The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (10 page)

The contrast between this place and Mary's was stark; it was neat, modern, and full of expensive audio visual equipment. The Polish Guy liked his home theatre. The flooring was laminated wood, the walls were painted magnolia, and the seating was leather. The Polish Guy made his money and liked to live in a modern fashion, and although it wasn't Hart's way, he couldn't criticise him for it. After all, he knew you couldn't take it with you. Expensive canvases hung on the walls, and as Bowler had pointed out, it was more like a bar than a living room.

Not that he was pointing it out now. The younger man hadn't said much since they'd left the pub. He seemed deep in thought. Hart left him to it, knowing he'd finish working it out and say what was on his mind once he'd done so. Plus, he'd been doing some thinking of his own, despite his better judgement.

Had
he given up?
Was
he a quitter? The thought was surely ridiculous. Sarah didn't know how many times
he'd
walked the perimeter. How he'd had hope dashed over and over. How he'd seen what happened to those who kept doing it. No...Hart hadn't given up, he just knew better.
So if that's true, what have you done lately to get out? When was the last time you even tried anything?
said the voice
.

He was waiting, that's what he was doing. The most important thing was keeping everything level, being sensible. It had to be. Plus, he had Bowler to watch out for. If he went Loose, then Bowler would definitely follow. Had to look after Bowler, had to…but like most things that hurt, even when we know they're wrong, Sarah's words would not go away. Hart bristled, and waited for either Bowler to say what was on his mind, or to see what Paula's next question was, having finally decided to play on.

“I think you should be nicer to Sarah,” said Bowler finally, in an airy manner. His eyes hadn't left the TV. “I think we need to do more to get her onside.”

Hart was already irritable, and this just made him plain angry. Which conversation had Bowler been listening to? Be
nicer
? Not only bad grammar, but utterly wrong. His sole intention
had
been to be nice to her.

“Are you trying to be amusing?” said Hart, red faced. “In case you didn't notice, the whole subject of the conversation I had with her, before she flew off the handle, was me trying to get her to come with us, out of concern for her well-being. I-” and his voice faded, as he saw Bowler shaking his head and waving his hand, cutting him off. Hart fell silent in both compliance and surprise.

“Bad choice of word,” Bowler said, “Not nicer, just...more considerate. You're not going to get her onside by telling her off-however good your intention-” he added quickly, seeing Hart's reaction, “Or by saying that what she's doing is daft. She's stubborn. Stubborn people don't like that, do they?”

Hart didn't say anything. Bowler had a point.

“See, I think we need to spend more time with her. With everyone, really.”

Hart
slowly settled back in his chair, a suspicious look on his face. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. It had been a while since they'd had this one out, and Bowler was picking a
bad
time to attempt it. In his current mood, Hart almost relished the coming storm.

“And why is that?” he asked, looking at Bowler with cat-like eyes, his narrow features glaring.

Bowler didn't see this; he was deliberately talking towards the TV, where Paula was crashing predictably out on £32,000. He was on shaky ground, and knew it, and so would not catch Hart's eye. But Bowler thought it had to be said. Hart had to listen, and now, whilst Sarah's point was fresh in his ears, whilst it was still raw enough for Hart to actually
hear
for once. She'd been overly harsh, and unfair, but everything she said was still grounded in
some
truth.

“Because...well...maybe it's what we're supposed to do.”

“Explain. Because this sounds like what we've talked about before, and you know my thoughts on this.”

“Not this idea, we haven't.”

“It all adds up to the same claptrap.”

Bowler turned to him. He was angry, and Hart could see it. It was a surprise.

“Are you not even going to hear it?” Bowler asked. He paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly, incredulous. This was more than anger. This was hurt anger. “Do you...do you have that little respect for me?”

Hart was caught short
here, and it showed. More new behaviour from Bowler. He began to get a strong sinking feeling-one that would progress over the years ahead-that things were going to change, and that they would not be good for Hart. Possibly for neither of them. Hart stood his ground though, and pointed a slow finger at Bowler.

“Well, do you have that little respect for
me
that you would try to change my mind on something I have made absolutely clear that I don't want to discuss?” It was a good response, and it worked; some of the fire in Bowler's eyes died, and when he spoke again, the familiar uncertainty had crept back into his voice.

“It's not that...well, not really that,” Bowler said. “Well maybe it is, but this is a new idea, and I think you should at least listen to it. It's just something I've been thinking about, and whether you agree or not, you should at least listen; you want me to keep it in? You're always saying about looking after your head, but I have to keep in all the thoughts, the big thoughts, that you don't agree with?”

A good comeback from Bowler, and harder to combat because it was completely genuine. Bowler wasn't trying to win anything; as ever, he simply meant what he said.
Ideas, ideas, always with crazy ideas...just like Simon, eh, Hart?
said the voice in Hart's head. He  silenced it, and flounced back in his chair irritably, as The Polish Guy said something in a satisfied manner, clearly meaning he thought Paula was getting her just desserts for being greedy.

“Fine, fine. Spit it out,” Hart said, looking past Bowler now to the screen.

Bowler sighed-
why was he always so difficult?
-and began.

“It just strikes me that, in this place...there's so few of us. How long has this place been here?  Is the first person to be here still here? We don't know. And I think they're not, as we'd know in some way, like we'd have found out by now-”

“How would we know if they were mad? Or The Beast?”

“Well, yes, but someone else would know-”

“Not if they were also mad.”

