Hart didn't even flinch. Despite his current mental state, Bowler recognised that this should not have been the response to what he'd just said. He'd just taken the elephant in the room and shone a 1000 megawatt spotlight on it, and Hart was just standing there, slack faced and impassive. Bowler's laughter died.
“Not so long ago, Bowler,” said Hart, and Bowler realised that it worse than indifference. Hart was genuinely pitying him, and this raised a dim memory in Bowler’s mind, one he couldn’t grasp. “You'd have been fairly right about that. But not anymore. It might not make any difference to you, but...I'm really sorry to do this. I've...” He broke off, and huffed in a huge amount of imaginary air and blew it out heavily. With it came seventy years of stiff-upper-lippedness, and when he looked up Bowler could definitely see moistness in Hart's eyes. It was horrible.
“I can't risk missing this, and I have no idea when...” another sigh, another pause, and longer this time, an average man at the end of what little resources he had in the first place. “I've paid my dues, Bowler. I'll make sure you get your chance, I'll think of something. Though I have no idea how long it will be until you...” Another pause, and he shook his head at himself-it was clear where it was directed-but this time it concluded with Hart balling his fists until the knuckles whitened, guilt dismissed and replaced by anger.
“This is mine, and I've earned it. Seventy years, Bowler, seventy-godawful-years...” Hart looked around himself for a second, and Bowler saw his jaw harden and nostrils flare. Disgust. “And at the same time, Bowler, regardless...you keep up what you're doing and it's all academic. But me...” -Another look around- “I'm done. Don't follow me Bowler. I don't want to hurt you...and I hope you realise I really do mean that,” He added, quietly. It was clear now that his restraint was at breaking point, and so Bowler wasn't surprised when Hart wiped his mouth with his hand and, after a last glance at his former friend, turned and began to walk away.
Bowler felt intense panic wash through him. All previous thoughts went with it, and all he knew was that he needed to stop Hart. He scrambled back up to his knees on the concrete street.
“Hart! Hart!! Look-I’m sorry! I-I...I won’t come here anymore! I promise!We can make it like before, I promise, I promise!” Hart didn't stop this time. He kept walking down the street, and Bowler knew that in about 30 seconds he would be gone from view and that he would be alone amongst the dead, without even George or any of the others. How had he not seen this? What the hell was going on?
“I’m promising you, for god’s sake!! Listen! Listen to me! I’m promising! I'm promissiiiing!!” Hart kept walking, now action figure-sized in Bowler's view. “Hart! Haaaart! Please! Oh god, please! I can’t be alone here Hart! I can’t be alone here!! Hart!! Hart!! I need you, please, oh, oh please!!” But Hart kept going, and Bowler's shifting mind changed gear at the sight, that Hart was leaving him, that Hart could leave him. Couldn't he hear?
“You think I don’t know how you figured it out?! I’ve always known, you motherfucker!! Ever since Mark went as well, it was all so simple! Funny how, once you had me all locked in, that George died isn’t it?! Then Mark? Because you could gamble once you had me, couldn’t you?!?” Bowler began to pound his fists into the floor with every syllable, giving him the appearance of a child throwing a tantrum. Hart continued to walk. “You could try things out, or even smarter, plant the ideas in their heads and let them try them out, right?! More experiments!! And if they went wrong, you’d always have me, right? And now you’ve got it!! You’ve finally worked it out!! Well, well done, you fucking bastard!! I know what you did! I know you got them killed!! I know you got them kiiiiillllledd!!” This last was a guttural, hysterical shriek, and Bowler rolled onto his back and continued to scream to the sky, whilst Hart finally rounded the corner without turning to look back, carrying on to his destination.
Bowler never saw him again.
***
The bottle has helped take the edge off the pain of the black eye, but hasn't killed the rest of the pain in his face and won't even come close to killing the real pain, the soul-hurt, that fills his whole brain and makes him feel cold-literally, physically cold-all over.
