The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel (23 page)

The flat screen TV was currently showing Millionaire, and although Hart would of course normally be glad to see this, he was disappointed that, as he'd previously stated, he'd seen this one, and even more so that there was still a good half an hour of the show to go. Bowler was engrossed as usual, and so would be no good for conversation until the ad break. Fortunately though, Bowler had taken the floor for some reason, leaving the second armchair free next to Terry himself, who was sat in his work shirt and trousers. Home early today, thought Hart.

Hart settled himself into the empty chair, and was quiet. He was happy to be patient until the break; he didn't particularly feel like taking Bowler out of his release right now, let him be lost in it
.
Plus...Bowler's distant demeanour seemed to be from more than just the usual engrossing effect of the TV. Hart could tell these things.

The ads came, and Bowler turned around.

“All right?” he asked, not particularly brightly.

“Yes. Better for that.”

A pause.

“No trouble then.”

“No. Only other Guest I saw was actually Bella
Emberg
. She was pushing away at The Wall as usual.”

He'd hoped to get a smirk out of Bowler at the mention of his favourite Guest lookalike, something that never failed to raise a smile normally (even Hart had to admit the resemblance was uncanny) but there was none. Hart continued.

“We're probably all right to move tomorrow, possibly the day after, I would have thought,” Hart finished.

“Whatever you say. I'm easy.” He stopped, and looked around the room for a moment. “We should come back here more, you know. I like it.”

“Yes, it's nice. I saw Sarah, you know. Just now. Doing her perimeter walk.”

“Oh, right. Did she apologise? For before?”

“No, I'm afraid not. To be perfectly honest, she didn't even really acknowledge it.”

“Well...I guess she's always been a bit stubborn, right?”

“Yes, but...it was like she didn't even remember it. I've said it before, Bowler...I'm worried about her.”

Bowler chuckled, humourlessly.

“At least she didn't try and spark you out again. She gets any worse, she'll try and throttle you.” He stopped for a moment, and turned to Hart. “But you'd 'survive', wouldn't you?” he asked, making the air quotes with his fingers, “I mean, I've been bad. After the train, but you can't like...'die' again here that way, can you? We always heal?”

“Of course. Remember my helicopter story?”

“Right. So if I ever had enough and wanted out, you couldn't just, like, strangle me?” said Bowler, looking back at the TV. He was wearing a smile that wasn't really a smile. Hart decided to play along.

“No, that wouldn't work, I'm afraid.”

Bowler chuckled again, that flat, gentle guffaw that didn't reach his eyes.

“No, I know that. Plus...you'd be stuck then, wouldn't you?”

“How's that?”

“Well. There'd be no-one here to strangle you.”

There was a long pause. Hart began to suspect strongly that leaving Bowler alone-even briefly-after his injuries had been a bad thing. Was it just that? Before he could divert the subject, Bowler turned back to the TV and continued.

“Yep...you'd be all alone. Like before.”

Something stirred inside Hart, and he moved closer behind Bowler, who sat facing away from him.

“You're right, Bowler. But at the same time, I
still
think I'd be far, far better off than the alternative. If that was possible.” That flat chuckle again in response, Bowler's gaze not moving.

“You reckon so? You really reckon so?” Chuckle. “Sometimes...well, I'm not so sure you'd be fully right there.”

“You remember that feeling on the train Bowler? Right at the end?”

There was no chuckle this time. Bowler turned suddenly and looked at Hart, who stared blankly back at him, his face totally slack. Bowler felt the change in the room, and now in himself.

“I know you did,” said Hart, “Of course. It's why you let go. It's why I let go.”

Bowler said nothing, and continued to stare at Hart, wide eyed.

“No matter how bad this place is, Bowler, no matter how sick you get...remember that. How oblivion felt. And think about whether that's any kind of alternative at all.”

There was a very long pause whilst both men regarded each other, Hart expressionless, Bowler admonished. Eventually, Bowler dropped his eyes.

There was another long pause, until Hart spoke.

“Watch your programme,” he said, quietly.

Bowler turned back to the TV for the last time, not even looking at the screen, but immediately whipped back around in his chair as Mark suddenly passed through the door and burst into the room.

“What in God's name-” started Hart, but Mark was grabbing Hart's sleeve and dragging him towards the stairs, gesturing frantically for Bowler to do the same, mouth working hysterically.

***

Hart can hear Bowler before he sees him, and it is a surprise. He hasn't seen Bowler for two days, and has been looking fearfully; fear not just for Bowler, but for himself, for there is an undeniable current of selfishness on Hart's side of their relationship, and he is all too aware of it. Bowler had simply announced he was going for a walk to help settle his now-fixed legs back in, and Hart, engrossed in a Richard Burton film, had been happy for him to do so. Bowler hadn't come back, and that was 48 hours ago.

Were it daytime, Hart probably would have missed it under the street noise, but now it is dark, late, and quiet, and so it is easy to hear Bowler's moans, echoing clearly down to him from inside a second floor flat. Sounds of the Guests travelled much more easily through concrete and stone than they would in their previous lives, although, strangely, not quite as clearly as they would were there no concrete at all.

