The Fog

by James Herbert

  He looked up sharply as the door suddenly opened and two men walked briskly into the room. One was the young detective who had brought him in. He stood back, icily regarding Holman, as the other, an older, more genial-looking man, sat in the chair facing him on the other side of the table. Chief Superintendent Wreford had skilfully interrogated Holman, allowing his younger colleague to be antagonistic while he played the more sympathetic role. Holman had soon realized this was an act and that the mild-mannered, soft-spoken policeman was in fact a shrewd and perceptive interrogator. Wreford had tried to determine whether Holman was a dangerous lunatic or a clever liar with some obscure but sinister motive. So far, he wasn’t sure.

  ‘We’ve been checking on the schools in Andover . . .’ he paused to study Holman’s reaction.

  ‘Yes!’ said Holman leaning forward.

  ‘. . . and found nothing.’

  Holman’s look of frustration was too natural to be forced.

  ‘However,’ the Chief Superintendent went on, ‘we’ve had a report of a serious fire in a school just on the outskirts of the town.’

  ‘That must be it! It has to be!’

  ‘Well, there’s no way of knowing yet. Apparently the fire was in a gymnasium adjoining the school and they believe there could have been thirty-or-so boys trapped inside. The survivors are in a state of shock, and can’t be questioned just yet. We haven’t got all the facts, but at least we know the name of the school.’ His gaze became imperceptibly more intense. ‘It was Crayton’s.’

  Holman looked down at the table and frowned as he tried to remember. ‘No, no, I don’t think that was it. The teacher told me the name, but I just can’t remember it. I do remember the teacher only had one arm, but that’s not much use to you.’

  The Chief Superintendent studied Holman’s face for a few moments and then said, ‘All right, that wasn’t the real name. I’m going to show you a list – let’s see if you recognize any of the names on it.’

  He handed a sheet of paper to Holman who quickly scanned the typewritten list. He shook his head and read through it again, this time more slowly. ‘It’s no good,’ he said finally, ‘I don’t recognize any. One or two sound familiar but . . .’ Again, he shook his head.

  ‘The name of the school is Redbrook. Redbrook House, to be exact. Ring a bell?’

  ‘It sounds right, but I couldn’t honestly swear to it.’

  ‘I bet you couldn’t,’ the younger policeman broke in harshly.

  ‘Let me handle this, Barrow,’ Wreford said sharply, becoming a little tired now of his subordinate’s ruthlessness. Although he often used him as a balance against his assumed mildness, he had begun to wonder if Barrow didn’t relish the role he played just a little too much.

  ‘All right, Mr Holman,’ he said, his voice quickly becoming more even, ‘we’ll have to hold you for a short time while we’re making further investigations.’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’ Holman’s tone was incredulous.

  ‘Certainly not. But you must admit, the circumstances are suspicious, to say the least.’

  ‘I suppose so. But what about Casey? She’ll need me.’

  ‘Miss Simmons will be well looked after.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At the moment, she’s in the Middlesex Hospital under sedation. It seems she’s still in a state of shock.’

  ‘But don’t you see, that’s because of the fog. It’s a reaction to it!’

  ‘Whether it is or not, we’ll soon find out. And tell me something, Mr Holman, if this fog is drifting around the country sending people mad, why haven’t we had reports of it? Why aren’t all the people living in that part of the country raving lunatics?’ A slight edge of anger had appeared in the policeman’s last question.

  ‘I don’t know! I suppose it’s because the fog doesn’t cover such a wide area. And don’t forget, there’s a lot of open land around there. It may be that not too many people have come in contact with it as yet. And there seems to be some sort of delayed reaction. We came in contact with it yesterday, Spiers the day before. It must take time to work its way into the system!’

  ‘But you told us you were mad when they dragged you from the hole!’ said Barrow, annoyed that his superior should even listen to such drivel.

  ‘I was subjected to a massive dose of it! I was its first victim!’ Holman angrily banged his hand on the table.

  ‘Then tell us, Mr Holman,’ said Wreford calmly, ‘why you are not mad now. Or are you?’

