‘Yes, well, if I were you, I’d get back into the old routine of seeing Spiers right away.’
‘Right. I’ll see you later, Mac, then I’m off for the rest of the week.’
‘Lucky bleeder,’ Mac grinned, and then his smile faded for an instant. ‘I’m glad you’re okay, John. Spiers didn’t say much about it, but I gather you went through a rough time. You take it easy.’
‘Sure, Mac. Thanks.’
Holman winked at Mrs Tribshaw as he strode through the outer office, raising his hand to still her fretful questions, and climbed the stairs to the ninth floor to Spiers’ office.
‘Is he in?’ he asked the secretary, who stopped typing and looked up startled.
‘John! Are you better?’ He felt slightly embarrassed at her obvious joy at seeing him.
‘I’m fine. Is he in?’
‘What? Oh, yes, you can go right in. What happened, John? We heard you were involved in that awful earthquake.’
‘Tell you later.’ He knocked on the door and entered the inner office.
Spiers looked up from his papers, peering at him through thick-lensed glasses. ‘Ah, John. Feeling okay? Good. Take a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Holman sat, studying the bald head his chief presented to him as he continued to read through his papers. Finally, Spiers shuffled them together and put them neatly to one side of his desk.
‘Well, John,’ he said, staring at Holman with eyes that penetrated yet seemed to see nothing. ‘I’ve had your films processed and examined the contacts. There do seem to be a few strange items among them, but they really don’t affect us in any way. Now, the shots of the countryside within the perimeter are very interesting, but we’ll get to that later. First, I’d like you to tell me again about the earthquake, right from the beginning, leave nothing out.’
Holman told him as much as he could remember, but his mind went blank as he reached the point where he had rescued the girl.
Spiers leaned forward on his desk. ‘John, try to think. Did you hear an explosion before the ground opened?’
‘No, definitely not. I heard the rumble, that’s all, and then the crack as the ground split, but I’m sure there wasn’t an explosion.’
Spiers slumped back in his chair, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his handkerchief. He cleared his throat sharply and rubbed the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb, as though tired. He replaced his glasses and leaned forward again. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘a cloud of smoke was reported rising out of the ground just after they’d brought you up.’
‘You think there was an explosion then?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Connected with the military base?’
‘No, no. We’ve absolutely no grounds to suspect anything like that. You said you thought it was unlikely yourself.’
‘Yes, I know, but I’m beginning to wonder now. Who knows what they’re doing out there? On the way back yesterday, I ran into fog. Fog – on a hot summer’s day! Are they using some new kind of smoke-screen device that they’ve just let drift off their patch into the rest of the countryside?’
‘Oh come now. That could have been caused by anything – a change in temperature, a factory nearby. I ran into some fog myself when I came down to see you. Salisbury Plain is full of mists at any time of year; we can’t blame the military for everything, you know.’
‘But you think they had something to do with the eruption?’
‘Certainly not. I know there are certain aspects of the Ministry of Defence which we both dislike, but you can be sure they would never be as irresponsible as to have caused a disaster like this.’
‘What about the photographs? They show some pretty strange things. You saw the dome?’
‘They prove nothing!’ Spiers was becoming angry and realized it. Once again he slumped back in his chair and went on more quietly. ‘Anyway, I’ve had them destroyed.’
‘What?’
‘Do you realize the trouble you could be in – the department could be in – if it was discovered we held photographs of secret military installations?’
‘But what was the point of going down there?’
‘To take photographs, yes! But not to be used by us. I merely wanted proof for myself so that I knew there was rich land being wasted, acres of arable soil, beauty spots, so that I was in a stronger position to argue that the area should be given back to us. My God, we could be put away for years for the sort of photographs you took!’
A seed of suspicion was planted in Holman’s mind. ‘You suspect something, don’t you?’ he asked Spiers quietly.
