Flux

absentmindedly moving his hand down to finger the key in his pocket. He closed his eyes tightly to concentrate.
    When he opened them, the walls were white once again and he was sitting on a mattress of rubber rather than straw.

    Moments later the doctor entered the room; “Ah, you’re awake! And how are you feeling today?”
    Iain just stared at him, not really quite sure of what was going on.
    “That good eh?”
    Iain shook his head to clear it before answering; “So-so.”
    “Did you sleep well?” the doctor asked cheerily.
    “Er,” – had he been asleep? Iain had no way of telling but he certainly didn’t feel in any way refreshed.
    The doctor was talking, but Iain didn’t listen. He was busy trying to think of a way, any way he could, to escape. He knew the infant whose cries had been so persistent in his visions (were they visions? ) was crucial, but he couldn’t even begin to fathom out why. He needed to explore the labyrinth; the answers lay somewhere within the maze of stone and horror. Was it somewhere he’d visited before, in his dreams? He cast his mind back to the place in the desert; if so, there were people and the real world outside. If he could only find a way to get out…
    You’ll get horribly lost. And then you’ll die for sure.
    Not if it’s all a dream.
    Do you really believe that? he asked himself, and more importantly, do you want to take the chance? Iain didn’t; something deep inside his soul told him that to die there would also mean death in the real world (or the unreal?).
    “Do you think I could have a pencil and paper?” he asked the doctor. Iain had to be as sure as he could of not getting lost and would have to draw a map as he explored, or at least make a note of where he’d been.
    Mid-sentence, the doctor stammered over his words at the request. “Are you an artist?” he enquired.
    “Ah no, but I can draw a little. Thought it might help pass the time, you know?” In fact Iain had been an A grade art student in school and had planned on going to university. A lack of drive brought on by the discovery of beer and dope meant he’d failed his other subjects and academia wasn’t to be. He hadn’t drawn a picture since.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” and then he carried on talking about whatever he had been before the interruption, and Iain carried on not listening. Iain hardly noticed when the doctor left the room, so deep in his thoughts was he, but he was fully aware of his return, bringing with him an artist’s sketch book and a pack of wax crayons: “Sorry about the crayons, you’re not allowed sharp things.”
    “That’s OK, crayons are great thanks.”
    “Well, enjoy your drawing,” the doctor said on his way out of the room, keen to see the pictures for himself when done, hoping they might give a little insight into Iain’s brain.

Chapter Thirty-Eight
    Cartographer

    “What do you mean I can’t see him? He is my patient!”
    “Was.”
    “Was what?”
    “Your patient!”
    “Oh come on, I seriously believe there’s something physiological causing his condition. All I ask is a chance to examine him.”
    “We have doctors here.”
    “But I know the case history, and I’m a specialist in neurology. What harm can it do?” Trying to see Iain was more difficult than she’d anticipated, the amount of beaurocracy and hoops to jump through was quite amazing. She had no experience of dealing with the criminally insane, especially those that were cannibals. She slammed down the phone, frustrated but determined not to let things end there.

    Iain clutched his paper and crayon tightly, wanting to be sure that when the transition from one world to the next did occur, he’d still have them with him. He didn’t have to wait for long before literally in the blink of an eye, the smell of disinfectant became replaced with the stench of filth and damp. He looked down, relieved to see the drawing tools still clutched tightly in his clenched fist. He stood up, the key in his pocket slapped against the outside of his thigh. Had it been there all the time? He wondered, cursing himself for not checking while in the hospital room. He tried to remember, but the thought of it simply hadn’t occurred to him so there were no memories to begin with.
    The usual sounds drifted in from outside the cell, the groans, screams and the ever present child. Walking to the door, he grasped the bars and craned his head to see if anything could be seen stirring outside. It