Her hand lightly travelled down and rested on Mavis’s neck. The grip tightened slightly, then relaxed again.
Mavis found her breath quickening, her small breasts beginning to rise and fall. She raised her own hand to the hand resting at her neck and squeezed the fingers gently, leaving it there.
Ronnie’s eyes glistened with what could have been tears and she drew in her breath sharply. Then her hand began to travel down again, tracing the fine skin with feather-like fingers until it found the soft mound she was looking for. Mavis shivered as the palm closed over her breast, and her nipple was trapped between two fingers. Ronnie leaned forward and touched the pink tip with her lips, kissing it gently then moistening it with her tongue.
A glow was enveloping Mavis, starting at her breasts and spreading down to her stomach, then down, down till it was between her thighs. Even the extremities of her limbs were tingling pleasurably, a subdued kind of electricity running through her entire body. She shut her mind from any thoughts of what it all meant. It didn’t matter, its meaning wasn’t important.
Ronnie had now put her arm around Mavis’s back and pulled herself towards her, her lips brushing the naked girl’s neck, kissing and biting very, very gently. Mavis slid further down in the bed allowing both of them to lie side by side. As yet, she had not touched Ronnie, a little afraid to do so, a tiny part of her subconscious telling her this would be the final irrevocable relinquishment.
Ronnie’s lips finally found hers and they kissed, still softly, all their movements soft, as though passion would make it ugly. Ronnie thrust her tongue between Mavis’s lips and was answered by a hesitant counter-thrust. Her hand found Mavis’s breast again and this time, its touch was more urgent, gliding from one to the other, not wanting to neglect either. Mavis began to moan slightly as Ronnie’s hand began its slow descent down her body towards the place that was so ready – and yearning to receive it. It reached the flat tummy and Ronnie spread it for a moment, feeling Mavis’s muscles quiver. Then she continued her unhurried but anxious journey untill she reached the little curls of hair, the matted triangle that hid the path to the centre, and her fingertips worked their gentle way through it.
Mavis was disappointed when, instead of descending between her thighs, the hand passed on and stroked the fleshy tops of her legs. She realized it had been an exquisite tease when the fingers began their ascent, this time along the beautifully sensitive inner sides of the thighs. She opened her legs sightly, so that the journey would not be hindered – and then Ronnie was there.
Mavis moaned aloud as Ronnie’s fingers crept into her vagina and spread her moistness upwards. She clutched at Ronnie fiercely, finally giving in fully to the passion that had been aroused in her, eager to be touched, to be fondled – even to be hurt. Her fingers pulled at Ronnie’s blouse until she found the breasts that Ronnie had so patiently waited to have touched, now wanting her friend’s body as much as she had wanted Ronnie to have her own.
Mavis found her hand moving down until it was between her friend’s legs. Her lover’s legs! The thought increased her desire so that it was almost unbearable, and soon their senses stretched to a frenzy, their cries of joy merged into one long shuddering moan.
They lay naked in the bed and talked into the early hours, each reluctant to sleep, both eager to explore the other’s mind and body. They made love many more times that night, in many different ways, but now each way was gentle and had little to do with lust. They discussed the thought that they were lesbians, yet neither could feel any guilt or shame. Ronnie admitted sadly that she had had affairs with women before, but none had touched her emotions as this had, none had been anything other than a means to satisfy passion.
Mavis confessed she had only once been made love to by a man and although she had enjoyed the experience, it had meant nothing emotionally. Both were touched by the other’s disclosures; and both realized they had found something unique.
For two years Ronnie and Mavis had been happy sharing a life, not living as man and wife, but just as lovers; neither had any inclination to adopt a masculine role, it wasn’t that kind of relationship. Their lovemaking excluded any artificial contrivances; they attained satisfaction only from the other’s body, both retaining femininity, both regarding their intimacy as pure.
