The Fog

Foreword

The Fog made me a lot of enemies. Fortunately, it also made me a lot of friends.

It was first published in 1975 (written in 1974) when spy stories and historical romances were the vogue. In the United States, William Peter Blatty had made his definitive mark with the movie of The Exorcist, and word was going around about an interesting new writer by the name of Stephen King. In England a new kind of horror tale involving mutant rats on the loose in London’s East End, a story that held scant regard for conventional moderation in its depiction of violence and the consequences, had created something of a stir. It was a book that (literally, you might say) went straight for the jugular. The Rats was my first attempt at a novel. The Fog was my second.

For better or worse, they were the initial part in a growing explicitness of narrative, stories that rarely balked at expressing horror’s true physical reality. Judging by the genre’s swift return to public attention, through both the novel and the screen, that reality had been suppressed far too long (whether or not the sudden healthy release has transmuted into an unhealthy fascination is another matter). Readers or moviegoers no longer wanted to be merely frightened, they wanted to be shocked rigid too.

Yet, for all that, is The Fog, a tale of murder, madness and mayhem, as graphically horrific as its longlasting notoriety would suggest? By comparison with today’s standards, certainly not. But when it was first published in 1975? Well, even that’s debatable. Ramsey Campbell, perhaps one of the most respected authors of the genre, has said in a reappraisal: ‘The Fog contains remarkably few graphic acts of violence, though two are so horrible and painful that they pervade the book. Herbert concentrates rather on painting a landscape of (occasionally comic) nightmare, and most of the episodes are of terror rather than explicit violence.’ My point is – and this is an observation, not a defence – that much of the controversial extremism is in the mind of the beholder rather than on the page. I must confess, however, to being pleased with the effectiveness of its images.

Nevertheless, with this new edition, the temptation was to rewrite, to smooth out the rougher edges, perhaps endow some of the characters with a little more depth. After all, a dozen novels on, and by the very nature of practice, I must have picked up a few more skills along the way.

But by so doing, would I detract from the original? To me, The Fog provides an honest reflection of the transient mood of the horror genre in the seventies, being in some ways a throwback to the fifties and much earlier, whereby due homage (albeit subconsciously) is paid to Wells, Wyndham and Kneale – War of the Worlds, Day of the Triffids and Quatermass respectively – while advancing very firmly towards the eighties. And it’s sheer energy that carries the story through to the climactic finale; refinement might well sap its strength. I think change would be an unnecessary indulgence on my part.

Besides, I like the beast the way it is.

James HerbertSussex 1988

The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and come to life. Slowly because nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire; a mood of timelessness carefully cultivated by the villagers over the centuries prevailed. Newcomers had soon fallen into the leisurely pace and welcomed the security it created. Restless youngsters never stayed long but always remembered, and many missed, the protective quiet of the village. The occasional tourist discovered by accident and delighted in its weathered charm, but within minutes its quaintness would be explored to the full and the traveller would move on, sighing for the peace of it, but a little afraid of the boredom it might bring.

Jessie opened her grocery shop at precisely 8.30 as she had been doing for the past twenty years. Her first customer, Mrs Thackery, wouldn’t be in till 8.45, but to break the routine of early opening would never be considered. Even when Tom, her late husband, had died, the shop had still been opened on the dot of 8.30 and two days later when he’d been buried it was only shut for an hour between 10.00 and 11.00. Jessie enjoyed her morning chat with Mrs Thackery, who always called whether she needed to buy something or not. She’d been a great comfort since Tom had died and never missed her morning cup of tea with Jessie. They never got bored by each other’s gossip; one topic could last two weeks and a death in the village would get them through three.

She waved to Mr Papworth, the butcher across the street who was sweeping the pavement outside his shop. Nice man, Mr Papworth. Much nicer since his wife had left him. That had caused a stir in the village and no mistake, when she’d walked out after six years of marriage. She hadn’t been his sort anyway. Much too young for him, too flighty; couldn’t stand the quiet life. He’d brought her back from his holiday in Bournemouth and after all the years, when everybody had thought him a confirmed bachelor, had announced her as his bride. It could never have lasted, they all knew that at the outset, but he had tried. Still, all that was in the past. His visits from across the road were becoming more and more frequent and the whole village knew what was in the wind and that the butcher’s and grocery shop would eventually become a combined family business. There was no rush; things would take their course.

‘Good morning, Mrs Bundock!’

Her reverie was interrupted by two young voices in unison. She looked down and smiled at little Freddy Graves and his even smaller sister, Clara.

‘Hello, you two. Just off to school?’

‘Yep,’ replied Freddy, craning his neck to look at the jars of sweets on the shelves behind her.

‘And how are you, Clara?’ Jessie beamed at the five-year old who had only recently started school.

‘Fine, thank you,’ came the shy reply.

‘I’m surprised to see you two today. Saturday’s usually your pocket-money day, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. But we polished all Daddy’s boots yesterday, so he gave us a special treat,’ was Freddy’s bright-faced reply. Their father was a policeman whose station was in the next town. He was a gruff-spoken but pleasant man who adored his two children, but dealt with them strictly.

‘Well, what are you going to buy?’ Jessie asked, knowing they wouldn’t have much to spend. ‘You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your bus.’

Clara pointed at the penny-chews and Freddy nodded his head in agreement. ‘Three each, please,’ he said.

‘Well now, penny chews are cheaper on Mondays. You get four each for six p today.’

They beamed up at her as she reached for the jar and took out the sweets.

‘Thank you,’ said Clara as she put three in her pocket and began to unwrap the fourth. Freddy gave Jessie the money, took his four and followed his sister’s example.

‘Bye bye now. Have a nice day!’ she called after them as they ran from the shop, Freddy clutching Clara’s hand.

‘Morning Jessie.’ The postman was leaning his bike up outside the door.

‘Hello, Tom. Something for me?’

‘Airmail, ’spect it’s from your boy,’ he replied, entering the shop. ‘S’going to be another lovely day today. Beautiful clear sky out.’ He handed her the blue and red envelope, noticing the shadow of sadness that seemed to pass over her face. ‘Been in the army nearly a year now, hasn’t he?’

She nodded, studying the stamps on the envelope.

