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.
Hart knew that too, and Bowler had seen that brief glimmer in his eyes when he first looked up. Bowler knew what it would mean for Hart if it WAS another Checkin, why he would be even more excite
d with that prospect than he would be with just the possibility of a new arrival. It would mean more protection. Bowler smirked, in spite of himself; he knew the way his companion thought. And Bowler wasn’t daft, or at least not as daft as Hart thought he was. What Hart didn't know was the other reason Bowler needed a Checkin so badly. How it might mean that he was more than just protection for someone. The Flyer crackled with a warm energy as they watched.
The object in the sky was cloud shaped, but slightly transparent, ethereal. It was here one second, gone the next, then back again, flickering like an old film. It was about 9 feet long by four feet across; a glowing, white, airborne piece of elongated popcorn, lit from within. Bowler tracked it's progress across the sky, still holding onto a glimmer of hope despite Hart's words and his own knowledge (it wouldn’t really make any difference in the long run ... but please let Hart be wrong on this) a glimmer that died the closer The Flyer got to the edge of The Foyer. Even though his belief was tiny, Bowler’s heart sank as The Flyer began to shift trajectory, and start the all-too-familiar inexorable journey upwards. As it ascended, it made the low thrumming sound that Bowler knew painfully well, the one that sounded like someone despairing. It was a sound that perfectly matched the feeling in the pit of his stomach.
They stood silently for a few minutes, watching it until it ascended completely from view. Bowler continued tracking it in the sky long after Hart had stopped watching; the older man had begun an inspection of his fingernails, despite there being no dirt under them and no chance of there ever being any. Hart caught himself, and noted again that some things were harder to unlearn than others.
Hart waited until Bowler's gaze also returned downwards, and watched his companion for a few moments. When Bowler didn’t move, Hart sighed, hesitated, and stepped only slightly closer to him. He knew the way Bowler was feeling all too well. It was only two years ago that had he finally stopped feeling that way himself—stopping once he'd gotten what he wanted in the form of Bowler’s arrival—and the memory of that time was still strong enough to move him to a kind of pity. He was not an unkind man. He was just one who had never been given much reason, when he was alive, to learn how to discuss anything that was deeply rooted.
Close proximity to another person made him nervous even now, even here. Without realising it, he had come a long way from his old life now that he was even this open, his old life spent in a world where men kept their distance and everything but their opinions inside. It was seeing Bowler this way—the image bringing forth a memory of pain—that now drove him to move without thinking as he saw his own remembered anguish at work in another. He wasn't even consciously aware that he was going to try and comfort his friend.
He gently put an arm around the young man's shoulders, barely touching him, and guided Bowler slowly forwards. Bowler allowed him to do so.
“Come on,” Hart muttered gently, but awkwardly. “Let's go and see what the Polish gentleman is watching tonight.
***
There's a sudden snapping sound, and everything rushes in; memories, knowledge, identity, and the strongest memory of all is one of great pain. Not the greatest pain he will ever know—that will come from The Train of course—though he doesn't know this yet. That will be physical agony so great and so lasting that he will brush against madness, and he will discover why madness is to be feared above all else here.
The next thing he's aware of is the voice again, the voice that hasn't shut up, that blessedly hasn't shut up and he's more grateful than the voice's owner will ever know. The voice is breathless and desperate now, almost shouting. Its owner has seen something.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? I can see you! I can see you properly now! Hello? Hello?! Do any kind of gesture, anything!”
And he nods in response, and with that he realises he has a head now, and with this knowledge comes the sensation that the rest of his body has also arrived. He still can’t see, but he thinks that will come very soon. He stretches his hands and realises something isn't right, but he can't tell what yet ... he's lighter, lighter than he should be, but it's a sensation that he can't understand. He'll later realise it's because there's no gravity. No air. No breeze.
The voice gasps, and continues tremulously.
“Have you been able to hear me … all this time?”
He's still figuring out what's going on with his body, but he nods again, even though it makes him feel sick. He owes the voice that.
The voice sighs, and there's silence, and then he realises the voice is laughing with relief. When it speaks again there are reluctant tears in the laughter.
“Well ... well. I didn't think ... heh ... d'you know, I didn't believe for one solitary second that that would actually ... bloody ... work.”
***
Wednesday morning, the shopping precinct. Hart always liked this time of day; he liked the hustle and bustle. People rushing, talking on mobile phones—Hart desperately wanted to try one of those, despite himself—late for work, shopping, kids skiving, sitting on the edge of the large fountain set in the middle of the crossroads, the heart of the city centre rush.
