The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel

by Luke Smitherd

  Fast forward again to early 2009, and I finally sit down with my laptop in a pub in Leeds. After driving along idly thinking about the ideas for the story for the umpteenth time, I decided enough was enough and thrashed out a plot and structure. The reason it had been nagging at me so much for several years was probably that I couldn't figure out how I wanted it all to fit together; but as soon as I sat down to actually do it, the whole thing just flowed out effortlessly, and I was pretty pleased with what I had in front of me. But some things were different than I'd originally planned.

  Bowler was always supposed to be Bowler-the same characteristics and appearance-but he was originally supposed to be the 'main' voice of the story. Though the book takes both characters' perspectives, I think Hart ended up being the driving force of the book (you might disagree; in fact, whatever you think, email me at lukesmitherd@hotmail.co.uk and let me know) and this may be because I took more interest in him due to his turning out so differently than planned. For those of you that watch Shameless (I never have, though I hear it's pretty good) in my mind I always saw Hart as being like the Dad Gallagher character from what I gather of him, especially in terms of appearance. Someone rough and geezer-like, a bit of a wideboy, with Bowler being more naïve. But somewhere down the line Hart became this stiff, stern, old school gent, and I prefer him that way.

  There was never a wall around the Foyer when I first thought of it, but it struck me that life in there wouldn't be anywhere near as difficult if you could go where you wanted. So I took the rather cruel step of trapping them within a mile.

  And it was never supposed to be set in Coventry, my adopted second home. I just did that originally because I thought it'd be nicer to use real street names, and I know enough of them in Cov to make it easy. Plus it helps to visualise a story when you can see in the places you imagine things happening in, because you've been there. Then I had the idea of how the Blitz could play a part in Hart's journey to the Foyer, and that seemed to fit nicely. I apologise for any historical inaccuracies but I'M going to blame my research sources if there are any. I would like to add that, if in any way, I've sounded like I'm talking Coventry down, then I'd like to assure people I'm not. Like any city, it has its flaws, it's tack and it's thugs, but it also has it's good points and it's good people. It's been my home for a long time, and when I'm away, I do miss it.

  And that's it really; I hope you're happy with the way it all turned out. For myself, I'm pretty pleased with it. It's funny, as Glen Duncan says-or rather, his character does-in the excellent 'I, Lucifer' (well worth a read) writers don't start a book wanting to write about a theme or a concept, they come up with a plot idea first and then decide what it's really about as they're writing. To an extent, I agree with that. Though I don't, as I just said, put myself in that group, I think it's still true here; I thought I was writing a book about being trapped, about the human spirit, and about hope, and I'd like to think I succeeded in that to an extent. But it wasn't until I'd finished it that I realised I'd written a book mainly about taking people for granted, and people needing people. And so I changed the title from 'If I Could Only Sleep' to what you now hold in your hands.

  So thanks again to you, whoever you are, for choosing to read this, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. But here comes the part where I ask you do me a small, teeny-tiny favour in return; my approach here is to distribute this book for as little cost as possible, or even free. I don't know yet by which method this tale has ended up in your grubby hands-and I can guarantee you I will have done my best to get it there for as minimal a cost as possible-but the idea was to just get this out to as many people as I can rather than to make money, in the possibly misguided hope that I could then ask people to join my mailing list.

  See, what I want to do is get a list of people who actually liked this book enough to-hopefully-spend a couple of quid/bucks on whatever I write next. If you don't want to, it doesn't change the fact that I love you dearly for reading this, and that I think of you often. Naked.

  But if you DO want to...please just drop me an email at lukesmitherd@hotmail.co.uk, and, if you're feeling REALLY generous, add me on facebook under Luke Smitherd Book Stuff, or on twitter by following @travellingluke .

