The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (3 page)

Hart knew that too, and Bowler had seen that brief glimmer in his eyes when he first looked up. Bowler knew what it would mean for Hart if it WAS another
Checkin
, why he would be even more excited with that prospect than he would be with just the possibility of a new arrival. It would mean more protection. Bowler smirked, in spite of himself; he knew the way his companion thought. And Bowler wasn’t daft, or at least not as daft as Hart thought he was. What Hart didn't know was the other reason
Bowler
needed a
Checkin
so badly. How it might mean that he was more than just protection for someone. The Flyer crackled with a warm energy as they watched.

The object in the sky was cloud shaped, but slightly transparent, ethereal. It was here one second, gone the next, then back again, flickering like an old film. It was about 9 feet long by four feet across; a glowing, white, airborne piece of elongated popcorn, lit from within. Bowler tracked it's progress across the sky, still holding onto a glimmer of hope despite Hart's words and his own knowledge (
it wouldn’t really make any difference in the long run ... but please let Hart be wrong on this
) a glimmer that died the closer The Flyer got to the edge of The Foyer. Even though his belief was tiny, Bowler’s heart sank as The Flyer began to shift trajectory, and start the all-too-familiar inexorable journey upwards. As it ascended, it made the low thrumming sound that Bowler knew painfully well, the one that sounded like someone despairing. It was a sound that perfectly matched the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

They stood silently for a few minutes, watching it until it ascended completely from view. Bowler continued tracking it in the sky long after Hart had stopped watching; the older man had begun an inspection of his fingernails, despite there being no dirt under them and no chance of there ever being any. Hart caught himself, and noted again that some things were harder to unlearn than others.

Hart waited until Bowler's gaze also returned downwards, and watched his companion for a few moments. When Bowler didn’t move, Hart sighed, hesitated, and stepped only slightly closer to him. He knew the way Bowler was feeling all too well. It was only two years ago that had he finally stopped feeling that way himself—stopping once he'd gotten what he wanted in the form of Bowler’s arrival—and the memory of that time was still strong enough to move him to a kind of pity. He was not an unkind man. He was just one who had never been given much reason, when he was alive, to learn how to discuss anything that was deeply rooted.

Close proximity to another person made him nervous even now, even here. Without realising it, he had come a long way from his old life now that he was even this open, his old life spent in a world where men kept their distance and everything but their opinions inside. It was seeing Bowler this way—the image bringing forth a memory of pain—that now drove him to move without thinking as he saw his own remembered anguish at work in another. He wasn't even consciously aware that he was going to try and comfort his friend.

He gently put an arm around the young man's shoulders, barely touching him, and guided Bowler slowly forwards. Bowler allowed him to do so.

“Come on,” Hart muttered gently, but awkwardly. “Let's go and see what the Polish gentleman is watching tonight.

***

There's a sudden snapping sound, and everything rushes in; memories, knowledge, identity, and the strongest memory of all is one of great pain. Not the greatest pain he will ever know—that will come from The Train of course—though he doesn't know this yet. That will be physical agony so great and so lasting that he will brush against madness, and he will discover why madness is to be feared above all else here.

The next thing he's aware of is the voice again, the voice that hasn't shut up, that blessedly hasn't shut up and he's more grateful than the voice's owner will ever know. The voice is breathless and desperate now, almost shouting. Its owner has seen something.

“
Can you hear me? Can you hear me? I can see you! I can see you properly now! Hello? Hello?! Do any kind of gesture, anything!”

And he nods in response, and with that he realises he has a head now, and with this knowledge comes the sensation that the rest of his body has also arrived. He still can’t see, but he thinks that will come very soon. He stretches his hands and realises something isn't right, but he can't tell what yet ... he's lighter, lighter than he should be, but it's a sensation that he can't understand. He'll later realise it's because there's no gravity. No air. No breeze.

The voice gasps, and continues tremulously.

“
Have you been able to hear me … all this time?”

He's still figuring out what's going on with his body, but he nods again, even though it makes him feel sick. He owes the voice that.

The voice sighs, and there's silence, and then he realises the voice is laughing with relief. When it speaks again there are reluctant tears in the laughter.

“
Well ... well. I didn't think ...
heh
...
d'you
know, I didn't believe for one solitary second that that would actually ... bloody ...
work
.”

***

Wednesday morning, the shopping precinct. Hart always liked this time of day; he liked the hustle and bustle. People rushing, talking on mobile phones—Hart desperately wanted to try one of those, despite himself—late for work, shopping, kids skiving, sitting on the edge of the large fountain set in the middle of the crossroads, the heart of the city centre rush.

Bowler liked it too, but for him the reason was being able to see the people more easily. It wasn't as hard in the daytime, and he didn't have to strain. Today, George had joined them.

