Sin (15 page)

Well, hate is a strong word.
Perhaps pity is more fitting.

I took his hand. "Sin Matthews,"
I said before I'd given myself the chance to think of anything
else. I decided I had to pepper my lies with some form of truth to
help avoid being sucked in too far. I'd avoid the facts about the
life of Sin-sin-sireee, of course. He might want to get me locked
up in a mental home.

"Sin?"

"Sin."

He pressed his lips together,
obviously wanting to ask the same tired old questions I'd answered
so many times before. He apparently realised I was long done with
the name game.

"Bacon butty do you?"

Magic words.

"Oh yes," I smiled.

Bacon butties. Food of the gods,
no less. None of that Ambrosia nonsense. Rumoured to have been how
Delilah really made Samson fall head over ponytail for her, and
what Nero was actually doing whilst Rome became a dusty pile of
ash, possibly even cooking it over the embers of the Coliseum.
Crispy, salty and hot enough to melt the butter. Yummy, scrummy in
my fat tummy. Delish, in fact. Giles had used his whiles to make me
smile. Or Martin Collins as I should now call him.

The road was long and, yes, many
a winding turn meandered it's way to who knew, or cared, where. For
the most part, fields stretched each side, some furrowed and muddy,
some smoothly tilled, as if an enormous rake had been dragged
across the surface. Patches of wooded areas, second cousins twice
removed to the semi-forest I'd spent the night in, dotted the
landscape, lonely and forlorn with so much distance between them
and their relatives, with not even a telephone to keep in touch.
Long hedges snaked along the edge of the fields, dividing the
landscape into a huge chessboard, perhaps for the pleasure of the
giant Mister Rake Man.

I hadn't seen a sign or a
distinctive road marking since passing a National Speed Limit
indicator a few miles back, and there had been nothing before that.
I could have been in the middle of nowhere or the middle of
Lincolnshire. Trees were trees and fields were squares of mud. I
hadn't seen a Yellow Bellied oak or a Scouse hedgerow to show which
county of Paradise I'd landed in and didn't want to advertise my
ignorance to all and farmer.

Did trees have accents? Apart
from the fact that you didn't often see a giant redwood or palm
sprouting on your way through town, did they have regional
idiosyncrasies? Did a wee northern birch spread its branches wider
than its southern brethren? Was the midland elm a touch more
nobbled in the trunk area than those in, say, the Shetland Isles,
or Deepest Dorset?

Ask me another.

We'd passed the odd turn off now
and again, little roads that lead into the back, front and side of
beyond, but none had anything to show what might be at the far end.
I didn't know if there were towns, villages or simply the Flat
Earthers' Abyss. Yesterday I'd have been happy to go along one of
those small asides, just in case the fabled Abyss did exist for me
to throw myself from, but I'd slept since then and my failed
attempt at suicide had cleared the cobwebs of my miserable whinging
arse away. The future was bright. The future might not have been
orange, but it was definitely not so black. Maybe a murky grey
perhaps.

Well, sitting in the cab with
Farmer Collins on my way to a mighty bacon butty, it certainly
seemed to be on the right side of wrong, the bright side of
billabong. Shadows were still stalking the edge of my vision,
flitting away if I turned to see, but they seemed not brave enough
to venture closer. Don't go near the light, chappies.

I wondered if the road to hell
wasn't actually Chris Rea's M25, but was in fact this black streak
across the countryside. I'd read, once, a story about a man in a
department store who'd taken the down escalator. He'd zoned out, a
little like me, while it was descending and hadn't noticed, as he
moved to the next and the next, that no-one else was aboard,
cap'ain. Then he noticed that he wasn't in Kansas anymore, and he
was on an ever descending escalator to nowhere. I can't remember
what happened to the poor guy, but I think a combination of my
night in the woods and the looming prospect of crispy paradise had
dragged the end of this particular road on towards the horizon. I
felt sure that Martin's farm should only have been around the
corner, but some unseen hand had grabbed that corner and wrenched
it off into the distance, purely to spite me and my screaming
stomach.

But brighty-bright,
lighty-light.

