In fact, it was already happening. She was still looking at him, which was good, but the eyebrows were up petulantly, in a come-on-then, what's-wrong-with-that expression and the arms were folding. He held his hands out wide, so she could see that he wasn't trying to engage her, and it was true; he really wasn't. Hart could argue with men all day long-had made a career out of it-but arguing with a woman just made him squirm.
He repeated her walking gesture back to her, and then looked at her kindly, shrugging his shoulders. Walking the perimeter? Why? Then he scrunched his eyes up slightly and smiled. Come on now, Sarah, why? He was trying to appeal to her sensible side, and it was meant to bring out a realistic Sarah, one he knew could laugh at her own mistakes and admit she was wrong. He thought they were still at the stage where that Sarah could be brought forward.
If he hadn't have added the last gesture, the conversation would have perhaps have gone a lot better for him, and he knew straight away what a mistake it was. Idiot, he thought. You just looked like you were laughing at her. He almost winced physically as she scowled, and made hammering gestures with one hand onto another, then shoved her hand through an imaginary small hole and expanded it to freedom. Weak spots.
She then suddenly slapped the side of her head-hard-and stuck her tongue underneath her bottom lip. The move was sudden, overly aggressive, and violent, and its intention was clear at an uncalled for intensity for the conversation. Obviously, you idiot! Sarah had stepped it up a gear out of nowhere. He'd expected, and had felt, the coming strop, but nothing like this.
He decided to continue on the same tack, ignoring the insult. Hands pushing slowly downwards-Easy, easy-and not saying what he was thinking (What the blazes is wrong with YOU? Weak spots? You know there ARE no weak spots!) Instead he did the walking circle gesture several times, quickly, then counted on his hands. How many times, Sarah? How many times have you been doing this? She started to protest, but he held up his finger with a wincing expression and she actually stopped; he had her attention.
He didn't want to make this point now, but she was ready for a fight and he had to take the opportunity whilst she was listening. He pointed out the window, in several directions, as if picking out individuals. He then did the circle-on-the-hand gesture lightning fast, over and over and over, then looked at her and did searching hands, face looking here and there, and then straightened up and twirled his finger around his ear slowly, looking her straight in the eyes, deadly serious.
Bowler, sat watching this surprising conversation from the other side of the room, and was impressed. It was a good mime, and clear-he could see what it supposed to mean, even from over here-showing an impressive amount of imagination from Hart. It was good to see.
Sarah didn't move. Her lips were tight and she was breathing non-existent air through her nose-Hart could see her nostrils twitching-as she then dropped her head to one side. Hart waited.
When she still didn't say anything for a few more moments, Hart carefully and slowly raised a finger. He'd pushed his luck, and it appeared to have paid off. So now was the time to try and wrap this up, whilst he could. They'd talk about it later, find out what was up, but he needed to get her out of here and relaxed, first. Not for the first time, he inwardly cursed himself for not knowing more about women.
He pointed at himself, at Bowler...then at Sarah. Then a little circle in the air. Us three. Then the little box, and fingers to the box-space and to his eyes. He ended all this with a smile, and cocked his head slightly in the other direction. The gesture was friendly and warm, and Bowler noted it. These always stood out with Hart, as when they happened they were rare, but genuine. What do you say?
Her lips remained set, but her bottom lip tightened up a bit more. Her eyes darted around the room as she mulled it over, and Hart thought he'd made his point well; it had gotten through. He thought about putting a hand on her shoulder, and at that moment he happened to look down and saw something that shocked him. Later, he would think that he shouldn't really have been surprised.
He looked away quickly, but she'd caught him. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something, then obviously realised it would be pointless. She hesitated, then suddenly smashed Hart across the face with the flat of her hand. Across the room, Bowler jumped to his feet.
