by Guy N Smith
Andy Dark dropped on to his haunches. The fog seemed to thicken as though to screen something from him which he had no right to witness, blanking out even those creatures purporting to be men in a land of mist. They were no longer communicating with each other in those guttural grunts, kneeling silently amid the stinking heaps of seaweed. Watching.
Then his ears picked up a sound, the soft rhythmic splashing of water, one which he instantly recognised as that of oars being pulled, heading inshore. Beyond Andy Dark's vision a rowing boat was steadily coming inshore from the open sea.
Six
'Your part in the reconstruction of events leading up to the disappearance of Miss Embleton and Mr Dark must be entirely voluntary, Miss Brown. I want you to understand that.' Detective-Sergeant Jim Fillery regarded the girl seated in his temporary headquarters at Droy police station. He didn't want any repercussions, any flak from the media if anything went wrong. Not that it was likely to but he could just as easily have got a plain-clothes WPC to take the role. This girl would be better, though, the locals would take a greater interest, it might jog a memory somewhere along the fast-cooling trail which had begun at the disco. In all probability it wouldn't throw anything up but at least you were seen to be doing something. And, frankly, at the moment Jim Fillery could not think of anything else. Three people who should have been found in Droy Wood, and the search had been a very thorough one, had literally vanished into thin air.
'I want to do it,' Thelma Brown smiled. 'Carol was my best friend and after all I was one of the last people to see her.'
'Fair enough,' Fillery nodded. 'You'll be under supervision the whole time so you don't need to worry. We'll start tonight, the same disco, the same sequence of records, and hopefully everybody who was there last time will come again. Then you'll leave at 11.30, walk the same route, and one of our officers will pick you up in a blue Mini and drive you to the edge of Droy Wood. That'll be the end of the reconstruction.' Christ, we can't have you running off into the wood.
All the same, Thelma Brown was nervous. Suddenly she was playing a leading role in the recent events which had shocked the whole of Droy village. Yet she felt a duty towards Carol, the need to do something positive.
'You're mad,' her mother had retorted angrily when she heard of the proposed reconstruction. 'No good can come of this. And it's making your father ill.'
Emotional blackmail; Thelma had been subjected to it all her life. 'Now don't you get stopping out late at nights because your father can't go to sleep until you're safely in, and getting overtired at his age isn't good for him.'
John, her boyfriend, was furious too. 'I won't let you do it!' He confronted her angrily, his flushed cheeks matching his red hair, fists clenched, 'You're not bloody well going, d'you hear?'
'I'll do as I please.' Thelma Brown retorted, 'and neither you nor anybody else will stop me.'
'It's crazy, it's dangerous and it won't do any good.' He was beginning to raise his voice now. 'These reconstructions never work out, they're just a waste of everybody's time. Like these identikit pictures the police are always issuing, an artist's impression of the killer taken from scraps of information they get from unreliable witnesses, and when they finally catch the guy he looks nothing like his picture. They set all these things up to convince the public they're doing something because otherwise they wouldn't have a bloody clue.'
'I'm going,' she said stubbornly, 'whether you like it or not and if you don't, you know what you can do!'
So the following night Thelma Brown walked nervously into that crowded disco in the village half, a loner who was going to jive on her own all night. Rocking all over the world.
Trying to pick up the mood. My name is Carol Emble-ton. Carol Embleton. John's over there, can't take his eyes off you. John? Oh yes, Thelma Brown's boyfriend. Can't see Thelma but there's so many people here it's difficult to be sure; could be they've had another tiff and he's come on his own. It's none of my business anyway because I'm engaged to Andy Dark. A little ripple started to goosepimple her skin. It was an exciting fantasy. Another record, an even faster beat, the lights dimmed so that those flashing coloured bulbs dazzled you, transported you into a world of cavorting shadows and ear-bursting music. Like it had been the other night; exactly the same. You've got to go at 11.30 because you're walking home tonight. On your own. Where's Andy? Gone filming something or other. You're walking the long way round tonight, along by Droy Wood. Her pulses were hammering faster than that double bass now. She hadn't thought it would be quite so real as this. Sounded fine in the cold sober light of an October morning; but now it was dark outside, probably raining too. She shivered. It wasn't such a good idea after all.
