meant an untidy mind, or that a desk covered in files and paperwork and notes indicated a mind of regimented organisation. Calm and serenity in everything. Even murder. A double click on the icon revealed an alphabetised list of patients' names, surname first. Now I'd lost my second name a while back, maybe on a desk laden heavy with chaos, maybe in Tesco at midnight, amongst the shelf stackers and insomniacs, but I managed quite well with just my forename. Usually, when people heard that I was called 'Sin,' they were more engrossed in that than in than anything that might come after. That worked well enough, as Matthews linked me to my parents and that was something I didn't need to be reminded of. An abusive 'it was just a joke' father and a 'don't see, don't know, not bothered' mother where not things to be proud of. I knew I couldn't choose who sired me - you can choose your friends, they say, but not your family - but if I carried their name it was like I was wearing a sign around my neck, celebrating my deranged lineage.

  Thanks, but no thanks.

  In this instance, it would serve me, if only for the first time in my life.

  I scanned down the list looking for 'M.' There were names I recognised and others I didn't. Once you came to the home, you usually stayed, the revolving door at the entrance providing you with a one way ticket into drug induced emptiness. Twice, in my stay, new wings had to be built to house new patients, the intake was that regular. There were names, though, that I didn't know. Benjamin James. Collins Sarah. Why did that sound familiar...? Doherty David. Johnson Bernadette. These were strangers to me. The institute had been around for a good few years before I graced its doorstep so perhaps they and the other unknowns were Connors' success stories. Perhaps he had managed to actually cure or rehabilitate someone. I was genuinely surprised at the concept, having had the impression that the only person Dr. Connors helped was himself. I could only assume that there was method in his methods. They had to be useful to him in the outside world. He helped rid them of their demons and they helped him create a whole new set, complete with matching jackets and forked tails.

  I was a cynic, I knew that, but my opinion of the doctor being the answer to my prayers had severely changed. I know knew him for what he was. A beast. A demon himself, in a non-supernatural but equally horrific way. So maybe he had helped them and David, Bernadette and James were all living out their naturals, eternally grateful to Dr. Connors for his aid. Grunt, grunt, flap, flap. Pigs may well soar through the clouds above. They may, but they don't. The price of bacon has most definitely not gone up.

  I reached the 'M's' and looked for my name. There was a folder for a Mandy, first name Andy. Where his parents related, even tenuously, to my own? He was another stranger, but I knew the next name. Maxwell Peter. Peter had been beaten as a child. His mother had started the abuse, apparently after the six year old boy had knocked over his glass of blackcurrant juice just as the lottery numbers, a double rollover, were being announced. The glass was on the hearth of the fire and smashed as it fell. The lottery ticket was on the coffee table, completely remote from the fruit juice, but the distraction meant that his mother missed the bonus ball being called out. The ticket wasn't a winner anyway, with only one number - a fourteen - being circled, so it wouldn't matter what ball had popped up in the machine. But Peter's mother still blamed him for her losing. The glass wasn't the only thing smashed against the hearth that evening. Peter was clumsy as a child. His mother wasn't a tolerant woman. The lottery incident flipped a switch in her that made her think it was acceptable to punish her son by hitting him, or pushing him. A broken arm or rib, you see, would heal, so it was OK. The young boy's father didn't agree, not at first, but after not long enough thought 'in for a penny, in for a punch.'

  It affected Peter as time went on. It might have been from that first night when his head met the fireplace much too hard, or it could have been one of the many times thereafter. He didn't learn too well. His speech slurred more and more. He became afraid of everyone. He thought every person he met was going to strike out. He was admitted to the institute to help him. It was for his own safety. He was brought here because he couldn't function as a normal person - whatever one of those was. But he played a mean game of backgammon and would give you his entire lunch if you were still hungry even if you'd already had three yourself.

  Montgomery Paula was next. Matthews Sin was missing. Well, I wasn't missing, was I? I was sitting at the computer. I knew exactly where I was, but my name wasn't where it should have been. I suddenly doubted my knowledge of the alphabet and looked back then further on. Then I saw it. I wasn't under Matthews Sin. I was in a folder simply called 'Sin,' in capital letters, no less. Did Connors know of my abhorrence for my family name and respect my wishes for it to be forgotten? Grunt. Flap. Whatever the reason, I double-clicked on me. It was still night, but night had a habit of slipping unannounced into day so I had to keep moving.

  In my folder were hundreds of files. There was one document - the letter I'd written when I escaped, scanned onto the computer with a brief addendum from Connors himself. It said how he thought it was all rubbish and I was, in his so called professional opinion, insane. Well, thanks for that, mister. Thanks a lot. I didn't dwell on his lies. He obviously knew I wasn't insane, or even if I was, I was still telling the truth. It didn't matter now anyway. I'd written that letter as a suicide note. It was meant to absolve me and appease my conscience but did neither. It did, at least, convince Jeremy, so that was something. It prompted his death too, I guessed, but it also prompted his willingness to help.