  There was an abrupt silence in the small room. Three pairs of eyes looked intently into Holman’s, the three policemen waiting for his reply.

  ‘Look,’ he said wearily, ‘I just don’t know. I’m not a doctor, I’m not a scientist – maybe the Ministry of Defence can tell you.’

  The two CID men looked at one another. ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked the Chief Superintendent quietly.

  ‘They’ve got military installations down on Salisbury Plain. They conduct experiments – dangerous experiments – in the interest of the nation! Maybe they’ve got some answers.’

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’ began Barrow, a sneering grin on his face, but he was cut off by the older man.

  ‘Are you saying the Ministry of Defence is responsible for this? That they’ve released some sort of . . .’ Wreford paused, ‘. . . some sort of nerve gas?’

  ‘For God’s sake, I don’t know! It’s a possibility though!’

  ‘Oh, sir, do we have to listen to this?’ Barrow looked as though he were ready to pounce on Holman.

  ‘No, we don’t. If what you say is true, Mr Holman, then we should know very shortly. Until we do, I’m afraid we have to hold you.’

  ‘Okay, okay. But see they look after Casey. She’s got to be watched constantly.’

  ‘Shell be in safe hands, Mr Holman, I can assure you of that.’

  8

  Herbert Brown was worried about his pigeons. He drained his whisky and stared at the empty glass for a few moments.

  ‘Another one, Herby?’ asked the barman, reaching for a new glass, knowing his customer would not drink from the old.

  ‘Yes, Harry. Have another one y’self.’

  Harry knew the offer would come, which was why he was always eager to serve Herbert.

  ‘Ta. I’ll have a small light,’ he said, smiling through cigarette-stained teeth. He was a runt of a man, insignificant to most of his customers, but always treated well by Herbert Brown.

  ‘Nah, have a short.’

  ‘All right, Herby. I’ll have a gin and tonic.’ He poured the drinks and took the pound note from the bar where Herbert had nonchalantly laid it. He rang up the till and swiftly scraped out the change, a ten pence piece finding its way into his own pocket.

  ‘Here you are, Herby. Cheers.’ He raised his glass and sipped his gin. He was a good sort, Herby. Always ready to buy a drink. Never checked his change. He spent at least three evenings a week in the pub opposite his shop in Hackney Road, and most lunchtimes. Herbert usually rose early, about 5.00 or 6.00, and went to the market to buy stock for his fruit shop. By 11.00, he considered his day was done and a trip to the betting shop was always followed by a visit to the pub, leaving his hard-working wife to cope with the selling of the fruit. She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that Herbert would never change, but this did not stop her acid-tongued beratement of him. And the more he was nagged, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more he was nagged. The circle was never-ending, but neither of them could see it. It was a way of life.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about them, Herb. They’ll turn up.’ Harry leaned forward on the bar, a false look of sympathy on his face. He couldn’t understand how anyone could worry about bloody pigeons, let alone breed them. He’d once been up to Herby’s coop, a dangerously perched hut built on a side roof at the back of his shop. The house itself was large, as were most of the houses along London’s Hackney Road; their backyards dropped a floor below road level, providing extra habitable basement
rooms and giving the houses concealed depth. An extension had been built by the shop’s previous occupiers, extending most of the length of the backyard and reaching the second floor level. The roof, which was flat, could be reached from a landing window, and on it Herbert had built his pigeon coop.

  The smell inside the hut made Harry feel nauseous, and Herbert’s drunken clucking had filled him with barely concealed disgust. For the life of him he could not understand what Herby saw in the fat, cooing creatures. Puffing themselves up, messing all over the place. They weren’t good for anything – even pigeon pie was out of style nowadays. Herby raced them, Harry knew that. But he’d never won anything from it. When he’d cautiously broached the subject to him, the only reply he’d got was, ‘Have you ever watched them fly?’ Just the silly sort of answer you’d expect from an old drunk. Still, apart from his stinking pigeons, Herby was all right. Always good for a drink, always good for a tap.

