The Physics Of The Dead - A Supernatural Mystery Novel Read Free

wasn't much of a talker, full stop, well, not socially anyway, but right now I have to have the, the ... what does Sarah call it ... verbal diarrhoea, to see if this works. I ... I doubt it will. I don't even know if you can hear me. It's a complete shot in the dark ... so ...”
    The voice trails off like that of an uncomfortable dinner party guest. This is not a socialite. This is someone trying, and failing, to be chatty. This is someone uncomfortable when placed in a one on one situation with a stranger. His attempts at small talk are like torture.
    “ Are you a man or a woman?” the voice continues. “You'd think I'd care—I'D think I'd care—but you'll be surprised to hear that I don't, really. No one does, here. I actually hope you don't remember this. I'm not used to ... anyway. Shall I tell you a story? Well, anything to keep talking. A story, a story ... ah ... d'you know, I can't think of one. Only nursery stories, but they seem silly ... damn!” There is a short, embarrassed, angry silence. Then it continues, forced, and angry that things are this way.
    “ I HATE being like this … it's all probably a waste of time...”
    And the thought comes, Please, don't stop. Don't ever stop. Don't you understand I need it?
     
    ***
     
    “What about them? Can you see them, Bowler? There?”
    Hart pointed at a group of young men, laughing and eating kebabs as they walked up the street. The city centre was unsurprisingly deserted tonight; a Tuesday. In other, major cities, maybe this wouldn't be the case these days (according to Bowler) but in Coventry a Tuesday night was always quiet. Hart had to take his word for it.
    It was dark early, November nights (Hart hated November) coming in quick and cold. Bowler and Hart wouldn’t have known about the latter, were it not for the people around them every day changing their attire over time from t-shirts and jeans to thick layers and winter jackets, shorts and sunglasses exchanged for scarves and gloves. These guys had done the same. The street lights were on, but the group were walking along the side of the street where the pavement was overhung by shop awnings. The angle made it difficult to see them as they slowly crested the rise, with their thick clothing destroying any sense of figure—and therefore making it harder to identify their sex—along with the shade created by the awnings. Hart knew that it would be quite a test for Bowler.
    The younger man squinted, leaning forward; the effect was comical.
    “5 guys ... wait, 6. Eating something. Am I right?”
    For the second time in one evening, Hart was impressed. He’d hoped for their number and their sex, but not what they’d been carrying.
    “Bowler ... I had no idea you'd taken such a jump. You've gotten so much better.”
    Bowler shrugged.
    “I haven't been doing anything different. Maybe it's just, y'know , time.”
    Hart shook his head, sadly.
    “Not the case. Not everyone gets it, even after being dead for years. You know that Guest in the red coat, the one that looks like a rag? Have you seen him? You can tell he can't see a thing. You can tell by the way he jumps sometimes when he catches sight of things by accident.”
    “Well, points for me then. Result,” Bowler said with a shy smile. Compliments did not sit easily with Bowler. It wasn't in his nature to enjoy attention, even here. He did feel a slight flush of pride, however; he knew Hart didn’t give compliments easily, and though Bowler wouldn’t have let on to his companion, that visual effort been extremely difficult for him. He now had a headache, but it had been worth it to hear Hart’s approval.
    He hated headaches. When he was alive, he would have just killed it with a Neurofen . That wasn't possible here. In the Foyer, headaches were a total fucking pain in the arse. He sighed, and said nothing.
    They went back to the conversation, except it wasn’t a conversation; as usual, it was a debate. Debates were better. They fired the