Hart actually fell over, stepping backwards in surprise and tripping over his own feet. He was temporarily stunned, not physically but mentally. Her attack didn't hurt-even though it had been a VERY long time since he'd been struck here-but it had shocked him. He fell through the floor slightly, passing through it an inch and halting as his subconscious caught him. He looked up to see Sarah fuming, shoulders set, frantically gesturing at him, cheeks shaking as she breathed furiously. He tried to get his thoughts together and understand what she was saying, but it was hard, he'd missed the start and her hands were all over the place because...
She cut it all off by suddenly throwing her hands and chin up in the gesture he'd anticipated at the start-there it was, we're done, you're a waste of time-and she then turned back very briefly, eyes blazing in a way he'd never seen before. Then she was gone, storming out through the wall.
Hart felt Bowler behind him. He'd come over, kneeling now, but Hart waved him off-no fuss-and instead just pulled himself up on Bowler's arm.
Bowler stood back and gave Hart a moment. He knew talking to the older man right now was pointless. Hart's dignity had been ruffled, and in a moment of softness, no less. He knew he had to give Hart a moment to rearrange his suit. Bowler knew this without knowing that he knew it. He leaned back on a chair and waited, watching the game that had been temporarily forgotten by them, the game that had carried on oblivious to the unseen ruckus a few feet away. To his surprise, he discovered their boys were 3-0 up. Even Brian was smiling. Bowler smiled too, but shook his head. The idiots would still manage to lose.
“What was she blathering on about?” Hart said, turning to him, everything back in place. “At the end there, I didn't catch it. Did you see?”
Bowler scratched the side of his head. He'd seen it, all right. It had been tough, but he'd gotten better at this.
“Yeah...she wasn't happy...” he said, shifting his weight onto a chair back and folding his arms. “She basically asked who the hell you are to call her crazy-”
“I didn't call her crazy!”
“And said that...just because you're a coward and have given up is no reason she should.” Bowler said this with a sigh and raised his hands to his face, shrugging. “I'm the thingy, messenger. Don't shoot.”
Hart reddened. There was an awkward pause, during which a spectacularly well-timed cry of disappointment rose from the team as they dropped to 3-1, and the inevitable weekly downward slide began.
Hart raised a finger, and nodded sharply.
“She's going Loose.”
Bowler shrugged again. He couldn't disagree, at least. It certainly didn't look good for Sarah. Hart straightened his tie, and muttered something.
“What?” asked Bowler, leaning forward.
“I said did you see her hands?” said Hart, staring into the distance. His jaw was set, his face still crimson, but less so already. Bowler told Hart that he hadn't. He was too far away.
Hart readjusted his cuff links, stiffly, even though he'd already done them.
“Her hands, Bowler. They were shaking. She had the Shakes.” Bowler looked up, surprised.
“You sure?” Hart closed his eyes and nodded, sighing, composure flooding back.
“Yes...I'm afraid so. Just before she struck me, I saw. She noticed me noticing, too. There was nothing she could say.” He looked up, and raised a finger again. “False hope, Bowler. False hope.” He pointed at the wall. “Right there. You saw it. You remember me telling you?”
Bowler did. Hart stared at the patch of wall that Sarah had exited through.
“That's where it gets you. You have to keep everything in check in The Foyer. Balance,” said Hart, and fell silent. Bowler felt sudde
nly awkward, and felt that Hart was waiting for him to say something. He hated moments like this. He got that glue mouth every time.
“Are you ok?” asked Bowler, trying. Hart continued to look at the wall.
“She's getting like Mark,” he said. Bowler slowly nodded. Not so much at the comparison, but thinking about Mark.
“How long do you reckon he's been here, Bowler? Mark. Take a guess.”
The younger man chewed his bottom lip and thought.
“Mark? 10 years? 15, maybe?”
Hart smiled, satisfied, and shook his head.
“Try 35.”
Bowler looked shocked.
“No way...”
Hart started to respond, but hesitated, as a voice in his head whispered You never found out how long SIMON had been here though, did you? Because he didn't tell you. But you think that he hadn't been here much longer than you. I wonder what HE'S up to now, eh? Of course, Hart shut that voice off quickly. Simon was to be forgotten, and forgotten he would be.
