“That's all right, Bowler,” replies Hart, gently, but awkwardly. “Do you...want to come with me? We can...” he searches for the right phrase, out of his element. He thinks of the American programmes. “We can talk about...whatever is upsetting you.” It sounds unnatural coming from his mouth, and it's uncomfortable for him in the extreme, but even Hart can recognise the situation requires it.
Bowler immediately shakes his head.
“No. No, it's all right. I'll come in a bit. I just need to sit here a little while. I'll come in a bit, it's ok.”
Hart hesitates, then quietly moves closer.
“Who are these people, Bowler? Why did you come here?” Hart then winces as, upon hearing this, Bowler is wailing again, openly wailing, and Hart can only stand there awkwardly playing with his cuffs and looking around the flat. He waits, and Bowler's sounds eventually reduce back to a quiet sob.
When he looks again, Bowler's eyes are on the floor, and he is pointing at the woman. He holds a shaking hand there for a moment, and opens his mouth, but as the sobs overtake him at whatever thought he has. He can only point sharply away from her, back at himself. His head sinks and he sobs despairingly at his own crossed ankles.
Hart feels like kicking himself. It should have been obvious, and although he feels for Bowler, Hart is already thinking, assessing. Survival. There is a vital, practical element to be avoided here. Again, not just for Bowler. This absolutely cannot continue. It cannot. He moves right over to Bowler's hunched form, and Bowler looks up almost in surprise, unfamiliar with Hart being this close. He looks up through red, moist eyes, squinting in the light from the ceiling bulb as he looks almost directly into it in order to see Hart's face.
“You shouldn't be here, Bowler. It's probably the very worst thing you can do. I...” Hart pauses, and sighs. He doesn't like this. “You will gain nothing this way, Bowler. Do you understand. You'll only...it will hurt far too much. And in the end, there's only one way you'll go.”
“Hart. I have to. I have to feel something. I have to feel SOMETHING.” He looks up at her, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. “She's all I have, Hart. Oh...look at her, Hart. That was...” he trails off. He drops his eyes again. “I have to feel something,” he repeats, quietly.
“Bowler, I can't let you do this. I KNOW what will happen. You have to come away with me now. It will ruin you, and I...” and now Hart trails off, unable to say the truth, the words I Need You physically unable to pass from his lips. He sighs again, and tries a different tack that is easier for him and harder for Bowler. More cruel. But Hart has a job to do for them both.
“She not all you have, Bowler. She's not yours.”
Instead of the angry tirade he expected, Bowler simply moans loudly, not looking up. This is a promising sign-one of acceptance-and Hart presses on.
”I don't know how long you're going to be here Bowler, I don't how long I'M going to be here, but you know what this will do. You can't, you CANNOT tell me that this is how you want to spend your time here. And I can't watch this happen.” It's a bluff, and he desperately hopes Bowler won't call it. “I can't. You don't get to do both. Imagine that, Bowler. Years and years and years of nothing but this. You're indulging it right now, Bowler. Indulging your own self-pity, feeling something and wrapping yourself up in it because you know that when you leave here, I'LL be there. Well I won't, Bowler. You have to choose.”
Bowler rocks back and forth, shaking his head with a pained expression, and Hart knows he has him.
“Because you'll go like the others, Bowler, and I won't be with you like that. You have to make a choice. You don't get to stay with me and get your fix of pain, and remorse, and seeing what the hell she's doing with ANOTHER MAN.” That is a lot, and Bowler actually lets out a yelp, but it was necessary. “You don't get to do both. You either stay here or come away with me.”
Hart weighs up the gamble, and decides to go for broke. He turns and starts for the door.
“No...” Bowler wails sharply, but Hart knows it's not enough; it's half hearted. He keeps walking. There's a pause, and his hand is on the handle, and Hart begins to think that maybe he's pushed it too far, when Bowler screams at him.
“HART!!” he cries, and half-dives towards Hart, a sloppy, grief stricken effort that merely pitches himself over, still in his sitting position. His face and shoulders flop onto the floor, his arm reaching out blindly towards Hart. Hart doesn't move, needing more, and part of him idly wonders if it shouldn't be harder for him to just stand there, if it shouldn't take more restraint to not spring to his companion's side.
