George nodded, got two steps and started to buckle slightly at the knees. The other two were already there, catching him and guiding him gently to the floor, where he lay down and began to breath heavily, even though there was no air to take in.
They waited there for a while in silence, Bowler not wanting to provoke Hart in his current mood, Hart frustrated and speechless. People passed by; lunchtime shoppers hurrying to get as much done before returning to work. Bowler practiced his sight as Hart observed the crowds, not saying a word. Eventually, Hart nudged George gently with his foot, who feebly looked up. Hart made walking gestures with finger on his hand, then pointed at himself and Bowler. George nodded, eyes closing, and waved them away gently with his hand. He would be there for some time, Hart knew, and today he couldn't face the wait. George would be okay.
“Come on,” he said, tapping Bowler's chest with the back of his hand. “Let's go.”
Bowler was still stood looking at George.
“We're lucky to have the Odeon here, aren't we,” he said, without looking up. It wasn't a question.
***
Chapter 2: In Which More Bad News Is Relayed, Bowler Lies-Badly, Theories On Time And Punishment Are Exchanged, And We Hear Of The Many Escape Attempts Of Sarah Boss
***
“Do we ever sleep?” Bowler says, with a pleading edge in his voice. They are walking-Bowler shuffling awkwardly, and the other striding slowly-along Gosford Street. For the first time in several days, a question from Bowler is not met with a rebuke, or a dismissal because’ he needs to get the basics first.’ Bowler wonders if his improved speech is taken as a sign of being ready for answers.
“No, we never sleep. You should have realised that by now. We've been walking and talking for three days, and I'm betting you don't even feel slightly tired.” Bowler nods, at this, glumly. He realises that he wishes he DID feel tired. The idea of never sleeping,,,
“How do we rest, you know...reset? How do we not go crazy?” asks Bowler. To his surprise, Hart laughs, but it is dark and without humour. There is a long pause as they walk, and when Hart finally speaks it is as if the question had never been asked, his tone deliberately breezy.
“How's your vision? Seeing the people clearly, and so on...any better?” Bowler squints, and although there is no improvement, he can still see the thin outlines of the multitudes doing their shopping.
“No better than when...at the start,” he answers, struggling both to find the right word and avoid saying it, “I mean, in terms of seeing the people. The buildings and that, they were easy straightaway. But at least I can see something. You told me that at first you couldn't-”
“Yes, I understand, Bowler.” says Hart, looking at something Bowler can't see. Bowler thinks he's just doing it to make some sort of point, but says nothing. He needs this man, and he's coming to realise just how much.
“You need to keep working on that,” Hart continues. “If you can't see them, you can't see TV. And if you can't see TV, then you're in an enormous amount of trouble, as awful a thing as that is to rely upon.”
They walk in silence a moment longer, past the university theatre building. It's Saturday night, dark already, and the drinkers are starting to emerge; young-to-middle aged men and women, dressed in their finest and looking for booze, company and intimate warmth. Things forever taken from Frank Bowler. And yet he is surrounded by the potential for it and a million miles away at the same time. Something that will weaken him terribly is born inside him, and begins to grow.
Also, he could murder a pint.
The Gala bingo down the road will be packed, and this is the pair's destination. Bowler will be able to see the tickets relatively easily; they don’t move, and he and Hart will be able to get close enough both for Bowler to make them out and to see the whole ticket at the same time. It’s the people that are still like ghosts to his eyes for some reason, people and TV screens and cinema screens and LCD readouts. They will pick a ticket each, play over the living players’ shoulders, and enjoy it far more than they would have done if they were alive. A release.
Bingo as a release. Fuck ME, thinks Bowler.
Hart had said the Gala is as far as they can go; they can't go past it. That is their limit. He hasn't said why. There is a heavy sigh, and Hart speaks, staring up at the stars as he walks.
“To answer your question, of course there's some that go crazy. Look...to be perfectly honest, apart from you, I, and three others...as far as I know, everyone...well. There are those here that are already gone fully Loose-that's the word I use for it-and some who almost have, who are pretty much there. You can always tell by the hands. Shaking, you know” He walks on, staring ahead now, and Bowler watches him closely. Hart’s face is showing a kind of very practiced blankness. He’s trying to look like he’s casual, thinks Bowler. He’s trying to look like he’s not that bothered by this, but this is what bothers him more than anything. Doesn’t he know how obvious that is?
