The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel

by Luke Smitherd

  Hart sits properly now, taking the weight off his knees, and now while he talks he doesn't look at Bowler once.

  “I'd been wondering about the talking thing for a while. If George can calibrate with me like that, at random every now and then...well, if everyone is on a different frequency-that's how I think of it, frequencies-then it stands to reason that maybe we find our own frequencies when we're Checkins, as we settle...we find our frequency as we materialise, if you like...so I began thinking...what if that could be influenced?”

  Hart is clearly impassioned about this bit, about his scientific talk, and it is odd for Bowler to watch how Hart’s fingers and hands work as he speaks, his face still turned to the concrete. He looks like a religious follower struggling to explain something to the Almighty, all the while respectfully facing the floor to avoid looking directly into the face of God.

  “What if I could make it so a Checkin is on the same frequency as me?” he says, “ And how would I do that? Of course, this was about 20 years ago; bear in mind you're only the fourth Checkin I've seen in my whole time since I've been here. I actually missed one about 10 years ago. I couldn't find where it came down. Incidentally, that turned out to be Sarah. It took me around two years to get over missing that chance.”

  He chuckles slightly, then waves his hands as if to say Ignore that bit, it's not relevant, I'm rambling and continues.. “But then....a long time later...you arrived. And my big experiment, my big idea, was just to babble at you until you fully arrived. You might vaguely remember that. Making sure you were hearing nothing but my frequency, trying to guide you in. Just talking rubbish, saying anything to help you attune to me, that all you would hear, all you would experience whilst you got yourself together here was me. After years thinking about it, believe it or not, that was the plan that made the most sense, the plan that sounded the most plausible. I never thought it'd work, or that it hadn't been tried before.” He is smiling as he finishes, shaking his head in delighted disbelief. Or is it relief? Hart lifts his head, chuckling now, lost in his own thoughts. He turns to Bowler, taking him in, looking him over like he doesn't even know that Bowler is watching him. After a moment, he registers Bowler's actual presence, and grins again.

  “But it must never have been tried,” he continues, shaking his head again, and laughing as he speaks, clearly revelling in the recollection of his own discovery. Bowler has never seem Hart laugh openly before. He won't see it very often in the years to come. “As I've never seen another pair!” he finishes.

  In a moment of sudden rapture, he grabs both of Bowler's shoulders, hard. Bowler stares into eyes that are now moist and showing alarming traces of what is going on inside.

  “Don't you understand?” says Hart, “Don't you SEE it? You're the luckiest Checkin there's ever been. D' you have any idea how much safer I've made you? D' you have any idea just how lucky you are?”

  All Bowler can think is, But...doesn't that mean you get to talk to me as well?

  Instead, what he says, in short, stammering gasps as he finally gets his glued-up mouth to work is, “There...must...be...a way...”

  The light in Hart's eyes rapidly dies, as he says nothing in reply, and his gaze drops away again. It's hard to believe that just a few moments ago this man was so passionate and-for want of a better phrase-alive. Hart sighs, and stands, putting his hands on his hips, exhaling nothing.

  “Aaahhh...Bowler...”

  He squints off into the distance, all energy gone. He is thinking, and weighing something up, and it suddenly reminds Bowler of someone preparing themselves to put a pet out of their misery. And he suddenly remembers his earlier fear, and knows that the cause is here. What he was fearing. What he could sense under the surface. There was bad news, and this was bad news of a different kind. He knew that this meant pain. This meant a lot of physical pain.

  “Right,” Hart says finally, and looks down at Bowler, his face set like he's summoned up everything he has to get through this. At least you've found your balls, thinks Bowler, but Hart is already speaking.

  “I suppose we'd better get this out of the way now. You'll try it eventually. I think everyone does, as they all think they can hold on a bit longer, but they don't realise that it doesn’t make any difference. You will too, eventually, so best do it now, so you know. False hope...it'll get you in the end. It's always worse when it turns out it was nothing. It can break...but anyway. We've got about a mile walk now. Typical we're totally on the wrong side of The Foyer...Can you stand?”

