The Fog

by James Herbert

  He struggled with the latch on the door, noticing that some of the newer birds were still on the roof of the wooden hut. They always took a little while to learn how to get back inside the coop. They’d soon follow the example of the others. ‘Claude, come on, darling, where are you?’ He switched on the bicycle lamp he kept hanging up inside the hut, the sudden light causing several of the birds to flutter around in panic.

  ‘It’s all right, darling, its only me. I won’t hurt you.’ Herbert closed the door behind him so that none of the pigeons could escape. He had to crouch low as the sloping roof of the hut was not high enough to allow a grown man to stand. He quickly checked over the birds, counting them, making sure none had received any injuries. He finally spotted Claude, perched high in the corner of the hut, not moving, but a gentle cooing coming from its throat.

  ‘Hello, old Claude. D’you miss me?’ He lurched towards the older pigeon trying not to disturb the others. He was unaware of the sudden silence that had descended upon them, or that they were now all perfectly still.

  ‘Well, Claude, what have you got to say for yourself, eh?’ He reached for the pigeon and gently picked it up. Holding it close to his face, he began to stroke its breast, making soft clucking noises. ‘You know who’s boss, don’t you? You know who’ll look after you.’

  The bird’s head suddenly shot forward and its beak pecked at Herbert’s bleary eye. He screamed out in pain and fell back among the perches, releasing his grip on his pet bird. The whole hut erupted into a whirlwind of screeching, fluttering bodies as the birds flew at him from all sides. He raised his arms to protect his face, but they pecked at his hands viciously, causing thin trickles of blood to run down them. He swiped at them wildly, sending their frail bodies crashing into the sides of the coop, several falling to the floor again, unable to rise, feebly fluttering their broken wings in a useless attempt to reach him. But still the others continued their attack, flapping their wings at his head, pecking at his crouched body, finding exposed flesh, drawing tiny dots of blood.

  Suddenly, part in rage, part in panic, Herbert grabbed at one of the feathered bodies and, with a cry of anguish, crushed its tiny bones with his hands. But the movement had left his face exposed and three of the pigeons immediately flew at it, one clinging to his neck, the other two striking at his cheeks and eyes. He was already half-blinded and now felt his other eye pop as he released the dead bird and tried to protect his face again. The shock forced him to his feet, thrashing out violently, smashing the birds to the ground, crushing them with his feet as he staggered blindly towards the small doorway. But in the turmoil, in the confusion of flying bodies, beating wings, the shrieks of the birds, his own cries of fear, his pain, he had lost all sense of direction and crashed into the side of the hut, knocking himself to the ground.

  As he lay there, arms outstretched, stunned by the fall, the pigeons flurried on to his heaving chest and continued their combined onslaught. He kicked out, sobbing with the horror of it, and managed to roll over in the confined space, squashing the birds that still clung to him. Raising himself to one knee, feeling the sharp pecks at his neck and shoulders, but now almost oblivious to the pain, he stretched out one hand towards the side of the coop. His fingers curled through and round the wire mesh of one of its windows and he slowly pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pigeon that had settled on his hand and was biting at his raw knuckes. Some inner sense informed him of the direction of the door based on the portion of the wire window he clung to. The pain now was on its second wave and it broke through the protective barrier his fear had set up.

  He screamed aloud, shaking, shuddering his entire body, flailing his limbs, and lumbered towards the small exit, still covered in feathered, tormenting bodies. Unable to see the torch, he sent it flying as he stumbled through the door, his brain as well as his eyes blind now.

  His wife stared at him from the landing window, her face white in the moonlight, her hands clutching the window-sill. She had heard the commotion from her bedroom, at first ignoring it, assuming her husband was in one of his fits of rage. But then the urgency, the terror in the screams had reached her and she had flung herself from the bed, fearful at what she might find when she reached the landing window. And what she’d found had left her in open-mouthed disbelief.