‘Ah well, Jessie, it was only to be expected. Young boy like that. Couldn’t stay cooped up in a village like this all his life, could he? Needed to see places, did Andy. Always liked to get about, always up to some mischief. Having the time of his life now, I reckon.’

She nodded again, sighing as she began to open the envelope.

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I do miss him. He was a good boy.’

The postman shook his head once then shrugged his shoulders.

‘Well, see you tomorrow, Jessie. Must be off.’

‘Yes. Bye, Tom.’ She unfolded the thin blue writing paper and began to read the letter, a smile spreading across her face as Andy’s natural boisterousness shone through the written words.

Suddenly she felt giddy and lurched against the counter. She put her hand to her forehead, alarmed at the strange stomach-rising feeling. Then she heard a deep rumbling noise, a sound that came from below, under her feet. The floor began to quiver causing her to clutch at the counter again; the quiver became a trembling. Jars began to rattle on their shelves, cans began to tumble. The rumbling grew louder, deeper. It began to fill her head. She dropped her letter and clapped both hands to her ears. The ground shook. She lost her balance and fell to her knees. The whole shop seemed to be moving. The large glass window cracked and then fell in. Shelves collapsed. The noise became deafening. Jessie screamed and stumbled towards the doorway; every time she tried to rise she was thrown to her knees. She crawled to the entrance, terror of the building collapsing in on her forcing her on. Vibrations ran through her body, at times the shaking almost making her lose contact with the floor.

She reached the door, and looked out at the road that ran through the village. She couldn’t believe what her eyes told her.

The postman stood in the middle of the road holding on to his bike. A huge crack appeared at his feet and suddenly, as the ground opened up, he disappeared. The crack snaked along the length of the street to where young Freddy and Sara stood transfixed, clutching one another, and on towards Mrs Thackery who had been making her way to Jessie’s shop. Suddenly it seemed as though the whole village had been wrenched apart. The road disappeared as the ground opened up like a gigantic yawning mouth.

Jessie looked across the road and just caught sight of the terrified face of Mr Papworth as he and the whole row of shops and houses on his side were swallowed up by the earth.

John Holman wearily changed gear to take the car around the bend in the narrow country road. He was unshaven and his clothes were still damp from the morning dew. He’d spent half the night trying to sleep inside a thicket out of sight of the army patrols that practised their manoeuvres on a large but secluded part of Salisbury Plain. The area was owned by the Ministry of Defence and trespassers were severely dealt with if caught. The grounds could never be entered by accident; high fences and many warning notices took care of that. The fences travelled many miles around the territory’s perimeter and a heavy screen of trees and undergrowth successfully concealed what lay beyond.

Holman shook his head in disgust at the danger and discomfort he’d had to go through to maintain secrecy when he himself worked for the same government. It was idiotic that the two departments, the Ministry of Defence and the Department of the Environment, couldn’t work hand in hand, but held back information, guarded against intrusion, as if they were two different countries. He had been recruited into a new office specially formed by the Department of the Environment, to investigate anything from polluted rivers to outbreaks of disease. It was a special unit because nearly all the investigations were carried out secretly. If a company was suspected of illegally dumping dangerous waste product, be it into the sea, into a river, or on to a tip, but no proof could be found by direct methods, then Holman was sent in to probe further.

He usually worked alone and often under a cover, more than once he’d taken on manual labour to get inside a factory to find the information needed. Hospitals, a mental home – even an experimental home-range factory farm; he’d worked in many places and, often as not, in government institutions to get at the source of suspected malpractice. His one big frustration was that the transgressions he unearthed were not always acted upon. When politics – business or governmental – became involved, he knew the chances of prosecution against the offenders were slim. At thirty-two, Holman was still young enough to be angered by the seeming lack of resolution shown by his superiors when he himself had taken great risks to ferret out the proof they had asked him to provide.

However, he could also be quite unscrupulous in achieving his aims and more than once had seriously infringed the law, causing alarm among the few superiors who knew about his activities. At the moment his project was to investigate land owned by the Ministry of Defence, used by them for military purposes and protected for them by the Official Secrets Act. Vast areas of land, much of it appropriated during the Napoleonic war and more recently, World War II, was used as a training ground for the army. Most of it was in the south because of invasion fears. Holman knew that much of it was going to waste, areas of great natural beauty, rich arable soil being allowed to spoil. At a time when good land and open spaces were becoming more and more scarce, valuable country could not be allowed to be misused. The Ministry of Defence was holding tightly on to over 750,000 acres for training or test purposes and his department was demanding at least 30,000 of those acres be handed back to the people. There was every reason for the Ministry of Defence to retain a good part of this private land, but suspicions were that only a fraction of it was necessary.

The Ministry had been approached, but a tight security net had been drawn over any enquiries. So Holman had been given the job of seeing just how much land was being used and if for valid purposes. The war between different government departments was ridiculous in his eyes, but he accepted it as a fact of life.

He had spent two rigorous days dodging patrols, taking photographs, gathering information about the enormous woodland area owned by the Ministry on Salisbury Plain. Had he been caught the consequences could have been quite severe, but he knew the risk involved and even enjoyed it. His employers knew this and played on the streak in his character that demanded risk, an element of danger, a gamble.

Now, as he rounded the bend, he saw a village ahead. One of the small, barely known villages that dotted the Plain, he decided. Maybe he could get some breakfast here.

He drew nearer and suddenly became aware of a strange vibration running through the car, then of a deep rumbling noise as the vehicle began to shake. By the time he reached the main street running through the village his vision was becoming too blurred for him to travel further. And what he could see, he found hard to comprehend.

A gigantic crack appeared directly ahead of him then grew longer and wider, reaching towards him in a jagged, fast-moving line. His shocked brain just had time to register two children and a woman, and beyond them a man with a bicycle, before the ground opened up and they disappeared into the black chasm it created. The shops on his left began to collapse into the widening hole. The noise was deafening as the earth was wrenched apart, climaxing in a sound like an explosive thunderclap. Through his horror he realized that the ground below his car was beginning to split. He opened the door but too late – the car lurched forward and began to fall. The door was forced shut and Holman was trapped inside.

