The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (13 page)

They sit in silence. Hart will not apologise, but he needs to make it better.

“Although the fact that I once got a chap off an arson charge who then went on to burn down a carpet warehouse might have some effect,” he says,

The silence continues, but it is now better. Eventually, Bowler's curiosity gets the better of his own embarrassment.

“Did you...did you ever get m-” and he cuts off, as he’s had the realisation that caps this week as the second worst of Frank Bowler's existence so far, and the bottom falls out of his world.

He passes straight through the bench and onto the floor, where he keels over and curls into a ball, wide eyed and open mouthed. Hart leaps off the bench and crouches next to him, grabbing him without thought and shouting.

“Bowler! Bowler! What is it? What? Bowler!”

And Bowler doesn't look at him as he is still in total shock, doesn't even hear the questions. He has realised that which will destroy him here, and as he gasps out the words, Hart knows it, and despairs.

“I have...a wife...I have a wife, Hart...” and he wails, an open, soul-hurt cry that comes out as a ragged screech.

“Ah...
aahaa
...Hart...her place...her flat...OUR home...it's inside the Foyer, Hart...”

Hart lets go.

“She...she lives here...” and then he is lost in hysterical tears.

Hart sits, and rubs his temples with his fingers.

***

Part 2-Orientation

Chapter 4: In Which We See The First One In 60 Years,  Bowler Takes The Train, We Are Presented With The Irony Of Running For Your Life, And Learn The Physics Of The Dead

***

Hart found
Bowler on Granny's Bench, as he’d known he would. They hadn't seen each other for two weeks, although Hart knew throughout that time that he could have found Bowler here any day. If Bowler needed anything first and foremost, it was comfort, sadly. And this place was as close as he would get to it.

The time in between had been tough on Hart, but he dreaded to think what it would have been like for Bowler. In all the time Bowler had been here, he had never been on his own for more than an hour or two. Yes, there were people like George and Sarah that he could spend time with, but it wouldn’t be like anything he was used to. Hart only hoped that Mark had not found him and been in his ear, and that Bowler had been smart enough to stay out of the way of The Beast. He was pretty sure of the latter, but he was greatly concerned
nontheless
; he had inadvertently made it so Bowler would always have to fear being alone more than anyone in The Foyer, by forming their bond. Bowler only knew an existence there with Hart, only knowing this cold, alien world where you could influence nothing through the filter of a companion.

Hart had died, and come into a second world, then gone through the hell of adjusting. Bowler had adjusted with a crutch. Being alone would mean he would have to do it all over again.

Hart didn't know if Bowler could hold onto his sanity after adjusting a second time (
and after the toll The Train took
,
don't forget that
the voice in Hart's head told him.)

It had taken Hart this long to admit to himself that he had picked the fight, or at least escalated it to levels that it should not have reached. He had mocked Bowler on a level that was totally unnecessary, and Bowler had responded in kind, hurt and angry. Hart didn't agree with what Bowler had said-he would
never
agree with Bowler on
that
issue-but knew that he shouldn't have reacted the way he did; to let anger take hold of him. Hart had learned to lock such things down long ago, and had taken a great deal of trouble over doing so over many years. Hart knew that he had escalated the argument. He was to blame. Such  thoughts did not come easily to him, but two weeks was a long time in The Foyer.

He approached the bench from behind, seeing Bowler's stocky shoulders slouched above the back of the seat (he was always nagging Bowler about his poor posture) and not viewing his face until he slowly made his way around the side, nervous about what he would find.

Bowler's face was blank. Not the utterly vacant emptiness of the Loose Guests, but there was no thought there at the moment. Although Bowler hadn't had anywhere near enough time for lunacy to set in-and therefore for his hands to shake or his face to change-he had clearly brushed up against it, and come away feeling the effects. Hart hoped it wasn't permanent. Bowler had obviously been through hell...but Hart thought maybe he was over the worst of it. Maybe he’d even started to adapt to it like Hart had. Maybe being connected with Hart hadn't made it worse for him after all.

