The Fog

by James Herbert

  Holman smiled to himself at the prattling of the one-armed teacher. The old die-hard, traditionalist teachers still flourished despite the new wave of long-haired, liberal-minded younger educationalists. Well, there was good and bad to be said for both sides.

  As the trio approached the yellow car, easily visible in the murky fog, Holman saw Casey’s white face apprehensively watching them through the windscreen. She opened her door and made as if to get out to help him.

  ‘No, stay there, don’t get out!’ he shouted at her.

  Puzzled, she remained where she was, half in, half out.

  ‘Close the door,’ he told her, less sharply. She complied, the puzzled expression still on her face.

  He opened the door on his side, pulled the seat forward and helped the injured driver to climb through into the back. Then he turned back to the teacher.

  ‘If I were you, I’d get all the boys back into the coach and keep the door and windows closed.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ the teacher asked.

  ‘Let’s just say the fog can’t be good for them. I’ll get someone back to you as soon as possible, so just sit tight.’ He got into the car and turned the ignition. Before he closed the door he reiterated his advice. ‘Keep them inside and close all the windows.’

  ‘Very well, Mr, er . . .?’

  ‘Holman.’

  ‘. . . Holman, but I’m sure we’ll be warm enough and a little fog can’t do too much harm.’ Oh can’t it? thought Holman as he gunned the engine and cautiously moved off. I wonder? He still wasn’t quite sure of his uneasiness about the fog. The doctors had said his breakdown could have been caused in some way by released gas from the cracked earth. It was a pretty far-fetched possibility, but that smell had seemed familiar somehow and he knew he’d never experienced it before the eruption. It was more instinct than judgement, but he had learned to trust his instincts implicitly. A groan from behind interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Ooh, ’ave I got a headache,’ Hodges moaned loudly.

  ‘We’ll soon get you to a doctor,’ Casey reassured him, reluctantly taking her eyes off the murky road ahead to examine the unfortunate coach driver.

  ‘I’ll get the blame for this,’ he went on woefully. ‘Sum-mers’ll make sure of that. Miserable bastard. Oh, sorry, miss,’ he excused himself.

  Summers, they assumed, was the teacher they’d just left with the boys.

  ‘Never did like me. Didn’t like the way I got on with the boys.’

  ‘Is Redbrook his school?’ asked Holman.

  ‘Nah! ’e’s only deputy head, but the way he carries on you’d think it was. The kids call him Captain Hook.’ He laughed and winced at the effort. ‘It was all his fault, any road.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Wal’, I was driving along, ’aving a bit of a laugh with the boys, y’know, showin’ off a bit I suppose, and ’e starts snappin’ at me like I was one of the kids. Wal’, I turns round to give ’im the right answer, and wallop – we’re in the ditch. Lucky I didn’t go right through the windscreen, I can tell you. Anyway, I blacks out and the next thing I know, I wake up, blood pourin’ down me face, and ’e’s still going on at me. Ain’t right, is it?’

  Holman chuckled and said nothing. His amusement soon vanished when he realized the fog was becoming thicker. He slowed down to a crawling pace and leaned even further towards the windscreen.

  ‘John what’s that?’ Casey clutched his arm, her eyes staring across him at something to his right.

  He looked through his side window but saw only the swirling mist. ‘What? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘It’s gone. It may have been nothing but I thought I saw a glow. Something white, shining through the fog, but it vanished almost immediately. I think a heavier bank of fog must have swept by. I can’t see it anymore.’

  ‘It might have just been a clear patch, the sun getting through somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  Their attention was drawn back to their passenger as he began cursing again.

  ‘Bloody weather. Bright one minute, fog the next. Goes with the times, it does.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Holman asked.

  ‘Nice peaceful summer we’ve had, couldn’t have been better. Then what happens? A bloody earthquake, of all things. Here in Wiltshire!’ He rocked forward in pain as his voice rose. ‘And then yesterday. Did you hear about yesterday?’

