The Fog

by James Herbert

  They found him a little later, sitting in the middle of the minefield, holding the bloody stump of his right arm, still wondering what had happened to the rest of it.

  Everyone in camp knew what had happened all right, even though it had been hushed up. It had caused quite a stir and Hodges had relished every minute of it along with a thousand others. Summers had been discharged, of course, but on medical grounds; a one-armed captain was no use in a war. Hodges himself, to his regret, had been shipped off abroad a few months later and had soon forgotten the incident, his dim mind concentrating only on survival. It was not until five years ago when he’d shown the new deputy head into Mr Hayward’s study that he’d remembered. Summers hadn’t recognized him of course, but the one arm, the thin waspish figure, had brought it all back. He debated with himself whether he should inform the headmaster or not; a man like that shouldn’t be around young boys. He decided not to, feeling that somehow the knowledge might be put to his advantage eventually. Well, he had been right about that – today had proven it. Occasionally, he had enjoyed himself by hinting to Summers that he knew of his past. Nothing direct of course, just a seemingly casual remark about his army days, about the war, the ‘queer’ things that had happened. Hints as subtle as a kick in the groin, but Summers would merely look at him as though he were something the dog had neglected to bury.

  He drained the brownish tea, took a swig from the whisky bottle for good measure, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and picked up the garden shears with the intention of trimming the hedges outside the front gate. He ignored the headache, blaming it on the blow on the head he’d received the day before. He went upstairs.

  Summers sat in his study engaged in writing a full report of the coach incident for the school governors. He implicated Hodges, the driver, as wholly responsible because of reckless driving in extremely adverse weather. He finally put down his pen and sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile, quickly scanning the report then picking it up again to add a few words here and there, occasionally deleting a sentence, adding another, until he was sure that he was completely vindicated from any blame. After all, it was the headmaster’s idea that he should take his form out to the Plain in the first place. End-of-term restlessness, indeed. If he had had his way, the boys would have had a twenty-times-around-the-playing-fields trot to work off any restlessness they might feel. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, blinking rapidly when he took his hand away. Dratted headache! Throughout the morning, he’d felt a sharp pain across his eyes, only lasting a few seconds at a time, but nevertheless, extremely painful.

  He shuffled the pages of his lengthy report together, now completely satisfied that it was ready to be typed by Miss Thorson, the school’s secretary and administrative cleric. Only the fact that it would be signed by the headmaster as well as himself prevented him from adding a few derogatory comments concerning other matters relating to the running of the school. However, he could always filter these through verbally to the Board via his personal contact.

  And that my friend, he smiled to himself as he rose from his desk, is your goose cooked at any rate. He walked to the window, thinking of the despicable coach driver, Hodges. He was sure he had known the man years ago when he’d been in the army, but could not remember from which camp. Something in the man’s manner disturbed him, the seemingly casual remark, the sly look that crossed his face when he mentioned the war. Did he imagine he could intimidate him in some way? What exactly did Hodges know of his past? Well, whatever the loathsome man knew or did not know, he was a reminder of the past. And the past was something Summers wanted desperately to forget.

  He raised the stump of his arm, the sight of it reviving memories of pain and humiliation. Had Hodges known the full story? Had his crafty comments alluded to the terrible incident and the reason for it? No, the army had been discreet. The few brother officers that had known of his weakness, and indeed, some of whom shared it, had covered up the affair as only the services could. He, himself, could not remember much about that night, but even now, thirty-odd years later, he could still feel the pain in his hand as though it were still there. The nights he had lain awake because of the dull, throbbing ache in a non-existent limb, the pain not coming from the healed-over stump, but from below it, where there was nothing.

  And the damage had been much greater than just the maiming of his body. The maiming of his mind had caused him even greater suffering. Although the desire had still been there for a while after the accident, he discovered his body could no longer fulfil his needs. The discovery had frightened him, filling him with suicidal despair. But to kill himself required more courage than he would ever possess, so he had survived the mental torture and the physical wound, not because he was courageous, defiant to adversity, but because he was afraid to die.

  Then, mercifully, after a few years, even the desire began to fade as though his mind had accepted the disability, not just compromised, but given in completely to the impotence of his body. He felt no yearning towards the young boys he taught, or attraction to the young men he came in contact with, although he still liked to be around them. The sight of youthful bodies no longer stirred him, but he could appreciate their beauty, like a man without sense of smell could continue to appreciate the sight of a rose.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Summers caught sight of a figure lumbering along the driveway towards the main gate. Hodges. The hunched, shuffling gait was unmistakable. Summers smiled to himself, feeling a sense of agreeable pleasure in the knowledge that soon the man would no longer be an annoyance to him. He noted the bandaged head, glad that the injury had been inflicted. You deserve worse, he thought to himself and that’s just what you are going to get. Old Hayward was too soft, but this time he would not be able to dismiss his recommendation that Hodges be sacked. The report would have to go before the Governing Committee and they certainly would not tolerate the irresponsible actions of the driver-cum-odd-job man.

