Flux

for the rent he paid each month. Next to the front door was an old cupboard where either himself or Nettie, who lived in the downstairs flat, would put the others post when they picked it up from the coarse brown mat inside the front door. On this cupboard was now piled a veritable mountain of correspondence for him. Quite a few of the letters he could see were from the bank.
    He could hear the TV from inside Nettie’s flat; the clunk of snooker balls colliding. She was as deaf as a post but Iain still didn’t understand why she needed the volume to watch snooker.
    The pile of letters was too big for him to manage now, and he was too tired to be looking at what the bank had to say. He could guess of course and only hoped that his account still contained sufficient funds to cover the rent. The post would have to wait until Iain regained enough of his energy to come back down the stairs with a bag to carry it with.
    Directly facing the front door were the stairs. Narrow and flanked by a wooden handrail which was once gloss white, but now had yellowed with age. The carpet was threadbare, its paisley pattern hardly distinguishable, robbed of its bright colours by time. Iain knew he had to get up the stairs and the thought terrified him a little. The pessimistic side of his brain simply laughed while his optimism told him to take things steady, and he’d make it OK.
    Knowing he had no alternative but to go up, Iain started to climb. From the bottom, he may as well have been starting an ascent of Mount Everest, but finally, after an arduous, extremely frustrating and sometimes precarious journey, he made it. Reaching his door, he placed an outstretched hand on the frame, catching his breath and pausing to breathe a sigh of relief before entering.
    He was home at last.

Chapter Nine
    Home Sweet Home

    Upon opening the door, Iain was assaulted with a malodour so thick it seemed as solid as a baseball bat to the guts. Flies hummed around his head as Iain, fighting to keep down his gorge, struggled to the large sash windows, flinging them open to allow air into the room, and more importantly, the stench and flies to escape. He didn’t notice shadows moving on the street below.
    Making his way to the kitchen, the source of the smell soon made itself apparent. Sitting on the worktop was what could only be described as black slop with bones sticking out; the chicken he’d taken out to defrost on the morning of his accident. The ex-chicken pulsed as if alive and in a way it was; alive with maggots which were dropping out onto the counter. Flies hatched and swarmed from the carcass and were thick in the air.
    The pile of washing up left in the sink wasn’t much better. A mountain of plates, cups and pans, now covered in slick green ooze, also attracted the attention of the buzzing swarm.
    Here in the kitchen, the smell was even more overpowering than before and Iain was now longer able to contain himself. Doubling up and dropping to all fours, he spewed the contents of his stomach onto the floor. His innards continued to spasm long after his gut was empty, causing him once again to sob with tears of pain and self pity, unable to rise from the filthy, stinking linoleum.
    You’re pathetic, just look at yourself! His pessimism told him.
    Just hold it together and you’ll soon get this sorted, optimistic Iain replied.
    Fuck right off, there’s no way on this earth that you’ve got it in you to clean this lot. You’ll probably die here on the floor.
    No, all you need to do is get up and start cleaning. Don’t even think about the task ahead, just get on with it and it’ll soon be done.
    “Shut up! Both of you, just shut up,” croaked Iain out loud between the sobs. He needed to think clearly but the voices in his head were crowding his mind, making thinking difficult. Once again Iain found himself having consciously to mediate his own thoughts.
    All he’d wanted to do upon his arrival home was to sink into the sofa, enjoy a hot cup of tea and maybe watch some television. Now instead he was faced with the seemingly insurmountable task of cleaning up in an atmosphere in which it was an effort even to breathe.
    “Right!” he said to himself, taking back control of his senses and choking back tears which didn’t want to stop flowing.
    Slowly clambering back to his feet, resolute, he looked around the kitchen wondering where to make a start. Stepping around the heap of vomit, which was already attracting the attention of