The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (5 page)

“Not as good as the old style. Bond is fun escapism, but still with
some
element of realism.” said Hart, after a moment more of staring at Bowler. “Not close enough to the style of the books,” he continued loudly, anticipating Bowler’s response as he opened his mouth to protest, “Bond is Fleming, and once the books ran out, they shouldn't make any more.” Bowler frowned.

Hart looked at George, doing the Moore eyebrow and pointing at it, then giving a thumbs up. He then pointed at the cinema and gave the thumbs down. George laughed silently, waved Hart away, and then proceeded to act out a bit he’d liked, mainly for Bowler's benefit. George’s mouth worked silently as he gave a running commentary neither Hart nor Bowler could hear. The younger man loved to watch this; a man of near-retirement age gadding about with the enthusiasm a 13 year-old. It wasn't that George was childish. It was that he was old enough to know better and not care. At times like these, Bowler thought that George looked like a shorter John Candy.

Hart scanned the street absent-mindedly, listening to Bowler laughing with George in the background. He felt restless today; this was always the downside to coming out of the movies. His usual fear was intensified during the comedown. They needed more than TV today. They needed real drama; a good couple's argument to sit in on, a parking dispute, a fight, anything. They could go and find it. A
safe
little hunt. Now they had a job for the afternoon, and, as always, the thought made him feel better. They had a task. He breathed easily as he turned back to the others, not realising he was smiling as he watched them. He loved them both, even if he was no more aware of it than they were.

He turned to Bowler to explain, just in time to hear George’s voice tune onto their frequency and say “-ills the first
fella
, boom, and then...what? Bowl?
Bowl
, have you got me?
Have you got me?
”

He'd seen Bowler's face change, but as usual in moments that needed action, Bowler had frozen, not speaking. He gaped dumbly at George and then quickly turned to Hart, but the older man was already there, grabbing George by the shoulders and turning him so they were face to face. They’d
both
tuned into George this time, and as Bowler’s paralysis broke they both started talking hurriedly over each other; this usually happened when they tuned in with someone. Both of them had their own things to try, their own experiments, frantic, but it was George himself who got there first this time.

“Quickly, how can you both hear me together, how does Bowl get it-”

“I've told you, it's Bow
ler
, and I caught him on arrival so we're tuned on the same frequency-”

“Frequency?! What the hell, how, how did you-”

“It doesn't matter, listen-”

“If you've worked it out, tell me! I can have-”

“Shut up and listen! What were you thinking just now, what was different?”

“You said that last time, there was NOTHING-”

“I want to try this, this, does it help if I touch you? Is it louder?”

“No, what were YOU thinking?”

“Nothing new-”

“Well don't move, let's, let's, I don't know-”

“Is it easier if I'm closer?”

“No, well, you're louder, but then you're closer-”

“Can you hear me? Over here?” Bowler blurted out, trying to contribute in some way. George nodded at him frantically, and went to speak, but Hart snapped his hand out, waving Bowler silent.

“Listen, listen, now this. Your mood, are you happy? Actually, wait, you were quite energetic just then-”

“Nothing new, I've been like this before and it hasn't happened-”

“Well, HELP me, think!”

George then did his usual darting-eyed, mouth-moving, gasping bit as he tried to think under pressure.

“Well...well...oh, look, I don't think there IS a reason!” He said, shoulders slumping.
He gives up so easily,
thought Hart. “How many times have we been here before? You always try this, that, and we've tried everything, the forehead thing, EVERYTHING. Now tell me h-” and then cut off suddenly. His mouth carried on moving, but no words were coming out, the sound gone as quickly as it had arrived. Hart flung his arms down.

“SHIT!” he yelled, and as ever, whenever he swore, he immediately straightened himself up afterwards, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he regained his composure. Bowler never said so, but he always observed this and found it quite cool.
Proper old school,
he thought.

