Sin (25 page)

What the...?

I shouted out, ineffectually. My
warning went unheard as Connors took a step forward.

"We seem to have lost a resident
Jeremy. One Sin Matthews has been... Let's say misplaced."

Displaced was more like it. Me.
This was all about me. Why bring him into it? What did Jeremy have
to do with anything? He didn't help me escape. In fact, he was the
one who trussed me like a Christmas turkey in my strait jacket. He
left it tighter than Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman suit and only
stopped short of handing me a ladle to baste myself with - and I
almost laughed, considering where I'd planned to end up.

"Yes, sir. Sorry sir." He could
almost have been saying 'Sire.'

"Sorry, Jeremy?" He took a step
forward. The syringe was a sword poised for a beheading.
Considering I'd been pumped full of drugs for the past two years or
so, I had no idea of the colours or viscosities of what they'd
injected me with. The yellowish fluid could have been happy juice
or a massive dose of morphine. I doubted Dr. Connors wanted to
plant a big cheesy grin on his minion's mush. "Why would you be
sorry?"

I wished he would hurry up. Get
to the point or give Jeremy the point. I was standing useless,
knowing I couldn't stop whatever might happen and this cat and
mouse game was driving spikes beneath my fingernails.

Jeremy shook his head. "I don't
know sir. I don't know what to say."

"Well, would you care to
enlighten me as to how he managed to leave? You were overly close
to him. Did you help him? I am correct, am I not, in assuming that
you were tasked with jacketing him? Did you not fasten the straps
tight enough? Perhaps you wanted to give him a little room to
breathe. I can understand that. They are constrictive, aren't
they?"

"Yes sir."

Another step forward. Still the
smile. He knew that how something is said carries into the tone of
your voice. Scowl and it can be heard. Smile and you could be
ordering the drowning of a litter of kittens and it would still
sound light and uplifting. Well, more or less.

"Yes what, Mr. Jackson? Yes, you
helped him? Yes, you didn't do your job properly and now we have a
deeply disturbed and psychotic escapee?"

"No, sir! No! I was agreeing
with you, sir. The jackets. They... They're tight, sir. But I
didn't. I wouldn't help someone escape sir. Never."

"Well, Mr. Jackson. That's good.
I had complete faith in you. You're an excellent employee. I do
have one other question though, Mr. Jackson."

Mr. Jackson. No longer Jeremy,
friend, pal. Connors had grown tired of his Mr. Sunshine charade.
It no longer served a purpose and had been tossed aside like a
pencil that refused to impale an eye.

"Yes sir?" Jeremy looked as if
he was shaking. I could have happily launched a size nine between
Dr. Connors' legs hard enough to send his testicles up into his eye
sockets to replace the ones I wanted to gouge out.

"The report. Matthews' case
file. It's been moved, Mr. Jackson. I wonder, have you been through
my files?"

My case file? I bet that made
entertaining reading. I'd written a statement a short while ago
telling the good doctor why I was there. He didn't believe a word
of it, but he'd said that admission was part of the process of
relinquishment. Spill the beans to rid the dreams, or something
similar. So I played along. I told my story openly and honestly. It
hadn't helped me, but then my demons had their claws so deep into
my soul that a few words on a couple of sheets of A4 wasn't going
to dislodge them. Unfortunately. And I could see that he'd know it
had been moved. I was sure that each file was placed so precisely
in its hanger that a micrometer couldn't measure a difference. But
why would Jeremy take it out?

"Me, sir? I wouldn't. That's not
my place." His shakes were more noticeable. I didn't think he was
telling the truth. Bad move, especially when a viper with a
potentially poisonous fang was coiled behind you more than ready
and willing to strike.

"Are you sure? You didn't sneak
a peak? A little late night reading for your so-called Graveyard
Shift?" He lowered his hands and put them behind his back, hiding
the needle. He side stepped slowly, circling his prey once more.
"Are you sure, Jeremy?"

Jeremy looked up. His brow was
furrowed, his eyes wide. Sweat rolled down his forehead like
boulders chasing Indiana Jones. If he didn't tell the truth, and
Connors obviously knew what that truth was, he'd be liable to be
crushed under their weight. Just tell him. Don't lie because he'll
know. Just tell him. He went to shake his head, but seemed to think
better of it. Good. Better. Don't be a fool.

