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  Sin

  By Shaun Allan

  Copyright 2011 Shaun Allan

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  * * * *

  Dedication

  To my girls, for keeping me the right side of insane

  To Mr. Staniforth for opening the door

  To Tony, for giving me a good kick through

  * * * *

  Prologue

  CASE REPORT 16703: Sin Matthews, age 35, disappearance of.

  CASE CONTENTS: Statement written by Matthews. Two pence coin.

 

  Statement:

  Name's Sin.

  I always wanted to do that, but never got the chance. You know, sort of enigmatic. A bit like 'Bond, James Bond'… except it's nothing like that, really, is it? I don’t know. Hey, I know what I mean.

  Anyway - Sin. That's my name, don't wear it out, as I used to say once upon a very long time ago. I wonder if kids still say that now. The old ones are the best, eh? Actually, the old ones are not necessarily the best. The fact is, the old 'uns are quite possibly the worst. But such is life. That's another of my old favourites. I’ve got a whole pile of them. I can just keep chucking them out. Probably will too, knowing me, as you obviously do not. Yeah, I know you think you do, but you don't. Trust me on that particular little one right there.

  Sin. It isn’t short for anything. It's not a neatly trimmed Cincinnati or a Single-Cell-Organism that forgot half its name. It's not anything like that or anything else. Simple and short and not entirely sweet. Sin.

  I blame the parents (see, there's another one).

  Well, I do. My dear ol' ma and pa. It was their idea of a joke, I suppose. They thought it equally hysterical to call my sister Joy, except she didn't get the crap I did when I was struggling to grow up. She didn't get the beatings or the name calling. She didn't get pushed or kicked or made a fool of. Oh no, that little pleasure was all mine. I don't even think my parents had the excuse of being drunk, drugged or insane. That last one is also my very own little pleasure. Insanity.

  Am I insane? You bet your sweet little old botty I am. Loony as the glorious, big blue Sister Moon shining her sweet face down on me. Or so they tell me (don't you?). Crazy as a rootin' tootin' coot, that's me, yes sirree. What's a coot? No idea. Ask me another, and you might get an answer, except you know you probably won't. I don't get any, so why should you? Hey, I just do what the voices tell me to.

  No. I don't hear voices. Well, there's my own of course, whether it's in my head or in my ears, except it's still in my head if I speak, isn’t it? Anywho-be-do. I don't hear other voices, is what I meant, as you very well know. I don't hear demons telling me to get out of bed in the deepest darkest night and do unspeakable things. I don't get those voices. No. The demons are all out there anyway, doing their own unspeakable things. They don't need my help.

  Even if I gave it to them anyway.

  I never meant to! I'll stand up in the court of all Humanity and hold my hand way up high to that! I didn't mean to! But the jury is still out, I guess. Even though I'm locked up here, in my cosy little cell with that nice soft padding on the walls, all thanks to 12 good men and true, the jury is still out. The real one. The one that counts. The one that sits in session up in my head (where you thought the voices were). It's still out, wondering if I did mean to. But I didn't. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to… Well, you know how it goes.

  Sin. That's me. Thanks mum and dad, God rest your weary souls.

  I used to have a surname, once upon a time. I lost it back along the way. Can't remember when or where. It's probably lying around at the back of the settee with my car keys and the remains of a beef sandwich on brown bread. It's not important. I know me, and that's enough. Yeah, my parents had a surname. Yes, so did Joy. It was Matthews. Trouble is, that name just doesn't sit right with me, you know? It's like when you see someone, and you think they look like a John, or a Wendy, and hey! That's just what they are! Not Matthews. That's more like when you think the guy's a John and he's a Harry or a Wayne, or even, let's not be shy, a Wendy!

  Sin Matthews isn't my name, and I know it. But it's only a name. Sin will do. Sin by name, but so not by nature. I think. Sometimes it's hard to remember. That's thanks to the drugs they give me, those nice men in their crisp white coats and their happy, happy lives. If only they knew.

