The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (6 page)

“
Give or take. It's slightly more, maybe. I remember...oh, very little about the early years. They were an extremely tough time.” says Hart, tapping the side of his head, but Bowler doesn't see it, staring blankly ahead.

Bowler tries to take it in. Sixty years. More than twice the length of his entire lifespan. Spent here. It strikes him how he never even left England in his lifetime, and with that comes stomach cramps, then vomit, except nothing comes out because you don't eat in the Foyer. Sixty years. And in that time, Hart must have tried everything to get out. Whilst Bowler walked the streets of Coventry, growing and changing, living his life, Hart was nearby, unchanging, always there. Hart must have been here, wandering around the city centre, whilst Bowler went shopping and got drunk and embarrassed himself in front of girls. Hart would have seen the place change and develop and grow before Bowler was even born; might have even seen Bowler being led, whining and complaining, around the shops as a child. The thought was too big. Too big.

In his shock, Bowler blurts out a question he'd been shy to ask; as if asking it here, in The Foyer, was somehow taboo, like asking how the tricks were done at a Magic Circle dinner. You just didn't.

Or maybe it was because he knew that if someone asked him the same question, he wouldn't know the answer, and maybe hearing someone else give THEIR answer would mean he'd suddenly remember too, and he didn't know if wanted that, didn't know at all, as he had a feeling it was pretty bad...

He finds himself remembering a time when he'd been an apprentice over in
Binley
, stood out the back by the bins with the others as they had their fag break. Warren talking about some lass he'd banged in Nottingham, and everyone laughing at the story, Bowler too, though he had a feeling that Warren was talking out of his backside again. Warren, who looked ten years older than he really was, and had a leer instead of a smile. Bowler knew he was better looking than Warren, and although he wasn't the loudest guy in a crowd, he knew a lack of confidence-never attractive in a woman's eyes-was preferable to a wealth of unhygienic sleaze. And so if
Bowler
was not a
ladies
man, then Warren's many tales of dramatic female conquest seemed highly unlikely to be true, to Bowler's eyes at least.

But he wouldn't say that here. He was the new guy, and still fitting in; the young man who let himself be 'fooled' into going to find a left-handed screwdriver or tins of tartan touch-up paint, knowing full well what they were trying to do and doing it for them anyway. That way, they'd laugh both at him and with him, Bowler paying his dues to get into the work social circle. He knew how it was supposed to go, and that was fine by him. One day he'd do the same to
his
new guy, and looked forward to it. Bowler looked forward to having respect.

And then Carlo came rushing out, both panicked and angry, and told Bowler breathlessly that he needed to come into the workshop right now, and Bowler knew something very bad and expensive has happened, and it was all going to be his fault. He knew it was going to be really bad, and all of a sudden more than anything he didn't want to know, he'd pay for anything that needed paying for but he didn't want to know any more.

And here now...after everything he's already heard, this is so much worse. Infinitely worse.

Hart hears the question, and sighs. “I don't remember.” He scuffed the bottom of his shoe on nothing. “I don't think I ever knew. Do you remember? You don't either, am I right?” Bowler slowly shakes his head. He does remember pain, vaguely now, from somewhere before he was a
Checkin
, but he remembers very little about that time at all, and certainly nothing immediately before that.

Hart hunkers down and puts his hand on Bowler's shoulder. Bowler almost flinches. It is the first time Hart has touched him. His hand is too heavy, forced, like he has to pin it there.

“You'd think it'd be the one thing you WOULD remember,” Hart said quietly, “But some things are odd here. Which actually brings me to...while we're on hard subjects...we should really cover all this now. Now you're ready. The sooner the better, I think. It'll hurt, and push you a bit, but you'll bounce back quickly. It needs to be out of the way. Needs sorting. Don't you agree?” Hart continues before Bowler can answer, keeping an air of briskness that does a very bad job of hiding how much he's struggling.

You coward,
thinks Bowler.
You fucking coward. You've sucker punched me, and you're unloading when I'm down. You sneaky, cowardly bastard.
But he can't even think about talking now, and lets Hart's words wash over and through him.

“
This might even make you feel a bit better. You know George? You met him yesterday?” Bowler remembers George. George couldn't talk to them, but Bowler had liked George.

“
I see most of George. We associate the most. It's strange; the Guests here-the
sane
ones-need each other and have to stay away at the same time. I doubt you've noticed in the time you've been here, but the vast majority-the crazy ones-they don't even TRY to talk. They see someone and just run away. But the three that try to talk, or communicate, or socialise, and spend time with one another...there's that odd discomfort that comes in after a while of being near to each other. I've told you about that. Perhaps you even felt it slightly with George earlier, yes? That tightness in your lower back, that vague ache throughout your bones that starts to creep in after a while. That's the biggest thing that keeps us apart most of the time, until our need to...communicate overcomes that. It always does, after a while. But then there's the other problem. The silence. The silence between us...it gets too alien to handle. Does that make sense? It's just unnatural. Even for me, even now; after all the time I've been here. And I'm no talker.” Hart pauses, and absent
mindedly
adjusts his tie. Bowler is glad he didn't end up in a suit here. “Okay, me and George have our moments; we very briefly get on the same wavelength, about once or twice every year or so, but it always takes it out of old George for some reason. Not me. It makes me think that
he
drops into
me
rather than me into to him, I don't know...but before you came, it got me thinking.”