George was shrugging apologetically, and Hart was fighting back his anger, despite a deep suspicion that George was probably right. He motioned for George to sit down, as he knew what was coming next, and indeed the colour had already started to drain from George's face. Hart felt a stab of guilt that he knew was irrational; he hadn’t asked George to tune in, or had talked him into it-not that he could do anything about it anyway-and as ever, it had just happened. And, as ever, it was George who paid the price, and not Hart. It was like the
Blueys
; Hart, Bowler and George just didn’t have a clue as to what it was all about.

George nodded, got two steps and started to buckle slightly at the knees. The other two were already there, catching him and guiding him gently to the floor, where he lay down and began to breath heavily, even though there was no air to take in.

They waited there for a while in silence, Bowler not wanting to provoke Hart in his current mood, Hart frustrated and speechless. People passed by; lunchtime shoppers hurrying to get as much done before returning to work. Bowler practiced his sight as Hart observed the crowds, not saying a word. Eventually, Hart nudged George gently with his foot, who feebly looked up. Hart made walking gestures with finger on his hand, then pointed at himself and Bowler. George nodded, eyes closing, and waved them away gently with his hand. He would be there for some time, Hart knew, and today he couldn't face the wait. George would be okay.

“Come on,” he said, tapping Bowler's chest with the back of his hand. “Let's go.”

Bowler was still stood looking at George.

“We're lucky to have the Odeon here, aren't we,” he said, without looking up. It wasn't a question.

***

Chapter 2: In Which More Bad News Is Relayed, Bowler Lies-Badly, Theories On Time And Punishment Are Exchanged, And We Hear Of The Many Escape Attempts Of Sarah Boss

***

“
Do we ever sleep?” Bowler says, with a pleading edge in his voice. They are walking-Bowler shuffling awkwardly, and the other striding slowly-along
Gosford
Street. For the first time in several days, a question from Bowler is not met with a rebuke, or a dismissal because’ he needs to get the basics first.’ Bowler wonders if his improved speech is taken as a sign of being ready for answers.

“
No, we never sleep. You should have realised that by now. We've been walking and talking for three days, and I'm betting you don't even feel slightly tired.” Bowler nods, at this, glumly. He realises that he wishes he DID feel tired. The idea of never sleeping,,,

“
How do we rest, you know...reset? How do we not go crazy?” asks Bowler. To his surprise, Hart laughs, but it is dark and without humour. There is a long pause as they walk, and when Hart finally speaks it is as if the question had never been asked, his tone deliberately breezy.

“
How's your vision? Seeing the people clearly, and so on...any better?” Bowler squints, and although there is no improvement, he can still see the thin outlines of the multitudes doing their shopping.

“
No better than when...at the start,” he answers, struggling both to find the right word and avoid saying it, “I mean, in terms of seeing the people. The buildings and that, they were easy straightaway. But at least I can see
some
thing. You told me that at first you couldn't-”

“
Yes, I understand, Bowler.” says Hart, looking at something Bowler can't see. Bowler thinks he's just doing it to make some sort of point, but says nothing. He needs this man, and he's coming to realise just how much.

“
You need to keep working on that,” Hart continues. “If you can't see them, you can't see TV. And if you can't see TV, then you're in an enormous amount of trouble, as awful a thing as that is to rely upon.”

They walk in silence a moment longer, past the university theatre building. It's Saturday night, dark already, and the drinkers are starting to emerge; young-to-middle aged men and women, dressed in their finest and looking for booze, company and intimate warmth. Things forever taken from Frank Bowler. And yet he is surrounded by the potential for it and a million miles away at the same time. Something that will weaken him terribly is born inside him, and begins to grow.

Also, he could
murder
a pint.

The Gala bingo down the road will be packed, and this is the pair's destination. Bowler will be able to see the tickets relatively easily; they don’t move, and he and Hart will be able to get close enough both for Bowler to make them out and to see the whole ticket at the same time. It’s the
people
that are still like ghosts to his eyes for some reason, people and TV screens and cinema screens and LCD readouts. They will pick a ticket each, play over the living players’ shoulders, and enjoy it far more than they would have done if they were alive. A release.

