The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (21 page)

The fact was that Bowler's injury was the more serious one, and so it was his fishing story to tell. Bowler was proud of it. Hell...Hart was proud of it,
dammit
, and in a place where there was very little news of any kind, this was enormous. So enormous, in fact, that even with George, it would be hard to get an audience to believe it.

Bowler pointed between himself and Hart, a blatantly false, modest smile on his face, and then shook his arms in a mimed run, mimed a few punches, then bared his teeth and made his hands into claws.

The effect was immediate on both men. George's eyes became the size of baseballs and Mark actually broke from his grumpy reverie and burst into laughter, which was a reaction as shocking as it was inaudible.

Everyone turned to Mark and watched. His laughter was almost hysterical, and not even forced. The reaction was so extreme that Hart realised Mark must have been even further down the line than they'd thought. He felt a chill, and looked at George, trying to catch his eye, but even George was shocked enough to be staring at Mark.

Mark, through bursts of silent laughter, made mock claws in the air above his head, followed by comedic punches thrown floppily in front of himself, then pointed at the pair of them. The sarcasm and disdain was obvious.
The Beast? Really? You?
To accentuate the gag he gritted his teeth, Beast like, and mimed punching himself in the mouth, his eyes rolling. This managed to set him off all over again, doubling over at the waist and pointing. Bowler, annoyed and in a lot of pain from his ankle, was suddenly in no mood for this.

“Listen you crazy bastard, for starters, you're not even funny, you fucking freak-'

“He can't hear you, Bowler,” interrupted Hart, coolly. He was too concerned by the realisation of Mark's encroaching lunacy to be offended. Could Mark be dangerous? A man of his size was not someone to take lightly. Were he to get hold of Bowler, it could be bad news indeed, even though Bowler was not a small man by any means.

But Bowler wasn't listening. He pulled free of Hart-who let him go without a struggle-and dropped his weight onto his good foot, taking a large, clumsy, limping step closer to Mark, whom he poked firmly in the chest, forcing Mark to take a small step backwards.

The shock on Mark's face was evident; he hadn't noticed Bowler step so close during his laughter, but the transformation in his demeanour was still striking. He seemed to almost physically shrink, like a big, dopey, family dog caught doing something it shouldn't. His hands came up to the centre of his chest, his shoulders sloping inward, everything about his posture showing deference and fear. His eyes became wide and almost watery.

Even Bowler took a step backward, feeling slightly guilty, his anger instantly gone. It was like Mark had become a child all of a sudden, although that was not enough to make Bowler fully let his anger go; he held up an uncertain finger, looking Mark in the eyes. Bowler clearly didn't really know what to do next. How to mime his point, and how forcefully to make it? It was all just so damned
odd
.

In the end, Bowler seemed to come to a conclusion, He raised his finger higher, and pointed to Mark, then to his own mouth. He then pointed to Hart and himself, then did his Beast claws, then pointed very firmly back at Mark. He concluded by raising his eyebrows.
Got it?

Mark stared at the floor like a scolded child. George was pretending to be interested in something in the distance. And Hart continued to watch Mark, wondering what was next. Was that all?

It wasn't. Something shifted inside Mark again, and he straightened up, though still not looking at Bowler. His gaze remained on the floor, but not just in whipped puppy mode anymore. With the instant emotional shift of a madman, his face suddenly twisted into a petulant scowl. With a dismissive flap of his right hand, and a turn that was more of a flounce, he quickly spun on his heel and began to stomp in the opposite direction.

Bowler turned to Hart, his mouth open.

“What the fuck...”

Hart stepped up and gently grasped George's shoulder, who was already turning to follow. George turned to Hart with a concerned expression, almost apologetic.
I have to go.
Hart held up one finger with a theatrical
Hold on a second
smile. George sighed with a smile of his own and rolled his hands over one another, looking again in the direction of the slowly disappearing Mark.
Ok, but hurry up.
Hart nodded, and gestured disdainfully after Mark, then back to George. Then a shrug and a screwed up face.
What on earth are you doing with him?

And then a very unexpected thing happened. George opened his mouth and raised his hands to reply, and then stopped. Hart watched as George's hands returned to his waist, and his eyes slowly dropped, like he was thinking. Hart started to raise a hand to touch him, to re-engage, but George did it first, straightening and placing a hand firmly on Hart's shoulder, looking him firmly in the face again.

Bowler stared. This was
George,
for goodness’ sake...what the hell was going on?

George continued to look into Hart's eyes, smiling warmly, but not like he was trying to keep Hart's attention, or even as if he recognised the other man was really there. It was like he was
considering
Hart.

And then George patted Hart on the shoulder, winked, and tapped the side of his nose with one finger.

Hart was so stunned for a second that he didn't react as George spun on one foot and jogged after Mark, with a friendly wave over his shoulder back in Hart's direction. Hart went to shout after him-old habits again-and realised it was pointless. He turned back to Bowler and put his good-side arm back under the other man's shoulder, which Bowler sank onto gratefully. Bowler was blissfully and mercifully unaware of both the terrible, terrible events that lay ahead in his future, and that he'd just had the last conversation with George that he'd ever have.

“That was just weird,” said Bowler. “I knew Mark was a bit loopy, but not
that
loopy. And I mean, George...what do you think that's all about?”

“I don't know,” said Hart, “Logically, it can only be one of two things. Either Mark's been speaking about some
doolally
nonsense and old George-not the most cynical person-has bought into it a bit, or...well...he knows something we don't.
D'you
think Mark and George know something we don't, Bowler?”

