Sin (11 page)

"Are you sure?" she asked. How
could anything be wrong with that voice caressing me? How could any
problem be a problem while those eyes sparkled?

"I'm sure," I said. "I'm fine."
I sat a little straighter, my slump becoming more of a slouch. It
wasn't much, but it was an improvement. "You were saying?"

"Was I?"

"Yes. You said you wished you
could tell me something. Something I should know."

"Oh, that." She shook her head.
"Don't worry about it."

What? She couldn't do that!

"You can't do that! You can't
lay something like that down, and then take it away again."

Joy looked nervous, as if she'd
let a secret out and had only just realised.

"No, really. Forget it. It's
nothing."

I wasn't about to let it go. Joy
could be in this dream to carry me through to next year for all I
cared. Or she could be here for a reason, the voice of my
subconscious working its way up to granting me an epiphany of some
kind. Or, of course, she could be a zombie deciding whether to
start on my nose or a nice bit of rump.

"Joy," I said, gripping her
hand. It was warm. I would have thought zombies would be cold to
the touch, so that was comforting. Maybe she wasn't wondering if
she should have mustard or plain old ketchup. "Just tell me."

She snatched her hand away as if
she thought I was trying to steal it. "I CAN'T!"

"I don't understand," I said.
"You can't tell me? What? What's so big a secret you'll implode if
you share it? It can't be that bad, can it?"

"It's not that. Nothing like
that. I just can't tell you."

"Why?" I insisted. There had
been times in our lives when, although we normally hid nothing from
each other, we'd had to keep certain things to ourselves. I don't
believe anyone is totally open about every tiny little thing with
anyone else - siblings, partners, no-one. Whether it's down to
guilt, embarrassment or sheer spite, some things are simply meant
to kept to one's self, hidden away, held close to your chest lest
they get snatched away and held up to scorn, ridicule or horror.
Usually it's something small and petty and not worth worrying
about, but not always.

Joy and I didn't share our
biggest secret with each other. The fact that we could manipulate
others' lives, destroying them in my case and making them so much
better in her’s, was something we'd not told anyone until it was
too late. Joy let me know by posthumous letter. I'd told Dr.
Connors in the comfort of an asylum; padded cells, padded seats,
padded wallets.

This wasn't the time for my
sister to be reticent. And anyway, it was
my
dream. If I
wanted her to talk, shouldn't she concede? Was I, in effect,
arguing with myself? Did I have not-so-hidden schizophrenic
tendencies? At least I wouldn't be lonely.

Joy looked at me, her eyes
doleful. She seemed to be struggling with something and I wished
she would just let it go and tell me.

"You don't understand," she said
sadly. "I want to tell you, but at the same time, I don't." She was
right. I didn't understand. "Part of me wants to, but when I open
my mouth to, the urge goes. It's like the words are stolen
away."

"Who by?"

"I can't say."

"Come on," I said. "Is it the
Big Man Upstairs? Is that it?"

"I can't say, Sin. I really
can't."

"So, God, in all His infinite
wisdom, chucked you back down here, to invade my dream and to tell
me a whole lot of nothing. That was nice of Him."

"I'm not saying that,
I'm..."

"You're not saying a thing," I
interrupted. "You 'can't say' anything!"

"Stop it," she said
fiercely.

I stopped. Joy was many things,
but very rarely was she fierce. Pissed, peeved and, currently,
paranormal, but not fierce. I let her continue, running my fingers
across my mouth as if I was closing a trouser zip.

She smirked a sarcastic quiver
of the mouth. "I'm not saying there's a Big Man Upstairs. I'm not
saying there isn't. And don't ask me about lights, tunnels or
bloody escalators! I just can't say! I won't tell you there's a
Heaven or a Hell or a great bloody evangelical shopping centre with
shops selling halos and Hail Mary's. You're not going to find out
if the Jews were right, the Christians, the Muslims or the
Jehovah's bloody Witnesses! I cannot say! Nothing and nobody has a
hand clamped over my mouth, the words just don't want to come out,
OK?"

"OK," I whispered.

"There's things I want to tell
you, to help you, but I can't. I'm sorry."

"Help me with what?" I dared to
ask. Silly me.

