Their hands met the blue edge and passed straight through, as if they'd misjudged the distance and it had only looked like they were close enough to touch. No resistance, not even a breeze. The blue layer didn't even colour their hands once they went through it; they seemed to be above it, even though Hart could clearly see his hand had gone in. To Bowler, it was exactly the same as when you went to see a movie in 3D, and grabbed for whatever you saw. Your hand was in it, and yet over it at the same time. Touching the blue light was like a bizarre optical illusion.
Hart's disappointment was like a knife in his lungs. He didn't know what he'd expected-and hadn't really expected a revelation-but there was always that chance, that possibility that there would have been a shock, a vision, some sort of connection to something bigger. And in the end it was so insubstantial that the disappointment wasn't worth it. Without realising, Hart’s hand dropped and he slumped slightly.
No. That was no way to think. Any second the Bluey might walk right out of the Foyer-there was no way she lived within it, she was old and Hart would have seen her before now if she did-and they had to make the most of this. Think objectively. Look for clues. Focus.
Bowler was still passing his hand in and out of the blue layer, watching it. He hadn't been here long enough to realise how incredible being this close to one was, and perhaps it was this that meant he was actually one step ahead of Hart in figuring out possibilities for learning.
We need to follow her to The Wall. See what happens when she passes through. And maybe we can communicate with her!
He assumed Hart already thinking this. Bowler put his hand back in the blue and spoke.
“Lady! Hey, Lady! Can you hear me?”
Hart almost slapped himself on the head. Of course! He did the same, using both hands after seeing Bowler get nothing from his one-handed effort. The Bluey finally found what she was rummaging for-a small black mobile phone-and began to dial.
“Miss! Miss! Hello!” Yelled Hart. Nothing. Louder. “MISS!! HELLO!! HELLO, CAN YOU HEAR US!!” Bowler joined in, this time stepping bodily into the blue, half into the Bluey's body, ignoring the unpleasantness, and yelling at the top of his lungs into her head.
“AAAH! LADY!! HEY, HEY!! AAAAH!!” Hart dived in too, and now his and Bowler's foreheads were touching in the middle of the Bluey's skull.
“MIIIIIISSSSS!!! YAAAAAA!! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAAAAAA!!!!!”
A horrible feeling of desperation overtook them as the shouting continued, both of them hoping they were shouting to be heard by anyone that might finally save them.
They stood there for the duration of the woman's conversation (all ten minutes of it, while she discussed what exactly to get Lisa for her birthday, as she didn't want to spoil her even though Lisa was Sarah's first, and not wanting to outshine whatever Sarah got her, as they're not as flush since Steven lost his job) all the while unaware of the two screaming men inside her head. Men losing that little bit more of whatever hope they had left, and doing so with their eyes shut lest the other's gaze confirm that they both knew it.
Hart gave up first, stepping back and turning away so Bowler could not see the tears, nor the way he was screwing up his face painfully in an attempt to stop them. He bit his teeth together with vicious force.
Bowler stopped when Hart stopped, stepping back quietly, head down. He knew something had happened quickly there, and something had gotten out of hand. He was embarrassed and didn't really understand why. He knew Hart was too; that's why Hart was stood with his back to him, now with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily. Bowler was struck by the last time he'd felt that desperation. Suzie, please, let's talk properly, I'll talk properly, I won't shout again, PLEASE. He pushed it away as best he could; he was confused enough as it was.
Bowler decided to let Hart decide what to do next, unless the Bluey moved. This was still too precious to let go, and he knew Hart knew it too. This became more evident a split second later, when, as they heard the Bluey close her phone with a snap, Hart whipped round, red-eyed, and pointed.
“We'll follow,” he said, quietly. “Eventually, she'll reach The Wall.” Bowler nodded, silently. Hart continued speaking, unconsciously adjusting his suit, composing himself as his mind searched for more ideas, more possibilities. Bowler realised what seemed to be at stake now. He almost wished the Bluey had never turned up. If she left The Foyer and they gleaned nothing from their experience with her...
