He waited until Bowler looked up.
“Which was five years ago this year.”
***
2005:
Dealing with a madwoman would be hard enough at the best of times, Hart assumes, but when you can't hear her speak it's extremely difficult, not to mention unpleasant.
He wishes Bowler were here; it really should be his turn, even though Hart is better at this, but Bowler is off by himself again. This is the case more and more these days, but, Hart reminds himself, at least he comes back.
Sarah has spotted him on his way into the cinema, treating himself to a juicily rationed movie; Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban. Having heard so much about the books and, of course, not being able to read them, he's very glad they've finally made the films. He finds them enjoyable, but imagines the books would be better. He misses reading, misses it a lot. Always has here, from day one. Hart was always very well read.
She'd spotted him heading into the SkyDome, and he'd made the mistake of catching her eye through the huge glass doors once he was inside. He couldn't pretend he hadn't seen her; he'd looked directly at her as she flapped her scrawny arms to get his attention. A mistake...it saddens him as he realises he thinks like that. A few years ago he would have welcomed the opportunity to check up on her, see how she was doing, to just TALK to her. It's been so long since she saw him dealing with Mark-five years-and for the last four, he'd never been able to speak to her. She'd always ran straight away upon seeing Hart, waving him away as she did so. She’d been close to the edge even then, but with George now gone and with Mark nearly Loose himself, as well as her refusal to come near Bowler or Hart, she has of course rapidly deteriorated in her time alone. Now she is pretty much fully Loose, and he knows he can't bring her back. Her wild eyes, her incoherent rantings, her embarrassing state of near undress-she is barely covered now-it always makes for a very painful, awkward, and saddening conversation. Plus, it's frightening. Like looking into a mirror of one’s own dark future.
And here she is, stood at the foot of the escalator in the middle of the entertainment complex, in between the false wood front of Jumpin Jak's nightclub and the glass side entrance of Old Orleans, two venues Hart has a strong suspicion of being part of a larger corporate chain. He'd long lamented the passing of privately owned venues, on principle more than anything else. He'd visited Jumpin Jak's in the early days when it first opened, in order to people watch, and had quickly learned that the patrons weren't people he particularly liked to watch. Plus he could hardly hear what they were saying half the time. So damn loud in there.
Sarah is grabbing his collar now and looking up at him, babbling away, alternately serious, laughing, then scared. Hart follows his usual policy of indulging her until she goes away. She looks worse up close; her eyes have dark rings underneath them (How is that even possible? No-one can be tired here, they don't need to sleep) and her hair is dirty. The latter was less surprising. He'd seen other Guests lose their hair as they went Loose, so dirt and disrepair were just another manifestation of the change in her clothes and appearance, he guessed. As usual, he doesn't understand a word she's saying, and he stands there nodding and smiling in the places he thinks are necessary. She's not even trying to sign, just talking like he can hear her-it's what she does now-but suddenly her hands make a familiar movement, and it takes Hart a moment to place it.
He holds up a hand, and she stops, surprised, her expression comical. He does the 'back up' motion with one finger, and she seems to realise that she needs to be signing. The interruption seems to have made her a bit more lucid. Her eyes flicker for a second, then she comes back to herself and does it again.
She means Mark; the mannerisms are actually uncanny.
Hart shrugs dramatically for her: Mark? So what? The effect is instant, she's pointing frantically off in the direction of the precinct, pulling him by his sleeve. Hart goes cold, or as cold as one can go here. He's seen this before. He doesn't want to go.
He takes Sarah by the shoulders, gently. She's not here anymore, his friend, but when he cuts her off these days, avoids her, it isn't because he doesn't care. It's because it hurts. It's because he failed her; he made her go away. He does the tell-me-more gesture, and she rolls her eyes-which stop twitching briefly as she does so-and starts to pull again, and now he grasps her firmly , shaking his head, and roots her to the spot. He does the gesture again, bigger and slower.
She sighs in frustration, though something catches her eye for a second and she stares, gone. Hart has to shake her, and for a moment she doesn't recognise him when she looks back. It's very painful to see. Hart does the gesture a third time, smaller and with a sympathetic smile. She nods.