Bowler’s breathing looked easy, and he at least looked relaxed…but at the same time,
aware
in a way Hart hadn't seen before. He paused, noting that this would probably not be a good thing for their relationship. He already suspected Bowler was starting to realise that it wasn't a one way thing between them, and this could only widen the gap. Either way, it was time to speak.

“Hello, Bowler,” said Hart, and felt a sudden, nasty little bite of satisfaction-despite himself-as Bowler jumped.

“Hart...” Bowler said, putting a hand to his chest. Bowler hated himself for it, but he felt an enormous rush of warmth as he saw Hart standing there. Relief. He'd handled the worst of it over the last fortnight, but things would be so much
easier
now. Things after The Train had been as bad as anything could possibly be, but Hart had been there, at least. This had been different. Not as bad-not even close-but bad in a different way. The unending loneliness, without even the blessed relief of sleep, the constant burden of relentless thought...Bowler would never be able to put words to these feelings-he didn't think that reflectively-but he understood exactly why things had been tough, knew it in his own way.

Even so, he wouldn't run back. He'd sworn that over and over again. That was what had gotten him through the dark nights by himself, even at the one point where it was
really
bad (before he'd started to pull himself together, before he'd gotten over the peak) and he thought he'd somehow died all over again, and the terror that he would have to start from scratch.
If he thinks he can just waltz up, and expect me to rush back, in his stupid
suit
, he can go fuck himself.
Hart didn't look ruffled in the slightest. He looked like he'd laughed his way through the last two weeks. But then, Hart never liked to look ruffled.

“Are you...all right?” asked Hart, genuine concern on his face.

Bowler stared at him for a long time.

“Been better.”

There was more silence. It was very early-maybe 7am-and there were few people about in town, and even fewer cars. Those that did walk past had frost for breath. It was one of the few things that Hart liked about being dead; no cold. But they both hated the Foyer during these quiet times. It made the place feel-it was a pun they'd both made so many times that it had become a serious phrase to them-like a ghost town. Like there was no life even outside of the Foyer. It was a thought far too unpleasant to even consider.

Hart took a deep breath.

“I'm sorry, Bowler...I'll get that out of the way right now. Though you know I hate you going on about that sort of stuff, I gave you permission to do so, and...anyway, I went too far. I forgive you for what you said back, I goaded you into it, and...look, it's my fault,” he finished, and folded his arms.

Bowler just continued to look at him. Hart felt that this was not the appropriate response.

“This isn't something that is easy for me to say, Bowler.”

Bowler gently shrugged.

“I appreciate that,” he said, crossing one leg awkwardly over the other in his seat, “But I'm sick of you just brushing off what I say. That's bullshit.” His face was pinched, as if he was trying to prove something. It made him look older.

Hart bit his tongue, and sucked back his sudden rise of anger; he had to sort this out.

“Bowler,” he said with as little sigh in his voice as he could manage, “You know I don't agree with you on
that
issue, and you also know I never will. But I don't want to be...” Hart tightened his hands by his sides, pushing the word out, “...dismissive. You are...you're my friend, after all.” Hart’s hands relaxed. As with most difficult conversations, getting the words out was hard, but made everything infinitely easier once they were voiced. And he meant it, after all. “So let's just...let's just agree that we'll...I don't know, we'll try each
others
ways of getting out, yes? And not discuss the whys and wherefores. They don't really matter. As long as we remember not to…you know. Believe too much. Dangerous.”

Hart held up his hands, and cast his gaze up the street, squinting in the morning light with a whimsical sigh. 

“Anyway, let's be honest...” he added, “It's not like we have many better things to do.”

Hart thought it was a fair apology, and honest. It had been even harder to give than he had expected, but there was relief now. And even more when Bowler finally smiled in response, faintly.