He's in his living room-Their living room, a voice in his head throws at him, and he corrects it-and there is a lot of mess covering the floor, made worse by his own blood spread everywhere. That part wasn't intentional, although the systematic destruction of the TV, the shelves, the living room door, the lamp, the coffee table, the small dining table, and the pictures was. Every picture apart from the one he holds in his hands right now, the one that is giving him his current dilemma.
It has been, looking back, the worst evening he can imagine, though that makes it sound far, far too light, like am awkward dinner party. He shifts on the blood soaked settee, and that jolts the other physical pain. The worst one, much worse than the black eye, and the JD has helped with it a lot less than he thought it would. He thought that's what they did in films, used the booze, but he supposes it should have been pretty obvious it wouldn't work in real life. He grits his teeth and waits for it to die off.
While he does, he is-for the first time that night-able to separate himself from the situation and see it as an outsider would. He's drunkenly aware of that internal shift, and realises that at least the booze is doing something. This makes him smile, and he smiles more because he is smiling. It's good to know she left him with one thing. He can still smile, although he knows it will be brief. Even with his current positive shift of perspective, reflecting-for the 100th time in the last hour and a half-the rest of the evening's events will be...well, just look at yourself Frank, and see what it's all done to you.
But it's not just tonight, is it? The voice continues. She was right, she was totally right, and you even had a chance to fix everything and you FUCKED it, fucked US, fucked YOURSELF and left you with NOTHING, you fucking-but Bowler clamps down on it and yet cannot stop himself from going back to a time about two hours past, outside a big house in Allesley, the house he'd followed her to. Big place. Money. Money man. Big earner. Not a no-work fuck like Frank Bowler. Nononono. Sees her car parked outside, and amazingly, she's still stood on the doorstep in the arms of the other guy, a lengthy intense comfort session. Him comforting her because of her experiences with Bowler. Another man telling his wife, his WIFE, that it's OK because she's away from Bowler now, that she's with a good man, a better man, and that her HUSBAND is the cause of her pain.
Of course, Bowler is already out of the car and crossing the road, though neither of the pair have seen him yet. Part of his mind is assessing his rival; a little bit taller than he, but slimmer. He doesn't think this consciously. Instinct is doing it for him. Conscious, rational thought is not occurring in Bowler right now. Were anyone who knew Bowler to see him, they would not recognise him. This rage, this anger, this is not Frank Bowler. But whoever it is, he's striding across the road and the other guy sees him-Rob From Accounts, Bowler remembers-sees him, and to fuel Bowler's fire, he says something in Suzie's ear, and she turns to see him. She starts to say something, possibly in shock or anger-'Frank!'-but Rob From Accounts, has stepped in front of her and is ushering her into the house. She hesitates, but she GOES, she actually GOES INSIDE.
Then Rob From Accounts is stepping forward himself, crossing the distance between them over his lengthy gravel driveway, passing his Beemer in the twilight. His hands are raised, saying something about the police, and that he doesn't want things to get out of hand. Bowler isn't listening to his words-they're just noise, noise meant to distract him from what he wants to do, and there is nothing that will stop him-and is already swinging a heavy fist at Richard's head, who somehow isn't on the end of it like he should be, he's suddenly off to the side, and now his voice is raised too. That feels better to Bowler, though Rob From Accounts is saying something about not being an idiot, how the police are on their way for God's sake, but Bowler is already turning and swinging again, and this time something hits the inside of his fo
rearm, meaning the punch is stopped and it doesn't go where it's supposed to, and immediately after that something explodes on his left temple and everything goes white. He feels, far away, the gravel drive crunching against his back, and another white flash as the back of his head hits it too a split second after. He tries to spring back up, but his body isn't responding, and pain is exploding in his skull.
He's lost his bearings totally, but he can hear Rob From Accounts' heavy breathing, and then hears him say 'Don't get up. The police are on their way. Stay down,' and then crunching gravel as he heads back to the house. Bowler turns towards the sound, and horribly sees Suzie at the window, looking out, having seen the whole thing. She doesn't have her hand over her mouth, no tear in her eye, not even the opposite, not even a malicious grin, just that awful inexpressive face. Then she drops the curtain back as the door slams and Rob From Accounts has entered the house.