Spiers spoke wearily: ‘Look, I’ve been on to the Ministry of Defence. There is a massive clamp-down in security – I don’t know if it means anything, and I’m powerless if it does. I have a meeting arranged for this afternoon with the Defence Minister and Sir Trevor Chambers, and we hope to get some answers.’ Sir Trevor Chambers was their department’s Parliamentary Under-Secretary, a gruff, forceful man, who indeed liked to get answers. ‘Needless to say, this is strictly between you and me.’
‘And if you do discover the army is involved?’
‘We shall have to wait and see.’
‘Oh yes, the usual answer. I suppose it’ll go on file, will it?’
‘Damn your belligerence! Just who do you think you are? I think . . .’ He began to falter and without thinking Holman took advantage of the break in his words.
‘For once, let’s slay them! If they are responsible, let’s break their bloody arms, let’s—’
Spiers seemed to regain his composure and said, ‘Let’s remain calm. There is nothing to gain . . .’ Once again, his voice trailed off in mid-sentence.
Still unaware in his anger of the change that seemed to be taking place in his chief, Holman raged on, until finally there was no ignoring the strange, vacant look that had come into the eyes of Spiers behind the heavy glasses.
‘What’s wrong?’ Holman asked, concerned. ‘What’s—’ He broke off as Spiers rose from his chair, staring over Holman’s head. Spiers turned and walked to the window; Holman was still too puzzled to move. Spiers opened the window and turned again to look at the surprised young man, his eyes for a second almost losing their blankness, a flicker of recognition returning to them but lost again in an instant. Then he turned back to the window, climbed on to the sill and before Holman could make a move towards him, jumped out.
Holman was stunned. He sat rigid, his mouth open, unable to take in what he had just witnessed. Then, shouting Spiers’ name, he rushed to the window. He saw the crumpled figure lying on the pavement nine floors below, a pool of blood spreading swiftly from beneath the smashed head. From that distance, he could just make out one hand curiously raised in the air, the elbow resting on the ground, the fingers of the hand clenching and unclenching in a twitching spasmodic motion. Then the whole body arched upwards in a violent jerk and just as suddenly collapsed again, this time to lie perfectly still, the twitching hand finally resting.
Holman drew in a long, uneven breath and leaned against the window frame. People were rushing towards the broken body, others keeping well away, averting their eyes. He turned back in towards the room and saw Spiers’ secretary standing in the doorway, a frightened look on her face.
‘He – he jumped,’ Holman managed to say at last.
She backed away from him into her own office. The door burst open behind her and several people rushed in. ‘What’s happened?’ one of the men demanded to know. ‘Who was it?’
Holman sank into the chair Spiers had occupied only moments ago, strangely, perversely, noting it was still warm. He didn’t answer the people who crowded around him; he just sat staring at the desk top. What had happened? Why had he jumped? What had unhinged his mind so suddenly? The feeling came over Holman again. The sense of skin crawling, the feeling he’d had when they’d entered the fog. It couldn’t be, there was no reason to it. But his brain needed no reason, the feeling was enough. He sprang to
his feet and pushed past the startled people crowding into the office. He had to get to Casey.
6
Redbrook House stood in its own grounds in one of the quieter roads in Andover. A long gravel drive with trees on either side separated it from the outside world, the large red-bricked building looming frighteningly for any young newcomer taking his first journey down to it. Though built long before, it was established in 1910 as a school for only the privileged classes. It flourished successfully until the 1930s when it suddenly fell out of favour with the very rich who had begun to notice that some of the boys admitted were not quite as well-bred as their own offspring, though the parents were obviously wealthy enough to afford the exorbitant fees the school demanded; but then, money was not just a matter of inheritance anymore. The school declined in stature over the next fifteen years until the arrival of an eager, energetic and young deputy headmaster who managed to sweep away the old traditions and teaching methods maintained from Lord Redbrook’s days, and to introduce new, more exciting ways of training, more vigorous approaches to the old and often boring subjects. Within five years he had established himself as headmaster and rejuvenated the school into a modern, forward-looking college, still private, but not quite as exclusive. His name was Hayward, and now, after over thirty years, the very methods he had introduced were the old, tired ways.
