‘Simmons!’ Holman hurried over to the bed and stopped before the prone figure, his worst fears realized. The shocked eyes slowly turned towards him, and the pale lips moved as though to speak. Barrow pushed past him and leaned towards the older man.
‘What’s happened, sir? Where are you hurt?’
For a moment the eyes looked at the policeman then swivelled back towards Holman.
‘Y-you did this to her,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘You m-made her do this.’
Holman was too stunned to say anything. Was he now to be blamed for this? He knelt beside the older man.
‘Where’s Casey – Christine?’ he asked.
‘Why, why did she do this?’ Simmons’ eyes looked down as though indicating at something near his stomach.
Barrow yanked back the bedclothes and both men gasped. The end of a pair of scissors protruded from Simmons’ stomach, and his pyjamas and the bedsheets were stained with blood.
‘Jesus, Jesus!’ breathed Barrow. He turned towards Holman. ‘I’m going to get Jennings to radio for an ambulance. There’s still a chance we can save him if we’re quick. Prop his head up with a pillow so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. And don’t touch those scissors. Don’t try and pull them out!’ He disappeared through the door and Holman heard him leaping down the stairs, recklessly, two or three at a time.
Holman pulled a bloodsoaked sheet over the wound, feeling sick, not at the sight of the injury, but at the thought that it had been Casey who had perpetrated it. He bent his head towards her father as he tried to speak, his words only a whisper, barely audible.
‘W-why did she do it. I loved her, she knew that.’
‘She wasn’t responsible,’ Holman told him, speaking in a soft voice, as though words could cause the man further injury. ‘She came in contact with a – a poisonous gas that affected her mind.’ Simmons’ eyes looked puzzled for a moment, his brain not understanding the words but then accepting them almost with relief. She had tried to kill him because she was ill – it hadn’t been an act of hate; that was enough for his weakened senses for the moment. He began to speak again. ‘I brought her home from the hospital. They told me what you’d done to her.’ His face became almost fierce, but the effort was too much and its lines fell back into an expression of pain.
‘No, I didn’t do anything to her,’ Holman assured him. ‘It was the gas, it made her unwell.’
‘I – I brought her home. She seemed dazed. She kept putting her hands to her head as though she were in pain. They didn’t want to let her go, but I knew she’d be better off with me. I put her to bed and sat there talking to her. She didn’t seem to hear me. I told her things I’ve never spoken to her about before, but she didn’t seem to hear me.’
He began to choke and Holman became worried that blood was rising in his throat. He slid his hand beneath the older man’s head in an effort to stop the blood reaching his mouth, not really knowing if it would prevent asphyxiation.
Simmons managed to stop coughing and lay there breathing heavily. ‘I loved her,’ he went on, ‘perhaps too much.’
Holman said nothing.
‘And – and I told her something I’d never told her before tonight.’
‘Don’t talk any more. Try to save your strength.’ Holman was hardly listening for he’d noticed fresh blood seeping through the sheets.
‘No, I must tell you, Holman. You’ve a right to know – you love her too.’ His hands tried to reach the scissors beneath the sheet, but fell back limply to his sides. ‘I – I’m not her father, Holman. Her bitch of a mother told me who her real father was just before we were divorced. But it made no difference to me, I loved the child too much. I fought tooth-and-nail for custody, and her mother could never claim in court Christine wasn’t mine because she would be admitting her own infidelity. And she was too shrewd and greedy for that.’ Holman could almost detect an embittered smile on the pain-wracked face.
That could explain certain things about the man’s attitude towards Casey. He looked on her as his daughter, but because he knew she wasn’t, another element had crept into their relationship. An element that Casey hadn’t been aware of and Holman had only suspected. But it was still sickening even though there were no real blood ties. Even in his injured state, Holman felt a loathing towards the man.
‘I told her tonight – that’s why she did this to me,’ Simmons murmured, more to himself than Holman.
‘No, it wasn’t because of that. I told you, it was the gas.’