For a moment the car was stuck, but as the hole widened, it slid forward again. Panic seized him. He cried out in terror. Down it plunged at an acute angle, the rough sides of the earth preventing it from freefalling. After what must have been only a few sickening seconds, the car became wedged again and he found himself pressed up against the steering wheel, staring down into a frightening black void. His body was frozen, his mind almost paralysed with the horror of what was happening Slowly, his brain began to function. He must be at the end of the opening, where the sides were narrowest. If it widened further, the car would plunge into the black depths below. He tried to look up towards ground level but couldn’t see through the swirling dust.

Panic drove him into action. He frantically pushed himself away from the steering wheel but the sudden movement caused the car to slide a terrifying two feet further down. He forced himself to keep calm, his breath coming in short gasps, the sounds of falling masonry, glass and dislodged earth filling his ears. More cautiously, he began to edge himself over into the back seat. He froze as the car shifted again, but this time the movement was fractional. He kept his position for a few tense moments then started to ease himself back again.

Gaining the back seat, he turned round into a position where he could wind down a rear side window. He saw there was just sufficient gap between the car and the side of the chasm for him to squeeze through. Loose earth fell through the open window adding more weight to the precariously balanced vehicle.

Abandoning caution, he scrambled through and clung to the crumpling wall of rock and earth, expecting to hear the wrenching sound of the car tearing itself loose to fall into the depths below. For a full five minutes he stayed there, his head tight against the earth, clutching desperately to the treacherous surface.

The unsettled dust began to clear slightly and he looked around him fearfully. From the jagged outline above he guessed the eruption was at least five hundred yards long. The sides seemed steady now although shales of earth still showered down into what seemed a bottomless pit. He peered into the darkness below and shuddered at the awesome sight. It was as though the very bowels of the earth had opened up; the blackness seemed infinite.

A slight tremor made him bury his hands and face into the earth, his heart pounding wildly, expecting at any moment to be dislodged from his insecure perch.

A sudden cry forced his eyes open once more. He peered through the disturbed dust and saw what looked like a tiny figure lying on a narrow sloping ledge about fifty feet away on the opposite wall of earth. With shock, he realized it was one of the children he’d seen in the street above. The little girl. Of the boy who’d been with her, there was no sign. She began to whimper piteously.

Holman knew he had to reach her or she would soon slide down the incline into the deep chasm. He called out to her, but she didn’t seem to hear. He looked around, wondering how he would cross the gorge to get to her. She was about ten feet above him and thirty feet below ground level. Climbing to her shouldn’t be too difficult providing he took great care; the sides were full of protuberances and old roots. The problem was to get across – and quickly.

Another thought struck him; what if the gap should close? The thought of being crushed to death as though in a giant nutcracker spurred him into action.

The car would have to act as a bridge. Two steps and he would be on the other side. It was dangerous but the only course of action he could take. Tentatively he placed a foot on the roof of the car. It held. He put his weight on it, still holding on to the wall on his side. The roof slanted downward and the thought of slipping on its smooth surface terrified him. Before he could allow himself to think further he took two bounds across the gap, almost willing himself to fly.

But the second step caused the car to lose its grip on the sides of the walls and it slipped forward and down, taking Holman with it. Desperately he grabbed at the side he had been making for and, with more luck than judgement, managed to grasp a dead tree root. It cracked and broke, but thin tendons held it together and swung him inwards.

The child looked up at the sound of the crashing car and screamed when she saw the man hanging there. Rivers of earth, disturbed by her feet, ran over the ledge and showered into the gaping hole. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed, calling for her lost brother.

Holman hung there, thin strands of rotted wood between him and death. His feet sought support from the crumbling earth and one hand grabbed at solid rock. He managed to find a handhold and eased his weight from the broken root. He raised his feet until they found a more solid rest. Gulping in lungfuls of dusty air he looked towards the little girl.

‘It’s all right,’ he shouted across. ‘Stay perfectly still and you’ll be all right. I’m coming to get you!’

He didn’t know if she heard him or not, but he knew she would not last long on the precarious ledge. Again the thought of the ground closing up drove him on. He inched forward, testing every handhold, every foothold, and gradually came within eight feet of her and found himself on a fairly solid outcrop of rock. He didn’t know how much time had elapsed; it could have been hours, but more likely it was no longer than minutes. Surely help would come soon, someone would try to see if anyone was trapped in the hole. He looked for a way to reach the girl.

There was a narrow crack running along the wall almost from where he stood to four feet below the ledge the girl was on. If he used it for footholds and used his hands to cling to the rock above his head, he should be able to reach the ledge, lean over it from the side and grab her. Her little body shook from the sobs but she didn’t look up.

Carefully, he began to feel his way along, keeping his eyes on the girl, ready to warn her not to move. As he drew nearer, her sobbing stopped and she looked up at him, her tiny face a mask of sheer horror. God, what must he look like coming towards her like this? With all the terror she’d been through, now to see this shape, filthy with dust, eyes wide and staring, clambering towards her.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ he said, softly but urgently. ‘I’m coming to help you. Don’t move.’

She began to back away.

‘No, no, don’t move!’ he couldn’t help but shout.

She began to slide down and, realizing her predicament, dug her hands into the soft earth, crying out in fright.

Holman took a chance and lurched forward, hoping the side of the ledge would hold his weight. One foot stayed in the crack, the other dangled in space, one hand shot towards the girl, the other grabbed at the rock face. He managed to grab her outstretched hand and prevent her from sliding further. Her legs were over the edge now, her feet kicking at the empty air. His left hand found a crevice in the wall and he clung to it grimly, knowing if he lost his grip, both he and the girl would plunge to their deaths. She was screaming now, but her hand grabbed his as she realized the danger behind her.

For a few moments, all he could do was cling there, looking into her frightened face, clutching her struggling limbs. He whispered to her to be still, kindly, trying to keep panic from his voice. Slowly, her struggles died down and her body went limp, as though she knew nothing more could happen to her, her young mind going blank to protect her. He began to pull her up, her slight body no weight, but difficult because of his awkward position. Finally, she was completely back on the ledge but still he dragged her towards his chest.

‘Hold on to me, sweetheart,’ he told her gently. ‘Put your arms around my neck and hold tight.’

He pulled her down between the ledge and his body, telling her to put her legs around his waist. Numbly she complied, her short legs resting on his hips.

‘Now don’t let go and everything will be fine,’ he whispered, easing himself back along the crack, the shape of the girl pushing him outwards. His arm and leg muscles were rigid with the strain but endurance was one of his assets.

