The Fog Page 8

  7

  Holman impatiently stabbed at the lift button. He was breathing hard, having left the taxi in which he’d raced back to St John’s Wood, trapped in the inevitable traffic jam. The taxi driver’s look of astonishment had turned into one of delight as he clutched the couple of pound notes Holman had hastily thrust into his hand. Fortunately the snarl-up had not been far from Holman’s flat, but the sprint down the road had left him breathless and with a painful stitch in his side. He jiggled with the button, knowing it wouldn’t make the lift come any sooner, but unable to stand there inactive. It finally arrived just when he was considering using the stairs and he abruptly pushed past the middle-aged, blue-haired woman who emerged. She gave him a look of disgust as the door closed, telling the Pekinese at her heels that rude young men like that should be birched and made to sweep the streets.

  Holman thumped the side of the lift with the soft underside of his fist as it began its slow ascent. Surely Casey would be all right. She had stayed in the car during the incident with the fog so it may have had no effect on her at all. And what about himself? He felt okay and he’d been fully exposed to it. But Spiers? He’d said he’d run into some fog when he’d been down to visit him. Could it have been the same fog? Then he remembered the slightly acrid smell, the tinge of yellow in the mist; it had seemed familiar at the time, and now he began to remember his experience in the fissure. The mist that had risen from the depths of the crevice – yellow, sharp smelling. Was it the same? Had it caused his madness? Or was he still mad?

  The lift jerked to a stop and he gave the slow-moving door a helpful shove, sliding through when the opening was wide enough. He reached the door of his flat, fumbling for the key, trying to calm himself, only too willing to appear foolish if she was perfectly all right. He opened the door and a chill ran through him as he saw the place was in darkness. Perhaps she was still sleeping and had not bothered to draw the curtains. No, he had drawn them open himself that morning. He stood in the doorway and called out her name, not too loudly, not wanting to alarm her. He walked to the half-open door to the lounge. Pushing the door wider, he reached in and switched on the light. The room was empty. Everything was as he’d left it except for the closed curtains. He tried the kitchen. Empty. He walked softly to the bedroom door, grasped the handle, and gently pushed it open.

  ‘Casey?’

  Silence.

  He could see the bed through the gloom but could not tell if its ruffled blankets covered a sleeping body. He stepped into the room and walked towards it.

  Only the harsh, dry chuckle he heard behind him saved his life. He whirled around at the sound, the movement causing the kitchen knife Casey was plunging down towards his back to miss and slew through the material of his coat sleeve. He gasped with pain as the blade cut a fine line across the muscle of his arm, but the shock caused him to fall back and so avoid the knife on its return journey. She stood before him, familiar, but a stranger. Her eyes were cold, her mouth was drawn back in a grimace that resembled the frozen smile he’d seen on dead animals. Her brown-blonde hair hung limply across her face as though she’d been caught in the rain, there were long scratch marks on her cheeks where she’d raked them with her fingernails. A stream of saliva glistened on her delicate chin. She held the knife above her head and the dry, harsh chuckle came again from her throat. She plunged down once more with the knife, but this time Holman was ready. He stepped back and tried to grab her wrist, but missed. As the knife swept up again, the long wicked-looking blade aimed at his stomach, he caught her arm and moved in towards her, his other arm encircling her waist.

  Their heads were close together, almost touching, and suddenly she sank her teeth into his cheek, biting deep and hard. He wrenched his head away, feeling the skin tear, but oblivious to any pain. They fell backwards, on to the bed. Snarling noises came from her lips as they struggled for the knife and the fingernails of her free hand tried to rake his face. He twisted her wrist, trying to make her release the weapon, but her strength was incredible. He got his other arm underneath her chin, not wanting to hurt her but knowing he had no choice. He pushed up, forcing her head back, stretching her neck, causing her to choke. As she emitted an almost animal whine, he almost released her, afraid to hurt her too much. Aware of the slight relaxation in his muscles, she brought her knee up full into his groin. He cried out at the sudden agonizing pain and doubled up, his grip on her wrist weakening considerably. She pulled it free and sprang away from him laughing triumphantly.

