Flux

upright now, there must be some kind of mistake.
    “Do you remember giving a stool sample at the police station?”
    “Yes,” Iain’s voice taking on a hesitant, questioning tone.
    “Well,” the doctor started, “it showed traces of human remains. The police then carried out some DNA analysis, and guess what?”
    Iain’s heart sank, disbelieving. “What?” although he already knew the answer.
    “There was a positive match to those people.”
    “There can’t have been, I didn’t do it.” Quietly, uncertain of himself. Could he have really munched on his friend, and Tim, who’d helped him so much while in the hospital? Tears welled in his eyes.
    “You have to face facts. Denial will do you no favours.”
    “But I can’t believe it. Won’t believe it. I wouldn’t do that, I’m not capable of it!”
    “But you did, and coming to terms with that is the first step on your way to recovery. It wasn’t your fault; you are very ill Iain.”
    Shocked and trembling, Iain asked, “So, what happens now, what if I did kill them?” still in an understandable state of denial.
    “Then we concentrate on getting you better.”
    “How long will that take?”
    “As long as it takes. Best not to think about it at this time.”
    “Will I ever get out?”
    “I’m afraid that’s not for me to say.”
    “Oh.”

    Still unconvinced of his state of insanity, Iain sat on the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth while the doctor looked on sympathetically but no doubt making mental assessments and judgments. All Iain wanted was one tiny shred of proof that he might not be imagining all that had happened. Still unconvinced he would be capable of such atrocities, he racked his brains for a way. Almost unconscious of it, he started to slowly speak. “There was a man, outside my room.”
    “A man?”
    “Yes; another patient I think?”
    “What was he doing; this man?”
    “Standing, staring through the hatch. I wanted him to stop. He pushed his thumbs into his eyes. I think he’s dead now!”
    “Can you describe him to me?” The doctor sat forwards on the edge of his seat.
    Iain did describe him, in the best detail he could; the baldness, the stubble, the inane fixed grin and the dark soulless eyes. “Does that sound like anyone from here? And why was he outside my cell?”
    The doctor paled. The description did fit an ex-inmate, a killer like Iain, who had committed suicide a year previously in much the same way as described. “No. There was nobody there,” his scientific mind unwilling to entertain the thought.
    Iain thought he saw recognition on the doctor’s face, a subtle whitening of his skin and it gave him a tiny shred of hope.

Chapter Thirty-Seven
    Labyrinth

    The ancient and rusted iron door stood ajar. Iain raised himself from the fusty straw and hesitantly stepped over to peer through the bars and into the corridor beyond. Darkness loomed and shadows danced in flickering torchlight. Iain saw that his cell stood at the end of a passage and from down the dank, dark corridor came harsh, piercing screams. He tried to blot them from his perception. The cries of the infant were still there also, but for this he had no filter.
    Pulling gently at the edge of the door – in an attempt to open it enough to be able to squeeze out -- he found it didn’t move. He tugged harder. The hinge let go a colossal screech as the door jerked open, reverberating off the walls and down the passageway. Iain froze. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself and he gave serious thought to returning to his bed and forgetting all about an escape. But nobody heard, or if they did they didn’t come running. Whether through bravery or foolishness, Iain returned to the door.
    Stepping out from the cell, he half turned to look at the lock. Poking from the outside of the door was a key; large with a circular handle. He reached out to take the key and slipped it into his pocket. It weighed heavy and slightly reassuring against his leg.
    Venturing out into the passageway he tried to stay in the shadows, pressing himself against the rough damp walls. Rivulets of water dribbled down from gaps in the ceiling and where they did the moss grew abundantly. The entire space stank of piss and fear. Other things moved with him in the dark but Iain refused to think too hard about what they might be. A millipede trudged across his hand and he bit his lip, stifling back a yelp of surprise.
    The cacophony of misery increased