The clothes she was wearing, they were all Carol's, the ones they had found in that Mini: jeans, blouse-top, the sheepskin hanging up in the ladies… the clothes that had been torn from Carol's body before… Oh God!
No, they can't be because you're Carol and nothing has happened to you and it isn't likely to. Just a long walk home in the dark, you'll have done your bit then, Turning so that her back was to that psychedelic fighting, having to wait for her eyes to stop flashing blue, green and yellow before she could make out the hands of the clock on the wall. 11.25. Thelma Brown's stomach seemed to flip then consolidated into a hard ball, brought with it a fleeting sensation of dizziness. This is it, you're on your way, girl!
The calves of her legs felt spongy as she pushed her way through the jiving mass of bodies, heading towards the door marked 'ladies'. A sickening smell of strong mixed perfumes and urine as she scraped the door back, shut it again. That sheepskin coat, the real McCoy, one that Andy Dark had bought her for… for an engagement present.
Just a shade too big across the shoulders but that didn't matter. Some graffiti on the wall, an almost illegible scribble in pencil by some dirty slut, probably one of those motorbike guys' girls — 'do you masturbate?'
Thelma found herself blushing, swallowing, a direct question that seemed to leap off the peeling emulsion at her. Mind your own bloody business. She felt a forest of eyes on her as she made her way towards the exit. Everybody's watching you. So what? They're probably wondering why Andy isn't here, wondering if they can make some gossip out of it. Outside the sky was beginning to cloud over, the moon fast becoming buried but fighting hard to shine through the gathering formation. For a second or two it was clear and if you looked at it hard enough there was a face up there just like they used to tell you when you were a kid. Frowning. You shouldn't be walking home on your own tonight, Thelma Brown (sorry, Carol Embleton), But if you must, don't go by Droy Wood. Strange things happen to people who get caught up when the mists roll across.
I must.
The wind was getting up, scattering early fallen leaves, blowing them along the road as though some invisible giant was sweeping them with a broom. There was a hint of drizzle in the atmosphere and Thelma turned up her collar, began to walk quickly. It shouldn't take all that long, and anyway the Mini will pick you up soon. You're not supposed to know about the Mini. A row of cottages on either side of the road, again that feeling of being watched although most of them were in darkness. Faces pressed against window panes, fogging up the glass. See, there she goes. That's Carol Embleton on her last walk. She won't be seen again. Ever.
A sudden squall of cold autumn rain had Thelma wanting to break into a run. Don't go by Droy Wood. It's not too late, you can chuck it in now, tell that CID man that it was too much for you. They can't make you do it. I will do it, I'm not turning back, and I'm going along by Droy Wood, as far as the stile in the hedge and then I'll cut back across the fields. Half an hour and I'll be home.
The village was behind her now, just wet tarmac glinting in the struggling moonlight and hedges that bent over in the wind, tall wispy hawthorn that had not been trimmed for two or three seasons. Driving rain smacked the back of her legs as though whipping her forward. Hurry, it's too late to turn back now. You'll have to pass Droy Wood.
And t
hen she heard the car coming. Walk in the road in case he doesn't see you and passes you by. If that happens you'll have to pass the wood on your own. The driver was taking his time, idling like he was kerb-crawling. His lights hadn't reached her yet. She experienced uneasiness bordering on fear. This was how it had been for Carol (me), just not knowing for sure who was driving that car. Suppose it wasn't the policeman; he hadn't left the village yet. Somebody else. Jump in, darling, it's nice and dry in here. Then the beams of the headlights hit her, overtook her, bounced back at her with dazzling brightness off the wall of low-lying mist which had rolled in across the road ahead of her. The car was going faster now, catching her up. Braking, a squeal of rubber on wet tarmac, the Mini level with her, the passenger door swinging open.
'Jump in, darling, out of the wet.'
She hesitated, the urge strong to run. No, I'm not getting in because that's what happened to Carol. Holding on to the door, trying to make out the shadowy figure inside. Just a silhouette, a cardboard outline, it could have been anybody.