  ‘They should’ve been back before now,’ Herbert was saying mournfully. ‘Only took them down to Salisbury in the van. Got some new ones, y’see, you’ve got to go easy on ’em at first. Mustn’t take ’em too far or they’d never find their way home. Some of the older ones were with ’em so they should’ve been all right. And Claude never gets lost!’

  Harry had to hide a grin as he thought of the ridiculously-named pigeon which was Herbert’s favourite. He’d had it for many years, a scruffy old bird that always looked as though it had just escaped from the clutches of a cat. He treated it like a baby. The time Harry had been up there, Herby had held it to his cheek and spoken to it as though it could understand every word. Not baby-talk though, but sensibly, man-to-man. When Harry had held it, it had shat in his hand.

  ‘Took ’em on Sunday,’ Herbert continued, his words slurring slightly. ‘Should be back by now. Trouble is, y’see, they need the sun to guide them.’

  ‘Well, maybe they got back earlier this evening Herb, just after you got here. You wait, when you get home, they’ll all be sitting up waiting for you.’ He caught another customer’s eye and looked heavenward, careful that Herbert didn’t see. The man, who had been eavesdropping, winked back.

  ‘You taking the piss, Harry?’ Herbert’s words were challenging.

  Harry knew that after a few Scotches his friend could quickly turn nasty at the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘I just mean they’ll all be up there on the roof waiting for you. I’m sure they will. Here, it’s about time you had one on me.’ He turned to reach for a new glass and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Herbert’s voice droning on, now sentimental again. He didn’t want to upset Herby.

  ‘Thing is with birds, Harry, they don’t demand nothing. You feed ’em, an’ that’s it, they’re yours. They’re not like dogs or cats that creep around you, begging. They’re proud, y’see. They come to you for food and that’s it. If you don’t feed ’em, sod ya’, they’re off.’ He leaned forward and pointed a rigid finger at the barman. ‘But if you look after them right, they’ll always come back to you. They’re loyal, y’see. Independent, but loyal.’

  He sat back as though satisfied with his statement. Harry placed the whisky on the bar before him, nodding his agreement, but annoyed that he’d been forced to buy him a drink. The landlord had eagle eyes so he couldn’t take too many chances with the till. He’d have to pay for it.

  ‘Claude’ll bring ’em back, I know he will.’ Herbert emptied the glass in two swift swallows, causing Harry to wince at the thought of the fiery liquid burning its way down his throat to eat away at the lining of his stomach. His insides must be made of cast-iron.

  ‘Can’t understand why they’ve been gone so long though,’ Herbert stood up, swaying slightly. ‘I’m off, Harry.’

  ‘Okay, Herb, see you tomorrow,’ grinned the barman and added maliciously, ‘Give my love to the old lady.’

  He almost regretted his words when Herbert turned back to the bar and eyed him for three long seconds, his befuddled brain unsure of the tone of the last remark.

  ‘Fuck ’er,’ Herbert finally said, and weaved his way unsteadily out of the pub.

  Once outside, he leaned against the wall for a few moments. He’d taken the last drink too fast and could feel the bile rising inside him. It was the thought that his beloved birds might be waiting for him that had suddenly caused his haste. He fought down the sickness and lurched across the wide main road, stopping at its centre to allow a No. 6 bus to crawl slowly by.

  His wife watched him from their bedroom window above the shop.

  She’d done it so many times before, had spent long, solitary hours gazing out at the busy main road from the darkened room, driven there not to watch for him coming home but by loneliness. She would study the people walking by, the young couples, the customers she knew, wondering where they were going, what they would do when they got there. The strangers, who were they, what were they doing in this neighbourhood? Sometimes her mind would go off into strange, often sordid, fantasies at the sight of them. There had been a time when the sight of one coloured person was enough to send her off into a frenzy of fancies, but now she was filled only with angry indignation. She could look directly into the brightly lit upper decks of the double-decker buses that regularly passed by her window. Although the glimpses were fleeting, they filled her mind with curiosity. And enhanced her loneliness.