  But MOST importantly, please leave a nice review on the whichever outlet site you got this from (do so for Amazon on the AMAZON UK BOOK PAGE OR THE AMAZON USA BOOK PAGE !) that stuff really helps (and reviews on any other sites help too.) That is so freakin’ important you wouldn’t believe. If you enjoyed it, please stick a star rating on whichever site you got it from. IT HELPS SO MUCH. (Especially Amazon or Goodreads.com)

  Ahem. Enough shouting. It’s just that I can’t stress how important word of mouth is to a struggling indie wannabe hack such as myself. Spread the word to your friends, send them the link...it's a revolution, baby! I'm not gonna clog up your inbox 'cos I hate getting that myself, but if you've enjoyed this and passed it on to someone else you'd be doing me a very, very big favour. And hey...don't you WANT to read more?

  What the fuck do you mean, no?

  And don't worry about Hart; I'm sure he'll be all right. I have to say how much I'm actually going to miss having this project to work on. The book was written in various pubs in Leeds, Newcastle, and of course Coventry; though the plus side of being finished is that I'm going to save money, as I no longer have to buy pub lunches to justify using the boozer's power supply. It just struck me today when I woke up and thought 'Ah, I'll put a few hours in with the dead guys,' and realised it was all done. I'm going to miss spending time in their company. So much so, that-probably relying on the Light Bites part of the menu this time- I think I'm going to fire straight into another book about something else. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed doing it.

  Take care, and Stay Hungry.

  -Luke Smitherd

  Earlsdon, Coventry

  March 30, 2011

  NOW READ ON FOR THAT EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE STONE MAN, THE HIT UK NOVEL FROM LUKE SMITHERD

  Chapter One: Andy at the End, The Stone Man Arrives, A Long Journey Begins On Foot, And the Eyes of the World Fall Upon England

  ***

  The TV is on in the room next door; the volume is up, the news is on, and I can hear some Scottish reporter saying that it’s about to happen all over again. I already knew that, of course, just like everyone watching already knows that ‘The Lottery Question’ is being asked by people up and down the country, and around the world. Who will it be this time?

  That was my job, of course, although I won’t be doing it anymore. That’s why I’m recording this, into the handheld digi-dicta-doodad that Paul sent me after the first lot of business that we dealt with. To get it all out if you need to, he’d said (he knows I find it hard to talk to people. He thought talking to the machine might be easier. Plus, getting it all out now gives me an excuse to use it after all; feels strange holding one again, as if my newspaper days were decades ago instead of just a year or so).

  I didn’t really know what he was talking about, back then. It had hit him a lot harder than me, so I didn’t really understand why I’d need to talk about it. Eventually I got it, of course … after the second time.

  That was worse. Much worse.

  This room is nice anyway, better than the outside of the hotel would suggest. I actually feel guilty about smoking in here, but at this stage I can be forgiven, I’m sure. Helps me relax, and naturally, I’ve got the entire contents of the mini bar spread out in front of me. I haven’t actually touched any of it yet, but rest assured, I expect I shall have consumed most of it by the time I finish talking.

  I just thought that I should get the real version down while I still have time. Not the only-partially-true, Home Office approved version that made me a household name around the world. I'm not really recording this for anyone else to hear, as daft as that may sound. I just think that doing so will help me put it all in perspective. I might delete it afterwards, I might not … I think I will. Too dangerous for it to get out, for
now at least.

  I’d obviously had to come here in disguise (amazing how much a pair of subtle sunglasses and a baseball cap let you get away with in summer) and it’s a good job that I did. They’d already be up here, banging on the door, screaming about the news and telling me what I already know. Thanks to my disguise, I can sit quietly in this designer-upholstered, soft-glow, up-lit, beige yuppie hidey-hole, with Steely Dan playing in the background on my phone’s speakers (sorry if you aren’t a fan) and remain undisturbed, until … well, until I’m done. And it’s time.

  This is for you as well, Paul; for you more than anyone. You were there for all of it, and you’re a key player, not that you’ll ever actually get to hear this.

