The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel

by Luke Smitherd

  “Fuck off,” Bowler says quietly, and walks into the kitchen, needing a chance to regroup. This isn't going how he'd anticipated an hour ago. He fumbles open the cupboard to get a pint glass, to get some water in him and help him focus, but she's gotten up and padded in behind him. Shortie Suzie as he used to laugh with her, all 5'2” of her. She's still holding the glass, and the anger inside her is on her face now, the smug front dropping away.

  “You think I should?” she says. “You think that's fair, do you?”

  Bowler is at the sink, filling up the glass. This is clearly not the time for confrontation. He can't get his head together, and is suddenly very emotional and confused. She needs to be punished with silence, he decides. This is the best option. He's angry too, but he can't drop the bombshell now; he expected shouting, that would have made it easy. Best to get out of there, start again another time. It's all gone wrong.

  “Do what you like, Suzie. I'm going to bed.”

  But she's barring the doorway now, and as he goes to leave, she doesn't move. He can't stop this now without calming down, backing down, and that isn't going to happen.

  “Let me ask you something. You remember Glasgow? You remember all that?” Bowler rolls his eyes, but only for her benefit, to annoy her and to hide the fact that she had been successful with smashing him in the emotional balls. An incredibly hurtful, cruel question. How could he ever forget? How could she use that so casually? Who was this?

  “Yeah, of course you do,” she continues, voice shaking and eyes watering as she nods at her own statement. “I'LL never forget it, as long as I live. You probably won't either. But here's the thing, Frank, how long did I wallow over that? Over something as, as, as devastating as that? Any ideas?”

  Bowler folds his arms and set his jaw. His own anger is building now as he realises she is turning Glasgow into a weapon, and also because he knows what her point is going to be, and knows already that she is right.

  “And last year, Frank, when Corrigan gave you the boot? You remember that, when this...this bullshit started?” Suzie never swears. The most she ever normally manages is a very quiet Shit when, and only when, she was near tears. There are no full tears here. Just watery eyes from her anger. Her face is red, and her eyes are accusing slits staring up into his face. “What was I always saying? It'll be all right, it'll be all right, I make enough, I make enough. But you went off into your own little world, and never came back. You. When I'd done nothing of the sort, I'd done nothing like that even when we'd lost...” She stops herself, composes herself, swallows. She then goes on, mouth turned up into a hurt sneer. “And I kept trying, kept trying to keep everything nice, whilst all you wanted to do was make me feel guilty about something as shitty and pointless and nothing like money! Pushing me away, until the idea of everything being nice became a sick joke! Over money! Money! Nothing! When I was there for both of us after...” She stops again and folds her own arms now, openly shaking her head at him, assessing him and finding him sorely lacking.

  “So here's the thing,” she continues, with a stiff, bitter smile, “who do you think had the bigger thing to feel sorry for themselves about? Who had the bigger thing to overcome for the sake of us? Who cared enough?” And for a second she weakens, and the way she used to look at him flashes across her face, and then it's gone, replaced by near hate. It's the saddest thing he's ever seen. It's a tragedy.

  “But you wouldn't, would you? A job, a...a fucking job!” A bit of her spit catches him near his eye as she shouts. “Everything else I could handle, all the arguments, but that, that you couldn't even pull your head out of your arse to save us...” She deflates now, quickly, sadness drawing her back in. “You'd rather go out and run away, and leave me alone. And that's when I started to think differently. It really surprised me at first, the very thought that we could ever end. The thought that I could find someone else who would try.”

  Bowler realises that she's been doing the exact same thing he has; drinking to prepare for this. And his skin has a cold rush, and he starts to panic a little. He doesn't want to hear this at all, because he can see that she's calming down, and fast, because she's leaving behind the thing she is upset by; the sad memories. And by catching up to the present, she's calming down. The distance is coming back.

  “And I realised something else, Frank, I mean, I don't know if you were always like this and I didn't see it-I don't think so, you know, because before Glasgow you were just so...there, always there-but I realised that now, at least...you're a coward.” And she says this last bit with so little emotion-she's bang up to date now, right back to where she was before the shouting started-that the contrast is stunning, her eyes gently examining his face, as if she was thinking what did I ever see in this guy. The woman who once said I've never met anyone like you and Don't ever let me go and I love you so much, I'd be nothing without you and I'm gonna take care of you forever.

