But on the plus side, as they fell over the edge, they separated in mid-air and landed two feet away from each other. The concrete floor didn't hurt, of course, but the sudden stop re-jarred Hart's broken collarbone and Bowler's fractured foot. Bowler started screaming afresh, but Hart managed to block out the pain, motivated back into action by the thought of The Beast getting closer. Not quickly though; he'd guessed correctly that The Beast was toying with them, enjoying this, and was taking his time getting to the top of the steps. This was what Hart had been counting on, this time whilst they were on the ground floor below The Beast's upper level and therefore out of sight. This time unseen to get close enough to where they needed to be before The Beast realised and gave proper chase. They had seconds before it saw them, seconds before it saw what Hart was doing and put two and two together.
Hart rushed over to the screaming Bowler and, gritting his teeth, picked him up.
Hart had a strength that greatly contradicted his wiry, thin frame, and was stronger than a casual observer would expect. Plus, bodies in The Foyer were less substantial than living ones. However, picking up Bowler and running with him on a broken collarbone was extremely painful, but fear lent Hart extra will. Hart’s collarbone screamed louder than Bowler as he lifted the other man's body, and now Hart joined in the yelling as he straightened, cradling Bowler in his arms.
“What are you doing?” gasped Bowler, as Hart grimaced, bit down, and began to run.
“Shut UP!” hissed Hart through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed. Above and behind them, he knew that The Beast had reached the top of the stairs. He winced, waiting for the pursuit that he knew would come. The Beast was in smart mode. He'd work it out. And as soon as he did, they'd have seconds. If that.
The Beast followed His prey. This was such fun for him, when they tried to escape. It made everything so sweet. He saw them as they emerged into sight, trying to flee, running forwards. He smelt their fear, and laughed even louder. Didn't they know they weren't fast enough? Didn't they know He could close the gap between them in seconds? He laughed, feeling the pulse inside Him, feeling it throb, feeling the rage and passion that kept his confusion away, and it made Him happy. Later, he would want the escape of the confusion. It was sometimes a refuge. But then He would get bored, and wake, and want to hunt, as he had done a few hours ago. He saw them run, and decided He'd given them enough hope of escape. It was always a delight to give them a chance, make them believe, and then see it die in their eyes as they looked over their shoulder and saw Him rushing silently upon them, already at their heels and reaching out a hand to take them. He prepared to gallop after his quarry, and saw them heading for the road at the end of the row of shops. The dual carriageway. The road where the cars passed.
They were 30 feet from the edge of the road when Hart heard The Beast's roar of rage cut in, the sound suddenly filling the air with that uncanny switched-on-halfway-through sound. Tuned in. Blast! He worked it out. Now he's going to properly give chase. Shit! Ahead of them, where the row of shops ended, the dual carriageway through town curved round to the left. The very early morning traffic was perfect, enough for there to be the odd car, but not so much that the roads would fill with traffic; moving fast enough to get away. He redoubled his efforts-even though he was already at full pelt-as fresh terror lent him a second wind. Twenty feet to go now, yet he felt the slam as The Beast landed on the lower level, leaping from the steps to give pursuit. Hart didn't dare look back. It would be terrible, and he couldn't afford for fear to drain his strength. They were ten feet away now, and Hart saw an approaching car, frantically checking the distance to it; would they meet at the right time? If the car was too late, it could be three or four feet too far away if they reached the kerb before it was there, giving The Beast an extra three or four extra feet for The Beast to catch them. Appropriately, the oncoming vehicle was a taxi.
He could hear it already, the slap thud slap thud of The Beast's lolling, hands-and-feet gallop coming up behind him. He could hear how huge he was, how terrible. Exactly like a bull. A charging, murderous bull.
“He's coming!” gasped Bowler, looking over Hart's shoulder. His face was nearly as white as The Beast's, eyes wide.
