Hart turned and ran for the door, passing through it and into the street, moving way back into the road to look up over the roof, waiting for a glimpse. Nothing at first, and then yes...there it was, that inexplicable airborne cocoon, shining like a miniature sun in the night sky. It started to angle upwards and across, beginning its journey out, and Hart's tears turned into sudden laughter, sheer joy.
Bowler was getting out, out of the Foyer, out of the prison, and as it suddenly struck him what Bowler had become-He's a Flyer. He's a bloody FLYER!!-Hart let out of a whoop of joy, jumping up and down in the middle of the street as Bowler began to float away.
“Go on!” yelled Hart, deliriously, laughing with sheer delight, “Get out of here, fly!! Write me a postcard, you lucky bastard!! Go!!! Go, go, go, go!!!” Still laughing, tears streaming, he ran after the Flyer through the darkened streets as it travelled across the sky, waving and whooping like a child chasing an aeroplane. For the time being, the future was forgotten, replaced by the unfamiliar sensation of joy in his heart.
***
Epilogue: In Which We See What Hart Did Next
***
Four Years Later:
Hart sat in the lower precinct. It was Saturday, so it was always the best day to people watch, and today was particularly busy, being the second to last one before Christmas. For once he'd actually sat on a bench; he felt like it, and decided that if anyone came along to sit on him, he'd move. It was midday, and the atmosphere was more one of mania than one of Christmas cheer. So many people, so many shoppers, and even the couples seemed to be missing the occasion around them, bustling along, stern faced, with those foolish enough to go out without several layers of clothing looking even more so, eager to get to wherever their next destination was and hoping that it held heat. The children looked happy, though. Electrified was more the word; Christmas. Cocaine for children. They'd waited for this all year. Hart grinned as one particularly wide-eyed chubby boy walked past, clinging onto his mother's hand and trying to take in all the Christmas finery around him.
Admittedly, for Hart, Christmas was more difficult with Bowler gone. It had been a more difficult time even when Bowler had been here-seeing warmth and happiness that they could appreciate but not truly share-but the feelings of isolation and loneliness were even more acute now. George gone, Bowler gone, Sarah...well, he hadn't seen Sarah for a good few months, and the time before that had been...unpleasant. But even so, he'd have expected to have seen her more recently than that. Maybe she found a female Exit and got out. Maybe she'd been Broken again...but Hart thought that highly unlikely now, after what had happened to The Beast. Hart smiled grimly at the thought. It couldn't have happened to a nicer person.
As he idly watched, a wall of TVs caught his eye. It was a full window display, and all of the TVs were set to the same channel. In a moment summing up a large part of the season, the commercial onscreen was advertising another shop advertising all the options this one was selling, but at discount prices. It would have been a cynical moment, but Hart wasn't thinking about that; he was thinking of the benefit of TV to his life here.
He wondered how anyone who came here before him-before TV was as widespread and all permeating as it was now-survived more than a month without going Loose. Certainly, before Bowler, it had been hard indeed. The wireless set and pub conversations only provided so much help, but as TVs made their way into every home over the years it had been a godsend. He had come to rely on it more and more now, had been forced to-before Bowler, he'd had George and Sarah around, and here was another reminder that now there was no-one-but he'd discovered that life was bearable with TV alone to help.
It wouldn't be, though, without the knowledge he had now; the knowledge of the possibility of escape. Before, the idea of searching for a way out had seemed like a cruel tease. No answer, fruitless search against inevitable failure, a quest destined to do nothing but send one mad with desperation and loneliness. Yes, others before him had worked it out and gone searching, but they didn't know for certain, and that made all the difference. No self-doubt. No frustration, no fear that it might all be for nothing if you were wrong. For the others, if your day's search ended-as it always did-in nothing, the thought that followed wasn't maybe tomorrow but this is pointless anyway, I'm stuck here and you took another step down the Loose path. But now-for Hart-this wasn’t the case. Now, every day had possibilities.