  A figure had emerged from the coop at the end of the small roof, a figure that seemed scarcely human in the moonlight. It moved in crouched, lurching steps and was surrounded by wildly-beating wings. She drew in her breath in horror as she realized it was her husband, just recognizable, and he was being attacked by the pigeons he loved. She stood there, her mouth agape, for once in her life speechless, unable to move, unable to help him. His next cry broke the spell and she struggled to climb through the window, her heavy body hindering her progress. When she was halfway through, her hands on the roof, her buttocks high in the air on the window ledge, she looked up to see her husband stumble towards the edge. She opened her mouth to scream his name, but no sound came. Her lips silently opened and closed twice and only when he stepped off into space did any sound emerge.

  ‘Herby!’ she screamed, and the scream covered the squelching thud as the body hit the concrete thirty feet below.

  She crawled towards the edge of the parapet, sobbing and calling his name over and over again. She lay flat and peered into the darkness below. His body was barely visible, a dark form lying perfectly still, legs twisted outwards at odd angles. A sudden movement gave her hope, but she saw it was the weak fluttering of a dying bird that had plunged to the ground with him. She knew he was dead.

  ‘Oh, Herby, my poor darling. Oh Herby,’ she wept.

  Above her, on the roof of the coop, the pigeons had gathered. They gazed down at her and were still. The one called Claude cooed softly.

  Much earlier, on that same day, Edward Smallwood had been fishing. He was a tall, nervous man, prematurely balding and, at the age of thirty-five, still living with his parents. His nervousness was largely due to his domineering father, a man much smaller than himself but a man with strict principles and harsh ideals, who made no effort to hide his disappointment in his ‘weakling’ son. Edward’s even smaller mother doted on her son and kindly, but misguidedly, tried to shield him from the discordances of life and the severity of his father. Nevertheless, both parents loved their gangling, stoop-shouldered ‘boy’ in different ways, and both as damagingly. They supervised his life to an intimidating degree so that any spark of initiative, any mood of impulsiveness had been carefully drained from his nature at a very early age, not maliciously, but in a kindly, patronizing way. And because it was done in kindness, albeit a stricter kindness from his father, the effects were more testing. They had guided him into his first and only job at the age of sixteen, a job in the bank managed by a friend of the family; a good job, ‘safe, respectable’. There he had stayed and worked his way up to the position of assistant manager through dogged perseverance rather than natural ability. He had refused any transfers that had cropped up from time to time, not wanting to move from the busy but pleasant enough town of Ringwood on the borders of the New Forest, and knowing his parents would not allow it anyway. He had not even felt disappointment when the manager, the friend of his family, had died two years before and he had not been offered the appointment. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he should and he was puzzled by his father’s beratement over the matter.

  Edward had never really hated anyone before that; disliked, certainly, been afraid of, most definitely, but the feeling of hate had never before intruded upon his life. But Norman Symes, the new bank manager, had aroused passions in him that had never even been tickled before. Symes’ philosophy in life seemed to be, if each day, I can bring a little unhappiness into the life of Edward Smallwood, then that day has not been in vain. Edward had mentioned it only once to his parents and the scolding of his father and the twittering sympathy of his mother had prevented him from ever doing so again. So he had borne the misery alone, a misery only exper
ienced before in his schooldays. He was well aware of how others on the staff enjoyed his discomfort in the presence of the manager, and so was Symes; that was half the trouble. The manager seemed to go out of his way to humiliate him in front of the others, as though his own prestige was enhanced by these spiteful remarks. Edward sighed at the thought of the little but nasty tribulations the day would bring. With a bit of luck, Symes would be on one of his ‘get out and meet the local businessmen’ exercises that day, and they would see little of one another.