"I CAN'T SAY!" she shouted. I
winced. Her velvet voice had developed some sharp edges. I wanted
to file them away as soon as possible in case they cut me.

"You can't say," I repeated
quietly. "Sorry."

"No," she said, reaching out to
hold my hand. "I'm sorry. More than I can say."

"Or can't say."

Her smile was real this
time.

"Yeah, or can't. Just... Just be
careful." She squeezed my hand. "Be careful."

I wanted to ask why, but there
didn't seem to be much point. She wouldn't have been able to tell
me, it seemed. But I trusted her, so I supposed I'd be careful.

"I will," I said.

Joy looked out towards the edge
of the forest. It was dark beyond the trees. The rain could be
heard but not seen, like children supposedly should be. Or was that
the other way around? Occasionally a flash of lightning was chased
quickly by a throaty rumble of thunder. I followed her line of
sight and was startled to see, as the lightning burst across the
landscape, the after image of a figure on the edge of the tree
line, silhouetted in my eyes. Another flash showed there was no-one
there, but I was suddenly uneasy.

Why was hard to say. I'd
voluntarily walked in to the mental home. I'd given myself to the
doctor and his drugs. Why couldn't I walk freely from it when I
decided I'd outstayed my welcome? You'd better ask the doctor about
that. Once he'd had his hands on me, he didn't seem to want to let
go. At first, he'd talked me around, his words trying to be as
smooth as my sister's but tainted with a saccharin aftertaste. I
didn't see him in his true colours, the monster beneath the sheep's
overcoat until later. At first he could manipulate me under the
guise of guidance. Once I'd realised the dark inner soul he
festered, I found it was too late. My requests or demands to be
discharged were met with denials and heightened dosages.

Once, I'd tried to just walk
out. I'd walked in, so why not? Jeremy had stopped me then. He was
the most human and humane of the orderlies at the institute, the
majority of whom where pissed off Rottweilers who would be as happy
restraining a patient as they would be tearing a young animal limb
from limb. And they put as much fervour into their duties as said
canine would.

Jeremy was different. He was a
nice guy, and as such was completely out of place in the home. He
cared about the residents and treated most as if they were members
of his own family. If I hadn't been a resident myself, I could have
come close to calling him a friend. Unfortunately, my address was
18 Looney Bin Hill, so the invisible but tangible line between
psycho and social created a barrier to any such relationship being
nurtured. Jeremy was pleasant and caring, but he was there to help,
not to be your best pal.

So around tea time one day - a
Tuesday I think - just before the soaps were piped in to keep the
crazy hoards appeased, I had decided that I'd had enough. I didn't
want to be there anymore. I knew what could happen if I left - that
people could die - but I couldn't stand being trapped in that
antiseptic, bleached environment any longer. I hadn't figured out
the whole matter transference thing back then, so I had to rely on
my two little legs. They managed, bless 'em, to get me to reception
before Big Jeremy's big hand was on my shoulder.

"Come on, Sin," he said, his
voice softer than his size implied. "You're going to miss
Eastenders."

I thought about running. I
thought about fighting. I thought about a swift kick in his prize
begonias. And I thought better of it. His hand was firm and
insistent. It told me that yes, Sin, you could run, fight or kick,
but I ain't about to let go, so it's probably not a good idea. I
agreed.

"Cheers Jezzer," I said. "Can't
miss that."

Why was I uneasy about being
discovered? Even though I'd caused the boy to crash, there'd be no
evidence to point at me. To my knowledge there was no forensic test
for a psychic push. A mental fingerprint wouldn't be detected with
a bit of talcum powder and a brush.

Psychic push... Psychic... Was
I? It hadn't really occurred to me before. A fortune teller?
Medium? What?

No. I didn't have time to think
about that. Whether I was cousin to Uri Gellar or ready to set up a
tent at a local fair, professing to be able to read palms, tea
leaves and the bumps on your head didn't matter. Not right now. I'd
deal with thoughts of psychobabble later.

The fact remained that, contrary
to the wishes of my beloved shrink, I'd escaped the institute. I
had to assume Dr. Connors wouldn't be happy about it. That I was
there voluntarily obviously meant nothing to his lordship. I'd
given myself over to being his property, so I was certain he'd try
to reclaim it. I could see pictures of myself plastered all over
the morning papers and the six o'clock news:

"Mental patient escapes! Assumed
to be dangerous! Do not approach!"

