The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel

by Luke Smitherd

  'I know. It's horrible. But we'll get down there, get comfy, have a cuddle, and wait for the all-clear. We'll make it nice, yes?'

  She curls her lip briefly, a joking acquiescence, but looks around the room for a moment, taking in her things, her ornaments, her pictures, as if trying to preserve the scene in her memory. He stops her-he loves her-and puts his arm around her.

  'Don't be silly,' he says, smiling. 'We were fine before, weren't we? Every time?' She nods, a gentle shrug in her thin shoulders, thinner than on their wedding day. And he leads her by her shoulders towards the trapdoor, and they enter the basement. She goes in first, gingerly, and as he begins to descend he realises that he can hear the engines now, clearly. Richard looks down to her, lit by her own candle, already rearranging blankets and making a little den for them, like they used to make on Sunday afternoons in bed together. Papers and toast and making love. They don't do the latter so much anymore, but to focus on this would be to suggest things have cooled between them, and they have not.

  'Helen,' he says, stage whispering, though he doesn't know why. She looks up to him, her eyes shining in the dim light. 'I have to go and see. The engines are getting louder.'

  'RICHard-'

  'Two minutes, I'll be two minutes.'

  'No, don't-'

  'Look, I'll be so quick you won't even know I'm gone, but I have to see. Two minutes, I promise.' She isn't complaining now-she's known him long enough to know when it's pointless-but her hands are on her hips, and her face is pleading. He closes the trapdoor anyway to block the candlelight, and heads to the front door.

  The noise is all around, and Richard isn't the only one looking out of a pitch black doorway; 100 yards up the terraced street, with moonlight shining on the road in lieu of the darkened street lamps, he can see John Strutter peering into the sky, and further up the road there are others doing the same. One leg inside their houses, the other sticking out onto the street, as if somehow this keeps them safe. None look his way, and all eyes are fixed firmly on the skies. He isn't surprised, because out here the prominent noise filling the air is the drone of the aircraft engines. He joins the upturned eyes, and to his horror he can see black shapes moving across the stars, blocking them out, emerging from the over the roofs at the other end of the street. Other people have seen them, and are pointing, but now it's suddenly pointless as they are blocked out by dazzling white light that draws the eye. What on earth are they?

  It’s a harsh light that makes it hard to see the shapes above, hanging in the air like ghosts. Richard's heart leaps into his throat in panic. He's never seen anything like this in his life. These aren't bombs. They aren't falling. They're floating there, hanging above the city, casting their iridescent light onto the streets. But then he sees they are falling after all, just very, very slowly, and his mind solves the problem for him, with a sudden combination of logic and sight. How do you find your targets in a city smothered in a blackout?

  You bring the light to them.

  And now, his shock and confusion behind him, he can see them for what they are. Great parachutes, flare-like, many of them hanging above the city. He can see them, floating like great white Christmas decorations. But it's November, part of his mind adds crazily.

  It feels like seconds, but it's really been several minutes, many more than the two he promised his wife, who sits in their cellar wrapped in a blanket and torn in terrible indecision whether to go after her husband or to sit and wait as he asked. She has her hands over her ears.

  Some of the people in the street are calling to each other, but Richard can't hear what they're saying over the noise, and that's when the first incendiary hits. It hits the roof of a house about 700 yards away, and it goes up immediately with a truly deafening bang and a blinding flash of phosphorous. There are screams up from the watchers, and they scurry back inside like rabbits, as Richard can see more dropping in the distance, more about to drop his way, and the night lights up even more than before, hellish and alive. Just before he dashes back inside his own house, he thinks wildly Markers, they're putting down MARKERS but then he's already slamming the door shut and fleeing for the cellar.

  He yanks open the trapdoor and sees the relief flash across his wife's face, replaced immediately by fear when she sees the look on his. He's down the steps in a flash, and has his arms around her immediately, unsure of what to say, not knowing how to reassure when he is terrified himself. Everything is at risk. Everything.

  'It's close, isn't it. I heard a bang. I didn't hear those before.' she says into his chest. He can't lie to her.

