The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (2 page)

And, of course, covering his outline from head to toe was a pale, translucent blue glow.

Hart looked at Bowler and cracked a small smile, wagging his finger at him approvingly. He was genuinely pleased.

“That was impressive, you know. You couldn't have spotted that a month ago.”

Bowler shrugged.

“Ta. First one for a while, too. What is that, three weeks?”

Hart thought, and nodded.

“About that.”

Bowler's brow furrowed in response.

“So frustrating though, aren't they .,. ” he said quietly, gently shaking his head, and Hart scowled.

“I'm not in the mood for the discussion, Bowler. Just ... it means nothing for us. Speculation is pointless. Accept it, and please stop bringing it up.” Hart stared at Bowler until he looked away and fell reluctantly silent, a slight scowl on his face.

The younger man sat quietly, and again decided that Hart's way, on this at least, was best. Hart had a
lot
more experience in The Foyer than Bowler had, and if Hart didn’t know the best way to handle things, then who was Bowler to argue?
Bolwer
got that sense again of how lucky he was, and his anger faded; he even shuddered as he thought about the alternative. He’d seen how he could have ended up. He relaxed for the first time that evening.

Hart watched his friend and felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn't blame Bowler. Once he'd have been the same. Bowler had been here for the blink of an eye compared to Hart's time, and he hadn’t been through the things that Hart had been through. Hart had to remind himself what it was that Bowler gave him, just by being present. And for all of Bowler’s persistence, his
hope
... as dangerous as it was, as unchecked as it was, he didn't deserve a dressing down all the time. Hart sighed, and again reminded himself to be patient with his companion. He needed time ... which was just as well, here. Hart tried for an olive branch.

“Although ... ” Hart ventured, with a theatrically arched smile, raising a finger towards the screen, “
D'you
think that he looked like the chap from the news?” He finished, raising his eyebrows.

Bowler brightened. Lookalikes. Their favourite game, and one of their bonds. Funnily enough, it had been Hart's invention.

“Trevor MacDonald?” he replied.

“That's the one.”

Bowler thought about it, and laughed.

“Trevor MacDonald in a
shellsuit
. Welcome to
Newsnight
.”

“News at Ten.”

“Yeah, that.”

It was all right now, and they went back to watching a report on underage drinking. The teenagers ... their behaviour never ceased to fascinate and horrify Hart, whilst Bowler just seemed to accept it.

***

Getting heavier, becoming more ... solid. The voice is crackling in and out, like a badly tuned radio.

“
You see, if this is actually going to work ... if I'm RIGHT ... I've got to keep talking, I think. I think if I keep talking all the time, then maybe we'll calibrate together, you see. That's what I'm trying to do. So ... I'm just going to talk about anything. I wish I could have a book; I'd just read to you from that. I wouldn't have to think of something to say. I've got no idea how long it takes, you see ... you're the first one I've been able to find at landing point. You know, to actually follow you to where you came down ...
 
”

There's a pause, as if the speaker is lost in thought, gone into his own head, but when he speaks again, it's hurried, not only because he has caught his own silence, but because he's scared.

“
Actually, you're only the fourth I've ever seen check in; not a Flyer, if you know what I mean. Ah … of course you don't. I don't normally waffle like this. People used to say I wasn't much of a talker, full stop, well, not socially anyway, but right now I have to have the, the ... what does Sarah call it ... verbal diarrhoea, to see if this works. I ... I doubt it will. I don't even know if you can hear me. It's a complete shot in the dark ... so ...”

The voice trails off like that of an uncomfortable dinner party guest. This is not a socialite. This is someone trying, and failing, to be chatty. This is someone uncomfortable when placed in a one on one situation with a stranger. His attempts at small talk are like torture.

“
Are you a man or a woman?” the voice continues. “You'd think I'd care—I'D think I'd care—but you'll be surprised to hear that I don't, really. No one does, here. I actually hope you don't remember this. I'm not used to ... anyway. Shall I tell you a story? Well, anything to keep talking. A story, a story ... ah ...
d'you
know, I can't think of one. Only nursery stories, but they seem silly ... damn!” There is a short, embarrassed, angry silence. Then it continues, forced, and angry that things are this way.

“
I HATE being like this … it's all probably a waste of time...”

And the thought comes,
Please, don't stop. Don't ever stop. Don't you understand I
need
it?

***

“What about them? Can you see them, Bowler? There?”

Hart pointed at a group of young men, laughing and eating kebabs as they walked up the street. The city centre was unsurprisingly deserted tonight; a Tuesday. In other, major cities, maybe this wouldn't be the case these days (according to Bowler) but in Coventry a Tuesday night was always quiet. Hart had to take his word for it.

It was dark early, November nights (Hart hated November) coming in quick and cold. Bowler and Hart wouldn’t have known about the latter, were it not for the people around them every day changing their attire over time from t-shirts and jeans to thick layers and winter jackets, shorts and sunglasses exchanged for scarves and gloves. These guys had done the same. The street lights were on, but the group were walking along the side of the street where the pavement was overhung by shop awnings. The angle made it difficult to see them as they slowly crested the rise, with their thick clothing destroying any sense of figure—and therefore making it harder to identify their sex—along with the shade created by the awnings. Hart knew that it would be quite a test for Bowler.

