The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (30 page)

The same hand travels up towards her face, becoming a fist, and then two fingers extending out in a V. Towards her eyes.

Hart lets out a sigh of relief. He nods to her quickly, wanting to get what he can before this time of lucidity ends. He nods again, and rolls his finger.

Ok. Tell Me
.

Sarah does. And almost as soon as she starts, she drops back into Looseness, so much so that Hart can only piece her story together later. And because of this, he cannot set anything by it, even though it backs up his own suspicions almost totally. Hope is far too dangerous. Giving in to it, searching, is far too dangerous.

He won't know for another 5 years-won’t know for certain-that she was telling the truth.

***

2010:

'
Tenerife?'

'Umm...no. I was thinking more...Southern...' A giggle.

‘
Aaaah
....
AusTRAH-leyah
again. In your dreams, I'm afraid.'

'Ah, come ON...'

'
Noooo
, unless you fancy getting into even MORE debt...'

'You could flog one of your kidneys.'

'Or you could flog one of yours.'

'No, YOU need to drink less, so one kidney would help you cut back...'

'Says she with the large glass of red...'

'Doctors say to drink a glass a
day
!'

'A glass, not a bucket.'

She let out a mock gasp, placed her wine glass down on the expensive carpet, and then
dove
onto him, tickling and grabbing. He laughed, and rolled her over easily-she was tiny-and pinned her beneath him, kneeling on her upper arms gently, taking her wrists and making her slap herself softly in her face, as she laughs hysterically.

'You know, you should really-'

'
Rob
!
Stoppit
, ha
ha
-

'-stop hitting yourself-'

'
Aaaah
, ha
ha
, get, ha, get
off
-'

'-in the face you know, it just looks silly-'

'
Right
, you're getting-'  She struggled underneath him, staging a doomed comeback, and he leaned his head back and laughed out loud as she failed. She flounced back, out of breath, mock pouting up at him.

'Have we learned our lesson?
Hmmmmmm
?'

'No!
'

'Ah well, in
that
case-' But she was saved more tickle torture by a wailing from the other room. Both their shoulders slumped down with a smile, looking at each other.

'
Your
fault,
gobby
.'

'
Your
name was called, missy.'

'Well get
off
me then,' she said, slapping his thigh as he raised up off her and stood. She still paused to slap him again on the other leg as he rolled over on the settee, placing his hands behind his head and letting out a melodramatic sigh of over-acted comfort, a smug smile on his face. She stuck out her tongue as she left the room, and he waved her away with his fingertips, eyes closed, smile wider.

She walked down the hallway with a genuine smile of her own, shaking her head, and entering the room at the end of the corridor, wishing again that the sale would hurry up and go through. They'd been in this place two years too long as it was, and it had been too small even then. If it hadn't been for her seemingly endless job troubles, they'd have already been out years ago...but at least they'd found their place now, deposit ready, rock and roll. Just needed the buyer to pull their finger out. It had been a good place, a happy place, but times like this just proved the need for somewhere bigger. A proper
house
. They'd got this place together inside the city centre for work convenience (plus both of their former places had been with former spouses, and neither had wanted to move into a former lover's spot. Though if Rob's wife hadn't gotten their fantastic house after the divorce, leaving him with nothing to put towards their home, she could have been tempted to move in there if he'd twisted her arm...) and, after all, she'd always liked living in town, and hadn't wanted to change that at the time.

She opened the door, the room lit by the blue glow of the night light. Saw the
Spongebob
wallpaper, the small bed, the toys still strewn on the floor (but now was the not the time for a nag) the small lump under the covers, the sleepy eyes peering from a blonde head surrounded by a faded Ben 10 pillow. She didn't see her dead husband look up at her, wide eyed, from his kneeling position by the bed as she came in, face red and streaked with tears, hands balled into fists on his thighs in an attempt to stop the damn
shaking
. Didn't hear him call her name, didn't hear him frantically apologising at a manic pitch, didn't hear him saying the boy was just like theirs would have been, would have been if not for Glasgow, how he was beautiful. She sat quietly on the bed and smiled at her five year old, the woman and the boy beautiful together in the blue light.

‘
Hey...did we wake you up sweetie?'

'
Yersss
...'

'Oh, I'm sorry sweetheart...' And she gathered him in her arms, pulling him into a sitting position. He clung to her, eyes already puffing over, closing with a gentle breath. 'Were you scared?'

'
Didden
know...
waddit
  was...'

The woman chuckled.

'Ah, it was just Daddy and me playing. We didn't mean to be so noisy sweetie, I'm sorry.'

'
S'ok
...'

'
D'you
want me to sing to you? Sing the cloudy song?'

'…'

And she held him for a minute longer to make sure he was asleep, sitting on the bed. Not seeing the shaking arms attempting to wrap around them both, not hearing the constant stream of breathless apologies spewing forth like a madman's mantra. She laid her son down on the bed, watching him for a moment, before pulling the duvet up to his chin and cinching it in along his sides, leaving him cocooned. She tiptoed to the door and closed it behind her, smiling again to herself as she tiptoed back down the corridor, not seeing the mumbling, weeping figure that followed her all the way.