Hart pauses for a second, then suddenly stops walking and turns to the younger man. Bingo is forgotten in Bowler’s mind. He’d been surprisingly excited at the idea, and now isn’t even aware of it.
“It's the single most important thing to worry about here, Frank. Not going Loose. Do you understand? Everyone here-apart from the other three I can spend time with-is insane. They are all insane.” Bowler stands, open mouthed, not wanting to break Hart's flow. Here are answers.
“You see, it's incredibly easy to end up that way. I think you'll realise that by the end of the week. You'll realise it properly, and yes, you’ll realise that quickly. That's how prevalent it is.” Neither of them know it for certain, but Hart is right. Bowler will realise by the end of the week. “And if that happens...and I don't mean even ending up as bad as the worst of us...” he trails off, gone for a second, lost and thinking about something that made his face grow that much more pale. Bowler wants to ask what he means, but to do so might mean the end of this information. He waits.
“If that happens,” Hart continues, coming back, “then you'll never stand any chance of getting out. So you have to keep it together. It's the most. Important. Thing. Here.” he repeats, stepping close, looking into Bowler’s eyes, wide and intense. Hart never stands this close. There is such urgency that Bowler realises that there's something Hart isn't telling him, some extra reason. He’s too scared to ask what it is.
Hart falls silent, staring at Bowler until the young man realises that he's done talking. A taxi buzzes past, and as its sound dies away Bowler becomes dimly aware of a pair of high heels clicking along the opposite side of the road. He ignores the sound, and takes a deep breath and decides that this is the moment. This is when he asks the question that he’s wanted to ask since he first found out that he was dead. Hart is open now. And he knows enough already about this man to know this is not a situation that happens a lot.
“So...so...how do we get out?” he says, not realising he is shaking. “I mean, you call this place The Foyer...when do we get to, you know...get to the main..” he trails off, for once not because he is lost for words, but because he is almost unable to complete the sentence through fear. He forces himself, pushes.
“…the main building?” he finishes. He can't hide the tone in his voice, so much so even Hart has to look away. When no answer comes immediately, Bowler continues, terrified now and not trying to hide it. He steps in himself, their faces almost touching, faces that would be nose to nose if Hart was looking at him.
“How many…how many have gotten out since you've been here?” Still no answer, and worse, Hart head is now hung low. Bowler’s eyes are blinking rapidly. He raises his hands to Hart's shoulders, trembling, but doesn't touch him; he balls his hands into shaking fists, held just inches away from the older man's sides, digging his nails into his palms, biting his own lip.
“How long have you been here?” He whispers.
***
Hart realised Bowler wasn't walking alongside him anymore, and turned to see him st
ood with his hands in his pockets, pretending to look at something on the floor, as the few people wandering about this part of town walked by. Hart took in the surroundings, and realised which street corner they were on. Blast. Not again. Shouldn't have taken this route. They could walk through walls if they felt like it; even after all this time, he still preferred to take the proper pathways. Walking through walls was unpleasant to Hart. Bowler thought it fun after his initial wariness, but to Hart it was a painful reminder of both where and what they were. He liked to pretend that they were part of the world around them, or to be reminded that they weren’t as infrequently as possible. It made things a lot easier for him. He often thought he should share this thought with Bowler, but thought better of it every time.
The other reason he didn’t like it though is that he thought it lazy, too easy. Not only did that suggest a distasteful lack of self-discipline, but to him, that would always be the first step towards going Loose (a term he’d invented-like all of them-and that the other four used. He liked that.)
He strolled casually over to Bowler, looking at the sky, as Bowler stood sneaking glances at Hart from under his eyelids, like a child that'd been caught out. As good hearted as Bowler was, he had his sly side.
“What have you stopped for?” asked Hart, kindly. He got the sly glance in return, once again.