George was the Guest—out of the three that they associated with, the three that would actually come near to them and 'talk'—that they hung around with most in The Foyer. This was because George was the one Hart tuned in with the most frequently—which was still extremely rare—and because he was so damn likable. Even Bowler had noticed something odd about the way that the five of them could keep finding each other—most of the time—when they wanted to. The Foyer covered an area of roughly one square mile, full of buildings and other visual obstacles. All the Guests obviously moved independently of each other (apart from Hart and Bowler) and so
 
it would be expected that the ‘friends’ would run into each other a lot less than they did … and yet somehow, that wasn't the case. Hart and Bowler had many discussions on the matter—Hart holding court with Bowler left trying to get a word in—and the general theory that Hart held, and Bowler agreed with, was that it was all to do with energy. Perhaps they sensed each other subconsciously, heading towards each other half the time without realising it. It was the thing that seemed to make the most sense, despite the eventual physical discomfort that would begin after spending time in each other's presence; after a short while, they would have to part until it passed and their bodies returned to normal.

They sat quietly, people watching. George, of course, was totally silent to their ears. Bowler knew very little about George, struggling more than Hart with the ‘gestures only’ conversation. Hart knew more of the man, partly due to his being better practiced at both miming it and reading it, but mainly due to his ability to occasionally tune in with George which Hart (of course) proudly took as proof of his theory about frequencies. In the past, whenever he tuned in, Hart had used the brief period that it lasted to ask probing, experimental questions about how George felt, what he’d been thinking at the point that they suddenly could hear each other etc., in an attempt to crack the trick. Over the years he'd cycled through to personal questions out of curiosity—inescapable even for the ceremonial Hart—but he’d now exhausted those and so it was back to the science of it.

Bowler had to admit, Hart's frequency and energy theory was a good argument. Regardless, he liked George because of his easy going nature, and though he'd never say it, it was nice not being the quietest one every now and then. He also liked how George tried to speak to him, and didn't just rely on Hart. He felt like George made an
effort
with him. And George was doing so at that very moment, tapping Bowler on the shoulder and gesticulating.

Bowler looked at George, a man in his late 60s who was portly but still with a full head of grey hair. He looked jolly where Hart looked severe; round faced, whereas Hart's features were sharper, thinner. It fascinated him to see that George still had thread veins here in The Foyer, whilst Hart’s skin was still quite healthy. Hart, visually at least, radiated robustness, hard in a wiry way. Slim but tough, corded like his suit. George seemed to suggest cuddles, based on both his nature and appearance.

In the latter element—although he was 'physically' older than Hart—George wore more modern clothes, an acrylic jumper and trousers compared to Hart's brown corduroy suit. Even Hart's hair was more old-fashioned, a slicked down side parting compared to George's crew cut, an interesting look for a man of George's age (Bowler assumed using clippers at home were a more appealing option than the barber in George's
 
former life.) But then, George hadn't been here anywhere near as long as Hart, so it all made sense.

George began his charade, and Bowler watched intently. It was a good game with a practical purpose, and Bowler loved being on the receiving end of it. He pieced it together as George went.

Gesturing over his shoulder; Bowler knew this one.
Yesterday
. Now hands to eyes.
I saw
. Fingers to the back of the head, head thrusting downwards and forwards, growling face ... though it looked very funny, Bowler got the impression George was actually being deadly earnest. Bowler couldn't get it, and threw his hands up, putting on a confused face. George looked at Hart, who had been watching, and pointed at Bowler.
Explain to him
.

Hart looked at the crowds around him with a slight sigh, and answered, not taking his eyes off the people milling around.

“He says saw The Beast yesterday, Frank.”

Bowler drew in his non-existent breath dramatically, looking at George with wide-eyes even though it was a false expression put on for the older man’s benefit.  
Bowler thought George was lying. If the old man had s
een The Beast at a close enough range to be story-worthy, he very much doubted old
Georgie
would be healthy enough to be sitting here telling them about it. But he knew what old people were like. They made things up, didn’t they? His Gran had been the same. She once had claimed that she’d won five grand in the lottery and lost the ticket. He’d watched his Mum making a big show of shock and dismay, rolling her eyes at the rest of them to do the same and keep Granny amused. He’d been annoyed by it.

Mum
 
…

Bowler pushed the thought away. He’d gotten good at doing it. He looked at George and drew his palms close to each other.
Close?
George furrowed his brow with a smile and shook his head.
Come on, of
course not.

This was interesting. Maybe it
was
true then.

Bowler thought about how best to express it. He just couldn't do the charades, though he had gotten better over time. Deciding, Bowler held his hand above his head, shaking it rapidly, then slowly lowered it to his waist, reducing the shakes as it lowered, until his hand was at waist height, and still. Then he raised his eyebrows. Internally, he was pleased with himself. It was a good mime.

George got it, and shook his head, screwing up his face emphatically, then mirrored the low-hand action. The Beast hadn't been raging, he'd been calm. That made sense. If The Beast was in the maddest of his many personalities, you literally ran as far as The Foyer would allow. George must have seen him from a good distance away. The consequences if The Beast caught you in that mind were unthinkable. He'd never seen an actual attack himself—though he had only seen the Beast raging once, by chance, before Hart had grabbed him, screaming to run,
run
—but had never seen him catch someone. He'd heard Hart's version of when he’d seen it though, and the way his face had gone pale, the way his hands shook ... he knew enough.

Bowler held his hands up and cocked his head.
What was he doing?
George made a serious face and cast his hands about, looking this way and that. Bowler understood. On the occasions he'd seen The Beast himself, he'd been doing the same thing; walking around, quietly inspecting things. Again Hart had appeared, yelling, had physically thrown Bowler over his shoulder and ran him away, pale faced and shrieking.