The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (20 page)

“This is the shit I have to deal with?” says Bowler. “The shit you give me. This is why I don't fucking bother coming home. Why would I, when my own
wife
calls me a fucking
coward
?!” He's shouting, but it's false. And she's shaking her head again, no smirk, no scowl, just cold appraisal. He's getting nothing, and he could almost weep with frustration and sadness. “Why else would I bother going out Saturday night to try and find some
fucking respect that I can’t even get at home?!
Why else would I go out? And you know what, you know what I did? I
fucked
someone, some random
slag
!!
That’s what you did! That’s what you made me do
!!”

But it's empty, and instead of the satisfaction of shattering her exterior he only has a horrible dying feeling inside, especially when her face doesn't falter even one bit.

She pauses, and then speaks very calmly, with no satisfaction or pleasure.

 “I've been seeing Rob from accounts for the last 3 months. We've being sleeping together, and I've told him I love him and I'm going to live with him.”

She takes a sip from her wine glass, and as she does it Bowler realises-not for the first time, not by a long way, but a million times worse-what he's done. When he sees he has no choice here-she's already decided that there's no coming back, and this is not his choice but hers and it's already made-she instantly, terribly becomes ten feet tall, a goddess, the best thing that ever happened to him, the single love of his life, and he would give anything to take the last year back. It's an instant, dramatic conversion in his eyes, and the plummeting feeling inside that it causes is impossible to describe.

But the other Bowler is still calling the shots, and even though he wants to beg, wants to drop to his knees and scream for forgiveness, he has to keep up the act, keep up the dance, and so he does scream, not in penitence but in rage, and puts his fist through the nearest cupboard door. His foot smashes through another one, the one under the sink, cutting his ankle badly, and he then proceeds to destroy everything in sight, cursing her name. And all she does is step backward slightly to avoid flying debris, looking at the floor. As he continues his display, the worst, biggest one ever, through his rage and horror he feels incredibly small and stupid; she has seen all his tricks, and this, his biggest one, has no more power to shock. The frustration at this turns his rage white hot, making it bigger, more, trying to turn his biggest trick yet, and he says the worst things he ever has, kicking and spitting on the corpse of their marriage.

This rage will go on until she eventually feels she has shown him as much respect as she should for his pain, and when she feels she has put up with as much as is proper, she leaves. He does grab her arm once, on the stairs, but when she looks at him, he looks at his own hand holding her, and his rage finally breaks and turns to babbling terror and helpless begging as he gets a vision of how the future will be. For the first time her eyes show terrible, terrible pity. There is no going back.

As she gets in her car-he's begged her all the way-the rage returns-she's walking out on him, can't she see how crazy this is making him, the pain he's in, how can she
do
this, the woman who secretly learned to knit just so she could make him a jumper with his name on it for Christmas, how can the same woman from a memory so incredibly sweet and close and loving
do
this-and he screams at her again as she drives away, screaming to the night, weeping openly, and in his desperation he has the idea. To run back inside and check her sat
nav
, the one he knows will be there, because she's always leaving it inside, he's always telling her to stop it, it's useful, it's no good if she doesn't have it in the bloody
car
, is it (
WAS always telling her
) and he finds it, looks in it, looks to find any unfamiliar Favourite Destinations.

And he finds what he wants, and there are consequences.

***

“There's George,” said Bowler, looking to his left.

Hart was holding Bowler up as they walked-being very careful to make sure Bowler's weight stayed on his good collarbone-and so he had to lean backwards to see around the back of Bowler's head.

“Hmm,” said Hart, lips pursed. “Unfortunately, here also comes Mark. What do you want to do?”

Bowler dipped his head slightly. “I'd like to see George. I was trying to find him all the way through, you know...when I was on my own. It was weird, I didn't see him once. Anyway, do you mind?”

“Ok. All right.” sighed Hart, “But let's try and make this pretty quick. You know Mark...it's never quick. Odd bastard.”

“Careful,” smiled Bowler with a wince, as they turned and he jogged his fractured foot slightly, “It'd be pretty embarrassing if he'd tuned in with just now,” he added. Hart smiled.

“Odd
bastard
,” Hart repeated out of the corner of his mouth, and Bowler suppressed a giggle. Hart did as well, and it was good to have Bowler back, very good.

Bowler had spotted them just as they'd been heading into Hart's safe house, walking along Quinton Road on the edge of the city centre, parallel to The Train's tracks. Heading into the suburbs. Their destination was Joan Ward street , and a terraced place in an estate on the edge of town. Here they were on the perimeter of The Foyer.

Much to Hart's delight, when he originally found this place some time ago, he'd also discovered that it had a basement den, replete with TV. He didn't come here much-it was a bit too much of a walk, and too often he got all the way here and the telly wasn't on-but he liked it because it was the sort of place he would have had for himself. A place for a smoke and to get away from...but he dragged himself back to the present, and their current journey.

After the elation of their escape had died down, both men had pretty much fallen silent as they'd remembered what they'd missed. The
Bluey
. Missed the chance to follow her to The Wall, missed their chance to TRY something. Neither Hart nor Bowler had truly believed it
would
have worked-thought it quite unlikely, in fact-but the point was that it
might
have, and they'd missed their chance to find out. Though neither man wanted to dwell on this fact (even Bowler knew after his far shorter time here that doing so was a very bad idea indeed) and both men had gotten very good at pushing away disappointment, it was still a heavy blow. Neither wanted to talk about it, and neither would admit that they were thinking about it. They didn't have to.

