Mum …
Bowler pushed the thought away. He’d gotten good at doing it. He looked at George and drew his palms close to each other. Close? George furrowed his brow with a smile and shook his head. Come on, of course not.
This was interesting. Maybe it was true then.
Bowler thought about how best to express it. He just couldn't do the charades, though he had gotten better over time. Deciding, Bowler held his hand above his head, shaking it rapidly, then slowly lowered it to his waist, reducing the shakes as it lowered, until his hand was at waist height, and still. Then he raised his eyebrows. Internally, he was pleased with himself. It was a good mime.
George got it, and shook his head, screwing up his face emphatically, then mirrored the low-hand action. The Beast hadn't been raging, he'd been calm. That made sense. If The Beast was in the maddest of his many personalities, you literally ran as far as The Foyer would allow. George must have seen him from a good distance away. The consequences if The Beast caught you in that mind were unthinkable. He'd never seen an actual attack himself—though he had only seen the Beast raging once, by chance, before Hart had grabbed him, screaming to run, run—but had never seen him catch someone. He'd heard Hart's version of when he’d seen it though, and the way his face had gone pale, the way his hands shook ... he knew enough.
Bowler held his hands up and cocked his head. What was he doing? George made a serious face and cast his hands about, looking this way and that. Bowler understood. On the occasions he'd seen The Beast himself, he'd been doing the same thing; walking around, quietly inspecting things. Again Hart had appeared, yelling, had physically thrown Bowler over his shoulder and ran him away, pale faced and shrieking.
All in all though, George wasn't telling much of a story, but Bowler appreciated the thought. George was just making conversation, and letting Bowler know that he didn't just communicate with Hart. Bowler made an impressed face and nodded. In the distance, he saw another Guest emerge through the wall of Boots. It was the one he always thought of as Horse Guy, due to his rather long face. Like all the other non-communicating Guests, he was in his normal state of undress, and Horse Guy was one of the most gone. As usual, he was talking to himself animatedly, and today, the mess of self-inflicted welts across his chest seemed worse than usual. Bowler watched him go without mentioning it to the others. Other, long-resident Guests were no longer of any interest. They were all pointless.
Hart leaned forward as a lady shopper walked past.
“11:05” he said, sitting back. “It's starting soon.”
They stood, and George remained seated, raising his eyebrows at them. Hart tapped his wrist, and George nodded, standing. It was time to go.
***
He tries to speak, and can't. He wants to ask why he's naked, but the man seated on the floor opposite him seems to already know what he's thinking.
“If you're wondering about clothes, they come very soon. Mine did, anyway; maybe a couple of hours. They come by themselves, as far as I can ascertain. My theory is we form them ourselves here, out of our unformed energy. I think we do it without thinking, from our state of mind. They're the only ones you get, and I've no idea how they're decided. It's not a case of getting the ones you wore the most, anyway. Take mine; I only wore these for special occasions, but it can't be that either as I'm the smartest-dressed Guest here. Easily the smartest, and I'm not talking about fashion, I mean in terms of neatness. I think it's just random, whatever's in your mind when clothes first pop up. But I can't say for certain. It must be something to do with your mind, regardless. How you look, I mean. Just look at The Beast … ah, not that you would know. How do you feel? All right? Just nod if you do.”
The clothes that man is talking about, the clothes the man is wearing, are an old fashioned, slightly ill-fitting brown corduroy suit. They look like something from the 1940s. He hopes he doesn't have to wear those.
He nods anyway, and starts to panic as it suddenly strikes him that he's sinking into the floor, incredibly slowly, but sinking nonetheless. It takes a second to register, and he almost doesn't comprehend it, but now he realises that his body is dropping into the concrete as if he were lying on quicksand. As he lies on his side, two inches of his thigh has already sunk into the concrete of the street. It’s the most terrifying thing he's ever seen, even after everything that’s just happened, this is (the pun vaguely registers) concrete evidence that everything he's going through is real. He starts to thrash, but the man in the suit calmly holds up a hand.