‘It was too much for her, I suppose, in her shocked state.’ He was too deep in his own remorse to listen to the younger man. ‘I woke up, I don’t know how long ago – a couple of hours, I suppose – and there she was, standing over me. I’d left on the lamp in case she needed me during the night, so I could see her plainly; she was just looking down at me, expressionless, her hands behind her back.’ A tear trickled from the corner of his eye. ‘I – I put out my arms for her to come to me.’ His eyes that had been staring at the ceiling now looked guiltily at Holman. ‘I misunderstood.’
Holman frowned. ‘Misunderstood?’
‘She came towards me, then,’ he began to tremble uncontrollably, ‘then she pulled back the bedclothes and I saw the scissors slashing down . . .’ His voice broke as he relived the experience.
The younger man’s thoughts were not clear. Simmons seemed to be blaming himself. He’d said he’d misunderstood; had he though? Oh, no, not that. Surely he couldn’t have thought Casey had come to him for that kind of love? How stupid, how blind could he be? Poor Casey, to go through that . . . A cry from downstairs interrupted his thoughts. It had sounded like a man’s cry, probably Barrow’s.
He left the dying man and rushed to the top of the stairs. The sounds seemed to be coming from the study below, sounds of crashing furniture and shouts of alarm. He flew down the stairs and pushed open the study door. And then he stopped.
Barrow was on his hands and knees on the floor, blood oozing from a wound in his scalp. Casey stood above him, a wicked-looking shard of glass in her hand. The remnants of the large antique mirror lay shattered around her feet. She raised her arm, ready to plunge the pointed glass down into the back of Barrow’s neck.
‘Casey!’ Holman cried.
She turned to look at him, for an instant a flicker of recognition showing on her face. Then she smiled and walked towards him. He stopped, still wary, and reached out a hand to her. ‘Casey,’ he said softly.
With a snarl that changed her smiling face into a grimace of pure hatred she threw herself at him, the weapon slashing for his face.
He ducked under her arm and slammed his elbow into her back knocking her into the wall. He knew from their previous struggle he would have to use force to subdue her. She sprang away from the wall, her clenched fist bleeding from the glass she held, and leapt at him again, the tip of the shard catching his cheek and drawing a thin line of blood. Catching her wrist, Holman smacked her face viciously, sending her to her knees, but still holding on to her. He increased the pressure on her wrist causing her to cry out in pain and to drop the glass. Swiftly pulling her to her feet again, he turned her back to him and pinned her arms behind her. She screamed and fought like the madwoman she was, but this time he showed no mercy and used all his strength to hold her there, bruising her arms with his tight grip.
Barrow had staggered to the door now and was watching them in amazement.
‘Christ,’ he gasped ‘And to think I didn’t believe you.’
‘Don’t just stand there, you bloody fool!’ Holman shouted at him. ‘Get something to tie her up with!’
Barrow disappeared from the doorway and returned a moment later with a length of curtain rope. The driver of the police car came through the front door as they were tying the girl’s hands.
‘Ambulance is on its way, sir,’ he said to Barrow, not raising an eyebrow at the scene before him.
‘Right. There’s an injured man upstairs. Go and stay with him – I think he�
�s had it.’ The young detective rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Bloody cow,’ he groaned. ‘I was just coming back into the house when I saw the study door closing. I reckon she was just leaving the house when we drew up and she ducked into the study as we came in. She was probably trying to creep out again as I came back.’
‘What happened?’ asked Holman, leading the girl into the vast lounge where he sat her down on a leather settee. She seemed docile now.
Barrow followed them. ‘I ran into the study and then she hit me. She must have been standing behind the door with that bloody mirror in her hands, waiting for me. She knocked me silly, anyway. All I can remember is crawling around the floor trying to get away from her. Bitch!’
