The Fog - James Herbert [116]
He must have been thrown clear from the vehicle, but as yet, could not ascertain whether he had been fortunate or not. The door must have been smashed by the bus as it had hit it, and then swung open as it turned over, spilling him out into the road. He didn’t feel as though anything was broken: his face felt raw as if he had skidded along the road on it and both his knees hurt like hell, but apart from that, he seemed to be all right. He tried to lift himself and found he could, although it made him feel a little giddy.
Mason! Where was Mason? Holman’s senses were returning rapidly now and he sat up, turning his body towards the vehicle, using one hand for support. He must be still inside, he told himself. God, he mustn’t be hurt too badly! Trembling, he got to his feet, then staggered forward to the open doorway.
‘Mason!’ he called out, poking his head into the dim interior. It was empty.
Holman spun round, leaning back against the vehicle for support. ‘Mason!’ he called out again, this time louder. Then he saw the grey-clad figure.
Mason was stumbling away from the vehicle, leaning forward at the waist, both hands to his face as though in pain. He was making for the red bus, whether by intent or because he was walking blind, there was no way of knowing, and as he drew nearer, several people were alighting from its platform and staring silently at him. One of them pointed at him and began to giggle.
‘Mason, come back!’ Holman shouted, realizing that without his helmet, his companion was exposed to the fog.
But Mason hadn’t heard him. He fell to one knee as he reached the crowd that was still climbing off the bus. Several of them began to laugh now, pointing down at him, calling out to their fellow passengers to come and see the ridiculous-looking man. The front of the bus was embedded in a shop window, but now a figure was emerging from the wreckage, crunching through the shattered glass, leaning against the side of the bus to steady himself. He was wearing the uniform of a London Transport driver and blood trickled in a thin line from his crinkly scalp down his brown face. He was grinning broadly.
Holman started forward to warn Mason but he was still unsteady on his feet and fell painfully on to his knees. He called out again, one hand reaching outward towards the crowd, but nobody seemed to hear him.
The driver was now standing over Mason, who was still on one knee, rocking his body backwards and forwards in pain, low moans coming from deep down in his throat. The black man swung a foot at him then stepped back and roared with laughter as the clumsy figure toppled. Someone else stepped forward and aimed a kick, retreating when the blow had been accomplished. The rest of the crowd joined in the laughter. At once, as if by some silent, mutual agreement, they all gathered around the prone body and began to kick at it.
‘Don’t, don’t!’ Holman screamed at them, but they took no notice, absorbed in their own violence. To his amazement, he saw the figure of Mason emerge from the tangle of legs, crawling on all fours protected from the worst of the blows by the heavy suit he wore. His eyes met Holman’s and they registered recognition, but his hands were kicked from beneath him even as he opened his mouth to cry out. His exposed head hit the pavement with a loud thud and he lay motionless in the road. The crowd’s laughter took on a new, more hysterical pitch as they leapt upon his body, using their feet to stomp the life from him.
With a shout of pure rage, Holman gained his feet and staggered towards them, his anger pumping adrenalin through his body, helping his strength to return. He leapt into the throng, taking several people down with him and was on his feet again instantly, swinging punches, kicking out at them. For a moment they cowered away from him, afraid of his anger, afraid because they sensed he wasn’t like them.
All except the driver. He wasn’t afraid of anybody.