Bowler chuckled slightly.

“Anything's possible, but I find it hard to believe. Plus I'd be
really
fucked off if that arsehole had worked out something that we hadn't. Mark, I mean.”

“Though I don't agree with the language, I do agree with the sentiment,” nodded Hart. “Let's get a move on anyway. We need to get you off that foot, and we certainly don't want to be out in the open right now. He might be looking for us, and we certainly don't want to make his job any easier.”

For a moment Bowler nearly asked who Hart meant, then suppressed a shudder as he remembered. The incident with Mark and George had made him forget briefly, but the pain in his ankle was there to remind him.

***

“This is Hell. It's Hell. Hart, we're in Hell.” It's the first time Bowler has said anything lucid today. During the entire first week-after his lungs and larynx, or his memory of them, knotted themselves back together, since he was able to make a sound-was just unintelligible noises and wails, or guttural half words.

After that he could form sentences, but nonsense ones, unconnected phrases as he tried to remember how to get his brain to tell his mouth to say the things that were actually on his mind, the pain making it near impossible. But now he knows he can do it, now he knows he can talk correctly at will, he prefers to stay silent. He knows it makes things harder for Hart, but fuck it, he just wants to get everything finally fixed together now. Wants to concentrate on movement, not talk. His mind is back, even though he knows something small has changed about him, probably for good.

Hart, startled slightly by Bowlers words, turns in his seat. Normally, he dismisses this kind of talk offhand, refusing to be drawn, but Bowler needs to talk now. Needs to start getting things back to normal, conversing, laughing, anything.

He looks to where Bowler stands by Mary's window, looking out at the city below. He's paused in his pacing, in his faltering, staggered steps as he teaches himself how to walk again. He's almost there. He no longer needs Hart to hold him up, progressing from there to holding his hand, to Hart's hand on his back, to going totally solo. In a day or two he'll be walking almost completely normally.

It's a Friday, and Hart can hear the dull
whump-whump-whump
from the cars and bars as what passes for a nightlife in their city starts. He can hear the drunken shouts of the men (
and women, he thinks, we
never
had anything like that, women brawling in the street, just unthinkable
) the boozy songs, the abuse. Mary has the window open. A lifelong smoker, she seemed to be wary of letting her flat smell of cigarettes for when her real guests arrive. That was always Hart and Bowler's favourite time, both sitting in silence as Mary-and themselves-caught up with whatever Eric or Iris or Pat had been up to. Hart especially; these people were HIS kind of people. People of a different time.

But no visitors today; Mary asleep in the chair again, the TV quiet in the background, and the pulse from outside like a faint heartbeat, like a city trying to stay alive. The table lamp by Mary's chair casting a warm, faint orange light making the room feel safe by comparison, the chaos outside unable to penetrate. Hart always wished-yearned-that he could still sleep. If he could only sleep, even just now and then. By far The Foyer's cruellest theft.

“You mean we're here to be punished, Bowler?” His tone is lazy, casual. Not accusatory. He is prepared, for once, to discuss, if only to make things easier for the recovering man. Bowler doesn't turn around.

“I don't know. Maybe we're here by mistake. Maybe your energy stuff is all right, and we somehow got bundled off to the wrong place. Or maybe this a place for people who weren't especially bad, maybe people who just weren't mega good. I don't know. But I'm asking you.” He puts his hand on and slightly through the glass absent-mindedly, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.

Hart sighs, and stares at the ceiling for a second. He already has his answer, but Bowler's words have given him pause. Not because it's a new thought, but because they've cast his mind back. Back to his own early days, alone, wandering the streets. At first trying to find someone else like him at all. then, once he found many, trying to find one that that would either talk back to him, or one that wasn't a gibbering wreck. Wailing. Coming to the edge of madness himself after the first two months, and discovering-out of the blue-Simon.

Funny, excitable Simon. Far too small a man physically to match his ebullient personality, the man who saved Hart.. The man who found Hart screaming in an alleyway, pulling at his own skin. Simon who stood shocked at Hart's grateful tears at his touch, and who burst into fresh tears of his own as they fell upon each other in a painfully joyful and wretched embrace, found and still hopelessly, profoundly lost. Hart had never been as physically close to a man before or since, never embraced like that. But unusual circumstances create unusual responses.

Simon who’d kept Hart going. Hart who kept Simon going, even though they could do no more than gesticulate at each other. Simon who’d convinced Hart that something lay outside of the Foyer, purely through the sheer force of his own unshakable belief. He was infectious like that.  Simon who taught Hart the saving grace here that was the wireless, and, years later once it came along, Simon who had raved about the similar benefits of television, though Hart had been cynical at first to say the least. How could something that did all the work for you be as good for the mind as the radio? But Simon had been adamant, and Hart had finally realised his point; the whole point was you DIDN'T have to think. A way to, dear sweet lord, switch your mind off completely in the Foyer.

Simon, the former butcher. Simon who was the only Guest Hart would ever know who could remember what it was like to be hungry, but only when he was confronted with choice meats. You could see the longing, and the pain in his eyes. The only Guest Hart had ever seen whose Foyer wear was his former work uniform; a butcher's apron and hat. Hart had once asked Simon if he could take his hat off. Simon had looked at him like he was crazy and said of course. Hart had asked Simon what he would do if he lost it somewhere. Simon had thought about it, shrugged and said maybe he SHOULD lose it, as finding it would give them something to do.