'C'mon, you're getting soaked.' She detected a slight impatience in the other's voice. Don't keep me waiting because… It was the 'because' that worried her. Nevertheless she slid into the seat, pulled the door shut.
'And what brings you out on a night like this, darling?'
She thought she detected a faint whiff of peppermint. Chewing gum probably because policemen weren't allowed to smoke on duty.
'I. I'm walking home.' Well, that was bloody obvious enough. 'My boyfriend didn't go to the disco tonight so I went on my own. I didn't enjoy it, though.' True.
'Damn this fog.' Her companion swung the car hard over to the left, dipped his lights and focused the nearside beam on the verge. 'You have to be prepared for low-lying pockets of fog this time of the year, particularly alongside marshy places. I expect we'll run out of it in a minute or two.'
'Probably.' Once we're dear of Droy Wood. 'What's your name?' She sensed him glancing quickly at her. He knew, he had to; but it was an act, all the way through.
Thel. Carol Embleton.' In for a penny, in for a pound, act the whole thing through. This was getting eerie though, the fog thickening now, swirling around the slow-moving car as if it was trying to get to the occupants.
'You live round here?'
'Yes.' You know bloody well I do. 'You can drop me off a bit further up the road. past the wood. There's a stile in the hedge there. It'll only take me a few minutes to get home from there.'
But, of course, he wouldn't be dropping her off by the stile. They would be turning into that rutted lay-by alongside the wood. What then, did they turn round and go home? Surely they would, there wouldn't be much gained by sitting out there half the night, Thelma thought.
Silence as he attempted to negotiate the dense fog, down to 15 mph now. She stole a glance at him, saw his features reflected in the light from the facia. No more than thirty, handsome in a rugged kind of way. Tough. She couldn't make out exactly what he was wearing but in all probability they were the clothes belonging to that man James Foster.
Revulsion at the thought, how could he? Because he was a policeman and got paid for doing unpleasant things that other people didn't like doing. Thelma found herself edging away from him, pressing herself against the door. This was what it had been like for Carol, in the car with a sex-killer. But this man's a policeman. Are you sure? How do you know he's a policeman? He has to be. No, he doesn't.
And then he was swinging the car across the road, driving through a wafting sea of fog, all landmarks obscured, the vapour swirling across the windscreen. Thelma clutched at her seat, almost screamed. 'God, you can't possibly see where you're going. We'll go off the road, crash, overturn.'
But they didn't. The Mini bumped across ruts, slewed in thick mud, and came to a standstill on the lay-by adjacent to Droy Wood. A few seconds pause and then the headlights were switched off, the engine seeming to take an age to die, leaving just the faint eerie glow from the sidelights and the facia illuminations.
You could almost feel the fog seeping in through ill-fitting doors, touching you obscenely, mocking you. Threatening you. Thelma's relief was short-lived. They hadn't crashed, somehow the driver had found the place they were looking for. And now it was all over, she could go home.
'This is the place.' It was a statement not a question from the policeman.
'Yes.' Her voice sounded unfamiliar, far away. She was trembling, felt sick.
'That's it… isn't it?'
'We don't know.' His voice was flat, expressionless. 'It all depends on the fog.'
'What. whatever do you mean?' Icy fingers clutched at Thelma Brown's heart, almost stopped it then speeded it back up to full speed; thumping, pulse pounding.
The fog,' his tone didn't alter, 'we can't very well go anywhere, can we?'
His words spun in her brain, a record with a chipped groove, the stylus sticking. We can't very well go anywhere. We can't.
'We. you could reverse out on to the road., find the verge. follow it. Couldn't you?'
'This fog's getting thicker.' That was certainly true, you couldn't even see the reflection of the sidelights now. 'It would be stupid, dangerous. We'll just have to sit it out.'
Something about his tone frightened her, a kind of gloating, the elements doing just what he wanted them to. I'm sorry, Auntie Winnie, we can't come to tea today because of the weather. Thank God; a ready-made excuse.
'We can't stop here.' Thelma's voice was a whisper of hopelessness.
