Sin

Sin

By Shaun Allan

Copyright 2011 Shaun Allan

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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

* * * *

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

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

statement was written by the patient during his various periods of
supposed lucidity. It's as crazy as he is. And yes, that is my
professional opinion.>

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
Cin
cinnati or a
Sin
gle-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
fore
sight, 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.