  ‘It's close. I don't....I don't think they're aiming for us, this street I mean. They'll be after the factories. Not us. Anything that hits us will be an accident.”

  She doesn't say anything, and after a moment her grip tightens.

  'I mean....I don't think they're meaning to hit here, so we should be safe, if we're lucky. Do you see what I mean? They're not TRYING to hit us.'

  “Yes, yes, I understand. Let's be quiet, though. I'm dreadfully scared, Richard.”

  He is too. And the guilt...he took her away from London, took her to his city. He brought her here. Was more than happy to get her away from her swine father. But wouldn't London be even more dangerous now? He'd always thought it lucky to be away from the capital when war was announced, when he could have so easily given in to her family and come away. But he'd had his work, hadn't he. In the end, would that cost...and he stops himself, and holds her tightly.

  'It's all right, Hel. We're safe here.' he tells her.

  Ten minutes pass in the dark, in the silence. Ten minutes listening to the muffled booms, the muffled yells. Can he hear vehicles? He doesn't know. Seeing those hellish lights means he will not go up there again until the all clear is given. He is beginning to feel hopeful now, although uncertainty means he won't give into it, but he thinks the dull drone has gone from the noise above. No planes. No bombers. His wife is breathing closely against his chest. He thinks she might have dozed off again, and he wants this to be true, doesn't want her to be scared and doesn't want to risk waking her by checking. He will wait a few more minutes until he's more certain the planes have gone, and then he will wake her.

  But a minute later his blood begins to run cold in his veins, as a horrible growing certainty begins, growing as he listens. The engines again, coming back. He again thinks it's his imagination, the encroaching dark around him making the mind spring to the worst assumptions, but another minute passes and now he is sure. A second wave.

  And his spine turns to ice as he realises that these bombers will be following the markers.

  He grips his sleeping wife tightly, while he considers the lunacy of running. They're under the floor, he thinks, where nothing can fall on them, under the foundations. Were even the house to collapse, they would be safe, and with that thought Richard realises that he was an idiot. He'd give it all up, the life they'd worked so hard to build, all of the oh-so trivial things he feared losing, all of it in a heartbeat in exchange for the guarantee that he could come out of this with Helen safe, with the two of them together.

  Richard Hart kisses Helen Hart's forehead, and starts to say I Love You to her unconscious, lined face, when there is the loudest noise he can imagine and he doesn't remember anything until the hospital.

  Where they tell him what happened, where he discovers the full extent of his loss, and afterwards-when he is discharged, and he staggers out into the city, stunned and led only by a primitive, thoughtless, instinctive curiosity to see what is left of the place he built his life in-where he sees what is left in its place, and he follows the only course of action he believes is left to him.

  He wrongly believes he is going to join his wife.

  ***

  Bowler headed downstairs, pulling at his hands. It was so frustrating, the way his hands kept moving like that. He'd felt a lot worse than this, he was sure. He always got emotional seeing the pair of them, but that was only normal, for god's sake. He just
wanted to make sure they were okay, and yes, it was upsetting, who wouldn't be upset by that, for god's sake. But he'd put up with it, to know they were all doing all right. He just couldn't keep his hands still. What was wrong with them, for god's sake. He wondered where Hart was, and then immediately thought of what he would say if he knew where Bowler had been. Hell, Hart probably did know where Bowler'd been, it wasn't like he made a particularly great effort to keep it secret these days. He used to, back at the start, back when he didn't want to upset the Great Leader, bless his Hart.

  This set him off into a fit of giggles that went on longer than they should have done, and this caused Bowler a minor bit of concern, but they passed and he forgot about it. Jesus, he could hear Hart now, moaning at him about 'danger, danger'; well, he'd been coming here for a long time and yes, there'd been tears, and yes, it was upsetting, but who wouldn't be upset by it for god's sake? Yeah, he was a bit shaky, but he'd been here twelve fucking years for god's sake. Twelve fucking years. This made Bowler suddenly angry, and he swung a fist at the nearest wall, which it of course passed through harmlessly. Look at it! Look at that! Can't even punch a fucking wall!

