The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (16 page)

He doesn't know the voice, doesn't assign a face to it. He can't. He endures the pain, and listens in darkness, lost.

“I know you can't see me. You will, eventually. It's just going to take a long time. A few weeks, normally. But for you...”

Bowler waits. If he could feel his body, he would be screaming.

“...that's not helpful. But listen, or try to understand. The pain goes away first, and that's good, but the worst bit is the waiting. In the dark, not being able to make your mind work, no feeling. It's like...it's the hardest thing you'll ever do here. I did it. Actually, when the pain goes away, for me...that's when the worst bit started.”

Bowler realises, vaguely, that's he's talking about the agony ending, and how that could be a bad thing. Bowler, if he could, would be rolling and screaming, crying and yelling, and tries to imagine the pain not being there. He can't. Bowler hears him, and somehow feels the white hot steel fibres of fire pushed through every piece of his skin even though it doesn’t seem to be a part of him, and this time he can't understand these words.

“Because for me...when your mind comes back just enough to be aware, and be conscious, and you're in the dark, and can't talk, and it's just unending...but you still can't think
enough
...”

Silence for a long time. Bowler doesn't know it's only about 4 seconds, but it seems like an afternoon of pain to him.

“...I don't know how I did it. But for you, it's going to be easier. I'm going to sit with you. All the way through it. Just like in the beginning, do you remember? I'm going to talk to you again. I'm going to help you through. It won't be as bad. OK? I'm...I'm here.”

 He tries. But can't imagine enduring this pain any more than right now, of being able to go through it any more than this very second. It's incomprehensible, but everything is now.

And as Bowler begins 4 terrible, terrible weeks-the third being, in fact, the worst of his existence, the peak before he started to come out-Hart tries to think of something to say to pass the time. Nothing will help any more than anything else, so he thinks of a tale to tell.

“Did I ever tell you about the second time I tried to break The Wall? I know this sounds unbelievable, but I tried a second time. Not on The Train, obviously, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Plus, my thinking was, this time I knew when to let go, once I could tell it wasn't going to work. I'd already experienced and KNEW I couldn't get through, like everyone needs to, feeling it for themselves. Of course, it wasn't that simple...”

Bowler hears him, and his struggles continue.

***

1980:

There's a helicopter in Pool Meadow car park.

There's people lining the streets, and the police are everywhere, attempting to keep it all under control. Hart thinks the whole thing is ridiculous. It's not like it's the Queen turning up. Just some awful singer.

But the people don't care, they're everywhere, going
doolally
. They're stood along the full length of the car park, under a bullet-grey sky that the promoters would no doubt wish was full of sun. But it's mid-February, and the desired summer feel will not happen today. People are cheering, but people cheering in thick winter coats and scarves doesn't have the same effect. Hart can't believe they've actually cordoned off the whole car park, just for some silly appearance by some silly idiot who's sold a few records and cassettes. They won't even remember him in a week.

He looks at George, and George seems to be as happy as everyone else, smiling contentedly, looking around at the people. George always did seem happiest when there were lots of people about, and this was something a lot more special than normal. He'd be here even if Hart hadn't asked him to be; he'd be here for the show. Normally, Hart would be as well, even though he wasn't interested. It was something different, that was all.

But that's not the reason he's here today.

He doesn't really know why he's asked George along; after all, if this goes wrong-and it probably will-it's not like George can talk to him and keep him company. And he can't explain what he'd want George to do; move Hart somewhere where's there's at least something to listen to. It's too complicated. He just hopes George has the wherewithal to do it by himself.

Either way, he'd find out.

The screaming is at fever pitch now, as the spinning blades begin to slow and the security men waiting by the small podium-plus microphone, of course- rush over, ducking as they go to the helicopter, freshly touched down in the deserted car park surrounded by the people-packed streets. Hart notices the police cordon at the end of the road, at the T junction. They don't want the crowd blocking that street, spilling out into the road. He looks to the opposite side of the car park, at the people lining the pavement, 3 abreast, the police lined up behind them, stopping people spilling onto the road itself. They're far too far away to see anything. The people here, where they are,  these people are the lucky ones, and they have the best view going. They're almost close enough to touch. But, of course, the
real
best seats in the house belong to George and Hart.

Strangely, they're still only just in front of the barrier, and only that much closer because, obviously, they don't want to be Passed Through by anybody. If it wasn't for that, they'd be on the other side of the barrier. Certain social conventions seem to never break for the Guests; the crowd aren't supposed to be any closer, so Hart and George don't stand any closer, unless absolutely necessary. Hart suddenly notices Mark stood on the other side of the crowd, sees the big man easily. Mark is taller than the people he is stood in the midst of. Hart panics for a moment-has Mark had the same idea? Will he try it even if he has? Will it affect Hart's plans if he does?-but Mark simply nods towards Hart, looks at the helicopter, back to Hart, then shakes his head and heads up the hill towards
Gosford
St, with his large, lolling gait of a walk. Hart lets out a sigh of relief, and notes that even Mark won't try it. Twitchy Mark.