Bowler liked it too, but for him the reason was being able to see the people more easily. It wasn't as hard in the daytime, and he didn't have to strain. Today, George had joined them.
George was the Guest—out of the three that they associated with, the three that would actually come near to them and 'talk'—that they hung around with most in The Foyer. This was because George was the one Hart tuned in with the most frequently—which was still extremely rare—and because he was so damn likable. Even Bowler had noticed something odd about the way that the five of them could keep finding each other—most of the time—when they wanted to. The Foyer covered an area of roughly one square mile, full of buildings and other visual obstacles. All the Guests obviously moved independently of each other (apart from Hart and Bowler) and so it would be expected that the ‘friends’ would run into each other a lot less than they did … and yet somehow, that wasn't the case. Hart and Bowler had many discussions on the matter—Hart holding court with Bowler left trying to get a word in—and the general theory that Hart held, and Bowler agreed with, was that it was all to do with energy. Perhaps they sensed each other subconsciously, heading towards each other half the time without realising it. It was the thing that seemed to make the most sense, despite the eventual physical discomfort that would begin after spending time in each other's presence; after a short while, they would have to part until it passed and their bodies returned to normal.
They sat quietly, people watching. George, of course, was totally silent to their ears. Bowler knew very little about George, struggling more than Hart with the ‘gestures only’ conversation. Hart knew more of the man, partly due to his being better practiced at both miming it and reading it, but mainly due to his ability to occasionally tune in with George which Hart (of course) proudly took as proof of his theory about frequencies. In the past, whenever he tuned in, Hart had used the brief period that it lasted to ask probing, experimental questions about how George felt, what he’d been thinking at the point that they suddenly could hear each other etc., in an attempt to crack the trick. Over the years he'd cycled through to personal questions out of curiosity—inescapable even for the ceremonial Hart—but he’d now exhausted those and so it was back to the science of it.
Bowler had to admit, Hart's frequency and energy theory was a good argument. Regardless, he liked George because of his easy going nature, and though he'd never say it, it was nice not being the quietest one every now and then. He also liked how George tried to speak to him, and didn't just rely on Hart. He felt like George made an effort with him. And George was doing so at that very moment, tapping Bowler on the shoulder and gesticulating.
Bowler looked at George, a man in his late 60s who was portly but still with a full head of grey hair. He looked jolly where Hart looked severe; round faced, whereas Hart's features were sharper, thinner. It fascinated him to see that Geor
ge still had thread veins here in The Foyer, whilst Hart’s skin was still quite healthy. Hart, visually at least, radiated robustness, hard in a wiry way. Slim but tough, corded like his suit. George seemed to suggest cuddles, based on both his nature and appearance.
In the latter element—although he was 'physically' older than Hart—George wore more modern clothes, an acrylic jumper and trousers compared to Hart's brown corduroy suit. Even Hart's hair was more old-fashioned, a slicked down side parting compared to George's crew cut, an interesting look for a man of George's age (Bowler assumed using clippers at home were a more appealing option than the barber in George's former life.) But then, George hadn't been here anywhere near as long as Hart, so it all made sense.
George began his charade, and Bowler watched intently. It was a good game with a practical purpose, and Bowler loved being on the receiving end of it. He pieced it together as George went.
Gesturing over his shoulder; Bowler knew this one. Yesterday. Now hands to eyes. I saw. Fingers to the back of the head, head thrusting downwards and forwards, growling face ... though it looked very funny, Bowler got the impression George was actually being deadly earnest. Bowler couldn't get it, and threw his hands up, putting on a confused face. George looked at Hart, who had been watching, and pointed at Bowler. Explain to him.
Hart looked at the crowds around him with a slight sigh, and answered, not taking his eyes off the people milling around.
“He says saw The Beast yesterday, Frank.”
Bowler drew in his non-existent breath dramatically, looking at George with wide-eyes even though it was a false expression put on for the older man’s benefit. Bowler thought George was lying. If the old man had seen The Beast at a close enough range to be story-worthy, he very much doubted old Georgie would be healthy enough to be sitting here telling them about it. But he knew what old people were like. They made things up, didn’t they? His Gran had been the same. She once had claimed that she’d won five grand in the lottery and lost the ticket. He’d watched his Mum making a big show of shock and dismay, rolling her eyes at the rest of them to do the same and keep Granny amused. He’d been annoyed by it.
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 2