"I..."

"Yes?"

"Yes, Dr. Connors. I did read
the file."

Connors straightened up and
smiled. The mouse had just taken the cheese and the trap had caught
his leg as he scurried off, the bar slamming down to crush the tiny
bones.

"Would you like to explain
yourself, Mr. Jackson? I'm sure you have an explanation. I'm sure
you don't make a habit of rifling through patients' private
records, do you?"

"No, sir! I don't." He was
fidgeting more than a Jack Russell told to sit and stay. Calm it
man! So you read a report. A slap on the wrist or a dose of
Diamorphine in the neck, which would you prefer? You decide. "I
just... He was my friend, sir. I just... I was interested. I'm
sorry sir. I don't make a habit of it. Honestly. It was
just..."

Connors held up his hand - the
one not holding the syringe. That stayed firmly behind his back.
Jeremy knew when to shut up. I couldn't help the smile when he said
we were friends. I had a distinct lack of them recently, but now
wasn't the time for warm fuzziness to butt in with its hot cup of
cocoa and big bar of Dairy Milk.

"Just, just, just. I know." He
was smiling that razor sharp, frost bitten smile again. Relax, it
said. I'm just going to slice your throat. It's only be a little
cut, honest. It won't hurt for long. "I do understand. I fancy that
I'd do exactly the same if I were in your position. Don't
worry."

Don't worry, said the spider to
the fly, the fox to the chicken, the iceberg to the Titanic. It'll
be reet.

"Thank you Dr. Connors." He
looked as the iceberg might after getting off with a charge of GBH.
He could melt with relief.

"You don't need to thank me,
honestly. It's nothing." He paused and his hand returned to his
back. Both hands were holding the syringe now, brothers in arms,
partners in crime.

I looked at Joy and saw she was
entranced by the unfolding scene. She could have been at the cinema
watching the latest Bond movie or George Clooney flick. All that
was missing was the popcorn, the overpriced Pepsi and the idiot at
the back who wouldn't shut up. Perhaps that was unfair - about Joy,
not about the idiot at the back. She'd brought me here to show me
this, though I couldn't see why or what good it would do. But she
knew that we couldn't stop or change any of it so she - we - could
merely watch and wait. Feeling impotent, that's what I did.

I found it odd that Jeremy was
so docile in the presence of the doctor. He was a trained nurse and
I was sure he'd once told me he'd been a teacher, so I would have
thought he'd have had experience of dealing with the more difficult
or overbearing among us. So why was he such a lapdog, scurrying
around desperate to be petted? Was Connors so charismatic that he
could charm or hammer anyone to his bidding? I had a vision of the
institute becoming a cult under his pervasive aura. I wondered if a
mass suicide was on the cards. And was I the first follower to go?
I had, after all, tried to take my own life. The fact that I'd
failed possibly showed that he wasn't as all powerful as he seemed
to think. I didn't believe that, though. I don't mean about him
being omnipotent. Rather, I was not under the influence of a crazed
psychiatrist. Currently I was being led by the ghost (or whatever
she was) of my dead sister. It was semi-voluntary, like being told
I had to steal the crown jewels or I'd lose my little finger. I
could say no and wave goodbye to my pinky, or I could go ahead and
ram-raid the Tower of London and have all ten fingers on the hands
that they'd clap the handcuffs on.

My choice. I could have refused
to follow Joy and in doing so missed this little show whilst
waiting for either Them to find me or Never Mind The Buzzcocks to
start on BBC 2. If I'd known for sure that Bill Bailey and Phil
Jupitus would have been on hand to make me chuckle rather than the
costume department of Loonies UK PLC, then Joy might have lost out.
I still didn't see the point of my spectatorship here but hoped all
would become clear. Or at least less opaque.

I doubted that Connors really
thought this invasion of his inner sanctum that would no doubt have
tainted the very air he breathed was nothing. It was something,
hence the needle that was so lovingly being stroked behind his
back. His fingers were running the metal needle, back and forth as
if masturbating it, the forthcoming ejaculation of serum the
closest a person like Dr. Connors might ever get to real orgasm.
Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he just needed a good shag and
he'd drop the demigod persona.

"So, Mr Jackson. What did you
think to our friend's little story? Entertaining, no?"