Hart sits properly now, taking the weight off his knees, and now while he talks he doesn't look at Bowler once.

“
I'd been wondering about the talking thing for a while. If George can calibrate with me like that, at random every now and then...well, if everyone is on a different frequency-that's how I think of it, frequencies-then it stands to reason that maybe we find our own frequencies when we're
Checkins
, as we settle...we find our frequency as we materialise, if you like...so I began thinking...what if that could be influenced?”

Hart is clearly impassioned about this bit, about his scientific talk, and it is odd for Bowler to watch how Hart’s fingers and hands work as he speaks, his face still turned to the concrete. He looks like a religious follower struggling to explain something to the Almighty, all the while respectfully facing the floor to avoid looking directly into the face of God.

“What if I could make it so a
Checkin
is on the same frequency as me?” he says, “ And how would I do that? Of course, this was about 20 years ago; bear in mind you're only the fourth
Checkin
I've seen in my whole time since I've been here. I actually missed one about 10 years ago. I couldn't find where it came down. Incidentally, that turned out to be Sarah. It took me around two years to get over missing that chance.”

He chuckles slightly, then waves his hands as if to say
Ignore that bit, it's not relevant, I'm rambling
and continues.. “But then....a
long
time later...you arrived. And my big experiment, my big idea, was just to babble at you until you fully arrived. You might vaguely remember that. Making sure you were hearing nothing but my frequency, trying to guide you in. Just talking rubbish, saying anything to help you attune to me, that all you would hear, all you would
experience
whilst you got yourself together here was me. After years thinking about it, believe it or not, that was the plan that made the most sense, the plan that sounded the most plausible. I never thought it'd work, or that it hadn't been tried before.” He is smiling as he finishes, shaking his head in delighted disbelief. Or is it relief? Hart lifts his head, chuckling now, lost in his own thoughts. He turns to Bowler, taking him in, looking him over like he doesn't even know that Bowler is watching him. After a moment, he registers Bowler's actual presence, and grins again.

“
But it must never have been tried,” he continues, shaking his head again, and laughing as he speaks, clearly revelling in the recollection of his own discovery. Bowler has never seem Hart laugh openly before. He won't see it very often in the years to come. “As I've never seen another pair!” he finishes.

In a moment of sudden rapture, he grabs both of Bowler's shoulders, hard. Bowler stares into eyes that are now moist and showing alarming traces of what is going on inside.

“Don't you understand?” says Hart, “Don't you SEE it? You're the luckiest
Checkin
there's ever been. D' you have any idea how much safer I've made you? D' you have any idea just how lucky you are?”

All Bowler can think is,
But...doesn't that mean
you
get to talk to
me
as well?

Instead, what he says, in short, stammering gasps as he finally gets his glued-up mouth to work is, “There...must...be...a way...”

The light in Hart's eyes rapidly dies, as he says nothing in reply, and his gaze drops away again. It's hard to believe that just a few moments ago this man was so passionate and-for want of a better phrase-alive. Hart sighs, and stands, putting his hands on his hips, exhaling nothing.

“
Aaahhh
...Bowler...”

He squints off into the distance, all energy gone. He is thinking, and weighing something up, and it suddenly reminds Bowler of someone preparing themselves to put a pet out of their misery. And he suddenly remembers his earlier fear, and knows that the cause is  
here. What he was fearing. What he could sense under the surface. There was bad news, and this was bad news of a different kind. He knew that this meant pain. This meant
a lot of physical pain.

“
Right,” Hart says finally, and looks down at Bowler, his face set like he's summoned up everything he has to get through this.
At least you've found your balls
, thinks Bowler, but Hart is already speaking.

“
I suppose we'd better get this out of the way now. You'll try it eventually. I think everyone does, as they all think they can hold on a bit longer, but they don't realise that it doesn’t make any difference. You will too, eventually, so best do it now, so you know. False hope...it'll get you in the end. It's always worse when it turns out it was nothing. It can break...but anyway. We've got about a mile walk now. Typical we're totally on the wrong side of The Foyer...Can you stand?”

Bowler managed it.

“
Where...”

Hart looks sad. Not, not sad. Hart pities him. Bowler can see it. And Bowler now knows for certain that whatever is coming is going to hurt a very great deal indeed.

“
You're going to catch a train.”

***

“The guy, the guy with the nips.”

“The
what
?”

“Sorry, the nip
ples
. Triple nipple!”

“...I haven't the
faintest
idea what you're talking about.”

“He was in Lord Of The Rings, too.”

“Ah, I liked those. Who was he in that?”

“I can't remember...Dracula. He was Dracula.”

“
Bela
Lugosi? I'm sure he was dead by the time they made Lord Of The Rings.”