“That's the thinking, yes.”
“But it doesn't work.”
“No.”
“So why are we here?”
Hart sighs again, and Bowler has to resist an uncharacteristic urge to smash him in the face, to just keep hitting him, as for a moment he's certain ALL of this is Hart's fault. And in the same moment Bowler remembers what this place would be like without Hart, and so he clenches his fists and listens; as he does so he catches a glimpse of bright headlights down the line. They are very far away, but they are getting closer, and Bowler realises that he is seeing a train in the distance. A train on the track, bringing with it everything Hart is talking about, and getting closer every second. And Bowler begins to feel truly afraid.
“I told you,” says Hart. “We’re here because eventually you'd end up here anyway.”
“But I KNOW it doesn't work. You told me.”
“It won't make a difference, Frank.”
“What the hell are you on about?!” Bowler shouts, raising his voice in anger to Hart for the first time, though many years later it will be much, much worse. Right now, he is tired of Hart's all-knowing ways, telling Bowler what he will do no matter what. How the fuck does this old bastard know what he's going to do when he's only got a fraction of the answers? He talks like he knows everything, when he's just as lost and confused as everyone else. Fuck YOU, asshole! “Why would I fucking bother!” Bowler shouts.
Hart winces slightly at the language, but is otherwise unfazed.
“Because eventually, when it all gets too much, you'll convince yourself that everybody else just didn't do it right. You'll come here because after a while, when you've exhausted all your options, no matter what I tell you, here is something you haven't tried FOR YOURSELF. You'll decide that everyone else just couldn't anchor in hard enough. Or that they couldn't take the pain and gave up, that they just couldn't handle it. Or that, in some way, you're different to everyone else. And you'll do it because you will need to know.”
Bowler realises something, and stops for a moment.
“So it hurts,” he says. Hart stares at him, and when he speaks it is slow and deliberate.
“Frank...it hurts more than anything you’ve experienced in your entire life. You can't even imagine it, because it hurts in a way that nothing hurts when you're alive. This body here...it's not the same as a living one. And this pain goes deep in a different way; like your very...” Hart trails off, trying to find the words. “…your very SELF is being hurt, is the best way I can put it. It tears at everything that makes you, you.” Hart says, taking a step closer.
“And that's not even the worst bit. The worst bit is afterwards. And that's the other bit you really need to go through. To truly understand what's the most important thing here. You need to know that to appreciate how things work, to stand a chance of being OK. It won't be as bad for you, I hope, as I'll be here to help. You won't have to do it on your own...” And Hart straightens up, stopping abruptly. Bowler points at him, finger wagging madly.
“You. You've done it.”
“Obviously. I said everyone does it,” snaps Hart, “I'm talking from experience, Bowler. If I thought for one second I could stop you in the long run, we wouldn't even be here. But you'll always eventually make your way onto the platform.” At that moment, Bowler realises that whilst they've been talking, the train in the distance is no longer in the distance. They've been that lost in the conversation, and the train is that fast-frighteningly fast-that even when in it’s in its slowing-down phase it's already reached the platform, is now drawing alongside the end and slowing down, and Bowler can see its green and yellow colours and hear the steel wheels squealing lightly as it tries to slow down to a stop. And to Bowler it seems impossibly huge, so much so that for a moment he is amazed by the nonchalance of the people, who even now are shuffling gently, pretending they can't see each other jockeying for position, pretending this is totally civil.
Bowler is very afraid now, afraid that what Hart says is right; that he WILL go through this, that he should go through it right now. That it will be better to get it done in the long run. That he will learn from it, and not spend years wondering. He remembers a safety guy coming to their school. From the trains. Talking about not playing on the tracks.
“The wheels are like scissors,” he'd said. “The metal wheel coming together with the edge of the track as they move forward are like giant scissors. And they will slice your legs clean off. Snip!” And they'd all gasped, horrified and excited by such a gruesome thought, giggling and glancing at one another. But Bowler had just been terrified.
He turns back to Hart, raising his voice now over the blade-like squealing of the train, and realises as he speaks that even if it's not today, Hart is right. Eventually, he will need to know. And that means that he is sentenced to pain, and that it will definitely, definitely, definitely happen. It is already hanging over his head.
In a world where sanity is to be prized above all else-at least, according to his mentor-can he afford to have that above him, waiting? Bowler finds himself looking for a way out of the pain, a way to do it, learn it, yet not have the pain. A thought process of avoidance which, as Hart was trying to tell him, would lead Bowler right into it. Trying to prove that he might not have to feel this terrible, terrible pain.
“But...you don't know...if I'm different. You...you don't know...”
And Hart looks at his shoes as the train screams to a halt, and ominously, in the way that every living person on that platform wants to happen to them-as they would love to happen to them, meaning they could get on first, get first dibs on seats, their biggest worry in that moment-the entrance to one of the carriages pulls up perfectly in line with Bowler and Hart, and clunks forward, and slides sideways, and the carriage is open. The choice laid out, just like that, right before Bowler. He looks back to Hart who is still staring at his shoes and saying nothing.
It hurts more than anything you've experienced in your entire life...you'll always eventually make your way onto the platform...