  Sometimes it's very easy, and that's the big baloozer of the problem. Sometimes I can remember.

  Of course that's easy to sort out. I kick up a fuss and they very kindly come into my room with a needle. That sorts out the memories. Most of them anyway. And the noise.

  It's hard to believe that this six by six box of nothing was my choice. Why did I do that to myself? What sort of crazy loon stands up and says “Hey! Stick me in a room with no handle on the inside. Lock the door, it's ok, I don’t mind. You want to pad the walls? Knock yersen out, just so long as I don't, eh? Strait jacket? If I don't have to wear a tie with it, that's just perfectly fine and hunky-double-dory with me.” What sort of durbrain no-hoper inflicts that on himself? Tell me that one, because I don't know. Ask me another, but don't ask me that!

  Well, I do know, actually. Me, that's who. But later. Later I'll get to that, if I'm still here. If I have time. Time... Well, indeed.

  I've a surprise for you. I'm not crazy. I never have been. Oh, maybe I might have gone a little loopy-doo on occasion, but crazy? Nah. Never fancied it. It’s never floated my boat. Surprised? I can never remember if, let's say, 'eccentrics' say they are mad or not. I read it once. If you're a few raisins short of the full banana, do you say you're sane or is it the other way round? So, does that mean I'm crazy for saying I'm not, or sane for saying I'm batting on the wrong side of rational?

  I'll leave that one for you experts. You guessed it, ask me another.

  Why? That's a good one to kick off with. Why? Well, that's one I can answer. It's that damn coin, is what it is. That damn, stupid coin.

  See a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck. How many times have I said that, knowing it was a great big shiny pile of doggy doo-doo? Hey! Maybe I was crazy to do that? Maybe, every time I bent down to pick up that solitary penny, I was actually offering my backside to the world to come and give it a right good kick?

  See a penny. What about two pence? See two pence and pick it up? How long does the good luck last then? I'll tell you. It doesn't. In fact, all the good luck from all the pennies you've ever picked up gets sucked right off you and flushed down Life's big toilet. So now who's the lunatic? Me for saying that or you for actually pausing before you pick up that shiny two pence piece lying on the pavement?

  You get one guess. Right first time! Me, 'cos I picked up that two pence in the first bloody place!

  It's a coin. So what? Two pence won't even buy you a penny chew nowadays. It just adds to the shrapnel jangling about in your pocket. You still pick it up though, don’t you? You bet you do. So do I, or I did. But not no more. I learned my lesson. You can't give an old dog new ticks. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it swim. That's what they say, isn’t it, them who know? Well, hit 'em with a great two by four and you can! That was how I learned! I got hit by a metaphorical two by four. I’ve still got
the bruises to prove it, except they’re not the bruises you can see. They're the bruises to my metaphysical psyche, Dr. Connors me ol' china. That's psyche with an 'E', not with an 'O', thank you very much.

  You say 'Tom-ay-to'…

  I found it, or it found me, or whatever, on a Friday afternoon. Ah yes, I remember it well. It’d be about 3:30-ish. I was just walking along, minding my own, as you do, when it sure leaped up at me! Yeah, yeah, it didn't. Coins don't have legs. I'm crazy but not stupid, OK? But it was as if it had. It was bright - brighter than a mucky old tuppence should have been. Hindsight is a bloody terrible thing to have. Some idiots talk about the 'beauty' of hindsight. Personally I think that's crap. Sly Mr. Hindsight only tells you what you should have done if you'd known better. What's the good in that? It's obviously too late by then, else it'd be foresight, and I'm not psychic! Septic, maybe, but not psychic.

