Flux

chorus to welcome in the new day.
    There were no ghosts to be seen and although his head still felt stuffed with cotton wool from medication and lack of sleep, Iain breathed deeply of the clean air and felt his troubles wash from out of him. A rabbit shot out from under his feet while he walked, startling him. Iain laughed and paused to watch as it bounded away, disappearing from sight into the long grass. A lone magpie sat and watched as he passed; Iain nodded in its direction, “hello magpie,” he said out loud; not even the creature of superstition could dent his mood on this fine morning.
    Iain realised he was standing in the same spot where he’d seen the group of ghosts flitting through the trees; some of the first he’d seen. The magpie squawked and flew from its perch as Iain approached, vigorously flapping to get airborne. As he pushed his way into the undergrowth a bramble scratched his arm, leaving a red stripe, a droplet of blood forming at one end before blossoming on the skin. Twigs snapped underfoot, loud cracks echoing through the trees. The air became even more still than out in the open, filled with the coolness of the woods and the scent of moist earth and litter. The early morning sun did little to warm the shaded spot and its light merely dappled the ground.

    A group of five deer stood in a small clearing ahead. Iain tried to move as quietly as possible, attempting to see how close he could get before they sensed his presence and took flight. One of the herd froze, ears pricked back, listening intently. Iain stood statue still, unbreathing but the deer’s senses were acute and with a flick of the tail it disappeared into the wood, the other four following closely on its heels. Their hooves could be heard trampling old dry leaves for a few moments before Iain was once again on his own and no sign of the animals remained. Following in the direction they’d fled, Iain crept through the undergrowth to try and sneak up on the deer, only to find himself coming out of the trees at the side of the main road. There was no indication that the creatures had ever existed.
    Turning left, he followed the road to the High Street where firstly he stopped at the newsagents to pick up a paper, cigarettes and a bottle of Seven Up. Then, taking a seat on a metal bench after first using the hem of his tee shirt to clear dew from the peeling green paint, took a look around and wondered what to do with his day.
    He loved the high street in the small hours of the morning, when all the shops are closed and only the occasional car to disturb the peace. He watched a chip wrapper float down the middle of the road, carried on a soft breeze. Two doors down from the newsagents stood the fishing tackle shop and Iain’s mind turned to the rod sitting in the cupboard back at his flat, unused for months. Perfect; he wanted to be outdoors, the morning had already told him that much and he also wanted to be still, quiet and tranquil. So, fishing it was. He walked over to the shop and was pleased to see it opened early, at eight o’clock. The time was now six thirty and so resuming his position on the bench he opened his paper and began to read.

Chapter Twenty-Four
    Gone Fishing

    As the morning progressed, Iain watched the world wake up and the High Street slowly come to life; people scurrying to bus stops on their way to work, the volume of traffic steadily increasing until by the time the fishing tackle shop opened, a queue of cars, lorries and buses stretched from one end of the road to the other. The newspaper had been read from cover to cover within half an hour; the rest of the time he spent simply soaking up the morning sunshine and watching the world pass by. He wondered whether any of the people going about their daily business knew the end of the world was coming; and if they did, why were they carrying on as normal? He pitied them.
    Iain watched the man come and unlock the shop door and go inside; it would be another twenty minutes before a hand appeared to turn the small rectangular sign in the door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. Groaning as he stood, and shaking the movement back into his legs, he went to the shop. The bell over the door chimed as he walked in and the shop keeper appeared from a back room.
    “Good morning. What can I do you for?” sounding remarkable chirpy for the beginning of a working day.
    “Just a pint of mixed maggots please?” eyeing the expensive rods hanging on the wall.
    The