Bowler lies there, defeated-he is very aware of the sensation, if not the word-and staring at the sky, numbed and distant, like someone has hit the pause button on his fury. He is not aware of the logic consciously, but in his mind it is unquestioned.
He's been dropped, in many senses of the word, and in the process, it's like he's lost his right to anger. As the loser, he has to accept it. As the LOSER, he doesn't have a right to get mad; his place is to accept it. This is of his own making. How can he complain? After all, after everything he's done, doesn't he deserve this? These thoughts are not clearly spoken in his mind; they are abstract, a feeling rather than a cognitive process. He begins noticing a very new sensation; a very hollow, empty sensation in fact, as he lies there on the gravel in the night, still floodlit by the security light from the house. Pinned like a bug by the glare, his defeat and humiliation displayed starkly for all the world to see.
He feels unfillable. He thinks of holidays, he thinks of Christmas, he thinks of nights out with the boys, and in this very strange, whirling moment, they all seem black and white, sucked dry, and these are the things that should fill this hollow pit inside him, but they seem to be like adverts for insurance, boiled potatoes, junk mail. They stimulate nothing.
Part of him is aware of the need to leave. Police. The thought does connect; devastated, traumatised, and now humiliated (And it's all your fault, the voice says) that would be too much for a man who has already HAD too much. Dragged away in handcuffs? He may have brought this on himself, but he can't give them that on top of everything else. Please God no, not that. He needs to get up.
Struggling, and on very shaky legs, he manages to half walk, half crawl back to the car. He sees a wash of extra light flood the driveway around him-they've opened the curtains to see what's going on-but it drops away. She'd let him drive like this? Of course she would. She wants you gone.
The thoughts swirl. Pain, humiliation, revenge, recrimination, self-loathing (he MADE this, he deserves this) self-pity, pain. He fumbles with the door lock, gets in the passenger seat. He chances a look in the rear-view mirror. Already red and swollen, the left hand side of his face is a mess, and it will get a lot worse. He's been hit very hard and very well, by a man who knows how to do it properly. And that awful, awful twist in his gut comes again with the thought, and knowing that the man who did it will now be comforting his crying wife, and maybe later-
BUT IT'S YOUR FAULT, ASSHOLE! the voice screams, and Bowler actually slaps himself on the spot where he's been hit, sending white spots across his vision. He leans over to the passenger footwell and vomits. When the gagging stops, he can only think of getting away, and starts the engine. He somehow gets the car home.
Once there-once he has collapsed helplessly in the hallway, once he has cried himself totally dry, rolling and wailing like a pathetic child-all he can think of is drinking. The thoughts and confusion and pain and loss in his head is too much to deal with, and thank God he has a bottle of JD in the kitchen as he'd be fucked without it. After fumbling the cupboard open blindly, he gropes for it, finds it, opens it.
He drinks from the bottle, but cannot sit, as it's too much to sit still, too much in his head to allow him to settle in, and so he paces and swigs, paces and swigs, but it won't go away, it won't leave him alone, tearing at him, and after a while half the bottle is gone. Everything boils over, and his frustration comes out on all objetcs in sight.
And as he breaks their table, their TV, their things, unaware of his own screams, unaware of his neighbours sat up in their beds discussing whether they should phone the police, unaware of himself repeating her name, it comes to him how she just stood there, always just stood there, no matter what happened, nothing was big enough for her to act, and that empty feeling inside him grows until he can't imagine a time where it will ever be full. He sees a future that stretches out the same way every day, and it terrifies him beyond belief, and he doesn't want it, can't take it.
And he thinks how he can fix both, fix the fear and make SURE she reacts to SOMEthing.
And so now here he is, swigging occasionally from the bottle in his hand, the settee getting wetter and wetter around him. Although there is a growing sense of fear-a different fear-he feels a lot of relief. Not just from the physical pain; now more time has passed, it's finally ebbing, the booze doing something after all as it combines now with his slowly dimming senses, his slowly dimming awareness. But no, the relief is in his head as well.