Bowler's disappearance isn't entirely unexpected; yes, Hart hadn't expected him to go off for so long, but Hart had suspected that there would be some psychological, post traumatic aspect to Bowler's recovery from The Train. Hart listens, and picks whereabouts in the building he needs to enter to gain access to the correct stairwell. Of course, he could just pass through each wall until he finds the right one, but Hart would like to avoid that as much as possible. Better to get it right first time, and only pass through once.

It's quite a modern building, one of the many new metropolitan-style blocks that have gone up in the city centre in recent years. 'City living' has become popular, he gathers, in many smaller cities now. In any case, Hart approves of these new-build places in his city. Its heavy scars are finally starting to fully heal, long after the raids have become a part of history. Hart passes through the door and enters the hallway.

The sound of Bowler is louder here. He is clearly in great pain. Hart mounts the stairs and begins to climb; it sounds like his estimate of the second floor was correct. Another floor, and now Bowler is harder to hear. It isn't because Hart is in the wrong place, but that Bowler's moans have dropped to a low sobbing. Hart can still hear him. Bowler is two doors away.

Hart passes through the correct door to find himself in what he guesses the media would call a 'fashionable' flat. Following the sounds down the short hallway, he enters a large, open living room. The floors are laminate, the walls are an interesting mix of pastel shades-a different colour for each wall-with warm, art deco lighting attached to them (
uplighters
, but Hart wouldn't know the term.) The furniture looks expensive and large, especially the seating. It’s the sort of suite that would be difficult to get out of once you were in it. Large indoor plants were scattered here and there, and a set of double patio doors led onto a balcony at the end of the room, adjacent to the expensive looking kitchen area. Various 'ethnic' ornaments adorn many surfaces, and to Hart, the whole thing seems contrived rather than welcoming; the sort of place more mindful of impressing visitors than of being a warm living space.

The huge TV mounted on the wall is on, and a young couple sit in comfortable silence in front of it, watching a cooking programme. He's a large man in his early thirties, slightly tanned, slightly thinning on top, but handsome, dressed in home wear. T shirt, jeans, barefoot. Possible traces of the
greek
about him, thinks Hart. She has the back of her head resting on his lap, her slender frame stretched out along the settee. Because it is so large, and she is so small, her
stockinged
feet don't even reach the other armrest. Her face is elfin, her blonde hair very long, reaching halfway down her back, which is covered by a loose fitting vest tucked into her jogging bottoms. She too is barefoot. Her hand occasionally reaches up and absent
mindedly
strokes the man's arm. The couple have an air of contented comfort, happy to be silent, feeling no need to speak at that time. The image is completely at odds which that of Bowler, sat wretchedly cross-legged on the floor before them. His hands on his face muffle his cries.

Hart is too stunned to move, and for a moment, he doesn't. He has never seen Bowler this way. His hair is sticking out, like he has been pulling his hands through it, pulling
on
it. His entire face is red, and his cries are hoarse and grating, as if this has been going on for some time. Occasionally he will look up at them, raising his eyes pathetically, then wail painfully, and carry on moaning like a dying bird.

“Bowler.”

The younger man looks around, seemingly unsurprised, and immediately turns back to the couple. His cries slow down and stop over the next few minutes, and although he is still highly distressed, the presence of another seems to have reduced the self-indulgence of his pain. Bowler takes a very big sniff.

“Hello, Hart. Sorry...sorry I've been, ah...gone a while. I had to, ah...” He stops, and wipes his mouth. “Had to...come here. I had to come here.”

“That's all right, Bowler,” replies Hart, gently, but awkwardly. “Do you...want to come with me? We can...” he searches for the right phrase, out of his element. He thinks of the American programmes. “We can talk about...whatever is upsetting you.” It sounds unnatural coming from his mouth, and it's uncomfortable for him in the extreme, but even Hart can recognise the situation requires it.

Bowler immediately shakes his head.

“No. No, it's all right. I'll come in a bit. I just need to sit here a little while. I'll come in a bit, it's ok.”

Hart hesitates, then quietly moves closer.

“Who are these people, Bowler? Why did you come here?” Hart then winces as, upon hearing this, Bowler is wailing again, openly wailing, and Hart can only stand there awkwardly playing with his cuffs and looking around the flat. He waits, and Bowler's sounds eventually reduce back to a quiet sob.

When he looks again, Bowler's eyes are on the floor, and he is pointing at the woman. He holds a shaking hand there for a moment, and opens his mouth, but as the sobs overtake him at whatever thought he has. He can only point sharply away from her, back at himself. His head sinks and he sobs despairingly at his own crossed ankles.

Hart feels like kicking himself. It should have been obvious, and although he feels for Bowler, Hart is already thinking, assessing. Survival. There is a vital, practical element to be avoided here. Again, not just for Bowler. This absolutely cannot continue. It cannot. He moves right over to Bowler's hunched form, and Bowler looks up almost in surprise, unfamiliar with Hart being this close. He looks up through red, moist eyes, squinting in the light from the ceiling bulb as he looks almost directly into it in order to see Hart's face.