Sobbing pathetically, and moving painfully slowly, Bowler crawls towards Hart, who waits until Bowler has moved several feet away from the settee before deciding that this is enough. He moves to Bowler and crouches down, waiting for him to look up.
“Say it.”
“Hart...”
“It's your choice Bowler, but you're making it now. We make a deal.”
“...”
“I'll make it easy for you. Repeat after me. 'I agree'...”
“...I...agree...”
“'That if I am to stay with Hart...'”
“...that ...if I am to stay w-with Hart...”
“'...then I must never come here again.'”
“...”
“Last chance, Bowler.” This is said as tenderly as Hart can ever manage.
“...I must never come here agai-hainnnn....” Bowler weeps quietly to himself after this, and Hart knows there is acceptance. He sighs, heavily. He watches Bowler for a minute or two before he becomes uncomfortable, and ponders the next course of action. He knows he has been ruthless-and aren't his intentions nothing but good? For them both?-but he has had the desired result, and thinks that perhaps something softer is now called for. He stands, and speaks to the wall.
“I'll give you five minutes, Bowler. I think that's...well, I think that's only fair. Give you time to...compose yourself, and...say your...yes, time to compose yourself, yes?” He sniffs, hesitates. “I'll... be outside, then. Five minutes, mind.”
Bowler nods into the carpet, and Hart turns for the door. When Bowler joins him 6 minutes later, he has stopped crying.
***
“Where the hell is he taking us?” said Bowler for the 4th time, as they walked after a frustrated Mark. They'd set off at a jogging pace, keeping up with Mark as he continually looked over his shoulder and gestured them on, but even though The Foyer existence meant stamina and fitness was less of a concern than in their previous lives, they struggled to keep up. They didn't get tired, but they had caps on their levels of strength and speed, and some Guests were stronger and faster than others. And Mark was fast. This left Mark huffing and puffing in front of them, flouncing every now and then when he realised they had no intention of going any faster. Hart could have kept pace, but he hung back for Bowler, who could not.
Mark was more Loose looking than ever, his hair sticking up and out in a crazier manner than before, his eyes bugging out with his intense unrest, and-even Bowler noticed-strange red marks on his cheeks, like he'd been pulling at them. Hart had seen something like that before. Bowler had even wondered out loud if Mark had lost weight, and if that was even possible.
He'd led them back into the centre of town, with very little complaint from the pair. Bowler's repeated question had been one of curiosity rather than annoyance; here was a situation packed with excitement and the unknown. Yes, a lot of things were unknown to them in the Foyer, but this was a question with, they assumed, an answer for once. Mark wanted to show them something, was frantic about it, and they would shortly find out what. To say this was a rare and intense pleasure for Hart and Bowler was an understatement. Although it was coming from a Guest that neither man liked or trusted, it was still a game to be savoured greatly. After all, this was the Foyer, and both men knew that no matter how Loose Mark might be, he was no Beast, and there was two of them after all, so of course it went without saying that there was nowhere Mark could
take them that would lead them into danger. No chance at all.
They were heading along Gosford street, and already the sun was halfway set; the streets were still reasonably busy in the increasing gloom. Students and late commuters were milling about, and there was still a constant presence of traffic. Bowler loved this time of year. They couldn't feel the cold, of course, and so only experienced the positive parts; the winter night atmosphere, the fogged breath and the streetlights emitting a fuzzier glow in the gentle, otherwise invisible mist. Bowler almost smiled, not consciously realising just how much he was warmed by the sights. But there were couples standing close, hugged together as they walked to keep warm, wearing smiles of their own, and his faded.
Mark had stopped several feet ahead of them, now truly frantic, flapping his hands at them and waving. He actually stamped his feet in frustration and impatience. Bowler looked to see which building he'd stopped outside; Whitefriars Olde Ale House. A very old, timber fronted building, at odds with the concrete city around it. What the hell was he taking them to a pub for? He caught Hart's eye, who screwed up his face, clearly thinking the same thing, but Mark was already heading through the door.
