Mortal Sin - Sin Book II

Chapter 15

The tour was brief and far from grand.

As I followed her and she introduced the bathroom and junk cupboard under the stairs as if they were old friends from work and we were making awkward small talk over quickly warming pints of lager, I knew what everything was. Not where it was – as far as I knew I was unfamiliar with the house apart from my previous wander down the stairs – but what. A bath. A handrail. Even a dado rail. All of these terms were there, tripping off the tip of my tongue with ease.

Jasmine was almost listing them, as if testing what I remembered. I didn't know what made my mind recall things like white toilet seat or cornflake packet, but leave a blank where my name, origin and family should be.

Except it wasn't a space. It wasn't a void. It wasn't a filing cabinet with my name scribbled out and my life inside.

There was nothing. Everything else, but none of that.

I wanted her to stop. I'd had enough. I didn't want to be tested and I certainly didn't want to be reminded that I needed it. I knew what a paisley bedspread was and I knew that I didn't like it. What I wanted to know was who I was. Where I was. How she knew me and, if she didn't, why she was helping me. The beach. The carnival. Everything.

Why was she showing me this irrelevant nonsense? Why didn't she just sit me down over the cuppa I'd had and tell me?

I asked her.

She paused. That could have been because she wasn't actually sure. It's automatic, isn't it, that if you're new to a building, you're shown around. Get your bearings and all that? Maybe the pause was her mind working on how to say exactly that. She might have been in exactly the same state as me. Lost.

But she wasn't. I could tell. She knew who I was. Why else would she have rescued me? Twice! Why would she have gone to these lengths? If both our minds had been erased like a child shaking their Etch-a-Sketch to the point where even the stubborn little marks that really wanted to remain and clung to the screen for dear life had been forced to loosen their grip and become one with the aluminium powder within, she'd be as aimless as me. She was far from that. She knew this house – including where the damned stop-cock was – and she knew the only other inhabitant.

She knew.

So the pause was nothing to do that. The pause was because she was thinking of a way not to tell me. Otherwise, surely, the words would slip out like hot soup over the crusty bread of my mind.

"I just thought you'd like to see the house," Jasmine said slowly.

Even when her words were formed, they were only allowed out on a short leash. She was being measured. Careful. There was something she didn't want me to know. Maybe the reason my identity was gone. Had I been in an accident? Head trauma? Was I a murderer and my heinous crimes had been wiped out to preserve my mental state?

Well, my mental state was getting to the size of California, and with no name, there was no way I was going to be able to get a passport to visit. So, I wanted to take her precise tone and shove it right into that meaningful pause.

"It's a nice house," I returned.

Was it? I had no idea. I didn't take notice. I'd seen white, a splash of orange, some browns. Scratches and marks. Peeling paint and curling paper. And paisley. It probably wasn't that nice, actually. But I could be polite. I could let her play her game. I could...

Or I could not.

"Well, are you going to tell me?"

Jasmine sighed. She had no choice, it would seem. Or the sigh was the upgraded version of the pause. It gave her the chance to think about what she was going to tell me.

"Come on" she said, walking past me and down the stairs.

I put the toilet seat down – a habit I didn't know I had – and followed. My stomach churned. Would I like what she was going to say? Would I like me?

As I re-entered the kitchen, the was a loud 'ping' that shattered the heavy silence. I expected to have to step over shards of it as they were strewn across the floor tiles, but the floor, complete with grubby grout, was clear. Oh, there was what once may have been a corner of overcooked toast resting against the base unit kickboard. I didn't like to give its gave away in case it was playing hide and seek with the crumbs and butter knife.

Jasmine opened the microwave and handed me newly nuked drink. I nodded my thanks. She gestured towards the seat I'd previously occupied and was about to take the other one, the man I now thought of as my arch nemesis no longer in sight, when she suddenly slammed her cup down and swore profusely. I looked down and could see what had made her react in such a way. Burned into the rugged top of the table, clearly by a cigarette, was the letter 'B' with the firm beginnings of an 'A' tagging along after.

Barry? It had to be.

"Barry!"

Oh, it was.

"What?"

The man appeared at the kitchen door so abruptly, I almost missed my mouth with my cup. As it was I barely managed to pull it away in time. There were no thudding footsteps hammering down the stairs or clodding along the hallway. He was just there. His manners seemed to take a little more time to catch up with him however.

Jasmine pointed but Barry refused to look.

"What?" he repeated, though he clearly knew exactly 'what'.

Jasmine's pointing was more emphatic now. Any more and I imagined her whole arm flying off and sweeping around the room like a boomerang, bouncing off the offender's head and returning, caught by the other arm and reattached. Still the blank and angry look remained on Barry's face.

"This!"

He did look then. He had no choice. Her voice was a command that even I couldn't ignore, even though I wasn't the subject of her ire. My eyes couldn't leave the scorch marks and Barry's gaze was forced to join my own.

"Oh."

I doubted I could have come up with anything more intelligent, under the circumstances. He was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and it was about to be bitten off, chocolate chips and all.

"Oh? OH??" Jasmine's voice raised an octave and I felt for all the glasses in the vicinity. "Is that all you can say?"

"I... erm..."

Barry seemed to shrink. The bravado and arrogance vanished in the wake of the onslaught and three inches at least fled in fear.

"Mr. Coombs!" yelled Jasmine, storming over to stand face to face with the ever smaller Barry. "No fags in the house!"

I didn't see his response. I didn't hear what he said or how he answered her.

Mr. Coombs. Mr. Coombs. Coombs. Coooommmmbbbssssssss.

Why did that name sound familiar? Did I recognise it, or was it like when you see someone on the bus and are sure you've known them. At school. At work. Somewhere.

The world seemed to lose focus, as if a mist had descended within the confines of the room or, even, just within my eyes. I could feel myself begin to tremble though, when I looked at my hand, it was still. My mind was filling with a dirty water, filled with all manner of memories that were swirling about in the murk where I couldn't clearly see them.

Combs.

I knew him, but I didn't know why.