It has been a hell of a day, Bowler reflects.
“Sarah...” he mutters, now strangely calm. Shaking his head, almost amused by it all. “You are one craaaaazy bitch…”
He sets off to find Hart.
***
It's all about energy. It really is! thought Hart, About force...I was right in the first place! He stayed sitting and watched for a few moments more, trying to gather the full implications in his mind. He realised one thing, clear as a bell; he'd waited long enough. The guessing games were over. No more fear; he would take the very next opportunity. But that would mean finding it. Searching. For the first time in 70 years, he could now begin to commit to hope, to searching, for he knew, once and for all, that the risks were worth it.
Consequences be damned.
***
Though he doesn't know it, Hart is not too far away from Bowler and Sarah's conversation. He is, in a rare moment, enjoying the solitude of a walk by himself, enjoying the chance to collect his thoughts in quiet. It's been so long-60 years, in fact-that he's had this feeling, that despite the fact that his thoughts are of grief, the fact that the experience is so fresh and new makes it actually highly enjoyable. It's confusin but so different, and in The Foyer anything different is, as Hart well knows, highly palatable. He almost smiles to himself as he makes his way through the Gosford Street car park, an easy feat given the late hour and the subsequent lack of vehicles stored there, creating several acres of concrete field. The ring road overpass above casts a shadow across the white parking bays, the few overnight cars in the open air expanse lit by the street lights on the road. Despite it being nearly 3am now, there's still the odd car passing by on the street, but otherwise town is fairly still.
Bowler's gone to find Sarah, and Hart doesn't believe for one second he's going to stick to the arrangement they've made. Bowler is showing an anger, a touchiness, that Hart hasn't seen before; does it stem from frustration? Is it just a phase at this stage, a two-year Foyer itch, so to speak? Did Hart go through the same thing at this time? He can't remember, but he thinks it was likely. Hopes so, anyway. But this isn't the time to think about this. It's time to think about what on earth could have happened to George.
Does he believe Mark did it? That Mark found a way to murder George? No, Hart doesn't think that for a second; Mark is losing it badly, but he isn't Loose enough to want to do it, even if he DID know a way. Plus he seemed so genuinely shocked at the accusation. But Hart doesn't think Mark just found George like that, either. Too convenient. Why bother bringing him all the way back into town to show them? No...there's evidence of guilt there. He needed to show them...to get their forgiveness? Hart relaxes into his stride, not realising he's flexing his old mental courtroom muscles, adding to his inappropriately good mood.
Something went wrong. Mark was up to something, and George KNEW about it, hell, he WANTED to be a part of it. That much was clear. Bowler hadn't known George as long as Hart had. George gave off an air of being a good natured, simple chap, but he wasn't simple at all. People often confused an easy going nature with being easy to manipulate. It doesn't mean that. It just means they're more casual about the things they choose to do, IF they choose to do them. No...George wanted in on whatever Mark was up to, and something went wrong. And George paid the price. And Mark, not thinking straight, carries George's corpse back into town, panicking, to show them, to be told what to do. But he can't find them, so he stashes the body and goes looking properly. And that's-
A hand grabs Hart's shoulder and spins him round, surprising him. It's Mark, and he looks upset. More than upset; he looks furious. His large shoulders are rising and falling with each rapid imagined breath, his fists are clenched and his jaw is set, eyes thundering, and Hart feels a stab of concern. All of the sheepishness of the other week is gone. In its place is rage, and Hart knows he needs to be very careful indeed. He has never seen anger like this is another Guest, The Beast excluded. Mark's eyes look ready to burst from his head, stark white against the redness of his face. Hart slowly raises his hands to his chest.
The placatory gesture does no good. Mark pokes him in the chest, hard.
Hart, unprepared, takes two steps backward with the force of it. Mark flaps his hands, and Hart can't understand what he's saying, but he doesn't dare say so. He just stares blankly at Mark, who takes this lack of response as an impertinent challenge and, head nodding slightly, takes shaking, dangerous steps right up into Hart's face, never moving his eyes. It's like watching a hungry predator advance upon prey, excited and nervous lest it should escape. If Guests could breathe-if there were air here-Hart would be inhaling mouthfuls of it as it rapidly pumped from Mark's mouth and nose. Mark thrusts his finger into the air by Hart's side, waves it, and throws his opposite hand up. Bowler. He wants to know where Bowler is.