Now there was the constant chance that today might be the day, and when he didn't find an exit he could shrug his shoulders and take a break with Deal Or No Deal, and just look again later, because he knew he wasn’t wasting his time and driving himself crazy. Work and reward; it was a hard existence-and some days were much, much harder than others-but it was better, and the two factors of Knowledge and Entertainment together made everything so, so much different.
Plus, obviously there were the other things. The other possibilities he'd discovered since. Things he was only just beginning to explore.
He leaned his head back, feeling good for a moment, thinking that everything was okay right now. He looked up at the winter sky, clear for once, rain free, with the sun shining dimly, and felt fine. Purposeful.
He thought about Checkins. Not another one yet. If one came, he knew he wouldn't bond with him like he had with Bowler. Bowler had gotten him what he needed; and Hart had returned the favour, though some days, every now and then, it pained him greatly, but even in those moments he never wished he'd done it differently. No, Hart wouldn't bond again, as it would not be fair to whoever it was. He'd made Bowler weaker than he'd already been on arrival. Made him dependant on Hart. Denied him the chance to go through it, to evolve to be what he needed to exist in there, like George had. He would befriend the Checkins, and that would be that.
He still didn't know if he would tell them how to get out. He had sacrificed once, and would not again. That was only fair. But he was still undecided about sharing the information; if he could find a safe way of telling them without them stealing it, he might. Although, there were the other things, as The Beast had discovered. Yes. The Beast had discovered that Hart was...different now.
There was no doubting what had caused it, although Hart, ever cynical, had tried to do so at first. The Beast had hunted him, found him, caught him. He hadn't been fully lucid, but The Beast-talking incoherently, but audible, to Hart's then great surprise-had been furious, asking why he hadn't gone, why Bowler had gone instead, crazily asking why Hart had to ruin things and talking like a petulant child. And then The Beast had attacked.
And then...Hart still didn't know exactly what had happened, but what had played a part was clear. The Beast had gripped him, gone to tear him limb from limb, and Hart's fear had reached a crescendo inside him. And as his emotion boiled over, as his attention was focused into one single pinpoint of terror, something moved inside him, and The Beast...
...The Beast is screaming, in pain and confusion and surprise. Something is happening to him, and he is afraid. Afraid! His eyes are wide in fear, and his words are gibberish, just guttural, pleading cries. Hart watches in amazement as The Beast's arms work like he is trying to pull his hands away from Hart's wrists, but it appears like his hands are somehow glued to Hart's skin. And horribly, The Beast's flesh starts to distort, bubble, and begin to run, running down off its wrists.
It runs off into thin air and disappears, but there is no skeleton beneath, just an outline of where his arms were. It is an incredible sight, and Hart can only goggle at it, as locked in as The Beast is. In wild fear, Hart looks at his own arms to see if the same thing is happening, but he is fine. What on earth is going on??
The Beast's cries become louder as the effect spreads like toxic water breaking on a beach, the flesh streaming off his arms, and now the flow is spreading away from his chest and neck, flowing from his stomach, working down to his legs. That terrible, terrible thin outline is appearing where his body once stood, and now only The Beast's shaking bellowing head is left. Hart looks at his wri
sts and can see nothing holding them save for this wire-thin outline on the air, though he can still feel a monstrous pair of hands holding him. He looks up in wonder to see the flesh begin to pour from The Beast's head, which is now moving in a frantic, gibbering, expression. Hart sees with intense, grim satisfaction that tears are streaming from The Beast’s bulging, terrified eyes, which too bubble and then pour into nothingness. The last thing to trickle away is the yowling mouth, and then it is silent forever.
All that is left now of The Beast's outline; Hart needs to squint to see it. But no, it is becoming easier to see, as it is filling, filling with colour, and Hart is not at all surprised to see that-though faint at first, and strengthening-it is blue.