'Why not? It's not exactly cold, just damp and foggy, and if we do get cold I can always run the engine.'
Suddenly Thelma stiffened, felt an arm coming round her, strong fingers gripping her shoulders, pulling her gently but firmly towards the driver's seat; lips came in search of her own, found them in a kiss to which she did not respond, tasted peppermint again.
'Please. ' She tried to move away but he was holding her too tightly.
'You're a very attractive girl.' Smooth, frightening tones. 'And we can stop here all night. Just you and me, and nobody will ask any questions. They can't come looking for us in this, can they?'
Thelma's mouth was dry. He was holding her chin now, making sure she could not turn her head away from him, forcing her to look into his eyes. Eyes that glowed with a strange green hue. It was the reflection from the dashboard lights, it had to be. Even so he didn't look like she had at first thought. Rugged certainly, but something else — ruthless, vicious. She shivered, was reminded how Carol must have felt. But I'm not Carol, I'm Thelma Brown, and this isn't real. It's a mock-up, an act. This man's a policeman, he'll look after me. But the expression in his eyes said different.
'My boyfriend will come looking for me,' she said. 'He didn't like me coming in the first place.'
'You've got a boyfriend!' He seemed surprised, excited.
'Yes.' What else was there to say?
'I'll bet you're not a virgin then.' Thelma sensed rather than saw the leer. Fear and embarrassment blended and those words on the wall of that dingy ladies' room back at the village hall flashed before her eyes. Blushing, shuddering, knowing that she had to answer him.
'No, I'm not a virgin.' His lips were coming after her again, the smell of peppermint almost overpowering. She tried to struggle but his grip tightened, brought a cry of pain from her. 'Stop it, you're hurting me.'
But he didn't stop, pressing her back in the seat, crushing his mouth against hers, his tongue pushing at her until she opened up to let him push it into her in a simulation of the sex act. Rape!
Thelma was on the verge of tears now, gasping for breath when he withdrew, seeing those lusting eyes boring into her own, seeming to read her thoughts. She wanted to scream, to yell 'How dare you, I'm going to report you to Sergeant Fillery' but she didn't. For the same reasons that Carol Embleton hadn't screamed in the car a few nights ago.
'I don't want you to,' she sobbed.
'But I want to.' His voice was a deep whisper, a very purposeful frighte
ning one. Somehow her sheepskin coat had come unbuttoned and now the fingers of his free hand were smoothing over her blouse, dwelling on the soft curves of her breasts. 'We've got a whole night ahead of us, darling.'
Too scared to resist, moving her body so that he could slide her clothes off, trembling as he fondled her. Watching as he undressed himself, knowing that there was no way she could make a dash for freedom, aware of that awful fog drifting across the windows like some perverted voyeur. He lifted her into a kneeling position, head and shoulders drooped over the back of the passenger seat, staring down at the well of the rear seat, a black abyss that seemed to beckon her. Crying, her body screaming protests as this stranger took her from behind, satisfied his lust. Slowly it dawned on her that no longer were they coupled, that he was sprawled back in the driving seat, breathing heavily as though he had undergone a terrific physical strain. She moved, her thighs caught against something hard that clicked, creaked-The door handle, the door was swinging back on its hinges, the fog coming in at her in wisps of icy vapour. Impulsively, instinctively, she jumped backwards, felt mud beneath her feet and wan moonlight eerily penetrating the dense fog.
'Hey, what the hell d'you think you're doing?' A yell of rage from the car, strangely muffled.
Thelma Brown broke into a blind run, heedless of direction, only one thought in her mind and that was to get as far away as possible from the man who had done this to her. He might even kill her if he caught her. She was aware of thick mire and splashing water, rushes that stood vertically like inverted assegais, mist that blotted out her surroundings. Trees that sprouted grotesquely, multi-armed ogres trying to bar her way as she ran between them, plucking at her, scraping her naked flesh. Panicking, running until she could run no more, lying beneath one of the stunted trees and trying to listen above the noise of her thumping heart. A movement to her left as though somebody threshed blindly in a deep bog? She could not be sure.