And now here was Mark and George, half a pleasant surprise.

“Bloody hell, Hart, look at Mark's face. You see that twitch just then?” muttered Bowler.

Hart had. It was quite
noticable
.

“Why the hell do you think George keeps hanging around with that guy?” asked Bowler. “He almost looks guilty, see what I mean?”

Hart wasn't sure if guilty was the right word, but Mark definitely looked nervous. His numerous tics, his permanently shifting gaze, even the way he stooped his head when he walked; Mark was definitely a man going Loose, and had been that way for some time. That said, Hart had never liked him beforehand. Though communication was, after all, highly difficult in The Foyer, and Hart was prepared to believe that any dislike would be a matter of miscommunication, he didn't really think it was the case with Mark. Everything he ever said was negative, or a challenge, or an attempt to prove something. Very abrasive, and unpleasant, but only when he felt he could be. Only when he spotted a chink in someone's armour would Mark speak up, which was exactly why Hart didn't like him. Weak, but opportunist. Typical, Hart thought, that of the handful of people in The Foyer that 'talked', they had to get this imbecile. Of course, this was now less evident; at this moment he was quiet, almost sullen, which Hart took as more proof of his downward spiral. Soon he would stop 'talking' altogether. Soon he would be like the others. And then it would only be a matter of time before he was completely Loose.

He was a big man, too-not at all the kind you would want going mad on you-standing at around 6'2”, and broad. Big hands, thick set shoulders, even broader than Bowler. His Foyer wear was a button down white shirt and black trousers, the most common theme amongst men in the Foyer (Hart would have truly loved to be able to put some time into finding why this was so, but with the others being the way they were this was next to an impossibility) which, combined with his thinning black hair, made him look like an oversized accountant. It was unusual to see a man of his build with such a nervous, shifty air, like he would be more comfortable being a foot shorter. That way it would be easier to shrink into the background when he wanted to, easier to observe without being observed.

Hart sometimes came close to berating himself for judging him so harshly. The Foyer was tough on its Guests, and he occasionally felt mean for being uncharitable towards a man upon which it had taken its toll, a man whose pomposity and bombast had been sucked out, leaving this coward who occasionally found the guts to be unpleasant. The fact was, however, that The Foyer has simply amplified the negative traits that were already there. Put simply, Mark just made Hart too damn uncomfortable, and had done so even before his more recent changes. Bowler felt the same way.

The only reason he could think of for George associating with him at all-friendly George, open and jovial and completely at ease, contrasting with this unpleasant, awkward chap-was that George liked to talk. It was George's system; George moved from talking Guest to talking Guest, leaving only when the discomfort that came with lengthy physical proximity to another Guest became too much to bear. From Hart and Bowler to Sarah to Mark and back again, the hunt for the next person on the days in between giving him a focus, a purpose. It was a great system; Sarah did the same, or, Hart noted with an inward sigh, used to until recently. Hart had sampled a bit of it himself back in the days after George arrived, spending hours and hours-sometimes days-on end together until they had to part, then spending time trying to find each other again. He'd tried involving Mark when he arrived many years later, but after some time, they'd both realised that they simply disliked each other too much to do it. Days alone with the TV were preferable. He'd wait for George instead. Even in the face of eternity, some people were just unbearable.

But George loved to talk. He
loved
it. Hart and Bowler had developed a vast appreciation for human contact since coming to the Foyer, but Hart thought George had always been that way, and that-as with Mark-the Foyer had simply amplified that which was already there in spades. All the talkers needed it, but for George it was, seemingly, life's greatest pleasure. Hart could see the fascination it held for him, the way he rationed out company like a favourite food. For example, there was no way George would stay any longer than a few minutes with them when he was with Mark; this might mean that the physical discomfort might start with all of them, and he may have to spend a week by himself. This was doable at a push, but for George it would be interminable. No; better to spend the maximum time possible with Mark, it seemed, then hunt the usual spots for Sarah or Bowler and Hart, and keep the circle going. Hart thought George found interest in observing Mark's demeanour, and unusual responses; this being preferable to solitude. But this wasn't needy desperation on George's part, nor was he some bumbling idiot that was oblivious to the living nightmare he was in. It was about finding the best in a bad situation. It was finding what you enjoyed within times of difficulty. It was classic British spirit, and Hart thought it was wonderful.

And here George was, his clear delight in seeing them both turning to open concern as he drew closer. He’d seen Hart holding Bowler up, and was now pointing-even before he was within ten feet-with a questioning look on his face, wanting to know immediately what had happened. Mark simply raised his eyebrows and 'said' nothing.

Bowler was waving the concern away, wincing as he did so, and so Hart did the same. Mark looked at Bowler's foot, then scanned the area around them, trying to hide his obvious concern. George turned to Hart and shrugged theatrically, eyes wide, searching.

Hart started to gesticulate, and then thought better of it; one look at Bowler told him so. The small smile that played around Bowler's mouth had proved it to him, and when Bowler caught his eye it turned into an embarrassed grin that Hart couldn't help but laugh at. They were both like excited kids with a breathless story to tell.