I was just about to ask how far
away we were, and if it could be measured in light years, when a
gate appeared in the hedgerow with a small hand painted sign
attached. The sign was somewhat mud splattered, and the writing was
blurred in the muck, but I could just about make out what it
said.

"Shadow Hill Farm."

"Shadow Hill?" I asked.

Martin smiled. "Don't ask me,"
he said. "It was already called that when my grandfather bought the
place. I seem to remember a big hill out back when I was a kid, but
it's gone now. I don't recall it being flattened or anything but I
suppose it must have been."

"Didn't you fancy changing the
name? Cherry Tree or Pig Swill Farm perhaps?"

Martin laughed. The sound came
from his boots and I could almost feel the bass through the seat,
as if he'd had a subwoofer in his backside.

"Pig Swill, I like that. Maybe I
will. I don't like cherries though. Besides - Shadow Hill. Sounds a
bit mysterious."

I nodded my agreement. I would
have preferred Shadow Hill to Cherry Tree myself. Pig Swill had a
certain ring to it though.

* * * *

The house we pulled up to didn't
suit itself to the scruffy mud-slopped sign that greeted us at the
gate. If there had been a traditional old farmhouse on this site,
with knackered sash windows and drafty wooden doors, it had long
since been knocked down. In its place was what I suppose looked
like a mini-mansion. Windows were everywhere, and across the two
floors looked to be a multitude of rooms. I didn't have time to
count, but it certainly wasn't a mere two up-two down. A gorgeous
garden, filled with any number of colourful blooms - hey, I know
what a rose is and that's about it, remember? - spread from the
front door, almost as if it had been spilled. The door itself was a
great uPCV affair, half glazed with rose leading, that still looked
dwarfed against the rest of the structure. I wondered if the wicked
witch of the west was buried under there somewhere, I was so sure
the house looked out of place.

"Come on in," said Martin.

He stepped from the cab and
walked to the entrance, pulled off his boots. I did the same,
noticing the mud on my shoes was dried now and flaking. He pushed
open the front door and stepped in. Instantly I was assaulted by
the smell of cooking bacon. Assaulted - that has got to be the
wrong word. Caressed? Washed? My belly growled, a wolf waiting to
dine on the carcass of a dead animal. Martin looked and me and
grinned.

"That's what I like to hear," he
said. "Appreciation of the meal before the first bite."

I laughed and followed him in
through the hallway that was all washed laminate and pictures to
the massive kitchen. Was it a prerequisite of farmhouses that they
had big kitchens? Was more cooking done down on t' farm than in the
suburbs? I didn't know, but this particular kitchen was enormous.
Stainless steel appliances were everywhere, from the triple hobbed
cooker to the four-slice toaster. A large island sat in the middle
of the room covered in the same black granite worktop that adorned
the rest of the surfaces. Hanging over it were pots and pans and
spatulas, all keeping with the same steel theme. It could have been
the main showroom of a Kitchens-R-Us catalogue, front page spread
and centre page special pull-out.

Bent over the oven, pulling out
a grill pan covered in the best looking, crispiest bacon I'd ever
seen, except maybe since the last time I'd had bacon (a long time
ago), was a slim, small vision. She had short brown hair, large
brown eyes with high arched brows. Slender fingers that deftly
moved the bacon to the ready buttered buns, somehow without the
hint of a burn. Small breasts that didn't look undersized on her
equally small frame. Legs that seemed long. Behind that looked so
right in her figure hugging jeans, Michelangelo couldn't have done
better.

I couldn't decide, for a second,
which I wanted more, the bacon or the girl. Then I realised where I
was and tore my eyes away from both. Some of the nurses in the
hospital had been pretty, one or two even beautiful, but their
simple white uniforms stripped away any semblance of sexuality.
This was my first 'proper' female in a hell of a long time. She
could have looked like a bag of spanners and it probably wouldn't
have mattered. The fact that she looked elfen only added to her
glory. But I needed to stop being the ignorant sexist I knew I
wasn't and get back in the groove.

"Hey babe," said Martin.