Bingo as a release.
Fuck ME,
thinks Bowler.

Hart had said the Gala is as far as they can go; they can't go past it. That is their limit. He hasn't said why. There is a heavy sigh, and Hart speaks, staring up at the stars as he walks.

“
To answer your question, of
course
there's some that go crazy. Look...to be perfectly honest, apart from you, I, and three others...as far as I know, everyone...well. There are those here that are already gone fully Loose-that's the word I use for it-and some who
almost
have, who are pretty much there. You can always tell by the hands. Shaking, you know” He walks on, staring ahead now, and Bowler watches him closely. Hart’s face is showing a kind of very practiced blankness.
He’s trying to look like he’s casual,
thinks Bowler.
He’s trying to look like he’s not that bothered by this, but this is what bothers him more than anything. Doesn’t he know how obvious that is?

Hart pauses for a second, then suddenly stops walking and turns to the younger man. Bingo is forgotten in Bowler’s mind. He’d been surprisingly excited at the idea, and now isn’t even aware of it.

“
It's the single most important thing to worry about here, Frank. Not going Loose. Do you understand? Everyone here-apart from the other three I can spend time with-is insane. They are all insane.” Bowler stands, open mouthed, not wanting to break Hart's flow. Here are answers.

“
You see, it's incredibly easy to end up that way. I think you'll realise that by the end of the week. You'll realise it properly, and yes, you’ll realise that quickly. That's how prevalent it is.” Neither of them know it for certain, but Hart is right. Bowler
will
realise by the end of the week. “And if that happens...and I don't mean even ending up as bad as the worst of us...” he trails off, gone for a second, lost and thinking about something that made his face grow that much more pale. Bowler wants to ask what he means, but to do so might mean the end of this information. He waits.

“
If that happens,” Hart continues, coming back, “then you'll never stand
any
chance of getting out. So you have to keep it together. It's the most. Important. Thing. Here.” he repeats, stepping close, looking into Bowler’s eyes, wide and intense. Hart never stands this close. There is such urgency that Bowler realises that there's something Hart isn't telling him, some extra reason. He’s too scared to ask what it is.

Hart falls silent, staring at Bowler until the young man realises that he's done talking. A taxi buzzes past, and as its sound dies away Bowler becomes dimly aware of a pair of high heels clicking along the opposite side of the road. He ignores the sound, and takes a deep breath and decides that this is the moment. This is when he asks the question that he’s wanted to ask since he first found out that he was dead. Hart is open now. And he knows enough already about this man to know this is not a situation that happens a lot.

“
So...so...how
do
we get out?” he says, not realising he is shaking. “I mean, you call this place The Foyer...when do we get to, you know...get to the main..” he trails off, for once not because he is lost for words, but because he is almost unable to complete the sentence through fear. He forces himself, pushes.

“…
the main building?” he finishes. He can't hide the tone in his voice, so much so even Hart has to look away. When no answer comes immediately, Bowler continues, terrified now and not trying to hide it. He steps in himself, their faces almost touching, faces that would be nose to nose if Hart was looking at him.

“
How many…how many have gotten out since you've been here?” Still no answer, and worse, Hart head is now hung low. Bowler’s eyes are blinking rapidly. He raises his hands to Hart's shoulders, trembling, but doesn't touch him; he balls his hands into shaking fists, held just inches away from the older man's sides, digging his nails into his palms, biting his own lip.

“
How long have you
been
here?” He whispers.

