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

imagination, and that was important. Plus they were the few times Hart saw Bowler get animated, and that was always pleasant for him to see. However, Bowler could be beaten down most of the time, acquiescing, which Hart found frustrating. Tonight, it was about The Polish Guy, and like always, Bowler found Hart maddeningly out of touch.
    “Even if you're not BORN here, y'know , but say you like England and are proud to live here, and, like, are like ... proud of everything England is ... then, y'know , you're welcome,” Bowler reasoned, hesitating every few words. Though he was far from stupid, he didn’t like to get caught saying the wrong thing, or to have his point lost by rushing it. He took his time. Plus, he’d learned the hard way that Hart would ruthlessly take advantage if he tripped over his own sentence and sounded like he was fumbling. Hart could be a bastard like that, and it was really annoying, made worse when Bowler found he had a mental block and could do nothing but literally bite his lip. It was happening now; he’d started a sentence, and had realised what was going to happen once he was halfway through. “It's the ones that don't, that aren't interested, that don't help ... what's the word ... ” he snapped his fingers repeatedly.
    “Integration.” said Hart, firmly, “And I don't buy that. Come here, live here, be welcome here, become a citizen, by all means, and I shall shake your hand and call you my neighbour and my friend. But you can never truly be called English. You can never be called an Englishman.”
    Bowler shook his head to disagree. He opened his mouth, but Hart cut him off, holding up a hand and looking away. Bowler wanted to slap him when he did it, but never would.
    “That's not 'racist.' You know I'm not 'racist,’” Hart sniffed, “I'm just ... they're different. Different culture, yes? I was there when they first arrived. They're WELCOME—are you hearing me, they're more than welcome, welcome to stay here and raise a family and put down roots—and respectable and perfectly jolly nice and everything else, and they deserve all the freedoms that everyone else has ... but don't tell me they're English.”
    Bowler didn't agree—in fact, he disagreed quite strongly—and he knew the words were there, but he just couldn't do it in when he HAD to, when he NEEDED to ... there was some sort of blockage. But swallowing everything back felt bad, too. Hart had repeatedly impressed upon Bowler the importance of looking after the mind; Bowler knew it was more important than anything in the Foyer. He knew he had to stand his ground more. Even so … he couldn't find the words.
    And then all thoughts were blasted from his mind as he looked up.
    “Hart ... HART ... ” Bowler’s mouth went dry, and it took all he had to stay upright. His skin felt light.
    Hart saw, and his eyes lit up for a brief moment—he believed for a second—and then dimmed. He shook his head.
    “No,” he sighed. “Not coming for us.”
    “You can’t see it properly! You can't say for certain!”
    “Bowler, I can. It's dark, and you've clearly improved vastly, but I can see it better than you can. It's a Flyer.”
    Bowler sagged. He stared off to his right, looking at nothing for a second. Shit … He’d been certain. Knowing it was fruitless, Bowler looked back at the sky. He was, of course, desperate.
    “Are you sure?”
    Hart shrugged.
    “I've seen four Checkins during my time here—of which you were one, of course—and several Flyers. The Checkins look very different. They're bigger, for starters.”
    He realised he was being rather blunt, and thought for a moment. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, sighing.
    “It's an easy mistake to make, Frank. It's all right.” Hart said, quietly.
    Bowler cocked his head in Hart's direction. It wasn't quite   a shrug, but the gesture said it's all right. He continued to peer intently up at the fuzzy object in the sky, resigned to the truth now, but still