The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel by Luke Smitherd Page A
Authors: Luke Smitherd
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not once in all the time he'd been there, it just sounded so awkward and wrong coming from him-and then burst into gales of laughter, doubling over at the waist and roaring.
And Hart turned and walked away without a word, through the Ikea coffee table and the DFS settee and the plasterboard wall, and left Bowler alone in The Polish Guy's flat, hysterically laughing and slapping his thighs. Meanwhile, the Polish Guy looked at his watch, stood, and headed for his secret box, the one hidden behind the boiler.
***
“That was my Granny's favourite bench, you know,” says Bowler, pointing at a metal construction across the street. They are stood opposite the Godiva statue outside Cathedral Lanes mall, where, in a few years' time, the public will no longer be overshadowed by the plastic canopy currently above their heads. The locals will decide that it is an eyesore, and demand that it be taken down. Bowler has always thought it one of the city's more interesting features, but apparently everyone else will think otherwise. “She used to people watch, she said. Even though she had cataracts.”
It's the first thing he's said since they left the train station, the first thing he's said since he let the train doors slide shut in front of him. Since he watched the train rumble and begin to move, a huge metal mass gathering speed and pulling away. Since he watched it leave, clenching his fists and his jaw and screaming to the heavens, since he turned and walked off the platform without a word.
Hart couldn't blame him. Hart thinks that maybe he shouldn't have warned Bowler-because Bowler NEEDS to go through it, needs to know-but at the same time, he couldn't let anyone go through that without prior knowledge. And as he’d already said...everyone does it in the end. But Bowler, he thinks, needs to do it sooner. Bowler needs to know how things work. He needs to abandon the ideas Hart can already see forming in his head, as they will only make his time harder. Hart does not think these things without sympathy for his companion. But sympathy does not change the way things need to be.
“Whenever I took her shopping, she always insisted we sat on that bench,” says Bowler. “She used to say it was her knees hurting, but they were fine the rest of the time. I knew she just wanted an excuse to make me sit there for an hour. I never minded.” He falls silent again.
Hart thinks for something to say, and the best he can come up with is:
“Do you want to sit on it now?” Bowler doesn't look at Hart; he keeps staring at the bench.
“Yeah,” he says, after a while. “Okay.”
They cross the street, waiting first at the zebra crossing with the other people-partly out of habit, and partly because being in the path of a car is something that Bowler still instinctively avoids after a lifetime of doing so-and fortunately, as it is a weekday afternoon and not a saturday , there is still no one sat on the bench, no other old ladies, no other gangs of 17 year old goths or chavs to take it. They stand in front of it for a moment-Hart not wanting to sit first-and then Bowler sits, suddenly flopping down in it as if his strings have been cut. Hart gently follows.
They people watch. Hart thinks he sees Mark skulking around by the side of Alders, but he says nothing. It isn't the time. Bowler has a lot on his mind, and it's best to let him lead. It is his time.
“I think...it's the not sleeping that is the worst.” says Bowler, picking at his t-shirt. Hart knows Bowler could rip a hole in it and it would be fine again, eventually, just as he knows Bowler is wrong. Not sleeping is very very bad indeed, but it's not the worst. Another reason why Bowler needs to ride the train. He needs to go through it ALL. But again Hart says nothing, letting Bowler continue.
“It's all bad enough, but you never get a break, no time off. You can't be physically tired, but your HEAD...” Bowler says, bending over and holding his, elbows on thighs,
And Hart turned and walked away without a word, through the Ikea coffee table and the DFS settee and the plasterboard wall, and left Bowler alone in The Polish Guy's flat, hysterically laughing and slapping his thighs. Meanwhile, the Polish Guy looked at his watch, stood, and headed for his secret box, the one hidden behind the boiler.
***
“That was my Granny's favourite bench, you know,” says Bowler, pointing at a metal construction across the street. They are stood opposite the Godiva statue outside Cathedral Lanes mall, where, in a few years' time, the public will no longer be overshadowed by the plastic canopy currently above their heads. The locals will decide that it is an eyesore, and demand that it be taken down. Bowler has always thought it one of the city's more interesting features, but apparently everyone else will think otherwise. “She used to people watch, she said. Even though she had cataracts.”
It's the first thing he's said since they left the train station, the first thing he's said since he let the train doors slide shut in front of him. Since he watched the train rumble and begin to move, a huge metal mass gathering speed and pulling away. Since he watched it leave, clenching his fists and his jaw and screaming to the heavens, since he turned and walked off the platform without a word.
Hart couldn't blame him. Hart thinks that maybe he shouldn't have warned Bowler-because Bowler NEEDS to go through it, needs to know-but at the same time, he couldn't let anyone go through that without prior knowledge. And as he’d already said...everyone does it in the end. But Bowler, he thinks, needs to do it sooner. Bowler needs to know how things work. He needs to abandon the ideas Hart can already see forming in his head, as they will only make his time harder. Hart does not think these things without sympathy for his companion. But sympathy does not change the way things need to be.
“Whenever I took her shopping, she always insisted we sat on that bench,” says Bowler. “She used to say it was her knees hurting, but they were fine the rest of the time. I knew she just wanted an excuse to make me sit there for an hour. I never minded.” He falls silent again.
Hart thinks for something to say, and the best he can come up with is:
“Do you want to sit on it now?” Bowler doesn't look at Hart; he keeps staring at the bench.
“Yeah,” he says, after a while. “Okay.”
They cross the street, waiting first at the zebra crossing with the other people-partly out of habit, and partly because being in the path of a car is something that Bowler still instinctively avoids after a lifetime of doing so-and fortunately, as it is a weekday afternoon and not a saturday , there is still no one sat on the bench, no other old ladies, no other gangs of 17 year old goths or chavs to take it. They stand in front of it for a moment-Hart not wanting to sit first-and then Bowler sits, suddenly flopping down in it as if his strings have been cut. Hart gently follows.
They people watch. Hart thinks he sees Mark skulking around by the side of Alders, but he says nothing. It isn't the time. Bowler has a lot on his mind, and it's best to let him lead. It is his time.
“I think...it's the not sleeping that is the worst.” says Bowler, picking at his t-shirt. Hart knows Bowler could rip a hole in it and it would be fine again, eventually, just as he knows Bowler is wrong. Not sleeping is very very bad indeed, but it's not the worst. Another reason why Bowler needs to ride the train. He needs to go through it ALL. But again Hart says nothing, letting Bowler continue.
“It's all bad enough, but you never get a break, no time off. You can't be physically tired, but your HEAD...” Bowler says, bending over and holding his, elbows on thighs,
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