Further back, amongst the maze of cheaply made, affordable garments that were creating black hedges and obstacles in the gloom.
In the daytime, this place would have been a bustling, packed, bright centre of consumerism, full of people taking advantage of the prices. But now, in the heavy dark, it looked something like an Egyptian tomb; foreboding, silent, abandoned, and full of indistinguishable relics. Silent.
Even Bowler, in his hope and relief, noted that something was odd about Hart seeming to deliberately move further into the room, even worrying perhaps, but it was quashed by the overriding need for contact. He jumped down the steps and began to make his way through the darkened store, even now going round them out of habit. Twelve years, and still some things didn't change. He was peering through the gloom as he picked his way along, eyes adjusting slightly, but still couldn't see Hart. Hart was taller than these clothing racks, wasn't he? Bowler should be able to at least make out his figure. Maybe he was crouching, looking at whatever he wanted to show Bowler.
Maybe he's hiding, a voice said in his head, and this time it penetrated properly. Bowler stopped in the dark.
“Hart?”
“Over here Bowler. Come quickly. You need to see what it is I have to show you.”
Bowler jumped slightly. The voice was now a lot closer than Bowler thought it would be. And now he stopped to think about it, Hart's voice sounded odd. He'd been so relieved to hear his name that he'd taken it as read that it was normal-and hell, who else talked to him here? A voice saying ‘Bowler’ meant Hart, and always had-but now it seemed like Hart sounded different. Where was he? He'd thought Hart would be ten feet or so further away. Had he over-estimated how far away Hart was, the darkness inside the store affecting his perception? It sounded now like Hart had actually moved past him, like Hart was now slightly behind to his left, behind the nearest rack of clothes. Or he moved in the dark, said the voice again. He called you from over there, and while you moved towards him, he moved around behind you, behind the clothes, where you couldn't see, to put himself behind you. Between you and the way you came in.
“Come over here, Bowler.”
The voice spoke again-firmer-from behind the nearest black shape, from behind him, and now when Bowler heard it, now he was ready to consider the possibility, now he was waiting for it, he heard the voice and knew with an icy chill that whoever or whatever was talking to him in the dark, it was not Hart. Worse still, it was a voice that wasn't Hart's and somehow he could still hear it.
And whoever, or whatever it was, Bowler thought, it was hiding between him and the way out.
Crouching and waiting for him. Bowler realised, far too late, that he had walked blindly into a spider's parlour. He stood still in the blackness, while his hands spasmed violently and fear froze him to the spot, listening desperately for any sound and knowing with dread that he was not alone in the dark. He could think of nothing but the way George's dead body had crumbled in his hands.
***
Chapter 9: In Which Bowler Discovers-The Hard Way-How George And Mark Died, And Other Questions Are Answered.
***
Elsewhere, whilst Bowler was experiencing the terror of the abandoned store, Hart made his way slowly up Starley Road. Being so close to the ring road meant he could hear traffic every now and then; passing cars were not a constant sound this late at night. He had to admit, he'd always liked this, and in the past, though the appeal had worn off a long, long time ago, in his madder (Looser) moments-during a crazy phase, a brief, mad period of a few months before he got himself under control-he used to walk out into the middle of the ring road, at times like this, on nights like this. Standing in the streetlit dark with cars coming intermittently, and letting the cars 'hit' him. Letting them pass through. As he was stood-and the vehicles passengers were sat-he didn't have to go through the eyes of anyone, so it was mainly the thrill of putting himself in the path of what his instinct thought was imminent danger. Over the years, it had become something his mind had pretty much learned to ignore, though he still tended to avoid cars. Bowler would never have believed he ever did anything like that, he thought with a smile, but the smile quickly faded.
He reached the right house, and paused for a moment. It was possibly an extremely momentous occasion, one the of the biggest, if not the biggest of his existence-after all, his time in the Foyer was longer than his time alive on earth-and so it required a moment of reflection. Though, not too much, as his information was at best unreliable. But he didn't think so. Now he was this close, he thought he could even physically feel something. Feel something different in the surroundings, here in this place, leaking into him.
