The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (29 page)

“But we see them going there,” Hart continued, “To this other place, and we don't know if we can ever join them. And that, frankly, is what scares me to death, Bowler. But here's where you're wrong; I do
hope
about getting out. I just hope in very, very small doses. You might say that makes me a coward. But I say it makes me wise. And I'll tell you something else.” He stood, taking his eyes off Bowler and stretching his back out of habit. He then fiddled with his suit as he continued speaking. “You were right earlier. I don't really believe that it's a case of time running out. But I thought of something else, and I didn't want to worry you at the time.” He looked up, to where the Flyer had disappeared, and sighed heavily. “You say that because The Beast and the other Guests that were before me have been here longer, therefore it's unlikely to be a case of each Guest's time running out individually. And I think you're probably right there.”

Bowler stared at him, blinking occasionally in a dim-faced manner. He didn't like this. Something in Hart's voice worried him. Did he know something? What was this? Suddenly it didn't seem like Hart at all.

“But what if it wasn't each Guest's time running out? What if it was the
Foyer’s
time running out?”

“What...what the hell
d'you
-”

“I mean what if this place was only meant to last a certain amount of time? What if it was only supposed to be here for a while as…as some kind of last chance saloon; get sent here for whatever reason, and you only have as long as the place lasts to work out a way out and...I don't know...
win
yourself a place outside?”

“That's crazy-”

“The logistics of it don't matter, but the basic idea does. What if this is the start of the place closing down? Guests dying? Think about it; the city is here,” said Hart, spreading his arms out and turning lazily left and right, taking in all of his surroundings. He turned to Bowler, palms out, face unreadable. “The city isn't the Foyer. The
city
is inconsequential. We walk straight through it. It's a backdrop to us. So what
is
real, and physical here? What is the Foyer?”

Bowler said nothing.

“The Foyer is the Guests and the Wall, and that's it. Nothing else. So say you were whoever or whatever set up the Foyer...how would you shut it down? Go through the options. Destroy the wall? You couldn't. The Guests would get out. So how would you do it?”

Still nothing from Bowler. He really, really didn't like where this was going.

“You'd have to start by
killing the guests
.”

Bowler laughed in a forced way.

“This is utter bollocks, Hart-”

“You know what, Bowler? Maybe it is. Maybe it's just another theory. But the reason you can't dismiss it is this; we know it's impossible for a Guest to murder another Guest. Impossible.”

“As far as we know.”

“As far as we know, yes. But regardless, George was killed. And as we were talking about not ten minutes ago, as we know, he wasn't the
only
one to die. Like I say, you can't dismiss it, because George wasn't the only one.”

“But they were five years apart! George was killed ten years ago, and it wasn't 'til five years later-”

“Who says it has to be a quick process? In fact, doesn't that sound like a fair way of doing it? One every five years? Give a bit of time to everyone to figure out what's going on?”

“But...but...”

And Hart knew he had him. He knew his plan had worked. Hart really did pity him, but Bowler was making it easy to do, made it easy to swallow any guilt. Bowler scared Hart these days. The way he shook. And
seventy years...

“First George was killed, in a way we cannot possibly know about,” Hart continued, watching Bowler's worried eyes drop to the floor; he felt a pang in his heart as he saw in this a glimpse of his old friend, if only briefly. “And-maybe it was for the same reasons, maybe they'd both worked out what was going on, I don't know, because they'd both definitely been up to something-five years later, Mark was killed as well.”

He waited until Bowler looked up.

“Which was five years ago this year.”

***

 
 
2005:

Dealing with a madwoman would be hard enough at the best of times, Hart assumes, but when you can't hear her speak it's extremely difficult, not to mention unpleasant.

He wishes Bowler were here; it really should be his turn, even though Hart is better at this, but Bowler is off by himself again. This is the case more and more these days, but, Hart reminds himself, at least he comes back.

Sarah has spotted him on his way into the cinema, treating himself to a juicily rationed movie;
Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban
. Having heard so much about the books and, of course, not being able to read them, he's very glad they've finally made the films. He finds them enjoyable, but imagines the books would be better. He misses reading, misses it a lot. Always has here, from day one. Hart was always very well read.

She'd spotted him heading into the
SkyDome
, and he'd made the mistake of catching her eye through the huge glass doors once he was inside. He couldn't pretend he hadn't seen her; he'd looked directly at her as she flapped her scrawny arms to get his attention. A mistake...it saddens him as he realises he thinks like that. A few years ago he would have welcomed the opportunity to check up on her, see how she was doing, to just TALK to her. It's been so long since she saw him dealing with Mark-five years-and for the last four, he'd never been able to speak to her. She'd always ran straight away upon seeing Hart, waving him away as she did so. She’d been close to the edge even then, but with George now gone and with Mark nearly Loose himself, as well as her refusal to come near Bowler or Hart, she has of course rapidly deteriorated in her time alone. Now she is pretty much fully Loose, and he knows he can't bring her back. Her wild eyes, her incoherent
rantings
, her embarrassing state of near undress-she is barely covered now-it always makes for a very painful, awkward, and saddening conversation. Plus, it's frightening. Like looking into a mirror of one’s own dark future.