But then, only two weeks ago, a change had come over Ronnie. It was rapid and alarming. She had rejected Mavis’s caresses, falling into long brooding silences, unable to disclose the reason for her sullen moods. Several nights she stayed out, refusing to tell Mavis where she had been, until last night, after being away for three consecutive days, she had come back to the flat and brokenly told her friend that she no longer loved her, that she had met someone who had swept away hidden fears, made her see that the physical love she had always dreaded was a wonderful and deeply moving act. She had fallen in love with a man, and had allowed that man to make love to her.
Ronnie had wept bitterly as she explained that she hadn’t wanted it to happen, but Philip had been so kind, so gentle, that her inhibitions about men had melted and, it seemed, her body cleansed. These last words hurt Mavis terribly. Cleansed! Had their love been dirty? Had their sleeping together, holding one another – had it all been revolting? She screamed at Ronnie, implored her not to leave, begged her on her knees. But she had been pushed away, violently, and it was the violence of it that stunned her most, penetrated the part of her that refused to accept her lover’s rejection. Ronnie had never used physical force against her before; she had thrown her from her as though this physical action represented the breaking of their ties. Mavis had crawled towards her again, weeping in her own shame, and tried to put her arms around her, tried to bury her head in Ronnie’s breasts. Ronnie had allowed her to do so for a moment, but when Mavis’s hand reached further in a desperate effort to bring back their previous closeness, she had jumped up, knocking Mavis to the floor, screaming that she must never touch her again.
That was when Mavis knew she had lost. Her sorrow turned to rage when she thought of how she had been cheated. It was Ronnie who had led her into this way of life, seduced her! How could she now cast her aside as it had meant nothing, a phase she had gone through? She had found a ‘normal’ love and left Mavis unwilling now for any other kind of love. What would she become? A lonely, embittered lesbian. She cried out in self-pity.
Ronnie had walked to the door and opened it. Before she left, she had said, ‘I’m sorry, Mavis, I’m so sorry. But I have to go, Philip is waiting for me downstairs in his car. He doesn’t know about us, and I never want him to. Perhaps someday, when I’m sure of him, I’ll tell him. Believe me, Mavis, I didn’t want this to happen – I didn’t know it ever could – but it’s the right thing. I think we were wrong. Forgive me, darling. I hope someday you’ll find what I have.’
When Ronnie had left, Mavis remained in a heap on the floor, weeping bitter tears, shocked by her lover’s cruelty, appalled at the fate she saw for herself. She finally recognized their affair for what it was – two women living together in an abnormal relationship. She had never accepted the fact that she was homosexual, but somehow, Ronnie’s leaving took away all the sensitivity of their mutual inclinations and revealed Mavis in her true light. A lesbian!
It was a fact she now felt unable to live with. The guilt that had lain hidden deep in her mind came to the surface and for the first time she felt remorse. But still she cried for Ronnie, wanted her there in her arms, to be comforted by her, to be possessed by her, and her shame increased because of it. She rose from the floor, her face puffed and blotchy, and curled up on the sofa, her knees drawn up to her chin. She thought back over the two years, the intimacies they’d shared, the plans they’d made. She went back to when they were younger, friends who giggled over their innocent secret. She thought of the first time, in Bournemouth, where now, she realized, their union had been unknowingly sealed. Why had everything changed? What was it that caused people to destroy each other?
Then she had decided wh
at she would do. Fighting back her tears, she went down to the little red Mini they had bought, never thinking there would come a day when their possessions would have to be divided as would a divorced couple’s.
She drove through the night to Bournemouth, stopping occasionally when she could no longer stem her tears, her only consolation now in what she was going to do. And once, she was forced to stop because of heavy fog.
And now, Mavis stood barefooted on the beach, looking at the moody grey sea in the dawn light. She had stopped crying, her emotions not drained but held in check, because there was no point in tears if she were going to die. She still saw the image of Ronnie before her; her sad-smiling face, her soft brown eyes that reflected sorrow even when they were laughing.