She gestures Mark, and runs her finger across her throat.
Hart pauses. He does nothing for a moment. He then points his finger firmly at Sarah and raises his eyebrows. Are you sure? She scowls, and knocks his hands away, and nods, throwing her own hands up. Hart gives her the calm down gesture, one hand to his chest-I'm only checking-but she is off now, ranting with her mouth as if Hart can hear every spittle-laden word. Hart waits it out, thinking.
First George. Now Mark. Five years apart. Hart lets out a heavy imaginary breath. So was it Mark getting the guts up to try Simon’s idea again, or was it...but that was a stupid theory. Time limits...
But he suddenly realises Sarah is giggling to herself. She looks like a child, one hand over her mouth, knees together and bent, trying to hide her naughtiness, eyes darting for left to right, checking that no-one can see her. Completely oblivious to Hart's presence.
He steps closer, trying to get into her awareness without scaring her, moving slowly. She sees him, and the giggles get worse. He is actually feeling very scared all of a sudden, and he doesn't know why, but there is something here. She KNOWS something. And Hart is frightened. He puts on a smile, drawing her out; Share the joke, Sarah. But she turns from him like a playful dog with a stick, and the giggles continue, head bent right into her hand.
Hart creeps round, ducking down with his false smile plastered onto his face (pausing to avoid a gaggle of women on a hen party, laughing and covered in pink fairy fancy dress, on their way into JJ.'s. Hart assumes they're there so extremely early to take advantage of whatever binge drinking offer is on. Enjoy the gutter girls, he can't help but think to himself) He takes her wrists gently, and she allows him to pull her hands from her face, but she turns her head down, forcing him to gently take her chin and lift it up. She is still giggling, but there are also tears running down her cheeks and her eyes are greatly distressed. The split in her mind is visible. She knows what she is.
Hart continues the smile, and slowly shrugs. He has to keep this as gentle as possible, but the question is there; What do you know? She grips HIS wrists now, suddenly and hard, all laughter gone, staring pleadingly into his eyes. Her grip is tight, and painful, and she is trembling all over, biting her bottom lip. As Hart watches, blood begins to bead underneath her two front teeth. Slowly, she releases one of his wrists, and points a shaking finger towards her chest.
Hart doesn't react on his first conclusion. He holds himself back with enormous effort, and waits for her to finish.
The same hand travels up towards her face, becoming a fist, and then two fingers extending out in a V. Towards her eyes.
Hart lets out a sigh of relief. He nods to her quickly, wanting to get what he can before this time of lucidity ends. He nods again, and rolls his finger.
Ok. Tell Me.
Sarah does. And almost as soon as she starts, she drops back into Looseness, so much so that Hart can only piece her story together later. And because of this, he cannot set anything by it, even though it backs up his own suspicions almost totally. Hope is far too dangerous. Giving in to it, searching, is far too dangerous.
He won't know for another 5 years-won’t know for certain-that she was telling the truth.
***
2010:
'Tenerife?'
'Um
m...no. I was thinking more...Southern...' A giggle.
‘Aaaah....AusTRAH-leyah again. In your dreams, I'm afraid.'
'Ah, come ON...'
'Noooo, unless you fancy getting into even MORE debt...'
'You could flog one of your kidneys.'
'Or you could flog one of yours.'
'No, YOU need to drink less, so one kidney would help you cut back...'
'Says she with the large glass of red...'
'Doctors say to drink a glass a day!'
'A glass, not a bucket.'
She let out a mock gasp, placed her wine glass down on the expensive carpet, and then dove onto him, tickling and grabbing. He laughed, and rolled her over easily-she was tiny-and pinned her beneath him, kneeling on her upper arms gently, taking her wrists and making her slap herself softly in her face, as she laughs hysterically.
