The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel

by Luke Smitherd

  First Published Worldwide 2011

  Copyright © Luke Smitherd 2011

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious, and any

  resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Books By Luke Smitherd:

  Full-Length Novels:

  The Physics Of The Dead

  The Stone Man

  Serial Novellas

  The Black Room, Part One: In The Black Room

  The Black Room, Part Two: The Woman In The Night

  The Black Room, Part Three: The Other Places

  The Black Room, Part Four: The End

  Novellas

  The Man On Table Ten

  For an up-to-date list of Luke Smitherd’s other books, his blog, YouTube clips and more, visit www.lukesmitherd.com

  The Physics Of The Dead

  By

  Luke Smitherd

  For Angela

  “Though the days are long

  Twilight sings a song

  Of the happiness that used to be.

  Soon my eyes will close

  Soon I'll find repose

  And in dreams you're always near to me.”

  -Gus Kahn

  “You don't have to stay anywhere forever.”

  -Edwin Payne

  Has anybody here seen my old friend Abraham?

  Can you tell me where he's gone?

  -Marvin Gaye

  “Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town?

  We danced and sang and the music played inna de boomtown.”

  -The Specials

  “Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They drive a car. They work in offices…They picnic with their families. They raise children.

  And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.”

  -Anais Nin

  Part 1-Checking In

  Chapter 1: In Which We Meet The Dead, Learn About Flyers and Blueys, and Discover How The Guests Survive Life In The Invisible Foyer

  ***

  On days when Hart looked back at it all—looked back at the days when he and Bowler were still together-—he remembered to focus on the positives. At the very least, he would have to say that they got they wished for. At least things happened.

  And then he would remember what happened to Bowler, and how it ended, and would then pause in whatever he was doing as he sighed and went through, once again, the list of regrets in his head.

  Undoubtedly, the worst of it—the physical pain—all happened to Bowler.

  2000:

  Mary grunted in her sleep, and Bowler jumped in his seat reflexively. Some things were harder to unlearn than others, Hart noted. He thought he’d probably been the same when he first arrived, but he was sure he'd picked things up a lot quicker than Bowler had. He'd been older when he died than Bowler had been, to be fair, and from a far less mollycoddled world, but were he given the choice Hart certainly wouldn’t change that. These days, they knew nothing.

  Bowler glanced sheepishly over; Hart gave him a brief wave of the hand. Don’t worry about it. The younger man ran a hand nervously through his shortish hair and tried to resettle in his seat. Hart thought it would still be some time until Bowler was completely comfortable in other people's houses. It occurred to him how very human—how very English—it was to have the need to know you’d actually been invited somewhere.

  Mary carried on dozing. She always tended to at this time of the day, and it was another reason Hart preferred to watch TV in her flat than elsewhere. Mary was a creature of habit, and therefore easy to predict. Better for Bowler and, to a lesser extent, for Hart. Plus, Mary's flat made him comfortable. The décor was definitely to his taste. That which he called classic (and Bowler called old fashioned) style was strongly in evidence. Brown, floral patterned wallpaper and dark, dirty red carpet, with iron framed, yellowing photographs adorning the mahogany effect cabinets and side tables, as chipped and faded as Mary herself. Hart liked it. Bowler wasn't a fan, but Hart knew Bowler would never complain about it. What was the phrase he'd heard? Wouldn't be seen dead in it. Hart sneered bitterly at the irony. And then, right on schedule—it hadn’t spoken up for a good five minutes—the voice in Hart’s head spoke up again. You’ve got to get OUT of here. You can’t last much longer. What are you DOING, why are you wasting time? As always, Hart blocked it out and focused on routine. Monotony. The safety net.

