He will find out if the Foyer has a ceiling.
He wishes for the impossible coincidence of a Flyer turning up now, so he can see up close where they go. Maybe he'll go the same way anyway.
He looks down at the landing struts of the helicopter and sees they are growing shadows. They are leaving the floor, and he has to suppress an urge to pull his head back inside. No. He stays out here. He needs a clear view.
The noise from above is now deafening, and he's extremely glad he can't feel the force from the blades. The sensation from his viewpoint is uncanny, the slow, effortless rise; without the sensation of the wind, just the noise, and looking straight down he feels like he's flying by himself. If he was on the other side of the helicopter he could probably look down and see George, and thinks that's it's probably a good idea that he can't.
They're very high now, already above the polytechnic buildings, a good 30 storeys up, and Hart is reminded powerfully of what he'll have to do if he hits a ceiling. He pushes it away, and waits.
He can see the city laid out below him now, and it's incredible. He's never flown before, and even he had, it wouldn't be like this, head not surrounded by plastic and steel, nothing between the floor and his eyes but a helicopter landing strut. It stretches out below him like a grey map. And he can see the all the parts of the city he hasn't seen for 40 years! The places that lie beyond the wall; how they've changed! He can see all the way to Bedworth! And the new buildings, the old ones adapted, the places that just flat out don't exist since the raids...and a great sadness overtakes him. Places just down the road that, when alive, he wouldn't have batted an eyelid at visiting. To see them now is a miracle, and it's a pathetic one.
There's a tug, and Hart thinks something has happened to the helicopter. And as he feels a familiar pressure on the top of his head, that's growing on his shoulders now too, like a tight nylon blanket being pulled around him, he realises that-as he knew all along there would be, of course there would be-that he has hit the ceiling of the Foyer.
No way out here.
It's much, much closer than he thought it would be; even lower than where the Flyers appear-which, it will occur to him when he thinks about it later, makes perfect sense-and the helicopter is still rising, the pressure increasing. No time to think about what it means, no time for disappointment, but there is still a sting there.
Shit, SHIT! He knows what will happen if he stays in the helicopter, and he knows what it means he has to do-knew it before he got in-as to lock in would mean far worse pain, the pain of arguing with the inevitable, but it's still a terrifying prospect. He has no idea what will happen when he jumps from a helicopter flying easily 1,000 feet up. Or more importantly, what will happen when he hits.
What happens when he lands? Every day he controls where he stands, makes sure that his feet don't sink into the floor, by willpower alone, and now it's unconscious action, but this...when he reaches the floor at speed...
He has a crazy thought about passing straight through the floor, through the earth, coming out in Australia, and he suddenly thinks Maybe that's how I get out.
But he doesn't have time to think as the pressure is mounting very quickly, and the pain is starting, and so with his whole body shaking in fear Hart leans further out, trying to only look straight ahead. The sensation of height is no different for him that it would be for the living, and his survival instincts are screaming at him to stay inside the helicopter where it is safe as his rational mind screams at him to jump now, NOW, before the pressure gets any worse and he ends up Broken. There is an agonising few seconds of indecision, terror, and pain.
Hart screws up his eyes, grits his teeth, and silently pushes out with his legs. His hands instinctively draw into his chest, and leaps from the helicopter without a sound, fear taking all noise.
And he falls.
Fast.
Again, with no wind to rush into his eyes, the sensation is almost gentle, or would be if not for the unbelievable speed with which he is falling, the grey road map below him rushing up, impossibly large in his eyes, and taking form again. Grey squares become the tops of office blocks, coloured blobs becoming cars filling roads, and he takes tiny, gasping, rushing breaths of emptiness.