  And if there was one, tiny, helpless pinpoint of a chance to save this, the moment is now, but once again Bowler's anger-anger he has never felt as strongly with anyone else than the woman he loved-blasts it away, even as he knows what he is doing (that's what he could never get over after the rows in the past, when the guilt hit; he knew exactly what he was doing, and knew he was wrong, and most of all he knew he would give anything afterwards to take it back, and yet the next time it happened he did it again anyway, a choice that somehow was never a choice) as he hears that word.

  'Coward.'

  And Bowler throws the pint glass full of water into the empty sink, where it shatters-smashes-with a bang, spraying glass fragments and water into the air, and he sees her jump, stung and scared, and for a moment he's back in control. This is the moment he will remember the most afterwards; seeing that little scared girl in her eyes, the little girl that would have done anything for him at one time. When he remembers it later, he will think that if he could pull out his own eyes to be able to comfort her, to go back and protect her, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

  “Fuck you, Suzie, fuck you! Coward? You know what's it's been like for me?” he roars, and she shrinks back slightly, and he knows this is how he takes control again, by scaring her into submission, even when he knows he should listen. The urge to destroy is too big to swallow.

  “Being a fucking housewife to my wife? Being the bitch about the house, bringing in nothing? I work with my hands, my hands Suzie!! Why don't you get it?! You throw Glasgow at me like it's something I don't care about?!” He's wrong, dead wrong, he knows it, but this is all he has. Well...not all. He still has the bombshell. And he can see her blinking fast and swallowing, taking a deep breath, while looking at his feet, and this is something new. Normally she'd be looking into his eyes while hers were full of tears, but she's acting differently. She's trying to be brave. The emotions that normally would make this moment his victory are gone, and all she is doing is riding out the rage of a man that has become a stranger, and he sees it, but he can't stop now. If anything, it makes it worse. Like an angry child, he needs a reaction, he needs to shock her, needs to jolt her into her old self. He needs to shatter this composed front, needs to say what he came here to say in the first place, and he realises that this is why; he needs to shatter Cold Suzie, and dropping the bombshell will do it.

  “Where the fuck do you get off calling me a coward? Eh?” He needs to let the anger build, he knows, hit a climax. She's still breathing deeply, and now she even raises her eyes to meet his, face pale but set. No anger. Bravery. It scares him.

  “This is the shit I have to deal with?” says Bowler. “The shit you give me. This is why I don't fucking bother coming home. Why would I, when my own wife calls me a fucking coward?!” He's shouting, but it's false. And she's shaking her head again, no smirk, no scowl, just cold appraisal. He's getting nothing, and he could almost weep with frustration and sadness. “Why else would I bother going out Saturday night to try and find some fucking respect that I can’t even get at home?! Why else would I go out? And you kno
w what, you know what I did? I fucked someone, some random slag!! That’s what you did! That’s what you made me do!!”

  But it's empty, and instead of the satisfaction of shattering her exterior he only has a horrible dying feeling inside, especially when her face doesn't falter even one bit.

  She pauses, and then speaks very calmly, with no satisfaction or pleasure.

  “I've been seeing Rob from accounts for the last 3 months. We've being sleeping together, and I've told him I love him and I'm going to live with him.”

  She takes a sip from her wine glass, and as she does it Bowler realises-not for the first time, not by a long way, but a million times worse-what he's done. When he sees he has no choice here-she's already decided that there's no coming back, and this is not his choice but hers and it's already made-she instantly, terribly becomes ten feet tall, a goddess, the best thing that ever happened to him, the single love of his life, and he would give anything to take the last year back. It's an instant, dramatic conversion in his eyes, and the plummeting feeling inside that it causes is impossible to describe.