  Bowler managed it.

  “Where...”

  Hart looks sad. Not, not sad. Hart pities him. Bowler can see it. And Bowler now knows for certain that whatever is coming is going to hurt a very great deal indeed.

  “You're going to catch a train.”

  ***

  “The guy, the guy with the nips.”

  “The what?”

  “Sorry, the nipples. Triple nipple!”

  “...I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

  “He was in Lord Of The Rings, too.”

  “Ah, I liked those. Who was he in that?”

  “I can't remember...Dracula. He was Dracula.”

  “Bela Lugosi? I'm sure he was dead by the time they made Lord Of The Rings.”

  “No, Dracula in the sixties or whenever. And that film with him out of The Equaliser, the weird one with the hippies.”

  “The Wicker Man.”

  “Yes! Lousy, it was.”

  “I liked it. Very disturbing.”

  “Anyway, he was the head hippy.”

  “Ah...Christopher Lee.”

  “Yeah...I think that's his name. Anyway, him. He's my favourite.”

  “The Man With The Golden Gun.”

  Bowler rolled his eyes, but so Hart couldn't see.

  “Well, obviously, but that's easy. I mean his actual name. Scatter, Scamma...”

  “Scaramanga.”

  “Yes! You didn't get that from Triple Nipple? How many movie bad guys have triple nips?”

  “Mmm. I'm sure I wouldn't know.”

  “So anyway. Him.”

  Hart considered it.

  “Yes...he was a good one. A good rival. That's what these new ones are lacking. No decent antagonists.”

  “Baddies.”

  “Yes.”

  They were sat in a pub, watching a game of darts. It had been Bowler's idea originally, and Hart had to admit it had been a good one. Pick a local team, and follow their exploits week by week. Learn about the people. Listen to their conversations. And if they said anything that interested them, they could follow them home and see how it all panned out, providing their activities were within the boundaries of The Foyer. Alhough it was rare that they were, it was always an exciting taxi ride along with them to see if they did indeed live inside the perimeter, to see if they could get a payoff. And, of course, they liked to watch the games and support the team. Maybe they'd feel a part of it after a while, Bowler had reasoned.

  Plus, Hart liked the pub. It was one of the few remaining in the town centre that still had brasses on the walls and carpet on the floor. Pubs should always have carpet, Hart thought. And absolutely, categorically, no TV, or at least TVs switched off unless there was some kind of event being televised. Pictures on the walls that actually had some relevance to the building, and that weren't just there for the sake of it. Music that wasn't at eardrum-splitting levels. Clientèle that weren't all 17. People that actually had conversations. There were even sometimes people playing dominoes. This was Hart's kind of place, and he took pride in that fact for some reason. Pride in himself.

  Yes, it was all fine by Hart. Yes, he and Bowler had to sit on the floor; there were never any empty seats, and generally any that were empty in the darts room invariably got taken. That meant being Passed Through when someone sat on you. So they sat in the corner, wedged half in and half out of the back door. It was a fire escape, so no one used it, no one leaned on it, and no one really came close en
ough to Pass Through them. Hart had been doing this sort of thing for years, and although Bowler had found it highly odd at first, he was used to it now.

  Bowler turned back to the board. Will had just got his first win of the season, shouting for joy as the rest of his team cheered. Bowler thought that, of course, they'd managed to pick the shittest team in the league, as evidenced by their sheer delight every time they won something, but they had the best pub in his opinion. Well...the best pub in so much as Hart didn't sit and moan all the time they were there, and Bowler was fairly easy about pubs. He was happy for Will though, who seemed good natured, even if he was a bit of an old drunk. He watched him shake his opponent's hand-who took defeat with good grace-and hug his team mates. Bowler felt a slight tug inside, but dismissed it.

  “Brian doesn't look happy,” sniffed Hart, nodding in the team captain's direction.

