Flux

bloody contents of his fetid stomach emptied over Iain’s face and neck, trickling down to meet the bed. Iain gagged and was sick himself. The old man’s body crumpled to the floor.

    The night nurse sat with his feet up on the desk situated just outside the ward. Yesterday had been his birthday and with the small amount of cash he’d received, had treated himself to a new game for his handheld console. He wasn’t supposed to be playing whilst at work, but if anybody needed him they’d push the bedside alarm. Checking the bank of lights mounted upon the wall next to him, he could see that nobody had.
    All was quiet, all was good.
    After being defeated by the boss at the end of level two for the third time, he cursed and flung the console into the drawer along with the multitude of sweet wrappers and coke cans. Lazily stretching and yawning loudly, he swung his feet off the desk and stood up to do his rounds.
    So it was, that after three and a half hours, Iain was discovered; quietly sobbing, lying on his back utterly immobile and covered in blood, phlegm and bile. Next to him, on the floor, lay Dirty Bertie, bodily fluids spreading out from him in a sticky puddle and as dead as a doornail.
    “Shit. Shit. Shit,” the nurse muttered out loud. He was going to need some help.

Chapter Five
    Silence

    The night nurse was glad of the fact his patient couldn’t speak as he summoned help, hopefully nobody would know how long Iain had lain there and by the time that he did finally find his voice, the sorry little episode may well be long forgotten. With the body of Bert removed and a curtain drawn around the bed, a team of nurses set about cleaning up the mess. Still too immobile to shower, Iain was quickly stripped of his clothes and bed sheets.
    Traumatised, he lay limply as well-meaning hospital staff set to work with sponges and water. Working with professional vigour they soon had the job done. Unfortunately, professionalism doesn’t always mean care and sympathy, which is what Iain needed more than anything else. As he lay naked and damp on the bed, he became overcome with feelings of humiliation and helplessness.
    Two hours later, two of the nurses who had helped clean him returned, “We’re just going to move you down the corridor a bit love,” one of them said to him, “to a room of your own.”
    All Iain could do in way of acknowledgement was to roll his eyes. He wished he’d had a side room all along but guessed they thought it only fair he had one now, following his ordeal.
    One of the nurses moved around the bed, making sure that nothing was loose, that no tubes could tangle, pull out and spill, before releasing the brakes and wheeling him along while the other followed behind, pushing his drip and monitor.
    It wasn’t far, thirty yards maybe, and Iain was pushed straight into position in the small private room. Plugging everything back in and applying the brakes one of the nurses said “See you later.”
    Talking between themselves about their plans for the coming weekend as they left, as if Iain wasn’t there, they shut the door on the way out. Iain was now alone with only his own thoughts for company.
    The walls were white; faded brown marks left by the residue of sellotape marked them where notices to one effect or another had long since been removed. The carpet was short and dark pink, a brown stain showed itself next to the bed; Iain told himself it was probably coffee, not wanting to think too hard about the alternatives. The room had a window of tinted glass set into an aluminium frame. The view which this afforded was of the red brick wall which stood outside, about three feet away and completely blocking out any other vista. At least he had the good fortune to be able to tell whether it was day or night.
    A blackboard was fastened to the wall above his head and scrawled on it were the words ‘Dr Goodman’ and ‘nil by mouth’. The chance of eating would be a fine thing.
    Furniture was scarce, a rather large wooden chair occupied one corner, the seat coated plastic-pink; a sink hung on the wall. Next to the bed stood a small cabinet and a table, designed so that it would fit over the bed and allow any patient easy access for feeding. In the top corner of the room was a small television set, the sign on it read ‘out of order’.
    The itch on Iain’s leg was still driving him mad. Even if there were anybody to tell of his discomfort, he would not be able. He wriggled, trying to