'You know, you should really-'
'Rob! Stoppit, ha ha-
'-stop hitting yourself-'
'Aaaah, ha ha, get, ha, get off-'
'-in the face you know, it just looks silly-'
'Right, you're getting-' She struggled underneath him, staging a doomed comeback, and he leaned his head back and laughed out loud as she failed. She flounced back, out of breath, mock pouting up at him.
'Have we learned our lesson? Hmmmmmm?'
'No!'
'Ah well, in that case-' But she was saved more tickle torture by a wailing from the other room. Both their shoulders slumped down with a smile, looking at each other.
'Your fault, gobby.'
'Your name was called, missy.'
'Well get off me then,' she said, slapping his thigh as he raised up off her and stood. She still paused to slap him again on the other leg as he rolled over on the settee, placing his hands behind his head and letting out a melodramatic sigh of over-acted comfort, a smug smile on his face. She stuck out her tongue as she left the room, and he waved her away with his fingertips, eyes closed, smile wider.
She walked down the hallway with a genuine smile of her own, shaking her head, and entering the room at the end of the corridor, wishing again that the sale would hurry up and go through. They'd been in this place two years too long as it was, and it had been too small even then. If it hadn't been for her seemingly endless job troubles, they'd have already been out years ago...but at least they'd found their place now, deposit ready, rock and roll. Just needed the buyer to pull their finger out. It had been a good place, a happy place, but times like this just proved the need for somewhere bigger. A proper house. They'd got this place together inside the city centre for work convenience (plus both of their former places had been with former spouses, and neither had wanted to move into a former lover's spot. Though if Rob's wife hadn't gotten their fantastic house after the divorce, leaving him with nothing to put towards their home, she could have been tempted to move in there if he'd twisted her arm...) and, after all, she'd always liked living in town, and hadn't wanted to change that at the time.
She opened the door, the room lit by the blue glow of the night light. Saw the Spongebob wallpaper, the small bed, the toys still strewn on the floor (but now was the not the time for a nag) the small lump under the covers, the sleepy eyes peering from a blonde head surrounded by a faded Ben 10 pillow. She didn't see her dead husband look up at her, wide eyed, from his kneeling position by the bed as she came in, face red and streaked with tears, hands balled into fists on his thighs in an attempt to stop the damn shaking. Didn't hear him call her name, didn't hear him frantically apologising at a manic pitch, didn't hear him saying the boy was just like theirs would have been, would have been if not for Glasgow, how he was beautiful. She sat quietly on the bed and smiled at her five year old, the woman and the boy beautiful together in the blue light.
‘Hey...did we wake you up sweetie?'
'Yersss...'
'Oh, I'm sorry sweetheart...' And she gathered him in her arms, pulling him into a sitting position. He clung to her, eyes already puffing over, closing with a gentle breath. 'Were you scared?'
'Didden know...waddit was...'
The woman chuckled.
'Ah, it was just Daddy and me playing. We didn't mean to be so noisy sweetie, I'm sorry.'
'S'ok...'
'D'you want me to sing to you? Sing the cloudy song?'
'…'
And she held him for a minute longer to make sure he was asleep, sitting on the bed. Not seeing the shaking arms attempting to wrap around them both, not hearing the constant stream of breathless apologies spewing forth like a madman's mantra. She laid her son down on the bed, watching him for a moment, before pulling the duvet up to his chin and cinching it in along his sides, leaving him cocooned. She tiptoed to the door and closed it behind her, smiling again to herself as she tiptoed back down the corridor, not seeing the mumbling, weeping figure that followed her all the way.
***
Chapter 8: In Which We See The Flames That Made A Lesser Phoenix, A Painful Goodbye, The Death Of Frank Bowler, And Hear Whispers In The Dark
***
'Helen?'
'Mmmf.'
'Helen. Helen. Wake up. It's the sirens. The sirens are going off.'
'Sirens...'
'Listen! It's the bloody sirens.'
