Flux by Mark R. Faulkner Read Free Book Online Page A

latest. Don’t be late, I’ll be pissed off if I have to go home in my PJ’s.”
    “I’ll try and be there tonight.”
    Hanging up the phone, Iain sighed. He had no idea whether his friends would turn up on time, and bearing clothing.
    That afternoon, Tim went to see Iain. During his stay the clergyman’s visits had become regular and Iain found he actually didn’t mind his company. Unlike the doctors or other medical staff, Tim made no demands, didn’t ask awkward question or more importantly, didn’t prod or poke him.
    “How are you feeling today?” he asked once seated.
    “Good thanks, I’m being let out.”
    “So I heard, well done.”
    “Thanks.” Beaming.
    “There is something that I wanted to ask.” Tim said. Up until now he’d been reluctant to apply any pressure but now felt that time was running out if there was to be even the slimmest possibility of finding the answers he’d been desperately searching for.
    “What is it?”
    “I was wondering, whether you remember anything of the time you were unconscious, directly after your accident?”
    “Why? I thought we’d already been over this?” Iain asked. Which he had, and always replied that he remembered nothing, which he didn’t, but didn’t like to think about it too closely as there always seemed to be something just out of his grasp, an unremembered dream. It felt to Iain like something which should remain forgotten, something bad which was best for his mind to blank out.
    “Just that when you were recovering, you had, an, erm, episode .”
    “What do you mean by Episode?”
    “You sat up and spoke! Even though you were comatose”
    This was news to Iain’s ears, he was confused; surely somebody would have told him of such an incident. Tim was in agreement that somebody should have said something, but could offer no explanation as to why the event remained hidden from him.
    “I’m afraid not.” He replied, shaking his head.
    “Well, if you do remember anything, or indeed require anything or just need a chat, give me a call anytime.” He produced a card and handed it over.
    Just like Rebecca Goodman, Tim was secretly disappointed that Iain’s case didn’t deliver the answers initially promised.
    “Thanks, will do,” replied Iain, thinking he would probably never call, but would be handy to have the number just in case.
    They sat talking for a little while about what Iain was going to do after arriving home but he hadn’t really given it much thought; his mind had been focused on getting better and leaving the hospital. He would have to worry about life in the outside world later.
    Gary and Dave came to visit that evening, grumbling about extortionate parking charges but delivering a pair of jeans and a tee shirt as promised, much to the relief of Iain.
    The following day Iain was discharged and after an endless morning of waiting, he relished the feel of the sun on his face. Waiting at the bus stop he clutched his sticks, resting his behind on the metal ledge that wasn’t quite a seat, being too high, but serving as some kind of support. Comfort hadn’t been foremost in the minds of the shelter’s designers and he thought that for a hospital, something a little more suitable could have been constructed. His legs hurt from standing but at least he was a free man.
    A solitary magpie sat in the road and to Iain, it appeared to be looking directly at him. He gave it a nod, just a little superstition he’d picked up, before with a clack, clack, clack sound, the magpie took flight as the bus approached with a squeal of brakes.
    Waving a stick to signal to the bus driver his intention to embark, Iain gathered himself and hobbled his way to the step. A hiss of air accompanied the lowering of the bus to allow him easy access. Rummaging around in his pocket for change which he knew he had, he found balance without one of the sticks a challenge. It was something he would just have to get used to. Eventually he managed it though and