Flux

clear liquid.
    Iain saw his chance; now. Springing to his feet, he shoulder barged the doctor, knocking him into the wall and sprinted the few steps to the door. Two burley police officers waiting just outside stopped him dead in his tracks, wrestling him to the floor and pinning him.
    Iain didn’t see police; he saw them as guards of the SS, Hitler’s elite. He imagined himself captive in some Eastern European concentration camp, Auzwitz, Belsen, or some other with a name that eluded him, at some time in the 1940s. This doctor was the crazy kind he’d read about, planning to slice him open while still conscious to see how his insides worked, his heart, his liver, his eyes; oh god, not my eyes, not while I’m awake.
    The doctor regained his composure, picking himself up he filled the syringe and moved towards where Iain was still restrained and struggling.
    “Stand back!” one of the police officers shouted, seeing Iain’s distress. Two couldn’t hold him, they had his arms but his legs were thrashing wildly, trying to fight his way free, extra strength fuelled by terror and adrenaline. Two more officers quickly arrived on the scene and grabbed his legs. Still he fought as if his life depended upon it; writhing and biting to get free. One of the policemen lost his grip, and received a solid kick to the knee for his troubles, dropping to the floor he struggled to regain control of the flailing leg.
    Finally though, Iain was subdued and the doctor approached, brandishing the needle. The hypodermic filled Iain’s vision as it came closer; oh god, what are they going to do to me? he thought before feeling the small pinprick on his arm. The cold travelled outwards from the point of insertion, spreading, his fingers going numb, then his whole arm going cold before he drifted into a drugged oblivion.

    Gary woke with a stretch and a yawn. Reaching out from under the thin duvet he rummaged in his jeans to find his phone. Seven missed calls from a number he didn’t recognise. “Ah shit,” he mumbled, wiping sleep from his eyes. Rolling from his bed, he pulled on his jeans and went to the toilet, first things first. The phone stayed on the crumpled duvet.
    “I’d give it ten minutes if I were you,” he said to the now-awake Dave upon his return.
    “Your phone was going.”
    “I wonder who that could be, they’ve been trying all morning. I’d better pop out and see who it is.” With that he pulled on a tee shirt and shoes and made his way into the square. There were no reminders of Iain’s struggle earlier in the morning; the Morris dancers were still there, sitting about and drinking from their tankards. Gary didn’t notice one of them nursing a black eye.
    As the phone rang out, Gary watched a stretcher being loaded onto an ambulance, just outside the police station.
    “Hello, Police,” the voice on the other end, sounding tired. Gary knew then that something was wrong.
    “Er hello, I’ve had a few missed calls from this number?” a little hesitantly.
    “Are you a friend of Iain Andrews?”
    “Yes,” cautiously.
    “Do you know where the police station is?”
    “Yes, I’m standing not far away,” then, “Why, what’s up?”
    “You’d better come up here.”
    Gary was already breaking into a trot, towards the police station and ambulance outside; “be right there.”
    He was too late, as he ran he saw the ambulance doors close and watched as it quietly pulled away, no sirens or lights this time. He felt nauseous as he approached the door with the blue light hanging over it. A little breathless he approached the desk, and the policeman waiting there.
    “I’ve just had a call about Iain. What’s going on?”
    “Come with me please?” the officer asked, his tone stern but kind.
    Gary wondered whether he still had his dope in his pocket and a little wave of panic washed over him. Too late now, he thought to himself, hope they don’t smell it on me.
    He was led into the small interview room;
    “Please, take a seat?” Gesturing towards a plastic chair.
    He did. “So, what’s this about?” he asked.
    “What’s your relationship to Mr Andrews?”
    “A friend. Why?”
    “I’m afraid he’s been detained under the mental health act. Do you know of any past history of mental troubles?”
    “No. I mean, he’s been a bit depressed following his accident but nothing more.”
    “Accident? What kind of accident?”
    “He was hit by a bus. Was in a coma for a bit.”
    “Oh, hmmm,