The younger man squinted, leaning forward; the effect was comical.

“5 guys ... wait, 6. Eating something. Am I right?”

For the second time in one evening, Hart was impressed. He’d hoped for their number and their sex, but not what they’d been carrying.

“Bowler ... I had no idea you'd taken such a jump. You've gotten so much better.”

Bowler shrugged.

“I haven't been doing anything different. Maybe it's just,
y'know
, time.”

Hart shook his head, sadly.

“Not the case. Not everyone gets it, even after being dead for years. You know that Guest in the red coat, the one that looks like a rag? Have you seen him? You can tell he can't see a thing. You can tell by the way he jumps sometimes when he catches sight of things by accident.”

“Well, points for me then. Result,” Bowler said with a shy smile. Compliments did not sit easily with Bowler. It wasn't in his nature to enjoy attention, even here. He did feel a slight flush of pride, however; he knew Hart didn’t give compliments easily, and though Bowler wouldn’t have let on to his companion, that visual effort been extremely difficult for him. He now had a headache, but it had been worth it to hear Hart’s approval.

He hated headaches. When he was alive, he would have just killed it with a
Neurofen
. That wasn't possible here. In the Foyer, headaches were a total fucking pain in the arse. He sighed, and said nothing.

They went back to the conversation, except it wasn’t a conversation; as usual, it was a debate. Debates were better. They fired the imagination, and that was important. Plus they were the few times Hart saw Bowler get animated, and that was always pleasant for him to see. However, Bowler could be beaten down most of the time, acquiescing, which Hart found frustrating. Tonight, it was about The Polish Guy, and like always, Bowler found Hart maddeningly out of touch.

“Even if you're not BORN here,
y'know
, but say you like England and are proud to live here, and, like, are like ... proud of everything England is ... then,
y'know
, you're welcome,” Bowler reasoned, hesitating every few words. Though he was far from stupid, he didn’t like to get caught saying the wrong thing, or to have his point lost by rushing it. He took his time. Plus, he’d learned the hard way that Hart would ruthlessly take advantage if he tripped over his own sentence and sounded like he was fumbling. Hart could be a bastard like that, and it was really annoying, made worse when Bowler found he had a mental block and could do nothing but literally bite his lip. It was happening now; he’d started a sentence, and had realised what was going to happen once he was halfway through. “It's the ones that don't, that aren't interested, that don't help ... what's the word ... ” he snapped his fingers repeatedly.

“Integration.” said Hart, firmly, “And I don't buy that. Come here, live here, be welcome here, become a citizen, by all means, and I shall shake your hand and call you my neighbour and my friend. But you can never truly be called English. You can never be called an Englishman.”

Bowler shook his head to disagree. He opened his mouth, but Hart cut him off, holding up a hand and looking away. Bowler wanted to slap him when he did it, but never would.

“That's not 'racist.' You know I'm not 'racist,’” Hart sniffed, “I'm just ... they're different. Different culture, yes? I was there when they first arrived. They're WELCOME—are you hearing me, they're more than welcome, welcome to stay here and raise a family and put down roots—and respectable and perfectly jolly nice and everything else, and they deserve all the freedoms that everyone else has ... but don't tell me they're English.”

Bowler didn't agree—in fact, he disagreed quite strongly—and he knew the words were there, but he just couldn't do it in when he HAD to, when he NEEDED to ... there was some sort of blockage. But swallowing everything back felt bad, too. Hart had repeatedly impressed upon Bowler the importance of looking after the mind; Bowler knew it was more important than anything in the Foyer. He knew he had to stand his ground more. Even so … he couldn't find the words.

And then all thoughts were blasted from his mind as he looked up.

“Hart ... HART ... ” Bowler’s mouth went dry, and it took all he had to stay upright. His skin felt light.

Hart saw, and his eyes lit up for a brief moment—he believed for a second—and then dimmed. He shook his head.

“No,” he sighed. “Not coming for us.”

“You can’t see it properly! You can't say for certain!”

“Bowler, I can. It's dark, and you've clearly improved vastly, but I can see it better than you can. It's a Flyer.”

Bowler sagged. He stared off to his right, looking at nothing for a second.
Shit …
He’d been certain. Knowing it was fruitless, Bowler looked back at the sky. He was, of course, desperate.

“Are you sure?”

Hart shrugged.

“I've seen four
Checkins
during my time here—of which you were one, of course—and several Flyers. The
Checkins
look very different. They're bigger, for starters.”

He realised he was being rather blunt, and thought for a moment. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, sighing.

“It's an easy mistake to make, Frank. It's all right.” Hart said, quietly.

Bowler cocked his head in Hart's direction. It wasn't quite
 
a shrug, but the gesture said
it's all right.
He continued to peer intently up at the fuzzy object in the sky, resigned to the truth now, but still fascinated. He’d been here only two years, but had still seen a few Flyers; it wasn’t the first time he and Hart had had a similar conversation. Yet the disappointment was still just as strong.
Why
though?
whined a voice in Bowler's head.
The voice was wheedling, petulant, and Bowler didn't care. He'd earned the right to think that way.
Nothing changed here. They both knew it, and that’s what made survival so hard.