Finally, exhausted, he reached the more solid outcrop of rock. He sank to his knees, still holding the child close, his shoulders heaving with the exertion. Turning slowly, still clutching the girl, he leaned back against the cliff wall and rested his aching limbs.

For a few minutes his brain registered no more than the blessed relief from exertion but, as his strength returned and his breathing grew more even, he began to wonder at what had happened.

He remembered entering the village and then – and then the ground, the very earth opening up. First the crack snaking its jagged way along the concrete, then the noise, the deep rumble, the build-up to the cracking stone, and then the incredible sight of the ground opening up, the enormous split in the earth. The two sides moving apart, their edges crashing inwards, down, down into God knows where. The sight of the two children, the man and his bike – had he seen a woman too? – disappearing into the hole. The shops collapsing – he remembered seeing the shops on one side collapsing – and then the ragged mouth reaching towards him. The tilt of the car, the lurch as it slid forward.

It all seemed to have happened in slow motion. And yet it had all happened so fast. He stroked the girl’s head, trying to still her sobs, reassuring her that they’d be all right, but the cries for her brother stung his heart.

He looked up towards the daylight, hoping he would see someone up there, someone looking for survivors. Survivors? Survivors of what? The question exploded in his brain. An earthquake? It was incredible. Earthquakes had occurred in England before, and minor tremors were frequent. But an eruption of this size? The incredible, the unbelievable, had happened. In a crazy world, the most crazy thing had happened. Wiltshire had suffered an earthquake! He laughed aloud at the thought, startling the child. He pulled her raised head back to his chest, gently, and rocked her comfortingly.

What had caused it? It certainly wasn’t any gas-mains explosion; not with this devastation. The hole was too deep, too long. No, it had certainly been an earth tremor, not as serious as those suffered in other countries of course, but of just as great a magnitude because it had happened in England! Why? Had the nearby military installation been testing some underground explosives? He had evidence of some pretty strange goings-on from his discreet weekend visit, but doubted they had anything to do with this. A chain reaction, perhaps, from one of their experiments. But probably nothing to do with them for, after all, they had vast areas of British-occupied wasteland in far off countries to carry out their tests in. England was no place for experiments of this kind. It was more likely a freak of nature, a disturbance below that had been building up for centuries, probably thousands of years. And today had been the day for it to erupt.

But still the doubt lingered.

Just then Holman noticed movement at his feet. At first he thought it was dust caused by the disturbance, but then saw it was billowing up from below. It was like a mist, slowly rising in a sluggish swirling motion, slightly yellowish although he couldn’t be sure in the gloom. It seemed to spread along the length of the split, moving up towards his chest, covering the girl’s head. She started to cough, then looked up and her whimpers became stronger when she saw the mist. He lifted her higher so that her head was level with his shoulder. Then the mist reached his nostrils. It had a slightly acidy smell to it, unpleasant but not choking. He got to his knees, wondering what it could be. Gas? A ruptured main? He doubted it – gas was generally colourless, this had some substance to it. It was more like – well, a fog. It had body, the yellowish tinge, a slight but distinct odour. A vapour probably released by the eruption from deep underground, trapped for centuries, finally finding its way to the surface.

It was above his head now and he found it difficult to see through. He got to his feet, lifting the child with him. Once above the rising cloud, an immense fear overcame him, For some reason his horror of the swirling mist was more intense than the horror he’d just been through. Perhaps it was because this was happening slowly, whereas everything else had been so fast, leaving so little time for thought. This somehow seemed more evil, more sinister; he didn’t know why, but it filled him with a great sense of foreboding.

‘Help! Is there anybody up there? Can anyone hear me?’ He called out urgently, no panic in his voice yet, but he could feel hysteria rising. There was no answer. Maybe it was too dangerous to approach the edge of the hole. Perhaps there were too many injured up there anyway.

‘I want you to get on my back, darling, and put your arms around my neck,’ he told the girl, lifting her chin so he could look at her face. ‘We’re going to climb up now.’

‘I – I want my brother,’ she whimpered, no longer afraid of him, but still not trusting.

‘I know, darling, I know. But your Mummy and Daddy will be waiting for you up there.’

She burst into tears again, burying her head into his shoulder. The thick blanket of fog was now up to his chin. Moving her around to his back, he took off his belt and tied her wrists together just below his neck, tucking her legs around his waist. He began to climb.

The people above heard the cry for help coming from the huge hole that had wrecked the village. They’d assumed that anyone who had plunged into it must surely be dead, but now gained new heart at the sound of a voice, a chance to react against the tragedy. The policeman whose children were thought to have been lost in the eruption, was lowered over the edge of the crack. He would not give up. He had searched the rubble and still half-collapsed, potentially dangerous buildings, but hadn’t found his youngsters yet. When they heard the cry for help, he was already tying a stout rope to his waist to be lowered into the hole to search for survivors.

When he emerged five minutes later, he held a small unconscious girl in his arms. He laid her on the ground to be taken care of by the elderly but competent doctor, he kissed her once, tears from his eyes falling on her face, then dashed back to the hole and was lowered again. This time, he brought up a man. A man covered from head to foot with dust and dirt. A man who gibbered and screamed, a man who had to be restrained by four others from running back and throwing himself into the black depths. A man who was insane.

The villagers watched the mist rise from the hole, not billowing over the edges, but rising in a densely-packed steady column, the centre of which seemed to glow faintly – or was it merely the strong sun shining through it? – rising high into the air to form a heavy, yellowish cloud. It looked like the aftermath of a hydrogen bomb, only a much smaller mushroom shape, the lower column finally ending and joining the cloud in the sky. It was soon forgotten when the winds blew it away; not dispersing it, but moving it in a huge, almost solid-looking mass, across the sky, away from the ruined village.