This is very bad. Bowler is stocky, but Mark is the bigger man, and he is very angry. Earlier (was it earlier that day? The day before? Not sleeping makes it so hard to block time off into separate days) Mark had allowed Bowler to push him about, but that had been guilty Mark, sheepish Mark, a Mark in the throes of regret and pain over the loss of George. Here is a Going Loose Mark who has had time to think about it, and to become insane with rage. Hart becomes very concerned for Bowler indeed.
Hart does a finger walking gesture, and points his hand away and flaps it, followed by an energetic shrug. Mark doesn't believe him, clearly, and squints his eyes nastily. There is a poison in Mark now, made far worse by his impending Looseness, and Hart knows for certain that if Mark finds his quarry, things will be very serious for Bowler. He backs up slightly, but Mark follows him step for step, his large hand forming a warning finger. Worse, there is now the trace of a slight smile on Mark's face. He can see the concern in Hart's eyes, as the smile is spreading as Mark sees the situation as being cat and mouse. There is a horrible, sickening sinking feeling in Hart's stomach. This is someone enjoying seeing fear in another man. Pushing around an equal. A bully. Someone deciding to make Hart his own, through fear. And Hart is a proud man. So much worse for him.
Mark is saying something. Through much pointing and thrusting, Hart eventually gets his point; Bowler accused him of killing George, and Mark is now very angry about it. Also he is angry that Bowler pushed him and grabbed him. He says he didn't kill George.
But all of this is said with a wild-eyedness that tells Hart, with a horrified revelation, that Mark is actually happy about this. There is a relieved glee to his rage. This is something he has needed; an excuse. An outlet. A genuine reason to snap on someone. Is it George dying that's pushed him over the edge? His reasons make sense, enough to make anyone angry, but Hart can see that if Mark could kill Bowler, he would, and he would feel good about it. For all Hart knows, Mark can. George is dead, after all. Har looks down, and sees that he has backed up all the way into one the remaining cars, and that his body from the chest down is now inside its passenger side.
Hart tries the placatory gesture again, but Mark screws his face up and actually pushes Hart's hands out of the way. That smile again. He steps closer, and points to Hart's side once more. He then-Hart can barely believe he's seeing it-slowly purses his lips into a grotesque pout. Mocking Hart. Mark mimes stroking a puppy, and patting it.
His face then turns to a bitter grimace, as he grits his teeth and mimes snapping the dog in two, and the grimace goes back to a bully's smirk as he leans right into Hart's face and keeps coming until their noses actually touch. Mark chuckles to himself.
The anger swells within Hart. The cruelty here, the desire to inflict pain on Bowler but far, far worse, the desire to enjoy intimidating another human being, to enjoy taunting them and seeing their helpless pain... Hart is not an overly kind man, but this is anathema to him. The opposite of what he believes to be right, Loose or not. His own rage comes flooding in, and he hasn't felt anything like it in a long, long time. It feels good. Consequences be damned, he thinks, and restraint goes out of the window.
He circle
s sideways, away from Mark (and out of the car), and does the walking finger gesture again with his right hand. With his left, he repeats the 'away somewhere' gesture. Here we go, thinks Hart. He then slowly turns the walking fingers on his right hand around to give Mark the 'V' sign.
Mark's smile drops when he sees it. His lips curl, and Hart cracks a big smile of his own, beginning to laugh. It is desperate, breathy laughter, powered by anger and excitement and by the almost crazy sensation that comes with it. Belly laughs are so rare in The Foyer. He only hopes too much damage isn't being done as he lets this very Loose sounding laughter fly free.
Mark shakes his head gently in disbelief, still staring intently at Hart, trembling, but draws back his huge fist anyway. Hart doesn't move, and simply braces himself for the impact, quietly setting his jaw. Here come the consequences, he thinks, and he laughs harder as this thought is followed by Ah, but this feels good...