  She knelt on the bed beside him as he gasped for air and raised the knife above her head again, holding it with both hands. The sight made him forget his pain and he kicked out at her stomach, viciously sending her crashing off the bed to land in a heap on the floor. He struggled up on one elbow, both of them now heaving, trying to draw air back into their bodies. The knife lay somewhere in the gloom, he couldn’t see where. She raised herself to her knees, glaring maliciously at him, her teeth bared in a snarl of rage, then leapt towards him, her arms flailing, fingers clawing to tear at his eyes. He caught her arms as her full weight landed on him, then arched his body to try to throw her off, but was only partially successful. They rolled over on the bed, their bodies becoming entangled in the bedclothes, restricting their movements. She spat at him, her eyes gleaming with fury, muted growling noises coming from deep down in her throat. He fought back desperately, still afraid to hurt her but knowing he would have to if he were to prevent her harming him and possibly herself.

  They fell to the floor, taking the bedclothes with them, landing in a struggling, mixed-up heap on the floor. She managed to free herself from his grasp and raise herself to one knee, the sheets from the bed impeding her efforts. He grabbed for her again and caught at her blouse. It tore as she pulled herself away, exposing her small breasts, the sight causing Holman to hesitate, to freeze momentarily, dangerously. It was as though her sudden nakedness, the sight of her soft defenceless flesh made her vulnerable. Helpless.

  But her laugh quickly swept pity from his mind, and he struggled to free himself of the sheets. It was a laugh that chilled him; the empty cackle of a crazy woman. He sprang at her.

  She dodged his outstretched arms and leapt across the bed with an agility that surprised him. He clumsily scrambled after her, his feet still caught in the sheets on the floor, and managed to roll to one side as she brought the bedside lamp crashing down towards his head. He gasped as it struck his already injured shoulder, crying out her name as though it would bring her to her senses. Swinging his feet round, dragging some of the bedclothes with them, he crouched on the floor beside her. She kicked him in the face, catching his jaw, stunning him. He fell back against the side of the bed, the restraint of not wanting to hurt her now completely gone from his mind. He would have to fight her as he would fight a man – or a mad dog. He saw her grab for something on the floor and realized it must be the knife. As she came towards him again he pushed himself off the bed and backed away, never taking his eyes off her, fighting down his emotion for her, regarding her as the crazed stranger she now was. She advanced slowly, no longer chuckling, but the smiling grimace still there on her face, the look of hatred still distorting her features. Their movements were slow, measured, the movements of a cat stalking a terrified mouse. Suddenly, she ran forward, raising the knife high for the death strike, a scream of anticipation escaping from her lips. He ducked beneath the descending arm and was behind her. As she whirled, he made for the bedroom door, feeling terror of the blade he knew was a few feet from his exposed back. He reached the door, grabbed the handle and twisted his body to slam it shut behind him. He heard the thunk of the knife as it sank into the wood then the thud of her body as it followed through and struck the door. He immediately pushed the door open again, all his strength behind the thrust, the whole action in one fluid movement. It slammed into the girl, knocking her back violently, causing her to lose her grip of the knife handle. She fell to the floor with a scream more of rage than hurt, her skirt rising
high to her thighs, the sight exciting Holman despite his predicament. He leapt on to her, his whole weight pinning her to the floor, but still she struggled, her continuing strength amazing him. Her legs opened in her efforts to free herself and he lay between them, his face next to hers, his arms pinning hers above her head. He could feel himself growing stiff, the position of lovemaking and the excitement of his fright combining to distract his mind from the danger towards the more primitive urge of his body. ‘Casey,’ he breathed as he moved his body against her, ‘Casey!’

  She bit into his already wounded neck, deep and hard, drawing blood and savouring it. He cried out and tried to pull away, but she clung to him, her head rising with him. He could feel his flesh break again as her teeth sank deeper. He released one of her arms, which immediately clawed at his hair, and drew his fist back. He punched her hard in her ribs but still she would not let go. Desperately, ignoring the pain, he pulled one knee up so it rested high between her legs, causing his back to make a hole between their bodies. Then he raised his fist again and slammed it low into her stomach.