The Reverend Martin Hurdle trudged across the fields with a heavy heart. His thoughts were on the nearby village that had suffered the great disaster, the peaceful little village that had virtually been demolished by the freak earthquake. It had been the main story in the newspapers all that week. The great shock was that it had happened in England, not some far off, remote country that people had scarcely heard of. This was on their own doorstep, the British people could relate to it, not viewing it distantly through the news media and the press, thereby finding true sympathy hard to arouse. This had happened to their own kind. For the people of his village, they were neighbours, relatives; for the people in the rest of Britain, they were countrymen. This would be the basis of his sermon today: that through this tragic event they could now perhaps truly understand and feel compassion for the plight of other nations all over the world who suffered misfortune as a normal part of their lives. People were concerned too much with their own mundane, day-to-day problems: money worries, job worries, affair-of-the-heart worries, disputes with family, with neighbours, with life itself – all petty, insulated, but only shown to be so when some major disaster happened.

This tragic event would force people to look outward, to see what was happening in the world around them, to realize just how insignificant their selfish, introverted problems were. If only he could use this distressing event to show his congregation just how big life was, that the world did not revolve around individuals but around the great mass of humanity itself. This was the very reason that one had to help everybody, help them to exist, to survive. That the catastrophe had happened to their village proved it could strike anywhere at any time; no one, no community, no nation was immune.

The words ran vigorously through his mind. He knew just how he would tell his congregation that Sunday morning, just when his voice would soften almost to a whisper, to allow him to build up to a loud, heart-stirring climax. After thirty years as a clergyman he now knew the subtle inflections his voice could use, and the times he had to boom out to reach his parishioners. At fifty-two he had not yet quite despaired of human nature. There was good in the worst people, just as there was hypocrisy in the most devout, but sometimes –

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He usually enjoyed his early Sunday morning walk across the fields, his pace brisk, his mind running through the sermon he would deliver that day, but he supposed the tragedy of the eruption still bore heavily on him. Having heard the news, he’d driven to the village to try to help, to administer the Last Rites to the dying, to comfort the injured. The last war had been the only experience he’d had of death and injury in these proportions and he had believed he’d got over the horror of it, but old memories had been resurrected, scars he’d thought healed were opened freshly.

He looked up from the ground abruptly, realizing he’d walked into a mist. Early morning mists were familiar to him but this seemed different. It had a yellowish tinge to it and was thick, suddenly very thick as it swept over him. Strange smell, too. Goodness, he thought, better retrace my steps and get clear of this. Wouldn’t want to get lost and be late for service.

He walked back in the direction he’d come, for some reason becoming nervous as his steps didn’t bring him clear of the dense mist. No, this wasn’t a mist, he thought. It was fog. How strange to run into fog on a summer morning as brilliant as it had been when he’d set out. This was as bad as some of the old London ‘pea-soupers’. He looked skyward and could just make out the faint haze of the sun. He wondered now if he were walking in the right direction.

‘Goodness,’ he muttered aloud, ‘I’m lost!’ What was that? His heart pounded as a dark, nebulous shape approached him.

It was large, not as tall as him, but bulky. And silent.

It seemed to drift towards him suspended in mid-air, its size increasing as it drew nearer. Then, oh God! – another. Another joined it, seeming to dissolve into it, becoming one huge shape, still approaching, almost on top of him. It, whatever it was, knew he was there! He backed away steadily, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He began to move faster, not turning but walking backwards, afraid to take his eyes off the shapes that loomed larger before him.

Suddenly, he bumped into something solid. He whirled, falling to his knees in his fright. Another black shape hovered over him, menacingly silent.

And then, he laughed. Tears of relief ran down his face and he pounded the earth in near-hysterical amusement.

He had walked into a herd of cows. He laughed louder, occasionally choking as he breathed deep mouthfuls of the murky air, the cows observing him in dumb vacuity, an occasional restless ululation their only comment.

It took him a full five minutes to recover his wits and admonish himself for his foolishness. Frightened by a herd of cows! Old George Ross, who owned them, would roar with laughter when he told him the story. No wonder he thought the shapes had been floating above the ground. The fog was so thick one could hardly see the cows’ legs!

Yes, he’d learned a lesson himself today. The unknown was always more fearful than the reality.

It took him another twenty minutes to find his way clear of the fog.

The man crouched low in the bushes when he heard a rustle of leaves to his left. Human or animal? Tom Abbot had to be careful. If he was caught poaching on the Colonel’s land again he’d be in serious trouble. Colonel Meredith had caught him red-handed last time and given him a ‘sound thrashing’ as the Colonel liked to boast in the village pub, then warned him if it ever happened again he’d ‘march him off to the police station, toute suite’. Toute suite! Him and his fancy language. Well, he’d never catch Tom again. Last time it had only been because he’d lingered too long into the morning on account of his poor catch in the early hours. The Colonel had spotted him hiding in the bushes and crept up on him, then used his thick walking stick to beat him about the head and shoulders. Too surprised and hurt to offer resistance, he’d been dragged along by his collar as though he were riff-raff and booted off the estate with the threat of police action and ‘another bloody good hiding’ if he set foot on that land again.

Well, Colonel Meredith, you won’t get old Tom again, he repeated to himself. Too wily for the likes of you, with your fancy house and fancy cars and fancy friends. Nice little pheasant I’ve got here and I’ll get myself another before I leave. It’s still too early for you to be about, I’ve got a good hour before you’re up and around. Three months I’ve laid off, fooled you into thinking you’d frightened me off, but oh no, old Tom don’t give up that easy. Nice price l’ll get for this pheasant and no questions asked.

The poacher crept forward again, still cursing the landowner in his mind, peering into the bushes ahead. He froze. Yes, there was something there and not a man. He kept perfectly still, not wanting to frighten it away, to let it come out in its own time, whatever it was. Another pheasant, I’ll warrant, Tom told himself. Woods were full of them, all under the sanctuary of bloody Colonel Meredith. Well, Tom had patience. Tom would wait for it to show itself. Tom could wait for nearly an hour without so much as twitching a muscle. Come on, my beauty, take your time. Tom can wait.

He crouched there for a full ten minutes before he became aware of the yellowy tentacles of mist creeping around his legs. My Gawd, that’s all I need, he cursed silently. He looked behind him and was surprised to see a solid blanket of fog almost on top of him. Queer, he’d never experienced fog here before. Well, he’d wait a while longer in the hope that whatever was in the bushes would make a move and show itself before the fog grew too dense.

Soon, he was completely enveloped in it and began to curse, realizing if the bird or animal didn’t make a move soon he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. Still nothing happened and the heavy mist crept forward till eventually he couldn’t even see the bush. Only then did he hear a rustle and the sound of something scampering away. He cursed aloud this time and stood up, kicking at the ground in disgust.