Mavis walked towards the sea, leaving her shoes on the beach behind. The water chilled her with its coldness, but the chill in her spirit was greater. She waded in further, the water rising to her knees, the tide pushing against her as though urging her to go back. It reached her thighs, causing her thin skirt to cling to them, then touched the part of her body that Ronnie had adored and kissed so often. She sank deeper and now the sea seemed to be drawing her in instead of pushing her back, welcoming her into its enveloping icy depths. She found it difficult to breathe because of the combination of cold and the pressure of the water now around her chest. And the fear she had begun to feel. She stopped, straining to keep her balance against the now unfriendly water.
Death. Death was so absolute. And would there be pain before her body succumbed to the final blackness? Would her body resist the pull of death in those last seconds, panicking to regain the breath of life she’d deliberately let escape? Would her body betray her and fight to preserve its fleeing spirit, causing lingering agony instead of swift and final oblivion? And the pain, the mental anguish she would cause Ronnie, making her responsible for her death. Did she want to destroy Ronnie as well as herself? She still loved Ronnie, she didn’t want to hurt her as she had been hurt. Perhaps there was still a chance; perhaps Ronnie would find she wasn’t meant for heterosexual love. Perhaps, after a few weeks, she would return to Mavis, disillusioned with his maleness, yearning for the understanding and physical comfort only her friend could give her. There had to be a chance! And Mavis would be waiting, ready to forgive her, eager to hold her close while Ronnie pleaded with her to take her back. And their love would be stronger than ever, because both of them would know they were irrevocably tied.
The black sea around her was so frightening!
She struggled to turn around in it, desperate to reach the shore, no longer wanting to die. She nearly lost her balance, and cried out in terror. She was not a good swimmer and if her feet were swept from beneath her she would find it difficult to make her way back to the beach. It would be so pointless to die now, now that she knew that she had not necessarily lost her lover, that their bond could bring them together again.
She staggered back, careful not to lose her footing, feeling as though she were in a nightmare where her legs had become lead and would not allow her to run from the death behind.
She gradually reached a point where the lapping water was only waist deep and stopped for a moment to regain her breath, relieved that she was safe, her mind taking on a curious lightness now that the burden of death had been lifted.
As her chest heaved with the effort, her eyes widened uncomprehendingly.
There were hundreds – could it be thousands? – of people climbing down the steps to the beach and walking towards her, towards the sea!
Was she dreaming? Had her mind become unbalanced because of the distress she had been through? The people of the town were marching in a solid wall out to the sea, making no sound, staring towards the horizon as though something was beckoning to them. Their faces were white, trance-like, barely human. And there were children among them; some walked along on their own, seeming to belong to no one; those who couldn’t walk were being carried. Most of the people were in their nightclothes, some were naked, having risen from their beds as though answering a call that Mavis neither heard nor saw. She looked behind her, out towards the brightening horizon, but saw only the black, threatening sea.
They were advancing on her now, and she realized there were thousands of them, pouring from houses, hotels, side streets, in a huge moving mass, their footsteps the only sound they made, and these muffled for the majority were barefooted.
Mavis saw an old woman in the front line stumble and fall and she gasped in horror as the crowd passed over her, trampling her into the sand. Their pace did not slow as they entered the sea and they advanced in a solid human wall. She looked to the right then to the left and saw the wall extended for as far as she could see. The scene, its significance, was too enormous for her to understand. She thought only of getting away from the path of that crushing multitude.
She backed away, but the sea behind was just as threatening. She began to scream at the people as they drew nearer like a child who is to be punished screaming at an advancing parent. But still they came on, oblivious to her cries, unseeing. She realized her danger and ran towards them in a vain attempt to break through, but they forced her back heedless to her pleas as she strained and beat against them. She managed to push a short path through them, but the great numbers before her were unconquerable, pushing her back, back into the waiting sea.
Mavis fell and struggled desperately to regain her feet. In doing so, she knocked down a small boy and immediately went down again to pull him to his feet. He stared ahead, not seeing her, not even knowing he had just fallen.