“Definitely,” said Hart, brightening up and responding to Bowler's surprise, “I was here when he checked in. Imagine that, Bowler,” he said, stepping out of the way of Craig as he came past carrying 4 full pints, “35 years, and spending so much time alone, even if he does talk to us.”
“I thought you said you two used to talk a lot?”
Hart curled a lip slightly and sighed.
“We did at first; spent quite some time together actually. Almost as much as George spends with us. He was quite annoying really, some funny opinions, but as you know...you'll take what you can get here.” He folded his arms, hugging himself, and leaned back slightly, reminiscing. “So when he buggered off, I wasn't desperately bothered. Even here.”
“What, when he started going off by himself?”
“Yes...it wasn't the end of the world for me, if you like,” said Hart. “Funny fact of life Bowler, or in our case death; even in a world where no-one can talk to one another, when ninety-five percent of the inhabitants are insane, and your only available company is four other people...sometimes even some of those people are just too much of a damn pain in the backside to up with.” Hart smiled a little at his own witticism. “But Mark, yes. Off he went, and each time I saw him after that he was always that tiny, tiny, little bit worse. But what do you expect when you go off alone? Never knew why he did; he wasn't a particularly independent character. He must have been more disturbed by the usual physical proximity problems than most, as well the close silence that comes with it. Now you can see the Shakes on him. Definitely. So much so that I try and stay out of his way, really. I can't stand it when he goes off on his rants. I certainly don't like him hanging around with George these days, but what can you do? And now he tunes in a lot. Have you noticed that?”
Bowler had. George managed it rarely, but Mark was doing it much more often. Most of the time he wouldn’t do it when you were actually talking to him; you heard him elsewhere. It was very rare he struck up a conversation, being a loner after all, but you'd hear him rabbiting to himself as you passed him on the street. No headaches afterward either, it seemed, not like George. Mark just came in and out, with no ill effects. Bowler made a link in his mind and was about to express an opinion on that, when Hart got there first.
“That's just proof to me that he's definitely going. Because you hear the Beast, don't you? When he tunes in? From streets away, even, and that's the best way to have it. And The Beast is obviously the most Loose, by far. Yes...it's not just the Shakes. I think it perhaps plays with your frequency, makes it wider, or something like that. I think the Loose ones tune in more often.”
“I spoke to Mark last week,” said Bowler, quietly, thinking of Mark; big ears, and tall. Thick set. Swarthy skin, a bear of a man, middle aged enough to be at his most solid and tough. Young enough to stay fast. Not someone you wanted to go Loose. That was a good term of Hart's, he thought: Loose. “He was tuned in, and did you know, he didn't even seem to realise.”
Hart huffed at this slightly, and raised a palm as if to say ‘there you go.’
“He wanted me to go with him,” said Bowler, and as he saw Hart's expression change he carried on quickly. “I made my excuses though, and then he said it didn't matter anyway...as he was going to try the Train again that afternoon. For the fifth time” Bowler finished, looking at Hart through the bottoms of his eyebrows.
Hart took a slow and deep breath, and then let it out, puffing his cheeks.
“Well...that explains why we haven't seen him around for several weeks,” he said. “And of course, that's the icing on the cake. That absolutely seals it. Once, everyone does it. Twice, still common-ish. To ride it not just three, but five times...”
Hart looked at Bowler, his face actually a little pale now.
“He's definitely gone completely and totally insane.”
***
Chapter 3: In Which Bowler Considers Taking The Train, Theories On Being Bad People Are Discussed, And An Important Deal Is Made
***
It's not a big train station, nor is it an impressive one, but it's busy. At first Bowler tries to avoid being Passed Through, but after watching Hart making his way through the crowd for a minute, he realises there's not much point. It's next to impossible. So the trip has started unpleasantly enough, but it is nothing-NOTHING-compared to what will come on the Train.