“I fancied a bit more of a walk. It's a nice day. If you want to go ahead, I'll meet you at The Polish Guy's. We'll catch Millionaire, he loves that,” he said, forcing a smile, that faltered and disappeared altogether when Hart said nothing. The older man's brow furrowed. This was pathetic. The first time Bowler had tried this in the past, Hart had actually been fooled for a moment. Maybe this was progress? Maybe by trying less hard now, Bowler was making it so Hart could stop him? Because Bowler certainly couldn't stop himself.
“Frank,” Hart said gently, after a pause. “Come on now. Please give me more credit than that.”
Bowler started to try again, but Hart just raised his eyebrows and Bowler closed his mouth, head hanging slightly. He looked defeated. What was going on here? This had come out of nowhere. Not for the first time, Hart wondered how much went on in Bowler's head that he didn't express. He had to learn to stop that, and Hart made a mental note to work on that with him. Goodness knew it had been hard enough for him to learn, and even now he struggled. If Bowler went Loose because of that, of all reasons, it would be so…stupid. Not to mention disastrous for Hart.
“I just want to...check.” said Bowler, and he began to fiddle with his fingers, suddenly finding them interesting. Hart was surprised. Bowler had his childlike moments, but never like this. Was this some sort of breaking point? Had he been thinking about this since they first decided to go to the cinema? Hart didn’t think so…Bowler had been fine once they’d left. Did George’s turn set this off? That felt a bit more correct.
They stood in silence a moment, deadlocked by their own internal battles, until the spell was broken by a Japanese man dressed in a sharp suit walking straight through them both. Neither of them liked it when this happened, despite it being as painless and devoid of physical sensation as walking through a shaft of sunlight. It was the eyes. It was when their eyes filled your own, or went half through the top or bottom of yours. Plus, it was worse seeing it happen to someone else, turning them into a live special effect. It just was odd.
Either way, it loosed Hart’s tongue again.
“Frank...” he said, with a slight, but audible, weary sigh. “We agreed.” Bowler nodded in silence, still staring at the floor. “You know what it could mean...yes? You...well, you know. You could end up...” Bowler looked up, and Hart saw he was fighting back tears.
“But...are you...are you sure...” he snuffled, and Hart gave a slight smile despite himself, charmed by Bowler's lack of front.
“You know I am. You don't want to be...” He waggled his finger round his ear with a smile, trying to make light of it and failing. Bowler didn't return the smile, and his face creased as he looked back to his shoes.
“Yeah...ok.” he said, and Hart realised Bowler was fully crying now as he saw the tears dripping round the younger man's feet. He wondered if again if this was good or bad. He hoped it was good. Some sort of release.
Hart hesitated, unsure what to do. It had been a long time since he had cried. It suddenly struck him just how long. Years, he thought. Years and years.
***
“Sixty years?” Bowler gasps, and after a moment, he collapses onto his buttocks, sinking slightly into the floor, all now-instinctive control lost for a moment.
“Give or take. It's slightly more, maybe. I remember...oh, very little about the early years. They were an extremely tough time.” says Hart, tapping the side of his head, but Bowler doesn't see it, staring blankly ahead.
Bowler tries to take it in. Sixty years. More than twice the length of his entire lifespan. Spent here. It strikes him how he never even left England in his lifetime, and with that comes stomach cramps, then vomit, except nothing comes out because you don't eat in the Foyer. Sixty years. And in that time, Hart must have tried everything to get out. Whilst Bowler walked the streets of Coventry, growing and changing, living his life, Hart was nearby, unchanging, always there. Hart must have been here, wandering around the city centre, whilst Bowler went shopping and got drunk and embarrassed himself in front of girls. Hart would have seen the place change and develop and grow before Bowler was even born; might have even seen Bowler being led, whining and complaining, around the shops as a child. The thought was too big. Too big.
In his shock, Bowler blurts out a question he'd been shy to ask; as if asking it here, in The Foyer, was somehow taboo, like asking how the tricks were done at a Magic Circle dinner. You just didn't.
Or maybe it was because he knew that if someone asked him the same question, he wouldn't know the answer, and maybe hearing someone else give THEIR answer would mean he'd suddenly remember too, and he didn't know if wanted that, didn't know at all, as he had a feeling it was pretty bad...