  Edward pushed back the bedclothes and groped for his glasses, hidden somewhere on the small bedside table. He tutted as he knocked over the half-drunk cup of weak tea his mother had brought up to him earlier. His day had already been ruined by the fog which had suddenly descended upon him while he was fishing on a remote bank of the River Avon at six o’clock that morning. Twice a week he cycled out to his favourite spot to fish, a pleasure of which even his parents approved. His doctor recommended early morning fresh air to help rid him of his constant catarrh, an ailment that caused him to snuffle most of his way through the day. He hadn’t noticed the early morning fresh air relieving his congestion much, but had found great pleasure in the quiet solitude of the riverbank and it helped him to steel himself against the day. He even regretted catching any fish and rarely baited his hook. Now and again he had to, to satisfy the serious enquiries of his father, but to pull a life from its watery existence left him with a feeling of sorrow.

  But that particular morning, engrossed in his own thoughts, the yellowy mist had steathily crept around him and it was only when he suddenly realized he could hardly see the end of his line that he became aware of the fog surrounding him. A little frightened by the suddenness of it, he had quickly packed away his flask and fishing tackle and tried to find his way back to the main road. It had taken him a good ten minutes of bumping into trees, becoming entangled in low-lying bushes to do this. Fortunately, the fog did not extend as far as the main road and, more by luck than judgement, he found himself back in bright sunlight. His mother was, as usual, overly sympathetic when he reached home, and packed him off to bed for an extra hour’s rest before he went off to work. He was surprised to find later that he’d actually dozed off for that hour, but the fog had left a nasty taste in his mouth which his mother’s weak tea did little to dispel.

  He found his glasses and rubbed his eyes before putting them on, frowning with a headache that he had just become aware of. He made his way to the bathroom, bidding his father good-morning as he passed his door, knowing the old man would be propped up in bed reading the Telegraph, munching toast, sipping tea.

  ‘Good morning, Edward!’ came the brisk reply, and Edward repeated his ‘Good morning, Father.’

  After a more thorough toilet than his earlier effort, he went back to his room and dressed, putting on the clothes his mother had carefully laid out for him the night before. He went downstairs, kissed his mother’s proffered cheek, and sat down at the table, not feeling very hungry, despite his early morning exercise. He made an attempt to eat but had to push the plate away after a short while. His mother looked at the remnants of his bacon and eggs and then peered anxiously into his face.

  ‘Aren’t you feeling well, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m all right, Mother, just not feeling very hungry, that’s all.’ He sipped his tea, looking down into his cup rather than at her concerned face.

  ‘It’s probably that nasty fog, got on to your chest.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Mother.’

  ‘You know how weak your chest is,’ she went on, ignoring him. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be out in the cold air first thing in the morning after all.’

  He pulled away as she reached towards his forehead.

  ‘No, really, Mother, it’s nothing at all. I’m just not hungry, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you been to the toilet?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Let me get you some of your father’s laxative pills.’

  ‘No, Mother, I’ve been.’

  ‘Well, where does it hurt then, dear?’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt. I’m just not hungry!’

  ‘There’s no need to snap, Edward I’m only trying . . .’

  ‘I’m not snapping, Mother.’

  ‘Just because you’re not feeling well, there’s no need to take it out on Mother.’

  ‘But I am feeling well, Mother. I don’t feel like breakfast, that’s all. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll get you some paracetamols, they’ll soon shift it.’

  ‘No, it’s not that bad . . .’ But she was gone, returning seconds later with two white tablets in her hand.

  ‘Now, take those with your tea. You’ll soon feel better.’ She would have actually popped them into his mouth had he not grabbed them and swallowed them quickly. ‘Your father thinks it might be wise if you stayed home today in case you get worse.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Mother, it’s only a slight headache!’ Edward rose from the table, his face going a blotchy red from anger.

  ‘Sit down, Edward.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ He sat down.

  ‘You know how frightful you look when you lose your temper.’

  ‘I didn’t lose my temper,’ he sulked.

  ‘There’s no need to make others suffer just because you’re not well.’