  I was scoffing a McDonalds. Double cheeseburger, with just cheese. None of that salad crap thanks. Why ruin the taste of a perfectly good burger by splodging sauce all over it and sticking a gherkin of all things inside? And they call me mad! Anyway, such is life and all who sail in her. I was just finishing my burger, happily wandering along the street when I happened to look down. I think I was outside Woolworths, which isn’t even there anymore. What’s insane is when a shop that’s been around forever and is part of the furniture of the town center can suddenly go out of business and close down. That there is crazy. People were scooting past me and I was just standing there looking at that coin. I don’t know why. Staring at a two pence piece isn't something I normally do to pass the time. Here, though, I couldn't help myself. It looked lonely. I forgot about my cheeseburger (which kind of shows I wasn't entirely myself) and picked it up.

  It was warm. I remember that. I could even feel the warmth later, when it was in my pocket. Now, of course, I know why, sort of. Cheers Mr. Hindsight, sir. Thanks a great big bunch. I owe you one.

  Some people, it's a habit. They have a coin in their hand so they toss it. They don't even check to see whether it lands on heads or tails. Flip, catch. Flip, catch. Flip, catch. Flip… You get the idea. Sometimes they don't even know they’re doing it. They flip it up and catch it down without even looking at their hand - it's just there under the coin, ready to snatch it out of the air. I'm not like that. Never have been, and certainly never will be, now. I didn't have that measure of accuracy for a start. If I tossed a coin, I'd have to watch it every spin of its way through the air, not taking my baby blues off it until it was safely in my hand. That's why I rarely did it. If a coin was in my hand, it went either in my pocket or in the coffee machine at work. The most I might do would be to run it through my fingers like Steve Martin in Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. Well, not quite like that - it was a lot slower and took a few goes, but I'd probably perfect it one of these centuries.

  Oh, my baby blues are green, sometimes. Depends on the morning light streaming lazy-daisy through the curtains. Depends on the lyrical tilt of my head on the pillow. Hey, that's what I'm told, more or less. Sometimes my eyes are green, sometimes they're blue. Baby green's doesn't quite roll of the tongue though, does it? Baby hazels. Baby browns. Dady Bavids. My arse!

  Anywho-be-doo. I digress. No really? That's a habit of mine, a bit like tossing coins is for some. I start off on a subject, then end up about a gazillion light years and straight on till morning from where I began, with no idea how I got there. Done it again!

  Where was I? Yeah, the coin. Always back to the coin.

  So. Why did I flip this particular coin? Ask me another. I did though.

  I think about four died that time.

  Died.

  That's what I said.

  The bus (the number 5 - goes from Freeman Street to Saint Marks and back again, like a hyperactive yo-yo) swerved to avoid something that was never there. Luckily, the Post Office counters are mainly at the back, so there were very few people near the front of the shop. It could have been worse. If there wasn't this custom to have the entire front of shops as a massive window, maybe… I didn't catch on then. In fact it took a while. A good few more needed to die before I got the point! The number 5 smashed into the Post Office window and the driver, a young woman buying stamps, a sales assistant and a man who’d always been a nobody and didn’t get chance to be a somebody, never got to check their lottery numbers that night. Their numbers were up, so to speak.

  Am I making light of it? Yes. Got to. You've gotta laugh! So they say.

  Afterwards, after the statements and the press and the ambulances, I found it hard to sleep. I've never seen anything like that up close. On the TV, sure. In movies and the news and the papers, there's much worse. But it's removed. It's distant. It's not there, full in your face. You're not in the middle of it, with breaking glass and screeching tyres and screams. You don't hear the screams. Should that make a difference? I suppose not, but it does. But it was only the beginning, wasn't it? Yes, Mr. Hindsight, I know.

  I know.

  Four days. I'd almost forgotten about it in four days. That was all it took. Like a day a death. It was like a fuzz. A blur in my head, smudging out what I'd seen. What I'd caused, though I didn't know it. Did I? No. I don't think so, not then. On the fourth day, God made Hell. So to speak.

  I'd gone to work; an oil refinery. I was in the control room, a concrete and steel bunker built to withstand the blast of the refinery going pop. And wadya know. It works.