He finds himself remembering a time when he'd been an apprentice over in Binley, stood out the back by the bins with the others as they had their fag break. Warren talking about some lass he'd banged in Nottingham, and everyone laughing at the story, Bowler too, though he had a feeling that Warren was talking out of his backside again. Warren, who looked ten years older than he really was, and had a leer instead of a smile. Bowler knew he was better looking than Warren, and although he wasn't the loudest guy in a crowd, he knew a lack of confidence-never attractive in a woman's eyes-was preferable to a wealth of unhygienic sleaze. And so if Bowler was not a ladies man, then Warren's many tales of dramatic female conquest seemed highly unlikely to be true, to Bowler's eyes at least.
But he wouldn't say that here. He was the new guy, and still fitting in; the young man who let himself be 'fooled' into going to find a left-handed screwdriver or tins of tartan touch-up paint, knowing full well what they were trying to do and doing it for them anyway. That way, they'd laugh both at him and with him, Bowler paying his dues to get into the work social circle. He knew how it was supposed to go, and that was fine by him. One day he'd do the same to his new guy, and looked forward to it. Bowler looked forward to having respect.
And then Carlo came rushing out, both panicked and angry, and told Bowler breathlessly that he needed to come into the workshop right now, and Bowler knew something very bad and expensive has happened, and it was all going to be his fault. He knew it was going to be really bad, and all of a sudden more than anything he didn't want to know, he'd pay for anything that needed paying for but he didn't want to know any more.
And here now...after everything he's already heard, this is so much worse. Infinitely worse.
Hart hears the question, and sighs. “I don't remember.” He scuffed the bottom of his shoe on nothing. “I don't think I ever knew. Do you remember? You don't either, am I right?” Bowler slowly shakes his head. He does remember pain, vaguely now, from som
ewhere before he was a Checkin, but he remembers very little about that time at all, and certainly nothing immediately before that.
Hart hunkers down and puts his hand on Bowler's shoulder. Bowler almost flinches. It is the first time Hart has touched him. His hand is too heavy, forced, like he has to pin it there.
“You'd think it'd be the one thing you WOULD remember,” Hart said quietly, “But some things are odd here. Which actually brings me to...while we're on hard subjects...we should really cover all this now. Now you're ready. The sooner the better, I think. It'll hurt, and push you a bit, but you'll bounce back quickly. It needs to be out of the way. Needs sorting. Don't you agree?” Hart continues before Bowler can answer, keeping an air of briskness that does a very bad job of hiding how much he's struggling.
You coward, thinks Bowler. You fucking coward. You've sucker punched me, and you're unloading when I'm down. You sneaky, cowardly bastard. But he can't even think about talking now, and lets Hart's words wash over and through him.
“This might even make you feel a bit better. You know George? You met him yesterday?” Bowler remembers George. George couldn't talk to them, but Bowler had liked George.
“I see most of George. We associate the most. It's strange; the Guests here-the sane ones-need each other and have to stay away at the same time. I doubt you've noticed in the time you've been here, but the vast majority-the crazy ones-they don't even TRY to talk. They see someone and just run away. But the three that try to talk, or communicate, or socialise, and spend time with one another...there's that odd discomfort that comes in after a while of being near to each other. I've told you about that. Perhaps you even felt it slightly with George earlier, yes? That tightness in your lower back, that vague ache throughout your bones that starts to creep in after a while. That's the biggest thing that keeps us apart most of the time, until our need to...communicate overcomes that. It always does, after a while. But then there's the other problem. The silence. The silence between us...it gets too alien to handle. Does that make sense? It's just unnatural. Even for me, even now; after all the time I've been here. And I'm no talker.” Hart pauses, and absent mindedly adjusts his tie. Bowler is glad he didn't end up in a suit here. “Okay, me and George have our moments; we very briefly get on the same wavelength, about once or twice every year or so, but it always takes it out of old George for some reason. Not me. It makes me think that he drops into me rather than me into to him, I don't know...but before you came, it got me thinking.”
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 4