The security men open the side door of the helicopter, and the oaf gets out, dressed in a navy blue and white tracksuit. Big, clearly dyed black hair. Sunglasses. Far too-white teeth. Hart thinks the man might actually be wearing a wig. Plus the sideburns are about a decade too late. Even Hart knows that much. This man is pushing his luck. Either way, he still has fans in Coventry by the looks of it, even though his star has faded. It's irrelevant to today's work anyway.

George is actually clapping as the people reach a crescendo, and the police spread their arms wide against the slight rush. Hart looks at him, and George looks back happily, eyebrows raised. He doesn't care what Hart thinks on this matter, he's enjoying himself, and is happily daring him to pass mimed comment. He even gives deliberate grin, leaning toward Hart and clapping harder. Hart shakes his head-but not without a thin smile-and turns back to the figure on the podium.

He's talking about it being great to back here, and how he loves to give back to this city-what, he's from here?-and how he can't wait to meet his two biggest fans, and then two stunned girls are led forward. Hart puts the radio station logos on the podium and the two giggling girls together, and realises this is all about some sort of competition. He doesn't care, but it satisfies a mild curiosity.

He watches idly, getting impatient now, as photos are taken and a grinning buffoon with a microphone and headphones is talking to the man of the hour. Then the TV camera crew have him, and eventually the whole thing has been going on for nearly an hour. Somehow, ninety percent of the crowd are still there. Incredible.

The nerves he's been managing not to think about so far are creeping back in, strong now, as the waiting has stalled his momentum. George still seems fairly oblivious, even though he knows what Hart is about to do. At least, Hart thinks he does; he seemed to understand Hart's pantomime of explanation. He needs to get his done soon, or he won't get it done at all.  Fortunately, the idiot seems to be wrapping it up; he's moving back to the helicopter, waving to the still-drooling crowd. Short and sweet, it seems. They're going to be going now; he has to move.

He taps George on the shoulder, and points at the helicopter. George shrugs with a twisted mouth.
Ok, but I think you're being stupid...
Hart can't believe George isn't going to try as well, but he also knows that George has taken The Train, and that he took it worse than Hart; the very mime of it makes George go pale. There's no way George would risk it again.

Hart points at George, then at his own eyes, then at the helicopter. George nods, then puts his hand on Hart's shoulder, without any hesitation. Hart stiffens, then sees George's sincere eyes looking into his, sees the thumbs up George is giving, feels the hand patting his shoulder, and relaxes in confusion. He doesn't know where to put his face. He feebly returns the thumbs up without looking at George, and turns back to the helicopter, starting to walk.

He doesn't look back.

By the time the pop star or whatever he is returns to the helicopter, Hart is already there, sat in the leather seat. Hart finds himself excited, despite his now screaming nerves that he is not allowing himself to acknowledge. He's never been in a helicopter before. The leg room would be next to non-existent if he had a physical presence, and over the pilot's seat in front he can see a dash with mind numbing dials and readouts. Cables and wires hang from the ceiling, going to headphones and switches, but now Superstar is getting into the back seat as well and sitting on Hart, budging right over as his assistant gets in next to him.

Hart takes a deep breath of nothing and prepares for it; he knew this would probably happen. He puts his head through the window, to at least avoid their heads merging. That’s always the worst.

With his head outside, he can now hear the crowd screaming again, yelling their hero goodbye, or just excited to watch a helicopter take off so close. He can hear the police telling people to stay back whilst it happens. He can hear the whine of the rotary
blades slowly accelerating, and looks up, watching them turn, big and black, beginning to produce downward thrust that will lift them up, carrying them into the air and to somewhere Hart has never been since he came to the Foyer.

He will find out if the Foyer has a ceiling.

He wishes for the impossible coincidence of a Flyer turning up now, so he can see up close where they go. Maybe he'll go the same way anyway.

He looks down at the landing struts of the helicopter and sees they are growing shadows. They are leaving the floor, and he has to suppress an urge to pull his head back inside. No. He stays out here. He needs a clear view.

The noise from above is now deafening, and he's extremely glad he can't feel the force from the blades. The sensation from his viewpoint is uncanny, the slow, effortless rise; without the sensation of the wind, just the noise, and looking straight down he feels like he's flying by himself. If he was on the other side of the helicopter he could probably look down and see George, and thinks that's it's probably a good idea that he can't.

They're very high now, already above the polytechnic buildings, a good 30 storeys up, and Hart is reminded powerfully of what he'll have to do if he hits a ceiling. He pushes it away, and waits.

He can see the city laid out below him now, and it's incredible. He's never flown before, and even he had, it wouldn't be like this, head not surrounded by plastic and steel, nothing between the floor and his eyes but a helicopter landing strut. It stretches out below him like a grey map. And he can see the all the parts of the city he hasn't seen for 40 years! The places that lie beyond the wall; how they've changed! He can see all the way to Bedworth! And the new buildings, the old ones adapted, the places that just flat out don't exist since the raids...and a great sadness overtakes him. Places just down the road that, when alive, he wouldn't have batted an eyelid at visiting. To see them now is a miracle, and it's a pathetic one.