‘Watch your mouth, Barrow,’ said Holman angrily. He’d had enough of the policeman for one day and was prepared to take a swing at him himself if the man continued in his aggressiveness. He knelt before Casey, taking her pale face in his hands. She stared past him, over his shoulder, her eyes wide and unseeing.
‘Casey, darling, can you hear me?’ he asked tenderly. ‘Can you understand me?’
Her eyes looked at him coldly. ‘Bastard,’ she said
It was as though she had hit him. The word was said with such icy vehemence it shocked and hurt him deeply.
‘She doesn’t know you, Holman, can’t you see that?’ said Barrow, not unkindly.
‘No, she doesn’t.’ Holman’s eyes clouded. ‘Will she ever know me again?’
This time, Holman went with Casey to the hospital. Her father was taken by ambulance to the Whittington Hospital on Highgate Hill, while she was returned in the squad car to the Middlesex Hospital. Detective Inspector Barrow left Holman anxiously discussing the girl with the doctor who had treated her previously, and went back to make his report to Chief Superintendent Wreford at New Scotland Yard.
Barrow found the complex building in an uproar and was staggered himself when he caught drift of the news. He hurried to Wreford’s office, who confirmed his worst suspicions and sent him rushing back to the hospital to bring in Holman. Reluctantly, Holman agreed to accompany him again to the Yard on the understanding that Casey was to be kept under the strictest supervision and having advised the doctor to get in touch with the hospital in Salisbury where he had been treated. The doctor had agreed but wanted to know more of Holman’s case. Barrow interrupted, telling him he would have to obtain all his information from Salisbury.
Holman was needed urgently at New Scotland Yard in a matter which involved more than the well-being of one girl.
He would say no more as they drove back towards Westminster, telling Holman he would find out soon enough and that he himself had yet to hear a full report. Finally, seated in Wreford’s office, Holman was told the astonishing and frightening facts.
Wreford wasted no time with preamble. ‘We’ve little time for apologies, Mr Holman,’ he began bluntly. ‘I’ve heard briefly what happened to yourself and Detective Inspector Barrow earlier this morning and I sympathize with what you’ve been through, but events have taken on a greater significance.
‘Reports have been flowing in through the night about certain strange occurrences. They weren’t channelled through to me of course until I made a request for such reports. I must tell you now, that I did this unofficially.’
He held up his hand at Holman’s look of surprise. ‘We won’t go into it now, but you must understand, I couldn’t just take your word for it, I had to play safe.’
‘All right,’ said Holman bitterly. ‘I suppose I should be grateful you even took an interest.’
Wreford cleared his throat and looked down, for a moment embarrassed, then the snap was back in his voice as he went on. ‘Well, the reports began to accumulate and pretty soon, it wasn’t just me, but the whole building involved. They seemed to be just individual incidents at first, some minor, others a deal more serious, but together they began to take on a pattern. They seemed to be happening in a ragged line between Wiltshire, Dorset and Hampshire. They’re pretty curious in our control room of course as to why I had put in an unofficial request for reports around those areas. I’m saving my answer for the Commissioner for Police; we have a meeting in,’ he looked at his watch, ‘ten minutes. I want you to be there.’
Holman nodded his agreement.
Wreford’s face became even more grave as he went on. Most of these incidents were isolated, usually concerning one person, occasionally two or three, certainly no more. But just under an hour ago, the most alarming news of all came through. We’re all very much in the dark at the moment – we’re getting a fuller picture by the minute – but it seems incredible, totally unbelievable.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Holman impatiently.
‘At around 6.00 this morning, virtually the entire population of Bournemouth left their homes and walked into the sea in a mass suicide attempt.’
Silence filled the room. At last, Holman managed to say, ‘It’s impossible.’
‘Impossible, yes, but it has happened. Over 148,820 people. And that’s not counting the thousands that were on holiday there. Men, women, children – all drowned. They’re still trying to drag those who couldn’t reach the sea back from the beach. Poole Harbour is just crammed with floating bodies, the shores around Bournemouth are littered with corpses.’