They started to follow the Bluey as she walked through the small archway by the cobbler's place, into the tiny plaza beyond, that led onto the Bull Yard, and an idea seized Hart.
We'll try and be INSIDE the blue when she passes through the wall! Perhaps-
And a terrible fear gripped him as he thought it. He'd been on The Train, just like Bowler. He'd felt what lay beyond The Wall. What if he was right, and by being in the blue they could get through...and that was all that was there? That leaving the Foyer through The Wall meant that was what you got? That by breaking through The Wall and not by going some other way that you found yourself in oblivion, sucked away into that ultimate nothing? No matter how bad things ever were in here, that was just...but then again, perhaps, if you went through with a Bluey, in the blue, you went somewhere else-
That was when Hart noticed Bowler had stopped dead behind the newsagents, slightly crouched, looking straight ahead. Even with his mind swirling with ideas and possibilities, he thought this annoyingly odd. What on earth was Bowler doing? Here they were, with the biggest potential breakthrough of Hart's entire afterlife, and not only was Bowler not following, he was actually just stood still like a dimwit! He opened his mouth to vent his frustration-for here was the perfect opportunity to release some of the tension he felt-when he saw a woman, a middle aged early commuter in a thick black fleece, Pass Through Bowler without Bowler even trying to get out of the way. What on earth?
As he looked at Bowler incredulously, he noticed the look in Bowler's eyes for the first time, and saw the terrified expression on his face. Bowler was scared; he was scared of the Bluey? Hart then properly noticed Bowler's body language. Not just stood still; frozen.
Bowler was trying not to move. Trying not to be seen.
What the blazes was going on? He took a step forward, and froze himself as Bowler's eyes widened almost comically and darted towards him, accompanied by an almost imperceptible shake of the head. At that moment-even before Bowler's darting, gesturing eyes told him to look behind him-the penny finally dropped, horribly, and Hart felt his scalp and testicles tighten with fear as he realised what was going on. Of course. They were in deep, deep, deep trouble. Never the less, Hart turned his head extremely slowly over his right shoulder. That would be where the danger was. To his right, and slightly behind. On the other side of the square; he would have been too busy watching the Bluey to see.
He looked across to the corner of the deserted plaza and found-terribly-that he was right. There, so big and dark as to look almost superimposed against the glass front of the cafe, impossibly huge, completely at odds with the mundane surroundings, stood the Beast.
It saw them.
***
Bowler awakes to an indescribable pain. So intense that all thought is blocked out. He cannot form coherent thoughts. All he is aware of is a few, basic things.
The pain.
He cannot feel his body.
He cannot see.
He cannot think properly.
And some part of his brain registers through the agony that he must be back in the cloud, but different, some sort of pain cloud. There was pain on the train. The train. He was on the train. That hurt more than this. This is very bad, but the train was worse.
He still cannot see. When he hears the voice, he understands what it says, but does not consider or assess the words, because he simply can’t. The words simply are what they are.
“Hello Bowler. Sorry it took me so long to get here. I don't know what I was thinking.”
He doesn't know the voice, do
esn't assign a face to it. He can't. He endures the pain, and listens in darkness, lost.
“I know you can't see me. You will, eventually. It's just going to take a long time. A few weeks, normally. But for you...”
Bowler waits. If he could feel his body, he would be screaming.
“...that's not helpful. But listen, or try to understand. The pain goes away first, and that's good, but the worst bit is the waiting. In the dark, not being able to make your mind work, no feeling. It's like...it's the hardest thing you'll ever do here. I did it. Actually, when the pain goes away, for me...that's when the worst bit started.”
Bowler realises, vaguely, that's he's talking about the agony ending, and how that could be a bad thing. Bowler, if he could, would be rolling and screaming, crying and yelling, and tries to imagine the pain not being there. He can't. Bowler hears him, and somehow feels the white hot steel fibres of fire pushed through every piece of his skin even though it doesn’t seem to be a part of him, and this time he can't understand these words.