Of course, no-one needed to
approach me to put themselves in danger, but it wasn't something I
could help, or control. It just was.

Dr. Connors would be looking
serious but calm as he was interviewed and photographed. He'd be
saying that I would be a danger to others and myself. Call the
police. Call him. Call anyone, but get me back in the home. It was
for my own good. I had problems and couldn't be trusted.

Then he'd smile, the caring,
professional hero that he was. The mask would never slip. The wolf
behind would never be seen.

I wonder if he bayed at the
moon.

Joy letting go of my hand
brought me back from my thoughts. I blinked.

Standing again, she looked at
me, her face serious. She gestured towards the edge of the
woods.

"You see that storm out
there?"

"Yes," I said, nodding
slowly.

"Take it as a warning, Sin."

"A warning?"

"Yes, a warning. There's another
one coming, only this one won't have rain and lightning. You could
still drown though. And you could still get burned."

I opened my mouth to question
her, but she held her up hand.

"Don't," she said. "I can't. I'm
trying to tell you things without telling you anything. Just
listen."

I listened.

"The storm. Wrap up warm. Watch
yourself."

"I will," I said. I assumed my
sister wasn't telling me wasn't telling me that El Nino was
planning on dropping by for a visit. Or maybe she was, after a
fashion.

"Good," she said. She rested her
hand on my brow briefly, then let it drop to her side. "Bye."

I nodded and she turned and
began walking away, heading out to the rain.

"Thanks for the weather report,"
I called after her.

"No worries," she called back
without turning around. "Maybe I could get a job on morning
television!"

"Nah," I shouted. "You haven't
got a ghost of a chance!"

She did turn then, almost at the
edge of the forest. Her faint laughter drifted across to me, fading
in and out with the sound of the downpour as if some mad DJ were
playing with his panel, sliding the controls up and down to mix the
next chart smash. She stood there and I watched, waiting for
something to happen. Would she walk off, or disappear, or fade away
with her laughter? Nothing happened. Joy simply stood looking back
at me.

"Well, blink then!" she
shouted.

Blink? Even as I told myself I
wouldn't, my eyes flicked shut for a fraction of a second. She was
gone. There wasn't even the pleasure of an afterimage.

I watched the spot where she'd
been, this time not blinking for a long while. Lightning speared
the sky, tearing the darkness. The rain, invisible against the
black backdrop, beat down incessantly like a thousand tiny Duracell
bunnies banging their drums, racing to find out whose battery would
last the longest. My sister wasn't there, if she ever had been.

I wanted to wake up. The dream
was draining and I was already tired, but wakefulness would have
had to have been preferable to being visited by the dead. Why
couldn't I had just slept normally, maybe dreaming of being in my
pyjamas at school or knocking off my next door neighbour's sister?
What was wrong with just a smidgeon of normality for once? I
wondered if a load of miniature rabbits were running around in the
woken world with AA's stuck up their behind. Was it dark? Was I
still leaning against a tree with knots the size of Ayers Rock
determined to dig their way into my spine? I wondered if, in a
dream, I should be wondering about the world outside anyway. Wasn't
a dream, whilst you were immersed, your reality? I was sure you
weren't supposed to know you were dreaming. No outside world was
supposed to exist because your subconscious was your universe.
Wasn't that right?

So if I knew I was dreaming, and
I knew there was an existence beyond this fake reality, didn't that
suggest that I wasn't actually dreaming? Was it like a crazy man
knowing he was crazy, hence making him sane? Oh if only it was so
easy - I could put Dr. Connors out of business.

But now I was confused. Was I
awake or asleep? Was it live or was it Memorex?

I pinched my arm, hoping it
would prove to be the latter. If I wasn't knocking out the zeds,
that would mean I really had been visited by the spirit of my dead
sister. It didn't work, but I realised that nothing was proven. If
I could pinch myself whilst awake, there was nothing to stop myself
doing so whilst snoozing. All I could do was wait. Whether I was in
the land of the living, or in the Land of Nod, I'd either wake up
or not. I stared into the wet night, listening to the drumming. At
first chaotic, the sound seemed to slowly settle into a haphazard
kind of rhythm. Almost hypnotic.