His information…Sarah. What she'd told him a week ago, lying broken at his feet. It had been deeply unpleasant for them both, but she'd told him what he'd needed to know. That was the main thing right now. No point thinking about the rest. Focus.
Sarah, George, Mark, Bowler...Simon. Poor, poor Simon. Simon who was absolutely right all along, but never got the chance Hart had right now. Simon who abandoned him, and who paid the price in the end. Hart couldn't blame him. Wasn't he doing the same thing to Bowler? But he'd sort it so Bowler at least knew how to get out, how to at least have some chance, whenever it may come, and however many years it might take. Bowler would just have to make sure he stayed sane, and it wasn't Hart's responsibility anymore. Dammit, hadn't he looked after Bowler enough? The boy would have gone Loose in a week. No. Seventy years was more than enough, and more than he'd deserved.
He'd blamed Simon for such a long, long time...but now he understood. And for once, instead of hating him, he pitied Simon for being doomed to become the mad, creeping thing that he undoubtedly now was.
***
Bowler still hadn't moved for over a minute, and neither had the voice spoken again from behind the clothing rack. The silence was deafening. Bowler's ears strained to hear for more movement, to hear any possible manoeuvres going on in the dark, but he heard nothing. He looked back to the entrance steps. Twenty feet away. It was possible he might make it, but he could hear Hart's real voice in his head. Five years since Mark was killed. And he knew that whatever was in here with him was something very deadly indeed.
He looked back to the coat rack, gauging distance as his imaginary heart pounded in his chest, and the voice finally spoke again, physically jolting him. It was lower this time, deeper, more resonant. Now any attempt to imitate Hart's nasal pitch had been dropped entirely, like it knew that there was no point continuing the pretence. It was a creeping voice, a cruel voice, with a crack to it that left Bowler in no doubt that the speaker was entirely insane.
“You are wondering if you can get out in time. If you can get away.” it said. It sounded as if it were smiling broadly now, it's trap sprung beautifully, pleasingly. Bowler's eyes were wide and terrified in the dark.
“Bowler...” it continued.
The pause went on, as if the speaker was enjoying it.
“You cannot.”
And the speaker stood, and as he did so Bowler realised the large dark shape he'd been looking at wasn't a coat rack at all, it was the speaker, huge and crouched and hunched, the near total blackness and surrounding obstacles and unlit promotional boards meaning the difference was undetectable. As it stood, its vast size expanding fully, Bowler realised just how much peril he was in, as before him, filling the space between Bowler and his escape, stood The Beast.
His immense grin was visible even in the darkness, and his black eyes were shadowed even further by his enormous brow. And Bowler realised the situation was even worse, the intense terror of the moment blanking out the question How the hell can I hear him and replacing it with Please God let me get away from here, let me out of the parlour because he finally realised that The Beast had been talking, The Beast had been cunning, and that meant he was fully, totally lucid, and that meant there would be no escape this time. The Beast had Bowler all to himself.
“Hello Bowler,” he said, speaking in
a voice like seawater over jagged pebbles, and grinning wider as he did so. “I am afraid you have made a terrible, terrible mistake.”
***
Hart straightened up with a slight shiver, turned, and-after checking up and down the street for other Guests, of course-he entered the house.
The stairs greeted him, heading upwards directly from the entrance hall, and to the right was the living room. He looked into it. As he expected, there was quite a few people there; what looked to be an extended family, 10 or 11 people in the small room. The older ones filled the 3 piece suite, the younger members sat cross legged on the floor. No-one was talking, and the adults that were clearly couples were holding hands, or had their arms around one another. The TV wasn't on, there wasn't even any music playing, and all of that was to be expected. The silence was oppressive, the lack of TV noise notable, and this triggered the memory in Hart's mind.
What he'd seen, and what he hadn't told Bowler...