“Because for me...when your mind comes back just enough to be aware, and be conscious, and you're in the dark, and can't talk, and it's just unending...but you still can't think enough...”
Silence for a long time. Bowler doesn't know it's only about 4 seconds, but it seems like an afternoon of pain to him.
“...I don't know how I did it. But for you, it's going to be easier. I'm going to sit with you. All the way through it. Just like in the beginning, do you remember? I'm going to talk to you again. I'm going to help you through. It won't be as bad. OK? I'm...I'm here.”
He tries. But can't imagine enduring this pain any more than right now, of being able to go through it any more than this very second. It's incomprehensible, but everything is now.
And as Bowler begins 4 terrible, terrible weeks-the third being, in fact, the worst of his existence, the peak before he started to come out-Hart tries to think of something to say to pass the time. Nothing will help any more than anything else, so he thinks of a tale to tell.
“Did I ever tell you about the second time I tried to break The Wall? I know this sounds unbelievable, but I tried a second time. Not on The Train, obviously, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Plus, my thinking was, this time I knew when to let go, once I could tell it wasn't going to work. I'd already experienced and KNEW I couldn't get through, like everyone needs to, feeling it for themselves. Of course, it wasn't that simple...”
Bowler hears him, and his struggles continue.
***
1980:
There's a helicopter in Pool Meadow car park.
There's people lining the streets, and the police are everywhere, attempting to keep it all under control. Hart thinks the whole thing is ridiculous. It's not like it's the Queen turning up. Just some awful singer.
But the people don't care, they're everywhere, going doolally. They're stood along the full length of the car park, under a bullet-grey sky that the promoters would no doubt wish was full of sun. But it's mid-February, and the desired summer feel will not happen today. People are cheering, but people cheering in thick winter coats and scarves doesn't have the same effect. Hart can't believe they've actually cordoned off the whole car park, just for some silly appearance by some silly idiot who's sold a few records and cassettes. They won't even remember him in a week.
He looks at George, and George seems to be as happy as everyone else, smiling contentedly, looking around at the people. George always did seem happiest when there were lots of people about, and this was something a lot more special than normal. He'd be here even if Hart hadn't asked him to be; he'd be here for the show. Normally, Hart would be as well, even though he wasn't interested. It was something different, that was all.
But that's not the reason he's here today.
He doesn't really know why he's asked George along; after all, if this goes wrong-and it probably will-it's not like George can talk to him and keep him company. And he can't explain what he'd want George to do; move Hart somewhere where's there's at least something to listen to. It's too complicated. He just hopes George has the wherewithal to do it by himself.
Either way, he'd find out.
The screaming is at fever pitch now, as the spinning blades begin to slow and the security men waiting by the small podium-plus microphone, of course- rush over, ducking as they go to the helicopter, freshly touched down in the deserted car park surrounded by the people-packed streets. Hart notices the police cordon at the end of the road, at the T junction. They don't want the crowd blocking that street, spilling out into the road. He looks to the opposite side of the car park, at the people lining the pavement, 3 abreast, the police lined up behind them, stopping people spilling onto the road itself. They're far too far away to see anything. The people here, where they are, these people are the lucky ones, and they have the best view going. They're almost close enough to touch. But, of course, the real best seats in the house belong to George and Hart.
Strangely, they're still only just in front of the barrier, and only that much closer because, obviously, they don't want to be Passed Through by anybody. If it wasn't for that, they'd be on the other side of the barrier. Certain social conventions seem to never break for the Guests; the crowd aren't supposed to be any closer, so Hart and George don't stand any closer, unless absolutely necessary. Hart suddenly notices Mark stood on the other side of the crowd, sees the big man easily. Mark is taller than the people he is stood in the midst of. Hart panics for a moment-has Mark had the same idea? Will he try it even if he has? Will it affect Hart's plans if he does?-but Mark simply nods towards Hart, looks at the helicopter, back to Hart, then shakes his head and heads up the hill towards Gosford St, with his large, lolling gait of a walk. Hart lets out a sigh of relief, and notes that even Mark won't try it. Twitchy Mark.