  Her head fell back to the floor and she lay there gasping in air through blood-stained lips, her legs drawn up, her free hand clutching her stomach. Then he slapped her. A hard, cruel, swiping blow that threw her head to one side. He pulled her half to her feet and hit her again, knocking her to the floor once more. At the sight of her lying there, moaning, tiny whimpering noises coming through tears of pain, his rage vanished.

  He knelt beside her and cradled her in his arms, tenderly rocking her to and fro.

  ‘Oh, Casey, I’m sorry, darling,’ he said softly, forgetting her madness, thinking only of the pain he had caused her. But even as he held her and her breathing became more even, he could feel her body stiffening, her whimpers becoming low murmurings. He looked around quickly and caught sight of the rumpled sheets on the floor. He lowered her body, praying she was still too helpless to move, and grabbed for them, pulling them towards him. Her shoulders began to heave now, not from breathlessness but from insane anger building up. She raised herself on one elbow. Hastily, he pushed her back down and rolled her over, pulling her hands behind her back. She began to kick out but he sat heavily on her to make her helpless. As he tied her hands with the rolled-up sheet, she thrashed her head from side to side, scraping it on the hard floor, oblivious to the pain. Then, without warning, her body went limp, her eyes became glazed as though she were in a deep cataleptic trance, and saliva, pink from Holman’s blood, drooled from her once-sweet lips to the floor.

  He turned her over and anxiously wiped away the thin layer of moisture from her brow. She stared ahead unseeingly. Lifting her gently, he took her over to the bed, and laid her on it, propping her head and shoulders up with two pillows. He drew the sides of her ripped blouse together, covering her breasts, the proud little breasts he had lovingly kissed so often and arranged her skirt to cover her thighs, the soft thighs he had also lovingly kissed so many times before. Then he wiped the spittle and blood from around her mouth with the edge of a sheet, reminding himself of the wound she had re-opened with her sharp teeth. He put his handkerchief to his neck and winced at the pain now that he had become conscious of it. There was quite a lot of blood on the handkerchief when he drew it away, but he didn’t think too much damage had been done.

  He sat there in the gloom staring at the girl, one hand with the handkerchief to his throat, the other resting lightly on her knee. She was unresponsive when he quietly spoke her name. How much had the gas, the fog – whatever it was – how much had it affected her? Would she ever be normal again? Would she try to kill herself as Spiers had done? Even he, Holman, had tried to throw himself back down the fissure and later cut his own throat with glass. The little girl had died because of the fog. But she had been heavily subjected to it, as had he, inside the hole, and her young mind had been unable to cope with the effects. His only hope was that Casey had not been exposed to too much. She’d been inside the car most of the time. Did it make any difference though? Was such a short exposure still as lethal? The next few days would tell. His only hope was to get her to a hospital where they could keep her under restraint until she got over it, or – He pushed the thought from his mind. The doctors had told him there was little they had been able to do but keep him on drugs to pacify him while the struggle had gone on inside his brain, an area they could not enter unless they used drastic surgery which may have proved fatal anyway. Would her mind be strong enough to resist whatever was eating into it?

  He was still sitting there in the semi-darkness when the police pounded on the door ten minutes later.

  Holman went to the door quickly, afraid to leave Casey alone for too long. He was surprised to see the police and immediately assumed a neighbour had been concerned about the sounds of the struggle. There were two, one uniformed, the other in plainclothes. He didn’t know there was yet another guarding the stairs on the ground floor.

  ‘John Holman?’ the man in plainclothes asked brusquely.

  ‘Yes. Good thing you came . . .’

  He was cut off as the detective pushed his way in, flashing a card in Holman’s face and pocketing it immediately. ‘Detective Inspector Barrow, we’ve been told to pick you up.’

  ‘What? Oh, Spiers. Look, get an amb . . .’