Ah well, one was better than nothing at all. He turned back and walked deeper into the fog. It didn’t bother him, he knew the area so well he could find his way back blindfold.

The Reverend Martin Hurdle prepared himself for his Sunday morning service. As he donned his cassock he smiled at the thought of the panic he’d been in earlier when he’d got lost in the fog. Usually one of the joys of the week, his early morning walk had almost turned into a nightmare. He couldn’t explain the lift he’d felt when he’d emerged again into the sun, the sense of relief, the delight of being released from that sinister cloud. He had a slight headache now but otherwise he’d got over the unpleasant experience and no doubt would chuckle when he recounted the story to his friends.

The church was fairly full today, the pleasantness of the weather helping, but the tragedy of the neighbouring village accounting primarily for the large attendance. The vicar greeted his parishioners at the door of the church as they went in, chatting briefly with some, smiling and nodding at others. When it was time for the service to begin, he entered through a side door into the sacristy, hurried his altar boys along, and walked briskly with them into the church.

The service began as normal, pleasurable to some, boring to others, but today, because of the tragedy, meaningful for most. A few people near the front noticed the vicar occasionally put his hand to his forehead as though he were tired or had a headache, but the service continued smoothly enough.

They sat and looked up at him when he climbed the steps to his pulpit, anxious to be comforted by his words in their time of sadness. He looked down at their upturned, expectant faces, eyes focused on him, eager for him to speak.

Then the Reverend Martin Hurdle, Vicar of St Augustine’s for eighteen years, lifted his cassock, undid his trousers, took out his penis, and urinated over his congregation.

‘Now where have those blessed cows got to?’ George Ross asked himself aloud, a frown wrinkling his already multi-wrinkled, weathered face even more. ‘Bet they’ve got through that gap again.’

The farmer was used to his herd breaking through the fence of bushes and trees that surrounded their meadow and wandering off into the next. He plodded down towards the spot they’d most likely have broken through. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to do without chasing those silly creatures all mornin’. I’ll give ’em what for!’ he cursed angrily.

He reached the gap and pushed his way through. ‘Now where are yer?’ He stood looking around, then his mouth dropped open at the sight of the fog at the other end of his field. ‘Well I’ll be! Never noticed that.’ He scratched his bristly chin, puzzled.

He began to walk towards the murky cloud and grinned as he saw his cows emerging from it. ‘Trust you!’ he shouted at them. ‘Trust you to get yourselves lost in that. Stupid bloody creatures!’

Funny, having a fog down here, he pondered. Too heavy to be a mist. All this bloomin’ p’lution. ‘Come on, me beauties!’ he called out as they trudged towards him. The fog, he noticed, was drifting off into the adjoining field. Strange that he could see the edges of it, like a solid block of smoke moving across the countryside, not at all like the normal widespread blanket of grey.

The cows were up to him now and the leaders passed him.

‘Come on now, up to the sheds!’ he bellowed at them, slapping one hard on the rump as it passed.

It stopped and turned its head towards him. ‘Move yourself,’ the farmer said gruffly, slapping it again. The cow stood silently watching him.

George cursed it more loudly, then turned to see what progress the rest of the herd was making. They had all stopped and were turned towards him, watching.

‘What’s this, then?’ For some inexplicable reason, he had begun to feel nervous. There was a tension about his herd that he couldn’t understand. ‘Move yourselves. Get on ’ome!’ He waved his arms at them, trying to startle them into movement. They watched him.

Then they began to close in on him.

He realized he was surrounded by the cows and the ring was drawing tighter around him. What was happening? He could not understand the menacing air these dumb, gentle animals had taken on. He felt himself jostled from behind. He turned and lashed out at the cow he’d slapped before. ‘Get back!’ he shouted, logic telling him his rising fear was unreasonable.

He heard a pounding of hooves and again felt himself pushed from behind, this time more violently. He fell to the ground.

‘Get away, get away!’ He scrambled about on his hands and knees trying to rise, but every time he raised himself, he was knocked off his feet again. Suddenly, one of the cows turned and kicked out with its hind legs, catching him an agonizing blow in the ribs, sending him flying forward.

He began to scream as he received more kicks. They seemed to be taking it in turns to run forward and lash out at him. One kick caught him full in the face, breaking his nose, blinding him for a few seconds. When he could see once more, it was like opening his eyes to a bad dream.

The cows were racing round him, their eyes bulging almost out of their sockets, froth and slime running from their mouths. They trampled over him. If he rose, they crushed him with their bodies. They used their heads to knock him off his knees. They began to bite him, snapping off his fingers as he raised his arms to protect himself. A scream ended in a gurgling, choking noise as a kick broke his jaw and blood ran down his throat.

When at last he lay sprawled semi-conscious on the muddied grass, they herded together, and crushed the life from his battered body with their hooves.

The poacher gazed at the house from his hiding place in the undergrowth. He’d emerged from the fog, but instead of returning to his ramshackle house on the outskirts of the village he’d walked along the main road towards the gates of the Colonel’s huge country home. He’d skulked up the long, winding drive and hidden in the bushes, waiting and peering through the leaves at the house. After a while his eyes, strangely glazed, looked from left to right. He rose and crept stealthily towards the back of the building. He knew where to go for he’d done casual work for the Colonel’s head gardener years before. That was how he knew the grounds so well, the best places to poach, the best places to hide. He walked down towards a wooden hut at the end of the long garden. He pushed open the door, his eyes now developing a fixed stare, no longer worrying about the noise he was making, his movements controlled, steady. He reached for an axe, rusted with time, but the blade still sharp. As he turned to leave the hut, his gaze fell on a box of three-inch nails used for fencing. He scooped up a handful and put them in his pocket.

He walked back up the garden, not bothering to hide, walking in a straight line towards the house. As he reached the back door, the Merediths’ cook was just opening it to let the steam from her kitchen escape. She’d just cooked the Colonel and his wife breakfast and the maid had taken it up to them. Now it was time for her morning tea before she started to make preparations for their lunch. There were lots of guests coming, so there was much to do.

She had no chance to scream before the axe hit her, only a fleeting look into the eyes of a madman, a chance for fear to begin to rise but never to reach its peak, for in the next instant she was dead.