  “He's knackered,” replied Bowler, “He was up all night with Sherry.”

  Hart shrugged.

  “Well, if you booze all night, don't complain when you're tired.”

  Bowler looked at him blankly for a second, and then burst into raucous laughter. Hart was shocked at first, then confused, and as he watched Bowler breathlessly slapping the table-his hand passing through it as he lost control-whilst trying to compose himself, it occurred to him how long it had been since he'd heard the younger man laugh even slightly. Even so Hart couldn't help but smile at the tears streaming down Bowler's face, as he wiped them away and leaned forward to explain through hiccuping breaths.

  “Sh...Sh...aha...Sherry is...is his daughter...she's teething...” Then he was off again, and now even Hart had to laugh with him. It felt good for them both. The next game began behind them, the players unaware of the two spectators who sat in invisible hysterics on the other side of the room.

  By the time they'd got their breath back, their boys were 2-0 up, with 8 more games to go; neither they nor the team were excited by this though. The best players always opened-a tactic Hart had expressed distaste with more than once-and then the players got worse as the evening went on. 2-0 was nothing to get worked up about. Defeat somehow always seemed to find them.

  “No Greg...” Bowler observed, looking around.

  “Holiday. Remember?”

  “Mmm. That's annoying. Wanted to hear how that thing with the loan played out.”

  Hart tried to remember anything about this, but couldn't. He didn't like Greg very much, if he was honest. He'd known people like him; pub know-alls. Pub bores. Bowler liked Greg because Bowler obviously thought Greg was clever; but Hart knew that this was because Greg was the sort of man who memorised things to impress other people. He'd seen it so many times.

  And that was the moment when Sarah Boss walked through the wall to their right, unaware that they were there, on her way through the building and on to wherever she had in mind.

  Bowler saw her first.

  “Hart! Sarah!”

  Hart had been watching Shaun-his favourite player-try to claw back a one-leg deficit, and looked where Bowler pointed. His brow knotted, and he licked his bottom lip absent-mindedly.

  “Hmm...not seen her for a while.” He watched her a moment as she made slow, and notably shaky progress across the room, strangely avoiding the tables when she had knowingly just passed straight through a concrete wall.

  She was, as ever-not that she could ever change her clothes-dressed in her thick woollen jumper and stonewashed black jeans, sensible flat shoes ('Lezzer shoes' as Bowler had called them once. Hart hadn't got it, but didn't like the tone, and had told Bowler so. Hart liked Sarah) and her straight black hair tied back in a ponytail. Hart had always assumed the hair tie had materialised along with her clothes, accessories being rare amongst the Guests. He kept meaning to ask her about it, but he either forgot or, when he did remember, couldn't think of a way to mime the query properly.

  But as he watched, he realised that it really had been ages since he'd seen her, let alone 'spoken' to her. Why was that? They crossed paths with the other three Talking Guests all the time. What had she been doing? Hart stood up.

  “Quick, if you're going,” urged Bowler, not taking his eyes off her. He was right. Sarah had nearly cleared the room, not even glancing at the players surrounding her. She looked very focused, leaning forward slightly as she went, like a gun dog intent on finding it's Master's quarry. Hart bounded forward, passing through several chairs and tables, but taking care to avoid Passing Through any players. He had the fleeting thought that he might even jinx them somehow if he did, but he knew this was of course nonsense.

  As he reached her, and raised a hand to tap her on the shoulder, he realised that doing so would scare her out of her wits. She would have heard the room, the background music, the players and the banter and the bleep of the gambling machine, but not the Guest coming up behind her. They weren't tuned in, and very rarely were. He thought he'd only heard her voice as little as once in the last ten years, but it was hard to say.

  He accelerated and overtook her, coming around her left hand side, trying to make his movements as big as possible to give her enough warning, and hoping a flash of hand or leg at the edge of her peripheral vision might catch her eye and turn her gently to him. It didn't really work, as she still jumped considerably when he appeared into view, but he thought it was a lot better than just grabbing her shoulder from behind.

