“It's true it's true it's true it's true...”
It was only when Simon had reached up one hand to gouge a 4 inch long groove in his cheek, tearing his own skin, that Hart had touched him again, grabbing his wrist to stop him. Simon had jumped away like Hart's hand burned, blood flicking from his face with the movement, and had looked Hart up and down like an animal, crouching away and staring. He’d then bared his teeth- actually bared his teeth like a dog-and spat some phrase at him that Hart couldn't read in time. Hart could then only watch as Simon had suddenly sprinted away up the street with astonishing speed, bent at the waist.
The second time Hart saw him was from afar 6 years later. He’d had no desire to approach him, to see how much worse he had become. He’d seen that Simon was completely naked.
From time to time, when Hart allowed himself, he would think of Simon, and in the main it was about the good times together; of course, to think of what Simon became was too painful. But other times, he would think of those two words.
“It's true.”
On the rare occasions Hart saw a Guest, it wasn't uncommon for them to be talking to themselves, rambling away to invisible companions. Sometimes conversationally, sometimes in a full blown chaotic verbal explosion. So, for the most part, Hart would dismiss Simon's words as the same, during those sad, quiet times when he thought of his former friend and saviour.
But at the same time...Simon had been a strong person. Hart just couldn't believe that what Simon had seen the Beast do would send him crazy enough to go off alone. No...Hart often thought that there had been something else. Not something that had made him Go Loose, but it was enough to make him go off on his own like the others, and his time alone had been too long. Simon had known the dangers of being alone in The Foyer more than anyone, but whatever he'd found out-or what he'd thought he'd found out-had been enough to make him risk it. Enough to make him never come back.
This was what Hart thought sometimes. And other times, he just thought Simon had WANTED to go Loose, that it would make everything easier. Lord knows he'd thought the same thing himself, many times. Before Bowler, even with the regular company of George and Sarah and even Mark, he'd thought about just going off into the city by himself for good. Giving in, and enjoying the comforts of madness.
But that would mean never getting out. It was all a question of that very careful balance of hope and inaction. And Hart thought he had an idea of what Simon had meant; Simon had always had a lot of theories, and one in particular had always intrigued Hart. But that was far, far too risky to think about without proof. So dangerous, and not just because of the risks of belief and pursuit...
“No, Bowler. I don't think this is Hell,” says Hart now, with a faint sigh, not of annoyance but of immense tiredness. Even Bowler notices it. The weight of 60 years.
“Being here is hard, Bowler. Very, very, very difficult…” He stares off into nothing, then continues. “I spent many years wondering the same thing, and for a while I even thought it was true. But after a while I came to the conclusion that yes, we endure a painful existence. We are the truly wretched, there is no doubt. But if you're smart here, and if you're lucky, and if you can work out how to balance between hope and despair, you CAN endure it. But Hell...I think it would be much, much worse.”
Bowler turns from the window, eyes alive. He's never heard Hart speak about this before, not so freely at least, without anger.
“How many were here, Hart? When you came here? How many Guests?”
Hart blows air from his cheeks, even though there was no air to blow.
“About 26, I think. Obviously, I can never really count, but the only CheckIns I've ever known of are you, Sarah, George and Mark. Anyone else I've ever seen has been mad, or a hiding Guest I've caught out. Obviously every time I've seen a fresh face I remember it. You can tell a CheckIn, obviously, from a normal Guest. You can tell straight away. Obviously, I've not been here the longest. Nowhere near. I think that dubious honour would go to The Beast. He's certainly the most Loose. Which might explain why he's so...distorted. Physically.”
Bowler shudders slightly, and there is a moment of silence in the room, apart from Mary's gentle breathing. Not raising his eyes from the floor, Bowler speaks quietly.
“Do you think anyone has ever gotten out? Ever?”
Hart shrugs gently.
“Ever? How could I say? But during MY time here...I don't think so, although I can never be certain. I still catch faces I saw here 60 years ago, so I think not, but...who knows? I don't keep track of everyone. There could be several. I can't say. I can't say.'