***
The Beast lazily spread himself as wide as he could, planting his feet far apart and filling Bowler's path utterly, looking down at him. The Beast cocked his head to one side very slowly, taking nearly 30 seconds to move it to one side. Still grinning, as if regarding his prey. He was silhouetted almost totally now, as the only light was now coming from directly behind him. Bowler couldn't see what he was wearing fully, but from the shape of it, it looked like he was still in his enormous donkey jacket and trousers. His vast hands caressed each other in front of his chest.
“I know what Hart says about me, Bowler,” he said, his head not moving in the dark. “About my...changes. My moods. You are wondering what you have in front of you now. Which mood am I in? Is this right? Is this what you are thinking? In there?”
No, Bowler thought. I already know that. You're at your most dangerous, and I'm wondering how the hell I can get out of here alive without ending up like the others. Without becoming a dead statue, however you do it. If I can stop shitting myself and think straight, which isn't fucking easy even when I'm not trying to get away from monsters. Think. Talk!
“Uh....uh...uh...” said Bowler, and his hands rattled against his sides like freshly caught fish. The Beast spotted it, and that horrible, liquid, bubbling voice gave a gentle gargling laugh.
“Bowler, you are on your way, yes you are. Hart was not enough to keep you safe, was he? You were not ever going to be one to last long here, I think so, yes, I think so. I think you would have lost yourself soon, yes, another few years, or perhaps a little less, and you would have lost yourself, Hart or no Hart.” He edged slightly closer, glacier-like, and Bowler equally moved away. There was roughly three feet of space between them, and Bowler could see no opportunity for escape here. The Beast would cover three feet in a nanosecond.
“But Hart is leaving now, yes he is,” The Beast continued, “And you will be lost a lot quicker, I think so. Poor Bowler.” Bowler could hear in The Beast’s voice that the grin had spread, and realised that his only choice right now was to spin this conversation out. He wasn't having any ideas, and he needed time to think-he just couldn't switch on-and he needed to get The Beast talking so he could have time to do so. Talking. Talking.
“I...I can...h-hear you...constantly...you're talking...”
The Beast let out a pleased noise that sounded like a water draining out of a bath.
“Oh yes, you can. You can hear. You can hear because I can make you hear. It is a matter of projection. That is the word. Pro. Ject. Tion. I send the sounds into you, into your head. I like how you and Hart managed it though. Clever. But my way is simpler. It just takes a long, long, long, long, long, long time to learn. Very long.”
Bowler had a second to be amazed by this, but then The Beast suddenly jabbed both hands at him, like a parent scaring a child playfully, his head and shoulders dropping as he did so and lunging with his upper body. There was a sound like a snorting bull. Bowler jumped several feet back, and perhaps would have had a moment to make a run for it, had he not stumbled and fallen onto his back. He scrambled to his feet to run, but by the time he had done so, The Beast was already moving close again, was already too close, chuckling way back in his throat with a low rumbling sound.
“Very long,” he said again. “Far, far longer than you. Far, far longer than Hart. Far, far longer than anyone. Yes...”
Through his fear, curiosity-no more than that, a need to know-pulled at Bowler. Here were answers, and he wouldn't die without them.
“How...how long? How long have you been here?”
The Beast's laughter stopped. In the dark, he saw the shape of the great head with its vast brow cock to the side slightly. The Beast went silent. His hands wavered slightly in the air, and, for a moment, he seemed utterly distracted. It was like he'd been switched off. There was total silence.
He's thinking, said a voice in Bowler's head. He's gone. That's how much it takes for him. Move! Move NOW, now- But the chuckle started up again as if it had simply been taken off pause, and The Beast was back online again. The moment was gone, but Bowler thought had seen a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness. With The Beast in this lucid frame of mind, this devilishly cunning and thinking frame of mind, he had a chance. He'd seen a weakness. It obviously took more effort for The Beast to stay in this state, and as a result he perhaps could be closed down, if only briefly? Bowler dared not believe it, but it was something, and as the sense of doom lifted slightly, so did his fear, his mind-though still racing and as fractured as it had become even before now-got a grip on hope and told him If we're smart...there's a chance we can get out of this.
