Flux by Mark R. Faulkner

couple of minutes before Rebecca Goodman came through a door to meet him: “Good morning, how are you?” she asked, a professional, kindly smile on her face.
    “Not too bad.”
    “Would you care to come through?” She indicated towards the door, ushering him through into the small office beyond. She started to speak before he was seated. “So, what can I do for you today?”
    It was make your mind up time for Iain; did he lie and say he was well, thus allowing himself to go back to work, or did he tell the truth and deal with the consequences? He really didn’t know how he was going to answer until his mouth opened and he heard himself say; “I just need the all clear to go back to work.”
    “Oh, it may be a little soon after the trauma you’ve had.”
    “But I feel fine now.” He wondered how convincing he was as she studied him closely.
    “Your GP could have done that for you.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”
    “That’s OK, you’re here now. Any unusual symptoms?”
    In for a penny in for a pound; “No, a bit tired but even that’s getting better.”
    You fucking idiot!
    “So, do you feel up to work?” She asked, knowing he was holding something back but unable to force the truth.
    “Yes.”
    “OK then, I’ll get you a letter typed; you can pick it up in an hour. Although, if you do feel at all unwell or unable to cope then see your GP or call me straight away, do you understand that?” She had a concerned tone to her voice.
    It’s Ok for these doctors, with their mega money and insurance packages. They don’t have this stress. Iain thought to himself. “Yes I will,” smiling back at her.
    An hour to kill before he could collect the letter, he thought he should really call the bank. Standing outside the hospital entrance, he took a deep breath. He felt a fraud. Fetching the now crumpled letter from his pocket, he dialled the number printed at the top. After a lengthy automated message, he pushed nine to speak to an operator.
    “Hello, you’re speaking to Graham, could I have your telephone banking number please?”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “You do need that sir, for security reasons.”
    “Can’t I please just speak to somebody?”
    “Not without your pass code I’m afraid. Do you want me to post you one?”
    “No, I want to speak to somebody about my account please.”
    “Well, I’m afraid I can’t divulge any information without the code.”
    “Are you a robot?”
    “No sir.”
    “Well you sound like one,” and then, “Never mind.” Iain hung up before reaching the point of shouting and swearing into the phone.
    He didn’t know where he was going to turn and felt desperate, unable to cope with the mounting pressure. Iain needed to speak to someone without jeopardising his chance to earn some money; it also had to be somebody who could keep a secret. He couldn’t speak to his friends; they would worry and nag him to tell the doctor. He found himself thumbing Tim’s card. Turning, he made his way back through the doors in search of the clergyman.
    The chapel was deserted and silent. The silence was a blessing, as intended; it was a place of rest and quiet contemplation. Iain took a seat at one of the pews, it was only a small room, with daffodils in vases around the walls, and a small altar at the front, which held a book of condolence and a bible. On the front of the altar was a cross made of dark polished wood. Iain sat, not really thinking of anything, and enjoying the fact that no thoughts sprang into his mind.
    The room started to spin around him; with an audible pop, the cross on the altar spontaneously burst into flame. Shocked, he sat, transfixed; he could feel the heat on his face as flames licked the ceiling and the crucifix blackened and split. He thought he could see faint and grotesque figures dancing in the fire. A noise from behind snapped him from his trance.
    Spinning around, he saw Tim had entered the room. With mouth half open but no words