  No, Hart wasn't shaky, of course he wasn't, he'd come from a time where being bored and doing fuck all was what you did all day for fun. Where a great performance was Chester Fucking Chuckles tap dancing to I'm A Yankee Doodle Dandy and playing the fucking banjo with his cock. Move over Michael Jackson. Where a fucking radio was the pinnacle of entertainment, and a wild night out was drinking stout in a shitty old boozer. This whole thing was probably like a fucking holiday to Hart, fucking hi de hi fucking hi de fucking ho, and this set him off laughing again, his anger cutting off like a flicked switch. Ah, fuck Hart...he'd go and find him and probably tell him where he'd been for once-Hart knew already, he had no doubt-and show him how everything was just fine in Bowlerland. It'd be good to see the look on his face. Then they could go and watch some telly or something and forget all about it. He suddenly really wanted to watch telly, suddenly needed to.

  He reached the foot of the stairs, passed through the door, and found Hart outside, sat on the floor. He turned when Bowler appeared.

  “Hello,” Hart said, standing. Bowler felt a once-familiar stab of panic. Caught. He nearly switched to the defensive, but realised in a rare moment of clarity that the best policy was to simply ignore the situation and play dumb. They both knew the score. Why even discuss it?

  “Hi,” said Bowler, straight faced. Hart didn’t respond, at looked up at the building. Bowler stiffened. No hiding it, then. It was all coming out. He felt the blood rush into his head.

  “Bowler. I'm not...” Hart put his hands forward, looking at the floor. He blew out his cheeks, dropped his hands and looked Bowler in the eye. “How long have you been coming here?” Bowler was ready for the question, and had his response all ready.

  “That's none of your business, Hart.” he said. That was good. Confident sounding, solid, well put. And Hart couldn't come back from that. There was no way Hart could claim that it was his business. And Bowler decided that if Hart did try and say that, he was going to hit Hart as hard as he could. The arrival of this thought didn't surprise him.

  “Bowler...Frank. Please. I'm not trying to argue with you here. I'm asking out of concern, all right? Actually, let me change the question. How many times have you been here this week? Seriously?”

  That fucker! Picks a fight and then tries to turn it on me, like he’s the one being reasonable! Talking down to me like an arsehole! Like I need to be treated with kid gloves, for god's sake!

  Bowler took a deep breath.

  That's what he wants you to do. Get mad. Make a fool of yourself. SHOW him, Bowler.

  “Hart...it's none...of your fucking...business.” Bowler punctuated each word with a point of his finger. Unfortunately he left his finger held out in the air for too long, and his hand visibly shook, right in between their faces.

  They both saw it. Bowler snapped his hand back quickly and looked at Hart, red-faced and set-jawed, daring him to say anything. Hart sighed, heavily, and rubbed his forehead with his right hand.

  “Look at you, Bowler. You're red as a tomato, the veins are out in your forehead; you're ready to blow right now. Look at how little it takes these days. Your temper is ready to snap at any point, just look at your ha-” Hart stopped himself, changed the word. “Look at the way you're looking at me now. Look...” Hart sighed again, and dropped his hands to his sides. “I didn't come to argue with you, or tell you not to do what you're doing, or to tell you off, or anything like that. I simply...I came to say I'm going to go off by myself for a few days. Not long, I just don't know when I'll be back. But I have to have some time by myself.”

  Why? WHY? What the fuck are you UP to? What have you got? What's going on? First this shit at the courthouse, and now this! You're UP to something, Hart, it's obvious for god's sake!

  “Fine.” Bowler said, and shrugged. He looked like a petulant child. There was a drawn out pause. Bowler thought that Hart seemed to be assessing him. He didn't like it.

  “I just wanted to make sure...I just wanted to say this,” said Hart, “And don't get angry Bowler, it's just my opinion, and you can do what you like with it. Don't come here anymore. Never again.” Bowler laughed a quiet false laugh at this and shook his head, but said nothing as Hart continued.

