“But this is all nonsense really, though, isn't it Bowler? Come on. What are you really thinking?”
“What?”
Hart chuckled unpleasantly.
“I know you. What are you really thinking, when you talk about this daily meeting?”
“I just fucking told you-”
“No, no. I know what you really mean.” Hart leaned closer, smiling cruelly, now lost totally in the juicy pleasure of malice, something which he rarely permitted himself; such things can be addictive in The Foyer, incredibly so, and any addiction there was disastrous. It gripped you there, and in that moment Hart was smothered in it. The small part of himself holding him back collapsed under it. He wanted it.
“Let me guess. Something like...if we all get together regularly...then we all learn about each other.” His voice took on a simpering, sing song tone, mocking and cruel. “And then we learn to love each other. And the power of our love breaks down the walls of The Foyer, and we all go off to heaven together holding hands, singing hymns and weeping as we remember our past wickedness...something like that? Am I on about the right lines? Hmm?”
Bowler stood, and seemed to be biting his tongue for a moment, even in his rage. His fists were clenched, and his jaw was locked. Hart stood too, and carried on.
“Because we were all bad people, weren't we, Bowler? That was your theory, correct? And when we learn our lesson, off we go. Even George, despite the fact that he wouldn't hurt a fly, he must, no doubt, have been some sort of notorious serial rapist in his past life, something like that? And me, the man who never even got as much as a parking ticket, hardly ever even drank, why, I must be some sort of a murderer, right? So what's your lesson to learn then, Bowler?” he asked, stepping in closer, his own heavy breathing matching Bowler's. Bowler matched his gaze, not dropping his eyes, also breathing hard. “To grow up and realise your situation? You've been here a year now. Any idea when that might happen?”
“Where do the Flyers go, Hart?” asked Bowler, quietly. The sound of it was like a child's question. Hart snorted.
“Different frequency. Higher frequency. That's why they go up, my friend, and not because that's where Heaven is. Because we're energy, Bowler, energy. We're leftover energy from our lives, something that can't be snuffed out. Hell, maybe we're not even us, maybe we're just our memories, or something that thinks we're us, the ghost of an idea. But either way, we're just energy. Not souls, not chi, not ghosts, just energy. That's all. The Foyer, here, it's not because we're bad people, or because we're being punished, this is just where we ended up. If we'd died on a Tuesday, if we died wearing blue, if we died having a big steaming shit maybe we wouldn't here, who knows? This is how our deaths fired us off, how they set up our afterlife, and it's no more influenced by the way you live your life than the colour of your hair or whether you're double jointed; it's just the way it is. It's just what we happened to get.”
Bowler looked him slowly up and down, jaw locked, bottom lip tight. Contempt.
“Sarah was totally right about you.”
Hart's index finger came up, the smugness temporarily rocked. Bowler had stung him with that one, hit him on a sore spot. But he'd been trained in this. Trained to think on his feet. He rallied magnificently.
“Far from it, my friend. I just don't take the fairy position on this. You know what really causes the madness here, Bowler? What really makes the madness the biggest threat?” He had his finger right by Bowler's face, but Bowler didn't even notice it. He was staring at Hart with undisguised hatred. This was probably the moment, Bowler would think later, when he truly began to see Hart as a coward.
“It's the boredom.” Hart continued hotly, letting go, releasing, unloading. “It's the boredom. Those two are worse than anything. Frustration comes from hope, so you can watch that. It's hard, but you can do it. But boredom has to challenged, has to be taken on and beaten, and you have to be able to initiate change to do that.” Hart was actually curling his top lip as he spoke. He looked like a snarling dog. It looked repulsive. “You have to be able to change things, to have some influence. And we have none here, Bowler, none. Despite your hippy pretensions, you'd better learn that fast.” The finger wagged closer to Bowler's face, and Bowler reflexively whipped up a hand and slapped it away. Some part of Hart's brain registered this with a small amount of surprise-and Bowler actually jumped slightly at himself-but Hart himself carried on regardless.
“Sarah doesn't realise that I DO want to get out of here, but I'm being smart about it,” Hart said. “I'm avoiding the frustration. But I'll tell you why I want out of here Bowler. It's not to get to Heaven; this place proves beyond a doubt that it doesn't exist. It's for that change.” Hart's finger lowered as he lost himself in his vision, eyes widening, and, it seemed to Bowler, Loosening.
Later Bowler would think that not only had he never heard Hart talk about what he actually did hope, but how it was the only time he'd ever heard him do so. The change in Hart's demeanour was so odd, so clearly visionary, and so utterly at odds to the Hart he usually saw. Even through his anger, Bowler found it fascinating to see.
“It's to find the way out of here,” continued Hart, eyes darting around as he spoke, “So we can go to the next Foyer. And in there, maybe we can find others on our frequency, and then show them how to get out too. So we spread it, and we can keep moving. So we can keep having constant change. No more frustration. No more boredom. Change, Bowler. That's the best we can hope for! New things. That is the very best we can ever hope for, and you need to know that.” He was back in the room now, attention focused on Bowler, back to being the usual realist he was, but no less animated. “Because unless you want to end up like The Beast-or like your best buddy Mark-then you need to just ACCEPT that, and stop thinking like Mary Poppins!”
Hart snapped out this last part, and they stood there in silence, breathing heavily and staring into each other’s eyes. It was Bowler's move, this slightly newer Bowler that didn't back down so easily, and Hart found he didn't want him to. There was something raw here, and it was like heroin. It was dangerous, but Hart wanted it. And if he'd have been aware enough to notice, he'd have felt his left hand shaking gently.
But Bowler's next action surprised Hart very much indeed. He began to smile. And it wasn't a smile Hart had ever seen on his friend's face before. It was a cruel smile. And Hart suddenly realised that-somehow, he didn't know in what manner yet-Bowler now had him.
“Well, Hart,” he said, actually taking a small step backwards, and folding his arms, talking with a slow confidence that was also totally new. “You've not really answered my questions, and what you're saying isn't making too much sense. You see...we can't influence change? But what was it you said to me? 'I never thought that it'd work,' or that it hadn't 'been tried before?' Or that I'm 'the luckiest Checkin there's ever been?' Who was it that made those things happen Hart? Who made that change? You...or at least, the man you were a year ago.” The smile widened, turned into a grin. “But then, that's how people sometimes change, isn't it? Nothing for years, and then all at once...you just change. Things build up, then they fall over, all at once. And you end up different. You end up afraid.”
Hart said nothing, but had gone slightly white. Silent from confusion and surprise, and from what Bowler was saying. Who was this before him? Where was Bowler?
“Or maybe it was me. Maybe I made you lazy. Maybe it was the other way round; fear was motivating you, and then you got me. And then you got lazy, and then you got scared. I don't know. But anyway; here's another question for you.” He unfolded his arms, and pointed a finger upwards. The grin was now a smirk, and it looked no better on Bowler than it did on Hart. “If the Flyers, as you say, are going on to another frequency-another Foyer, if you like, the next one across, as you've said-why do they go up? The Foyers wouldn't be on different…I dunno...planes, is that the word? We know that, as THIS one is on earth. It's in Coventry, for God's sake. So there's not going to be another Foyer in space, it's n
ot going to be above THIS Foyer, is it? It'd be next door, wouldn't it? Especially if you're planning on hopping from one to another.”
He stepped in close to Hart again, closer than before, whilst Hart just stayed silent, lips tight and white. Bowler spoke gently now, and slowly. He was feeling it too. That rush. Bowler had never had it in here before, in fact had always avoided confrontation, and this was his first taste of what it felt like in a world without communication, without true excitement, without common change. He revelled in it, and it took him away much faster than it did Hart. “So why do they go up, hmm? They'd just go across, wouldn't you say? But they don't. They go up.” He punctuated this last point with a mocking finger point to the sky, then didn't didn't move for a few seconds. Neither did Hart.
Bowler slowly raised his arms into an exaggerated shrug.
“Let's say I do believe in fairies, Hart. Fine. So…you tell me. Why do they go up?”
Hart whispered something.
“Didn't catch that, Hart. What?”
“I said 'fuck you,' ” repeated Hart through gritted teeth, now glaring at Bowler through eyes that were moist.
Bowler blinked-he had never heard Hart say the F word, not once in all the time he'd been there, it just sounded so awkward and wrong coming from him-and then burst into gales of laughter, doubling over at the waist and roaring.
And Hart turned and walked away without a word, through the Ikea coffee table and the DFS settee and the plasterboard wall, and left Bowler alone in The Polish Guy's flat, hysterically laughing and slapping his thighs. Meanwhile, the Polish Guy looked at his watch, stood, and headed for his secret box, the one hidden behind the boiler.
***
“That was my Granny's favourite bench, you know,” says Bowler, pointing at a metal construction across the street. They are stood opposite the Godiva statue outside Cathedral Lanes mall, where, in a few years' time, the public will no longer be overshadowed by the plastic canopy currently above their heads. The locals will decide that it is an eyesore, and demand that it be taken down. Bowler has always thought it one of the city's more interesting features, but apparently everyone else will think otherwise. “She used to people watch, she said. Even though she had cataracts.”
It's the first thing he's said since they left the train station, the first thing he's said since he let the train doors slide shut in front of him. Since he watched the train rumble and begin to move, a huge metal mass gathering speed and pulling away. Since he watched it leave, clenching his fists and his jaw and screaming to the heavens, since he turned and walked off the platform without a word.
Hart couldn't blame him. Hart thinks that maybe he shouldn't have warned Bowler-because Bowler NEEDS to go through it, needs to know-but at the same time, he couldn't let anyone go through that without prior knowledge. And as he’d already said...everyone does it in the end. But Bowler, he thinks, needs to do it sooner. Bowler needs to know how things work. He needs to abandon the ideas Hart can already see forming in his head, as they will only make his time harder. Hart does not think these things without sympathy for his companion. But sympathy does not change the way things need to be.
“Whenever I took her shopping, she always insisted we sat on that bench,” says Bowler. “She used to say it was her knees hurting, but they were fine the rest of the time. I knew she just wanted an excuse to make me sit there for an hour. I never minded.” He falls silent again.
Hart thinks for something to say, and the best he can come up with is:
“Do you want to sit on it now?” Bowler doesn't look at Hart; he keeps staring at the bench.
“Yeah,” he says, after a while. “Okay.”
They cross the street, waiting first at the zebra crossing with the other people-partly out of habit, and partly because being in the path of a car is something that Bowler still instinctively avoids after a lifetime of doing so-and fortunately, as it is a weekday afternoon and not a saturday, there is still no one sat on the bench, no other old ladies, no other gangs of 17 year old goths or chavs to take it. They stand in front of it for a moment-Hart not wanting to sit first-and then Bowler sits, suddenly flopping down in it as if his strings have been cut. Hart gently follows.
They people watch. Hart thinks he sees Mark skulking around by the side of Alders, but he says nothing. It isn't the time. Bowler has a lot on his mind, and it's best to let him lead. It is his time.
“I think...it's the not sleeping that is the worst.” says Bowler, picking at his t-shirt. Hart knows Bowler could rip a hole in it and it would be fine again, eventually, just as he knows Bowler is wrong. Not sleeping is very very bad indeed, but it's not the worst. Another reason why Bowler needs to ride the train. He needs to go through it ALL. But again Hart says nothing, letting Bowler continue.
“It's all bad enough, but you never get a break, no time off. You can't be physically tired, but your HEAD...” Bowler says, bending over and holding his, elbows on thighs, and when he speaks next his voice is muffled by his forearms. “You just never get a break. Never.”
You've been here a week. Let's see what you think in a year, Hart thinks, and this is one of the incidents that makes him think he's made a mistake with Bowler. Because if he ever needs to get away-if Bowler really becomes unhinged-Loose Bowler would always follow Hart. The thought is deeply disturbing.
Bowler mutters something, and Hart has to ask him to repeat it. It turns out Bowler had said two words.
“Heart attack.”
Hart is understandably confused.
“Pardon?”
“Heart attack. My Granny. Just behind there.” he says, pointing at Cathedral Lanes without looking up, meaning the cobbled alleys around the cathedral itself. There isn't much Hart can really say in reply.
“I wasn't there. She'd gone shopping with her carer. I was working full time by then, and didn't see so much of her. She didn't mind so much by the end; she'd gone a bit, you know...” he punctuates this with a waggle of the hand. Hart understands. “But she was still always pleased to see me when I went to visit. When it happened, apparently she wasn't out of breath or anything, or even struggling; two minutes before they'd been laughing and talking about Brighton...of all things...she was a very giggly woman. Very friendly, not one of these nasty, bitter old ladies. Good laugh. I suppose it might have even been the laughing, at the time, you know. Either way, down she went.” And he accompanies this part with a surprisingly blunt effect; he slaps his hand hard, on his thigh, like he's overcompensating, covering his pain.
“Heart went, down she goes. Nothing they could do. Dead before the ambulance got there.” He pauses a moment, and then turns his red eyes to Hart. “So, see, this is the thing for me, Hart. She died RIGHT THERE. Well within The Foyer.”
Hart sighs, not unkindly, and settles back whilst Bowler talks.
“So,” continues Bowler, turning further, to stay looking into Hart's eyes now he has moved backwards, his hands turned upward into cups, waiting to receive. “Where is she, Hart? Don't get me wrong; I'm GLAD she's not here. That she's not stuck with...all this. But she died here, HERE. So where's SHE gone? And, and, and why...why are WE here and she's NOT?” He isn't angry. He's after answers, pleading. And worse, he knows Hart doesn't have them.
Hart laces his fingers together and looks at them. These are questions he used to ask, used to need to know. But he knows now that they don't matter, in the long run. They are here, and surviving and getting out are the priorities, not the things that can't be changed. He can't give hollow comfort, and wouldn't know how anyway, but thinks that in this moment when Bowler needs him-a rare moment of emotional insight-he has something. Not something he really believes fully himself, but with nothing better to say, it might suffice.
“Perhaps...perhaps she IS here..” says Hart. “Perhaps she's here, but on a different frequency. In the way that everyone in our Foyer are roughly on one frequency-close, but not close enough to be able to communicate like us-and we're all loosely on it, not totally f
ixed, which explains why we can fade in and out with George sometimes, for example...and your Grandmother, and others like her, are on another frequency altogether. Except we can't see them or even be aware of them, the same way the living can't see us.”
He falls silent, not knowing whether to go on as Bowler hasn't even looked at him throughout this. His gaze is back at the floor. Hart is searching for something to say to follow up, and Bowler saves him the bother by speaking himself.
“I don't buy that. Sorry, Hart...but I don't. Even if I did, I wouldn't like to think of her being ANYWHERE that's like this.” His voice is flat, his face expressionless, and Hart thinks this must be the worst week of Bowler's existence, living or otherwise. Hart is wrong. So far, it is only the second worst, and although this week will end horrifically-almost bad enough to make it number one-the next four weeks will shunt this one firmly into third place. For this day will end with Bowler riding the train, and all that comes after for Bowler in The Foyer will, in one way or another, be a result of that experience.
“You want to know what I think?” he says, and Hart does want to know, though he thinks Bowler will be wrong. He wants to know Bowler's thinking. “You want to know why I think we're here and she's not?” He takes Hart's silence as confirmation to continue. “I think we're here because we wasted our lives. I think we had the potential to be anything, and do anything, and we did exactly nothing. Born here. Died here. Let me guess; you were born here too, yeah?” Hart nods, quietly. He has a reply immediately, but he has to let Bowler speak.
“Granny did something. She TRAVELLED, at least. She did missionary work, you know. Built stuff, over there. Her and Granddad, though I never knew him. She taught, she ran a Brownies. All those kids she gave something to, she did that. AND she used to clean the church. That would have scored some points, I bet.”
This makes Hart interrupt.
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