Flux

accompanied by the sound of Saturday morning children’s television. Iain’s head hurt and he felt like puking. Thoroughly hung-over, he hauled his sorry self out of bed, grabbed his crutches and made his way into the kitchen where Gary was busying himself with breakfast. Before uttering a single word, he filled a pint glass with water, drinking it down in one.
    “Morning,” he croaked.
    “Morning, how you feeling today?”
    “Shit.”
    Gary laughed; “bacon sarnie 'll sort you out.”
    “Hope so,” then, “cheers, need it.”
    Going into the living room, he found Dave sprawled on the sofa, looking as ill as Iain felt. He made no effort to move to let his disabled host sit down. Iain went to the large comfy armchair, and curled up in it as much as his injured legs would allow.
    “Tele’ working OK then?” he asked.
    “Yeah fine, shit all on though. Why, has it been broken?”
    “Just the reception I think.” He thought of the crying baby and the image which had formed on the screen. He felt too ill to call the hospital just then, but would have to at some point during the day. “Fancy doing anything today?” he asked, feeling a need to get out of the house.
    “Not really. You?”
    “Might pop up town if you fancy it?”
    “Might do, we’ll see if I feel any better later.”
    Gary entered the room bearing bacon sandwiches, then returned to the kitchen for the sauce, both red and brown. Iain went for the red, best on bacon, but he had brown with everything else.
    “Cheers dude.”
    “Yeah cheers,” added Dave, his mouth already full, spitting partly chewed bread onto the sofa.
    They sat in silence for a while, all eyes firmly fixed on Tom and Jerry, eating breakfast and swilling it all down with a large mug of tea each.
    “Do us a favour will you?” Iain asked in the general direction of both his friends, “go and get my post from downstairs.”
    “No problem.” Dave, after finishing his sandwich in record breaking time got up and went to retrieve the letters. Returning with his arms full, he flung them onto the small faux wood coffee table, some sliding from the top of the pile onto the floor. Iain started to go through them; in amongst the junk mail were a couple of bank statements and credit card bills, these went in the same pile, unopened and destined for the bin. A letter with an Australian stamp; the latest update from his parents, he put it aside to read later.
    He came across an envelope which he instinctively knew without opening it, was from work. With a sinking feeling, he looked at the contents, a simple letter from the HR department asking whether he planned on returning, and to let him know that they’d stopped paying sick pay and now all he was to receive was a statuary pittance as decided by government. Heartless bastards. It was dated two weeks previously. Another call he was going to have to make.
    Even the thought of making phone calls left him feeling drained, but it had to be done. Work would wait until Monday morning but he thought it important to try and get an appointment at the hospital as a matter of urgency, following events of the previous night.
    “Right,” he got to his feet, “I’m going for a shower.”
    Showering wasn’t easy, with getting into it being the first hurdle. Sitting on the edge of the bath and swinging himself around he finally managed it, only to turn on the tap and be assaulted by freezing cold water on his naked skin. He yelped but had to keep balance, he almost slipped but somehow managed to keep himself upright. Frustrated and uncomfortable, he eventually managed to get clean and hobble back into his bedroom.
    After sitting for a while on the edge of the bed, slowly drying himself, Iain clambered to his feet to open the wardrobe, only to find any clothes he may have desired to wear, absent. They were in a heap in the corner of the room and dirty. Never mind. Rummaging through the pile of soiled clothes he found out a pair of jeans and tee-shirt, sniffing them to ensure acceptability.
    Finding his phone, and then his wallet, he dug out the small card with the hospital's number on it. The card which Tim the clergyman had given him fell to the floor. Iain picked it up, thumbed it casually and put it back into the little pocket designed for credit cards. Dialling the hospital number, it rang twice before the line clicked and an automated voice started to speak to him. ‘We are sorry there is no one available to answer your call. The