***

Chapter 8: In Which We See The Flames That Made A Lesser Phoenix, A Painful Goodbye, The Death Of Frank Bowler, And Hear Whispers In The Dark

***

'
Helen?'

'
Mmmf
.'

'Helen. Helen. Wake up. It's the sirens. The sirens are going off.'

'Sirens...'

'Listen! It's the bloody sirens.'

She's asleep on the settee, by the wireless of course; she always naps in the evening at this time of year. The winters have just always seemed to have that effect. They'd used to call it Helen's Hibernations. Richard had always let her; it was nice, the dark outside, with the comforting voice of the World Service as he got his paperwork done by lamplight. He loves it, in fact. Except they'd broken the radio a few weeks ago-he hadn't gotten round to getting a new one-and now he'd been working by the light of a single candle since the blackout was ordered. He'd huffed about it at first, but since the summer, he believed in it wholeheartedly.
Ansty
had been close enough;
Hillfields
, far too close. So now Richard's windows were covered up without question, and even if the radio had been working, hell, he'd have turned it off.

Helen had talked of leaving of course; she wasn't normally that kind of woman, but seeing the ruins of the Rex had really shaken her up. But they'd talked about it (he'd talked her down, of course) and they'd both agreed in the end. This was their city. They supported it. And he'd put too much work into it to let the Germans chase them from their own homes through fear. Besides, what was the Home Guard FOR if it wasn't going to keep them safe, darling? In the end, he'd convinced her.

And now Richard is frightened, and almost-
almost-
wishing he'd listened to her. The sirens have started, and he's certain he can hear something else, something behind them, closer. Or maybe he's imagining it. Either way, he wants her awake, wants her to be able to react if need be. Plus, he
needs
her awake.

'
Whattumizzit
...'

He looks at his watch; it's gone 7. Dark now, winter time. Cover of darkness, bastards.

'It's 7, darling. Come on now, up you get, quickly now.' He puts an arm around her shoulder and pulls her upright.

'Richard...'

'Please don't argue, darling. Can't you hear them?'

And she can now, and concern penetrates sleepiness. She looks at him, and her face catches the candlelight; past 50, and still with that round faced beauty that the lines and looseness of age can't dampen. He catches his breath, and in spite of the situation, he smiles. She smiles back, confused, wondering why, and there are too many reasons to say. Twenty five happy years, no badgering him over work, always understanding the long hours and the passion, always supportive, no self-pity over her inability to bear the children he knew she always wanted so badly, her childlike appreciation of all the little things he ever did...he sees it in that darkened room. He strokes her face, and she touches his hand.

'We'd better get in the cellar, Helen.'

'The cellar? You romantic brute, you. Be still, my beating heart. Take me on the tins of paint...'

'HEL-en...'

'All right, all right, I know. Can I get more clothes? It'll be freezing cold in there.'

'Yes, but quickly. The blankets are down there, though.'

'Yes, yes, I know...' She stands, and runs a hand across Richard's back as she leaves the room. He listens again; there's definitely something else behind the sirens. Louder. Engines. Of course, he can't look out of the window because of the taped covering, but he's certain. The usual paranoia, Helen would say, but he doesn't think she'd be right this time.

He picks up the plate with the candle on it, puts on his shoes-the cellar will be dusty-and makes his way into the back of the house while he waits. Might as well check the cellar door. Anything to take his mind off the steadily growing fear. It's not a fear of dying (the concept is too unthinkable; it's an air raid and he knows no one personally who has been killed so far. What was the total for June and August, about 20 deaths?)but fear of losing everything they’d earned. They'd have each other, but getting where he is has taken WORK. They won't come here anyway, he’s certain, but his heart IS still racing...is it excitement? He's not sure.

He crouches under the stairs, and pulls on the rope for the trapdoor. It sticks a bit, but it comes up with a creak of wood upon wood. He leans in, holding the candle out ahead of him; he doesn't think there will be rats, but it's not an idea he's particularly happy about, and Helen would be terrified. The light reveals the tiny room, its bare floor and walls, the cobwebs and tea chests containing Helen's keepsakes and his certificates. In a cleaner corner he sees the recently laid pile of blankets and tins of food. He knows people that have done more, but they are a lot more fearful of the raids, even more so than Richard.

He hears her feet on the stairs above him, and he rises. She's put on her old coat, and her thick slippers. She's got it wrapped tight around her, prepared, even though the house isn't cold. She flashes him a brief smile.

'Come on then, Clark Gable.' she says with a forced smile, 'Let's get down there.' She sighs, and stops, and looks at him, face slightly scrunched, feeling guilty about what she was going to say. 'I hate this.' she says.

'I know. It's horrible. But we'll get down there, get comfy, have a cuddle, and wait for the all-clear. We'll make it nice, yes?'

She curls her lip briefly, a joking acquiescence, but looks around the room for a moment, taking in her things, her ornaments, her pictures, as if trying to preserve the scene in her memory. He stops her-he loves her-and puts his arm around her.