  But the other Bowler is still calling the shots, and even though he wants to beg, wants to drop to his knees and scream for forgiveness, he has to keep up the act, keep up the dance, and so he does scream, not in penitence but in rage, and puts his fist through the nearest cupboard door. His foot smashes through another one, the one under the sink, cutting his ankle badly, and he then proceeds to destroy everything in sight, cursing her name. And all she does is step backward slightly to avoid flying debris, looking at the floor. As he continues his display, the worst, biggest one ever, through his rage and horror he feels incredibly small and stupid; she has seen all his tricks, and this, his biggest one, has no more power to shock. The frustration at this turns his rage white hot, making it bigger, more, trying to turn his biggest trick yet, and he says the worst things he ever has, kicking and spitting on the corpse of their marriage.

  This rage will go on until she eventually feels she has shown him as much respect as she should for his pain, and when she feels she has put up with as much as is proper, she leaves. He does grab her arm once, on the stairs, but when she looks at him, he looks at his own hand holding her, and his rage finally breaks and turns to babbling terror and helpless begging as he gets a vision of how the future will be. For the first time her eyes show terrible, terrible pity. There is no going back.

  As she gets in her car-he's begged her all the way-the rage returns-she's walking out on him, can't she see how crazy this is making him, the pain he's in, how can she do this, the woman who secretly learned to knit just so she could make him a jumper with his name on it for Christmas, how can the same woman from a memory so incredibly sweet and close and loving do this-and he screams at her again as she drives away, screaming to the night, weeping openly, and in his desperation he has the idea. To run back inside and check her sat nav, the one he knows will be there, because she's always leaving it inside, he's always telling her to stop it, it's useful, it's no good if she doesn't have it in the bloody car, is it (WAS always telling her) and he finds it, looks in it, looks to find any unfamiliar Favourite Destinations.

  And he finds what he wants, and there are consequences.

  ***

  “There's George,” said Bowler, looking to his left.

  Hart was holding Bowler up as they walked-being very careful to make sure Bowler's weight stayed on his good collarbone-and so he had to lean backwards to see around the back of Bowler's head.

  “Hmm,” said Hart, lips pursed. “Unfortunately, here also comes Mark. What do you want to do?”

  Bowler dipped his head slightly. “I'd like to see George. I was trying to find him all the way through, you know...when I was on my own. It was weird, I didn't see him once. Anyway, do you mind?”

  “Ok. All right.” sighed Hart, “But let's try and make this pretty quick. You know Mark...it's never quick. Odd bastard.”

  “Careful,” smiled Bowler with a wince, as they turned and he jogged his fractured foot slightly, “It'd be pretty embarrassing if he'd tuned in with just now,” he added. Hart smiled.

  “Odd bastard,” Hart repeated out of the corner of his mouth, and Bowler suppressed a giggle. Hart did as well, and it was good to have Bowler back, very good.

  Bowler had spotted them just as they'd been heading into Hart's safe house, walking along Quinton Road on the edge of the city centre, parallel to The Train's tracks. Heading into the suburbs. Their destination was Joan Ward street , and a terraced place in an estate on the edge of town. Here they were on the perimeter of The Foyer.

  Much to Hart's delight, when he originally found this place some time ago, he'd also discovered that it had a basement den, replete with TV. He didn't come here much-it was a bit too much of a walk, and too often he got all the way here and the telly wasn't on-but he liked it because it was the sort of place he would have had for himself. A place for a smoke and to get away from...but he dragged himself back to the present, and their current journey.

  After the elation of their escape had died down, both men had pretty much fallen silent as they'd remembered what they'd missed. The Bluey. Missed the chance to follow her to The Wall, missed their chance to TRY something. Neither Hart nor Bowler had truly believed it would have worked-thought it quite unlikely, in fact-but the point was that it might have, and they'd missed their chance to find out. Though neither man wanted to dwell on this fact (even Bowler knew after his far shorter time here that doing so was a very bad idea indeed) and both men had gotten very good at pushing away disappointment, it was still a heavy blow. Neither wanted to talk about it, and neither would admit that they were thinking about it. They didn't have to.

  And now here was Mark and George, half a pleasant surprise.

  “Bloody hell, Hart, look at Mark's face. You see that twitch just then?” muttered Bowler.

  Hart had. It was quite noticable.