Hart is stony faced. He hasn't even looked at Bowler since they set off. Bowler tries to imagine it's just because he's concentrating now, trying to focus whilst wave after wave of people Pass Through him, but he knows it's because Hart is about to lead him to something horrible. Some rite of passage, maybe.
Bowler hurries to catch up as he realises it's getting harder to see Hart ahead as the distance between them increases. His vision is still not as sharp as it will be in the future. Why isn't Hart keeping an eye out for him? Hart knows Bowler will struggle here, but the older man is still striding ahead, not even turning around.
Hart reaches the first platform. It’s full of people, staring ahead and trying not to catch each other's eye. The only things of visual interest in their view are two billboards advertising books, a vending machine, and a tiny cafe in the middle of platforms 2 and 3. There are just 4 platforms here at this station, the others accessed by overhead walkway. All here is grey, and all is at least 20 years old. To say the surroundings were completely bleak would be an exaggeration; however, it would not be much of one.
Hart looks left and right, sees no approaching train, and looks at the board. Nothing on this platform for a while; one arriving in five minutes on platform 4, the furthest platform. For the first time since they've set off on their way here, Hart turns to Bowler, his face blank and pale, and speaks flatly.
“Platform 4,” he says, and turns to the stairs without another word. Bowler follows. As they mount the stairs and begin to cross the walkway, Bowler breaks the silence.
“Right. Hart. HART.” Hart glances over his shoulder, but doesn't break stride.
“I'll tell you on the platform.” Hart says. Bowler can wait the 30 seconds it will take them to get down there, but his annoyance is growing along with his fear, one fuelling the other.
Platform 4. Hart is there several steps ahead of Bowler, and stands at the foot of the stairs waiting for him. The edge of the platform is lined with people, closer to it than on platform 1; this train will be here sooner, and it will be busy. They all want a seat.
“You remember how I told you about The Foyer? The size of it?” Hart says, turning to Bolwer and talking more loudly than necessary. Pushing himself. Bowler nods. “About a mile across, give or take,” continues Hart. “And if there's anything for us beyond it-any more people like us perhaps-we can't see it, or them. All we see is more city. We only see what they see,” says Hart, gesturing towards the people now crowding on the platform edge.
“But you can certainly FEEL the edge of The Foyer,” he says. “Not hard, like a wall. Spongy. You can push against it. It g
ets harder and thicker as you get nearer, and eventually you hit the very edge, and it's like taut cling film. You can't push through.” Bowler nods again. He'd wanted to feel it for himself, but had been content to play it Hart's way for now, assuming that sooner or later they'd take a trip out to it. The wind is quicker on the platform, he realises, as he sees a crisp packet whip past on the tracks. He wonders if the walkway above and the steps leading up to it are creating enough of a tunnel to speed the wind up. He remembers that from a school science lesson; it’s one of the few things he remembers from school full stop. The living people are tucking their chins in. It must be cold for them, Bowler thinks.
“You'll reach the same conclusion EVERYONE does here,” Hart continues, looking out along the track now, watching. “That it MUST be breakable, and someone just needs to find out how. And you'll think about how it could possibly be done. And the answer will be obvious.” He turns back to Bowler, and Bowler thinks about how it could be done. And the answer IS obvious, especially given their surroundings. He realises Hart is waiting for a response, and gives him it.
“You'd...you'd maybe just need enough...force,” says Bowler. “More force than you could get by running or walking.” Hart nods, slowly and sadly. Bowler carries on talking, already knowing the answer, but explaining his thinking. “And it'd need to be big, as well. Heavy. Something big and fast and heavy, bigger and heavier than a car.” He sighs. “A train.”
“Go on.”
“But trains come through here all day long, and The Foyer wall isn't broken...but it's not the train that would break it, it'd be YOU, if you could...anchor into it, or something. You'd take on the weight, and, and the force, and the speed of the train...and maybe you could push through.”
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