'Don't be silly,' he says, smiling. 'We were fine before, weren't we? Every time?' She nods, a gentle shrug in her thin shoulders, thinner than on their wedding day. And he leads her by her shoulders towards the trapdoor, and they enter the basement. She goes in first, gingerly, and as he begins to descend he realises that he can hear the engines now, clearly. Richard looks down to her, lit by her own candle, already rearranging blankets and making a little den for them, like they used to make on Sunday afternoons in bed together. Papers and toast and making love. They don't do the latter so much anymore, but to focus on this would be to suggest things have cooled between them, and they have not.

'Helen,' he says, stage whispering, though he doesn't know why. She looks up to him, her eyes shining in the dim light. 'I have to go and see. The engines are getting louder.'

'
RICHard
-'

'Two minutes, I'll be two minutes.'

'No, don't-'

'Look, I'll be so quick you won't even know I'm gone, but I have to see. Two minutes, I promise.' She isn't complaining now-she's known him long enough to know when it's pointless-but her hands are on her hips, and her face is pleading. He closes the trapdoor anyway to block the candlelight, and heads to the front door.

The noise is all around, and Richard isn't the only one looking out of a pitch black doorway; 100 yards up the terraced street, with moonlight shining on the road in lieu of the darkened street lamps, he can see John
Strutter
peering into the sky, and further up the road there are others doing the same. One leg inside their houses, the other sticking out onto the street, as if somehow this keeps them safe. None look his way, and all eyes are fixed firmly on the skies. He isn't surprised, because out here the prominent noise filling the air is the drone of the aircraft engines. He joins the upturned eyes, and to his horror he can see black shapes moving across the stars, blocking them out, emerging from the over the roofs at the other end of the street. Other people have seen them, and are pointing, but now it's suddenly pointless as they are blocked out by dazzling white light that draws the eye. What on earth are they?

It’s a harsh light that makes it hard to see the shapes above, hanging in the air like ghosts. Richard's heart leaps into his throat in panic. He's never seen anything like this in his life. These aren't bombs. They aren't falling. They're
floating
there, hanging above the city, casting their iridescent light onto the streets. But then he sees they
are
falling after all, just very, very slowly, and his mind solves the problem for him, with a sudden combination of logic and sight. How do you find your targets in a city smothered in a blackout?

You bring the light
to
them.

And now, his shock and confusion behind him, he can see them for what they are. Great parachutes, flare-like, many of them hanging above the city. He can see them, floating like great white Christmas decorations.
But it's November
, part of his mind adds crazily.

It feels like seconds, but it's really been several minutes, many more than the two he promised his wife, who sits in their cellar wrapped in a blanket and torn in terrible indecision whether to go after her husband or to sit and wait as he asked. She has her hands over her ears.

Some of the people in the street are calling to each other, but Richard can't hear what they're saying over the noise, and that's when the first incendiary hits. It hits the roof of a house about 700 yards away, and it goes up immediately with a truly deafening bang and a blinding flash of phosphorous. There are screams up from the watchers, and they scurry back inside like rabbits, as Richard can see more dropping in the distance, more about to drop his way, and the night lights up even more than before, hellish and alive. Just before he dashes back inside his own house, he thinks wildly
Markers, they're putting down MARKERS
but then he's already slamming the door shut and fleeing for the cellar.

He yanks open the trapdoor and sees the relief flash across his wife's face, replaced immediately by fear when she sees the look on his. He's down the steps in a flash, and has his arms around her immediately, unsure of what to say, not knowing how to reassure when he is terrified himself. Everything is at risk. Everything.

'It's close, isn't it. I heard a bang. I didn't hear those before.' she says into his chest. He can't lie to her.

‘It's close. I don't....I don't think they're aiming for us, this street I mean. They'll be after the factories. Not us. Anything that hits us will be an accident.”

She doesn't say anything, and after a moment her grip tightens.

'I mean....I don't think they're
meaning
to hit here, so we should be safe, if we're lucky. Do you see what I mean? They're not
TRYING
to hit us.'

“Yes, yes, I understand. Let's be quiet, though. I'm dreadfully scared, Richard.”

He is too. And the guilt...he took her away from London, took her to his city. He brought her here. Was more than happy to get her away from her swine father. But wouldn't London be even more dangerous now? He'd always thought it lucky to be away from the capital when war was announced, when he could have so easily given in to her family and come away. But he'd had his work, hadn't he. In the end, would that cost...and he stops himself, and holds her tightly.

'It's all right, Hel. We're safe here.' he tells her.

Ten minutes pass in the dark, in the silence. Ten minutes listening to the muffled booms, the muffled yells. Can he hear vehicles? He doesn't know. Seeing those hellish lights means he will not go up there again until the all clear is given. He is beginning to feel hopeful now, although uncertainty means he won't give into it, but he thinks the dull drone has gone from the noise above. No planes. No bombers. His wife is breathing closely against his chest. He thinks she might have dozed off again, and he wants this to be true, doesn't want her to be scared and doesn't want to risk waking her by checking. He will wait a few more minutes until he's more certain the planes have gone, and then he will wake her.