  Since the boys had left, she found she had too much time to herself, too much time to ponder over her marriage and the hard years it had brought her. They had their own lives to make, it was true, but you’d think they would visit more often even though they both lived a little way out now. She loved to see the babies, her grandchildren. It was Herbert who’d driven the boys away with his drinking, his belligerence. What affection had he shown them? What interest? But his pigeons were another matter. Oh yes, nothing was too good for his bloody pigeons! Look how worried he was when he thought they were lost, how anxious he’d been the last couple of days. What could he see in them?

  Look at him now, standing in the middle of the road in a drunken stupor. God, how she wished that bus had knocked him down! She was the one who had made the business a success; it was all due to the hard work she’d put into it. All right, so he did get to the market very early in the mornings, but why should that excuse him for the rest of the day? They could have been well off if he didn’t squander every penny they made on drink and gambling. And giving it away. Oh yes, all his cronies knew where to come when they were short of a few bob! Good old Herby – the paupers’ friend. Well, she’d sifted a bit away out of the takings; she had to, otherwise they’d soon be out on the street if business suddenly went bad. It wasn’t stealing – how could you steal money you earned yourself? But there was no reason he should know about it. Look at him, staggering across the road! I just hope none of the customers see him, the rotten bastard.

  Tears glistened in Lena Brown’s eyes, not tears of self-pity or sorrow, but tears of hate.

  ‘I wish you’d die,’ she said aloud, her breath causing the window-pane to mist up. ‘I wish you’d fucking die.’

  Herbert reached the side door to his shop and fumbled for his key. His wife had once bolted the door from the inside. Only once, never again. The police had been called because of the commotion he’d made, but she’d never dared to lock him out of his own house again. He found his key and had no difficulty in placing it in its metal womb, turning it viciously and pushing the door open. He closed it loudly behind him, not caring if he disturbed his wife upstairs. Not that she’d be asleep. Oh no, she’d be waiting for him no matter what time it was. You’d think she’d get sick at the sound of her own voice by now. Well fuck ’er! She wasn’t important.

  He felt his way along the dark passageway and down the steps to the backyard, not bothering to turn on the lights. Unbolting the heavy back door, he stepped out into the cool night air, breathing in great mouthfuls of it. He unzipped his trousers and pissed on the hard concrete ground, enjoying the sound as the yell
ow stream spattered off it. He never knew why he did this, their toilet stood directly opposite him and it had cost him a small fortune to have the one upstairs put in. But it was one of life’s little pleasures, he told himself. And it infuriated Lena.

  As the stream of urine lost its impetus and retreated back towards his shoes, he became conscious of another sound. It was the sound of cooing.

  He looked up towards the roof. His pigeons – they’d come back, bless ’em! He laughed aloud and quickly zipped up his trousers, getting his fingers wet in the process. Wiping his hands on his jacket, he lurched back into the house, leaving the door wide open behind him. He staggered up the stairs, cursing as he tripped, using his hands on the stairs ahead of him. As he reached the landing window, he heard his wife’s voice coming from the bedroom.

  ‘You dirty bastard!’ she called. ‘You’re a bloody animal! Why don’t you use the lavatory like any normal man?’

  ‘Shut your noise,’ he shouted back, reaching one knee up to the window-sill. He had to be careful now. More than once he’d lost his grip and gone tumbling down the stairs. She always said he’d go walking off the roof one of these nights, and good riddance too. But he knew he’d never get that drunk because if he did, he would never be able to get out the bleedin’ window.

  He scrambled through, his hands resting on the floor of the roof, supporting his upper body. He could still hear her voice from inside the house, shrill, unpleasant. But he could also hear the cooing now, much louder, and the sounds of movement inside the coop as the birds shuffled on their perches, excited by the noise he was making.

  ‘I’m coming, my darlings,’ he called out, drunkenly conscious of the silly grin on his face. He was careful to keep well away from the edge of the flat roof; he didn’t fancy the drop on to the concrete thirty feet below. ‘I knew you’d get back, Claude. I knew I could depend on you. What happened, get lost, did you?’