I was pleased that he thought
the tale of my terror was so enjoyable. I do aim to please, when
I'm not, as I wished I was at that moment, aiming to tear his face
off and ram it up his backside. If I can buy someone a birthday or
Christmas present that will really make them smile, instead of the
fake 'oh that's nice, hope you kept the receipt' kind of grin, then
I'm happy. If I can help a little old lady across the road, make a
cuppa with just the right amount of milk or pee straight then
hunky-dory-do-dah-day. I may not be in the same league as my
sister, but I do my bit. So if my file provided some small measure
of amusement, jolly dee.

Jeremy frowned. Entertaining, it
seemed, wasn't exactly the word he'd use.

"I don't know, sir." His head
was bowed as he spoke, either because he was trying think what to
say, or because he was trying to think what he
should
say.
"It was unexpected."

Unexpected. I can imagine.

"Unexpected. Yes." Connors
scratched his nose leaving a small smear of blood from where the
needle had pricked his finger. Small boys shouldn't play with
matches, and big ones shouldn't play with needles. You're gonna get
burned. Well, I could hope that he'd somehow accidentally inject
himself, freeing my friend from his ordeal and the patients from
theirs. And me from this. Obviously he didn't. It's rare that the
pyromaniac is caught up in his own inferno, the torch bearer
becoming the torch. The doctor had wandered back behind Jeremy's
chair. He made it appear as if he was simply ambling about,
meandering while he mused, instead of stalking a prey that was
presenting its throat for a quick slaughter.

"But believable?" A step closer
to the orderly. A step closer to the kill.

"Believable sir?" Jeremy looked
up but without turning in his seat, he couldn't see Connors. And
turning in his seat wasn't something he dared do. Sit down, face
forward, soldier. Chest out, back straight. Drop and give me
twenty.

"Believable, Mr. Jackson. The
wildly delusional claims your friend made. Did you believe
them?"

Jeremy shook his head as, behind
him, the doctor licked his lips. Dinner's ready kids. All you can
devour. Tuck in.

"No, Dr. Connors. How could you
believe any of that?"

"How indeed, Mr. Jackson. But
he's your friend. Didn't you at least think there might be a chance
some of it was the truth? Just a hint?"

"No sir. Killing people with
your mind? Teleporting? There's no such thing."

"Are you sure about that?"
Connors was fishing. He was making sure Jeremy was saying what he
felt and not simply trying to escape the slowly tightening
noose.

"Of course, sir. He was my
friend, but he wasn't one of the X-Men. He was just... ill."

Bless him. If only he knew. Part
of me was offended. Slighted by the fact that he, to some degree,
should
have known. But hey, teleportation? Come on. I could
do it and I didn't entirely believe. I wasn't, as had been pointed
out, an X-Man.

"X-Men?" Connors questioned. Of
course he wouldn't know. His world didn't include comic books and
movies, fun and escapism. Reality and realism were his world. I
wasn't a superhero in a tight lycra/spandex suit. I couldn't fly or
bring lightning down with a snap of my fingers. I was a mortal,
more mere than most, and I was crazy as a loon.

Isn't that right, Sister
Moon?

Wibble-me-ree.

"It's a film, sir. It's based on
a comic."

"A comic? Like Spiderman?"

I was impressed. I didn't think
he'd know comics existed as, from conception, he'd had his head
inside the pages of Megalomania for Dummies. But I supposed he
would know Spidey. After all, Connors was adept in capturing people
in his web.

"Yes, sir. Like Spiderman.
They're a group of super..."

"Mr. Jackson, we're not here to
discuss popcorn pap cinema or the futile methods the masses employ
to escape their dreary lives. I don't care what an X-Man may or may
not be. I don't care if my postman can read my thoughts as if he's
prised open the envelope of my mind. What I do care about is do you
believe the deranged ramblings of a psychotic man."

He was good. He was, wasn't he?
The envelope of my mind? I might use that one myself some day. I
think he knew exactly what the X-Men were, and had secretly wished
he had an adamantine skeleton like Wolverine or dated a beauty such
as Storm. I bet he'd had a box under his bed crammed with Marvel
and DC comics and had hidden under his quilt with a torch whilst
reading how Lex Luthor had smuggled kryptonite into Superman's
cornflakes. Or something.