Bowler opens his mouth to speak, and hesitates. Thinking about it for a second, he turns back to the window, deciding this will be easier, safer. Less chance of a rebuke from the older man.
“So...so what keeps you going then? I mean...it drives me crazy and I've been here hardly any time at all compared to you. You've been here so long...and you don't know of anyone that's ever gotten out. How do you...y'know...” He trails off, and there is silence again. Hart thinks to himself, Balance, Bowler. It's all about balance.
“I keep myself safe, Bowler. Hope is good, but as that coloured gentleman said in that film, it's also dangerous. Look for escape, go mad with frustration. Don't look, and resign yourself to...well...” He gestures out of the window, and though Bowler doesn't see it, he knows what Hart means.
“I keep my eyes open and get on with things,” Hart continues, eyes misting as he warms to his theme. Bowler knows that Hart’s looking through him, seeing something only Hart can see. “You feel that pull... that TEMPTATION...the fear, the doubt, the questions, you feel all of it. But you stay careful. You keep your hope Bowler, but you ration it very, very carefully. And you tell yourself you HAVE to keep going, as the alternative is unacceptable. And you keep. Your eyes. Open.”
Bowler continues to stare out of the window, and Hart cannot see his expression.
***
“Oh, I've seen this one before-”
“Ssssh!! I haven't.”
Hart had come back from a brief walk. It was several days after they'd holed up in the 'safe house', and even though Hart thought the coast wasn't entirely clear with The Beast yet, he didn't like to stay in one place so long. If there was one thing all of the Guests shared, it was restlessness, although Bowler didn't seem to have it as badly as the others. Give him something to amuse himself with-a good programme, a group of people conversing, a film, a radio show, a football match-and he seemed able to lose himself in it and forget his situation in a way that Hart never could. Bowler would never understand how much Hart envied him that.
Still, Hart had been careful, and watchful as he walked, and had made it back in one piece to find Bowler sat with the house's true resident, the person they'd first dubbed The Fat Man, although observation of his mail when it came through the door revealed his name to be Terry. Bowler still called him The Fat Man. Terry was in Hart and Bowler's favourite part of the house, the den. Terry-or someone-had done a good job of converting the basement, so much so you wouldn't know it hadn't originally been a room, despite its cramped size and fairly low ceiling. As far as dens go there wasn't much to it, though given its dimensions there wasn't a lot you could do. White plastered walls, a few wooden shelves adorned with novelty pint glasses and holiday souvenirs (stuffed animals with t-shirts saying 'SAN ANTONIO', little men with googly eyes made out of sea shells) and small photo frames of Terry, his wife and various friends arranged next to a few small pub trophies. The single bulb in the ceiling lit a brown carpet, mostly covered by two armchairs, a mini beer fridge and a large flatscreen TV in the corner. The back wall sported a large mural that they'd soon discovered was actually painted by Terry's wife. Despite it being his den, Terry was immensely proud of it (they'd only learned this when he’d pointed out the artist’s identity to one of his friends; they'd pointed out that yes, he'd told them before.) Hart thought it was very touching.
The flat screen TV was currently
showing Millionaire, and although Hart would of course normally be glad to see this, he was disappointed that, as he'd previously stated, he'd seen this one, and even more so that there was still a good half an hour of the show to go. Bowler was engrossed as usual, and so would be no good for conversation until the ad break. Fortunately though, Bowler had taken the floor for some reason, leaving the second armchair free next to Terry himself, who was sat in his work shirt and trousers. Home early today, thought Hart.
Hart settled himself into the empty chair, and was quiet. He was happy to be patient until the break; he didn't particularly feel like taking Bowler out of his release right now, let him be lost in it. Plus...Bowler's distant demeanour seemed to be from more than just the usual engrossing effect of the TV. Hart could tell these things.
The ads came, and Bowler turned around.
