Flux

elbows when they’d fallen off bikes and told them off when they were noisy, bad or ill-mannered as if they were her own.
    As the friends grew into their teenage years, it would be her house they came back to when they got too drunk and she’d often wake in the morning to find them asleep on her sofa. She used to make them breakfast and tea to help with the hangovers. Of course, she was never too amused to be cleaning up vomit at four in the morning, but she still loved those boys.
    With a deep breath and a sigh, she got up from the computer desk and went to put on the kettle. Working on autopilot, in a daze bought on by shock and stunned disbelief, she boiled the kettle to make a pot of strong tea. She reached up into the cupboard for two mugs, but found herself instead fetching out tumblers. Gulping back her tears, she grabbed a bottle of malt whisky from the living room and slowly made her way up the stairs, tumblers in hand, to take care of her son.

    Rebecca Goodman was at home, pacing the room, thinking there was something she must have missed and racking her brains for explanations. She knew it must be something physical to do with the accident; why hadn’t she been more insistent about taking control of his treatment? The psychologists obviously hadn’t had much in the way of success; this gave her a small sense of smug satisfaction which she quickly pushed away, feeling guilty. People had died.
    She tried to call the police station, to try and find out where Iain was, or where he was going to be taken. All she got was the engaged tone. Reporters from all over the country were no doubt also attempting to gather any information they could. It wasn’t everyday that they came across a home grown cannibal, it’s the sort of story which really sells newspapers.
    Never mind, there is plenty of time for that. Moving to the bookcase, she started to plot her course of action.

Chapter Thirty-Five
    Sponge Bath

    What Iain saw when he opened his eyes were walls of rough grey stone, huge blocks of about three feet in length and pitted with age. Moss and mould grew up from the bottom, rising from a floor of brown earth, growing in cracks which once upon a time may have contained mortar. There was no toilet and flies hummed around a stinking pile of faeces in the corner; giving off a sickening, gut churning stench. A pile of straw along one of the damp walls seemed to be the bed; it too was mouldy and even one or two mushrooms were growing there. From the opposite wall, about half way up, hung two shackles dangling from rusted iron chains.
    At first, Iain didn’t notice the gargoyle sitting in the corner; motionless, its pitted grey skin blending perfectly with the stone, only the red of its eyes gave it away, and the panting. It was huge, larger than a Rottweiler and with pointed teeth curled up over its top lip. Iain noticed folded wings on the gargoyles back, thin and bony like a bat or pterodactyl.
    They stared at each other, neither moving. Iain was too petrified to attempt anything other than shallow breathing and he did this as quietly as he possibly could for fear of provoking an attack. The gargoyle seemed patient, if it hadn’t been panting, eliciting the occasional blink or licking saliva from its teeth using a forked tongue, Iain could have been forgiven for thinking that it was merely a stone effigy and not alive at all. It was keeping guard over its charge.
    He needed to go; whether it was through fear or a natural urge, he was desperate for a dump. He glanced over at the steaming pile in the corner and groaned, then looked back at the gargoyle which still pierced him with its stare, and groaned again. “Oh man,” he sighed quietly to himself before edging his way to the corner, ever so slowly, no sudden movements! Thankfully, the gargoyle simply sat, watching intently as Iain dropped his trousers, noticing that his jeans had been changed for clean white trousers, and squatted over the stinking heap. Flies buzzed around his head as he strained; he finished the job quickly.
    With his own stink added to that already there, Iain realised he had no paper with which to wipe himself. Grimacing, he frantically looked around the room for anything to use; there was nothing. He contemplated straw from the bed, but his illogical mind dismissed it; not wanting to soil where he slept even though it was already filthy. In the end he used his hand. Hooking his fingers to reach into his crevice and get all of it,