He tries to stop himself by the same willpower that keeps him above the floor and finds it does nothing. He has time in his terror to calmly think So we fall, we can't stop that and then he realises one of the office blocks is actually rising up directly beneath him, and before he has time to react he has hit the top of it and is now passing through floor after floor, through desks and photocopiers and toilets, and people, Passing Through them so fast that he doesn't have time to be repulsed, people blending in with plasterboard and plumbing and carpet. He frantically thinks to try and centre himself, control himself the way he does standing on the floor, hoping to slow his progress, but it doesn't work; he is travelling too fast and with too much force for his willpower to overcome. The phrase the physics of the dead flashes crazily through his head before he speeds through into the basement, into the boiler room, where he catches a nanosecond glimpse of the fuse boxes on the wall and the fear flashes to a crescendo as he thinks This is it, this is where I hit the bottom and now he has hit the concrete floor and it swallows him up as he Passes Through.
And he feels an unbelievable, indescribable jarring as he hits something solid that turns him completely flat, smashing his insides-he will realise later that this means he still has them-turning his bones to powder, splitting his skull, spreading his form out almost comically, as he bounces off and flips back out through the floor. He passes back through as he comes down-WHAM-then bounces back out again, then back down and out again, and this time when he resurfaces, he settles at the floor level, sinking slightly in.
And in the split second he has before the pain begins to register, and the familiar cloud settles over his brain, he realises two things; what has a ceiling must have a floor, and that despite jumping, he is Broken again.
Oh my God, he thinks, Please God no. Not again. Please. PLEASE.
And he just has time to pray that George saw where he fell before his mind dislodges, just like before.
***
“It wasn't as bad as after the train, but it was bad. And obviously, that's bad enough. But it wasn't as long, that's the main thing. George, God bless him, found me eventually, and put me in someone's flat, so at least I could hear the TV. That was a big help. But, I suppose, in the long run...it was worth it to know. But it nearly did for me.”
Hart settles onto his buttocks and looks around. The sun is beginning to dip in the sky, and on the section of railway where he knew he would find Bowler, at the very edge of The Wall-Bowler had pushed quite far, but he had sprang back no further out than anyone else ever had, as Hart knew he wouldn’t-shadows are lengthening, cast onto the gravel between the sleepers, and onto the grass either side, hedges and fields beyond. They are not that far out from the station. Hart wishes he could make a fire. It would be nice.
He looks at Bowler's flattened out body. Stretched out, coiled up, skin torn and loosened. Broken. Eventually, he knows, it will start to reform as Bowler's mind does, but that is a long way away. And there will be times when he has to leave Bowler alone for a while, though he doesn't say that. Weeks out here, alone, talking to himself, will mean he needs to go back, and go back regularly at that.
“It's not just hitting The Wall at speed that can do it, you know,” he says, putting his arms around his knees and sitting forward. “I've seen it. The Guests...obviously, you know we can touch each other. But that means-and you've probably thought about this-we can hurt each other.”
He looks up to see a plane leaving trails across the sky, remembering. His brow furrows.
“We can Break each other, providing we hurt each other badly enough. It takes a lot though; a broken arm or something won't do it. It has to be injuries equivalent to, say, a car crash. That sort of thing. Like I say...I've seen it.”
Screams.
Roaring. Hell before his very eyes.
“That's why you have to fear The Beast.”
Hart looks at his feet now, as he talks.
“Because if The Beast catches you, he'll hurt you very badly indeed. And...well, I've even seen The Beast hurt people so badly...they STAY Broken. True, these were Guests that were already Loose or close to it, but they end up even worse. It is possible, you know. I saw them lying there for two months, reforming, in the same place, never moving. And when they eventually fully reform...they're gone. Broken so badly their mind never recovers.”
He shudders.
“That's why, when you see The Beast-or hear him-you run. You run as fast as you can. Even though he's faster.”
***
Chapter 5: In Which The Deal Is Still On, Everybody Loves George, The Hell Debate Occurs, We Learn How The Deal Was Made, And Discover The Horror Of The Westward Room
***
The Beast focused his attention on the Bluey. He watched her as she walked away from him, oblivious to his presence.
