The Fog - James Herbert [138]
When he reached his floor, he breathed a sigh of relief to see the door to his flat was still firmly closed. As he pounded on it with his fist, calling out Casey’s name, he failed to see the shadowy figure sitting on the stairs leading to the roof where it had been patiently waiting for most of the day.
Holman heard her muffled voice from behind the door, ‘John is that you?’
‘Yes, darling,’ he shouted back, managing to coax his aching face into a wide grin, ‘it’s me. Everything’s going to be okay. Open up.’
He heard the scraping of furniture, the heavy bolt being shot back, the latch clicking, then her face appeared in the small gap governed by the safety chain, strained with dried-up tears, fresh ones about to flow.
‘Oh, John,’ she cried, ‘I didn’t know what had happened to you. I’ve been so worr – ’ her words were cut off as she fumbled with the safety chain. ‘Somebody’s been trying to get in all – ’ but again her words were cut off as he pushed the door wide and pulled her towards him, enveloping her with his arms, relaxing his grip slightly only to kiss her face.
She was crying with relief and happiness as he pushed her back into the hall and kicked the door with the heel of his foot.
She broke away to look into his face and her eyes instantly clouded with anxiety. ‘John, what’s happened to you? What have they done to you?’ she asked.
He smiled wearily. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘First, you and I are going to have a stiff drink. Then we’re going to bed and I’ll tell you all about it. And then, we’re going to sleep. We’re going to go into a long and glorious sleep.’
She smiled back at him, her expression curious but full of happiness. And then it froze into rigid lines of fear as she saw something over his shoulder, something that had prevented the door from closing fully. Puzzled by her frightened look, Holman turned to see what had caused it. He caught his breath.
Barrow was standing in the doorway, a strange grin on his face.
Holman turned his body so that he was facing the detective and Casey was behind him.
‘Hello, Barrow,’ he said warily.
There was no reply, no movement.
Casey touched his shoulder and said in an urgent, hushed voice, ‘John, it must have been him. Somebody’s been trying to get in all day. Banging on the door, trying to force it. When I called out, there was never any answer but the pounding would stop then start again an hour or so later. He must have been out there all this time.’
Holman tried to get an answer from him again. ‘What do you want, Barrow?’ he said.
Again, there was no reply, just the odd, disturbing grin. Strangely, Holman noticed, he was immaculately dressed: dark brown three-piece suit, white stiff-collared shirt, deep green tie. It was only his distant eyes and the humourless smile that gave any signs of his demented state. Holman tensed as Barrow suddenly put his hand into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and drew something out. He couldn’t make out what it was at first, but as Barrow began to unwind it, he saw it was a length of thin wire, two small wooden handles attached to each end.
‘Get into the bedroom, Casey, and lock the door,’ he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the figure in front of him.
‘No, John, I’m not leaving you,’ she said.
‘Do as you’re bloody told,’ he said evenly through clenched teeth. He sensed her move away from him and heard the click as the bedroom door closed.
‘What do you want, Barrow?’ he said again, not expecting a reply but this time receiving one.
‘You,’ Barrow said. ‘You, you bastard.’
He had the handles of the wire in either hand now, holding it up at chest level, drawing it out so that the wire was taut. Holman knew how the macabre weapon was meant to be used: as a garrotte. Twisted around the victim’s neck, it would cut into the windpipe and jugular vein, killing within seconds.
Barrow took a step