  He sat in broody silence now, knowing any further words from him would only prolong the conversation and his mother would begin to snuffle at his ingratitude.

  ‘Very well, Edward. You may go off to work, but please don’t come home complaining that you’re worse at lunchtime.’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘Try to eat something in your tea break.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘A biscuit or something’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Mrs Smallwood softened at the look of misery on her son’s face. What would he do when they were no longer there to care for him? He was so dependent on them, needed them so much. She knew she would go first and Father really didn’t understand the boy too well. Who would comfort Edward when his father scolded him? To whom would Edward turn. She bravely fought back the tears of pity and reached a hand kindly towards him and patted his head.

  ‘Off you go now, Edward, or you’ll be late.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ He rose again from the table and buttoned his jacket.

  His mother looked up at him, forcing a smile, trying to hide the sorrow she felt. ‘We love you, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ he answered.

  The dull throbbing in his head increased as he walked through the town towards his branch of the Midland Bank. Several people who knew him wished him good morning and he returned their nods with a polite but strained smile. He loved his parents dearly, but did wish they wouldn’t fuss so, especially Mother. She would worry herself into an early grave if she didn’t learn not to fret over him so much. He choked at the thought. Goodness, he must remember to buy her a box of chocolates on his way home to lunch to make up for this morning’s rudeness. He knew she would be upset for the rest of the week if he didn’t. He thought of his father and how, since his early retirement, he’d seemed to have become even more domineering, as though the running of their lives had replaced the running of his old office with the insurance company. Still, Edward knew his father had his interests at heart.

  As he stepped off the kerb, the beep of a car startled him into reality. He jumped back, his heels catching on the kerb, and sat down heavily on the pavement, managing to cling to his briefcase. Edward stared up at the passing car and saw the driver’s mouth moving vehemently through the closed window. The car’s horn sounded angrily again as the vehicle sped onwards. He heard the sniggers of passers-by as he sat there, his knees together, ankles far-stretched, holding his briefcase into his lap. They turned away as he looked at them, none offering to help him to his feet. He stood up, brushing at the back of his trou
sers with his hand, a huge blush sweeping over his face to the top of his balding scalp. Making sure the road was clear, he crossed it, his embarrassment giving his stride added length.

  Damn them, he cursed inwardly, years of bitter resentment welling up inside him. Damn them for laughing, damn the driver for swearing at him! Damn the whole town. Damn the Midland Bank! Damn Symes!

  He saw a man ahead of him stoop to pat the upturned head of a friend’s dog. Edward strode briskly up to him and gave the offered bottom a hearty kick. The man jumped up with an astonished yelp, the dog holding on to his hand with its teeth in fright. He yelped again and turned back to the dog, smacking its head with the palm of his other hand. Edward marched on, ignoring the confused barking and shouting he’d left behind. A trader came out of his shop to see what the disturbance was about and as Edward passed him, he whirled and dealt the inquisitive shopkeeper a swift kick to his seat.

  The man turned, using both hands to rub his smarting bottom, and stared after the retreating assistant bank manager, not quite sure of what had happened. Edward made his way along the street kicking bottoms at random, his victims too astonished to do anything but stare after his tall, foot-thrusting figure. He rounded a corner and spotted the most enormous backside he’d ever seen trundling along ahead of him. It belonged to a neatly and, of course, expensively dressed business man, whose wide neck bulged over a spotlessly white collar. He was the proprietor of one of the costlier hotels in Ringwood, a pompous man and a perfectionist in his trade; this morning he was on his way to complain about the quality of yesterday’s lamb to the owner of the large wholesale butcher who supplied most of the hotels in the area with their fresh meat.

  The sharp blow to his rear startled him from his irascible thoughts. He turned quickly to discover the source of his rude surprise, and to his amazement found a tall, bespectacled man glaring challengingly into his face.

  The fat man was too dumbfounded to muster up much vehemence in his indignant demand. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked.