The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel

by Luke Smitherd

  “Bowler-”

  “She not stuck in some shitty Foyer,” Bowler continues, oblivious. “She got it right, we got it wrong. She's in a better place. And I fucking hope Mum and Dad go the same way. They WILL. Man, they did all sorts of shit.”

  “Bowler-”

  “Dad started a business, gave hundreds of people jobs. Factory. Mum was a full time teacher, FULL time; God knows how many lives she had an impact on. Me, I've done sweet fuck all.” He sits back, letting his head flop backwards with the motion so he is looking at the sky. “This is a punishment.” he says, talking to the clouds, as if he resents their freedom as they drift effortlessly above. Above and away. “Not the worst one, but one that gives us what we deserve. Monotony. Just like our lives.” Hart notes this; rare use of vocabulary for Bowler. Monotony. “And we're being forced to THINK, to ACT, for the first time, to get out of here. It's too see how much we want it. This is what it's here for.”

  “BOWler-”

  Bowler smiles a little, and turns his head, still hanging backwards, to look at Hart.

  “I know, I know exactly what you think. But let's look at it scientifically, then. It still adds up the same.”

  Hart is suddenly intrigued, despite himself. In the near distance he sees Churchill (Bowler's name for him; apparently the Guest they call Churchill looks like some bulldog character on the TV) come out of the building behind Bowler, talking silently and frantically to himself, scratching at his face. As usual, like all of the others, he sees them and pretends he hasn't, immediately falling silent and turning around. He heads back inside the building. Hart notes all of this without interest, and continues listening to Bowler.

  “You wanna hear this, Hart. I'm no scientist, but get ready for Dr Frank Bowler's big scientific...”-he searches for the word-”...bullshit..”

  “Dr who?”

  “Heh, you just said it.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. You talk about energies, and frequencies and shit, right?” says Bowler, looking up again now, his broad shoulders spread on the back of the bench and his arms moving lazily about as he makes his point. If Hart didn't know better, he'd think Bowler was basking in the sun's rays, even though they are passing straight through him, and he will never again have to worry about sunburn.

  “Well, how about this,” Bowler goes on, “How about if you live a really good, active life, and you LIVE, and love, and do things...what if that builds up an energy? Every adventure, every kiss, every RUSH you get builds up something we can't even see? Like a, a, a store of energy. What if that sets your frequency, if you like, and when you die, because you're ON that frequency, you get to go somewhere where that frequency means-let's go your way, ok, your idea, like all there is after life is Foyers everywhere, okay? We'll go with that; that the frequency you're on means you can do more than we can, a BETTER frequency.” He sits up, waving his hands rapidly now. “One that means you can walk straight through the Foyer wall, or can talk to the other Guests, or even...I dunno, even fucking FLY if you like. Like...” he pauses, blowing out his cheeks as he thinks. “Well...like angels.”

  Hart is silent.

  “And if you were just...look, BAD, for want of a better word...that just kills your energy dead. And when you die, you don't even get to come here, you don't even get a chance, you just flat DIE. Nothing. And on the other end of the scale, if you live a life of, of...like, you're happy, and do good stuff and just LIVE, and help other people live, maybe your frequency, your energy, is so full and high that you go somewhere opposite. Somewhere your frequency is of a type where you can do anything, a Foyer that isn't really a Foyer.” Bowler snaps his fingers as another idea occurs to him, and lifts his head up properly now, holding an open palm to Hart as he offers his idea.

  “Like if you fill your energy up like that, you go to a Foyer far better, far more free and loving than the real world because everyone that gets to go there are the good, adventurous, kind people. And they can all fly, and be happy. Where the Foyer HAS no wall. Jesus. Hart...does that not sound like Heaven to you? A free world full of the best people?” He looks off into space for a second, shaking his head, getting around his own thinking.

  “And when people die and come back, those out of body people you hear about,” Bowler eventually continues, “Maybe they've seen a glimpse of it, all these people that die and talk about how they saw their families and how it just felt so good and warm...or these people that wrote the Bible, and talk about heaven and that, maybe they saw it somehow...” He is passionate now, lips wet, hands out in front of him, shaping in the air what he is seeing in his mind.

  “Maybe it's not decided by a God or whatever, whether you get to go to a good place or a bad place. Maybe the energy from the way we live our lives chooses it.” Bowler then pauses, considering something, then says it.

  “Maybe the Flyers are the ones that lived that way. Maybe they're the ones that get to go to that top place.”

  Hart holds up a hand. Bowler has spoken more in one sitting than Hart has ever heard, and it is now time to have his say, because Bowler is missing one important, vital thing. The one thing that Hart knows that means Bowler is wrong.

  “All right. So tell me, Bowler. What do you know about my life?”

  Bowler opens his mouth, and stops. He doesn’t have an answer, but also sees that Hart is slightly angry. Hart is trying to contain it-Bowler thinks this is because Hart doesn't want to BE so-but he is angry nontheless.

  “So I have touched no lives? Helped no one? Well did you know I pretty much single handedly kept a school open?” says Hart.

  Bowler is stunned.

  “Getty Hart Primary School. Ring any bells?”

  It does. Half of his childhood friends WENT there, for God's sake. The connection was obvious and yet not obvious. He has heard the name so many times in his life that the idea it was named AFTER someone has never occurred to him, the same way that Rolls Royce was just Rolls Royce. That the name came from actual people was something you never thought about.

  “Your mother was a teacher. Fine,” says Hart. “That place was going under until I stepped in. That was a big sacrifice for me, Bowler. A LOT of money, even back then. They changed the sodding NAME out of gratitude. I kept something going that helped children get THEIR start for the last, what, 70-odd years? And it's still doing it. I visited, and taught, all the time; and guess what? Every time, I felt that 'rush', as you call it, of satisfaction, and was aware of what I'd started, what it was doing, making a difference. I saw it, and felt it. Takes a lot of money to keep a school from going under, Bowler. Do you know what I did for a living? You still don’t know, do you?”

  Bowler, silent now, shakes his head, red faced. Hart's expression has softened slightly, but the anger is still there.

  “I was a barrister. Fought the good fight every day, pretty much. And unlike most, I made sure I was selective in my clients. And helped the RIGHT clients. And made it so they could afford it. So again, I helped a LOT of people. It was my job. And I felt good about it. And yes, it paid well. Well enough to start a school. And see the world.”

  Hart leans forward, looking stern, and speaks slowly. “I stayed in Coventry because it's my home, and I LIKED it here. Not because I didn't have the imagination to leave. So please, Bowler...don't judge me because you feel you wasted YOUR life. It's a nice theory, but I'm proof that it doesn't hold ANY water.” And Hart sits back suddenly, folding his arms. He doesn't like making himself into a window, and-though he wouldn't admit it-he is ashamed of his anger here. He knows how anger can grab you in The Foyer, and it was a struggle to keep that greedy feeling at bay. It wasn't Bowler's fault; he was just thinking aloud, whilst he was in pain.

  They sit in silence. Hart will not apologise, but he needs to make it better.

  “Although the fact that I once got a chap off an arson charge who then went on to burn down a carpet warehouse might have some effect,” he says,

  The silence continues, but it is n
ow better. Eventually, Bowler's curiosity gets the better of his own embarrassment.

  “Did you...did you ever get m-” and he cuts off, as he’s had the realisation that caps this week as the second worst of Frank Bowler's existence so far, and the bottom falls out of his world.

  He passes straight through the bench and onto the floor, where he keels over and curls into a ball, wide eyed and open mouthed. Hart leaps off the bench and crouches next to him, grabbing him without thought and shouting.

  “Bowler! Bowler! What is it? What? Bowler!”

  And Bowler doesn't look at him as he is still in total shock, doesn't even hear the questions. He has realised that which will destroy him here, and as he gasps out the words, Hart knows it, and despairs.

  “I have...a wife...I have a wife, Hart...” and he wails, an open, soul-hurt cry that comes out as a ragged screech.

  “Ah...aahaa...Hart...her place...her flat...OUR home...it's inside the Foyer, Hart...”

  Hart lets go.

  “She...she lives here...” and then he is lost in hysterical tears.

  Hart sits, and rubs his temples with his fingers.

  ***

  Part 2-Orientation

  Chapter 4: In Which We See The First One In 60 Years, Bowler Takes The Train, We Are Presented With The Irony Of Running For Your Life, And Learn The Physics Of The Dead

  ***

  Hart found Bowler on Granny's Bench, as he’d known he would. They hadn't seen each other for two weeks, although Hart knew throughout that time that he could have found Bowler here any day. If Bowler needed anything first and foremost, it was comfort, sadly. And this place was as close as he would get to it.

  The time in between had been tough on Hart, but he dreaded to think what it would have been like for Bowler. In all the time Bowler had been here, he had never been on his own for more than an hour or two. Yes, there were people like George and Sarah that he could spend time with, but it wouldn’t be like anything he was used to. Hart only hoped that Mark had not found him and been in his ear, and that Bowler had been smart enough to stay out of the way of The Beast. He was pretty sure of the latter, but he was greatly concerned nontheless; he had inadvertently made it so Bowler would always have to fear being alone more than anyone in The Foyer, by forming their bond. Bowler only knew an existence there with Hart, only knowing this cold, alien world where you could influence nothing through the filter of a companion.

  Hart had died, and come into a second world, then gone through the hell of adjusting. Bowler had adjusted with a crutch. Being alone would mean he would have to do it all over again.

  Hart didn't know if Bowler could hold onto his sanity after adjusting a second time (and after the toll The Train took, don't forget that the voice in Hart's head told him.)

  It had taken Hart this long to admit to himself that he had picked the fight, or at least escalated it to levels that it should not have reached. He had mocked Bowler on a level that was totally unnecessary, and Bowler had responded in kind, hurt and angry. Hart didn't agree with what Bowler had said-he would never agree with Bowler on that issue-but knew that he shouldn't have reacted the way he did; to let anger take hold of him. Hart had learned to lock such things down long ago, and had taken a great deal of trouble over doing so over many years. Hart knew that he had escalated the argument. He was to blame. Such thoughts did not come easily to him, but two weeks was a long time in The Foyer.

  He approached the bench from behind, seeing Bowler's stocky shoulders slouched above the back of the seat (he was always nagging Bowler about his poor posture) and not viewing his face until he slowly made his way around the side, nervous about what he would find.

  Bowler's face was blank. Not the utterly vacant emptiness of the Loose Guests, but there was no thought there at the moment. Although Bowler hadn't had anywhere near enough time for lunacy to set in-and therefore for his hands to shake or his face to change-he had clearly brushed up against it, and come away feeling the effects. Hart hoped it wasn't permanent. Bowler had obviously been through hell...but Hart thought maybe he was over the worst of it. Maybe he’d even started to adapt to it like Hart had. Maybe being connected with Hart hadn't made it worse for him after all.

  Bowler’s breathing looked easy, and he at least looked relaxed…but at the same time, aware in a way Hart hadn't seen before. He paused, noting that this would probably not be a good thing for their relationship. He already suspected Bowler was starting to realise that it wasn't a one way thing between them, and this could only widen the gap. Either way, it was time to speak.

  “Hello, Bowler,” said Hart, and felt a sudden, nasty little bite of satisfaction-despite himself-as Bowler jumped.

  “Hart...” Bowler said, putting a hand to his chest. Bowler hated himself for it, but he felt an enormous rush of warmth as he saw Hart standing there. Relief. He'd handled the worst of it over the last fortnight, but things would be so much easier now. Things after The Train had been as bad as anything could possibly be, but Hart had been there, at least. This had been different. Not as bad-not even close-but bad in a different way. The unending loneliness, without even the blessed relief of sleep, the constant burden of relentless thought...Bowler would never be able to put words to these feelings-he didn't think that reflectively-but he understood exactly why things had been tough, knew it in his own way.

  Even so, he wouldn't run back. He'd sworn that over and over again. That was what had gotten him through the dark nights by himself, even at the one point where it was really bad (before he'd started to pull himself together, before he'd gotten over the peak) and he thought he'd somehow died all over again, and the terror that he would have to start from scratch. If he thinks he can just waltz up, and expect me to rush back, in his stupid suit, he can go fuck himself. Hart didn't look ruffled in the slightest. He looked like he'd laughed his way through the last two weeks. But then, Hart never liked to look ruffled.

  “Are you...all right?” asked Hart, genuine concern on his face.

  Bowler stared at him for a long time.

  “Been better.”

  There was more silence. It was very early-maybe 7am-and there were few people about in town, and even fewer cars. Those that did walk past had frost for breath. It was one of the few things that Hart liked about being dead; no cold. But they both hated the Foyer during these quiet times. It made the place feel-it was a pun they'd both made so many times that it had become a serious phrase to them-like a ghost town. Like there was no life even outside of the Foyer. It was a thought far too unpleasant to even consider.

  Hart took a deep breath.

  “I'm sorry, Bowler...I'll get that out of the way right now. Though you know I hate you going on about that sort of stuff, I gave you permission to do so, and...anyway, I went too far. I forgive you for what you said back, I goaded you into it, and...look, it's my fault,” he finished, and folded his arms.

  Bowler just continued to look at him. Hart felt that this was not the appropriate response.

  “This isn't something that is easy for me to say, Bowler.”

  Bowler gently shrugged.

  “I appreciate that,” he said, crossing one leg awkwardly over the other in his seat, “But I'm sick of you just brushing off what I say. That's bullshit.” His face was pinched, as if he was trying to prove something. It made him look older.

  Hart bit his tongue, and sucked back his sudden rise of anger; he had to sort this out.

  “Bowler,” he said with as little sigh in his voice as he could manage, “You know I don't agree with you on that issue, and you also know I never will. But I don't want to be...” Hart tightened his hands by his sides, pushing the word out, “...dismissive. You are...you're my friend, after all.” Hart’s hands relaxed. As with most difficult conversations, getting the words out was hard, but made everything infinitely easier once they were voiced. And he meant it, after all. “So let's just...let's just agree that we'll...I don't know, we'll try each others ways of getting out, yes? And not discuss
the whys and wherefores. They don't really matter. As long as we remember not to…you know. Believe too much. Dangerous.”

  Hart held up his hands, and cast his gaze up the street, squinting in the morning light with a whimsical sigh.

  “Anyway, let's be honest...” he added, “It's not like we have many better things to do.”

  Hart thought it was a fair apology, and honest. It had been even harder to give than he had expected, but there was relief now. And even more when Bowler finally smiled in response, faintly.

  “You must be kidding,” he said, “Bert and Sammy are on their way over for cocktails, and they're bringing some smokin' hot bitches with 'em too.” Hart smirked, and Bowler waved a hand loosely over the seat next to him, as shifted sideways. With that, everything was back to normal, and they both knew it.

  Hart sat, and for a few minutes they watched the birds, milling about on the floor of the mini plaza. Hart used to love birds when he was alive. Now he hated them with a passion that he knew stemmed from jealousy. He’d never told Bowler.

  “So...I have to ask, Bowler,” Hart said eventually, trying to make it sound casual. He had to know. In the Foyer, you had to try and get the real curiosity out. “What was it like for you?”

  Bowler watched the birds pecking about, and considered the question. Thought about the sense of loss, of utter helplessness. Of having so little direction that it was scary. Feeling the pull of the perimeter, even of the train, anything, because something had to work...and the nights. Of Mark clearly trying to tell him he had all the answers, and realising without much surprise that Hart was right; Mark was Going Loose. Of communicating with Mark and George here and there and it being like a poor substitute for a drug; he wasn't used to this, he needed to talk, to hear another voice responding to what he had to say. Of once hearing the cry of The Beast, sudden and deafening and terrible, and from nowhere. The sound suddenly cutting in halfway through, like someone had taken their finger off a mute button. Not being able to tell how far away he was, not knowing whether to run and risk being seen, or to hide. And worst of all, during that one, really bad night; that slowly growing feeling of his mind being levered up from its moorings, starting off so small like a splinter, then building up to a crowbar, that terrible pressure building up in his head. Almost a physical pain, and realising with great terror that he liked the idea of what was happening. That maybe this was the only way out, the only way to deal with it, and knowing how easy it would be to just...snap. It was that realisation that made him focus most of all, made him pick something to use to get through it.