  He abruptly turned from the window and glanced at his watch. Time to do a round of the school before his next lesson. He often did a quick tour of the school in his free period, feeling it was his duty as deputy head to make a regular inspection of the classes while lessons were in progress, even visiting the empty dormitories to ensure the boys had left them neat and tidy, beds made, side-lockers carefully packed. Many a boy had been punished for leaving a discarded sock under a bed. He secretly enjoyed going through their lockers, seeking out pornographic photographs or books, various items that could be confiscated, even sniffing at dirty handkerchiefs for signs of masturbation.

  The boys, from bitter experience, knew of his quirks and were careful not to leave any incriminating evidence lying around. One had foolishly left a drawing of a one-armed man, crudely resembling Summers, on his knees peeping through a keyhole, the caption reading: ‘Beware, beware, Captain Hook is always there – especially if you are bare.’ The culprit had been severely dealt with by Summers personally, the headmaster not even being informed of the matter.

  Summers left his study, ignoring the sudden pain again before his eyes, carrying the report under his arm. As he walked along the corridor he listened at each classroom door, almost wishing to hear the sounds of rowdiness. When he reached the headmaster’s outer office he handed over the document to the busy Miss Thorson. Satisfied with her guarantee to type it before lunch, he continued his round of the school. His own form, he knew, would be in the gymnasium, a comparatively new addition to the old school, a building that stood across the small playground away from the main building itself. They had all fully recovered from their shake-up of the previous day, a few proudly displaying their bruises to the other boys in the school who had not been on the outing to the Plain, and all glorifying the event beyond the facts. As Summers crossed the playground, unconsciously eager to see the boys performing their physical exercises, he hummed a tune to himself.

  Hodges had almost reached the main gate when he suddenly stopped. He stood there for several minutes be
fore he sank to his knees, dropping the cutting shears, holding his hands to his face. He rocked backwards and forwards for a few moments then fell forward so that he was on all fours, staring at the ground. The shears lay beneath him, glowing dully in the shadow of his body. He crouched back on his knees and grasped the handles, bringing the implement up before his eyes, staring at the shears without comprehension. He opened and closed them with one sharp snapping movement, then slowly rose to his feet. He turned and walked back towards the school, holding the shears before him with both hands as though they were a water diviner. He entered the main entrance to the old building and passed the open doorway to the headmaster’s outer office. Miss Thorson barely gave him a glance as she busily tapped away at her typewriter. As he walked down the corridor towards the rear of the school he caught sight through the open doorway to the playground of a black-gowned figure walking briskly towards the gymnasium. The thin, waspish figure, the stump of one arm swinging at his side, told him who the figure belonged to. He followed.

  The boys had stopped halfway through the PE exercises leaving Osborne, their burly physical training master, jumping on the spot alone, arms and legs snapping in-out, in-out. One boy had ceased jumping first, then all the others, as one, had followed suit. They stood rigid, staring at the energetic teacher, their arms at their sides, no words passing between them, but somehow mentally in tune with one another. Osborne finally stopped his prancing and glared at the boys.

  ‘Who told you to stop?’ he thundered at them. ‘Well?’

  The boys just stared.

  ‘Get cracking right away!’ He began jumping on the spot again but stopped as he realized they were not following his example. He marched angrily towards the boy nearest to him, unable to understand this sudden attitude, suspecting he might be the victim of some practical joke. Although a big bluff man who liked to shout and always reacted swiftly and roughly to any insolence, he was popular among the pupils and, to some, a kind of hero. His prowess at all forms of athletics and sports had won him the respect even of his fellow teachers.

  ‘What’s the game, Jenkins?’ he demanded of the blank-faced boy before him. The boy’s lips moved but no sound came from them. He pushed roughly past him to the next boy.

  ‘Come on, Clark, what’s all this about, eh?’

  Clark, one of his personal favourites because of his promising ability as a sportsman, said nothing, but stared at the teacher as though he’d never seen him before.

  ‘All right, all right, you’ve had your little prank, but I’m going to give you five seconds to get weaving again!’ He strode into the middle of them. ‘One . . .’

  He failed to notice Clark, now behind him, walk towards a cricket bat lying on one of the benches at the side of the gym.

  ‘. . . two . . . I’m warning you boys, you’re all going to be punished for this! Three . . .’

  Clark picked up the bat and walked back with it towards the angry teacher.

  ‘Four. This is your last chance . . .’

  As his lips formed the word ‘five’, Clark raised the bat high and brought it crashing down on the back of Osborne’s head. The teacher staggered forward as the hall filled with the crack of the impact between wood and skull. Clutching the back of his head, bent double, almost blind with pain, he turned in time to see the heavy bat swinging down towards him again. He cried out in horror, the look of questioning on his face barely registering before it was erased under the impact of the second blow.

  He sank to the ground, still conscious but painfully stunned. He sprawled forward as the bat landed again, blood now running down his neck, staining his blue tracksuit. The boys surged forward as one, shouting in a wild fury, stamping on the limp man with plimsoled feet. They tore the trousers of his track suit from his body and turned him over on to his back, grabbing and kicking at his exposed testicles. Several tore off their own shorts and vests and began rubbing at their own already enlarged penises. One of the smaller boys jumped on the teacher and tried to enter him as though he were a woman, but was dragged off and beaten to the ground by the others. They pulled the top half of the tracksuit off so Osborne was completely naked, then dragged him towards the wall bars. The bars were of the type that swung away from the wall when in use, so that climbing ropes hung from the tops of their frames.

