Sin (Wattys Winner)

Chapter 05

"So," I said, hoping again to bring the conversation back on track. I left the word hanging, not really knowing where to take it. This was my dream, but I figured Joy could lead the way for a wee bit. She left the word where it was for a long time, head low, face expressionless, except for the eyes a-sparkling. Then she picked it up and had a play.

"So indeed," she said, lifting her eyes to me. The corners of her full lips raised slightly: "What are we going to do with you, brother of mine?"

I didn't answer. I wanted the question to be rhetorical so she'd provide her own response. Perhaps then I might have some idea myself. If not, this would be a short chat and, as good as it was to be reunited with Joy, I may as well wake up. If my mind, in the form of my sister, wasn't going to give me any answers whatsoever, then I'd have to fumble my own way - and that thought scared me way down the road to Shitless and half way into Witless.

"If only I could tell you the things you need to know," she said. "It would be so much easier. You'd be so much happier." She paused and chewed her bottom lip, a habit I'd grown tired of trying to slap out of her. "Maybe you wouldn't be happier actually, but at least you'd know."

"Know what?" I asked. Things I needed to know? I wasn't appearing on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I didn't need to phone a friend or ask the audience. Good job really because the only audience I currently had was maybe the odd owl or squirrel. Anyway, what did I need to know that I didn't already? This dream was going the way of a Twin Peaks episode. It was following some twisted path I couldn't see, swinging back on itself and then taking a completely different route. I felt like Kyle MacLachlan was conspiring with David Lynch to hijack my brain and turn it on its end. All we needed was some cherry pie, a damn fine cup of coffee, and we could all sit down, have a picnic and figure out which outcome would be the weirdest and as such the one we'd use. At least Kyle was investigating a murder whereas I was committing them.

I wondered if, in a court of law, murder in absentia was a punishable crime. If I had an alibi tighter than Jacob Marley's business partner, even though I admitted to having done the crime - and thanks to Mental Homes R Us, done the time - would I still be sent down, joining the chain gang on a one way trip along the Green Mile? Maybe I could get Tom Hanks or Michael Clarke Duncan to sign autographs.

I doubted a defence of "I wasn't there m'lud" would be sufficient to get me off. But death by proxy. What would be the maximum sentence for that? Six months? Life? Would there be a frying tonight, with old Sparky, the electric chair?

Ask me another.

Death by proxy. That's a phrase and a half, ain't it? Murder by proxy, perhaps - get some other schmucky-duck to do the deed. But death by proxy? How did that work? If it's my time that's up, is DBP (as we affectionately don't call it) giving my extinction ticket to the next customer, like at the deli counter in Asda?

"I'll have half a pound of bullet to the brain and three slices of cardiac arrest please. Oh, hold on, you go first, pal."

"Cheers mate! Make mine a quarter of honey roasted dismemberment please. No, wait. Make it six ounces."

"Certainly sir. We've got a special three-for-two offer on aneurisms this week. Can I tempt you?"

"No thanks, I'm good with the dismemberment."

Death by proxy - giving your place in the queue for Snuffit & Keelover to the next bloke, nice guy that you are.

My sense of dread and guilt, which had been rebounding around the forest like a squash ball shot from a cannon, slammed back into me once more. What if that was exactly the case? What if I was missing my appointment with the Other Side by passing it on to other people?