He looks down to his wrists, and sees that the colour is flowing out of him, for it is strongest at his wrists, and when he looks back up the huge outline of The Beast is now full of the blue. The blue is flowing out of Hart. Flowing from inside him. It is strong but translucent at the same time, moving and swirling, an incredible display of impossible colour. And just as quickly as it has filled up, the outline itself dissolves and the blue inside of it begins to disappear from the outside inwards. Hart wants to touch it, but he does not dare; he has seen one person take a ride in the blue, and though he knows this is different-there is no ride here, there is just an ending-he isn't taking any chances. Extremely faintly, as if from very far away, he can hear The Beast screaming. The sound fades with the colour, the shop wall behind the vanishing blueness slowly being revealed in its normal grey, until finally it as if The Beast were never there....
...Yes, even if it weren't for the new possibilities to explore here-to explore what he had taken away from his brief time inside the blue, how it had changed him, what he seemed to now carry inside him...and what it could do-life was more bearable, thought Hart. A little knowledge may be a dangerous thing…but it can also be a blessing. He smiled slightly, and was about to return to his practice, when the most miraculous thing that had happened so far in Hart's entire existence occurred.
His attention was caught by the out of place sound of American accents. A couple were coming Hart's way through the precinct, both in their early 30s, and quite well-to-do by the look of their clothes. Apart from their accents, the other thing that stood them out were their smiles. Had to be on holiday, visiting friends, thought Hart with detached delirium in the back of his mind, whilst the vast majority of Hart's attention was yelling to him, screaming to him about the 4 year old boy that held onto his father's hand, oblivious to the bright blue glow all around him.
There are coincidences, and there are coincidences, and then there are statistical impossibilities, thought Hart. There are things that are so far out of the realms of actual possibility that they simply cannot be true. This is not chance. This is not chance. This is something else. This is...lunacy.
But it was true. The four year old Bluey was Bowler.
Sporting a grin even bigger than that of his parents, wrapped in a Sky Blues fleece, hat and scarf, Bowler babbled excitably in his american accent.
'Mom! Mom! Spongebob!'
'Yep. See the fountain, honey? You see the fountain there?'
'Yes...'
'Wanna balloon? You wanna balloon from the man?'
'Aaaah, yeah, can I?'
'Waddyou say?'
'Pleeeease!'
American, thought Hart as he watched, frozen. Coming here from another bloody country, being here, Coventry of all places, and in the same part of Coventry that I’m in at this moment
As he watched them pass, heading towards the helium balloon seller by the fountain-George's fountain, as it would always be in his mind, George's body long vanished-every instinct said to get up and follow them, but Hart did not. There were no answers there, only more questions that simply could not be answered. It was Bowler's second chance. That was all. It just happened to wrapped up in a coincidence so incredibly huge and ridiculous that it was almost mind blowing.
Calm down, Hart, he thought as he watched. Is this any bigger than what you've already seen? No, so stop thinking so ridiculously. It is just coincidence...albeit an absolutely impossible one. He took an imaginary breath, relaxed, shaking his head, and smiled at his next thought. Though of course, Bowler-if he were here (which he is) would say it was more proof, more proof that there was something behind all this. Another point towards his religious claptrap. A sign, a message. He chuckled slightly to himself, and watched as the trio, complete with new helium accessory clutched tightly in the fist of a skipping Bowler, headed away up the precinct.
Once they'd left, Hart turned his attention back to the newspaper on the bench next to him. Practice time. He held his hand over it, took a deep breath, and tried to focus hoping-as he did every time-to get at least the same minuscule, tiny result as he did before, that one time in a hundred, but his mind kept going back to the old debate with Bowler. And although he tutted at himself, the small smile didn't leave his face.
Bowler, you idiot, he thought, it was always about energy. I'm telling you-And then he was distracted. Wait, was that a movement again? Was it? Uncertain, Hart carried on, but his thoughts drifted again, back to his previous statement. He mulled it over, and after a moments consideration, he shrugged and added to it.
And hope. Of course, it was all about hope as well.
