The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (18 page)

They were 30 feet from the edge of the road when Hart heard The Beast's roar of rage cut in, the sound suddenly filling the air with that uncanny switched-on-halfway-through sound. Tuned in.
Blast! He worked it out. Now he's going to properly give chase. Shit!
Ahead of them, where the row of shops ended, the dual carriageway through town curved round to the left. The very early morning traffic was perfect, enough for there to be the odd car, but not so much that the roads would fill with traffic; moving fast enough to get away. He redoubled his efforts-even though he was already at full pelt-as fresh terror lent him a second wind. Twenty feet to go now, yet he felt the slam as The Beast landed on the lower level, leaping from the steps to give pursuit. Hart didn't dare look back. It would be terrible, and he couldn't afford for fear to drain his strength. They were ten feet away now, and Hart saw an approaching car, frantically checking the distance to it; would they meet at the right time? If the car was too late, it could be three or four feet too far away if they reached the kerb before it was there, giving The Beast an extra three or four extra feet for The Beast to catch them. Appropriately, the oncoming vehicle was a taxi.

He could hear it already, the
slap thud slap thud
of The Beast's lolling, hands-and-feet gallop coming up behind him. He could hear how huge he was, how terrible.
Exactly like a bull. A charging, murderous bull.

“He's coming!” gasped Bowler, looking over Hart's shoulder. His face was nearly as white as The Beast's, eyes wide.

“Shut
up
!!” Hart told him again, shouting, and now they were about three feet away from the kerb as he realised that the taxi
was
going to come a good three feet short of where they needed it to be as he heard the snarl of The Beast right behind him, rolling, gritty laughter, now rumbling way back in its throat.

“HART!!
HAAAART
!!” screamed Bowler, gripping Hart's broken collarbone with white knuckles as he saw what was about to fall upon them.

“FUCK!!!” screamed Hart for the first time in his existence, in pain and rage and fear, and his first instinct was to hurl Bowler away, to get him off his (
fucking
) collarbone, and in a flash of inspiration he realised that was exactly what he had to do to at least save one of them.

With a scream-not from effort, but from the pain of pulling Bowler's gripping hand from his collarbone as he did so-he hefted Bowler up, one hand behind the small of his back and the other behind his neck, and flung him at the oncoming taxi.

“LOCK
IN
!!” he screamed at Bowler, and saw him pass into the back of the car, not having time to see if he came out the other side or not as he was already turning on instinct , automatically preparing in terror to defend himself fruitlessly against The Beast, who was now upon him. He saw its enormous head and grinning, wide eyed face filling the world, and if there had been air in the Foyer, The Beast would have been blowing it right into Hart's eyes. Hart braced himself, and then he felt a terrible grip on his neck and was jerked backwards, seeing The Beast suddenly grow smaller, a surprised look on its face.

The grip wasn't terrible; it was beautiful. Bowler had grabbed him as the taxi had passed.

He heard Bowler yelling with effort as he pulled, and then his grip was gone as Hart fell back onto the cab floor, legs still sticking out through the door. His collarbone protested at the impact. He scrambled fully inside, ignoring Bowler, and cast a quick glance out the front window-miraculously,
amazingly
, the lights ahead were on green-and then out the back window, where The Beast was roaring in rage by the roadside. At first he was growing smaller, but then he suddenly dropped into that terrible stance and gave pursuit, too late and too enraged to think of getting into a car himself. But the pair's taxi was already at the island at the top of the hill and rounding onto the ring road, and just before they turned off, The Beast was already slowing up. It knew it wouldn't catch them now. Hart saw it straighten, bellowing, and raise one hand. Hart thought he saw it extend a finger, to point after them and mark them, but he couldn't be sure.

He then collapsed onto the floor, pale and trembling, and moaned with relief, somewhere between tears and relieved laughter. He looked at Bowler, now laid out on the back seat, who
was
crying gently, but smiling, raising a hand and giving him the OK sign. And now Hart started to laugh, gasping. He winced as his collarbone moved, but this was too good a moment not to; they'd been caught by The Beast
and escaped!
They'd actually done it! It was inconceivable! Now Bowler was laughing too, and they both sat there, laughing and crying and raising their eyebrows at one another, shaking their heads in disbelief.

When Bowler said “Hospital please, driver,” they both went into hysterics, and even when the cab started to hit The Wall and they both quietly dropped out of the back, they laughed harder.

They lay there on Quinton Road, cars driving over them, as their laughter turned to giggles. After several minutes of this, Hart stood, wincing, and helped Bowler up.

“Thanks, man,” said Bowler, as Hart helped him limp to the roadside. Neither of them really liked being run through by cars. Old habits, again. They sat down on the kerb, watching the cars go past for a few moments, as they got their breath back.

“We're going to need to lie low somewhere for a bit, aren't we?” said Bowler. “I mean, ideally, we'd keep moving, but with my foot, we'd be too,
y'know
...vulnerable out in the open. I mean, I'll be all right in a day or two, right? That's how it works. I mean, I've never had anything other than the Train.”

