The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (12 page)

“Heart attack.”

Hart is understandably confused.

“Pardon?”

“Heart attack. My Granny. Just behind there.” he says, pointing at Cathedral Lanes without looking up, meaning the cobbled alleys around the cathedral itself. There isn't much Hart can really say in reply.

“I wasn't there. She'd gone shopping with her
carer
. I was working full time by then, and didn't see so much of her. She didn't mind so much by the end; she'd gone a bit, you know...” he punctuates this with a waggle of the hand. Hart understands. “But she was still always pleased to see me when I went to visit. When it happened, apparently she wasn't out of breath or anything, or even struggling; two minutes before they'd been laughing and talking about Brighton...of all things...she was a very giggly woman. Very friendly, not one of these nasty, bitter old ladies. Good laugh. I suppose it might have even been the laughing, at the time, you know. Either way, down she went.” And he accompanies this part with a surprisingly blunt effect; he slaps his hand hard, on his thigh, like he's overcompensating, covering his pain.

“Heart went, down she goes. Nothing they could do. Dead before the ambulance got there.” He pauses a moment, and then turns his red eyes to Hart. “So, see, this is the thing for me, Hart. She died RIGHT THERE. Well within The Foyer.”

Hart sighs, not unkindly, and settles back whilst Bowler talks.

“So,” continues Bowler, turning further, to stay looking into Hart's eyes now he has moved backwards, his hands turned upward into cups, waiting to receive. “Where is she, Hart? Don't get me wrong; I'm GLAD she's not here. That she's not stuck with...all this. But she died here, HERE. So where's SHE gone? And, and, and why...why are WE here and she's NOT?” He isn't angry. He's after answers, pleading. And worse, he knows Hart doesn't have them.

Hart laces his fingers together and looks at them. These are questions he used to ask, used to need to know. But he knows now that they don't matter, in the long run. They are here, and surviving and getting out are the priorities, not the things that can't be changed. He can't give hollow comfort, and wouldn't know how anyway, but thinks that in this moment when Bowler needs him-a rare moment of emotional insight-he has something. Not something he really believes fully himself, but with nothing better to say, it might suffice.

“Perhaps...perhaps she IS here..” says Hart. “Perhaps she's here, but on a different frequency. In the way that everyone in our Foyer are roughly on one frequency-close, but not close enough to be able to communicate like us-and we're all loosely on it, not totally fixed, which explains why we can fade in and out with George sometimes, for example...and your Grandmother, and others like her, are on another frequency altogether. Except we can't see them or even be aware of them, the same way the living can't see us.”

He falls silent, not knowing whether to go on as Bowler hasn't even looked at him throughout this. His gaze is back at the floor. Hart is searching for something to say to follow up, and Bowler saves him the bother by speaking himself.

“I don't buy that. Sorry, Hart...but I don't. Even if I did, I wouldn't like to think of her being ANYWHERE that's like this.” His voice is flat, his face expressionless, and Hart thinks this must be the worst week of Bowler's existence, living or otherwise. Hart is wrong. So far, it is only the second worst, and although this week will end horrifically-almost bad enough to make it number one-the next four weeks will shunt this one firmly into third place. For this day will end with Bowler riding the train, and all that comes after for Bowler in The Foyer will, in one way or another, be a result of that experience.

“You want to know what I think?” he says, and Hart does want to know, though he thinks Bowler will be wrong. He wants to know Bowler's thinking. “You want to know why I think we're here and she's not?” He takes Hart's silence as confirmation to continue. “I think we're here because we wasted our lives. I think we had the potential to be anything, and do anything, and we did exactly nothing. Born here. Died here. Let me guess; you were born here too, yeah?” Hart nods, quietly. He has a reply immediately, but he has to let Bowler speak.

“Granny did something. She TRAVELLED, at least. She did missionary work, you know. Built stuff, over there. Her and Granddad, though I never knew him. She taught, she ran a Brownies. All those kids she gave something to, she did that. AND she used to clean the church. That would have scored some points, I bet.”

This makes Hart interrupt.

“Bowler-”

“She not stuck in some shitty Foyer,” Bowler continues, oblivious. “She got it right, we got it wrong. She's in a better place. And I fucking hope Mum and Dad go the same way. They WILL. Man, they did all sorts of shit.”

“Bowler-”

“Dad started a business, gave hundreds of people jobs. Factory. Mum was a full time teacher, FULL time; God knows how many lives she had an impact on. Me, I've done sweet fuck all.” He sits back, letting his head flop backwards with the motion so he is looking at the sky. “This is a punishment.” he says, talking to the clouds, as if he resents their freedom as they drift effortlessly above. Above and away. “Not the worst one, but one that gives us what we deserve. Monotony. Just like our lives.” Hart notes this; rare use of vocabulary for Bowler. Monotony. “And we're being forced to THINK, to ACT, for the first time, to get out of here. It's too see how much we want it. This is what it's here for.”

“
BOWler
-”

Bowler smiles a little, and turns his head, still hanging backwards, to look at Hart.

“I know, I know exactly what you think. But let's look at it scientifically, then. It still adds up the same.”

Hart is suddenly intrigued, despite himself. In the near distance he sees Churchill (Bowler's name for him; apparently the Guest they call Churchill looks like some bulldog character on the TV) come out of the building behind Bowler,  talking silently and frantically to himself, scratching at his face. As usual, like all of the others, he sees them and pretends he hasn't, immediately falling silent and turning around. He heads back inside the building. Hart notes all of this without interest, and continues listening to Bowler.