And Bowler is rooted to the spot in terror, unmoving, uncertain, and hating himself as he still can't help but think-can't stop the fear from MAKING him think-' But maybe...I AM different...'
The train is now full, and is about to leave.
***
“For goodness' sake, woman, take the money!” growled Hart, as Paula from Swindon dithered over walking away at £16,000 despite clearly not being the brightest and having no lifelines left. The Polish Guy was muttering away angrily in the seat opposite, thrusting a hand at the figures on-screen, and very much seemed to be in agreement with Hart's position. Though they couldn't say for certain, of course, as they had never heard him speak a word of English. They still hadn't even been able to ascertain his name, as they had never seen any post arrive addressed to him, though they'd certainly tried-Bowler's idea-and had never heard him offer his name in conversation; when he was with his friends they all spoke the same language, and although he was very friendly with the customers in his polish restaurant, he didn't seem to have any regulars that spoke English and knew his name. He was lively and eccentric though, and they both liked him. His manner was the opposite of Mary’s, and they liked variety. More than liked it. Although they weren't so keen on it the time that they walked in to find him standing in front of a mirror in his living room and wearing nothing but a pair of women's panties, high heels, and a great deal of crudely applied makeup. It had taken Bowler nearly six months to get Hart to go there again.
The contrast between this place and Mary's was stark; it was neat, modern, and full of expensive audio visual equipment. The Polish Guy liked his home theatre. The flooring was laminated wood, the walls were painted magnolia, and the seating was leather. The Polish Guy made his money and liked to live in a modern fashion, and although it wasn't Hart's way, he couldn't criticise him for it. After all, he knew you couldn't take it with you. Expensive canvases hung on the walls, and as Bowler had pointed out, i
t was more like a bar than a living room.
Not that he was pointing it out now. The younger man hadn't said much since they'd left the pub. He seemed deep in thought. Hart left him to it, knowing he'd finish working it out and say what was on his mind once he'd done so. Plus, he'd been doing some thinking of his own, despite his better judgement.
Had he given up? Was he a quitter? The thought was surely ridiculous. Sarah didn't know how many times he'd walked the perimeter. How he'd had hope dashed over and over. How he'd seen what happened to those who kept doing it. No...Hart hadn't given up, he just knew better. So if that's true, what have you done lately to get out? When was the last time you even tried anything? said the voice.
He was waiting, that's what he was doing. The most important thing was keeping everything level, being sensible. It had to be. Plus, he had Bowler to watch out for. If he went Loose, then Bowler would definitely follow. Had to look after Bowler, had to…but like most things that hurt, even when we know they're wrong, Sarah's words would not go away. Hart bristled, and waited for either Bowler to say what was on his mind, or to see what Paula's next question was, having finally decided to play on.
“I think you should be nicer to Sarah,” said Bowler finally, in an airy manner. His eyes hadn't left the TV. “I think we need to do more to get her onside.”
Hart was already irritable, and this just made him plain angry. Which conversation had Bowler been listening to? Be nicer? Not only bad grammar, but utterly wrong. His sole intention had been to be nice to her.
“Are you trying to be amusing?” said Hart, red faced. “In case you didn't notice, the whole subject of the conversation I had with her, before she flew off the handle, was me trying to get her to come with us, out of concern for her well-being. I-” and his voice faded, as he saw Bowler shaking his head and waving his hand, cutting him off. Hart fell silent in both compliance and surprise.
“Bad choice of word,” Bowler said, “Not nicer, just...more considerate. You're not going to get her onside by telling her off-however good your intention-” he added quickly, seeing Hart's reaction, “Or by saying that what she's doing is daft. She's stubborn. Stubborn people don't like that, do they?”
Hart didn't say anything. Bowler had a point.
“See, I think we need to spend more time with her. With everyone, really.”
Hart slowly settled back in his chair, a suspicious look on his face. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. It had been a while since they'd had this one out, and Bowler was picking a bad time to attempt it. In his current mood, Hart almost relished the coming storm.
“And why is that?” he asked, looking at Bowler with cat-like eyes, his narrow features glaring.
Bowler didn't see this; he was deliberately talking towards the TV, where Paula was crashing predictably out on £32,000. He was on shaky ground, and knew it, and so would not catch Hart's eye. But Bowler thought it had to be said. Hart had to listen, and now, whilst Sarah's point was fresh in his ears, whilst it was still raw enough for Hart to actually hear for once. She'd been overly harsh, and unfair, but everything she said was still grounded in some truth.
“Because...well...maybe it's what we're supposed to do.”
“Explain. Because this sounds like what we've talked about before, and you know my thoughts on this.”
“Not this idea, we haven't.”
“It all adds up to the same claptrap.”
Bowler turned to him. He was angry, and Hart could see it. It was a surprise.
“Are you not even going to hear it?” Bowler asked. He paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly, incredulous. This was more than anger. This was hurt anger. “Do you...do you have that little respect for me?”
Hart was caught short here, and it showed. More new behaviour from Bowler. He began to get a strong sinking feeling-one that would progress over the years ahead-that things were going to change, and that they would not be good for Hart. Possibly for neither of them. Hart stood his ground though, and pointed a slow finger at Bowler.