Tom Abbot entered the kitchen and climbed the stairs that led to the hall. He’d never been in the house before and only the sound of voices drew him towards the dining-room. He opened the first door he came to and went in, not stopping till he was in the middle of a large sitting-room, bigger than the whole of the ground floor of his tiny house. He stood there, gazing ahead.

The sound of footsteps passing the open door caused him to turn and retrace his steps. He heard the sound of voices again and walked towards another door.

The maid hummed to herself as she descended the stairs to the kitchen, holding her tray with half-eaten grapefruit and crusts of toast aloft so that she could see the steps beneath her.

‘Put the kettle on, Mrs Peabody,’ she called out as she approached the kitchen door. ‘Let’s have a nice cuppa’ while they’re noshing their bacon and eggs.’

Discovering the kitchen empty, she looked around curiously. The kettle was already steaming away. She put down her tray and walked over to the gas stove to turn the kettle off. The door to the garden was open so she assumed the cook had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air or to empty some food scraps into one of the dustbins. She walked around the large centre table to the door so she could call for her. A scream broke from her lips as she saw the body, lying there just outside the doorway, its skull cleaved open to the bridge of the nose. Before she fainted, she realized it was the cook, recognizable only because of her build and clothes, her face covered in blood, her features in a frozen grimace of terror, bearing no resemblance to the face it had once been. As she collapsed, the maid’s brain just registered the other scream, the scream from upstairs that pierced the still air.

When she regained consciousness, she couldn’t at first recollect what had happened. Then her body stiffened as she remembered. She saw the corpse, her foot almost touching it, and she backed away shuddering, trying to call for help but her vocal cords paralysed with fear. She somehow got to her feet and staggered towards the stairs, clambering up them, falling and sobbing, nothing preventing her from getting away from that kitchen. She gained the hallway and ran down it towards the dining-room, gasping for air, trying to call out.

She stumbled through the open door and stopped short at the sight confronting her.

Her mistress lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, only a few tendons in her neck holding her head to her body. It lay parallel to her left shoulder, grinning up at her. The Colonel lay spreadeagled on the huge dining table, long nails through the palms of his hands and the flesh of his ankles to pin him there. A man stood over him, an axe dripping with blood in his hands.

As the maid watched, dumb-struck, unable to move with the horror of it, the man raised the axe above his head and brought it down with all his strength. It severed a hand and splintered the wood beneath. The man struggled to free the weapon from the table and raised it again. By the time he’d cut off the other hand, the Colonel was unconscious. By the time he’d hacked off both feet, the Colonel was dead.

The maid finally began to scream when the man with the axe turned his head and looked at her.

‘Hello, John.’

John Holman looked at the girl and smiled ‘Hello, Casey.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Okay.’

He was sitting on the steps of the hospital, unwilling to wait inside. He found hospitals depressing.

‘They said you’d need at least another couple of weeks.’ She sat next to him on the steps.

‘No, I’m all right now. Any longer in there and I’d have gone mad again.’

She flinched at the words remembering how he had been the first time she’d visited.

The news of the eruption had stunned the country, spreading alarm, causing dismay among geologists, panic in the neighbouring towns and villages. She hadn’t even known Holman was in that area, for he was very secretive about his job; she wasn’t even sure of his department. All she knew was that he had an ‘assignment’ for the weekend, that no, he couldn’t tell her where he was going, and no, she definitely could not go with him. Had she known he had been in the village that suffered the earthquake, she – she refused to think about it. It had been bad enough when she had rung his office the following day to find out why he hadn’t called her on his return and had learnt of his involvement. The department knew he’d been in the area and as they hadn’t heard from him since, assumed he either couldn’t get back because the roads leading to the disaster were completely blocked by rescue and medical services and the hordes of curious sightseers – the usual ghoulish element that flocked to any disaster – or he had stayed to help. They didn’t reveal to her that they were concerned that perhaps he was being held by the military on their Salisbury Plain base and they were now anxiously expecting the Ministry of Defence to come roaring down their necks. She was asked to ring back later when no doubt they would have some news and was advised not to make the trip down to Wiltshire because of the mounting traffic and the impossibility of finding him anyway.

The rest of the day had been spent in a fear-ridden daze. She rang her employer, an exclusive antique dealer in one of the side streets off Bond Street, and told him she felt too ill to come in. A fussy little man, who considered women necessary only for business purposes, he brusquely hoped she would be well enough to do her job tomorrow. For the rest of the day she wandered listlessly around the house, afraid to go out in case the phone rang. She barely ate and listened to the radio only to find out more news of the earthquake.

Casey had known Holman for nearly a year now and was becoming more and more aware that if he ever left her, she would be lost. Her dependence on him was now stronger even than her dependence on her father had been. When her mother had divorced her father eight years ago, she had turned to him to provide the comfort and guidance every child needs from a mother, and he had coped extraordinarily well. Too well, in fact, for by overcompensating for the lack of his wife, he had tied the daughter almost irrevocably to him. Holman had begun to break the bonds between them, unconsciously at first, but when he realized just how strong the ties were he began to gently, but purposefully, draw Casey away from her father. He did this not so much out of love for her, but because he cared about her as a person. He knew she had a strong mind and a will of her own, but she was too tightly enmeshed in her father’s domineering love. If the relationship developed any further then she would never be free to live her own life. Besides, the closeness between father and daughter made him feel uneasy.

Holman had tried to get Casey – her real name was Christine, but he had invented the nickname for reasons he hadn’t told her of yet – to leave her father’s house and get a flat of her own. This she would have done had he allowed her to live with him, but there he’d drawn the line. After two previous disastrous affairs he had resolved never to become too entangled with one person again. He had been near to it many times and even proposed marriage once, but the girl backed out because she knew, and realized she had always known, that he didn’t love her. That had been years before, and now he wondered if he were really capable of love. He had gradually lost most of his cynicism on that topic during the months he had known Casey. He still resisted, but guessed he was fighting a losing battle. Maybe he was getting old, resigning himself to the fact he needed a companion, that although he’d never been quite alone, he hadn’t shared for a long, long time.