“You must be kidding,” he said, “Bert and Sammy are on their way over for cocktails, and they're bringing some
smokin
' hot bitches with '
em
too.” Hart smirked, and Bowler waved a hand loosely over the seat next to him, as shifted sideways. With that, everything was back to normal, and they both knew it.

Hart sat, and for a few minutes they watched the birds, milling about on the floor of the mini plaza. Hart used to love birds when he was alive. Now he hated them with a passion that he knew stemmed from jealousy. He’d never told Bowler.

“So...I have to ask, Bowler,” Hart said eventually, trying to make it sound casual. He had to know. In the Foyer, you had to try and get the
real
curiosity out. “What was it like for you?”

Bowler watched the birds pecking about, and considered the question. Thought about the sense of loss, of utter helplessness. Of having so little direction that it was scary. Feeling the pull of the perimeter, even of the train, anything, because
some
thing had to work...and the nights. Of Mark clearly trying to tell him he had all the answers, and realising without much surprise that Hart was right; Mark was Going Loose. Of communicating with Mark and George here and there and it being like a poor substitute for a drug; he wasn't used to this, he needed to talk, to hear another voice responding to what he had to say. Of once hearing the cry of The Beast, sudden and deafening and terrible, and from nowhere. The sound suddenly cutting in halfway through, like someone had taken their finger off a mute button. Not being able to tell how far away he was, not knowing whether to run and risk being seen, or to hide. And worst of all, during that one, really bad night; that slowly growing feeling of his mind being levered up from its moorings, starting off so small like a splinter, then building up to a crowbar, that terrible pressure building up in his head. Almost a physical pain, and realising with great terror that he liked the idea of what was happening. That maybe this
was
the only way out, the only way to deal with it, and knowing how easy it would be to just...
snap
. It was that realisation that made him focus most of all, made him pick something to use to get through it.

If that bastard could do it, I can bloody do it.

Eventually he'd gotten better, and come out the other side, but that night had scared him badly. It made him realise again-just from a different perspective-what there was to fear here. But it wasn't as bad as The Train; this was different. This had been in the mind only. After The Train had been in...everything.

What Bowler actually said in reply was:

 “I can't lie, Hart. You know what it was like. You must have been through it. And without knowing you could come back to me if you wanted. Before now, I mean. It was...it was bad. But I've been through worse.”

Hart nodded, and was about to tell him he knew, but it was at that moment-for the first time in 60 years, not seen remotely on a TV but in the actual flesh and close enough to touch-that a
Bluey
walked right by in front of them.

After a second of shell-shocked silence, Hart whipped around to tell Bowler to come on-not that it would have done any good, as he suddenly couldn't speak-but Bowler wasn't there. He was already up and running after the
Bluey
.

***

“I'll find you...after.”   says Hart, though he knows Bowler isn't listening. He's gone, staring along the length of carriage C through eyes that no longer wish to see.

Hart's impulse, unusually, is to grab Bowler. He wants to reach in through the wall of the train and pull Bowler out, to make him stand on the platform beside him whilst the train pulls away, to keep him safe. But Hart doesn't. He looks at his friend through the scratched glass window and tries to find the right words to send him on his way.

Bowler's jaw is set firm, though his bottom lip is working up and down, twisting into a grimace, then falling loose as his head rolls back on his shoulders to stare at the ceiling, eyes closed, forehead raised in despair...then the determination sets in and the whole process begins again. It's like watching an
animatronic
dummy.

Hart looks up the platform, seeing the station masters (
were
they still called station masters?) checking with one another. The train will be setting off soon. Hart isn't happy; this is not a good time to be doing this. Grief was the worst kind of motivation for it. The pain after will be bad enough, but to go in with such turmoil in the mind...is bad. Hart looks at the figure partially covered from view by a NO SMOKING sticker and worries that he won't come back. Not that Bowler could break The Foyer-Hart knows that won't happen-but that Bowler will not come through this as himself.