***

Hart realised Bowler wasn't walking alongside him anymore, and turned to see him stood with his hands in his pockets, pretending to look at something on the floor, as the few people wandering about this part of town walked by. Hart took in the surroundings, and realised which street corner they were on. Blast. Not again. Shouldn't have taken this route. They could walk through walls if they felt like it; even after all this time, he still preferred to take the proper pathways. Walking through walls was unpleasant to Hart. Bowler thought it fun after his initial wariness, but to Hart it was a painful reminder of both where and what they were. He liked to pretend that they
were
part of the world around them, or to be reminded that they
weren’t
as infrequently as possible. It made things a lot easier for him. He often thought he should share this thought with Bowler, but thought better of it every time.

The other reason he didn’t like it though is that he thought it lazy, too easy. Not only did that suggest a distasteful lack of self-discipline, but to him, that would always be the first step towards going Loose (a term he’d invented-like all of them-and that the other four used. He liked that.)

He strolled casually over to Bowler, looking at the sky, as Bowler stood sneaking glances at Hart from under his eyelids, like a child that'd been caught out. As good hearted as Bowler was, he had his sly side.

“What have you stopped for?” asked Hart, kindly. He got the sly glance in return, once again.

“I fancied a bit more of a walk. It's a nice day. If you want to go ahead, I'll meet you at The Polish Guy's. We'll catch Millionaire, he loves that,” he said, forcing a smile, that faltered and disappeared altogether when Hart said nothing. The older man's brow furrowed. This was pathetic. The first time Bowler had tried this in the past, Hart had actually been fooled for a moment. Maybe this was progress? Maybe by trying less hard now, Bowler was making it so Hart
could
stop him? Because Bowler certainly couldn't stop himself.

“Frank,” Hart said gently, after a pause. “Come on now. Please give me more credit than that.”

Bowler started to try again, but Hart just raised his eyebrows and Bowler closed his mouth, head hanging slightly. He looked defeated. What was going on here? This had come out of nowhere. Not for the first time, Hart wondered how much went on in Bowler's head that he didn't express. He had to learn to stop that, and Hart made a mental note to work on that with him. Goodness knew it had been hard enough for
him
to learn, and even now he struggled. If Bowler went Loose because of that, of all reasons, it would be so…
stupid
. Not to mention disastrous for Hart.

“I just want to...check.” said Bowler, and he began to fiddle with his fingers, suddenly finding them interesting. Hart was surprised. Bowler had his childlike moments, but never like this. Was this some sort of breaking point? Had he been thinking about this since they first decided to go to the cinema? Hart didn’t think so…Bowler had been fine once they’d left. Did George’s turn set this off? That felt a bit more correct.

They stood in silence a moment, deadlocked by their own internal battles, until the spell was broken by a Japanese man dressed in a sharp suit walking straight through them both. Neither of them liked it when this happened, despite it being as painless and devoid of physical sensation as walking through a shaft of sunlight. It was the eyes. It was when their eyes filled your own, or went half through the top or bottom of yours. Plus, it was worse seeing it happen to someone else, turning them into a live special effect. It just was
odd
.

Either way, it loosed Hart’s tongue again.

“Frank...” he said, with a slight, but audible, weary sigh. “We agreed.” Bowler nodded in silence, still staring at the floor. “You know what it could mean...yes? You...well, you know. You could end up...” Bowler looked up, and Hart saw he was fighting back tears.

“But...are you...are you sure...” he snuffled, and Hart gave a slight smile despite himself, charmed by Bowler's lack of front.

“You know I am. You don't want to be...” He waggled his finger round his ear with a smile, trying to make light of it and failing. Bowler didn't return the smile, and his face creased as he looked back to his shoes.

“Yeah...ok.” he said, and Hart realised Bowler was fully crying now as he saw the tears dripping round the younger man's feet. He wondered if again if this was good or bad. He hoped it was good. Some sort of release.

Hart hesitated, unsure what to do. It had been a long time since he had cried. It suddenly struck him just how long. Years, he thought. Years and years.

***

“Sixty
years?” Bowler gasps, and after a moment, he collapses onto his buttocks, sinking slightly into the floor, all now-instinctive control lost for a moment.