“Yes,” said Hart, airily, still light-headed from what they'd just achieved. They'd actually gotten
away.
“You'll heal fast here. And I'm hurt too, remember. I'd think at least a week, to be honest. So we'll need to hide out somewhere, just to be on the safe side. I'd better think of somewhere.”

Bowler
muttured
something, and it took Hart a minute to realise what he'd said. The younger man was now inspecting his nails, that horrible shifty look back on his face. Hart waited.

“Well...” said Bowler , “Look...you don't have to come with me, if you've got a place you'd rather go. I mean, I know we have a deal and all, but that's a perfectly good place to lie low...”

Hart managed to bite his anger down. They'd only just gotten things back on track after one horrendous row, and things were still delicate. He had to handle this one correctly.

“Bowler. I've just saved you from being Broken-”

“I saved you back-”

“
And
you are not to going where you’re thinking about, because that debt you've just gotten into means the deal is on now more than ever. Do you understand? You are never to go there ever again. We agreed this. Didn't we?”

Silence.

“Bowler?”

“...Ok.”

There was a pause. Cars continued to pass.

“It's the right thing for you. You do know that, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway...I know a place we can go that's not far from here. It's right on the edge of The Wall; might make us harder to find. Come on. We'd better move.”

***

It's coming to the end of Bowler's four terrible weeks. He's almost totally back in his body, and his mind is almost back together. His relief would be near total, if not for the fact that he knows he will not be the same now. He knows already something is different. But anything is better than what he has just been through.

He's back in Mary's flat; once he was physically together enough to be moved, and not a seemingly endless bundle of flesh, Hart carried him there. It was better for Hart too, the TV meaning that he could leave Bowler sometimes, get out, walk around, 'talk' with Sarah and George and even Mark, if he could find him. The
others,of
course -the Loose Guests- wouldn't talk. Ever. If they even let themselves be seen.

The very, very worst times for Bowler were at the start of that third week, when he was the most gone and Hart had to leave him to go back into town. He couldn't blame Hart for going-too long out there on the track, alone with a comatose Bowler, would be bad for him-but in those times he thought he could feel oblivion again. He didn't think he would ever fully recover from that one brush against it, that one small taste of it.

That was all that was out there. He had no choice but to refuse to believe it.

Breaking through the wall isn't allowed,
he thinks.
You have to get out some other way.

The thought comforts him. And now he's nearing the end-he can feel it-he feels well enough to confront the new memories.

It's as if-before his mind was dislodged and abused and spread-his mind was like a drink in a glass with the flavour settled on the bottom. The Train changed that. It had stuck a swizzle stick in there and swirled that bastard up, and now the juicy bits were floating on the top, accessible. Not all of them…but new ones.

Not good ones.

It had made the last three and a half weeks so, so much worse.

Bowler remembers.

***

1998:

Suzie is still up; he can see the light on in the bedroom window above. Every part of his rational mind is saying to leave it, to go back to the nearest boozer and stay there until they kick him out. And when he comes home, Suzie will be asleep.
That
will be better.

But a night of boozing has put Bowler on a roll. His momentum is there, and with that, his courage. He's tired of the rows, of the self-recrimination, of looking in the mirror and hating himself. Of constantly having to think on his feet for answers. He
hates
that. It stresses him out. And it's all the time now.

These are the thoughts that have been rattling round in his head, as he sat in The Beer Engine, then
Whitefriars
, then The Oak, then Lloyds. He fucking hated it in Lloyds. Too noisy. Couldn't hear himself think. He draws his too-thin jacket in tight around him as he walks. The cold is intense tonight. He'd have bought a decent winter coat if he could have afforded it. What was Suzie's word? Frivolous. It would have been a 'Frivolous' purchase. It doesn't seem so 'Frivolous' now, as he stands behind the row of bus shelters freezing, the street and the shops behind him, looking up the narrow cobbled path toward the cathedral and the small flats to the right that contain his home.

He hasn't seen her today. He made sure he was out of the flat before she got back from work. He didn't leave a note, didn't text, anything. Did he know he was going to do this, that time alone drinking would lead him onto this? Probably. The fact that he left home early because he couldn't bring himself to see her face today would suggest that.

He steps forward, and hesitates. Did he really want to do this? He takes a deep breath, lets it out. He can hear faint music pulsing up the street, the occasional taxi driving past. To his left, the church-something he always thought odd, right behind a massive cathedral-looks impressive, lit by the streetlamps and a small floodlight. Ten steps up the cobbled street in front of him, key in the door, and in. He had to admit, you couldn't beat these flats for location, but there was just no bloody
parking
. Stupid. He realises he's delaying.

Right. Fuck it. If there's enough in the pocket for another drink, I'm going 20 steps in the OTHER direction to the
Weatherspoons
.

He fumbles in his pocket for his change, fingers grubbing to make sure he's got it all, then he pulls it all out and counts.

Not even close. £1.75.