  Holman shook his head, still concentrating on the road. Casey replied, ‘You mean the axe murders?’

  ‘Yeah. In all the papers this mornin’. ’Appened fairly near the earthquake village, an’ all. Rich bloke, Colonel something-or-other, murdered with ’is wife and all ’is staff, cook and a maid, I think. Done in with an axe. And the bloke they reckon done it chopped at ’is own wrists ’till he bled to death. Party of people came over to see this Colonel and found all the bodies just lyin’ around. I dunno what it’s comin’ to, one thing after another.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Holman, ‘it’s like you said. Sunny one minute, dark the next.’

  ‘And now I suppose I’m goin’ to lose me job over this.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you won’t,’ Casey said sympathetically.

  ‘Oh, you don’t know old Captain Hook. Never ’as liked me. Still, I know a few little secrets about him.’ Hodges groaned again. ‘How much further?’

  For another painfully slow fifteen minutes they were immersed in the dense fog then, suddenly, they were clear. It was like passing through a door, the change was so abrupt.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Holman in surprise. He’d been squinting into the mist and just had time to register it becoming slightly lighter when at once they were driving in bright sunlight. He and Casey looked over their shoulders at the thick yellowish-grey blanket behind them. Hodges was too busy nursing his own pain and grievances to take any notice. As they watched, it seemed to move away from them like a dark shroud being drawn across the countryside. Casey shivered and Holman smiled at her with a reassurance he hardly felt.

  ‘It isn’t natural,’ the girl whispered.

  Holman shook his head, but had no answer to give. He switched off the car lights and moved forward again, picking up welcome speed as he went. The village was soon reached and Hodges directed him to the police station. He ran up the steps and quickly told them what had happened to the coach. The police sergeant couldn’t quite understand Holman’s anxiety when he learnt that none of the boys was seriously hurt. He was surprised and almost disbelieving about the fog, it certainly hadn’t passed through the village and he’d had no reports of it from around the surrounding countryside. Nevertheless, he reassured Holman, he would get in touch with the garage and send one of his men out there right away. He gave him directions for the doctor’s surgery and thanked him for the trouble he’d taken.

  When Holman left the police station he had a faint feeling of dissatisfaction. Perhaps he was making more of it than the situation warranted, after all, fog in England certainly wasn’t unusual although at this time of year it was a little strange. It was difficult to conjure up the menacing atmosphere of the cloudy yellow-greyness in his mind now that he was in the bright sunshine. The fog seemed unreal, as though it had never really happened. Could it be he wasn’t well yet? Was his mind still a bit ‘disturbed’? He knew Casey had also been uneasy about the experience they’d been through, but was that merely the transference of his fears? He knew how easy it was for tension from one person to be passed on to another until a whole group of people were infected. He needed to relax. The strain of the past hour had already drained him, left him feeling agitated and restless. Why hadn’t he wanted Casey to get out of the car? Did he really think this fog had something to do with his own recent illness? He wasn’t at all sure of his motives, but hadn’t wanted her to be subjected to too much of the smoke-like substance. Maybe the feeling of apprehension would pass once his body – and his mind – had fully rested.

  They drove the still grumbling Hodges to the doctor�
�s surgery, left him in capable and friendly hands, then drove on to London.

  5

  A few hours later, after stopping for a pub lunch on the way, they reached Holman’s flat in St John’s Wood Road, opposite Lord’s cricket ground. He parked the car in the forecourt and wearily they took the lift to his flat at the top of the old but well-kept building. His flat was sparsely uncluttered and comfortable. A few original paintings hung on the walls, but otherwise the decorations were kept to a minimum. In one corner stood the tall, long stem of a plant, its length completely bare, but with thick rich foliage sprouting from its top. He claimed laughingly that it had climbed over the wall of the London Botanical Gardens and found its way to his flat because it was looking for someone to love. The truth was Holman had stolen it one night many years before on a drunken raid on the Gardens with some equally inebriated friends. He had no idea of the correct name for it so he called it George.