  “Why the hell do you think George keeps hanging around with that guy?” asked Bowler. “He almost looks guilty, see what I mean?”

  Hart wasn't sure if guilty was the right word, but Mark definitely looked nervous. His numerous tics, his permanently shifting gaze, even the way he stooped his head when he walked; Mark was definitely a man going Loose, and had been that way for some time. That said, Hart had never liked him beforehand. Though communication was, after all, highly difficult in The Foyer, and Hart was prepared to believe that any dislike would be a matter of miscommunication, he didn't really think it was the case with Mark. Everything he ever said was negative, or a challenge, or an attempt to prove something. Very abrasive, and unpleasant, but only when he felt he could be. Only when he spotted a chink in someone's armour would Mark speak up, which was exactly why Hart didn't like him. Weak, but opportunist. Typical, Hart thought, that of the handful of people in The Foyer that 'talked', they had to get this imbecile. Of course, this was now less evident; at this moment he was quiet, almost sullen, which Hart took as more proof of his downward spiral. Soon he would stop 'talking' altogether. Soon he would be like the others. And then it would only be a matter of time before he was completely Loose.

  He was a big man, too-not at all the kind you would want going mad on you-standing at around 6'2”, and broad. Big hands, thick set shoulders, even broader than Bowler. His Foyer wear was a button down white shirt and black trousers, the most common theme amongst men in the Foyer (Hart would have truly loved to be able to put some time into finding why this was so, but with the others being the way they were this was next to an impossibility) which, combined with his thinning black hair, made him look like an oversized accountant. It was unusual to see a man of his build with such a nervous, shifty air, like he would be more comfortable being a foot shorter. That way it would be easier to shrink into the background when he wanted to, easier to observe without being observed.

  Hart sometimes came close to berating himself for judging him so harshly. The Foyer was tough on its Guests, and he occasionally felt mean f
or being uncharitable towards a man upon which it had taken its toll, a man whose pomposity and bombast had been sucked out, leaving this coward who occasionally found the guts to be unpleasant. The fact was, however, that The Foyer has simply amplified the negative traits that were already there. Put simply, Mark just made Hart too damn uncomfortable, and had done so even before his more recent changes. Bowler felt the same way.

  The only reason he could think of for George associating with him at all-friendly George, open and jovial and completely at ease, contrasting with this unpleasant, awkward chap-was that George liked to talk. It was George's system; George moved from talking Guest to talking Guest, leaving only when the discomfort that came with lengthy physical proximity to another Guest became too much to bear. From Hart and Bowler to Sarah to Mark and back again, the hunt for the next person on the days in between giving him a focus, a purpose. It was a great system; Sarah did the same, or, Hart noted with an inward sigh, used to until recently. Hart had sampled a bit of it himself back in the days after George arrived, spending hours and hours-sometimes days-on end together until they had to part, then spending time trying to find each other again. He'd tried involving Mark when he arrived many years later, but after some time, they'd both realised that they simply disliked each other too much to do it. Days alone with the TV were preferable. He'd wait for George instead. Even in the face of eternity, some people were just unbearable.

  But George loved to talk. He loved it. Hart and Bowler had developed a vast appreciation for human contact since coming to the Foyer, but Hart thought George had always been that way, and that-as with Mark-the Foyer had simply amplified that which was already there in spades. All the talkers needed it, but for George it was, seemingly, life's greatest pleasure. Hart could see the fascination it held for him, the way he rationed out company like a favourite food. For example, there was no way George would stay any longer than a few minutes with them when he was with Mark; this might mean that the physical discomfort might start with all of them, and he may have to spend a week by himself. This was doable at a push, but for George it would be interminable. No; better to spend the maximum time possible with Mark, it seemed, then hunt the usual spots for Sarah or Bowler and Hart, and keep the circle going. Hart thought George found interest in observing Mark's demeanour, and unusual responses; this being preferable to solitude. But this wasn't needy desperation on George's part, nor was he some bumbling idiot that was oblivious to the living nightmare he was in. It was about finding the best in a bad situation. It was finding what you enjoyed within times of difficulty. It was classic British spirit, and Hart thought it was wonderful.