Flux

morning.

    He must have nodded off, taken by a fitful and uneasy slumber for he dreamt he was Jesus on the cross, suffering for the crimes of humanity. Feeling every blow of the hammer as the nails were driven into his wrists, he looked down on tormentors dressed in centurion garb as they hoisted him up, struggling for every last breath as he hung like a piece of meat.

    It must have been close to morning when he woke for there was just enough ambient light coming through the window to find his way to the toilet. As he peed, cast in shadow lying in the tub was the body; three quarters submerged in what appeared to be oily black water. Iain turned on the light. The tap was dripping and must have been all night. The plug was still attached to its chain and wrapped around the taps, something else must be the culprit responsible for blocking the drain.
    Iain groaned. The body in the bath had bloated, leaching fluids into the water. It had also started to smell. There was nothing else for it, taking off his top so as not to wet it with the foul soup, Iain pushed his arm past the shoulder and bloody stump of a neck of his friend and into the water. After feeling about for a little while, he pulled up a limp pale piece of flesh. From what part of the body he didn’t know.
    What a waste of meat! He thought while studying the morsel.
    What the fuck?
    Iain dropped to the floor and puked. Then cried; then puked some more. Jumping up and running from the bathroom, smashing his elbow on the basin in his hurry to get out, he threw himself onto the sofa where he curled into a tight ball wondering what he was going to do.

    He was still there when there came another knock at the door. “Go away!” Iain cried softly beneath his breath; too quietly to be heard from outside.
    Another knock, loud and firm; a full-fisted kind of knock. “Open up. Mr Andrews. Are you there?”
    Oh shit, oh fuck. It’s the police. How do they know? Still he remained motionless and silent, apart from a low whimpering, curled up on the sofa. The sound of voices could be heard from beyond the door. He then caught the words, “break it down!”
    Seconds later and with a loud crash, wood splintered in the frame around the lock and the door flew open, banging the wall as it did.
    Iain let out a small and pathetic, “help me.”

    The bailiff couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but he was a hard-hearted man who’d encountered more than his fair share of low life and started to recite his script. The policeman with him though, stood staring around the room, searching for anything incriminating. The map and scribbling’s on the wall were odd; the mess was quite frankly repulsive and the stain on the carpet just might be blood. However, Iain’s gore soaked face was a dead giveaway. He watched intently, formulating his plan as the bailiff said his piece.
    “What?” Iain asked incredulously, almost laughing out loud.
    “We’ve written to you on several occasions Mr Andrews,” giving his sternest look. “You should have moved out last week. We are here to make sure you do!”
    “When?”
    “Now I’m afraid Mr Andrews.”
    Iain went cold and clammy as the penny dropped. For weeks now he’d not even bothered to pick up his letters, let alone read them. “Wait, I can pay. Give me a week and I’ll raise the cash.”
    “It’s a bit late for that Mr Andrews!”
    The policeman raised an eyebrow. “May I use your toilet please?”
    Iain totally forgot himself for a moment, his mind temporally blanking out the fetid body in the bath; he indicated towards the bathroom, “be my guest.”
    Just as the policeman crossed the threshold to the small room, Iain remembered, and ran.

Chapter Thirty - Two
    On the Run

    “Stop him!” the policeman yelled, panic evident in his voice. He’d paused for a few vital moments, the scene in the bathroom too horrific for his brain to immediately register. Although he didn’t yet know why Iain had to be stopped, the bailiff was all too glad to assist and the tone of the constable’s voice told him enough to know that things were serious. He lunged at Iain, who was already almost out of the door, and attempted a rugby tackle around the waist.
    Iain sensed him coming, driving a fist backwards as he reached the top of the stairs. It caught the bailiff square on the nose, which erupted with a spurt of blood. The bailiff hit the ground, rolling about and clutching at his injured proboscis.
    Clad only in jeans and