“Shut up!!” Hart told him again, shouting, and now they were about three feet away from the kerb as he realised that the taxi was going to come a good three feet short of where they needed it to be as he heard the snarl of The Beast right behind him, rolling, gritty laughter, now rumbling way back in its throat.
“HART!! HAAAART!!” screamed Bowler, gripping Hart's broken collarbone with white knuckles as he saw what was about to fall upon them.
“FUCK!!!” screamed Hart for the first time in his existence, in pain and rage and fear, and his first instinct was to hurl Bowler away, to get him off his (fucking) collarbone, and in a flash of inspiration he realised that was exactly what he had to do to at least save one of them.
With a scream-not from effort, but from the pain of pulling Bowler's gripping hand from his collarbone as he did so-he hefted Bowler up, one hand behind the small of his back and the other behind his neck, and flung him at the oncoming taxi.
“LOCK IN!!” he screamed at Bowler, and saw him pass into the back of the car, not having time to see if he came out the other side or not as he was already turning on instinct , automatically preparing in terror to defend himself fruitlessly against The Beast, who was now upon him. He saw its enormous head and grinning, wide eyed face filling the world, and if there had been air in the Foyer, The Beast would have been blowing it right into Hart's eyes. Hart braced himself, and then he felt a terrible grip on his neck and was jerked backwards, seeing The Beast suddenly grow smaller, a surprised look on its face.
The grip wasn't terrible; it was beautiful. Bowler had grabbed him as the taxi had passed.
He heard Bowler yelling with effort as he pulled, and then his grip was gone as Hart fell back onto the cab floor, legs still sticking out through the door. His collarbone protested at the impact. He scrambled fully inside, ignoring Bowler, and cast a quick glance out the front window-miraculously, amazingly, the lights ahead were on green-and then out the back window, where The Beast was roaring in rage by the roadside. At first he was growing smaller, but then he suddenly dropped into that terrible stance and gave pursuit, too late and too enraged to think of getting into a car himself. But the pair's taxi was already at the island at the top of the hill and rounding onto the ring road, and just before they turned off, The Beast was already slowing up. It knew it wouldn't catch them now. Hart saw it straighten, bellowing, and raise one hand. Hart thought he saw it extend a finger, to point after them and mark them, but he couldn't be sure.
He then collapsed onto the floor, pale and trembling, and moaned with relief, somewhere between tears and relieved laughter. He looked at Bowler, now laid out on the back seat, who was crying gently, but smiling, raising a hand and giving him the OK sign. And now Hart started to laugh, gasping. He winced as his collarbone moved, but this was too good a moment not to; they'd been caught by The Beast and escaped! They'd actually done it! It was inconceivable! Now Bowler was laughing too, and they both sat there, laughing and crying and raising their eyebrows at one another, shaking their heads in disbelief.
When Bowler said “Hospital please, driver,” they both went into hysterics, and even when the cab started to hit The Wall and they both quietly dropped out of the back, they laughed harder.
They lay there on Quinton Road, cars driving over them, as their laughter turned to giggles. After several minutes of this, Hart stood, wincing, and helped Bowler up.
“Thanks, man,” said Bowler, as Hart helped him limp to the roadside. Neither of them really liked being run through by cars. Old habits, again. They sat down on the kerb, watching the cars go past for a few moments, as they got their breath back.
“We're going to need to lie low somewhere for a bit, aren't we?” said Bowler. “I mean, ideally, we'd keep moving, but with my foot, we'd be too, y'know...vuln
erable out in the open. I mean, I'll be all right in a day or two, right? That's how it works. I mean, I've never had anything other than the Train.”
“Yes,” said Hart, airily, still light-headed from what they'd just achieved. They'd actually gotten away. “You'll heal fast here. And I'm hurt too, remember. I'd think at least a week, to be honest. So we'll need to hide out somewhere, just to be on the safe side. I'd better think of somewhere.”
Bowler muttured something, and it took Hart a minute to realise what he'd said. The younger man was now inspecting his nails, that horrible shifty look back on his face. Hart waited.