  Every other file, four hundred and twenty seven of them, were videos. I couldn't believe it. I could remember only a slack handful of times I'd been in his presence. Over four hundred was as crazy as I was supposed to be! Well, we were in the right place for crazy. Whether there were two thousand video files or just two was neither here nor there. They just needed to tell me something. They just needed to help me.

  The files all had names rather than just sequential numbers so I clicked on one called 'Induction.' The media player started up and the video began. It was my first day here and my initial interview with the doctor. He'd been very genial, seemingly kind and gentle. He fooled me good 'n' proper and lured me into his web. I, for my part in the charade, lied completel
y and told a story of abject paranoia that, in return, seemed to fool him. He welcomed me into his care. I closed that file and looked further. I seemed so much younger then, felt a hundred years older now. There were a large number that were just called Treatment Room followed by a date. In some cases they were suffixed by an A, B or C to show I'd been 'treated' numerous times on the same day. To my knowledge days or weeks had gone by between visits to the treatment rooms or this, Connors inner sanctum. I opened a second file, picking one at random from around the middle, assuming my secrets had been discovered and the real fun had begun. There was no way I'd be able to watch every single one before sunrise or the return of Connors, whichever came first, so a planned attack seemed fruitless.

  The chair. The table. The bolts fixing them to the floor. The slightly fishbowled view.

  * * * *

  Chapter Twenty One

  I was sitting in the chair, back to camera, my head slumped forward. One hand was on my lap, the other hanging loosely by my side. I wasn’t chained, but from the look of me, shackles would have been redundant. Connors leant against the wall. His suit jacket was folded neatly on the table but otherwise he looked his usual pristine self. Even his dress sense was precise, sharp like it could cut you. In his arms he was stroking a cat. I wasn't aware of any feline friendliness (or any other kind) in the man, but the cat's purring could just be heard. He was looking at me, Connors, not the cat, in a kind of casual staring into space and barely seeing me way, as if he knew I was there, and I had been the subject of his attention, but his mind had wondered off to sunnier climes and was sitting by the pool, sipping a cocktail and reading the latest Clancy thriller.

  "Sin," he said softly. He sounded warm, like a night time malted drink, perfect for soothing the worries and wearies of the day and sending you cosily off to sleep. I could feel its effects over the computer’s speakers. No doubt, considering the volume of files, it had been used on me on many occasions and I was attuned to its soporific effects. I blinked and shook my head.

  Not this time, Doctor.

  On the screen I lifted my head slowly, drunkenly. It fell backwards until I was staring at the ceiling and I hardly recognised myself. My eyes were bloodshot, my face pale and drawn. Clearly Dr. Connors methods of care were working.

  "Look at me, Sin." As gently spoken as it was, there was no mistaking the underlying authority in his tone. He was asking me nicely but he was ordering me just the same.

  I complied, although it wasn't entirely effortless. I had to force my head upright and seemed to struggle to stop myself from lolling forward again. My head gave a little eight pint, three vodka and an Aftershock wobble and then managed to steady itself. I watched myself looking at the doctor on the screen. It was an alien, a pod person that just looked like me. But it wasn't me. I had no recollection. It was, though. It was me.

  "Good boy, Sin. That's a good boy. How are we today?"

  I, the 'I' on the computer screen sitting in a chair bolted to the floor, mumbled something I couldn't hear. I could have been telling Connors all was good, fine and dandy, everything in the garden rosy red as blood and coming up daisies, even though I preferred lilies. Alternatively I could have been telling him my cell was too cold and the mashed potatoes were lumpy. Oh and was there any chance of a new pillow? The one I had was doing no good for my back. I could, of course, have been telling him that life in the institute was a bag of spanners - it was heavy, would hurt if it whacked you over the head and it had all these odd sticky out bit. Oh, and he could shove it up his backside. Judging from Connors' expression, I guessed it was the former.

  "Excellent, Sin. That's wonderful."

  He pushed himself away from the wall and put the cat down on the table next to his folded jacket. He continued to stroke its back and scratch it behind its neck. It yawned and stretched and purred and then curled up to enjoy the ministrations.

  "You see this cat, Sin?"

  I stayed silent. Either I didn't see it or I didn't hear. Or I was too drugged up to respond.

  "Sin, come on. Play the game. Do you see this cat?" A sliver of ice crept into his voice, chilling me and making the digital me sit up a touch straighter.

  "Yes, doctor." I could hear that more clearly, the other me realising that he should take notice.

  "Good boy," Connors said. He smiled but it had all the warmth of a scorpion. Never having held a scorpion, I didn't know if they were hotter than toast or colder than a bag of peas, but one would certainly get a frosty reception if it decided to come and sit on my tuffet. "Do you like the cat, Sin? Do you see how cute it is?"