The security men open the side door of the helicopter, and the oaf gets out, dressed in a navy blue and white tracksuit. Big, clearly dyed black hair. Sunglasses. Far too-white teeth. Hart thinks the man might actually be wearing a wig. Plus the sideburns are about a decade too late. Even Hart knows that much. This man is pushing his luck. Either way, he still has fans in Coventry by the looks of it, even though his star has faded. It's irrelevant to today's work anyway.
George is actually clapping as the people reach a crescendo, and the police spread their arms wide against the slight rush. Hart looks at him, and George looks back happily, eyebrows raised. He doesn't care what Hart thinks on this matter, he's enjoying himself, and is happily daring him to pass mimed comment. He even gives deliberate grin, leaning toward Hart and clapping harder. Hart shakes his head-but not without a thin smile-and turns back to the figure on the podium.
He's talking about it being great to back here, and how he loves to give back to this city-what, he's from here?-and how he can't wait to meet his two biggest fans, and then two stunned girls are led forward. Hart puts the radio station logos on the podium and the two giggling girls together, and realises this is all about some sort of competition. He doesn't care, but it satisfies a mild curiosity.
He watches idly, getting impatient now, as photos are taken and a grinning buffoon with a microphone and headphones is talking to the man of the hour. Then the TV camera crew have him, and eventually the whole thing has been going on for nearly an hour. Somehow, ninety percent of the crowd are still there. Incredible.
The nerves he's been managing not to think about so far are creeping back in, strong now, as the waiting has stalled his momentum. George still seems fairly oblivious, even though he knows what Hart is about to do. At least, Hart thinks he does; he seemed to understand Hart's pantomime of explanation. He needs to get his done soon, or he won't get it done at all. Fortunately, the idiot seems to be wrapping it up; he's moving back to the helicopter, waving to the still-drooling crowd. Short and sweet, it seems. They're going to be going now; he has to move.
He taps George on the shoulder, and points at the helicopter. George shrugs with a twisted m
outh. Ok, but I think you're being stupid... Hart can't believe George isn't going to try as well, but he also knows that George has taken The Train, and that he took it worse than Hart; the very mime of it makes George go pale. There's no way George would risk it again.
Hart points at George, then at his own eyes, then at the helicopter. George nods, then puts his hand on Hart's shoulder, without any hesitation. Hart stiffens, then sees George's sincere eyes looking into his, sees the thumbs up George is giving, feels the hand patting his shoulder, and relaxes in confusion. He doesn't know where to put his face. He feebly returns the thumbs up without looking at George, and turns back to the helicopter, starting to walk.
He doesn't look back.
By the time the pop star or whatever he is returns to the helicopter, Hart is already there, sat in the leather seat. Hart finds himself excited, despite his now screaming nerves that he is not allowing himself to acknowledge. He's never been in a helicopter before. The leg room would be next to non-existent if he had a physical presence, and over the pilot's seat in front he can see a dash with mind numbing dials and readouts. Cables and wires hang from the ceiling, going to headphones and switches, but now Superstar is getting into the back seat as well and sitting on Hart, budging right over as his assistant gets in next to him.
Hart takes a deep breath of nothing and prepares for it; he knew this would probably happen. He puts his head through the window, to at least avoid their heads merging. That’s always the worst.
With his head outside, he can now hear the crowd screaming again, yelling their hero goodbye, or just excited to watch a helicopter take off so close. He can hear the police telling people to stay back whilst it happens. He can hear the whine of the rotary blades slowly accelerating, and looks up, watching them turn, big and black, beginning to produce downward thrust that will lift them up, carrying them into the air and to somewhere Hart has never been since he came to the Foyer.
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 11