Barrow, who had been quiet up to now, spoke. ‘What about the fog, sir? Has it been sighted?’
‘I’ve issued instructions to locate it but naturally the local towns have enough on their minds without worrying about fog. I couldn’t give them the reason yet without causing a large-scale panic. I have to see the Commissioner before I do that. But one thing I did learn: Bournemouth was covered in a thick blanket of fog yesterday.’
The Commissioner of Police wasted no time in getting in contact with the Home Secretary and arranging an immediate meeting. He’d listened grimly to Holman’s story, occasionally interrupting to ask a relevant question, but not once voicing a negative opinion. Holman asked that the Minister of State for Defence and his own chief, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for the Department of the Environment, be present at their meeting with the Home Secretary, remembering the meeting Spiers had arranged before his death.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself relating his story again in a large, oak-panelled room in Whitehall surrounded by the Ministers and their chiefs-of-staff, having questions fired at him in rapid succession, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for the Army angrily rejecting his insinuations that the military in Salisbury might have some answers as to the cause of the fog.
The Home Secretary banged his fist sharply on the heavy table before them. ‘Gentlemen, we will not have arguments at this stage. James, I want a full report on your establishments on Salisbury,’ he ordered the Under-Secretary for the Army. ‘I want to know of all recent experiments carried out there, particularly the Broadmeyer Experiment.’ Holman caught the troubled look that passed between the two men.
‘Richard,’ the Home Secretary turned to the Minister of State for Defence, ‘we’ll need troops to clear Bournemouth and to control any panic that is bound to break out in the surrounding area. Commissioner, have your men located the fog yet?’
‘No sir, but they have orders to report directly to me as soon as they have.’
‘I suggest you get on to the Met Office and find out shifts in air currents.’
‘They’re helping us locate the fog now, sir.’
‘When you’ve found it, you’ll want to know where it’s going, won’t you?’ the Home Secretary said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
‘And what do you intend to do once you’ve found it?’ Sir Trevor Chambers, Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for the Department of the Environment asked dryly. It was a question that had been on all their minds. What could be done against a drifting, insubstantial mass? How could it be confined? How could it be destroyed?
‘There are methods,’ replied the Minister for Defence. ‘Some were developed
in the war by the RAF, but the progress of radar has made it unnecessary for this day and age. But the old methods are still usable.’
‘Let’s find it first,’ the Home Secretary said impatiently. ‘I want to know in which direction it’s heading and I want its path cleared of people.’
‘My God,’ said Sir Trevor, ‘that’s going to be a massive operation.’
‘I’m well aware of that, but what would you suggest?’ He allowed no time for an answer. ‘Mr Holman, I want you to put yourself at the disposal of the Department of Health’s Medical Research Department. You are one victim of the fog who has recovered. I want to know why. It could save the lives of countless others.’
‘Er, might I suggest that our chaps from Porton Down work in collusion with the Research Department?’ asked the Under-Secretary for the Army.
‘Porton Down?’ Sir Trevor Chambers raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, our Chemical Defence and Microbiological Research Establishments are based there.’
‘Porton Down, Salisbury?’ Sir Trevor persisted.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘This whole thing is beginning to smell bloody fishy to me!’
The Home Secretary held up his hands to dispel any arguments that might take place. ‘Gentlemen, I’ve asked James for a full report on his work in Salisbury and I will not tolerate any disputes amongst ourselves until I have read that report. For the moment, there are more urgent matters to be put in hand. Now then, we will use the Chemical Defence and the Microbiological Research boys – we’ll use anyone who can be of the slightest help in our efforts to combat this menace. Is that understood?’
For the next forty minutes plans were made to deal with the extraordinary situation, plans of action were laid down for the evacuation of people in the path of the threat, and ways of dispersing the fog were discussed. Men left to carry out their urgent duties, others were called in to receive instructions that puzzled them, but which they carried out anyway. The Commissioner was handed a slip of paper and interrupted the proceedings.
The Fog Page 14