  Well, actually, you weren’t there at the start, were you? I often forget that. Which, of course, would be the best place to begin. Heh, would you look at that; I just did an automatic segue. Still got all the old newsman moves. Slick …

  Sorry, I was miles away for a moment there. Remembering the first day. How excited those people were. Everybody knew it was something big.

  Nobody was frightened. Not at first.

  ***

  It was summer. Summer meant more people out shopping, eyeing up the opposite sex, browsing, meeting friends, having outdoor coffees and watered-down beer. In Coventry, the chance to do this (with the sun out, and not a single cloud visible in the sky on a weekend no less) was as rare as rocking-horse shit, and so there were more people out and about in the city centre than at pretty much any other time of the year. I sometimes wonder if this was the reason that particular day was picked; attracted to the mass of people perhaps? Or maybe it was just sheer chance. The day certainly couldn’t have been more different the second time; smack in the middle of October, with the streets abandoned by every living soul due to heavy rain. But that first day, you couldn’t really have had any more people in the surrounding vicinity without there being some kind of riot.

  I was stuck indoors for the earlier part of that day, and that was just fine by me. One, because I’ve never been a person who enjoys being out in harsh sunlight (makes me squint, I sweat easily, I burn easily, I can’t stand it when my clothes stick to me … need I go on? Sun worshippers doing nothing but sitting in sunlight; I’ll never understand them) and two, because I was interviewing a local girl group (‘Heroine Chic’; I shit you not) who were just about to release their debut piece-of-crap single. And it was awful, truly awful (I don’t mean to come across as someone’s dad, but it really was an assault on the ear drums. Middle-class white girls talking in urban patois. Exactly as bad as it sounds) but, at the time, I was still just on the right side of thirty-five, and so considered myself in with a chance of charming at least one of the trio; a stunning-looking blonde, brunette and redhead combo in their early twenties whose management were clearly banking on their looks to get them by, rather than their output. None of us knew it back then, but even that wouldn’t be enough to help ‘Get Into Me’ (again, I shit you not) crack the top forty. Two more non-charting efforts later, Heroine Chic would find themselves back in obscurity before fame had found them; of the six of us in that room, including their enormous security guard and their wet-behind-the-ears looking manager, only one of us was destined to be known worldwide. None of us could have ever guessed that it would be me.

  Not that I didn’t have high hopes of my own in those days, lazy—but earnest—dreams of a glorious career in my chosen field. Obviously, the likes of Charli, Kel and Suze weren’t going to land me a job at Rolling Stone, but I was starting to get good feedback on freelance pieces that I’d written for the Observer and the Times, and was listed as a contributor at the Guardian; I’d finally started to believe that in a year or two, I’d leave behind the features department at the local rag and then make my way to London to start shaking things up. I actually said that to colleagues as well: I’m gonna shake things up. That’s how I often find myself talking to people, using sound bites and stagey lines to make an impression. Not only does it make small talk more bearable—having a backlog of canned material ready to go at any point—but I used to think that it would help me make an impression. I now know that the impression it gave would have been that I was a dick ... but I still do it out of habit. I can’t help myself.

  As the interview drew to a close, and their manager started making ‘wrap it up’ signals whilst looking nervously at his smartphone, the girls and I posed together for a brief photo by the office window. They pouted, and I grinned honestly, enjoying the moment despite receiving zero interest from any of them. I’d had high hopes for the brunette, but any attempts at smart banter that I’d made were met with a polite but confused smile. It appeared that Suze was the brains of the trio, but, ah … blondes. Not my thing. To be fair, it appeared that I was not Heroine Chic’s thing either. I made myself feel better by putting it down to the age gap.

  They left with an all-too-casual goodbye, their bouncer blocking them all from view as they made their way to the escalator. I pocketed my Dictaphone and texted my friend Kevin, telling him how I’d gotten both a phone number and the promise of a date from Charli. I’d even considered adding that she’d silently licked her lips over her shoulder at me as she’d left, but decided that’d be too much, and the wind-up would be blown. Kevin was gullible, but not that gullible.