And he feels a dull thud on the lower half of his face, but it is only gentle, like someone patting his face to get his attention. Hart opens his eyes to see Mark holding his hand, yelling soundlessly, and at this Hart’s laughter intensifies, becoming light headed and giddy. Mark, in his fury, is already swinging his left fist at Hart's stomach, and again Hart braces for the impact. He barely feels it, as he already knew would be the case, knew from the moment this confrontation began. Mark clearly does now, mouth wide open in a silent scream, holding his hand.
And Hart is laughing wildly as he steps forward and backhands Mark across the face, delirious now, as something has come loose inside of him and is rushing out in glorious release. Hope and feeling compressed for 60 years. Mark is knocked back several feet by Hart's lazy blow, holding onto his face as his feet fail to keep up with his backward velocity and he falls to the floor. Still laughing, Hart advances on the fallen bigger man.
“So you'd hurt Bowler, would you? Break him?” Hart laughs, strolling eagerly towards a physically and mentally stunned Mark. “Threaten me, have your fun? Not going too well, is it?” says Hart with a mad grin, knowing Mark can't hear him and talking anyway. Part of him, the main part of him, is watching all of this unfold as if someone else is doing it. He knows this isn't him, but he can't stop it and doesn't want to; he won't stop until it's done. Mark has done something very bad; he DESERVES this. “Did you ever wonder to yourself why The Beast is so strong, Mark?” Hart says, and laughs wildly as he kicks Mark in the stomach, lifting him a foot off the floor and turning him in mid-air so he comes down on his face. “Because he's crazy? That wouldn't work. There are LOTS of very crazy people here, and they're nowhere near as strong. After all, you're crazy now Mark, and you're no stronger, are you? No. It's to do with TIME, Mark. And The Beast has been here longer than anyone. And who do you know, who do you talk to who's been here the longest after him? I'll give you a clue.” Bursting into manic laughter again, Hart bends and grabs Mark's ankle, and as he rises he pulls, lifting Mark from his feet and then throwing him a good six feet away.
“Think about it, idiot,” says Hart as he advances again on Mark's crawling and shaken form, Mark who is frantically trying to gather himself to escape. “Day one, you can barely see properly. Then you're sinking into the floor every two seconds. But you learn that control. After all, these bodies aren't real, these clothes aren't real. These are just what our minds pull together; we're just floating clouds of energy before this. You've seen them. And then that control becomes automatic, as unconscious as breathing used to be. And with time, we learn better control, conscious control. That's why I healed so much quicker the second time I tried to break the barrier. Of course, you could never have so much control that you could actually break the barrier, and I’m not even sure that would be the way you’d WANTto get out.. But the difference is, I've got about an extra 30 years on you, Mark. I have so much more control. But you didn't think about that, did you. You just thought-” he breaks off to kick Mark viciously in the head, which snaps back sharply on Mark's neck as he lets out a silent scream“-you'd bully the old man. Bad idea, wasn't it?”
Mark is babbling something, hands out in the air to ward Hart off, to halt him. Mark’s shirt is torn and bloodied from the flow that is bubbling from his mouth and nose, and Hart chuckles, with nothing but disgust and contempt in his eyes. This worm, he thinks, this crawling, babbling thing. And the overwhelming desire to Break Mark fills him, rushes through him, and it is sweet. The things I could do, he thinks, and I'd be right to do them, I'd be RIGHT. Mark is still talking, blood flicking from his lips like spittle as he pleads frantically, staring up at Mark in terror.
Hart wants to Break him so badly, NEEDS to do it now, but there is restraint in him that does not come from compassion. Hart needs to know. Even now, lost, he needs to know.
“I have nothing but hate for people like you, Mark,” he says, breathing heavily, trembling now, revelling in the delicious sensation, wondering if this was what it was like to live. “I didn't realise you'd gone this far, but now I see it. So I have no qualms whatsoever getting answers out of you, by whatever manner I feel is necessary. So tell me,” Hart says, as a grin spreads across his face and his breathing becomes shakier. He crouches and seizes Mark's collarbone, causing the beaten man's mouth to open wider in an agonised silent scream, “What happened to George?”
