“Simply, it means that I can just play and prey and play without having to keep an eye on things. I like it better that way. And as he is on his way out-although I much, much, much prefer to play with the Loose ones-this time I will make an exception, Bowler. I can't Break you into Looseness, no, but you are already going. And with Hart gone, after I Break you, you will have no one there. And then I will find you, and Break you again. And find you again, and Break you again, with no Hart to help you...balance inside. I will have you lost within 2 months, much quicker, much better, and better to start now, yes?” The Beast now began to crouch slowly, and Bowler saw his arms begin to spread wide again. It was now or never. The Beast was winding up to attack, this was clear, ending his speeches, ending the opening ritual. Get him thinking!!
“But how...how does it work? How does he escape?”
“Do you really think I would tell you, Bowler? Really?” and The Beast began to advance.
“But...what...what...” NOW, do it NOW!! Something he's not thinking about right now, something to shift his mind, he's coming, he's COMING, DO IT!!
“What...what...your name!” That's it! Something stuck way back in his head, something totally unexpected!! “Your name! What is your NAME!!” yelled Bowler, as loud as he could, hands out in desperation and shoulders half turned for a desperate, doomed run.
And The Beast stopped dead in his tracks, his arms falling by his sides, slack and limp. All Bowler could hear was the sound of his enormous, imaginary breathing.
That's IT! Now fucking RUUUNNNN!!
And without any hesitation, Bowler turned to sprint full pelt through the back wall, and had not gone as much as a single step when The Beast's hand whipped out and snatched him up by the leg in an iron grip. He was trapped utterly, and all hope died in Bowler's heart. There was no escape; he was doomed.
He looked back along his leg, saw the vast shape of The Beast's shovel hand gripped around his calf, and looked along to the now crouching, hulking mass connected to it, sprung from his worst nightmares. Bowler heard the low chuckle begin, signalling the pain that was to come.
“That is an easy one, Bowler. You should have picked something harder. Because there is no answer. I no longer remember. I have been The Monster, The Hunter, and now The Beast for so long, and prefer them, for they are more right then any other name could ever be.” And The Beast began to drag Bowler along the floor towards him, and Bowler began to scream as he kicked ineffectually against the huge hand clamped on his leg, a fly drawn by the cruellest spider. The dark shape began to fill Bowler’s vision, seeming to swallow him whole. As The Beast drew Bowler in, he spoke, in a hissing, horribly keen, horribly hungry voice he had not yet used. Becoming more breathless, more excited.
“The worst thing is, Bowler, is that this place could not be much more cruel! To be so close to a hospital, to have a hospital just outside the wall-SO close-and yet not close enough. So many exits in there, so many every day! But here...what do YOU think the chance is of one of the living people dying within the boundaries of this place? In the street or in their home, with you being there to see it? So cruel! So cruel! So cruel!!” And The Beast began to laugh, a desperate, horrible laugh, beginning to hand over control to his very worst side now that he had Bowler, now that he knew Bowler was his. In his complete terror, struggling helplessly and pitifully like a worm on a hook, Bowler understood nothing of what had been said. He could only think of the coming pain.
“Ohhhhhh, Bowler” said the Beast as he stood over Bowler now, snatching Bowler's wrist in his other hand as Bowler desperately swung one last futile punch at the Beast's knee, hoping against hope to stagger him. “You must have something to say. This is the last day of hope you will ever know, after all! After all! After ALL!”
And all Bowler could think to say in his fear and confusion was,
“Why...why are you doing this?”
But The Beast's response was a guttural, animal snarl that signalled the end of his lucidity, and began the Breaking by tearing Bowler's hand off at the wrist.
***
Hart looked down at the dying man on the bed. Unsurprisingly, he didn't recognise him. Even if it had been a living face Hart had known from the streets, from the pub, anywhere, he probably wouldn't have been able to place it now. Not just for the haggard, yellowing, sunken skin, and hollow cheeks, but for the oxygen mask that covered most of his face and aided his slowly weakening breathing. Add this to the blue light that filled the room-filled Hart as well-emanating from the dying man's body, and shining so brightly at the source that Hart had to squint just to make out the figure beneath.