“All right?” he asked, not particularly brightly.
“Yes. Better for that.”
A pause.
“No trouble then.”
“No. Only other Guest I saw was actually Bella Emberg. She was pushing away at The Wall as usual.”
He'd hoped to get a smirk out of Bowler at the mention of his favourite Guest lookalike, something that never failed to raise a smile normally (even Hart had to admit the resemblance was uncanny) but there was none. Hart continued.
“We're probably all right to move tomorrow, possibly the day after, I would have thought,” Hart finished.
“Whatever you say. I'm easy.” He stopped, and looked around the room for a moment. “We should come back here more, you know. I like it.”
“Yes, it's nice. I saw Sarah, you know. Just now. Doing her perimeter walk.”
“Oh, right. Did she apologise? For before?”
“No, I'm afraid not. To be perfectly honest, she didn't even really acknowledge it.”
“Well...I guess she's always been a bit stubborn, right?”
“Yes, but...it was like she didn't even remember it. I've said it before, Bowler...I'm worried about her.”
Bowler chuckled, humourlessly.
“At least she didn't try and spark you out again. She gets any worse, she'll try and throttle you.” He stopped for a moment, and turned to Hart. “But you'd 'survive', wouldn't you?” he asked, making the air quotes with his fingers, “I mean, I've been bad. After the train, but you can't like...'die' again here that way, can you? We always heal?”
“Of course. Remember my helicopter story?”
“Right. So if I ever had enough and wanted out, you couldn't just, like, strangle me?” said Bowler, looking back at the TV. He was wearing a smile that wasn't really a smile. Hart decided to play along.
“No, that wouldn't work, I'm afraid.”
Bowler chuckled again, that flat, gentle guffaw that didn't reach his eyes.
“No, I know that. Plus...you'd be stuck then, wouldn't you?”
“How's that?”
“Well. There'd be no-one here to strangle you.”
There was a long pause. Hart began to suspect strongly that leaving Bowler alone-even briefly-after his injuries had been a bad thing. Was it just that? Before he could divert the subject, Bowler turned back to the TV and continued.
“Yep...you'd be all alone. Like before.”
Something stirred inside Hart, and he moved closer behind Bowler, who sat facing away from him.
“You're right, Bowler. But at the same time, I still think I'd be far, far better off than the alternative. If that was possible.” That flat chuckle again in response, Bowler's gaze not moving.
“You reckon so? You really reckon so?” Chuckle. “Sometimes...well, I'm not so sure you'd be fully right there.”
“You remember that feeling on the train Bowler? Right at the end?”
There was no chuckle this time. Bowler turned suddenly and looked at Hart, who stared blankly back at him, his face totally slack. Bowler felt the change in the room, and now in himself.
“I know you did,” said Hart, “Of course. It's why you let go. It's why I let go.”
Bowler said nothing, and continued to stare at Hart, wide eyed.
“No matter how bad this place is, Bowler, no matter how sick you get...remember that. How oblivion felt. And think about whether that's any kind of alternative at all.”
There was a very long pause whilst both men regarded each other, Hart expressionless, Bowler admonished. Eventually, Bowler dropped his eyes.
There was another long pause, until Hart spoke.
“Watch your programme,” he said, quietly.
Bowler turned back to the TV for the last time, not even looking at the screen, but immediately whipped back around in his chair as Mark suddenly passed through the door and burst into the room.
“What in God's name-” started Hart, but Mark was grabbing Hart's sleeve and dragging him towards the stairs, gesturing frantically for Bowler to do the same, mouth working hysterically.
***
Hart can hear Bowler before he sees him, and it is a surprise. He hasn't seen Bowler for two days, and has been looking fearfully; fear not just for Bowler, but for himself, for there is an undeniable current of selfishness on Hart's side of their relationship, and he is all too aware of it. Bowler had simply announced he was going for a walk to help settle his now-fixed legs back in, and Hart, engrossed in a Richard Burton film, had been happy for him to do so. Bowler hadn't come back, and that was 48 hours ago.