  Mary's snoring began to drown out the tick of the large, seventies-style clock in the corner, which sat extremely awkwardly with the rest of the bric-a-brac. As the sound became harder to ignore, Hart fought extremely hard not to envy her. It was a feeling bordering on hate, made worse by the maddening drone. Once, back when he'd first arrived, he would have had to leave the room to calm down, driven to a near-uncontrollable, jealous rage. Sleep ... Hart closed his eyes, as if to simulate it for himself. Of course, hefelt no change in his state of mind, nor would he ever. Blessed, blessed sleep … the temporary respite—no, the sanctuary—of rest. The living had absolutely no idea how good they had it. To hear her snoring so heavily was like a child's taunt to Hart's ears, nya-nya-na-nya-naaa. Look what I've got. Nowadays he could control his emotions better, though it had taken a long time to learn how to do so. More than anything since he'd come here, Hart had learned the importance of self control. It was the difference in this place between survival, and ... the alternative. Hart had promised himself, long ago, that he would not end up like the others. He would remain intact. He realised he was gritting his teeth, and relaxed his jaw.

  He forced himself to look back at Bowler, who was sitting and squinting at the glowing screen, trying to keep up with the goings-on in Albert Square. Soaps were an absolute lifeline for them, and he was glad he no longer had to give running commentary to his friend. Simple vision over distance was a major problem for the new arrivals, who had to learn how to master it just as they did with so many other aspects of their new physical existence, aspects that had been effortless in their former lives.

  Explaining all the on-screen action to Bowler had been annoying, and had meant that Hart wasn't able to enjoy the soaps as he'd like; now Bowler could just about get by on his own, meaning that he was making progress in at least one field. In the early days, Hart sometimes thought the younger man wouldn't even begin to adapt, and Hart had even wondered if Bowler might end up being more trouble than he was worth; that Hart had made a large mistake. But now Bowler seemed to be ticking away nicely. Just a late starter.

  “Who's the guy in the jacket?” asked Bowler peering intently, trying to focus.

  “David,” answered Hart, glancing at the screen. “He's new.”

  “When did he turn up? We never miss this.”

  “Last episode, must have been. Mary turned over for that film, so he must have been in the bit we didn't see. He was re-introduced at the start of this one. You missed it because you were late coming back from your ... walk.”

  It was a deliberate, probing jibe, poking at Bowler over a subject they never talked about; his old, now abandoned secret. It was a childish act on Hart's part, but he was feeling annoyed and needed to vent. To his mild satisfaction, Bowler winced almost imperceptibly, and reddened, but kept a straight face. Hart knew Bowler hadn't actually done anything wrong—hadn't broken his promise to not return to his old ways—but just the mention of the subject was enough to goose Bowler, to unsettle him. There was nothing jumpier than a tempted man. They never talked about it, but Hart sometimes liked to
pretend he was going to give the elephant in the room a full-scale, sit down interview.

  “I wasn't—” he began, but Hart closed his eyes and held up a hand.

  “Yes, yes, I didn't say anything. Anyway, he's thingy's brother. The car chap.”

  Bowler nodded, and went back to squinting, eager for silence. Hart leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, trailing the shell-shaped sweeps of raised lines with his eyes. He'd long given up on chastising Bowler, and besides, if Mary hadn't put him in a bad mood he wouldn't have said anything in the first place. To his surprise, Bowler piped up again.

  “But wasn’t he sleeping with—“

  “Bowler,’ Hart theatrically sighed, “I’m quite certain that, at some point in the future of this programme’s plumbing of the depths of morality, we’ll be treated to the characters’ pets having intercourse with one another behind their loved ones’ backs. So I really wouldn’t express any surprise at who has jumped into bed with whom,’ Hart said, finishing with a folding of his arms.

  Bowler smirked, rolled his eyes, and turned back to the TV. Hart smiled despite himself.

  The drums beats sounded over the old set's small speakers, signalling the end of one program as the trail over the credits signalled the next; news. One thing after another; it never ends, thought Hart, and smirked inwardly. Ironic thoughts seldom amused him any more, for irony was in abundance here, and mainly an irritant. But that one had tickled him.