There was a drip connected to the man, and other machines Hart didn't recognise, but he knew that this kind of home care did not come cheap; just as he could tell that the family downstairs-and the handful of people upstairs, the middle aged children, their spouses, and the dying man's nurse-were not affluent enough to have this kind of private help as standard. This was costing them more than they could afford. This was a man who was much-loved.
Somehow, Hart could feel the time left. The light would intensify, and then...as the dying man went on...Hart would go with him. Hart would...leave. It was so clear.
Although how exactly it would work, Hart didn't yet know, but he knew he would when the time came. And he was quite happy, more than happy, to stand here bathing in this until it did. It spoke to him, called to him, but not in words, just in a pull that seemed to tug at his very being. It felt like...peace. And Hart had not known peace-not even the release of sleep-in such a very, very long time.
He wondered if he'd have thought of this on his own. He thought he probably would have eventually, but even so, until confronted with it like this-and when would he have been in the presence of a dying person, without actively looking, and going Loose in the process-would he have believed it? No. He'd never believed, even when Simon thought of it.
He moved closer to the dying man, listening to the beep of the machine, the gentle rattle of his breathing, the quiet sobs of the family members behind him. He wondered who'd been at his funeral. He wondered what Helen would think. Helen, where are you, he thought for the millionth time, and for the first time he was not afraid to hold on to the thought, to let it stab viciously into his heart.
He stretched his hands out towards the heart of the glow, wanting more, eager to feel it at its most powerful; it would be a rush, he knew. But then there was something else. Something else was growing, another energy, slowly but clearly. Hart flinched, concerned, but then realised what it was.
The dying man was beginning to truly die. It was the final stretch. Hart could feel something coming from him, into the blue glow, very slowly beginning to fill it. At this stage, Hart thought, if he'd been on the other side of the room, he wouldn't have been aware, but here, at the heart of it, he could sense it beginning.
So that was how it would work. The dying man would fill the blue, become the blue, and Hart would do the same; there would be just room for one passenger. He knew this, could feel the strength of it, and knew there would be just enough. The old man would then take the blue with him, wear it unseen for his next time around. Ironic that, at the end, everything he'd learned about walking on the ground, staying solid, would be the opposite of what he had to do here. He had to let everything go...
He thought of Bowler.
You were right. I'm a coward, Bowler, but I'm stronger than you. I should have been a better friend. I should have given you this chance, because you need it more. But I can't. I can't take any more, and I'm so, so scared. Goodbye, my friend.
And he stood, and waited, and felt the blue continue to fill up, and felt the old man's memories, the old man's life, began to come through him.
***
Bowler lay broken and alone, and all he knew was pain. Unending, total, all-consuming, agonising pain. He couldn't see anything-like before-but he could just about hear. He thought The Beast was gone, and that was the only good thing he knew. That the en
dless, endless pain and torture (The Beast knew so, so many ways to hurt, had learned so many in his time here, ways that simply weren't possible in the living world. This was a fact he had gleefully repeated over and over as he had carried them all out on Bowler, one by one) was done, but that was immediately followed by the knowledge that it was only a matter of time until it happened all over again. That as soon as was well, he would have to run, always, and do it alone.
You could find someone. A Checkin. Like Hart did. That would help, wouldn't it? If one came? Could you hang on that long, if it took years before another one?
The thought was vague, and brief, but Bowler couldn't think straight enough through the pain to consider it. Could I? What? Running? Then it was gone, and the broken glass feeling all over him blotted out everything again. And Hart. Where was Hart? Why wasn't he here, talking to him, helping him?
But Hart was gone, of course. He had no idea where to, but he remembered that Hart had left, left some time ago, and that he would be long arrived at wherever it was he had gone to. He remembered being angry. So angry. But now, lost in his Broken cloud, he couldn't find it in himself to blame Hart. Couldn't blame Hart for leaving him. Although, the thing that saddened him the most was, if Hart had just asked, Bowler would have let him take the exit, wouldn't have needed to abandon him.