  I was waiting for a permit to go on site. It's a pain and it can often take longer to get the permit than to actually do the job, but such is the will and the way. Necessary evil, that's what it's called. I wasn't even thinking when I took the coin out of my pocket. I wasn't even aware it was in there. Thing is, it should have been mixed in with the rest of my change. What are the chances of me picking that specific coin out of a pocket full of them? I guess pretty good, considering that's exactly what I did. It was already in the air when I realised what I was doing. I also, quite suddenly, remembered the crash. Even the jolt from the unexpected flood of images wasn't enough to prevent my hand from appearing underneath the smooth arc of the two pence piece as it lazily curved through the air. It was, you know. Lazily curving. Could almost have been a slo-mo replay of Beckham knocking one into the back of the net. Lazy. Carefree. All the time in the world, thank you very much.

  Then my fingers closed around it. There was a dull thud, and the alarm boards all over the control room were ablaze in flashes of red. Screeching alarms made the air a solid wall of noise that had to be fought through. It was like wading through treacle. People were scrambling desperately.

  That was inside, where it was safe.

  Outside…

  The death toll was two hundred and fifty one. The 'one' was my best friend, Dave. At least another eighty were badly injured, and that was without the damage to the environment. The Community Alarm went off, warning the surrounding villages, but it wasn't really needed. They heard the blast. They felt the blast. They saw the smoke. Cars five miles away jumped, startled. Windows eight miles away shattered, the glass falling like the tears of the bereaved.

  Sounds quite poetic that, dontcha fink?

  I've seen photos of Tunguska, in Siberia, where the meteor (or UFO if you believe Mulder and Scully) hit. It was like that, in a way. A real blast. Party on down to Hell's kitchen folks. Today's special, anything you can still recognise. Hurry, it's going fast!

  The coin was warm. I could feel it in my pocket, where I'd apparently put it, although I wouldn't swear to that. The warmth was, I suppose, comforting, even though I barely noticed it in the midst of the melee. At least it wasn't the whole refinery. At least it was only a 'little' bang.

  I'd be surprised if you thought I should have had an idea then. I should, you might think, maybe have had an inkling about what was happening. Nope. I was only tossing a coin – even though it was something I hardly ever did. That I'd been in two tragedies in less than a week was... unfortunate. It was devastating for those involved, ye
s. I'm not heartless. I do see that. But this isn't about them.

  Well, it is. But it's about stopping it. It's about THEM, the 'them' that includes you, my dear Dr. Connors, not the 'them' of those already dead. I was the Big Bad Wolf come to blow their lives apart. But I didn't know it, not until Mr. Hindsight came along and shook me by the hand, and that wasn't for a while yet.

  I don't know how long it took me to forget that one. Oh, I couldn't entirely wipe it from my memory - I had to work there, eventually, when they had made it safe again. But to forget the horror, to forget the impact? It wasn't long. Soon enough I was wandering around as if nothing had happened. Simple as that. Easy as sweet caramel and apple pie with lashings of vanilla ice cream, just like me old ma never used to even think about making. But I'm not heartless. It was the coin. The coin seemed to be making me immune. It seemed to deaden something in me, some essence of actually caring. Of course, me hearties, I didn't know. I carried on regardless, just like good ol’ Sid James.

  I had three weeks then. Three weeks of uninterrupted mundane brain drain. Normality was the norm, just as it should be. There were no nagging thoughts eating away at the back of my mind, like locusts feasting on a vast field of corn. I didn't look at myself in the mirror and see evil shadows running across my face, dancing gleefully at the carnage I was creating. Nope. Nothing like that. Everything was hunky-doodle-dory. Nice and normal.

  Flip.

  Catch.

  The trains collided just outside of town. All on board dead. I was waiting in my car, impatient that they always closed the barriers about ten minutes before the train's going to arrive and about two seconds before I turn up. How was the coin in my jeans? Ask me another. How did it get into my hand? Ditto.