Casey was breaking down that barrier just as he was breaking down the closeness between her and her father. The process was gradual, but inevitable. Still, each of them offered resistance. She would not leave her father without the assurance of someone taking his place; he refused to be that someone, the move had to come from her before she had the guarantee of someone to run to. Holman was older than Casey, but had no intention of becoming a father-figure. At the moment, it was deadlock.

Now, in her anxiety, as she waited for the phone to ring, Casey knew she would do as he asked. She understood his reasons. It would hurt her father terribly, but it wasn’t as though she would never see him again. And perhaps when he realized she was determined, his iciness towards John would begin to thaw. If it didn’t, then she knew she would have to go through the agony of choosing again, but this time for keeps. And she knew it would be her father who would lose.

She waited till 3.00 p.m., then rang Holman’s office again. This time they had some news. They apologized for not having let her know sooner but all hell had broken loose in their department because of the earthquake. These things just weren’t meant to happen in England! A man identified as John Holman, whose papers showed he worked for the Department of the Environment, had been taken to Salisbury General Hospital, where he was in an extreme state of shock. When Casey pressed them for details, her heart pounding, her thoughts racing, they became evasive, but assured her that John had suffered no physical damage. Again, they advised her to keep clear of the area and promised they would keep her informed of any developments.

Casey thanked them and replaced the receiver. Then she rang the hospital itself. The operator apologized, told her that the hospital was jammed with calls and suggested she try later.

Numbed, she scribbled a note to her father, looked for the town on a road-map, and hurried out to her bright yellow saloon car, a present from her father. She avoided driving through London by going north then around on the North Circular.

She bypassed Basingstoke and Andover, taking minor roads, knowing the towns would be jammed with traffic. On the outskirts of Salisbury, she ran into heavy traffic being held up by the police. Drivers of cars were being crossed-examined as to their destination, and unless their reasons for travel were genuine and not just to satisfy ghoulish curiosity about the earthquake, they were turned back. When it was Casey’s turn, she explained about John and was allowed to continue her journey with the undertaking that on no account would she try to travel beyond the town to the disaster area. On their advice, she parked her car on the outskirts of the town and walked to the hospital which she found in a state of turmoil. Having enquired about Holman, she was asked to wait with the many other anxious relatives or friends who had come to the hospital for news of victims of the catastrophe.

It was not until 8.00 that evening and after several attempts to obtain news of Holman that a weary-looking doctor came down to see her. He took her aside and told her in a low voice that it would be better if she did not see John that night; he was suffering from shock and had sustained an injury that, although not too serious, required him to be given a blood transfusion and, at that moment, he was under heavy sedation. Observing the girl was in a highly emotional state, he chose not to explain the nature of Holman’s sickness at that time. Tomorrow, when she’d calmed down, would be time enough to explain that her lover, boyfriend, whatever he was to her, had gone totally mad, and at that moment was strapped to the bed, even though he was under sedation, so he could not harm himself or anybody else. It was strange how the man had been bent on killing himself. He’d had to be tied down in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and once there he’d broken free, smashed a glass window and tried to drive a long, knife-like shard of glass through his neck. Only the intervention of the burly ambulance driver who now suffered from a broken jaw caused by the ensuing struggle had saved him from cutting himself too deeply. Holman had gone completely berserk and two porters and a doctor had been injured before he could be restrained and finally sedated. Even then he was fitful and had to be strapped down. No, the doctor decided, now was not the time to tell her. Tomorrow she could see for herself.

Casey spent the night in an hotel crowded with journalists and also people who lived near the wrecked village and thought it wise to be a little further away from the area. By careful listening Casey learned more details of the earthquake. At least a third of the village’s tiny population of four hundred had been killed, at least another third injured. Many of the old houses and cottages that were not even near the enormous split in the earth had been demolished, killing or maiming their occupants. The most remarkable story was of the little girl and the man who had been rescued from the very jaws of the eruption. They’d been discovered alive inside the gigantic hole and had been pulled to the surface, the girl unconscious, the man in a state of shock, but nevertheless, very much alive. Only much later did Casey realize they had been talking of John Holman.

The next morning she went back to the hospital and was told she would be able to see him later on in the day, but to be prepared for a shock. The doctor she’d seen the night before explained quietly to her that Holman was no longer the man she had known, that he had gone uncontrollably insane. When the girl broke down, the doctor hastened to add that the illness could be short-term, that the experience he’d suffered might have only temporarily snapped his mind and given time it could heal itself. She went back to the hotel and cried her way through the day until it was time to go back to the hospital. They advised her not to see him, but she insisted – and then regretted her insistence.

The doctor had been right – he wasn’t the man she knew. And loved. He was an animal. A foul-mouthed, raging animal. Heavy leather straps tied him to a bed. A bed in a special room for it contained only the bed; there were no windows and the walls were covered in a soft, plastic-like material. Only his head, hands and feet could move, and this they did in a constant, violent motion, his head thrashing from side to side, his throat bandaged, thick wadding secured in his mouth to prevent him from biting off his own tongue, his hands clenching and unclenching like claws. And his eyes. She would never forget the maniac look in those enlarged, staring eyes. He had worked the wadding in his mouth loose and began to scream. She couldn’t believe the obscenity she heard, that any human being could harbour the thoughts that flowed verbally from his lips. Although his eyes looked at her, he didn’t see her. A nurse ran forward and once again stuffed the wadding back into his mouth, carefully avoiding his snapping teeth.

Casey left in a wretched daze, tears blurring her vision. At first, she hadn’t been sure if it even was John, his physical appearance had seemed so different, and now she wanted to tell herself that it hadn’t been. But it was useless to pretend. She had to face up to the facts if she were to help him recover – and if he didn’t? Could she go on loving the thing she’d just seen?

She returned to the hotel, her mind in a turmoil, her emotions confused. A conflict began deep inside her. After hours of weeping, of fighting the repulsion she felt for his madness, she began to lose the battle. She rang her father. He urged her to come home immediately and she had to resist the impulse to agree to it; she wanted his protection, his comforting words, the words that would take the responsibility away from her.

But not. She owed it to John to stay near him while there was a chance – the flimsiest chance. The illness couldn’t destroy what had been, the closeness that had been theirs. She told her father she would stay until she knew about John one way or the other. She was adamant that he shouldn’t come down, that she would come home only when satisfied John was beyond help.

Casey’s wretchedness increased that evening when she visited Holman again. Th

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 832