“That's not going to help,” he says. “Just imagine, just picture in your head, that you're lying on the surface, and you will. After a day or two it'll be automatic. You won’t even need to think about it.”
He can't hear the man properly as panic has taken hold, but the man in the suit begins to shout.
"Imagine you're lying on the surface!"
Somehow it penetrates, and the man on the floor does as he’s told. Slowly he begins to raise back up; now he thinks about feeling the concrete, feeling it's textured surface, but he knows he won't, as he knows, somehow, that he will never properly feel another surface again. He panics, and gasps for air, and it dawns on him that he can't feel any in his lungs. He'd never notice it if it were there; but he can feel it now it's gone.
There's no town smells, no street smells, no car smells, no drain smells. As he takes in his surroundings, he realises that he's in a car park, an empty car park at an unidentifiable hour of the night. There's a sign saying LEVEL ONE, and arrows on the walls telling pedestrians that aren't there which way to go, strip lights on the ceiling covered by plastic cases that are full of dead flies and moths, their bodies inexplicably on the inside. He realises the only thing he can smell pervades everything. Everything smells of one thing only; a faint, unpleasant odour, that makes him think of the word Electrical. Were he more experienced, he'd realise the smell is ozone.
The man in the brown suit stands. “That's better,” he says, with satisfaction. The man on the floor knows that the man in the suit doesn’t mean he’s pleased that the situation is resolved, or is feeling glad that the man on the floor is feeling better. The man in the suit is pleased with the other's progress. The man in the suit is seeing exactly what he wanted to see here, and when he speaks next, what he says hits deeply, harsh and hard, damning and burying.
This isn't just because of the words spoken, but because of the manner in which they are delivered. Blunt, direct, frank, just like his name (his NAME...Frank. Frank....BOWLER, yes!) and by this, the man in the suit lets Frank Bowler know a number of things without saying them directly; that the man in the suit will not provide what Bowler's mother gave, what Bowler's lovers have given. No comfort, no unconditional affection; there is none of this here, none in this man, and what he says makes Bowler ache uncontrollably for it and tells him that he will never have it, never again..
“All right,” the man in the suit says, “I believe in straight talking; so here it is. It really is the best way, to get it out of the way now, you see.” He pauses, taking a breath, not looking Bowler in the eye. He looks like he’s steeling himself. And when the man in the suit looks up, it is the face of a police officer, one who comes to your house to deliver some highly unexpected and unpleasant news, the worst news, thinking This is the part of the job I hate, delivering news to these good folks, but I have to do it.
“But please remember the good news,” he continues, “The fact that-and I still can't believe this has worked-I’ve managed to fix it this way…that fact means you've actually got it better than everyone else that's ever arrived here. You really have. But anyway...” Pause. Deep, deep breath, and Bowler suddenly knows what’s coming, but it’s too late. And he is stunned as he actually sees the man in a brown corduroy suit smile, albeit in an embarrassed and apologetic way.
“All right. Look here…I mean…I'm sorry...but you're dead. And as far as I've been able to tell in all the time I’ve been here… this, well. It certainly isn't Heaven.�
�
And Frank Bowler begins to sink into the floor again, faster now.
***
Hart looked across at Bowler, and was not at all surprised to see the rapt expression on his face. The cinema still had the same effect on him, even now; it was an escape over all others, when the lights went down and the screen lit up. It was a cliché, but for a few hours, they were alive again.
George was the same, but more serious looking. George really got into his films. If the bad guys were being bad, George's faced showed anger. If the good guys were winning, George's eyes were like a child’s, enthusiastic and delighted. But Bowler...Bowler's face showed nothing but delight all the way through. For Bowler, Hart thought, it was more than just an escape. It was a way of forgetting that which burned constantly at the back of his mind. Hart sometimes wondered just how hard it was for Bowler, sticking to their deal. But he’d made Bowler agree to it for his own good, hadn’t he? As well as for HIS own good? The thought reminded Hart that it was good he was here for the young man. As vital as Bowler was to Hart, good lord, he knew Bowler needed him too.