The woman nodded and smiled.
"Morning Marty." Her voice was soft, warm and just on the upside of
a whisper. How else could it have been? "Timed to perfection, as
usual." She indicated the bread buns steaming at the sides. "You
didn't mention any guests though or I'd have made more."

I felt my cheeks redden as she
mentioned me. I took a deep breath to steady myself. Spinning a
yarn longer than a spider's web was hard enough with one person.
Adding another into the mix complicated matters.

"Sorry about that," Martin
replied. "I picked up a stray along the way. Couldn't you just
chuck another slice or two on the grill? My man here could just
about kill a pig himself I think."

I didn't know about that, but I
could feel a black hole forming where my stomach had been,
threatening to suck the rest of me in along with it. The point of
singularity was just about where my belly button had once been.

"I don't want to be a pain," I
said. "Don't worry about me."

"I'm not," she said. "But I can
still manage another sandwich. Have mine and I'll do another."

Martin, the Mighty Marty,
indicated a seat at the large terracotta topped table he was
sitting at. "Plonk it."

I did as instructed and within
what seemed like seconds, had devoured the buns on my plate.
Somehow a coffee had appeared before me, hot, strong and black
("Just like my men," Joy used to say) and I'd downed half the cup
in one gulp before realising I was being stared at.

"Hungry?" said Martin's
wife/partner/sister/mistress. She was filling her own bun with
bacon hot enough to make the butter sizzle. I bet myself she could
make plenty of things sizzle.

Stop it.

I stifled a belch, not entirely
successfully, and nodded.

"Sorry," I said. "I was just a
bit peckish."

"A bit? You want me to fry up
the whole pig?

She was smiling. It was like a
beacon in the darkness. The sun on a spring morning. A punch in the
face from her fella if I didn't snap out of it and sort my head
out. Where was my focus? Where was the idea of not bringing more
attention to myself than an escaped lunatic could bring? I wasn't
completely stupid - some of the parts were missing. If I didn't get
it together, I'd be back in pokey gnawing the bark off twigs for
lunch while they had fun flicking the switches to the electrodes
they'd stuck on my head. While the electrified Medusa image was
something of a fashion statement, I didn't really see it catching
on at the next Clothes Show catwalk.

"I'm fine thanks," I said. I
turned my attention to Martin, partly to avoid showing too much
where I shouldn't, and partly to move this little interlude on. I
needed to find out where I was and get out of here.

Would I have been better staying
where I was? Would doing my Johnny Blaze impression in the furnace
have been preferable to going on the run and panicking at the hint
of a wrong look or phrase or phone call?

The telephone rang. The sudden
noise scared the Beetlejuice out of me, making my heart jump high
enough into my throat it made my ears ring a karaoke duet along
with the phone. Neither of my hosts made a move to answer the call
and after a few seconds it clicked off, an answer machine kicking
in to, no doubt, invite the caller to leave a message after the
beep.

How original were answering
machine messages? And how many people suddenly found themselves at
a loss for words when confronted by the expectant silence of the
waiting tape? Why did it feel strangely like you were standing
naked in front of a thousand faceless shadows, each of which was
expecting you to spout forth insight and genius, instead of the
"Erm..." you managed?

Or was that just me?

The telephone was a folding
design I'd never seen before. It seemed a curious mix of mobile
phone and standard cordless handset, but was struggling to decide
which. Martin caught me looking.

"We never answer it at meal
times," he said. "If it's that important they'll leave a message or
ring back."

Great sentiment, I thought, but
I wasn't aware it was humanly possible to not answer a ringing
phone. Just like you're going to say "Ouch" when someone kicks you
in the gazoingas, you're going to pick up a phone when it
rings.

Or, I say again, was that just
me?

Sometimes, I'm like a human
cucumber. No, I don't mean a bit green or a bit bent, although I'm
not actually denying either. I mean I sometimes repeat myself.

I decided to do my gadget-geek
bit and ask about the telephone. Partly this was to avoid any
possible questions about myself but also because I really was
interested. If it took batteries (and didn't have the words
'rabbit' or 'rampant' in the name) or plugged in, I was
automatically interested. Hey, even if it was based on a decidedly
bunny design. I was energised by energy and electrified by
electricity. Or something like that anyway.