  ‘We understand that you were the only witness present at, er, an incident at the Department of the Environment building a short while ago.’ The detective was young and very unlike Holman’s idea of a detective. He wore a polo-neck jumper and a long suede jacket; his hair, though not exactly long, was certainly no ‘short back and sides’. He glanced around the flat, visibly puzzled by the absence of daylight.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. My boss committed suicide, but . . .’

  ‘Why did you leave?’ The detective was walking away from him, opening doors and looking in as he went. Holman turned towards the burly policeman standing in the doorway. ‘Look we’ve got to get an ambulance right away,’ he said, ignoring the detective’s question.

  ‘Christ!’ he heard and turned again to see the plainclothes policeman standing at the door to his bedroom, a look of astonishinent on his face.

  ‘Hold him, Turner!’ the detective shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared into the room. A heavy hand clamped on to Holman’s upper arm as he made towards the bedroom.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Holman said angrily. ‘We’ve got to get her to a hospital immediately.’ He wrenched his arm free and ran down the short passage. He saw the young detective sitting on the bed untying Casey’s hands. ‘No, wait! Don’t release her – she’s not sane!’ The words hurt him to say, but he had to make them understand. A rough hand went around his neck and his right arm was yanked behind him and up.

  ‘You don’t understand!’ he managed to gasp.

  ‘Oh, we understand all right,’ said the CID man, turning to eye him coolly. ‘Your colleagues told us you hadn’t been well. Don’t give us any trouble, mate, I’m just in the mood for a bastard like you.’ He spoke quietly, but the menace was unmistakable.

  Holman relaxed his muscles, unafraid of the threat, but realizing there was nothing he could do for the moment.

  ‘All right, let’s take it easy. But you’ve got to get her to a hospital,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘I was in the earthquake in Wiltshire last week. There was a gas released, it affects the brain . . .’

  ‘It certainly affected yours,’ said the detective, helping the girl to her feet. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to her, but look at her, look at those eyes . . .’

  ‘No, no. It wasn’t me. It was the fog. Spiers was caught up in it too. It affects the brain.’

  ‘As far as we know, there’ve been no reports of gas during any damage at the earthquake.’

  ‘But I was inside it. Inside the eruption where the gas was!’

  ‘Yes, we heard about a man and a child being rescued. The kid’s dead, we’ll take your word for it that you were the man. But there’s be
en no mention of anybody else being down there.’

  ‘They weren’t down there.’ Holman was beginning to lose his temper, but fought hard to control it knowing no good would come from a shouting match. ‘This was later, at different times.’

  ‘All right, Sergeant, get him out of here, we’ve got plenty of time for questions.’

  ‘Wait a minute, there’s something else!’ Holman resisted the strong arms of the policeman holding him. ‘The school! Listen to me. There was a busload of kids caught in the fog. I can’t remember the name of the school, but it was in Andover. You’ve got to find it and quickly. God knows what’s happened there by now!’

  Holman impatiently drummed his fingers on the hard top of the bare table in one of New Scotland Yard’s many ‘interview’ rooms. The stonefaced policeman who stood by the door watching him said nothing, bored by his duty, but ready to spring into action at the least sign of aggressiveness from his charge.

  ‘What have they done with the girl?’ Holman asked him for the third time. As before, there was no reply. ‘You could at least tell me that!’ Holman slumped back in his seat, knowing it was useless to argue with this zombie. He’d been kept at the police headquarters for well over three hours now, wearily answering the same questions over and over again. Their disbelief was evident and when he’d been left alone with his guard and given time to reflect, he realized he could not blame them. He had been the only other person in the office when Spiers had jumped and they had been heard arguing beforehand; the police had discovered him with a bound and beaten girl in his flat; he’d only just been released from hospital after suffering a mental breakdown. The facts spoke for themselves and his anger at their repeated questions had not improved their opinion of his sanity. The girl was in a state of shock it seemed, unable to tell them of her ordeal, but they were sure she would be able to answer their questions later. They had finally agreed to check on the schools in Andover; if there was some abnormality with the pupils then maybe his story could begin to take on some credence.