Five years before, Hayward had taken on a deputy headmaster in the hope of breathing new life into the school, knowing his methods were out of date but loving the old place too much to leave it himself. And, after all those years, perhaps too afraid to leave. The governors of the school had, over the last few years, frequently urged him to retire, but felt too much compassion for the old man to make it a directive. It was they who had suggested he take on a new deputy head, the old one having died two years before and never been replaced. Hayward would have considered a much younger man for the job, a man perhaps in his late twenties as he had been when he had joined the school, fresh-minded and eager to experiment, but such teachers were hard to find for a school like this. The younger men were more ambitious. They sought the more outward-going establishments where they could reap the glory without a long, uphill struggle. And Mr Summers came highly recommended by one of the Governing Committee’s members.
Summers had been a captain in the army during World War II and had lost an arm in the course of it. He never talked about his injury or how he had acquired it. Indeed, he rarely spoke of his wartime exploits at all, and even less of his career as a schoolmaster. Although Hayward was disappointed by his assistant’s narrow-minded educational theories, he had to admit the man was generally very competent. Disliked by the boys, he was sure, but he did show an extreme interest in and devotion to the school and would no doubt take over his position as head eventually. But his constant carping was becoming increasingly irritating.
Summers had turned the business of the crashed coach into a major issue, condemning poor Hodges out of hand, demanding his instant dismissal. The blame belonged entirely to Hodges, he had informed the headmaster, for speeding in such dangerous weather, showing off in front of the boys. He was too friendly with the boys anyway.
When Hayward had confronted the wretched-looking driver, who acted as janitor, gardener, and performed countless other tasks around the school, he had admitted it was true, but had gone on in a surly tone to imply certain notions about the deputy head. It was because of these implications that Hayward had decided to sack Hodges, not because of the misadventure in the fog. He could not allow the man to go around spreading these allegations against one of the members of his staff, particularly as he could provide no proof of them. As for Summers, Hayward would not even question the man; it would be too embarrassing for both of them. But he would certainly keep an eye on him.
Tomorrow Hayward would send for Hodges and tell him of his decision to let him go and warn him, warn him forcefully, not to spread any malicious slander which would cause him to end up in court. He thanked God the crash itself hadn’t been serious; none of the thirty-six boys taken along had been hurt badly, a few bruises here and there, nothing to worry about. Only the unfortunate Hodges had sustained a nasty knock on the head, but even he, after a good night’s rest, seemed physically sound. It was such a pity he had to get rid of the man, thought Hayward with a sigh, but good teachers were harder to replace than odd-job men.
Hodges sat on the old broken armchair in the basement storeroom he called his office and sipped at his strongly brewed tea. He poured some Scotch into the tin mug, swirling it around to mix with the hot liquid. He grunted several times as he stared into the thick brew, shrugging his shoulders and clucking his tongue.
That’s cooked his goose for ’im, he told himself with a grin. Thought ’e’d got me in trouble, did ’e? Oh, yes, well I soon turned the tables on ’im, didn’t I? He sniggered aloud. He wasn’t at all drunk; the whisky with his tea was his usual mid-morning break. Old Captain Hook is really goin’ to pay for it this time. Didn’t recognize me when ’e first came to the school, did ’e? But I recognized ’im all right. I was just a corporal then, ’e was a smart-arsed captain, but word gets around on an army camp. Oh, yes, we knew about ’im.
