Flux

morning, Iain could only guess, thinking they must have bought a cask along with them.
    With drinks downed, they were up and with a shout and a tinkle of bells, moved into formation; two lines facing each other, sticks raised and touching.
    More shouting and they were off, short wooden sticks coming together with a snap and bells jingling with the shaking of legs. Forwards and backwards they moved, weaving in and out, now moving in circles and again into lines. Iain watched them enthralled; he was seeing first hand one of those curious English customs which has remained unchanged for centuries; just a few stalwarts keeping alive the old traditions.

    There was a subtle shift; the Morris dancers still danced and bells still jangled but now they were the only thing he could see. Everything else appeared muted and not quite real. He gazed on as they sped up; faster and faster they danced, becoming a blur of white against the ancient stone buildings.
    They stopped dancing.
    Iain snapped out of his trance.
    Looking down, he found his feet had somehow become trapped in the stocks, no longer old and rotting, the wood looked new. The Morris dancers turned to face him; malice in their eyes.
    Behind them were people; hoards of people dressed in sack cloths and rags. The dancers parted and the crowd started to throw things in Iain’s direction. Wide eyed, he tried to free his feet but the stocks were shut tight, his efforts only leading to bruised ankles. Something struck him hard on the forehead, shattering on impact; he thought it might have been a cabbage, rotten and stinking. It was followed by tomatoes, also exploding on impact and before long his eyes stung with vegetable juice and he struggled to breathe through the pelting. He screamed and something jammed in his mouth, spitting it out he screamed again and the crowd just laughed, gaining pleasure from his pain.
    The barrage of rotten vegetables stopped and the Morris dancers moved in. Iain still screamed for all he was worth. As they got closer, he fought. His legs might have been restrained, but his arms were not; he thought he caught one on the jaw before they had him overpowered and pinned. And still he struggled, he had to get away, they were trying to kill him.
    “HELP!!! HELP!!!”
    Two more figures approached, pushing through the dancers, dressed entirely in black, or dark blue, and after freeing his feet, roughly took hold of Iain and carted him away kicking and screaming.

Chapter Eighteen
    Detention

    “We’re going to need the doctor here. NOW,” one policeman shouted to the other.
    “On it,” phone already in hand.
    They could hear Iain screaming from inside the cells; beating at the walls and door, trying to escape like a trapped and frightened wild animal as he had been since they’d put him in there. Not wanting any nasty happenings, they made sure to remove his belt and shoe-laces first.
    “He’s a proper mental case,” one of them commented, thumbing through Iain’s wallet for some kind of identification. They had a name, from the couple of bank cards, and they also knew he’d recently been in hospital because of an appointment card. Taking his phone, the policeman looked for the last number dialled, trying to find a relative or spouse. When he couldn’t find either of those, he dialled Gary. There was no answer and the call didn’t transfer to voicemail.
    When the door opened, Iain shrank back into the corner of the cell. The chubby man with grey hair was speaking to him, the words didn’t sink in; Iain was too busy paying attention to the brown leather bag he was carrying. He wondered what it contained; probably utensils for dissection, that’s what they usually carry in these places. At least he’d managed work out this stranger was a doctor of some kind.
    Iain backed himself further into the corner, afraid of what was about to happen; “Get the fuck away from me you fucking Nazi!”
    The doctor ignored the insult, thinking Iain was using a generic term for people in authority and advanced slowly; “now settle down, it’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you,” his voice low and calm.
    Yeah, too right you won’t hurt me. I bet you say that to all of them. I’d rather go to the showers than this. He cowered, whimpering and looking for an escape. The doctor stood between him and the door. I can take him, Iain thought, waiting for his moment.
    The doctor opened the bag and took out a syringe before removing a small bottle filled with