Bowler and Hart were both frozen to the spot now, not sure what to do. The Beast had seen them, so running was probably a bad idea; depending on his mood, he would probably give chase. If he was in one of his lucid, more intelligent states, he might give chase and hurt them for fun. If he was angry, he definitely would. If they were extremely lucky, and he was in one of his dense and docile moods-which happened rarely-he might ignore them due to his own confusion.
Either way, this one was a terrifying conundrum. He had seen them, yes, but was temporarily distracted by the Bluey. If they ran and he gave chase, he would be on them in seconds. Hart's mind was racing; his terror was total. He desperately, desperately hoped The Beast would follow the Bluey, and they could slip away. He scarcely dared look at Bowler, but could see out of the corner of his eye that the younger man was frozen to the spot. He wouldn't move until Hart did. He'd never been this close to The Beast. Not many had, without being Broken.
The Beast stood easily at 9 feet tall now, the biggest Hart had ever seen him. He remembered when the Beast had been about 8 feet, back when Hart had first arrived. He'd been incredibly dangerous, even then, but hadn't attacked quite as much. And when he did, he would hurt people, then grow bored. It seemed his sadism had grown along with his size. Hart still wondered just how mad he had to have gone to get to that point, how long he'd been here, how he'd even gone that crazy. Crazy enough to physically change.
The Beast's forehead was enormous, twice the size it should have been, and even more bulbous on the right hand side, framed all around by a mane of wiry black hair. It came forward over his eyes like a coastal shelf, shadowing his eyes to the point where you could barely see them. His jaw was far wider than his head, with a slight under bite. His hands were disproportionately large too, enough to completely cover a man's face. Hart knew this for a fact. His shoulders hunched up higher than they should be, huge and wide, making him seem more like a bull than a human.
The Beast was the only one in the Foyer who-in Hart's time, at least-appeared in different clothes. They seemed to be in a constant state of flux, flickering slightly on The Beast's frame, like they weren't sure what they were supposed to be. Today they consisted of a huge black donkey jacket buttoned up over a pair of white dress trousers, with incredibly well polished black shoes. The buttoned up jacket made him look even larger than normal.
His skin was so white it looked like he'd been painted. Against the black of his jacket, he'd never looked so terrifying.
“Bowler,” muttered Hart, not moving a fraction. Bowler's eyes darted to Hart, but other than the younger man made no other movement. They stood with more stillness than a living man could attain, fear lending them focus to stop their chests rising and falling, enough focus on staying still to remember that they didn’t need to expand their lungs anymore.
“Sshhh....” replied Bowler, saying it gently and drawing it out to make it quieter.
The Beast's colossal head turned as the Bluey passed him by, considering her the way a big dog considers the flitting motions of a butterfly, mildly inquisitive and curious. A shovel sized-no exaggeration-hand came out gently, slowly, and passed straight through her, the way someone will trail their hand through water.
He's going to follow, thought Hart, the second he turns his back, we're running.
But to Hart's shock, he saw The Beast smile at the Bluey, and chuckle lightly in his throat the way someone will smile at a private joke. He KNOWS something! thought Hart. He knows-
The second realisation hit him just before The Beast turned his head and looked directly at them, the smile turning to a gleeful grin, the eyes bulging huge and white beneath that vast brow.
If he knows something, that means he's lucid. He's noticed us all along! He's playing with us!
He just had time to yell “Bowler, run and don’t st-” but the The Beast had already bent his hands to the floor like the world's biggest and most terrible gorilla, still grinning, and with a silent roar-which made it worse-dropped his head low and came for them, galloping across the small plaza, a huge black nightmare right before their eyes.
***
“The worst time to get caught by him is when he's switched on, when he's aware. Because he's unbelievably cruel. He delights in hurting people, in breaking them. I think in some ways-and this is just my own, cod psychology-he wants other people to suffer like he does. Because he must be in terrible suffering, being stuck here and being like that. But I've no pity; I've seen what he does to people. The delight he has in watching them scream. I've seen him make it last for days.
And when he's self-aware, that's when he's hardest to lose. Because he's clever. He can be very clever. At any other time-and if you're lucky-you might be able to lose him. But if he finds you after you've made him hunt for you, if he gets you then...then he's desperate to hurt you.”
