The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (22 page)

That was a mark of the man. A stronger man that Hart was, even though he was a younger man; Simon only being 38 to the best of his knowledge. Hart had often wondered if it was because Simon had never had a family, if it was because he didn't know the  immeasurable pain in here of the worst separation. In eight years together, he'd never dared ask. Without Simon, Hart never would have been able to support Bowler, to be the leader here that Bowler needed. Without Simon first showing him, he wouldn't have known how.

And terribly, in the end, it was Simon who saw The Beast break another Guest. Saw it happen before his eyes, purely by chance, and  was never the same afterwards.

Hart remembers Simon coming to him, looking-ironically-like the walking dead. He remembers questioning Simon, gently at first, then forcefully, shaking the zombie-like figure before him, this thing wearing Simon's form, with no trace of his friend to be seen.

Simon eventually tried to mime it, but with his shaking hands and zero focus, he just kept repeating himself. The Beast. Breaking. The Beast. Breaking. Eventually, he calmed down, and appeared to be like his normal self again. He’d explained how it happened, how he'd been looking for Hart and had heard the screams coming from behind a pub, cutting in and cutting out (the Guest making them obviously tuning in during his pain, going through the different frequencies as he was Broken) How Simon had gone to investigate despite knowing better...but even then he couldn't go any further with his story. He'd apologised and excused himself, saying that with the stress and the proximity to Hart he just had to get away. The physical discomfort had apparently kicked in, though Hart hadn’t felt it.

Hart had said he understood, and let him go. Simon had walked slowly away, all his energy completely absent, and Hart can remember CLEARLY how, for one brief moment, he'd paused. He’d been a few feet away, and Hart had seen Simon's shoulders slump, heard Simon give a visible, weary sigh. Simon had started to turn back.

But he didn't. After a few seconds, he’d suddenly picked his feet up and walked away, slightly faster and more forcefully than before, but nowhere near his usual brisk stride.

And Hart would always wish he'd stopped him, and asked him why he paused, because that was the last conversation they would ever have.

Yes, Hart would see him around; of course, the very next time he did, he went to talk to him but Simon, to Hart’s shock, had ran away. Hart was sure Simon had been crying. For a year, finding Simon became Hart's obsession. He found him, many times, but Simon always saw him coming. They'd even had a chase through the Foyer, Hart uselessly screaming Simon's name, screaming through manic tears for him to come back, that he needed him, that he couldn't survive without him, that he couldn't be like the others, that he didn't want Simon to end up like the others.

But Hart had always lost him. And eventually, as Hart had given up on Simon, the madness had started to come back. Slower this time, as Hart's time with Simon had made him a lot stronger, and taught him many ways to get by alone. But still, of course, it came, and if it hadn't been for the timely arrival of George in The Foyer, Hart didn't know how things would have turned out.

He did see Simon again after that time, on two occasions. Some would say that only seeing someone twice inside such a small area in 50 years was unlikely, but the first time explained why. Five years after their last conversation, Simon had been in the middle of
Gosford
street, right by the edge of The Foyer, his hand tracing the edge of The Wall. Pushing…testing. As Hart had rushed forward, his arms outstretched to embrace him, hope and joy temporarily blocking out what he already knew to be true, he'd realised Simon was crying.

Simon hadn’t turned when Hart touched his shoulder. He’d just kept muttering something, his lips forming the same shape over and over. Hart watched in silent horror, tears streaming down his face. Simon, his eyes bulging in his sockets, his hat, apron, and shirt all gone, stripped to the waist. Barefoot. He’d rocked gently as he pawed at The Wall, muttering, muttering. Hart, through his tears, had tried to read what he was saying. He’d got it, eventually.

“It's true it's true it's true it's true...”

It was only when Simon had reached up one hand to gouge a 4 inch long groove in his cheek, tearing his own skin, that Hart had touched him again, grabbing his wrist to stop him. Simon had jumped away like Hart's hand burned, blood flicking from his face with the movement, and had looked Hart up and down like an animal, crouching away and staring. He’d then bared his teeth- actually bared his teeth like a dog-and spat some phrase at him that Hart couldn't read in time. Hart could then only watch as Simon had suddenly sprinted away up the street with astonishing speed, bent at the waist.

The second time Hart saw him was from afar 6 years later. He’d had no desire to approach him, to see how much worse he had become. He’d seen that Simon was completely naked.

From time to time, when Hart allowed himself, he would think of Simon, and in the main it was about the good times together; of course, to think of what Simon became was too painful. But other times, he would think of those two words.

“It's true.”

On the rare occasions Hart saw a Guest, it wasn't uncommon for them to be talking to themselves, rambling away to invisible companions. Sometimes conversationally, sometimes in a full blown chaotic verbal explosion. So, for the most part, Hart would dismiss Simon's words as the same, during those sad, quiet times when he thought of his former friend and saviour.

But at the same time...Simon had been a strong person. Hart just couldn't believe that what Simon had seen the Beast do would send him crazy enough to go off alone. No...Hart often thought that there had been something else. Not something that had made him Go Loose, but it was enough to make him go off on his own like the others, and his time alone had been too long. Simon had known the dangers of being alone in The Foyer more than anyone, but whatever he'd found out-or what he'd thought he'd found out-had been enough to make him risk it. Enough to make him never come back.