“You
wanna
hear this, Hart. I'm no scientist, but get ready for Dr Frank Bowler's big scientific...”-he searches for the word-”...bullshit..”

“Dr who?”

“
Heh
, you just said it.”

“What?”

“Never mind. You talk about energies, and frequencies and shit, right?”  says Bowler, looking up again now, his broad shoulders spread on the back of the bench and his arms moving lazily about as he makes his point. If Hart didn't know better, he'd think Bowler was basking in the sun's rays, even though they are passing straight through him, and he will never again have to worry about sunburn.

“Well, how about this,” Bowler goes on, “How about if you live a really good, active life, and you LIVE, and love, and do things...what if that builds up an energy? Every adventure, every kiss, every RUSH you get builds up something we can't even see? Like a, a, a store of energy. What if that sets your frequency, if you like, and when you die, because you're ON that frequency, you get to go somewhere where that frequency means-let's go your way, ok, your idea, like all there is after life is Foyers everywhere, okay? We'll go with that; that the frequency you're on means you can do more than we can, a BETTER frequency.” He sits up, waving his hands rapidly now. “One that means you can walk straight through the Foyer wall, or can talk to the other Guests, or even...I
dunno
, even fucking FLY if you like. Like...” he pauses, blowing out his cheeks as he thinks. “Well...like angels.”

Hart is silent.

“And if you were just...look, BAD, for want of a better word...that just kills your energy dead. And when you die, you don't even get to come here, you don't even get a chance, you just flat DIE. Nothing. And on the other end of the scale, if you live a life of, of...like, you're happy, and do good stuff and just LIVE, and help other people live, maybe your frequency, your energy, is so full and high that you go somewhere opposite. Somewhere your frequency is of a type where you can do anything, a Foyer that isn't really a Foyer.” Bowler snaps his fingers as another idea occurs to him, and lifts his head up properly now, holding an open palm to Hart as he offers his idea.

“Like if you fill your energy up like that, you go to a Foyer far better, far more free and loving than the real world because everyone that gets to go there are the good, adventurous, kind people. And they can all fly, and be happy. Where the Foyer HAS no wall. Jesus. Hart...does that not sound like Heaven to you? A free world full of the best people?” He looks off into space for a second, shaking his head, getting around his own thinking.

“And when people die and come back, those out of body people you hear about,” Bowler eventually continues, “Maybe they've seen a glimpse of it, all these people that die and talk about how they saw their families and how it just felt so good and warm...or these people that wrote the Bible, and talk about heaven and that, maybe they saw it somehow...” He is passionate now, lips wet, hands out in front of him, shaping in the air what he is seeing in his mind.

“Maybe it's not decided by a God or whatever, whether you get to go to a good place or a bad place. Maybe the energy from the way we live our lives chooses it.” Bowler then pauses, considering something, then says it.

“Maybe the Flyers are the ones that lived that way. Maybe they're the ones that get to go to that top place.”

Hart holds up a hand. Bowler has spoken more in one sitting than Hart has ever heard, and it is now time to have his say, because Bowler is missing one important, vital thing. The one thing that Hart knows that means Bowler is wrong.

“All right. So tell me, Bowler. What do you know about my life?”

Bowler opens his mouth, and stops. He doesn’t have an answer, but also sees that Hart is slightly angry. Hart is trying to contain it-Bowler thinks this is because Hart  doesn't want to BE so-but he is angry
nontheless
.

“So I have touched no lives? Helped no one? Well did you know I pretty much single
handedly
kept a school open?” says Hart.

Bowler is stunned.

“Getty Hart Primary School. Ring any bells?”

It does. Half of his childhood friends WENT there, for God's sake. The connection was obvious and yet not obvious. He has heard the name so many times in his life that the idea it was named AFTER someone has never occurred to him, the same way that Rolls Royce was just Rolls Royce. That the name came from actual people was something you never thought about.

“Your mother was a teacher. Fine,” says Hart. “That place was going under until I stepped in. That was a big sacrifice for me, Bowler. A LOT of money, even back then. They changed the
sodding
NAME out of gratitude. I kept something going that helped children get THEIR start for the last, what, 70-odd years? And it's still doing it. I visited, and taught, all the time; and guess what? Every time, I felt that 'rush', as you call it, of satisfaction, and was aware of what I'd started, what it was doing, making a difference. I saw it, and felt it. Takes a lot of money to keep a school from going under, Bowler. Do you know what I did for a living? You still don’t know, do you?”

Bowler, silent now, shakes his head, red faced. Hart's expression has softened slightly, but the anger is still there.

“I was a barrister. Fought the good fight every day, pretty much. And unlike most, I made sure I was selective in my clients. And helped the RIGHT clients. And made it so they could afford it. So again, I helped a LOT of people. It was my job. And I felt good about it. And yes, it paid well. Well enough to start a school. And see the world.”

Hart leans forward, looking stern, and speaks slowly. “I stayed in Coventry because it's my home, and I LIKED it here. Not because I didn't have the imagination to leave. So please, Bowler...don't judge me because you feel you wasted YOUR life. It's a nice theory, but I'm proof that it doesn't hold ANY water.” And Hart sits back suddenly, folding his arms. He doesn't like making himself into a window, and-though he wouldn't admit it-he is ashamed of his anger here. He knows how anger can grab you in The Foyer, and it was a struggle to keep that greedy feeling at bay. It wasn't Bowler's fault; he was just thinking aloud, whilst he was in pain.