*
IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK, PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW ON AMAZON; THE FEEDBACK I’VE HAD IS NOT ONLY THE THING THAT KEEPS ME WRITING, BUT ALSO MEANS MORE PEOPLE ARE LIKELY TO BUY MY BOOKS (WHICH MEANS I MIGHT ACTUALLY MAKE SOME DECENT MONEY OUT OF THIS ONE DAY…) HOWEVER, PLEASE DO SO VIA THE AMAZON WEBSITE, AND NOT VIA THE ‘RATE THIS BOOK’ FEATURE ON YOUR KINDLE; THOSE REVIEWS DON’T CONNECT TO THE WEBSITE HALF THE TIME! CLICK ON THESE LINKS INSTEAD: THE AMAZON UK BOOK PAGE OR THE AMAZON USA BOOK PAGE. YOU CAN ALSO FIND OUT ABOUT MY OTHER AVAILABLE BOOKS WHILE YOU’RE THERE. TO KNOW WHEN FUTURE BOOKS ARE RELEASED, VISIT www.lukesmitherd.com AND SIGN UP FOR THE SPAM-FREE BOOK RELEASE NEWSLETTER, OR FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER @travellingluke OR ADD ME ON FACEBOOK UNDER ‘LUKE SMITHERD BOOK STUFF.” NOW READ ON PAST THE AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD FOR AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM MY BOOK, ‘THE STONE MAN’, OUT NOW ON THE KINDLE STORE---------------Luke
Author’s Afterword:
(Note: at the time of writing, any comments made in this afterword about the number of other available books written by me are all true. However, since writing this, many more books might be out! The best way to find out is to search Amazon for Luke Smitherd or visit www.lukesmitherd.com... )
Personally, I always like it when a writer puts a little section in the back of a book to say a few things about the story you've just read, and how it was written etc.
Now before I go any further, however, two things should be made clear. One, I don't consider myself a 'Writer' (at the time of writing, this bloody thing hasn't even been published yet, for God's sake. Anyone who says 'I am a writer' without having anything published and/or bought, rather than 'I like to write' is, in my book, a tit.) Two, there's every possibility you've just finished ploughing through this, hating every page and only making it this far through dogged determination and/or passing loyalty to me, and are now thinking 'Jesus, Luke! I've just finally finished reading the bloody thing! I'm desperate to get back to Confessions Of A Window Cleaner, and you're giving me even more crap to slog through? What's wrong with you?!?'
So listen, this isn't intended to be some pretentious self-back-slapping section, nor do I consider it a part of the story. Hell, you might be of the mindset that you don't want to know what I think of it, or what went on behind the scenes. Or you thought it was crap. If any of the above is you, thank you very much for reading; I'm sincerely grateful for your time either way.
However, if you're still with me, here's where it all came from.
The idea for the basic plot-trapped dead people learning to get out of the afterlife by using the dying energy of the living-was thought up about 20 years ago in a cinema in Derby, at ten years old.<
br />
You may or may not remember a scene in the Patrick Swayze film 'Ghost' where, shortly after realising he's died, Sam observes another soul ascending to heaven, doing so by stepping into a beam of light that's sent for him from the sky (y'know, I always think that film gets written off as a chick flick, when it's actually excellent. If you haven't seen it recently, go and watch it; you'll be pleasantly surprised. Although I was surprised myself to hear Whoopi Goldberg won an Oscar for it. I'm not sure if that's true. I just checked Wikipedia; it's true. I did like her in that though.) I remember vividly thinking at the time-and all the way home-why the hell didn't he jump into that light as well, and hijack himself a lift to heaven?
Obviously, two things are clear here, one being the answer (because there wouldn't have been a film then, dumbass) and that I could be a surprisingly cunning and mercenary child. The idea stayed with me for a long time, and it was only about halfway through writing this book that I realised where the germ of the story had come from.
Fast forward to the winter of 2002, when I'd decided that what I needed was to saddle myself with a few years’ worth of debt and went travelling through Australia and Thailand for two months. During that time, the idea to make a story out of it came from somewhere, and I put together the rough parts of it, but never found myself sitting down for any length of time to draft a plot. I did, however, start filling a little notebook with any ideas I had that I wanted to fit in. That notebook was an invaluable source of information, and so naturally I lost it at some point during the last eight years. For all I know some sod found it and now there's already a book out there about exactly the same bloody thing.
The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Page 27