“Well...” said Bowler , “Look...you don't have to come with me, if you've got a place you'd rather go. I mean, I know we have a deal and all, but that's a perfectly good place to lie low...”
Hart managed to bite his anger down. They'd only just gotten things back on track after one horrendous row, and things were still delicate. He had to handle this one correctly.
“Bowler. I've just saved you from being Broken-”
“I saved you back-”
“And you are not to going where you’re thinking about, because that debt you've just gotten into means the deal is on now more than ever. Do you understand? You are never to go there ever again. We agreed this. Didn't we?”
Silence.
“Bowler?”
“...Ok.”
There was a pause. Cars continued to pass.
“It's the right thing for you. You do know that, don't you?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway...I know a place we can go that's not far from here. It's right on the edge of The Wall; might make us harder to find. Come on. We'd better move.”
***
It's coming to the end of Bowler's four terrible weeks. He's almost totally back in his body, and his mind is almost back together. His relief would be near total, if not for the fact that he knows he will not be the same now. He knows already something is different. But anything is better than what he has just been through.
He's back in Mary's flat; once he was physically together enough to be moved, and not a seemingly endless bundle of flesh, Hart carried him there. It was better for Hart too, the TV meaning that he could leave Bowler sometimes, get out, walk around, 'talk' with Sarah and George and even Mark, if he could find him. The others,of course -the Loose Guests- wouldn't talk. Ever. If they even let themselves be seen.
The very, very worst times for Bowler were at the start of that third week, when he was the most gone and Hart had to leave him to go back into town. He couldn't blame Hart for going-too long out there on the track, alone with a comatose Bowler, would be bad for him-but in those times he thought he could feel oblivion again. He didn't think he would ever fully recover from that one brush against it, that one small taste of it.
That was all that was out there. He had no choice but to refuse to believe it.
Breaking through the wall isn't allowed, he thinks. You have to get out some other way.
The thought comforts him. And now he's nearing the end-he can feel it-he feels well enough to confront the new memories.
It's as if-before his mind was dislodged and abused and spread-his mind was like a drink in a glass with the flavour settled on the bottom. The Train changed that. It had stuck a swizzle stick in there and swirled that bastard up, and now the juicy bits were floating on the top, accessible. Not all of them…but new ones.
Not good ones.
It had made the last three and a half weeks so, so much worse.
Bowler remembers.
***
1998:
Suzie is still up; he can see the light on in the bedroom window above. Every part of his rational mind is saying to leave it, to go back to the nearest boozer and stay there until they kick him out. And when he comes home, Suzie will be asleep. That will be better.
But a night of boozing has put Bowler on a roll. His momentum is there, and with that, his courage. He's tired of the rows, of the self-recrimination, of looking in the mirror and hating himself. Of constantly having to think on his feet for answers. He hates that. It stresses him out. And it's all the time now.
These are the thoughts that have been rattling round in his head, as he sat in The Beer Engine, then Whitefriars, then The Oak, then Lloyds. He fucking hated it in Lloyds. Too noisy. Couldn't hear himself think. He draws his too-thin jacket in tight around him as he walks. The cold is intense tonight. He'd have bought a decent winter coat if he could have afforded it. What was Suzie's word? Frivolous. It would have been a 'Frivolous' purchase. It doesn't seem so 'Frivolous' now, as he stands behind the row of bus shelters freezing, the street and the shops behind him, looking up the narrow cobbled path toward the cathedral and the small flats to the right that contain his home.
He hasn't seen her today. He made sure he was out of the flat before she got back from work. He didn't leave a note, didn't text, anything. Did he know he was going to do this, that time alone drinking would lead him onto this? Probably. The fact that he left home early because he couldn't bring himself to see her face today would suggest that.
He steps forward, and hesitates. Did he really want to do this? He takes a deep breath, lets it out. He can hear faint music pulsing up the street, the occasional taxi driving past. To his left, the church-something he always thought odd, right behind a massive cathedral-looks impressive, lit by the streetlamps and a small floodlight. Ten steps up the cobbled street in front of him, key in the door, and in. He had to admit, you couldn't beat these flats for location, but there was just no bloody parking. Stupid. He realises he's delaying.
