The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (32 page)

Hart didn't even flinch. Despite his current mental state, Bowler recognised that this should not have been the response to what he'd just said. He'd just taken the elephant in the room and shone a 1000 megawatt spotlight on it, and Hart was just standing there, slack faced and impassive. Bowler's laughter died.

“Not so long ago, Bowler,” said Hart, and Bowler realised that it worse than indifference. Hart was genuinely pitying him, and this raised a dim memory in Bowler’s mind, one he couldn’t grasp. “You'd have been fairly right about that. But not anymore. It might not make any difference to you, but...I'm really sorry to do this. I've...” He broke off, and huffed in a huge amount of imaginary air and blew it out heavily. With it came seventy years of stiff-upper-
lippedness
, and when he looked up Bowler could definitely see moistness in Hart's eyes. It was horrible.

“I can't risk missing this, and I have no idea when...” another sigh, another pause, and longer this time, an average man at the end of what little resources he had in the first place. “I've paid my dues, Bowler. I'll make sure you get your chance, I'll think of something. Though I have no idea how long it will be until you...” Another pause, and he shook his head at himself-it was clear where it was directed-but this time it concluded with Hart balling his fists until the knuckles whitened, guilt dismissed and replaced by anger.

“This is
mine
, and I've earned it. Seventy years, Bowler, seventy-
godawful
-
years
...” Hart looked around himself for a second, and Bowler saw his jaw harden and nostrils flare. Disgust. “And at the same time, Bowler, regardless...you keep up what you're doing and it's all academic. But me...” -Another look around- “I'm done. Don't follow me Bowler. I don't want to hurt you...and I hope you realise I really do mean that,” He added, quietly. It was clear now that his restraint was at breaking point, and so Bowler wasn't surprised when Hart wiped his mouth with his hand and, after a last glance at his former friend, turned and began to walk away.

Bowler felt intense panic wash through him. All previous thoughts went with it, and all he knew was that he needed to stop Hart. He scrambled back up to his knees on the concrete street.

“Hart!
Hart!! Look-I’m sorry! I-I...I won’t come here anymore! I
promise!We
can make it like before, I promise, I promise!”
Hart didn't stop this time. He kept walking down the street, and Bowler knew that in about 30 seconds he would be gone from view and that he would be alone amongst the dead, without even George or any of the others. How had he not seen this? What the hell was going on?

“I’m promising you, for god’s sake!! Listen! Listen to me! I’m promising! I'm
promissiiiing
!!”
Hart kept walking, now action figure-sized in Bowler's view.
“Hart!
Haaaart
! Please! Oh god, please! I can’t be alone here Hart! I can’t be alone here!! Hart!! Hart!! I need you, please, oh, oh please!!”
But Hart kept going, and Bowler's shifting mind changed gear at the sight, that Hart was
leaving
him, that Hart
could
leave him. Couldn't he hear?

“You think I don’t know how you figured it out?! I’ve always known, you motherfucker!! Ever since Mark went as well, it was all so simple! Funny how, once you had me all locked in, that George died isn’t it?! Then Mark? Because you could gamble once you had me, couldn’t you?!?”
Bowler began to pound his fists into the floor with every syllable, giving him the appearance of a child throwing a tantrum. Hart continued to walk.
“You could try things out, or even smarter, plant the ideas in their heads and let them try them out, right?! More experiments!! And if they went wrong, you’d always have me, right? And now you’ve got it!! You’ve finally worked it out!! Well, well done, you fucking bastard!! I know what you did! I know you got them killed!! I know you got them
kiiiiillllledd
!!”
This last was a guttural, hysterical shriek, and Bowler rolled onto his back and continued to scream to the sky, whilst Hart finally rounded the corner without turning to look back, carrying on to his destination.

Bowler never saw him again.

***

The bottle has helped take the edge off the pain of the black eye, but hasn't killed the rest of the pain in his face and won't even come close to killing the real pain, the soul-hurt, that fills his whole brain and makes him feel cold-literally, physically cold-all over. 

He's in his living room-
Their living room
, a voice in his head throws at him, and he corrects it-and there is a lot of mess covering the floor, made worse by his own blood spread everywhere. That part wasn't intentional, although the systematic destruction of the TV, the shelves, the living room door, the lamp, the coffee table, the small dining table, and the pictures was. Every picture apart from the one he holds in his hands right now, the one that is giving him his current dilemma.

It has been, looking back, the worst evening he can imagine, though that makes it sound far, far too light, like am awkward dinner party. He shifts on the blood soaked settee, and that jolts the other
physical
pain. The worst one, much worse than the black eye, and the
JD
has helped with it
a lot less than he thought it would. He thought that's what they did in films, used the booze, but he supposes it should have been pretty obvious it wouldn't work in real life. He grits his teeth and waits for it to die off.

While he does, he is-for the first time that night-able to separate himself from the situation and see it as an outsider would. He's drunkenly aware of that internal shift, and realises that at least the booze is doing something. This makes him smile, and he smiles more because he is smiling. It's good to know she left him with one thing. He can still smile, although he knows it will be brief. Even with his current positive shift of perspective, reflecting-for the 100
^th
time in the last hour and a half-the rest of the evening's events will be...well, just look at yourself Frank, and see what it's all done to you.