The pub was busy, and the atmosphere was pleasant and warm, but this meant difficulty for Hart and Bowler. This many people, combined with the cramped, narrow thoroughfare of the building, meant that avoiding unpleasant incidents of Passing Through people was problematic, especially whilst keeping an eye on Mark, who turned sharply right a few feet from the entrance to ascend the even more narrow, winding staircase. Hart turned to check Bowler had seen this (Bowler had, and waved Hart off) and then turned straight back around to find himself looking into the eyes of a ginger haired lady, who promptly pushed said eyes and the rest of her face straight through Hart's skull. Having no time to react, Hart caught the full brunt of it, and moaned sharply in his throat with shock and disgust. Bowler suppressed a giggle.
“For christ's sake...” muttered Hart. Composing himself for a moment, he then headed up the stairs, to find Mark stood, bug-eyed, halfway up. As soon as he saw Hart he continued, following the awkwardly turning wooden staircase the few more steps to the top. The upstairs room was unusually empty compared to the bustle below. Hart briefly took in his new surroundings; the upper floor had high, oak beamed ceilings and timber laden walls, and was a warren of three smaller rooms, with uneven floors and mismatching, ageing bar furniture. It had a charm Hart liked. The tiny hallway they were stood in was now a kind of landing, with a back room full of tables and a dartboard on their right, and to their left , two sets of small steps leading up to the west and down to the east to reach the other two respective rooms.
Mark's demeanour had changed slightly; the nerves and tension were still there, but it was clear now that they'd reached their destination. He was no longer looking at them, but at the floor, and breathing slowly and deliberately, as if he were quietly psyching himself up for something. His body was pointed towards the westward room. Bowler and Hart looked at each other silently, thinking the same thing; whatever Mark had to show them, it was in there, and he could not bring himself to show them directly. He wanted them to take the hint.
Bowler shrugged, confused and excited, and flapped a hand at the left hand room whilst looking at Hart. I guess we get it done, then. Hart nodded, turned, and then stopped. He'd had a sudden flash in his mind, from nowhere. He suddenly felt that going into that small room was a very bad idea. He had no idea where this feeling came from, and there was nothing they'd seen or heard to make him think this way, but suddenly he was convinced that it was a very bad idea indeed, that whatever was in there meant the end of what passed for a balanced existence for him in the foyer. No, more than that; it was something terrible. Look at Mark, for God's sake said the voice in Hart’s head. Mark had one arm out, leaning himself on the wall now for support. He's seen it, whatever it is-
But Bowler sighed impatiently behind him, and pushed past Hart's right shoulder, and through Hart's uncertain attempt to hold him back. Mark didn't look up as Bowler passed, and even put his face in his right hand as Bowler rounded the corner. Hart caught himself starting to panic. Why would Mark do that? What the hell was in there? And why was he too scared to move all of a sudden?
That was when he heard Bowler scream in utter terror.
“Oh GOD!! Oh...oh...oh my GOD!! OH MY FUCKING GOD!! AAAAHH! AAAAAAHHHHHH!! Fuck!! FUCK!!”
Mark still hadn't moved-of course, he couldn't hear Bowler anyway-but the screams broke Hart's spell, and he bolted past the stationary Mark and up the small set of steps into the westward room.
Just like Bowler, it took him a few moments to realise what he was seeing. It was so unlike anything he'd ever seen in his previous life, yet alone in the unchanging monotony of The Foyer, that any recognition was slow indeed, and harder still as Bowler's hysterical screams were now right in his ear. But once Hart made the connection in his head between sight and understanding, the effect was the same on him as it had been on Bowler; a feeling of complete horror took hold of his mind. Hart began to scream.
In front of them both, on the floor, was George. The reason both Hart and Bowler had failed to recognise him at first is because he was, inexplicably, a corpse. Frozen, both arms outstretched as if to ward off an attack or to grab an assailant, fingers splayed. He didn't look like George at first because his face had an expression they had never seen on his face; shock, wide eyed, open mouthed, taken by surprise. There were no cuts, no breaks, no blood, on his body, yet his eyes stared wide and empty against the ceiling, and it was clear that, somehow, their friend George was-for the second time and for good-dead.