Right. Fuck it. If there's enough in the pocket for another drink, I'm going 20 steps in the OTHER direction to the Weatherspoons.
He fumbles in his pocket for his change, fingers grubbing to make sure he's got it all, then he pulls it all out and counts.
Not even close. £1.75.
He sighs again, blowing the air out forcefully now, turning the sigh into a psyche up, and starts to walk. He should never have stalled; his fear is greater now, but he pushes it back as best he can.
Then he's already inside, up the stairs, and putting the key into his front door. He feels cold inside. Hollow. Sick, and it's not the vodkas. He pushes the door open gently, delicately, and walks into the small hallway. It's dark, lit only by the thin halo of light around the closed living room door. He can hear the TV on. It's peaceful in the hallway, comforting. He's scared of the other side of that door, frightened by the possibility of a memory of warmth, frightened that it might take away his resolve or hurt him and make him think again.
But he knows it's gone too far. It's time to talk. He strides to the living room door and opens it without hesitation.
Suzie is sat on the settee, legs curled up alongside her. She's wearing a pair of his joggers, combined with a lazy, about-the-house jumper, her long blonde hair pulled loosely up on her head in a ponytail. It's her usual end of the week wear, the sort of thing she's always worn on a Friday night. It doesn't do justice to how pretty she is, yet at the same time it does because she's able to shine through it, proving how good she looks in it. And similarly, he loves it and hates it in the same breath. He loves it because it's just her, relaxed and low maintenance, warm and soft and loving. The way she always was with him. So much so-that level of dedication-that he sometimes felt awkward. It meant he would be that little bit more mean to her just because he could, would push her just to get her to stand up to him, would overreact over nothing just to get her to stand up for herself. And after she did, she would be hurt and things between them would be that little bit less. And he hates this reminder because she is not that way these days-that now-missing level of dedication-and it's a mockery. It's a disguise. It's a shell, a painted face. These thoughts are really of the way she used to be. That will never return, and just as he feared, it's extremely painful to know, made worse because he knows there's no turning back.
She has a glass of red wine in her hand, and on the floor
is the bottle. It's nearly empty.
And he realises she hasn't looked up at him yet. She sits in their small living room, lit only by the tall Ikea lamp in the corner, giving the rather sparsely furnished room a warmer feeling than normal. She still doesn't speak, not even after he noisily kicks off his shoes and steps onto the thinly carpeted floor, and not after he drops his jacket onto the small round Ikea dining table in the corner. She was supposed to start shouting.
He feels anger starting to build, and it feels good, in a self-righteous way. She's being rude, and it gives him a leg to stand on. It gives him confidence.
He opens his mouth to speak, but she does before he gets the chance.
“Are you waiting for something?”
She's still looking at the TV, and she's caught him unawares. She turns to look at him now, a soft, patronising smile on her lips that makes his hand twitch, and he struggles to see any lingering affection her eyes. Right now, in fact, there is none. And now it comes to it, he hasn't got anything to say. He doesn't know where to start.
“No,” he says, resorting to flatness, curtness, in lieu of anything else. And he adds, dumbly, “Are you?” Inwardly, he winces.
She chuckles, and it's a sneer. She's drunk too.
“Very good, Frank. On top form, there.” She takes a sip from her glass that becomes a gulp. “Unfortunately, how drunk you are isn't going to shock or impress me either, tonight,” she says, scooping up the bottle and pouring the last of it into her glass, “Because as you can clearly see, I'm not too shabby myself. How was your night, Frank? Had a good time feeling sorry for yourself? But that's all you do these days, isn't it?” She points an unsteady finger at him. “That's your favourite pastime now, eh?” No shouting. Calm speech. That was worse. This was going wrong from the start. He had it scripted in his head, and it was supposed to start with her shouting when he walked in.
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