  Some words just didn't suit some people. If Sylvester Stallone ever uttered the words 'How sweet,' you'd probably ask him to repeat it, sure that you'd misheard. The same went for Connors. He and 'cute' just didn't go together. Other me didn't seem to see this and nodded languidly.

  "It is, isn't it? Cute. Cuddly even. But would you believe, my friend, that this cat is evil? Would you believe that, Sin?"

  Mumble.

  "Sorry, Sin? I didn't get that."

  I was beginning to wish he would stop using my name so much. I was the only other person in the room with him, so I'd hardly think he was talking to anyone else, but he employed the same techniques just before he killed Jeremy. Unfortunately, Other Me was doped and duped and hadn't witnessed his friends murder as I had. So...

  Mumble louder.

  "You wouldn't? I'm not surprised, really Sin. Not at all. Some things really are not what they appeared to be."

  I understood that he was referring to me and the talents he was trying to exploit, but indirectly he must have also been talking about the treatment itself and he himself.

  "It is, though," he continued, his voice almost a lullaby. "Evil as evil can be." Well, he would know evil - it looked at him in the mirror each morning. "This cat, this cute bundle of fur, Sin, hurt someone. Did you know that?"

  I squirmed in my seat a little and shook my head.

  "Well, you wouldn't know that, would you? But you believe me, don't you? You trust me?"

  A pause, then a nod.

  "Good. Very good." Connors smiled an icicle smile and leaned closer to me, leaving the cat alone. It was obviously content after the attention it had received so didn't move. Other me, however, flinched back slightly.

  The doctor didn't notice or didn't care.

  "It was a little girl's pet," he said. "A little girl who'd always wanted her own cat. She'd had it from a kitten and loved that little pussycat. She loved it, Sin. But then, one day..." He leaned right in to say the next two words, pausing for effect, close enough that I must have been able to feel his breath on my cheek.

  "It changed."

  Where was Bela Lugosi when you needed decent organ music?

  He began to walk around the chair, circling me just as he had my dear departed,, but so recently... 'reparted'... friend. The serpent ready to strike. The scorpion ready to sting.

  "One day," he told us, me and Other Me, "it was happy playing with its catnipped toys and balls of wool. The next it was, and there's no other word I can use, evil."

  Round and round.

  "It attacked her, Sin. It attacked that little girl. For no reason other than it felt like it, this here cat attacked her. It clawed her face, shredded it, scratched her eyes, bit her nose. That girl, that little girl, Sin, was attacked."

  Round and round, dipping in and out occasionally to speak close to my ear. I was becoming agitated, shuffling in my chair, rocking, my hand no longer hanging down but joined with the other, rubbing and wringing.

  "It clawed her eyes, Sin. Clawed them until she could no longer see. Clawed them until they were useless and blind. It scratched her cheeks until no flesh remained and it bit her nose until there was nothing left but bone and gristle. That's what this sweet, little cat did to that poor girl."

  He stopped his circling and became the panther, ready to pounce. In the chair on the screen I stopped moving too. I thought that Dr. Connors, me and Othe
r Me held our breath at exactly the same moment. Then he asked:

  "What should we do about that, Sin? What should be done with a viscous animal capable of maiming a defenceless child?"

  I, either of the me's, didn't move. Connors waited for an answer. It seemed he believed no more prompting was required. It seemed he was well versed in this.

  "Kill it."

  That wasn't me. It was, but it wasn't. My voice said the words but I couldn't believe they'd come from my mouth. I wouldn't, outright like that, callously, say to kill anything. Even if what Connors had said about the girl was true, and if it was then I was sorry for her, I couldn't just think that. Even with all I now knew and had seen of the eminent and psychotic doctor, I hadn't come here to kill him. Stop him. Kill him? Yes, I wanted him. I wanted him dead. It had even run through my head about the wheres and hows, but I couldn't kill him myself.

  All the others had been accidents. Or if not accidents, they'd been unintentional. To me, anyway. I hadn't set out with the intention of anyone dying, not even Jersey. I only wanted to live my life, not pass judgement on the toss of a coin.

  "What did you say?"

  "Kill it."

  Round and round again.

  "Well, my friend, I can see your reasoning. Who's to say it won't happen again? Who's to say the taste of blood hasn't turned this cat for good? But how? How would we do that? I couldn't. I couldn't kill a soul. I've dedicated my life to others. To those poor unfortunates who find themselves under my care, for whatever reasons. People like yourself, Sin, who need my help."

  In the chair I was silent, but I could see, from the incline of my head, I was staring at the cat.

  "Perhaps you could help, Sin, as I try to help you. Do you think you could?"

  A nod. Definitive.

  "Thank you. I knew I could rely on you. I really did. But how? How would you stop this evil?"