This was what Hart thought sometimes. And other times, he just thought Simon had WANTED to go Loose, that it would make everything easier. Lord knows he'd thought the same thing himself, many times. Before Bowler, even with the regular company of George and Sarah and even Mark, he'd thought about just going off into the city by himself for good. Giving in, and enjoying the comforts of madness.

But that would mean never getting out. It was all a question of that very careful balance of hope and inaction. And Hart thought he had an idea of what Simon had meant; Simon had always had a lot of theories, and one in particular had always intrigued Hart. But that was far, far too risky to think about without proof. So dangerous, and not just because of the risks of belief and pursuit...

“No, Bowler. I don't think this is Hell,” says Hart now, with a faint sigh, not of annoyance but of immense tiredness. Even Bowler notices it. The weight of 60 years.

“Being here is hard, Bowler. Very, very, very difficult…” He stares off into nothing, then continues. “I spent many years wondering the same thing, and for a while I even thought it was true. But after a while I came to the conclusion that yes, we endure a painful existence. We are the truly wretched, there is no doubt. But if you're smart here, and if you're lucky, and if you can work out how to balance between hope and despair, you CAN endure it. But Hell...I think it would be much, much worse.”

Bowler turns from the window, eyes alive. He's never heard Hart speak about this before, not so freely at least, without anger.

“How many were here, Hart? When you came here? How many Guests?”

Hart blows air from his cheeks, even though there was no air to blow.

“About 26, I think. Obviously, I can never really count, but the only
CheckIns
I've ever known of are you, Sarah, George and Mark. Anyone else I've ever seen has been mad, or a hiding Guest I've caught out. Obviously every time I've seen a fresh face I remember it. You can tell a
CheckIn
, obviously, from a normal Guest. You can tell straight away. Obviously, I've not been here the longest. Nowhere near. I think that dubious honour would go to The Beast. He's certainly the most Loose. Which might explain why he's so...distorted. Physically.”

Bowler shudders slightly, and there is a moment of silence in the room, apart from Mary's gentle breathing. Not raising his eyes from the floor, Bowler speaks quietly.

“Do you think anyone has ever gotten out? Ever?”

Hart shrugs gently.

“Ever? How could I say? But during MY time here...I don't think so, although I can never be certain. I still catch faces I saw here 60 years ago, so I think not, but...who knows? I don't keep track of everyone. There could be several. I can't say. I can't say.'

Bowler opens his mouth to speak, and hesitates. Thinking about it for a second, he turns back to the window, deciding this will be easier, safer. Less chance of a rebuke from the older man.

“So...so what keeps you going then? I mean...it drives me crazy and I've been here hardly any time at all compared to you. You've been here so long...and you don't know of anyone that's ever gotten out. How do you...
y'know
...” He trails off, and there is silence again. Hart thinks to himself,
Balance, Bowler. It's all about balance.

“I keep myself safe, Bowler. Hope is good, but as that coloured gentleman said in that film, it's also dangerous. Look for escape, go mad with frustration. Don't look, and resign yourself to...well...” He gestures out of the window, and though Bowler doesn't see it, he knows what Hart means.

“I keep my eyes open and get on with things,” Hart continues, eyes misting as he warms to his theme. Bowler knows that Hart’s looking through him, seeing something only Hart can see. “You feel that pull... that TEMPTATION...the fear, the doubt, the questions, you feel all of it. But you stay careful. You keep your hope Bowler, but you ration it very, very carefully. And you tell yourself you HAVE to keep going, as the alternative is unacceptable. And you keep. Your eyes. Open.”

Bowler continues to stare out of the window, and Hart cannot see his expression.

***

“Oh, I've seen this one before-”

“
Ssssh
!! I haven't.”

Hart had come back from a brief walk. It was several days after they'd holed up in the 'safe house', and even though Hart thought the coast wasn't entirely clear with The Beast yet, he didn't like to stay in one place so long. If there was one thing all of the Guests shared, it was restlessness, although Bowler didn't seem to have it as badly as the others. Give him something to amuse himself with-a good programme, a group of people conversing, a film, a radio show, a football match-and he seemed able to lose himself in it and forget his situation in a way that Hart never could. Bowler would never understand how much Hart envied him that.

Still, Hart had been careful, and watchful as he walked, and had made it back in one piece to find Bowler sat with the house's true resident, the person they'd first dubbed The Fat Man, although observation of his mail when it came through the door revealed his name to be Terry. Bowler still called him The Fat Man. Terry was in Hart and Bowler's favourite part of the house, the den. Terry-or someone-had done a good job of converting the basement, so much so you wouldn't know it hadn't originally been a room, despite its cramped size and fairly low ceiling. As far as dens go there wasn't much to it, though given its dimensions there wasn't a lot you
could
do. White plastered walls, a few wooden shelves adorned with novelty pint glasses and holiday souvenirs (stuffed animals with t-shirts saying 'SAN ANTONIO', little men with googly eyes made out of sea shells) and small photo frames of Terry, his wife and various friends arranged next to a few small pub trophies. The single bulb in the ceiling lit a brown carpet, mostly covered by two armchairs, a mini beer fridge and a large
flatscreen
TV in the corner. The back wall sported a large mural that they'd soon discovered was actually painted by Terry's wife. Despite it being
his
den, Terry was immensely proud of it (they'd only learned this when he’d pointed out the artist’s identity to one of his friends;  they'd pointed out that yes, he'd told them before.) Hart thought it was very touching.