Bowler had collapsed to his knees, still screaming, and gently reached out for George's face. Hart was screaming too, but now suddenly found himself overcome by a rage of grief, and balled his hands into fists and screwed them into his eyes. George had been a good, loyal friend, and a kind, happy man, and when you could only count three people in sixty years that had ever been any kind of a companion-that had been the only possibilities of being companions-that made the loss so, so much greater, however selfish that thought may be. Hart opened his mouth and sobbed loudly, and plainly.
Bowler slowly stopped his own noise as he heard this, completely alien to anything he had known of Hart. His own pain stopped briefly by this newer shock, and in that brief moment of clarity he realised the obvious questions to be asked of this situation. He whipped his head round and saw Mark sheepishly entering the room, and he suddenly knew; somehow, Mark had done this. Mark had made this terrible thing happen. He pointed a shaking, accusing finger.
“You did this. You did this, didn't you, you fucking crazy bastard. How the fuck did you do this. Why. Why?!” Bowler stood, and advanced on Mark, who raised his hands in innocent protest, his mouth working silently and frantically. Bowler didn't try to work out what he was saying; it took a fair bit of effort and patience at the best of times, and this was not a moment of patience for Bowler. “What the fuck did he do to you? He was one of decent ones, the good ones, and he didn’t do anything!!”
Bowler shoved Mark in the chest with both hands, hard, who staggered backwards several steps, ending up against the hallway wall. Mark's hands worked aggressively, more angrily now; pointing at George's corpse, then at himself, then hands up in the air-confusion, showing confusion-then a carrying motion, then a putting down motion, then pointing back at George, then Hart and Bowler.
Confusion set into Bowler's mind, halting his anger; Mark was saying he'd carried George here to show them, had been looking for them. Bowler made a connection; he and Hart spent most of their time around this area, so it made sense that Mark had come here to find them and failed, and then had put the body here and gone to look where he'd seen them last; out by the safe house. But carried the body here from where?
“Where from, you sick twat? Where from?” Blank stares from Mark. “Where did you find him, where-” (Bowler made a rapid carrying motion) “-did you carry him from dickhead
?” A blank stare from Mark in response, a small shake of the head. Bowler jumped over and grabbed Mark's collar. “Tell me where you found him you fucking crazy bastard, what the fuck did you do-”
“Bowler!” shouted Hart, suddenly, from the westward room, and when Bowler halted in his shouting in surprise. Mark knocked Bowler's hands from his shirt. Hart turned his tear stained face toward them, crouched as he was over George now. “He can't understand you. Just...look, just let him go for now. Now's...not the time. Eh?” It wasn't an order. It was a quiet plea.
There was a long, silent pause in the room, but then Bowler slowly stepped back from Mark. He didn't say anything, but pointed two fingers to his own eyes, and then sharply back to Mark. Mark gave Bowler the finger. He seemed about to say something else, and then shook his head and stomped away down the stairs.
“We need to tell Sarah,” Hart said, standing, composure strapped on about himself now. Bowler found himself lowering his outstretched hand.
“Hart-”
“We need to tell Sarah,” Hart repeated, crouching down again, his back to Bowler. “Be a good chap and see if you can find her, will you? It's probably best if we bring her here to see for herself.”
“Do you think that's-”
“I think we don't have much time, either,” interrupted Hart, “Look. He's crumbling.” He pointed to George's left hand, where the skin looked hard and waxy, and at points like it was flaking heavily. There were small flakes on the floor. Hart took George's fingers gently in his own, and after a moment, snapped them. More flakes burst off as he did so, like those from a busted cream cracker.
“Hart!”
As the flakes hit the floor, they settled, then descended through it, gone forever. That would be how the whole body went, thought Bowler.
“We don't have much time, Bowler,” Hart repeated quietly, in a smaller voice. “There's a good chap.” He didn't look round again. Bowler muttered to himself, confused, hurt, shocked...and suddenly he wanted to get away. He left Hart, and went to find Sarah.
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 17