Are you sure that's true? Would you have let him take it, when it came right down to it?
He didn't have an answer. And a fresh wave hit him, and he went under again.
When he became aware again-the pain being the worst awakening ever, his body destroyed and regrowing so slowly, so painfully-his hearing was better. He could hear slight sounds, a rhythmic noise. And he could tell someone was close by.
“Hello, Bowler. Can you hear me?”
“Hart...” Bowler couldn't believe it. Relief washed over him; if only his eyes would work! He could see his old friend, know he was back! But he couldn't see. He would never see Hart again, although Bowler did not know this. “Eyes...”
“Yes, yes, your vision will be shot for a bit, you know that. Oh...goodness me, Bowler, I leave you alone for five minutes, and look what happens. What the hell were you doing, tangling with The Beast? I swear, I do nothing but waste my breath on you. Stupid boy.”
“...Hart?”
“All right, yes, I suppose it doesn't matter now. But you'll be OK, that's the main thing, although I know it's...well, it's clearly very bad right now.”
It took so much effort, but Bowler had to say it.
“M......m'sorry....Hart....”
He heard Hart pause, and then sigh heavily.
“Goodness me, Bowler. After...you're apologising to me? You never cease to amaze me, young man. Look...please don't apologise. All right? This is hard enough as it is.”
“We...'gether...'gain?”
Another pause, longer this time, and another, heavier sigh.
“I'm afraid not, Bowler. I'm afraid...this is simply goodbye. There was time enough for it, I could tell. I can feel how long. Time to find you-you're easy, you never go far from the very centre-and I couldn't...well, I had to say goodbye.”
For a moment, the sinking feeling, the comedown from the euphoria of Hart's return, was worse than the pain. Then you shouldn't have come back, don't you know how cruel that was?
Bowler heard Hart shuffle, like he was getting himself into a more comfortable position.
“The thing is,” Hart continued, “If I'm to be totally honest, this is along the same lines of what I'd planned. Obviously, nowhere near this bad, but...I was going to go and check, make sure the exit was there, then come and say goodbye, and tell you how to get out once I'm gone...but break your leg or something, just to make sure you couldn't follow, thus avoiding the risk of you jumping in first. Because I wanted you to know, you understand,” he added, wanting to make sure Bowler got it. “I couldn't leave without giving you a chance to get out yourself, without you knowing how. Although...well, when that chance might be, who knows...” He sighed again, and after the longest pause yet he continued speaking, but more heavily, wearily, and Bowler was amazed to hear Hart crying. He was suddenly glad he couldn't see.
“I know I could overpower you if you tried to, I don't know...muscle me out of there or something, but you never know with these things. If you were closer at the right second...so I'd just make sure you couldn't follow me. Just a little break, not a Break, if you know what I mean. But...I never wanted this...”
Hart broke off, and there were muffled sniffs. Bowler knew that his friend was still, even now, trying to maintain the old Hart dignity. And Bowler decided to abandon his completely. Here was his only chance.
“Hart...please...I can't...make it.....mmm.....nnnn....need....you....”
“Bowler...please...” said Hart with a wavering voice. “Just...don't, all right? I came to...ahh...to say goodbye, and this is very, very difficult, so just...” He suddenly broke off, and Bowler heard him catch an imaginary breath. When he spoke again, he was breathless.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “I...I can feel it. It's now. It's time already. I thought there was longer...I might have missed it? I can't...can you imagine? I can't believe I...oh God...Helen...”
Who's Helen? thought Bowler, crazily. Something was going on. This was it. Hart was leaving. Hart was leaving.
“HART...please. Need....you...”
“Shut up, Bowler!” snapped Hart, “This is important! This...can you feel it? It's very important, can you feel it?”
Feel what? All I can feel is pain thought Bowler. Please, just stay, and we'll talk about whatever you want, anything.
“Nnnn.....”
“Damn...shit! Then maybe...ah, the pain, maybe that's blocking...closer, you need to be closer...okay, okay, tell me if this makes a difference.”
And Hart lifted Bowler's Broken body from the floor of the dying man's upstairs room and held him above the blue, right in the heart of the energy, and all the pain went away.