  When she saw who it was, her initial shock disappeared. She put a hand to her chest and smiled, holding her other one up, her shoulders moving as she chuckled lightly. Hi, you made me jump!

  Hart smiled back, shrugging. Sorry. She waved him off. She wasn't a particularly attractive woman (Hart knew this, despite no one in The Foyer, himself included, feeling or displaying any sexual urges whatsoever for some reason. One thing, at least, that nobody there ever had to worry about. They could still love, though. Bowler was testament to that) and carried a little bit of weight in Hart's opinion, but she had a natural charisma Hart responded well to. In his old life, he was never really comfortable around women, but he did feel at ease with Sarah. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he considered her a friend. Not just because she was one of the three Checkins he'd ever seen, and one of the Talking Guests. Mark was one, and Hart didn't consider him a friend. Hart felt comfortable with Sarah, and though he'd not really had any female friends when he was alive-in Hart's day, you were friends with your friend's wives and that was roughly it-but with Sarah it was just the same as it was with Bowler and George.

  He waved his hands around and pointed outside with a confused look on his face. Where are you going?

  She grinned, pointed one way, then the other, then did a swirly motion with her finger. Here, there, everywhere...the grin was cheeky, but forced. Hart smiled at the attitude, but something was off. He didn't think this was just teasing; something in Sarah's eyes said she was being secretive. It wasn't the usual thing she came out with. In fact, she was normally quite blunt, which was one of her traits that appealed to Hart. No messing about with this one. This was different.

  Unless, he thought, maybe she just wanted some time alone. Maybe she didn't want him-or them-tagging along, and didn't want to be rude enough to say so. Maybe she wanted him to take the polite hint...but Hart didn't think this was the case.

  He decided to keep it light. He put his hand on his chin, and made a comedy-calculating face. Really...

  It got a reaction. She smiled and threw her hands up and out wide, comic innocence. Wha-a-a-at? But again, it was an act. She wasn't comfortable, and it radiated off her. Out of ideas, Hart dropped the pretence and gave her what he hoped was a winning smile. He bobbed his head from side to side, and raised his shoulders, moving the hands around once more and doing the confused face again. Come on Sarah, where are you really going?

  Sarah’s smile stayed, but her shoulders dropped slightly. She was going to tell him, then, but she didn't want to. She was embarrassed. Hart relaxed slightly. Nothing serious here. But then what did he think
it would have been?

  It was interesting, all the same. Sarah wasn't the type to get embarrassed. She was forthright and energetic, two qualities that were extremely rare in The Foyer. Hart could see that something had just occurred to her, as she put one hand on her hip and straightened up defiantly with a smile, pointing at him. The question was obvious: Where are YOU going?

  Hart pointed at Bowler (who waved; Sarah returned it) then at his eyes, then to the board, then at his watch, then the walking fingers, then a little box in the air. Watching this, then about 9 we're going to watch TV. He added a gesture between the two of them. Want to come?

  This was a test, and an obvious one, and she caught it easily. She raised her eyebrows, amused, and shook her head with a smile. She sighed, and then raised a finger, looking at him-because-another sigh, hesitant now...then held her palm out flat, and put the tip of her finger on it and drew a circle. She then added another fingertip and made comical skipping motions with her fingers along the line of the invisible circle she had drawn.

  Hart saw what she meant, and also saw how she'd attempted to make light of it, as she knew exactly what his reaction would be. So he tried to catch himself as he breathed out in a heavy sigh, tried to avoid shifting his weight on his feet as his body language betrayed his annoyance, and didn't try hard enough. He knew what her reaction would be to this; defiance. And although it wasn't the end of the world if he didn't stop her, it would be better for her if he did, even if a defiant Sarah would not be influenced in any way at all. You'd do well to get her to listen to a word, or in this case, look at a gesture. The hand would go up, as would the chin, and the lips would stiffen, and the eyelids would come down.