  The boys lifted Osborne and viciously pushed him back against the bars, two climbing either side of him to loop the hanging ropes through the wooden bars and lashing his wrists to them high above his head. Then his feet were pushed through the lower rungs so that they were trapped by the ankles.

  While some spat, kicked, punched or just jeered at the hanging man, others ran towards the huge sports chest and brought out wicket stumps, skipping ropes, more bats. One boy struggled with a heavy medicine ball. Their laughter and shouting stopped as they formed a semi-circle around the moaning figure. Blood from Osborne’s head wounds spread down his body as he writhed feebly in his agonizing position. Then, in turn they began to beat him with the wicket stumps, lashing him with the wooden ends of the skipping ropes, striking him with the bats. His genitals were crushed by one of the stronger boys who systematically hit at Osborne’s kneecaps and private parts. Clark took the medicine ball and aimed it at Osborne’s head, making it crack back against the wall bars under the impact of the throw. The boys all bore the same animal look of madness on their faces, their eyes wide, their mouths slack and drooling, the insane excitement of their actions making them scarcely human. All except one. One small boy crouched shivering in a far corner, too terrified to run away, too paralysed to take his eyes off the incredible scene taking place. A boy who had not been allowed to accompany the others on their coach trip the day before because he was recovering from an illness. He crouched there in a tight ball, his legs drawn up, clutching them with his arms, his nose buried into his knees – hoping, praying that the others would not notice him.

  Summers reached the entrance to the gymnasium and paused; the pain in his head was becoming more severe. He dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had broken out. Perhaps I’m coming down with something, he thought. Perhaps the crash yesterday had more effect on me than I imagined. Oh well, it will soon be end of term and then I’ll have a couple of months to rest and forget about these wretched boys for a while.

  He opened the door and stopped again, this time with shock. His mouth dropped open in a soundless scream, his legs almost gave way beneath him. The boys, most of them naked, were milling around something red and pink hanging from the wall bars. It looked like a carcass, a bloody, butcher’s carcass – and then he realized it was Osborne. Surely dead; the head hung loosely down towards his chest, the hands hung limply from the ropes that bound them. He saw now that the body was a mass of bruises and contusions, blood flowing down from a head wound. He could see that some of the boys’ feet were red from the pool that had formed on the ground. They turned to stare at him as he stepped forward, still unable to speak. He saw that some of the boys lay on the floor writhing in their own private ecstasy as they masturbated, and others were coupled together. He saw the damage they had done to the obscene-looking body, the beating they had dealt it. He saw the boys watching him, his boys, so pure in their innocence, so evil in their deviation. Standing before him, magnificent in their nakedness!

  He suddenly felt a stirring. A stirring in a region that had lain dormant for so many years. He looked down, amazed at the thrusting bulge from between his legs. A cloud seemed to haze over his eyes and he shook his head jerkily. Then a smile formed on his lips.

  He strode forward towards the silent boys.

  ‘Yes,’ he said urgently. ‘Yes, yes!’

  Hodges walked across the playground, still holding the shears before him, his eyes focused only on the door ahead. He reached it and pushed it open. There was no reaction on his face as his eyes fell upon the bizarre scene before him, and only a dull reaction in his brain. Two men were tied to the wall bars on the far wall; one h
anging still and quiet, his body now hardly recognizable as that of a man, as the other writhed and squirmed and moaned, not with pain, but with the pleasure pain brought. One arm was tied by the wrist to the wooden struts of the wall bars, the other was tied between the shoulder and elbow because there was no wrist. His feet were trapped inside the lower rungs, bent slightly at the knees so that the pelvis was thrust forward. Both men were naked so Hodges could see the huge, erect penis of the one who appeared to be alive. The boys were beating at the organ with wooden sticks, whlle others were lashing at the man with ropes. The man was Summers. His eyes gleamed with the excitement, his head twisted with ecstasy.

  ‘Captain Hook,’ said Hodges aloud.

  All eyes turned towards him. Even Summers stopped his squirming to look. He walked forward, brandishing the large garden shears, snapping them open and shut. ‘Captain Hook, Captain Hook,’ he repeated over and over again as he walked towards the helpless figure, an evil grin spread across his features.

  Summers also smiled as Hodges stood before him, saliva running from his mouth. His breath came in short, sharp heaves as he looked expectantly at the odd-job man. Hodges’ eyes travelled down the bare torso before him until they reached the huge, swollen penis. He grasped it with one hand and chuckled throatily, the laugh becoming insanely loud. Summers grinned back at him, his head nodding in a seemingly meaningless gesture.

  Hodges released the throbbing member and slowly raised the shears, so that it was between the two sharp blades.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Summers cried, his whole body now quivering with excitement.

  The boys watched in silence as the two blades snapped together and the scream echoed around the gymnasium.