  “This place, and the Foyer together...I don't think you were built to handle the Foyer in the first place, Bowler, and that isn't an insult, but I'm not sure it wouldn't have had the same effect all by itself, in the end. But add this into the situation-coming here all the time-and Bowler...I don't think you'll last much longer. I've...tried to help you as much as I can.”

  Bowler scoffed loudly here, and at this Hart's restraint finally snapped. His face twisted in anger.

  “Where did he go?” Hart asked.

  “Who are you on about?”

  “The nice, quiet chap that first came here. All I see now is an angry thug. Maybe that's my fault, I don't know-” but he was cut off as Bowler hit him in the face, as hard as possible.

  It didn't hurt, of course, but the emotional impact was as great as the force of the blow would have been. Hart turned his head back, sadly, looking at a shocked Bowler, and slowly shook his head. Bowler thought he could see tears coming, but he didn't stop to acknowledge them as he was already throwing another punch. It landed again, but this time as it did Hart stepped forward and grabbed Bowler's shoulder, pushing him to the floor and pinning him there. There was no anger on Hart’s face. He looked miserable. Bowler screamed incoherently at him, enraged, throwing more punches into his sides, but Hart didn't register them.

  “I'll tell you something Bowler, and you need to listen.” said Hart, looking down into Bowler's furious eyes, and when Bowler carried on screaming Hart sighed heavily, not wanting to do it, and twisted Bowler's shoulder until he stopped his ranting and listened. “I'm sorry, I really am, but this is extremely important. You need to hear this, and I need to know you heard it. I'll come clean. I'm not a very good liar, Bowler. I think you can guess what's going on, even though you don't know how it’s happening, and unfortunately I need to make sure it stays that way. But listen to me now. The others go mad through loneliness, through not only not being able to talk, but through mainly being alone. That's not what's doing it to you here though. It's the other part of it that's getting you the most; it's the frustration that's making you go mad. It's sending you Loose, Bowler. You can't walk away, and by God you need to. And that...” he trailed off, and the tension left his body. When he spoke again, the words were quiet, soft. “That's all I can say, really. I'm pretty sure you'll figure out the rest by yourself. I'll come and leave you a big clue before...well. Just enough for you to work it out, but not so much that you could beat me to it. I can't risk it. I think...I think I've done my duty by you, Bowler. And if I have let you down...then I'm sorry, Frank. I tried. I really did.” He released Bowler's shoulder and stood looking down
at him for a second, still fumbling with all the old Hart inhibitions, then took a deep breath, opened his mouth to say something, faltered, stopped, shook his head...and then turned and began to walk away.

  Bowler flipped over onto his stomach, red-faced to bursting point, confused, enraged, desperate, and screamed after him.

  “So the experiment's over then?! Yes?! You fucking bastard!!”

  Hart paused, mid-stride, then resumed walking, but stopped a few steps later and turned around, shaking his head. Annoyed, perhaps, at his own damned curiosity.

  “Experiment, Bowler?”

  “You fucking know. See if you can't get yourself a little eternity buddy to see if it'll help make sure you don't end up like the others. Get yourself nice and safe, you fucking coward. That's always been your problem, Hart, you're a big fucking chicken! But, what, you're done now, are you?! You know something, yeah? You think you're getting out?! You think you're getting out?!”

  Bowler's white eyes bulged in his red face, neck thick and swollen with rage.

  “You've got nothing! You've got nothing! Tell me!! TELL ME!! Tell ME!! What have you got? What have you got?”

  Hart stood and watched Bowler writhe. He didn't speak, and he looked thinner than usual, lessened.

  “You've got nothing,” said Bowler again, this time with a mad grin, raising one accusatory finger. “You're stuck here Hart, and you know what's really bad for you, Hart, I'll tell you, Hart, I'll tell you, Hart, and I've wanted to say this for five years, five years!”

  Bowler’s grin became a dark chuckle as his eyes blazed at Hart from the floor.

  “You see, I know, Hart, and I've known this for a long time. You need me...more than I need you. Because as hard as it is being alone here, I'm not scared of it like you are. You...” Bowler’s finger, that hadn't dropped throughout this rant, jabbed in Hart's direction, “You're fucked without me. Fucked!”