Instantly, in his terror, Mark responds, pointing vigorously at Hart, then tapping his forehead, and then repeating the two actions over and over. Incredibly, he looks confused, as if he doesn't understand why Hart is even asking. For a moment, Hart's madness intensifies, as he thinks Mark is being awkward, impertinent (The worm is talking back, he's daring to talk BACK) but then Mark's gestures make sense and Hart realises just what he means.
You know, you know, you know.
Hart goes cold, he rage ending as suddenly as if a tap had been turned off.
He releases Mark's collarbone, and asks the question in a trembling voice, even though suddenly, he knows the answer.
“What the hell are you on about?
Mark, wincing with pain, knows the question without being able to hear it. He grips where Hart had been holding him, holding the point of pain, and sits up slightly, breathing heavily. He glares at him reproachfully for a second-like a kicked dog-and then points at Hart, taps his head, twirls his fingers off and away. Points at Hart, yapping motion with the hand, fat belly gesture, yapping gesture, points to himself. You thought it up, you told George, you told me. Fat belly, but then he stops. And George...he can't finish, flaps his hands in a sad shrug. Hart doesn't need that last bit explaining; George paid the price.
Hart stands there blinking, stunned. He'd never thought it up. It wasn't him. It's been niggling away in his mind as a possibility since he saw George's body, but he'd never even considered it as a real possibility. Plus...that the theory would would kill someone? Kill a dead person? That was never a possibility. That wasn't the idea, and it hadn't even been his in the first place. It had been Simon's theory. And anyway, it had been nothing when he told George, just passing conversation. That's why it'd never even occurred to him that it had anything to do with all this.
He'd told George casually, in a moment of boredom, in a rare conversation about Foyer Theory with the man. A idea of Simon’s that was so laughable because it was so crazy, and ridiculously dangerous. But he remembers now how George's face had lit up, and how George had gotten him to repeat it. He'd thought George had just seized upon it because it was such a wild notion, something new and varied. But now it seemed that maybe he'd taken it a little too seriously. Maybe then, some years later...he must have told Mark. Told Mark it was Hart's idea. And Mark had maybe done the legwork, and George had been the guinea pig, and George had been the victim when it all went wrong, reduced to a flaking, disintegrated corpse…and it was Hart's fault.
Hart stumbles backwards, footing lost in his moment of terrible shock,, and Mark looks up at Hart with a mad grin, eyes suddenly wide with recognition. He points a shaking finger at Hart, still smiling l
ike a madman, and turns the same finger into a knife across his throat. Then the fat belly. So YOU killed George. Hart shakes his head numbly, but he knows it's true. Mark is the one laughing now, rolling on the floor, holding his stomach, pointing at Hart and cutting his throat, cutting his throat.
“Shut UP!” yells Hart, and grabs Mark's shoulders, shaking him, but Mark won't stop laughing. “Tell me what you did! Tell me what happened to George! Tell me what you two did together!! How did you do it!! Tell me! Tell me!!” But Mark won't stop laughing, and that thing is Loose inside Hart again, and, screaming, he shoots out a hand to Mark's neck and snaps his right collarbone.
Mark stops laughing, starts screaming, and Hart is filled with a comforting, icy cold calm. This man got his friend killed. This man encouraged him on a madman's errand.
“Tell me what you did, Mark.” says Hart, and realises Mark can't hear him, so he pushes Mark flat on his back with his boot, and pins it on his chest. He makes Mark look at him by pushing the heel into his sternum.
Hart gestures come hither, then points at Mark, then fat belly, then twirls his finger in a circle in the air, then come hither again. Mark shakes his head, wide-eyed, scared of the consequences, so Hart stamps on his left collarbone, breaking that too. Mark's mouth opens afresh, yelling.
And that is when Hart sees a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turns to see Sarah ten feet away, open mouthed and ashen faced. Of course, he thinks. We're near The Wall. Where the hell was Bowler? But Sarah is already pointing, horrified, to Hart's feet. Hart looks down to see Mark, writhing and screaming beneath his boot, collarbones pointing sickeningly. The fear, the horror on Sarah's face (Why is she looking at ME like that? I'm the GOOD one!) makes something nudge at his mind, and he suddenly sees Mark's broken bones with fresh eyes. Sees what he has done to another human being.
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