“ANYWAY, that's not really the point. My point is, if it was just a case of everyone who died within the Foyer’s boundary ending up living, or existing, I mean, in The Foyer as a result, and being stuck here forever, then it'd be full to bursting, right?”

“Nothing new there, we've always assumed that.”

“So it's either that dying within the boundary of the Foyer has nothing to do with coming here-”

“Hard to ascertain, seeing as none of the Three Talkers remember exactly how they died. Or either of us do.”

“Or that it does, and people have been getting out somehow-”

“All right, though very hard to believe that hundreds of people have been coming and going under my nose for sixty years.”

“Or that, as we've talked about before now, that the Foyer reaches some kind of maximum…”

“Capacity, Bowler. And yes, that's been one theory.”

“...and then everyone gets out. Or-”

“Let me guess. God turns up and says we've all learned our lesson, and tells us we now get to go to a wonderful heaven and live on a cloud, is that about right?”

Bowler turned red, and Hart saw it was both embarrassment and rage. But he didn't care. He was ready for this. If Bowler wanted to have a shouting match, he could have one. But he wasn't going to be the one to start it.

“For starters,” Bowler said after a moment, looking directly at Hart talking quietly and dangerously, trembling gently with anger, “Go fuck yourself, you rude fucking twat.” Hart sat bolt upright, but with a slight smile on his face now. Here we go. “And secondly, sorry to put scary thoughts into your mind that you can't handle, but here's one, and I hope you're listening. Maybe The Foyer gets cleaned out all by itself and then someone new turns up and it starts again, but judging by the fact there's crazy people here, it would seem to me that it takes rather a long time. But the point is this.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing, one finger raised, but even in his anger he was not comfortable in the moment. Hart could see it.

“Even if you DO have me here,” Bowler continued, “And I have you, if it's going to be some sort of a big waiting game, and a game that, for all we know, could take hundreds, maybe thousands of years, then we're going to need more than each other. Yeah, I know the other three hate the silence, they can only be near each other for so long, whatever, but we still need to create some sort of a...I
dunno
...regular meeting. Like maybe we should get together once a day. Even if we don't want to. Just to prepare for the long, long haul.”

Hart leaned forward in his seat now, too, eager for his turn. Debate-the great cut and thrust!-he loved it at the best of times, but now he was angry and knew he could pick apart Bowler all day long. He felt so good, feeling such a delicious rush that was so, SO rare in The Foyer. He was going to enjoy this, and knew it was wrong, and unfair-Bowler was not any kind of debate expert, whilst Hart used to do it for a
living
-but the sweetness of it was too much. It was like being alive.

“Yes, of course,” Hart said. “And you think this will be easy, do you? Trying to get the other three together? George, yes, but Mark and Sarah? Never mind the fact that Mark's almost gone
doolally
and Sarah is clearly on her way out too, and that organising crazy people is never the easiest of tasks, but they
resent
us Bowler. Yes, they'll be nice, and even spend time with us-because even
they
have to give in to the need for company now and then-but don't you see the jealous looks that they give us? Even George, from time to time? How they hate what we have? They hate that we're together, and they can't do the same. Has it never occurred to you, in your stupidity, the other reason why those two spend so little time with us, in a world where they can't talk to anyone?  It's too much of a reminder of what they don't HAVE, Bowler, and they are so jealous of it that they hate our guts. It burns in their minds, anger and jealousy and bitterness, and you can't afford that here.” He stopped, leaning on the armrest, and looked at Bowler, watching the righteous anger seeping out of him. He'd won already, but in his current mood he was going to press on. He was chipping away at his friend, and a small part of him was screaming at him to stop, but damn his eyes, he couldn't help himself.

“But this is all nonsense really, though, isn't it Bowler? Come on. What are you
really
thinking?”

“What?”

Hart chuckled unpleasantly.

“I know you. What are you really thinking, when you talk about this daily meeting?”

“I just fucking told you-”

“No, no. I know what you really mean.” Hart leaned closer, smiling cruelly, now lost totally in the juicy pleasure of malice, something which he rarely permitted himself; such things can be addictive in The Foyer, incredibly so, and any addiction there was disastrous. It
gripped
you there, and in that moment Hart was smothered in it. The small part of himself holding him back collapsed under it. He wanted it.

“Let me guess. Something like...if we all get together regularly...then we all learn about each other.” His voice took on a simpering, sing song tone, mocking and cruel. “And then we learn to
love
each other. And the power of our love breaks down the walls of The Foyer, and we all go off to heaven together holding hands, singing hymns and weeping as we remember our past wickedness...something like that? Am I on about the right lines? Hmm?”

Bowler stood, and seemed to be biting his tongue for a moment, even in his rage. His fists were clenched, and his jaw was locked. Hart stood too, and carried on.

“Because we were all bad people, weren't we, Bowler? That was your theory, correct? And when we learn our lesson, off we go. Even George, despite the fact that he wouldn't hurt a fly, he must, no doubt, have been some sort of notorious serial rapist in his past life, something like that? And me, the man who never even got as much as a parking ticket, hardly ever even drank, why, I must be some sort of a murderer, right? So what's
your
lesson to learn then, Bowler?” he asked, stepping in closer, his own heavy breathing matching Bowler's. Bowler matched his gaze, not dropping his eyes, also breathing hard. “To grow up and realise your situation? You've been here a year now. Any idea when that might happen?”