She was knocked again, and this time went under, losing her grip on the boy, her lungs filling with salty water. She emerged fighting for breath, blinded by the salt water, screaming and kicking out in panic. What was happening? Had she killed herself and was this the hell all suicides entered? She fell to her knees again, and this time, as she attempted to rise, other bodies fell on top of her. She squirmed around beneath the water, becoming tangled in other arms and legs. Air escaped from her lungs as she tried to scream and then felt a tiredness beginning to overcome her. Her struggles became weaker and she finally lay there in the blackness, bodies stumbling over her, some falling on top of her, pinning her to the soft sea floor. Her eyes were open as the last bubbles of air escaped from her lips. The terror had gone. There was no pain. There was no recollection of her life, no memories to taunt her in her dying. Just a misty blankness. No thoughts of God. No questions why. Just a descending white veil. Not a veil of peace, nor one of horror. Not even one of emptiness. Nothingness. Free of emotion and free of coldness. She was dead.
The inhabitants and the holidaymakers of Bournemouth came from their homes, hotels and guest houses in their thousands and made for the sea, filling the streets, pouring on to the beach. The fog that had ruined their day yesterday was killing them that morning. They walked into the sea to drown like lemmings, the people behind them climbing over the dead bodies that were heaping up on the sea-bed. People who, for various reasons, could not walk, killed themselves in other ways. Hundreds could not reach the sea because it was too full of others who had already drowned, and these were later pulled back screaming from the beach by people who rushed to the seaside resort in a vain attempt to minimize the destruction.
The fog rejected the sea either because of its coldness or because the winds were too strong for it. It moved inland again, as though it were a living thing, leaving behind its evil, never settling in one place, always moving, as though searching for something.
11
Holman entered the dark home, trying to make as little noise as possible.
‘It would be a better idea to ring the bell and wake them up, wouldn’t it?’ came Barrow’s voice from behind.
‘No,’ Holman whispered.
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘All right. But this is breaking and entering, you know that, don’t you?’
&nbs
p; ‘You can wait outside if you want,’ Holman whispered back fiercely.
‘Oh, no, mate, I’m going to hang on to you.’
‘Then keep quiet and follow me.’
‘I’ll keep quiet for now, but later—’
Holman turned away, ignoring the CID man, angered by his arrogance. He moved towards the lounge and quietly pushed the door open. It was empty. He closed the door again and made his way down the hall, towards the room he knew to be Simmons’ study. He thought he heard a muffled sound as he turned the handle, but Barrow’s urgent whisper distracted him.
‘There’s a light on upstairs.’ Barrow had already begun to climb the stairs and Holman hurried after him. He took the steps two at a time in an effort to catch up with the swift-moving policeman.
‘It’s her father’s bedroom,’ he told Barrow as he reached him.
‘We’re going to look pretty silly when we find him getting dressed for work,’ the Detective Inspector sneered.
‘Better we look silly than end up with a knife in our throat.’
‘My God, and she’s your girlfriend.’
‘I told you, she’s not responsible. For the moment she’s out of her mind.’
‘Huh!’ Barrow snorted. ‘Someone is.’
Holman frowned at him. ‘You still don’t believe me.’
‘Listen, mate. I’m under orders from Wreford to play along with you. It doesn’t mean I have to believe you!’
‘Barrow, you’re a bundle of charm.’ Holman grinned without humour. ‘But you’ve got your orders – so play along with me.’
He turned away from the fuming policeman, and mounted the rest of their stairs, pausing at the top to listen for any sound. Barrow joined him and they moved stealthily towards the thin bar of light coming from beneath the bedroom door.
Holman slowly turned the handle, involuntarily holding his breath, and gently pushed the door open.
The light came from a small bedside lamp, so its brightness did not hurt their eyes. A figure lay in the bed. All they could see was the head, the eyes looking up towards the ceiling; the face was grey and sunken, the pallor of death about it.
The Fog Page 13