Read Flux for Free Online Page B

“I’ll leave you in peace now but don’t forget where I am, and if you ever need anything…?”
    “Bye.” Iain thought that he might have hinted a little too hard but didn’t feel too guilty about it.
    “Bye then, see you soon.” And with that he gently shut the door behind him.
    Over the course of the next three weeks Iain made excellent progress in his recovery. In fact, the very next day Doctor Goodman seemed so pleased that she removed the drip from his vein and scrubbed out the words ‘fluids only’ from above the bed and didn’t replace them.
    A little while later, a chubby lady in an apron came and handed over a menu, asking him what he wanted for lunch. He chose the soup and when it came it was quite a moment. Having not eaten in so long, fed only through a tube in his arm, the smell was ravishing even though it was only tinned tomato.
    Using the button at the side of the bed, a nurse operated the electric motor to bend him into sitting position. Iain’s groan was louder than the creaking movement of the bed and the whirring of the small electric motor.
    He found the strength was also returning to his arms, even after such a short period. It was still an effort to lift spoon to his mouth but he managed it. Blowing to cool the thick red liquid, it burned a bit when lifted to his lips. He blew again and sucked it into his mouth. The taste was good.
    Halfway down the bowl, Iain became suddenly overcome with nausea. The nurse who’d stayed to guide him through the eating process had expected such a reaction. As if from nowhere a brown cardboard bowl was produced and held under Iain’s chin as he wretched and expelled the entire contents of his stomach, and some of the lining into it. He sent the food away.
    Left on his own, he felt frustrated with himself; if only he’d not been so greedy and eaten a little slower. He doubted that it would have made much of a difference. Disheartened at having the promise of a meal snatched away, his pessimistic voice spoke; telling him he was a fool to think that he was getting better. He was going to be in hospital for ever, wither away and die because he couldn’t eat.
    Optimism started to desert him and pessimism seemed to have the upper hand. Sinking into a pit of despair, the tears began to flow once more. Still sitting upright, his tender ribs hurt through sobbing and his stomach ached through the spasms of ejecting the soup. To say that Iain felt sorry for himself at that particular point in time would be rather an understatement.
    That’s when another voice entered into the jamboree in his head. This time it was not his own, being female and not one he recognised.
    “Stay strong and don’t despair.” The voice was tangible; had substance, coming from inside his head, but outside too.
    Iain’s pessimism was temporarily shocked into a stunned silence; replaced by confusion which was much more a feeling than conscious thought, like a proverbial slap to the face of someone who is hysterical.
    He thought he should maybe tell someone about the voice; Dr Goodman, or the clergyman whose name escaped him. It probably wasn’t a good sign while recovering from a severe head injury, but on the other hand it might delay his leaving hospital which was the very last thing he wanted. He decided to keep the new development to himself for the time being; he could let the right person know if it happened again, told him to do bad things or seemed wrong in any way. For now, he couldn’t see the harm in it.
    Ed came to visit every other day, with his mindless chatter and curly hair. Slowly, Iain’s spirits started to lift until eventually he could tolerate his busyness, to a degree. Within a week they were ready to try climbing out of bed and standing. A big moment for Iain. Ever so slowly, with the aid of the physio, Iain sat up; he imagined that he heard his body creak audibly. Swinging his legs around and off the bed, he tried his weight. The first attempt wasn’t a