  I was done for the day—I’d only come in for the late afternoon interview, with it being a weekend—and it was approaching five, so the temperature would soon be dropping nicely into that relaxing summer evening feel that I actually like. I had no plans, and flatmate Phil had his brother over for the weekend. He was a good guy, and his brother a good guest, but I didn’t particularly want to be stuck at home listening to the two of them endlessly discussing rugby. I decided that I’d maybe find a beer garden and have a read for an hour or so.

  Once upon a time, this would have been that magical exciting hour where you’d text around and find out who was available for an impromptu session. Nowadays, everyone was either married and booked up for the weekend, or starting to think about getting the kids fed, bathed, and in bed for seven. Being single at thirty-five and living with a thirty-nine-year-old divorced university lecturer could sometimes get lonely, and I’d been forced to find ways to adapt. Fortunately, there were still a lot of people who were up for doing stuff, but getting schedules to meet was difficult. I got through a lot of books back then; nowadays I can’t remember the last time I read a book.

  I grabbed my bag and headed out of the building, thinking about possibly getting a bite to eat as well—although I intended to have something healthy, as lately the gym hadn’t really been graced with my presence, and it was starting to show—and for some reason, I decided to stroll towards Millennium Place.

  It used to be a big open-air space, a modern plaza designed for concerts and shows of all kinds. This would have been excellent for the city, were it not for the fact that it had a built-in Achilles’ heel in the form of a raised series of lighting strips in the floor. These looked fantastic at night, but technical issues created by this unusual flooring meant that none of the imagined concerts could ever happen (genius). None of it’s there anymore, of course; after the Second Arrival they dug it all up and put a small lake in its place, to see if it made any difference.

  For some reason I was in a good mood and—in the words of the song—having ‘no particular place to go’, I thought I’d take a look at the summer crowds at Millennium Place, and then decide my destination from there, giving me time to work up an appetite. I people-watched as I went, passing barely dressed young couples who made me feel old and think about past opportunities of my own. I was not the settling-down kind then, nor am I now—just as well, really—but I still think about those opportunities and what might have been. I found myself humming a tune I didn’t recognise, and pondered what it was as I rolled the short sleeves of my shirt up farther, wishing I’d opted for shorts and flip-flops instead of jeans and on-trend boots. As I gently cursed myself for dressing th
at way, for making such a middle-aged and futile attempt to impress the Heroine Chic girls, thought triggered memory and I realised that I was humming ‘Get Into Me’. I laughed out loud—I remember that distinctly—as I turned the corner and saw Millennium Place fully. When I saw what was going on, the laughter trailed off in my throat.

  I suppose that I must have heard the commotion as I’d drawn closer; I’d been so lost in thought that somehow it didn’t really register, or possibly I just subconsciously wrote it off as the usual summer crowd sound. But this was different. Around two hundred people were gathered in a cluster near the centre of Millennium Place, and there was an excited, confused buzz coming from them, their mobiles held out and snapping away at something in their midst. Other people were hanging back from them, getting footage of the crowd itself. That was the other reason I wanted to get into the big leagues, of course; everyone was a reporter in the digital age, and local print was shrinking fast.

  I couldn’t make out what was in the centre of the crowd, standing at a distance as I was, but I could see other people on the outskirts of the plaza having the same response as me; what’s going on, whatever it is I want to see it. Don’t misunderstand me, at this stage it was surprising and intriguing, but nothing really more than that; a chance for hopeful people to capture some footage that might go viral. You have to remember, none of us knew what it really was at that point. I assumed that it was somebody maybe doing some kind of street art, or perhaps a performance piece. That in itself was rare in Coventry, so in my mind I already had one hand on my phone to give Rich Bell—the staff photographer—a call, to see if he was available to get some proper photos if this turned out to be worth it. Either way, I walked towards the hubbub. As I got closer I could hear two people shouting frantically, almost hysterically, sounding as though they were trying to explain something.