  “Why was Steve so nervous at the end?” asked Bowler, turning and adjusting his Nike t-shirt, which had ridden up as he sat.

  “Could you not see whatshername, the wife, in the background? She'd seen him with the barmaid.”

  “Ohhhh ... right,” said Bowler, the penny dropping. “Ah well, someone's getting a bollocking then.” He paused a second, running his tongue under his lip. “So are we staying to watch the news, or are we going to the Polish Guy's for something else, or ... ” When Hart didn't answer immediately, Bowler raised his eyebrows and his hands. “Or what?” He finished, good naturedly.

  Hart had to think about it for a second. As with every day, this was a legitimately important question. What are we doing next was to them, in this place, as food and water had once been. Their sustenance was entertainment, and survival depended upon activity. Without it, Hart knew too well, they would ... change. End up like the others. And that was too terrible an idea to even consider. You’ve got to GO. You’ve got WORK to do, you’ve got to GO—

  “News.” Hart said, finally, and Bowler turned back to the screen.

  “Spot the Blueys?” he asked, back to squinting.

  “Spot the Blueys.” Hart replied, already staring at the ceiling, his mind miles away.

  ***

  He's aware that he exists, and this is progress. Before, there was a brief time when he didn't exist at all. He doesn't know where he physically begins and ends, but he knows that he used to. And wait, wait ... he used to have a name. Currently everything is black, more than black, nothing ... but he doesn't know if it is his surroundings, or if he's just unable to see; he has no way of checking, no hands to check for eyes that aren't there. But he does have a sensation of moving, of surfacing, a sense of moving through and into something, and he knows there has been an incredible change, the biggest change there could possibly be. He tries to remember who he was before now, what he was, even what his shape was, but he can't, though he feels that this knowledge will cone. After a time that may have been five minutes or five years, there is a sensation of touching down, landing, settling ... developing weight. A feeling of arriving somewhere. He thinks he can hear someone, and vaguely is aware of wondering how that is possible without ears ... it’s a voice. A voice that is breathing hard. Desperate.

  “Come on ... oh, PLEASE ... oh, for goodness' sake, please, please ... WORK ...

  ***

  “One!” Shouted Bowler triumphantly, pointing, but Hart was actually more interested in the TV report about local redevelopment. You never knew; a change of the physical landscape around them, it might make a difference if it came close enough ... it could maybe mean something (escape, FREEDOM) but this thought was fleeting, as he knew it to be untrue and foolish.

  Even so, he couldn't help but glance at where the smiling 29 year old pointed; he had to admit, Bowler had done well to spot it with his limited vision, especially as far back in the shot as the Bluey was.

  It was a shot of the city centre that they knew so well, knew it like they knew the only smell of whatever it was that filled all the space in their enclosure. It certainly wasn't air. The report was about the people of the city's responses to the redevelopment; Hart thought he already knew what the masses would focus on. Modern sheep, he sniffed to himself, the people onscreen thinking only of another two years of roadwork-induced hassle for themselves. Never mind how much good the renovation might mean for Coventry’s economy and culture. As the report cut to various 'on the street' interviews, many people were indifferent about the project, but the sheer number of bleeped out words from one red-faced Coventry gentleman would suggest that Hart’s opinion of the people was right; even though the exact place this man was suggesting the council could stick said redevelopment was also edited out, Hart thought that he could guess where the man meant.

  Bowler's cry had come after that. On the screen, they'd been watching as a blue shirted reporter filled two thirds of the screen, with the shot over his shoulder revealing throngs of Saturday shoppers. If Bowler's sighting had been made within this group it would have been less impressive, but he’d managed to catch a glimpse of the Bluey as it passed through the small gap between the reporter's right shoulder and the top corner of the screen.

  This particular Bluey was a middle aged black man, bearded and wearing a shell suit. He was walking slowly with the slight, awkward smile reserved for those wanting to appear on TV, but trying to appear nonchalant whilst simultaneously checking that they're in shot.

  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 fini
shed, 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 ...”