Flux

destruction: But who would be around to appreciate them? He thought of the story of Noah and the great flood and sympathised with what the poor fellow must have gone through.
    An engine chugged somewhere out of sight, along the canal and around a bend, bringing Iain from his day dreams. It wasn’t long before the brightly painted barge appeared, making slow and steady progress towards nowhere in particular. Iain waited until the last moment before reeling in his line. A middle aged couple sat on the back of the barge. The man, clad only in shorts with a hairy beer belly hanging over the top and the woman in similar garb with only a bikini top to preserve her modesty, waved as they passed. Iain shouted hello and noticed the man was swigging from a can of lager. He could have kicked himself for not bringing any beer for himself.
    Even though the barge moved slowly, the legal speed limit on canals being four miles per hour, its wake lapped at the edge of the brick towpath, making a not too displeasing sloshing sound. Behind the boat, clouds of silt churned up from the bottom of the canal spread out into the water, discolouring it brown, rather than the murky green it had been before the boat's passage.
    Iain replaced his maggots and cast back in, the float bobbing slightly in the disturbed water. Then it bobbed a little more before sliding beneath the surface. Iain picked up his rod, quickly and firmly striking it back to hook the fish and felt the line go taught. The tip of the rod bent over, bouncing as the fish struggled to get free, swimming hard to reach the safety of a bed of reeds. Iain kept the tension up but did adjust his reel to allow the fish to take some line rather than snapping it, the reel screeched. It felt a good sized fish and put up a valiant battle, but less than five minutes later Iain had it on the bank, trying to stop it flapping about while removing the hook from its thick rubbery lips.
    “Thank you Mr Fish,” he said as he bent over the bank and held it just beneath the surface of the water until it regained enough strength to swim away. With a flick of its tail it moved off into deeper water, splashing water on Iain as it did. On his chest the splash felt freezing, Iain looked down to see his skin had turned a vivid shade of pink. He took his tee shirt off his head and placed it back over his body, leaving globs of fish slime on the material. Then, sitting back down he re-baited his hook and settled in to wait for the next catch.
    He stayed on the bank all afternoon and caught a few small silvery Roach but nothing to match his first fish of the day. Just as he was starting to think about packing up and going home, contemplating what an enjoyable relaxing day he’d had, he experienced a rising feeling in his belly. He glanced back towards the bridge: There was something there, hanging.

    The rope was attached to the parapet of the bridge just at the apex; below it with feet almost skimming the water, swung a body. Its reflection was clearly visible in the shadow cast by the bridge; ashen grey, head cocked to one side and tongue protruding. Iain momentarily froze, eyes wide and mouth wider still before jumping up and running over with his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t heard any commotion but then again he’d been mesmerised, trancelike even, concentrating on the float at the end of his line.
    Before he reached the hanging body, panicking at how he would release it from the rope without dropping it into the water, it dissipated, as a cloud of exhaust fumes from a lorry engine would.
    He was seeing ghosts again. The realisation dawned on him that he’d forgotten to take his medication; any internal debates he’d been having on the subject were now well and truly settled. However, he was still taken aback at how quickly the effects of the drugs had worn off.
    Iain stood by the side of the canal and laughed.

Chapter Twenty-Five
    Back to Reality

    On the walk home Iain nodded, smiled and said hello to the ghosts he passed, which appeared in greater numbers than ever. None of them said hello back, or even acknowledged his presence. He wondered whether they were aware of him as he moved amongst them, feeling a thrill that they may not be; like a voyeur on the realm of the dead.
    Getting home, he almost bounded up the stairs and would have if he were not weighed down by fishing tackle. He was still ignoring the increasing pile of letters waiting for him. Once inside the door, he