“There is no way to be completely certain, Bowler, as you know, but it is at least six hundred years. I think that it is perhaps more than this. Can you imagine? Can you imagine? No, you cannot.” He stopped for a moment, and his head shook like he was being electrocuted. His shoulders joined in, and there was a growling noise. Then he stopped, and all was quiet again. “I am...still with you,” The Beast said, in a voice that was almost a sigh, like a man speaking after a great physical effort. “I choose to be. It is not as enjoyable when I am...other. You understand.”
Bowler did. You want to be fully aware of just how much you enjoy killing me. But how the hell do you do it? Did you develop that as well? How? Keep him TALKING. The natural next question came easily, because he so desperately wanted to know.
“So Hart was wrong? If you've been here six hundred years, I mean, people's time here doesn't run out? Mark and George were killed...and you killed them...”
The Beast suddenly roared with laughter, clapping his hands rapidly, like a delighted child. But he never took his gaze off Bowler, who could feel it upon him like a steel trap.
“Ah, yes, yes, Hart's 'theory' yes? I did like that. I listened, you know. Sometimes...when I try very, very hard, and I am not...other. When I am as I am now...I can listen. Listen from far away. I can listen to anyone here, you know. I can listen like I talk. I have learned so many things. Like your friend learned to be stronger. That was the first thing I learned. And I learned to be stronger still. Then bigger. Then many more things.”
“But we hid from you that time-”
“When you escaped from me once? I remember this. I was...other, then. I could not...listen, properly. To find you. Alas, even when I am as I am now, I cannot always listen. And even then, I become...other, and get...distracted, you see. So I very, very, very, very rarely hunt that way. But I am getting better with this. Over time. Getting quicker. And I have so much time. Soon I will be able to hunt this way whenever I like.” That low, low chuckle again, dark and sinister.
Bowler pushed the idea from his mind, and tried to focus on his only course of action; to keep asking the questions that came naturally, and wait for another lockdown. He opened his mouth without knowing what he was going to say, but then The Beast continued talking.
“But as for Hart's 'theory'? This place ending, people dying...You actually believed that, did you not? Yes, you did.”
/> Bowler just stared at him, stunned. Was this just crazy talk?
“He did a good job, I thought so. When I practised, practised my listening, a long way away, and listened to you many times. Many times. I thought Hart did a perfect balancing act. Keeping you off the...scent...of the truth...but making sure his companion was still there, still with him, but not a threat. Very clever. Clever Hart.”
“But...the truth is...you killed them. Why would he want to-”
“I have learned many, many things in my time here. But I have not found a way to kill what you call Guests. No. I have never learned this. Why would I kill my own toys? How can you kill what is already dead? There is no way to kill a Guest. You cannot kill a ghost.”
“But Mark and George-”
“They were never killed. They got what they wanted.”
***
What he'd seen, and what he hadn't told Bowler...
It lasts about ten seconds, and it means everything.
It is a news feature about a government initiative for poorer families, or something like that; Hart hasn't seen the start of it, so he can't get the whole story. It doesn't matter. He does know that it's being trialled in Leeds. Far away from Coventry. That in itself will be fascinating to Hart later, more potential layers to how it all works. But right now what does matter is the woman on the screen. The woman being interviewed in her living room as part of one of those 'voices of the public' montages. The woman sat in her living room with her son. The woman's son. The woman's SON. The ten year old boy sat surrounded in a blue glow.
A Bluey, yes, but a different Bluey than ever before. A Bluey Hart recognises. A Bluey that is clearly George as a ten year old boy.
Not only can Hart see it is, but he can feel it is. The ten year old boy sat awkwardly by his mother in a hoodie and jeans, clearly not wanting to be filmed, red with embarrassment, looking anywhere but at the camera. That boy is George. It radiates from the screen at Hart, and he doesn't know how, but he can feel it in every fiber of his being, which would be more than enough even if the kid wasn't the spitting image of George. Plus his mannerisms, the way he sits, the way he occasionally fiddles with his right ear…it is GEORGE.
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 24
