Flux

paranormal, he still thought it the most likely explanation. He didn’t know whether they were in his head or not, but surprisingly, more so to himself than anybody else, he found himself already becoming accustomed to their presence and although seeing them was unsettling, they no longer threw him into a state of panic.
    His eyes refocused onto the translucent reflection of himself in the glass of the bus window. He’d still not shaved since the accident and sported a large untidy beard. His face pale and thin with sunken eyes, he hardly recognised himself anymore. He fixed his gaze forward, not wanting to see.
    So, how are you going to pay the rent?
    Fuck! You need to go back to work.
    You’re not well enough, and you know it.
    No choice I’m afraid, it’s that or be homeless. You’re going to end up that mad old tramp who preaches about the end of the world.
    What’s more important: your health, or a roof over your head?
    Iain’s head was spinning, it was an impossible choice to make. He knew the doctor wouldn’t give him the all clear if he was suffering hallucinations, but if she didn’t he wouldn’t be able to return to work and thus, pay the bills. He became clammy and a tear formed in his eye.
    Hold it together Iain, he pleaded with himself. It took all of his energy and concentration to choke back the lump which formed in his throat, and when the bus pulled into the hospital and stopped, it couldn’t have been soon enough. Stepping from the bus and into fresh air he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer and the floodgates opened. Sitting on the steps outside the main hospital entrance, head in hands he let the sobs come freely. Attracting nothing more than one or two glances from passers by, his distress went mostly unnoticed. People always cry at hospitals.
    The tears stopped as abruptly as they’d started. Standing back up he wiped his face on his sleeve. The collar of his tee shirt was damp but he didn’t care. He made his way into the foyer and followed the signs to the neurology unit.
    There were more ghosts inside the hospital. More worrying was the fact that they had started to take on substance, appearing in colour rather than a faint shade of grey. Still translucent and not quite solid, none possessed the reality that Bert had in town. Iain wondered whether over time they would, and he’d no longer be able to distinguish between the living and the dead.
    He’d only been in the waiting room for a couple of minutes before Rebecca Goodman came through a door to meet him: “Good morning, how are you?” she asked, a professional, kindly smile on her face.
    “Not too bad.”
    “Would you care to come through?” She indicated towards the door, ushering him through into the small office beyond. She started to speak before he was seated. “So, what can I do for you today?”
    It was make your mind up time for Iain; did he lie and say he was well, thus allowing himself to go back to work, or did he tell the truth and deal with the consequences? He really didn’t know how he was going to answer until his mouth opened and he heard himself say; “I just need the all clear to go back to work.”
    “Oh, it may be a little soon after the trauma you’ve had.”
    “But I feel fine now.” He wondered how convincing he was as she studied him closely.
    “Your GP could have done that for you.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”
    “That’s OK, you’re here now. Any unusual symptoms?”
    In for a penny in for a pound; “No, a bit tired but even that’s getting better.”
    You fucking idiot!
    “So, do you feel up to work?” She asked, knowing he was holding something back but unable to force the truth.
    “Yes.”
    “OK then, I’ll get you a letter typed; you can pick it up in an hour. Although, if you do feel at all unwell or unable to cope then see your GP or call me straight away, do you understand that?” She had a concerned tone to her voice.
    It’s Ok for these doctors, with their mega money and insurance packages. They don’t have this stress. Iain thought to himself. “Yes I will,” smiling back at her.
    An hour to kill before he could collect the letter, he thought he should really call the bank. Standing outside the hospital entrance, he took a deep breath. He felt a fraud. Fetching the now crumpled letter from his pocket, he dialled the number printed at the top. After a lengthy automated message, he pushed nine to speak to an operator.
    “Hello, you’re