  His bedroom window looked out on to a flat roof where he had spent many a peaceful summer’s evening just gazing at the stars, a contrast to the side of him that demanded excitement, to be involved in trouble. The only big luxury he had allowed himself to indulge in was his bed. He liked to sleep, he liked to make love; when he slept he hated to feel cramped by a partner; when he made love, he hated to feel cramped by a bed. So it was logical his bed should take up most of the space in his medium-sized bedroom. On first seeing it, Casey had giggled; on sharing its luxury, she had become immensely jealous of Holman’s past. But in the time she had known him, she had matured enough to accept the life he had obviously once led.

  She made him coffee while he slumped in a chair, pulling his shoes off for greater comfort. She brought the cups in and sat at his feet, placing the coffee on the floor.

  ‘How do you feel now, John?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Oh, a little bit tired, that’s all. Post-hospital depression I think it’s called.’

  She rubbed the soles of his feet abstractedly. ‘I’ve decided to leave Theo.’ She always called her father by his first name, another habit Holman unreasonably found irritating.

  ‘Leave him?’ He sat up in surprise, studying her face as if her expression would confirm or deny her statement.

  ‘Yes. I discovered a lot of things about myself when you were in hospital, John, the most important being that I love you more than I could have imagined possible. More than Theo. More than anything. I nearly gave up, darling. I nearly left you there when I thought you were beyond help.’

  He leaned closer to her, taking her face in his hands, saying nothing.

  ‘The way you were,’ she continued, ‘things you said. It frightened me – I couldn’t believe it was you.’

  ‘It wasn’t really me, Casey,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know, John. But it was like a nightmare. Not knowing if you’d ever recover, ever be close to me again – ever hold me like this. I went home and rang Theo. I was going to leave you, to go home. But as I spoke to him I realized I couldn’t. And when I went back to the hospital the next day and they told me there was the possibility that you could die – I realized I’d be nothing without you. My father could never mean as much to me again, he could never take your place.’

  ‘Casey . . .’

  ‘Believe me, John.’

  ‘Casey, listen. Give it a couple of weeks; don’t decide now.’

  ‘I don’t need to. I know.’

  ‘All right, do it for me then. You’ve been through too much recently. I want you to be absolutely certain of how you feel – for both our sakes.’

  ‘And what about you, John? Are you certain of your feelings?’

  He lay back heavily in the armchair. ‘Don’t ask me yet. Too much has happened for me to be sure of anything at the moment.’

  ‘Is that why you want me to think about it – because you need more time?’ She bit her lip, now uncertain of his love.

  ‘Partly, yes. I need to sort myself out too.’

  Tears began to form in her eyes as she rested her cheek on his knee, not wanting him to see her weeping. He stroked her hair and they sat in silence for a few moments, then she looked up at him and said, ‘John, let me stay tonight.’

  ‘What about your father?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve told you, he doesn’t matter. I still love him. I could never lose that, but it’s you now. I don’t want to leave you. Let me stay for at least tonight.’

  ‘Okay, Casey, why should I fight you off?’ he answered, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘I’ll ring Theo later and explain.’ She knelt, bringing her face close to his. ‘I don’t need more time, John, but I’ll take it. I want you to be sure, too, and if you should decide you don’t really want me that badly . . .’ she hesitated, forcing herself to say the next words, ‘. . . I’ll go away.’

  He kissed her lips, suddenly laughing at her sorrowful face. ‘Okay, Casey,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a deal!’

  They drank their coffee, both lost for a while in their own thoughts. Gradually, Holman began to relax. He pushed thoughts of the earthquake, the fog, and now Casey’s decision from his mind. He never walked away from a problem, but occasionally liked to bury it and dig it up later. His moods changed as easily as traffic lights, a quality the girl sometimes adored, sometimes hated. This time, because she too needed some relief, she was gladly susceptible to it.

  ‘You know, a week in that hospital, and not seeing you the weekend before . . .’ he looked down at her, a hint of a leer in his smile.