She's asleep on the settee, by the wireless of course; she always naps in the evening at this time of year. The winters have just always seemed to have that effect. They'd used to call it Helen's Hibernations. Richard had always let her; it was nice, the dark outside, with the comforting voice of the World Service as he got his paperwork done by lamplight. He loves it, in fact. Except they'd broken the radio a few weeks ago-he hadn't gotten round to getting a new one-and now he'd been working by the light of a single candle since the blackout was ordered. He'd huffed about it at first, but since the summer, he believed in it wholeheartedly. Ansty had been close enough; Hillfields, far too close. So now Richard's windows were covered up without question, and even if the radio had been working, hell, he'd have turned it off.
Helen had talked of leaving of course; she wasn't normally that kind of woman, but seeing the ruins of the Rex had really shaken her up. But they'd talked about it (he'd talked her down, of course) and they'd both agreed in the end. This was their city. They supported it. And he'd put too much work into it to let the Germans chase them from their own homes through fear. Besides, what was the Home Guard FOR if it wasn't going to keep them safe, darling? In the end, he'd convinced her.
And now Richard is frightened, and almost-almost-wishing he'd listened to her. The sirens have started, and he's certain he can hear something else, something behind them, closer. Or maybe he's imagining it. Either way, he wants her awake, wants her to be able to react if need be. Plus, he needs her awake.
'Whattumizzit...'
He looks at his watch; it's gone 7. Dark now, winter time. Cover of darkness, bastards.
'It's 7, darling. Come on now, up you get, quickly now.' He puts an arm around her shoulder and pulls her upright.
'Richard...'
'Please don't argue, darling. Can't you hear them?'
And she can now, and concern penetrates sleepiness. She looks at him, and her face catches the candlelight; past 50, and still with that round faced beauty that the lines and looseness of age can't dampen. He catches his breath, and in spite of the situation, he smiles. She smiles back, confused, wondering why, and there are too many reasons to say. Twenty five happy years, no badgering him over work, always understanding the long hours and the passion, always supportive, no self-pity over her inability to bear the children he knew she always wanted so badly, her childlike appreciation of all the little things he ever did...he sees it in that darkened room. He strokes her face, and she touches his hand.
'We'd better get in the cellar, Helen.'
'The cellar? You romantic brute, you. Be still, my beating heart. Take me on the tins of paint...'
'HEL-en...'
'All right, all right, I know. Can I get more clothes? It'll b
e freezing cold in there.'
'Yes, but quickly. The blankets are down there, though.'
'Yes, yes, I know...' She stands, and runs a hand across Richard's back as she leaves the room. He listens again; there's definitely something else behind the sirens. Louder. Engines. Of course, he can't look out of the window because of the taped covering, but he's certain. The usual paranoia, Helen would say, but he doesn't think she'd be right this time.
He picks up the plate with the candle on it, puts on his shoes-the cellar will be dusty-and makes his way into the back of the house while he waits. Might as well check the cellar door. Anything to take his mind off the steadily growing fear. It's not a fear of dying (the concept is too unthinkable; it's an air raid and he knows no one personally who has been killed so far. What was the total for June and August, about 20 deaths?)but fear of losing everything they’d earned. They'd have each other, but getting where he is has taken WORK. They won't come here anyway, he’s certain, but his heart IS still racing...is it excitement? He's not sure.
He crouches under the stairs, and pulls on the rope for the trapdoor. It sticks a bit, but it comes up with a creak of wood upon wood. He leans in, holding the candle out ahead of him; he doesn't think there will be rats, but it's not an idea he's particularly happy about, and Helen would be terrified. The light reveals the tiny room, its bare floor and walls, the cobwebs and tea chests containing Helen's keepsakes and his certificates. In a cleaner corner he sees the recently laid pile of blankets and tins of food. He knows people that have done more, but they are a lot more fearful of the raids, even more so than Richard.
He hears her feet on the stairs above him, and he rises. She's put on her old coat, and her thick slippers. She's got it wrapped tight around her, prepared, even though the house isn't cold. She flashes him a brief smile.
'Come on then, Clark Gable.' she says with a forced smile, 'Let's get down there.' She sighs, and stops, and looks at him, face slightly scrunched, feeling guilty about what she was going to say. 'I hate this.' she says.
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