All Bowler could feel was warmth and peace, and he became suddenly even more intangible in Hart's arms. Incredibly, Bowler’s entire weight vanished, and he began to float. Hart, stunned to find Bowler suspended in mid-air now, backed away to let Bowler hover there, held in the warmth of the blue.
Bowler was flooded with the old man's life, memories buffeting him, filling him, his mind clearing and healing but cramming with images of things he'd never done, and with sheer will he pulled his own thoughts free and managed to focus just enough to speak aloud-blind eyes filled with nothing but blue, blue, BLUE-building to a desperate scream,
“Hart! What...no...not me! Not me! We'll stay together! I haven't earned this! Hart, you earned this! Seventy years! You don't need to do this! Hart!! Please!!”
And Hart stood there, tears streaming down his face, and smiling at the same time, remembering the dying memories of Christopher Phelps:
...lung cancer, but at 92 he'd had a damned good innings, and no-one he'd ever known had managed to become a great grandfather...
...retiring with tears in his eyes, his loved ones around him from the shop floor, a beautiful, beautiful gold watch they'd all chipped in for, and he's so happy, all that would be needed to make it perfect would be for his Iris to be here...
...it's actually twins, double Grandad, a boy and a girl, and we're calling the boy Chris...
…exactly what they wanted, a little girl, even though little Steve had wanted a baby brother, but his face when they brought her home, and Christopher didn't have his camera, dammit...
...promotion, but in the end he'd gone back to the floor, he didn't like the suit, he preferred to work with his hands, and they'd never been hard up...
...first day on the job, and Iris had put that letter and that saucy photo in his lunchbox, and although he's over moon he instantly thinks I wonder where she got it developed, I can never show my face again in there...
…the happiest day of his life, that's what they'd said it would be, and they weren'
t bloody wrong, not at all, and he can see it in her eyes that she's the same...
...pulling Trevor up off the beach as the bullets whicker around them, because he OWES Trevor, owes him his life, and so he drags the man him behind him-he'll always wonder how he managed it-and they head towards the gun turrets-
...a bike on his sixteenth-
-And Hart opens his eyes and pulls himself free, his course of action changed irrevocably, and runs out the door for Bowler, praying there is enough time...
“Please Bowler. Don't make me change my mind. I...owe you everything. You bought me the time to find out the truth. And you...yes, I might want this, Bowler. I might want it so, so badly. But you...you need it. And I owe you. I know this now.”
Desperation, sheer desperation rattled around the blue in Bowler's mind, even though it was soothing him, warming him, like coming home, but he knew was abandoning his friend.
“Hart!! No!! Haaaaaart!!”
“And...I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend. I think...this is the best gratitude, and apology I can show you. Goodbye. I will...” and Hart hesitated, struggling with his words. “....I will miss you, my friend.”
“Haaaaaaart!! I-I-I....I love-”
And there was a flash, and all the blue in the room wrapped itself around Bowler, formed a cocoon around his body, hiding him from view and cutting off his voice.
And despite his choice, Hart let out a pained gasp, an animal moan, as he watched the exit close. Watched it close around his friend.
The cocoon started to brighten-at first to a brighter blue, then to a turquoise, then changing to a glowing, fuzzy white light-and began to rise, slowly, towards the ceiling. Something large fell from it, and Hart was not surprised to see it was Bowler's frozen body-his discarded shell-fall to the bed. Even in the moment, Hart noted that it didn't pass through. He had time to notice the expression, same as George's; eyes wide, mouth open, hands raised, but Hart now knew it wasn't to protect himself, and that the expression wasn't fear; it was to reach for the blue, embrace it, with a look of sheer amazement, just as he realised that the now white cocoon containing the energies of Christopher Phelps and Frank Bowler was beginning to rise. It was going to pass through the ceiling, over the heads of the people in the room that were now standing up and moving towards the bed, some with small cries of “Dad?” and “Grandad Chris?” and fresh, silent tears springing from the eyes of others. It's all right! Hart wanted to tell them, He's fine! But the more urgent issue was following Bowler.
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