And here she is, stood at the foot of the escalator in the middle of the entertainment complex, in between the false wood front of
Jumpin
Jak's
nightclub and the glass side entrance of Old Orleans, two venues Hart has a strong suspicion of being part of a larger corporate chain. He'd long lamented the passing of privately owned venues, on principle more than anything else. He'd visited
Jumpin
Jak's
in the early days when it first opened, in order to people watch, and had quickly learned that the patrons weren't people he particularly liked to watch. Plus he could hardly hear what they were saying half the time. So
damn loud in there.

 Sarah is grabbing his collar now and looking up at him, babbling away, alternately serious, laughing, then scared. Hart follows his usual policy of indulging her until she goes away. She looks worse up close; her eyes have dark rings underneath them (
How is that even possible? No-one can be tired here, they don't need to sleep
) and her hair is dirty. The latter was less surprising. He'd seen other Guests lose their hair as they went Loose, so dirt and disrepair were just another manifestation of the change in her clothes and appearance, he guessed. As usual, he doesn't understand a word she's saying, and he stands there nodding and smiling in the places he thinks are necessary. She's not even trying to sign, just talking like he can hear her-it's what she does now-but suddenly her hands make a familiar movement, and it takes Hart a moment to place it.

He holds up a hand, and she stops, surprised, her expression comical. He does the 'back up' motion with one finger, and she seems to realise that she needs to be signing. The interruption seems to have made her a bit more lucid. Her eyes flicker for a second, then she comes back to herself and does it again.

She means Mark; the mannerisms are actually uncanny.

Hart shrugs dramatically for her:
Mark? So what?
The effect is instant, she's pointing frantically off in the direction of the precinct, pulling him by his sleeve. Hart goes cold, or as cold as one can go here. He's seen this before. He doesn't want to go.

He takes Sarah by the shoulders, gently. She's not here anymore, his friend, but when he cuts her off these days, avoids her, it isn't because he doesn't care. It's because it hurts. It's because he failed her; he made her go away. He does the tell-me-more gesture, and she rolls her eyes-which stop twitching briefly as she does so-and starts to pull again, and now he grasps her firmly , shaking his head, and roots her to the spot. He does the gesture again, bigger and slower.

She sighs in frustration, though something catches her eye for a second and she stares, gone. Hart has to shake her, and for a moment she doesn't recognise him when she looks back. It's very painful to see. Hart does the gesture a third time, smaller and with a sympathetic smile. She nods.

She gestures Mark, and runs her finger across her throat.

Hart pauses. He does nothing for a moment. He then points his finger firmly at Sarah and raises his eyebrows.
Are you sure?
She scowls, and knocks his hands away, and nods, throwing her own hands up. Hart gives her the calm down gesture, one hand to his chest-
I'm only checking
-but she is off now, ranting with her mouth as if Hart can hear every spittle-laden word. Hart waits it out, thinking.

First George. Now Mark. Five years apart.
Hart lets out a heavy imaginary breath. So was it Mark getting the guts up to try Simon’s idea again, or was it...but that was a stupid theory. Time limits...

But he suddenly realises Sarah is giggling to herself. She looks like a child, one hand over her mouth, knees together and bent, trying to hide her naughtiness, eyes darting for left to right, checking that no-one can see her. Completely oblivious to Hart's presence.

He steps closer, trying to get into her awareness without scaring her, moving slowly. She sees him, and the giggles get worse. He is actually feeling very scared all of a sudden, and he doesn't know why, but there is something here. She KNOWS something. And Hart is frightened. He puts on a smile, drawing her out;
Share the joke, Sarah.
But she turns from him like a playful dog with a stick, and the giggles continue, head bent right into her hand.

Hart creeps round, ducking down with his false smile plastered onto his face (pausing to avoid a gaggle of women on a hen party, laughing and covered in pink fairy fancy dress, on their way into
JJ.'s
. Hart assumes they're there so extremely early to take advantage of whatever binge drinking offer is on.
Enjoy the gutter girls
, he can't help but think to himself) He takes her wrists gently, and she allows him to pull her hands from her face, but she turns her head down, forcing him to gently take her chin and lift it up. She is still giggling, but there are also tears running down her cheeks and her eyes are greatly distressed. The split in her mind is visible. She knows what she is.

Hart continues the smile, and slowly shrugs. He has to keep this as gentle as possible, but the question is there;
What do you know?
She grips HIS wrists now, suddenly and hard, all laughter gone, staring pleadingly into his eyes. Her grip is tight, and painful, and she is trembling all over, biting her bottom lip. As Hart watches, blood begins to bead underneath her two front teeth. Slowly, she releases one of his wrists, and points a shaking finger towards her chest.

Hart doesn't react on his first conclusion. He holds himself back with enormous effort, and waits for her to finish.