On screen, Bond dispatched another villain. This Bond was good, but Hart wasn't sure he liked him. Bowler did, of course; it was Bond. That was enough for Bowler. But for Hart, it was just another example of how different things were now. He remembered Moore, and the raised eyebrow, and the puns, and thought the modern version lacked some of the fun of the past. Hart sighed. He was getting bitter. He needed to keep an eye on that. He knew where it might lead.
He leaned over to say something to Bowler, but George glared at him fiercely and made a shushing motion. Hart was taken aback. He frowned, and slumped back in his seat. He wasn't used to being told off.
“You can’t hear me anyway, idiot.” he murmured, scowling.
Some habits were harder to break than others.
***
Bowler is clothed now. He can't remember the way his getup arrived, the same way he can't remember the movement of hands on a watch; he just suddenly realises they're there, on his body. To his surprise, his outfit is a pair of blue jeans, black shoes, and his old white Nike t-shirt. He only wore it about 5 times, and wasn't a particular fan of it, so he doesn't get why this is the top he's ended up in. He doesn’t know it yet, but this outfit will change over time, and he will not notice that either, any more than he will remember which outfit he started out with.
Hart isn't giving him many details; every time Bowler manages to ask a question, in stammering, half formed words (he can’t understand why it’s so hard to speak) Hart says it's best to continue getting physically orientated first.
“Because,” as he reminds him for the tenth time, pacing up and down, “You're going to get to learn in a few days-because you'll actually be taught-what everybody else here has to learn for themselves over several years. You're already walking, whilst most new arrivals, here spend several weeks wedged into the floor up to their waists, as far as I can gather. Let’s get the basics down, while you get your head around your situation. Too much and you'll just overload, and that can lead to...well...you just don't want to do that.”
Another burst of memory suddenly floods into Bowler’s mind. This is the third time it’s happened, but Bowler feels like there’s still SO much more to get. His mouth glues up as he tries to express it.
“Ah,” he says, stuck. Hart sees this, and waits for him. “Ah. Ah.”
“Go on,” Hart urges, excited and patient. He’s seeing progress.
“Mech. Mech.”
“...”
“Mechanic.”
“Good.”
“I. Mechanic. I like...bikes.”
“Racing?”
“Mmm.”
“Good. Keep going.”
***
George, Hart and Bowler stood outside, Bowler's eyes still adjusting to the sunlight. They'd seen everything else that was on, and Hart made then ration their visits, at least as a threesome, saving them as something to look forward to. Hart knew the importance of having something to look forward to. George was excitable, partly from movie buzz, and partly from the frustration of not being able to articulate fully what he thought of the film. Hart had told Bowler that George used to be a taxi driver when he was alive. Bowler wasn’t sure if he was joking.
They watched George patiently as he moved, his current charade a complicated one; hands higher and lower, flitting around his head, then thumbs up. It was difficult to understand, but for once, Bowler saw it and got in there first.
“He liked it better because there were more special effects.”
Hart shook his head, pulling a dramatic scowl for George. Bowler wondered if Hart wasn’t really hiding annoyance; Hart’s mime interpretations were rarely beaten to the punch.
George looked shocked with Hart’s disagreement. His hands became flicked up. Why on earth would you think that?.
“Yeah, are you for real man?” said Bowler, agreeing. He’d loved it too, had thought it was exciting. Hart looked sharply at him, and Bowler reddened.
“Not as good as the old style. Bond is fun escapism, but still with some element of realism.” said Hart, after a moment more of staring at Bowler. “Not close enough to the style of the books,” he continued loudly, anticipating Bowler’s response as he opened his mouth to protest, “Bond is Fleming, and once the books ran out, they shouldn't make any more.” Bowler frowned.