***
The Beast fell upon them, catching them both in opposite hands. It's grip was unbreakably strong. Bowler was sure he felt the bones in his arm bend as The Beast squeezed, and as he did so he realised The Beast was laughing, silent to Bowler's ears, but The Beast's whole body was shaking with it. It was a big laugh, and it was pure malice. The Beast then lifted them by the arms and smashed them both bodily together the way a child would when making toys fight, his laughter convulsions growing as Hart and Bowler cried out in pain.
He flung Bowler down and gripped his foot, squeezing it hard and fracturing several bones instantly. Bowler screamed, and The Beast roared with laughter, as he released Bowler and grabbed Hart by the nape of the neck, hefting him into the air and flinging him down to the deck. This wouldn't have hurt in itself, but the force was enough for Hart to go all the way down to The Wall floor beneath the stone slabs of the courtyard. He hit it and bounced off, feeling something crack in his collarbone and shift again as he landed on the concrete floor. The pain was excruciating.
He opened his eyes to see Bowler come crashing down upon him, thrown down by The Beast, who was screaming with laughter now. Their heads collided and Hart's vision flashed white, making him think drunkenly I can't be knocked out here as Bowler was lifted up for a second throw.
He's just getting warmed up, thought Hart, He's playing with us before the real torture begins. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and powered by survival instinct, he struggled to his feet. The Beast towered over him, blocking out the light, and casting a long shadow that made him look even bigger. He held Bowler aloft in his left hand by the back of his top, inspecting him, and The Beast's massive chest shook with more uproarious silent laughter. Bowler screamed, his leg pulled up to his chest so he could hold his shattered foot. Hart struggled to stay standing in his fear.
The Beast drew Bowler back for another throw-he was enjoying this game-and an idea flashed through Hart's mind. He turned and looked across the plaza behind him. It led to a covered avenue of shops, a small statue of Peeping Tom at the top of the archway. About 30 or 40 feet away this avenue sp
lit into a fork, a set of downward steps on the left leading to a lower level of shops, and a long downward slope on the right for pushchairs and the like, lined by more shops. And both of them led onto...
Hart whipped round to look at The Beast, who, Hart realised, was returning his gaze. The Beast was cocking his arm to fling Bowler at him, whose own eyes were screwed up as he screamed in pain. Hart saw all this and in a sudden flash of hope saw his idea might work; he might have seen a way to get out before The Beast's playtime warm up ended and the proper Breaking started. That is, if The Beast was in the mood Hart thought he was.
Hart turned at started to run towards the steps, panic behind his eyes. The steps were better than the slope; it would give them more time before The Beast figured out what was going on. If it worked. He heard Bowler desperately scream his name as he ran, and he thought, or hoped (PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD PLEASE LET THIS WORK) that he might actually get away with this. He braced himself for an impact that he didn't want to happen, but had to hope would happen. Either way, I'm going to be hurt, he thought. It's just a question of how much.
He thought he felt a rush of movement behind him, and heard Bowler's screams get progressively louder, very quickly, as if he were approaching at great speed. He didn't dare look back, but he thought the rapidly increasing volume meant he knew what had just happened. He had time to hope so frantically, and then Bowler finished his flight through the air and hit him across the back, knocking them both clear over the top of the steps and dropping them the 12 feet to the street below.
Hart wasn't worried about the fall; they wouldn't hit it fast enough or hard enough to hit The Wall floor. They'd hit the concrete floor, which wouldn't hurt them. But he was worried about Bowler hitting him, and about the two of them colliding as they hit the street. He'd been right to be worried. Bowler's knee caught Hart square in his kidney as he knocked them over the steps, and somehow his other leg managed to slam straight into Hart's balls from behind. Hart cried out in pain, as he thought how the in the hell is that even possible but his panic dulled the worst of it. His kidney would hurt more later. His balls were hurting perfectly well right then.
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