  ‘Yes?’ She smiled back at him.

  ‘Well, I feel a bit like a monk. Celibate.’

  ‘It’s good for you.’

  ‘I could go blind.’

  She laughed and said, ‘I thought you needed rest.’

  ‘Quite right. Let’s go to bed.’

  ‘Promise me one thing.’

  ‘Anything.’ He began to unbutton her blouse, becoming impatient as the second button stuck. She undid it for him.

  ‘Promise me you’ll come back tomorrow after seeing Spiers. You won’t get involved in another assignment.’

  ‘You must be joking. I’m taking the rest of the week off even if the whole country cracks in half!’

  He pulled her blouse free of her skirt and cupped her breast with his hand, sliding one finger inside the lacy material of her bra.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You won’t be able to get any more time off, will you?’

  ‘Oh yes I will,’ she answered, now unbuttoning his shirt. ‘I’ve been sacked.’

  His restless hand rested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I rang the boss and informed him I was staying near you for the week he politely told me not to come back, I would be replaced.’

  ‘The little bastard,’ Holman cursed.

  ‘It’s a relief,’ she laughed. ‘He was too jealous of my clothes anyway; I think he thought they’d look better on him.’

  Holman got to his feet, discarding his unbuttoned shirt. ‘I think you need comforting,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.

  Holman strolled along Marsham Street, enjoying the bustle, glad to be among normal, active people after the subdued confinement of the hospital. They flowed into their offices like ants into cracks beneath a stone, regretfully leaving the bright morning sun for the artificial glare of fluorescent tubes, allowing their personalities to emerge once again after brief hibernation during their journey to work. Holman entered the gloom of the large Environment building and took the lift to the eighth floor. He greeted Mrs Tribshaw, a middle-aged fluttery secretary he shared with a colleague, assuring her he was in the best of health after his misadventure with the earthquake, entered his office and closed the door on her excited queries as to the extent of his injuries.

  ‘Hello, John.’ His colleague, a cheerful Scot with only a trace of accent, looked up and greeted him with a quizzical grin. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Mac, I’ll tell you over a d
rink when we get the chance.’

  McLellan continued to stare at Holman, still grinning inanely. They had often shared the same assignment and knew they could depend on each other in a tricky situation. He was slightly older than Holman, but a little more idealistic. Although he pretended to envy Holman’s bachelor lifestyle, he secretly relished his own family life. Three kids – two boys, one girl – a fiery-tempered but good-natured red-headed wife, and a semi-detached in the better part of Wimbledon; not a lot, he had to admit, but enough to keep him content. His one release was his job. Although Holman handled the more risky assignments, occasionally he was sent on one requiring subterfuge, a little deviousness. But on the whole, his tasks were fairly routine, yet even these he rarely found boring. He often laughingly explained to Holman it was the fact that he, a little Jock from Glasgow, could help to bring the arrogant, money-conscious, filth-disposing capitalists into line. Or that he, a modestly paid, under-privileged civil servant could find a flaw in the land-destroying schemes of his own government, his own bosses. True, his information was not always acted upon, in fact, he would grudgingly admit, in fifty per cent of the cases it was not acted upon, but he got a great kick on the occasions he succeeded. Holman called him a Communist infiltrator, and he would laughingly admit it was true, although both knew it was far from the truth. When they worked together they enjoyed each other’s company immensely, McLellan because he had the chance to lead the bachelor life for a brief time, Holman because he liked the Scot’s dry sense of humour.

  ‘Spiers has been calling for you,’ Mac finally said, having satisfied himself that physically, at least, Holman seemed okay. ‘He rang down about half-nine wanting to know where the hell you were.’

  Holman walked around his desk and sat down, quickly looking through the memos that had piled up during his absence.

  ‘Nothing changes, does it,’ he observed, sifting through a stack of grey report pages. ‘You’re away for a week and you think everything’s altered in that time; you come back feeling a stranger and within five minutes you’ve caught up with everything and you’re back in the old routine.’