“Well, do you have that little respect for me that you would try to change my mind on something I have made absolutely clear that I don't want to discuss?” It was a good response, and it worked; some of the fire in Bowler's eyes died, and when he spoke again, the familiar uncertainty had crept back into his voice.
“It's not that...well, not really that,” Bowler said. “Well maybe it is, but this is a new idea, and I think you should at least listen to it. It's just something I've been thinking about, and whether you agree or not, you should at least listen; you want me to keep it in? You're always saying about looking after your head, but I have to keep in all the thoughts, the big thoughts, that you don't agree with?”
A good comeback from Bowler, and harder to combat because it was completely genuine. Bowler wasn't trying to win anything; as ever, he simply meant what he said. Ideas, ideas, always with crazy ideas...just like Simon, eh, Hart? said the voice in Hart's head. He silenced it, and flounced back in his chair irritably, as The Polish Guy said something in a satisfied manner, clearly meaning he thought Paula was getting her just desserts for being greedy.
“Fine, fine. Spit it out,” Hart said, looking past Bowler now to the screen.
Bowler sighed-why was he always so difficult?-and began.
“It just strikes me that, in this place...there's so few of us. How long has this place been here? Is the first person to be here still here? We don't know. And I think they're not, as we'd know in some way, like we'd have found out by now-”
“How would we know if they were mad? Or The Beast?”
“Well, yes, but someone else would know-”
“Not if they were also mad.”
“ANYWAY, that's not really the point. My point is, if it was just a case of everyone who died within the Foyer’s boundary ending up living, or existing, I mean, in The Foyer as a result, and being stuck here forever, then it'd be full to bursting, right?”
“Nothing new there, we've always assumed that.”
“So it's either that dying within the boundary of the Foyer has nothing to do with coming here-”
“Hard to ascertain, seeing as none of the Three Talkers remember exactly how they died. Or either of us do.”
“Or that it does, and people have been getting out somehow-”
“All right, though very hard to believe that hundreds of people have been coming and going under my nose for sixty years.”
“Or that, as we've talked about before now, that the Foyer reaches some kind of maximum…”
“Capacity, Bowler. And yes, that's been one theory.”
“...and then everyone gets out. Or-”
“Let me guess. God turns up and says we've all learned our lesson, and tells us we now get to go to a wonderful heaven and live on a cloud, is that about right?”
Bowler turned red, and Hart saw it was both embarrassment and rage. But he didn't care. He was ready for this. If Bowler wanted to have a shouting match, he could have one. But he wasn't going to be the one to start it.
“For starters,” Bowler said after a moment, looking directly at Hart talking quietly and dangerously, trembling gently with anger, “Go fuck yourself, you rude fucking twat.” Hart sat bolt upright, but with a slight smile on his face now. Here we go. “And secondly, sorry to put scary thoughts into your mind that you can't handle, but here's one, and I hope you're listening. Maybe The Foyer gets cleaned out all by itself and then someone new turns up and it starts again, but judging by the fact there's crazy people here, it would seem to me that it takes rather a long time. But the point is this.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing, one finger raised, but even in his anger he was not comfortable in the moment. Hart could see it.
“Even if you DO have me here,” Bowler continued, “And I have you, if it's going to be some sort of a big waiting game, and a game that, for all we know, could take hundreds, maybe thousands of years, then we're going to need more than each other. Yeah, I know the other thre
e hate the silence, they can only be near each other for so long, whatever, but we still need to create some sort of a...I dunno...regular meeting. Like maybe we should get together once a day. Even if we don't want to. Just to prepare for the long, long haul.”
Hart leaned forward in his seat now, too, eager for his turn. Debate-the great cut and thrust!-he loved it at the best of times, but now he was angry and knew he could pick apart Bowler all day long. He felt so good, feeling such a delicious rush that was so, SO rare in The Foyer. He was going to enjoy this, and knew it was wrong, and unfair-Bowler was not any kind of debate expert, whilst Hart used to do it for a living-but the sweetness of it was too much. It was like being alive.
“Yes, of course,” Hart said. “And you think this will be easy, do you? Trying to get the other three together? George, yes, but Mark and Sarah? Never mind the fact that Mark's almost gone doolally and Sarah is clearly on her way out too, and that organising crazy people is never the easiest of tasks, but they resent us Bowler. Yes, they'll be nice, and even spend time with us-because even they have to give in to the need for company now and then-but don't you see the jealous looks that they give us? Even George, from time to time? How they hate what we have? They hate that we're together, and they can't do the same. Has it never occurred to you, in your stupidity, the other reason why those two spend so little time with us, in a world where they can't talk to anyone? It's too much of a reminder of what they don't HAVE, Bowler, and they are so jealous of it that they hate our guts. It burns in their minds, anger and jealousy and bitterness, and you can't afford that here.” He stopped, leaning on the armrest, and looked at Bowler, watching the righteous anger seeping out of him. He'd won already, but in his current mood he was going to press on. He was chipping away at his friend, and a small part of him was screaming at him to stop, but damn his eyes, he couldn't help himself.
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