But it's not just tonight, is it?
The voice continues.
She was right, she was totally right, and you even had a chance to fix everything and you FUCKED it, fucked US, fucked YOURSELF and left you with NOTHING, you fucking
-but Bowler clamps down on it and yet cannot stop himself from going back to a time about two hours past, outside a big house in
Allesley
, the house he'd followed her to. Big place. Money. Money man. Big earner. Not a no-work fuck like Frank Bowler.
Nononono
. Sees her car parked outside, and amazingly, she's still stood on the doorstep in the arms of the other guy, a lengthy intense comfort session. Him comforting her because of her experiences with Bowler. Another man telling his wife, his WIFE, that it's OK because she's away from Bowler now, that she's with a good man, a better man, and that her HUSBAND is the cause of her pain.

Of course, Bowler is already out of the car and crossing the road, though neither of the pair have seen him yet. Part of his mind is assessing his rival; a little bit taller than he, but slimmer. He doesn't think this consciously. Instinct is doing it for him. Conscious, rational thought is not occurring in Bowler right now. Were anyone who knew Bowler to see him, they would not recognise him. This rage, this anger, this is not Frank Bowler. But whoever it is, he's striding across the road and the other guy sees him-Rob From Accounts, Bowler remembers-sees him, and to fuel Bowler's fire, he says something in Suzie's ear, and she turns to see him. She starts to say something, possibly in shock or anger-
'Frank!'
-but Rob From Accounts, has stepped in front of her and is ushering her into the house. She hesitates, but she GOES, she actually GOES INSIDE.

Then Rob From Accounts is stepping forward himself, crossing the distance between them over his lengthy gravel driveway, passing his Beemer in the twilight. His hands are raised, saying something about the police, and that he doesn't want things to get out of hand. Bowler isn't listening to his words-they're just noise, noise meant to distract him from what he wants to do, and there is nothing that will stop him-and is already swinging a heavy fist at Richard's head, who somehow isn't on the end of it like he should be, he's suddenly off to the side, and now his voice is raised too. That feels better to Bowler, though Rob From Accounts is saying something about not being an idiot, how the police are on their way for God's sake, but Bowler is already turning and swinging again, and this time something hits the inside of his forearm, meaning the punch is stopped and it doesn't go where it's supposed to, and immediately after that something explodes on his left temple and everything goes white. He feels, far away, the gravel drive crunching against his back, and another white flash as the back of his head hits it
too
a split second after. He tries to spring back up, but his body isn't responding, and pain is exploding in his skull.

He's lost his bearings totally, but he can hear Rob From Accounts' heavy breathing, and then hears him say 'Don't get up. The police are on their way. Stay down,' and then crunching gravel as he heads back to the house. Bowler turns towards the sound, and horribly sees Suzie at the window, looking out, having seen the whole thing. She doesn't have her hand over her mouth, no tear in her eye, not even the opposite, not even a malicious grin, just that awful inexpressive face. Then she drops the curtain back as the door slams and Rob From Accounts has entered the house.

Bowler lies there, defeated-he is very aware of the sensation, if not the word-and staring at the sky, numbed and distant, like someone has hit the pause button on his fury. He is not aware of the logic consciously, but in his mind it is unquestioned.

He's been dropped, in many senses of the word, and in the process, it's like he's lost his right to anger. As the loser, he has to accept it. As the LOSER, he doesn't have a right to get mad; his place is to accept it. This is of his own making. How can he complain? After all, after everything he's done, doesn't he deserve this? These thoughts are not clearly spoken in his mind; they are abstract, a feeling rather than a cognitive process. He begins noticing a very new sensation; a very hollow, empty sensation in fact, as he lies there on the gravel in the night, still floodlit by the security light from the house. Pinned like a bug by the glare, his defeat and  humiliation displayed starkly for all the world to see.

 He feels
unfillable
. He thinks of holidays, he thinks of Christmas, he thinks of nights out with the boys, and in this very strange, whirling moment, they all seem black and white, sucked dry, and these are the things that should fill this hollow pit inside him, but they seem to be like adverts for insurance, boiled potatoes, junk mail. They stimulate nothing.

Part of him is aware of the need to leave.
Police
. The thought does connect; devastated, traumatised, and now humiliated (
And it's all your fault,
the voice says) that would be too much for a man who has already HAD too much. Dragged away in handcuffs? He may have brought this on himself, but he can't give them that on top of everything else. Please God no, not that. He needs to get up.

Struggling, and on very shaky legs, he manages to half walk, half crawl back to the car. He sees a wash of extra light flood the driveway around him-they've opened the curtains to see what's going on-but it drops away. She'd let him drive like this?
Of course she would. She wants you gone.

The thoughts swirl. Pain, humiliation, revenge, recrimination, self-loathing (he MADE this, he deserves this) self-pity, pain. He fumbles with the door lock, gets in the passenger seat. He chances a look in the rear-view mirror. Already red and swollen, the left hand side of his face is a mess, and it will get a lot worse. He's been hit very hard and very well, by a man who knows how to do it properly. And that awful, awful twist in his gut comes again with the thought, and knowing that the man who did it will now be comforting his crying wife, and maybe later-

BUT IT'S YOUR FAULT, ASSHOLE!
the voice screams, and Bowler actually slaps himself on the spot where he's been hit, sending white spots across his vision. He leans over to the passenger
footwell
and vomits. When the gagging stops, he can only think of getting away, and starts the engine. He somehow gets the car home.

Once there-once he has collapsed helplessly in the hallway, once he has cried himself totally dry, rolling and wailing like a pathetic child-all he can think of is drinking. The thoughts and confusion and pain and loss in his head is too much to deal with, and thank God he has a bottle of
JD
in the kitchen as he'd be fucked without it. After fumbling the cupboard open blindly, he gropes for it, finds it, opens it.