The Fog - James Herbert [101]
His pace quickened. The longer it took him to reach Westminster, the more people there would be out on the streets. He had to move faster. Dare he chance a car? It was risky, he would be driving virtually blind, but it might be worth it. He heard singing, not far away and drawing nearer. It was a man’s voice, loud and clear. And happy. He saw the dark shape that suddenly became clearly defined; it was a man on a bicycle, weaving left and right, pedalling slowly, oblivious to anything but his own song. He saw Holman and rode round him in a tight circle, smiling and singing, his eyes never leaving Holman’s, neither challenging nor belligerent. Placid.
As the cyclist completed a second circuit, Holman considered relieving him of his vehicle and using it himself, but decided against the idea, for it could be more dangerous than just walking. With a wave of his hand, the man disappeared into the mist again and Holman listened to the voice as it receded into the vacuous distance, leaving him feeling even more isolated.
He whirled as he heard running footsteps, but they carried on right past him without his catching any more than a glimpse of a shadowy figure. He realized it was no good at all going on like this. His nerves were taut and his progress was slow; it would take him hours to reach Westminster at this rate and long before then the streets would be crowded. He would have to take a car; it wouldn’t be too difficult to find one and he knew how to start one without a key. He found his way back to the kerb and used it as a guide. He was bound to run into a parked car soon.
He passed a woman who was pushing an ordinary house broom along the gutter, tutting at the piled-up dirt and cursing at the world in general.
He passed a body that lay sprawled across his path. He didn’t stop to see whether it was male or female, dead or alive.
He passed a dog feeding on the carcass of another. It looked up and growled menacingly, saliva and blood drooling from its jaws, not attacking, but watching him intently until he’d been swallowed up by the fog again.
Holman’s breath was coming in short gasps now and he wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the impure air or the tenseness of the situation. He had to find a car soon.
Then, he saw the soft light ahead of him which grew brighter as he approached. He thought it might be a fire at first, then perhaps a shop front because of its steady glare, but, as he drew nearer, he realized its source. It gave him the answer; the way to get across London fast, and with far less risk. It would be frightening, he knew, but not as frightening as it would have been by car. He broke into a run.
Holman emerged from the underground station in Trafalgar Square just over an hour later, his hands and face black with dirt, a torch still glowing in his hand. The dark journey through the tunnels had been without incident. The station at St John’s Wood had been deserted even though all the lights were still working. He had assumed it had been abandoned during the night and nobody had bothered to lock its gates or switch off the power. A door marked ‘Private’ had been left open and he had soon found a heavy-duty-type rubber torch. As he descended the staircase to the platform, he had wondered if the current had been switched off, but there would be no way of knowing. It was his intention to keep well clear of the lines, but he would have felt better in his own mind if he had known whether they contained their deadly electricity.
Fortunately, the single low-watt lights along the tunnels had been left on too, ready for the night cleaners and maintenance men, but on several stretches further on between