He thought back to the old days: to the huge army installation at Aldershot, the rough training ground for thousands of raw recruits. There had been tension in the air in those days; the war was in its third year, every week more and more soldiers were being shipped abroad, and each week they seemed younger, less experienced. Hodges was a corporal in the cookhouse and was content to idle away the war as such. He knew of Captain Summers, had heard the rumours about him, sniggered with his cronies each time they saw the thin, waspish figure march by, saluting but wriggling their little fingers at him when he had passed. But Summers hadn’t been the only one; in a camp that size and with so many raw young men, homosexuality was not too unusual. It was sneered at, true, despised by most, but many had secretly indulged in its illicit pleasure. Hodges had even tried it himself once, but found it painful and ‘too much like bloody hard work!’ for his liking. The rumoured ‘bromide in the tea’ didn’t seem to do much good. He used to chuckle to himself when on night duty at the thought of all those pricks raised secretly towards the stars, pumped by thousands of hands all over the camp.
But Summers had propositioned the wrong new recruit one day. He had looked fresh-faced and girlish enough, but, too late, the Captain discovered he had been conscripted with a bunch of his mates from North London. The boy had told him what he could go and do with himself and then applied some threatening blackmail to gain himself and his friends special privileges as well as the odd quid or two.
After only a few months, when the boy learnt he was going to be shipped abroad and suspecting that Summers had something to do with the arrangement, he and three of his bunch had waited one night on a quiet stretch of road leading to the camp, knowing that Summers would be returning alone on his bike. He often had assignations with young men from the town or arranged to meet a soldier there, always returning alone, always using the second-hand bike he had bought himself rather than taking the bus or begging a lift from one of his motor-possessing fellow officers. The group waited patiently, drinking beer and giggling as they described what they would do to the Captain when they got hold of him.
And then, after an hour’s wait, they caught sight of him coming towards them along the dark road. They waited for him to draw level and then pounced, restraining their shouts of glee and anger for fear of being heard by anyone else who might be coming along in the distance. They began to beat him viciously, giving him no chance to recognize any one of them. His cries of fright and pain were cut off by a vicious kick to the throat. He drew his legs up and covered his head with his arms to protect himself, but the constant kicks and punches forced him to try to crawl away. Suddenly, over the screams of the terrified man they heard the roar of an approaching lorry and saw the sidelights in the not-too-far distance.
Taking advantage of the sudden bre
ak in their assault, Summers scrambled to his feet and staggered across the road, falling rather than jumping over a fence before they realized what had happened. With a shout, two of them chased after him, the other two deeming it wiser to take the opposite direction and hide in the bushes until the lorry had passed. The aggrieved boy was one of the pursuers and he had no intention of allowing the officer to escape so lightly.
Summers stumbled across the open field, panic lending him speed, the dull thud of boots on grass behind him giving him strength. Without seeing where he was going, or caring, he ran headlong into a barbed-wire fence. He did not see the warning signs spaced at regular intervals along the cruel wire fence, nor would he have understood them if he had – his terror was greater than his rationality. His cry of pain as a barb gashed his cheek brought renewed shouting and cursing from behind. He climbed through the fence, ripping his uniform, wickedly tearing his flesh, and ran headlong into the minefield.
The boy behind, ignoring the warnings in his rage, followed him through, pulling a knife from his trouser pocket, knowing he would soon catch up with his quarry. His companion called after him, warning him of the danger, shouting for him to come back, but he was too close to Summers now. The Captain had fallen to his knees and had raised one arm towards the boy as though to ward him off, blubbering like a baby, pleading.
The boy grinned. It didn’t matter that the queer had recognized him. He hadn’t intended it to go this far, but now he decided. He would be overseas soon, probably killed in this fucking war, so the Captain was going to pay. No one would know who’d done it, he was a known poof. It could’ve been anyone. He raised the knife so the officer could see it clearly, enjoying the new paralytic fear in the other’s eyes. He grinned nastily as he walked towards the officer.
The explosion killed the boy instantly, throwing his body into the air as though it was a leaf blown by the wind. The Captain was knocked back by the blast and when he tried to sit up, his right arm would not support him. When he tried to see why, he dully registered that part of his arm wasn’t there any longer.
The Fog Page 6