Were it daytime, Hart probably would have missed it under the street noise, but now it is dark, late, and quiet, and so it is easy to hear Bowler's moans, echoing clearly down to him from inside a second floor flat. Sounds of the Guests travelled much more easily through concrete and stone than they would in their previous lives, although, strangely, not quite as clearly as they would were there no concrete at all.
Bowler's disappearance isn't entirely unexpected; yes, Hart hadn't expected him to go off for so long, but Hart had suspected that there would be some psychological, post traumatic aspect to Bowler's recovery from The Train. Hart listens, and picks whereabouts in the building he needs to enter to gain access to the correct stairwell. Of course, he could just pass through each wall until he finds the right one, but Hart would like to avoid that as much as possible. Better to get it right first time, and only pass through once.
It's quite a modern building, one of the many new metropolitan-style blocks that have gone up in the city centre in recent years. 'City living' has become popular, he gathers, in many smaller cities now. In any case, Hart approves of these new-build places in his city. Its heavy scars are finally starting to fully heal, long after the raids have become a part of history. Hart passes through the door and enters the hallway.
The sound of Bowler is louder here. He is clearly in great pain. Hart mounts the stairs and begins to climb; it sounds like his estimate of the second floor was correct. Another floor, and now Bowler is harder to hear. It isn't because Hart is in the wrong place, but that Bowler's moans have dropped to a low sobbing. Hart can still hear him. Bowler is two doors away.
Hart passes through the correct door to find himself in what he guesses the media would call a 'fashionable' flat. Following the sounds down the short hallway, he enters a large, open living room. The floors are laminate, the walls are an interesting mix of pastel shades-a different colour for each wall-with warm, art deco lighting attached to them (uplighters, but Hart wouldn't know the term.) The furniture looks expensive and large, especially the seating. It’s the sort of suite that would be difficult to get out of once you were in it. Large indoor plants were scattered here and there, and a set of double patio doors led onto a balcony at the end of the room, adjacent to the expensive looking kitchen area. Various 'ethnic' ornaments adorn many surfaces, and to Hart, the whole thing seems contrived rather than welcoming; the sort of place more mindful of impressing visitors than of being a warm living space.
The huge TV mounted on the wall is on, and a young couple sit in comfortable silence in front of it, watching a cooking
programme. He's a large man in his early thirties, slightly tanned, slightly thinning on top, but handsome, dressed in home wear. T shirt, jeans, barefoot. Possible traces of the greek about him, thinks Hart. She has the back of her head resting on his lap, her slender frame stretched out along the settee. Because it is so large, and she is so small, her stockinged feet don't even reach the other armrest. Her face is elfin, her blonde hair very long, reaching halfway down her back, which is covered by a loose fitting vest tucked into her jogging bottoms. She too is barefoot. Her hand occasionally reaches up and absent mindedly strokes the man's arm. The couple have an air of contented comfort, happy to be silent, feeling no need to speak at that time. The image is completely at odds which that of Bowler, sat wretchedly cross-legged on the floor before them. His hands on his face muffle his cries.
Hart is too stunned to move, and for a moment, he doesn't. He has never seen Bowler this way. His hair is sticking out, like he has been pulling his hands through it, pulling on it. His entire face is red, and his cries are hoarse and grating, as if this has been going on for some time. Occasionally he will look up at them, raising his eyes pathetically, then wail painfully, and carry on moaning like a dying bird.
“Bowler.”
The younger man looks around, seemingly unsurprised, and immediately turns back to the couple. His cries slow down and stop over the next few minutes, and although he is still highly distressed, the presence of another seems to have reduced the self-indulgence of his pain. Bowler takes a very big sniff.
“Hello, Hart. Sorry...sorry I've been, ah...gone a while. I had to, ah...” He stops, and wipes his mouth. “Had to...come here. I had to come here.”
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 16