He's escaping that terrible, terrible emptiness, and all the confusion is gone because none of it matters now. Everything is outside of his control, his choice, and it's wonderful. As his vision begins to cloud over he thinks he can hear a knocking at the door. Something dimly flickers in his head, but he can hear an authoritative male voice saying something, though Bowler realises it's nothing to get worked up about. Still, for a second there, as the thought of possible concern had flashed across his mind it triggered another one; is he sure he's not made a mistake? Well...too late now if you have, son the voice in his head says, and Bowler smiles faintly (his facial muscles are losing their ability to respond) although he can't seem to get his arm to bring the bottle to his mouth as he'd like now; his arm lies twitching slightly in his blood-soaked lap.
The knocking is starting up again at the door, louder, and the authoritative voice outside is speaking more forcefully, but he ignores it and lets his eyes close fully. That's even better, and although the fear is there now, stronger, in another part of his mind, that easy feeling talks to it, soothes it, helps it to accept what's happening.
Come on, it says. Whatever comes next...it can't be any worse than this.
***
Many hours later, Bowler stopped looking. He sat down in the sloping walkway outside Primark, closed now (it had long been dark out) all cried out, numb, and confused, unaware of his twitching hands (and, now, feet.) He was just so damn confused. Did Hart really say something about getting out? Had he made that bit up? Bowler thought he had. Had they even had that conversation? No...they’d had it. They definitely had. He just remembered being so certain that Hart was off, leaving him, but at the same time...he didn't seem to remember him actually saying so. Bowler just needed to talk to him, he was sure, so they could clear it all up. He remembered being angry, ridiculously angry, but now he just wanted to talk. If Hart wanted to him to say sorry, he'd say sorry. He just needed it explaining, for god's sake. He was just so damn confused. But he couldn't find Hart anywhere.
He sighed heavily, trying to piece the day's events together, and looked up and down the walkway, lit by ceiling lights. The closed chemists and bakery opposite were darkened holes, which seemed appropriate; nothing they sold would ever be of any use to him ever again. He ran his hands through his hair and thought about going back over to Suzie's. Something spoke to him inside, stronger than ever before, and told him that he shouldn't, that he should know better, especially after today (what the hell was that all about?) but he thought he probably would do, just for a bit. Just a little bit. Being alone today...he wasn't sure he could handle it.
“Bowle
r.”
Bowler nearly jumped clean off the floor. Hart! He was here! But he couldn't see him...Bowler looked up and down the street, and behind him.
“Hart? Where are you? I-I...look, I'm really glad you're here,” Bowler said, raising his voice, and turning as he talked, looking all around him, desperate for Hart to hear him.
“I don't know what's going on with me, and...I'm scared, Hart, I'm really scared. I know I've been a bit funny lately, but my hands, Hart, I can't stop my hands-”
“I'm inside the clothing shop, Bowler. Come inside the clothing shop.”
Bowler turned around to the wall of Primark he'd been leaning against. So that was where Hart's voice was coming from. Now he'd heard more, he could tell Hart was raising his voice. He must be quite a way inside the building. Bowler couldn't see him because he was inside. Of course. Why didn't Hart come out, though? Before now, that question would have given him pause, but this was a different time, and Bowler was a different man. Breathlessly, eagerly, Bowler passed through the wall and entered the building.
“I'm coming, Hart! Yes!”
Inside, the huge, cavernous building, it was extremely dark. The light from the entranceway gave some illumination, but other than that the first floor stretched away into gloom. There was an initial set of steps that led down to the shop floor, and Bowler stood at the top of these and called.
“Where are you, Hart? I can't see you.”
Bowler's head turned when the response, surprisingly, came from the left.
“I'm over here. Come and see this.”
It was further back than before, right in the middle of the shop floor, suggesting that Hart had moved further back into the dark once he knew Bowler was coming in, moving to somewhere amongst the standing racks of clothes that disappeared expansively across the enormous room.
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