Hart looked at George, doing the Moore eyebrow and pointing at it, then giving a thumbs up. He then pointed at the cinema and gave the thumbs down. George laughed silently, waved Hart away, and then proceeded to act out a bit he’d liked, mainly for Bowler's benefit. George’s mouth worked silently as he gave a running commentary neither Hart nor Bowler could hear. The younger man loved to watch this; a man of near-retirement age gadding about with the enthusiasm a 13 year-old. It wasn't that George was childish. It was that he was old enough to know better and not care. At times like these, Bowler thought that George looked like a shorter John Candy.
Hart scanned the street absent-mindedly, listening to Bowler laughing with George in the background. He felt restless today; this was always the downside to coming out of the movies. His usual fear was intensified during the comedown. They needed more than TV today. They needed real drama; a good couple's argument to sit in on, a parking dispute, a fight, anything. They could go and find it. A safe little hunt. Now they had a job for the afternoon, and, as always, the thought made him feel better. They had a task. He breathed easily as he turned back to the others, not realising he was smiling as he watched them. He loved them both, even if he was no more aware of it than they were.
He turned to Bowler to explain, just in time to hear George’s voice tune onto their frequency and say “-ills the first fella, boom, and then...what? Bowl? Bowl, have you got me? Have you got me?”
He'd seen Bowler's face change, but as usual in moments that needed action, Bowler had frozen, not speaking. He gaped dumbly at George and then quickly turned to Hart, but the older man was already there, grabbing George by the shoulders and turning him so they were face to face. They’d both tuned into George this time, and as Bowler’s paralysis broke they both started talking hurriedly over each other; this usually happened when they tuned in with someone. Both of them had their own things to try, their own experiments, frantic, but it was George himself who got there first this time.
“Quickly, how can you both hear me together, how does Bowl get it-”
“I've told you, it's Bowler, and I caught him on arrival so we're tuned on the same frequency-”
“Frequency?! What the hell, how, how did you-”
“It doesn't matter, listen-”
“If you've worked it out, tell me! I can have-”
“Shut up and listen! What were you thinking just now, what was different?”
“You said that last time, there was NOTHING-”
“I want to try this, this, does it help if I touch you? Is it louder?”
“No, what were YOU thin
king?”
“Nothing new-”
“Well don't move, let's, let's, I don't know-”
“Is it easier if I'm closer?”
“No, well, you're louder, but then you're closer-”
“Can you hear me? Over here?” Bowler blurted out, trying to contribute in some way. George nodded at him frantically, and went to speak, but Hart snapped his hand out, waving Bowler silent.
“Listen, listen, now this. Your mood, are you happy? Actually, wait, you were quite energetic just then-”
“Nothing new, I've been like this before and it hasn't happened-”
“Well, HELP me, think!”
George then did his usual darting-eyed, mouth-moving, gasping bit as he tried to think under pressure.
“Well...well...oh, look, I don't think there IS a reason!” He said, shoulders slumping. He gives up so easily, thought Hart. “How many times have we been here before? You always try this, that, and we've tried everything, the forehead thing, EVERYTHING. Now tell me h-” and then cut off suddenly. His mouth carried on moving, but no words were coming out, the sound gone as quickly as it had arrived. Hart flung his arms down.
“SHIT!” he yelled, and as ever, whenever he swore, he immediately straightened himself up afterwards, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he regained his composure. Bowler never said so, but he always observed this and found it quite cool. Proper old school, he thought.
George was shrugging apologetically, and Hart was fighting back his anger, despite a deep suspicion that George was probably right. He motioned for George to sit down, as he knew what was coming next, and indeed the colour had already started to drain from George's face. Hart felt a stab of guilt that he knew was irrational; he hadn’t asked George to tune in, or had talked him into it-not that he could do anything about it anyway-and as ever, it had just happened. And, as ever, it was George who paid the price, and not Hart. It was like the Blueys; Hart, Bowler and George just didn’t have a clue as to what it was all about.
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 3